Pennies For Hitler (16 page)

He didn’t bother trying to talk to any of the others at breakfast, or in their free time after dinner. Most of the children his age who were heading to Sydney were girls; and they had already formed their own small groups. Besides, why make a new friend now, when in a few days you’d be wrenched apart?

The coast drifted by, the same anonymous green, with blue hills or maybe mountains in the distance.

It only took a day and a night to sail to Sydney. Georg felt the ship change course and ran to the porthole.

Cliffs! Tall craggy brown ones, streaked with seagull droppings, with more of the gumtrees on top.

He wished he could go up on deck. You could see only glimpses of the world from a porthole. Even as he thought it the whistle went twice.

He dashed for the door — no need for a coat here — but some of the girls had made it out of their cabins before him. They grinned at him, not because they were first but in companionship. Seconds later Miss Glossop appeared. She was smiling too.

‘Forward march!’ she called.

It was the fastest march they’d ever made. Miss Glossop didn’t make them keep time today. Up the companionway, into early-morning sunlight that seemed brighter than he’d ever known it. He ran onto the deck with the others and gazed around.

The ship wallowed as it changed direction between two giant cliffs, ragged and rocky and brown and topped with green. Behind them the sea was green and choppy. And in front of them …

Sydney Harbour gleamed. It was blue, not green, as though it was a sister to the sky. Every wave looked like it was tipped with the sun. Houses sprawled down between trees to the harbour edged with smooth brown rock, but there were coves too, as though this harbour was a mighty hand with a hundred fingers, each with tiny beaches at the end, and fishing boats tied up and bobbing on the water.

It looked like a city. It looked like forest and beach too. A ferry bobbed by, so close the passengers waved and cheered as they steamed by. Georg reckoned that any ship that made its way to port these days was a triumph against the enemy.

There were ships everywhere. Not just the tiny ferries with green trim and big funnels that criss-crossed the harbour as though they owned it, but pale grey ships — small ones, big ones — though none as big as the destroyer that had accompanied them for a while from England. One ship passed them only a hundred yards away. The sailors waved to the children on the deck too.

Georg thought of the grim and silent sailors on the day they had left England. These sailors looked like they still knew how to laugh, had spare minutes to wave to children.

It seemed to take forever for the ship to sail to the wharf, but not long enough either. He could have stared out of the harbour forever, grasping the rail, smelling the scents that were almost familiar from Melbourne — the smells of strange trees — and a special scent that seemed to be the harbour’s own.

But they weren’t allowed to see the ship being tied up. The whistle blew again. They lined up obediently and went below.

Georg sat on his top bunk, his legs dangling. He’d packed last night. Even his pyjamas were folded in the suitcase. He almost felt affection for it. It was his last link to Mutti, to home and England and Aunt Miriam. He had now even grown out of the clothes he had worn from Germany.

He’d read his books a hundred times. So he just waited, staring out of the porthole, which wasn’t interesting as all he could see was the side of a big grey ship, with not even a porthole near enough to see into. The cabin was stuffy after the sunlight outside. He almost wished there were lessons or physical jerks today. He supposed the escorts wanted their charges to look as neat as possible when they arrived.

At last the whistle sounded for breakfast. He waited in the corridor, marched up to the dining room and sat at a table of
girls — they had been allowed to sit where they liked after Melbourne, not only with their cabin-mates. Even though he hadn’t made friends with any of the girls he didn’t want to sit at a table by himself.

‘No tour today then,’ said the oldest girl, spooning up her porridge. Her name was Elizabeth, but Georg never used it. It would hurt to say that name now.

‘How do you know?’

She shrugged and went on eating. ‘No time. If we was going to have a tour they’d have let us get off this morning.’

At last the whistle came to ‘fall out’. He gathered up his suitcase and his coat — it wouldn’t fit in his suitcase and it was too hot to wear it — then joined the others as they stood at attention outside their cabins. Even the littlies knew how to stand at attention now.

They marched two by two down the gangplank. Soldiers and sailors bustled about them, too busy to stare. Men in overalls carried toolboxes or manoeuvred bits of wood or metal. Some of them grinned as the children passed, and gave a strange two-fingered salute.

