The Fourth Estate (8 page)

A mark-up of at
least 25 percent on most items showed him a clear profit of just over a pound.

Only Desmond
Motson, who had stood in a comer watching the money changing hands, grumbled
about Townsend’s extortionate prices. The young entrepreneur simply told him,
“You have a choice. You can join the queue or wait till Friday.” Motson had
stalked out of the changing room, muttering veiled threats under his breath.

On Friday
afternoon Keith was back at the front of the tuck shop queue and, having made a
note of which items had sold out first, purchased his new stock accordingly.

When Mr. Clarke
was informed that Townsend had spent 41 thou on tuck that Friday, he admitted
to being puzzled, and decided to have a word with the headmaster.

That Saturday
afternoon Keith didn’t go to the racecourse, using the time to print up a
hundred pages of the second edition of his sales sheet, which he distributed
the following Monday-not only to his own classmates, but also to those in the
two forms below him.

On Tuesday
morning, during a lesson on British History 1815-1867, he calculated on the
back of a copy of the 1832 Perform Bill that at this rate it would take him
only another three weeks to raise the tio he needed to test Lucky Joe’s
infallible system.

It was in a
Latin lesson on Wednesday afternoon that Keith’s own infallible system began to
falter. The headmaster entered the classroom unannounced, and asked Townsend to
join him in the corridor immediately.

“And bring your
locker key with you,” he added ominously. As they marched silently down the
long gray corridor Mr. Jessop presented him with a single sheet of paper. Keith
studied the list he could have recited far more fluently than any of the tables
in Kennedy~ Latin Primer. “Minties 8d, Chips 4d, Cherry Ripes 4d, Marchants’
Lemonade one shilling. Be outside Locker 19 in the senior changing room on
Thursday at five o’clock sharp. Our slogan is ‘First come, first served.’”

Keith managed to
keep a straight face as he was frog marched down the corridor.

When they
entered the changing room, Keith found his housemaster and the sports master
already stationed by his locker.

“Unlock the
door, Townsend,” was all the headmaster said.

Keith placed the
little key in the lock and turned it slowly. He pulled open the door and the
four of them peered inside. Mr. Jessop was surprised to discover that there was
nothing to be seen other than a cricket bat, a pair of old pads, and a crumpled
white shirt that looked as if it hadn’t been worn for several weeks.

The headmaster
looked angry, his housemaster puzzled, and the sports master embarrassed.

“Could it be
that you’ve got the wrong boy?” asked Keith, with an air of injured innocence.

“Lock the door
and return to your class immediately, Townsend,” said the headmaster. Keith
obeyed with an insolent nod of the head and strolled slowly back down the
corridor.

Once he was
seated at his desk, Keith realized that he had to decide on which course of
action to take. Should he rescue his wares and save his investment, or drop a
hint as to where the tuck might be found and settle an old score once and for
all?

Desmond Motson
turned round to stare at him. He looked surprised and disappointed to find Townsend
back in his place.

Keith gave him a
huge smile, and immediately knew which of the two options he should take.

THE TIMES

9 MARCH 1936

G
erman Troops in
the Rhineland IT WAS NOT until after the Germans had remilitarized the Rhineland
that Lubji first heard the name of Adolf Hitter.

His mother
winced when she read about the Fuhrer’s exploits in the rabbi’s weekly paper.
As she finished each page she handed it on to her eldest son.

She stopped only
when it became too dark for her to see the words. Lubji was able to go on
reading for a few more minutes.

“Will we all
have to wear a yellow star if Hitler crosses our border?” he asked.

Zelta pretended
to have fallen asleep.

For some time
his mother had been unable to hide from the rest of her family the fact that
Lubji had become her favorite – even though she suspected that he was
responsible for the disappearance of her precious brooch-and she had watched
with pride as he grew into a tall, handsome youth. But she remained adamant that
despite his success as a trader, from which she acknowledged the whole family
had benefited, he was still destined to be a rabbi. She might have wasted her
life, but she was determined that Lubji wouldn’t waste his.

For the past six
years Lubji had spent each morning being tutored by her uncle in the house on
the hill. He was released at midday so that he could return to the market,
where he had recently purchased his own stall. A few weeks after his bar
mitzvah the old rabbi had handed Lubji’s mother the letter informing him that
Lubji had been awarded a scholarship to the academy in Ostrava. It was the
happiest day of Zelta’s life. She knew her son was clever, perhaps exceptional,
but she also realized that such an offer could only have been secured by her
uncle’s reputation.

When Lubji was
first told the news of his scholarship, he tried not to show his dismay.
Although he was only allowed to go to the market in the afternoon, he was
already making enough money to have provided every member of the family with a
pair of shoes and two meals a day. He wanted to explain to his mother that
there was no point in being a rabbi if all you really wanted to do was to build
a shop on the vacant plot next to Mr. Lekski’s.

Mr. Lekski shut
the shop and took the day off to drive the young scholar to the academy, and on
the long journey to Ostrava he told him that he hoped he would take over his
shop once he had completed his studies. Lubji wanted to return home
immediately, and it was only after considerable persuasion that he picked up
his little leather bag-the last barter he had made the previous day-and passed
under the massive stone archway that led to the academy If Mr. Lekski hadn’t
added that he wouldn’t consider taking Lubji on unless he completed his five years
at the academy, he would have jumped back into the car.

It wasn’t long
before Lubji discovered that there were no other children at the academy who
had come from such a humble background as himself.

Several of his
classmates made it clear, directly or indirectly, that he was not the sort of
person they had expected to mix with. As the weeks passed, he also discovered
that the skills he had picked up as a market trader were of little use in such
an establishment-though even the most prejudiced could not deny that he had a
natural flair for languages. And certainly long hours, little sleep, and
rigorous discipline held no fears for the boy from Douski.

