FAR and AWAY
True Brit:
Beatrice, 1940
Kinkajou Press
Albuquerque, New Mexico
www.apbooks.net
ISBN: 978-1-932926-19-4
Copyright (c) 2011 by Rosemary Zibart
Illustrations Copyright (c) 2011 George Lawrence
Cover Design Copyright (c) 2011 George Lawrence and Janice St. Marie
Published by Artemesia Publishing at Smashwords.
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To Jake
who makes everything possible.
To Sergei and Brandon
who bring me such delight.
In memory of ...
Tanya
who gave me a sense of the journey.
And Jaenet
whose enthusiasm for this story was key.
Chapter One
Only Great-Aunt Augusta spoke up against the plan. As usual, we had gathered for tea at her big elegant house in Mayfair on Wednesday at 4 p.m. sharp. White-haired and stout, Great-Aunt Augusta had made it quite clear she wouldn’t allow the War to interfere with her teatime. Of course we each carried a gas mask to her home, just in case. The gas masks were made of smelly rubber and I dreaded using one but we feared a poison gas attack might come at any time.
Hearing the news of my trip, Great-Aunt Augusta looked appalled. “You don’t mean to say you’re going to send Beatrice to the United States!” she said. “The girl will surely lose all her manners. She’ll return chewing gum and wearing lipstick.”
“There are some things rather worse than chewing gum,” Father replied, smiling at me kindly. “We want Beatrice to be absolutely safe.”
I knew what Father was speaking about. Beginning on 7 September, we saw the air over London fill with Nazi planes. Horrid screaming bombs began falling from the sky, forcing thousands of us to crowd underneath the streets in the Underground. Since then, we huddled together every night in the dark listening to the explosions. Each morning we climbed out, fearful that a beloved house or church or shop had been demolished.
In some neighborhoods, block after block of buildings had been destroyed. Where there had once been a row of lovely homes, nothing remained but rubble, broken glass and dishes, smashed furniture, even soggy bed mattresses and torn clothes. People seldom bothered to go back to bombed houses for their belongings. It was too dangerous and too sad.
The vicious Nazis imagined they could destroy our wonderful little country of England, but they should have known better. Every Brit who was old enough was either bravely fighting or steadfastly protecting the country. Like my 17-year-old brother, Willy, who was in the Home Guard. Every night, he helped guide ambulance drivers through the wrecked city. Though only twelve, I wished I could go along and help also.
Yet now Mother was insisting I leave the city. The sooner, the better.
“I won’t go. I won’t go,” I hissed through clenched teeth. “You can’t make me.”
But Mother was firm. “Darling, thousands of children have left already for places in the country or abroad. You simply can’t stay here another minute.”
She rang up the Children’s Overseas Reception Board, which was placing children in homes across the ocean. All the nice English homes in Canada, she learned, were already filled. But the Board lady said she’d received a letter from someone named Miss Clementine Pope. The woman was a public health nurse from a far-away part of the world called New Mexico. And she wished to take in a child. Were we interested?
“I’m not sure,” said Mother. We were all seated around the table at breakfast. “I don’t know any public health nurses.”
“I’ve met dozens of nurses,” said Willy. “And they’re all splendid.”
“A nurse should be able to care for a child,” said Father.
“That’s true,” said Mother. “But she lives in such a faraway place.”
“Santa Fe, New Mexico,” said Father, who loved maps, globes, atlases and all that sort of thing. “I’m sure I’ve heard of it.”
He jumped up, threw his napkin on the table and strode into the library. Our library was lined from floor to ceiling with books. Willy, Mother and I ran after him and watched as he spun around a large globe.
When he finally put his finger down, I peered at the spot. It seemed nearly on the other side of the world from England! A disagreeable lump swelled in my throat. How could I possibly be forced to travel so far from everything dear to me?
Father, however, seemed pleased. “I daresay the War won’t make it all the way over there.”
“Why, Beatrice, that’s the Wild West,” declared Willy gleefully. “Perhaps you’ll see cowboys and Indians.”
“Oh dear,” Mother gasped. “Not cowboys and Indians.”
“Honestly, if I must leave home,” I said, stamping my foot, “why can’t I go somewhere in the countryside where you could visit me once in a while?”
My dear father was thin and tall with tortoise shell glasses always perched on his nose. Now he looked especially serious; his glasses slipped further down his nose. Coming close, he put his hand on my shoulder. “Nowhere in Great Britain is safe enough, darling,” he said. “Bombs simply don’t know the difference between city homes and country homes.”
I looked up, tears in my eyes, knowing what he said was true.
All that had happened a week ago. Today was the first time that Great-Aunt Augusta had heard of my journey. Peering through her lorgnette at me, she commanded, “Come over here, Beatrice.”