The wharf looked old. Somehow Georg had expected it to be new. Australia was a new country, wasn’t it? They marched across it into a bare room and showed their passports to men in uniforms, who stamped them quickly with a grin and a brief welcome to Australia. Each passport had to be stamped, and their evacuation papers too.

Some of the kids grinned back. Two of the littlest girls were crying again, hiding their faces in the big girls’ skirts. They got into line again and marched down the footpath.

It was a grey footpath, like London’s. The warehouses on either side looked like England’s too. Only the harbour looked
different from any stretch of water he’d seen before, glittering like someone had scattered it with jewels; and that too high, too blue sky was new as well. A tiny cloud was creeping into it now, looking timid against all that blue.

At last they came to a big stone building. They marched into the foyer, their shoes sounding hollow on the marble, and then into a room beyond.

It was a big room, with an arched ceiling, but Georg could only see the people sitting on the plain wooden chairs: couples mostly, but more women than men. They were old, young and in between. They looked eager and nervous and sort of hungry, and curious too, as they tried to work out which child was going home with them.

He gazed back, embarrassed, and as nervous and curious as they were. He’d have to spend months with these people. Years … He shut his mind to that. The last war had gone on for over four years. Impossible to think he might be in exile, in double exile, for another three whole years.

Which family was his? That woman with three chins and a smile? It would be good to go with her. Or that couple who both had big brown eyes like spaniels and an anxious look, like they wanted to be liked by their new charge too. Or the severe man with the red face, or the lady with a string of pearls and a black velvet hat with a veil?

Miss Glossop handed a list to the chaplain. He began to read the names, one by one.

They were doing it by age this time, he realised, not by the alphabet, the littlies first — he supposed so there’d be less chance of them crying, even refusing to go.

‘Frances Mayland.’ That was the name of the little girl clutching not-Elizabeth. She grabbed not-Elizabeth’s skirt in
both fists, till not-Elizabeth gently unhooked her fingers and whispered something in her ear.

Whatever she said, it worked. The girl took three steps towards the crowd, but by then the woman with three chins had rushed forwards and folded her in her arms. It must have been like being folded in a washing basket, as when she was released the little girl was almost smiling.

More names. The red-faced man and his wife got a seven-year-old boy from two cabins down, who had twice tried to climb the mast, and suddenly the man’s face didn’t look severe at all, but happy, as he and his wife each took one of the boy’s hands.

They were down to six children now, then five, then four. Georg stared at the dwindling cluster of adults in dismay. Were there enough people left for all of them? What if there wasn’t anyone for him? Would they send him back? There was nowhere to go back to. Aunt Miriam would have left London weeks before. She wasn’t even allowed to tell anyone where her office was now, so no one could ever find her. Maybe he’d have to stay in this bare marble room till the organisers hunted for another Australian who’d take a strange boy from England.

Another name and another.

At last it was just him and not-Elizabeth. And there was only one couple sitting on the chairs. They looked kind, but Miss Glossop had said that no family would take two children.

He and not-Elizabeth exchanged a look as the next name was read out.

‘George Marks.’

He was almost used to George now.

He stepped forwards.

It wasn’t the couple sitting down. They must be not-
Elizabeth’s, he thought with relief, glad that she wouldn’t have to sit here alone, unclaimed.

He hadn’t seen this couple in the crowd. They had been over by the door, out of sight behind the officials from the ship.

They were older than he expected. This man was big, not just tall: not fat, but with big-boned hands and face. He wore a good grey suit and held a grey hat, and his hair was grey too. His wife’s hair was white, drawn up in curls around her ears under a tiny hat with cherries on it. She wore a dark blue dress, black belt, black shoes and gloves. Despite the gloves her fingers
click-clicked
nimbly at four thin knitting needles, with a rim of khaki cloth.

Not farmers then. Georg had seen farmers in Germany and they didn’t look like these. He had never known any old people — both his grandfathers had died in the Great War. Papa’s mother had died soon after he was born, and Mutti’s mother when Georg was only small.

Miss Glossop came over to them. ‘Mr and Mrs Peaslake, I’d like you to meet George Marks. George, this is Mr and Mrs Peaslake.’