At the end of
his first year at Ostrava, Lubji finished in the upper half of his class in
most subjects. He was top in mathematics and third in Hungarian, which was now
his second language. But even the principal of the academy could not fail to
notice that the gifted child had few friends, and had become something of a
loner. He was relieved at least that no one bullied the young ruffian the only
boy who ever tried had ended up in the sanatorium.

When Lubji
returned to Douski, he was surprised to find how small the town was, just how
impoverished his family were, and how much they had grown to depend on him.

Every morning
after his father had left for the fields, Lubji would walk up the hill to the
rabbi’s house and continue his studies. The old scholar marveled at the boy’s
command of languages, and admitted that he was no longer able to keep up with
him in mathematics. In the afternoons Lubji returned to the market, and on a
good day he could bring home enough supplies to feed the entire family.

He tried to
teach his brothers how to trade, so that they could run the stall in the
mornings and while he was away. He quickly concluded it was a hopeless task,
and wished his mother would allow him to stay at home and build up a business
they could all benefit from. But Zelta showed no interest in what he got up to
at the market, and only questioned him about his studies. She read his report
cards again and again, and by the end of the holiday must have known them off
by heart. It made Lubji even more determined that when he presented her with
his next years’ reports, they would please her even more.

When his
six-week break came to an end, Lubji reluctantly packed his little leather bag
and was driven back to Ostrava by Mr. Lekski. “The offer to join me is still
open,” he reminded the young man, “but not until you’ve completed Your
studies.”

During Lubji’s
second year at the academy the name of Adolf Hitler came up in conversation
almost as often as that of Moses. Jews were fleeing across the border every day
reporting the horrors taking place in Germany, and Lubji could only wonder what
the Fuhrer might have planned next. He read every newspaper he could lay his
hands on, in whatever language and however out of date.

“Hitler Looks
East” read a headline on page one of The Ostrava. When Lubji turned to page
seven to read the rest of the story he found it was missing, but that didn’t
stop him wondering how long it would be before the Fuhrer’s tanks rolled into
Czechoslovakia. He was certain of one thing: Hitler’s master race wouldn’t
include the likes of him.

Later that
morning he expressed these fears to his history master, but he seemed incapable
of stretching his mind beyond Hannibal, and the question of whether he would
make it across the Alps. Lubji closed his old history book and, without
considering the consequences, marched out of the classroom and down the
corridor toward the principal’s private quarters. He stopped in front of a door
he had never entered, hesitated for a moment and then knocked boldly.

“Come,” said a
voice.

Lubji opened the
door slowly and entered the principal’s study. The godly man was garbed in full
academic robes of red and gray, and a black skullcap rested on top of his long
black ringlets. He looked up from his desk. “I presume this is something of
vital importance, Hoch,”

“Yes, sir,” said
Lubji confidently, Then he lost his nerve.

“Well?” prompted
the principal, after some time had elapsed.

“We must be
prepared to leave at a moment’s notice,” Lubji finally blurted out. “We have to
assume that it will not be long before Hitler.

. .”

The old man
smiled up at the fifteen-year-old boy and waved a dismissive hand. “Hitler has
told us a hundred times that he has no interest in occupying any other
territory,” he said, as if he were correcting a minor error Lubji had made in a
history exam.

“I’m sorry to have
bothered you, sir,” Lubji said, realizing that however well he presented his
case, he wasn’t going to persuade such an unworldly man.

But as the weeks
passed, first his tutor, then his housemaster, and finally the principal, had
to admit that history was being written before their eyes. It was on a warm
September evening that the principal, carrying out his rounds, began to alert
the pupils that they should gather together their possessions, as they would be
leaving at dawn the following day. He was not surprised to find Lubji’s room
already empty.

A few minutes
after midnight, a division of German tanks crossed the border and advanced
unchallenged toward Ostrava. The soldiers ransacked the academy even before the
breakfast bell had rung, and dragged all the students out into waiting lorries.
There was only one pupil who wasn’t present to answer the final roll-call.
Lubji Hoch had left the previous night. After cramming all his possessions into
the little leather case, he had joined the stream of refugees heading toward
the Hungarian border. He prayed that his mother had read not only the papers,
but Hitler’s mind, and would somehow have escaped with the rest of the family.
He had recently heard rumors about the Germans rounding up Jews and placing
them in internment camps. He tried not to think of what might happen to his
family if they were captured.

When Lubji
slipped out of the academy gates that night he didn’t stop to watch the local
people rushing from house to house searching for their relatives, while others
loaded their possessions onto horse-drawn carts that would surely be overtaken
by the slowest armed vehicle. This was not a night to spend fussing about
personal possessions: you can’t shoot a possession, Lubji wanted to tell them.
But no one stood still long enough to listen to the tall, powerfully built
young man with long black ringlets, dressed in his academy uniform. By the time
the German tanks had surrounded the academy, he had already covered several
miles on the road that led south to the border.

Lubji didn’t
even consider sleeping. He could already hear the roar of guns as the enemy
advanced into the city from the west. On and on he strode, past those who were
slowed by the burden of pushing and pulling their lives’ possessions. He overtook
laden donkeys, carts that needed their wheels repaired and families with young
children and aging relatives, held up by the pace of the slowest. He watched as
mothers cut the locks from their sons’ hair and began to abandon anything that
might identify them as Jewish. He would have stopped to remonstrate with them
but didn’t want to lose any precious time. He swore that nothing would ever
make him abandon his religion.