She smiled at Georg. ‘I wasn’t able to find you a farm, I’m afraid, but the Peaslakes live in the country, at least.’

‘Bellagong,’ boomed Mr Peaslake, holding out his hand. The hand had calluses, and brown age spots on the back. For a moment Georg thought he was speaking another language. ‘Mother here comes from Bellagong. We went back to her family place when I retired.’ His voice was embarrassingly loud.

Georg shook Mr Peaslake’s hand. ‘Good morning,’ he said stiffly.

‘What’s that?’ boomed Mr Peaslake.

‘He said “Good morning”, Father. You’ll have to speak up a bit,’ explained Mrs Peaslake, still knitting even though she was standing up. Her voice was high and clear. ‘Father’s a bit deaf
from the shelling in the last war. Bellagong’s just a little place, down on the south coast.’ Georg realised Bellagong was a town. ‘Our home is next to my brother’s farm. And we have chooks,’ she offered hopefully.

‘Hens,’ explained Miss Glossop.

Georg realised that the Peaslakes were as nervous as he was.

‘Do you have a dog?’ He tried to speak loudly enough for Mr Peaslake to hear.

‘You like dogs?’ Mr Peaslake’s voice echoed in the nearly empty room. Georg wished he’d speak more quietly. People were looking at them.

Georg nodded.

Mrs Peaslake’s face relaxed. Her hands kept knitting as though she had forgotten they were moving. ‘Father, keep your voice down. You’re not calling the cows home now. Do we have dogs? Only two of the most stupid animals in New South Wales.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Mr Peaslake, a bit more quietly. ‘They’re very well trained.’ He picked up Georg’s suitcase, and his coat too, before Georg quite knew what was happening.

‘Yes, they’ve trained us to let them out as soon as they say “woof” and let them hog the sofa,’ said Mrs Peaslake. She hesitated, then stopped knitting to give Georg a quick, efficient hug. Her hands seemed even stronger than her husband’s. She had stepped away before he could work out if he should hug her back. ‘You’ll need to keep your bedroom door shut or Samson will be on your bed.’

‘I don’t mind,’ said Georg.

‘He snores,’ said Mrs Peaslake.

‘Do you have children?’

A cloud brushed Mrs Peaslake’s face. ‘Just our Alan. He’s a lieutenant in the army. He’s overseas now. Don’t know where.’

‘Loose lips sink ships,’ said Georg, quoting the poster that warned everyone not to talk about army things.

‘We really don’t know where he is,’ said Mrs Peaslake, her voice carefully matter of fact. ‘But he’ll be thinking of us, when he can, just like we think of him. And there’ll be you now.’

They shook Miss Glossop’s hand.

‘Good luck,’ she said to Georg. She leaned down and whispered, ‘I think you’ll be fine.’

Georg nodded. He felt scared, but it was a different sort of scared now. Not a
frightened
scared, but one that was almost hope.

Chapter 18

NEW SOUTH WALES

They took a taxi to the train, Georg in the front seat by the driver ‘so you can see out’, looking at the buildings and the people, all a bit like London or, at least, how it had been before the bombs. Different too — wider, steeper streets and too much light and the people strode in a way that hardly anyone did in Europe, even the women in high heels and hats, somehow brighter and brisker than the women in London.

The train station was like the train stations he was used to, echoing and big. But here no air-raid siren would bring a stampede of terrified people.

The train was just a train too, chuffing and chugging and blowing steam and cinders that floated into the carriage when they went through the tunnels till Mrs Peaslake shut the window.
Click, click
went her knitting needles. The rim of cloth was turning into a khaki sock.

Georg felt somehow comforted by the familiar click, even if the way she held the needles was different from the way Mutti did.

Mr Peaslake looked at him, as though he wasn’t sure what to
say to a boy from so far away. ‘Have a look at this,’ he offered at last. Suddenly his teeth popped out of his lips, clacking together, then back in again.

False teeth, thought Georg. He smiled, because that seemed to be what Mr Peaslake wanted him to do.

Mrs Peaslake put her hand on her husband’s arm. ‘Just you leave the lad for a while, Father,’ she said close to his ear. ‘He’ll need time to take things in.’