When I obeyed, she grabbed my shoulders and pushed them up straight. “Don’t forget, Beatrice, you come from a very long line of Sims going back to the Earl of Duckchester,” said Great-Aunt Augusta. “Remember you’re made of strong stuff. Be proud of who you are.”
I nodded glumly. Ever since I could remember, the Earl of Duckchester had glared down at me from his portrait hanging in the hall. Truly, I couldn’t imagine doing anything good enough to please him, or Great-Aunt Augusta, either.
“Who is accompanying Beatrice on this perilous journey?” asked my great-aunt.
Mother looked uneasy. Father cleared his throat loudly. “Well, uh, we’re not quite sure,” he muttered.
I brightened momentarily. Mother and Father had wanted Cook’s sister, Miss Frimby, a thin, sour woman, to travel with me. But, at the last moment, Miss Frimby got herself engaged to a Navy sailor named Orlando Stiff. She packed up her cardboard suitcase and trotted out the door without even saying a proper “farewell” to anyone in the house. That’s the sort of romance that happens during a war, said Father. I hoped the surprising event might delay or even cancel my trip. But that didn’t happen.
“My goodness, you can’t send her alone, can you?” Great-Aunt Augusta looked shocked.
“I’m afraid we may have to.” Father frowned. “The chance of getting a ticket on another ship is too risky.” He winked at me. “You can go it on your own, can’t you, Toodles?”
I tried to smile. Toodles was a nickname he hadn’t used since I was ten.
Mother, however, looked pale. “She is just a child.”
“I am not a child,” I protested.
“Of course you’re not,” said Father. “In any case, Beatrice will be traveling first-class. She’ll be very comfortable.” He turned away slightly and again cleared his throat. “I see no problem whatsoever.”
Mother appeared somewhat relieved. “Thank heaven you’re so tall for twelve years old, Beatrice. You appear much older.”
I frowned. Indeed I was tall, but also gawky, pale and thin, with straight-as-a-pin yellow hair. None of Mother’s lovely looks – wavy brown hair and dark eyes like a Christmas card Madonna, as Father always said – had settled on me.
“On the bright side, Beatrice, just think – you won’t need a smelly gas mask in the States,” said Willy.
“But I don’t want to go,” I mumbled. “I want to stay here and help like you and all the others.” By then, however, everyone was busy talking about the new Prime Minister, Mr. Winston Churchill. Would he be able to keep our country strong and safe?
“He certainly has rallied the spirit of the British people,” said Great-Aunt Augusta. “Don’t you think?”
Later that evening, I made one last protest, cornering Father in the library where he sat reading the newspaper. “You are forcing me against my will,” I said. “You are staying here and so are Mother and Willy. Only I have to leave. It’s not fair.”
“Yes, Beatrice, I know it’s not fair.” His face grew very sober. “But we have to think of the future, my dear. What if the Nazis succeed?”
“They c-can’t possibly,” I stammered. “Can they?”
“We certainly hope not. And we’re working day and night at the War Office to prevent that from happening. But…” He pointed to the newspaper. “The news is not very good.” Father shook his head. “If the worst should come to pass…I couldn’t bear to have a child of mine or any English child brought up under the cruel form of government in Germany at present.”
I fell silent, feeling the awful weight of his words.
Then Father’s face brightened. “Now, Beatrice, you don’t have to think of this trip as such a terrible thing. Look at it as an adventure.”
“An adventure?” Being torn from my family and everything near and dear to me didn’t seem like a very fine adventure.
“There have been loads of Englishwomen who have had adventures in the wildest, most remote places on earth.” Father leapt to his feet and began searching among the books on the shelves. “Somewhere I have a book about Gertrude Bell. She traveled across the Arabian desert on horseback.” He pulled out a book. “And here’s one on Mary Kingsley, another great explorer. She traipsed across Africa wearing a long dress. Once her many layers of petticoats saved her life when she fell into a lion’s trap filled with spears.”
A lion’s trap? Now that did sound interesting, I thought, taking the book.
Father went to his desk. “Let’s see, what do explorers need? If you’re going to be an explorer, you must take careful notes of everything you see.” He pulled open a drawer and shuffled around a bit. “How would you like this?” He held up a little red-leather bound book.
“Keep it with you at all times,” he said, handing it to me. “I expect you to fill it with very interesting information.”
I took the little red notebook and turned it over in my hand. The leather was smooth and soft. It looked lovely. I hugged Father around the neck. “You are so sweet to give this to me,” I exclaimed, wiping away a tiny tear from the corner of my eye. “But I still don’t understand how a very ordinary twelve-year-old girl like me can become a world explorer.”
“Why not, Beatrice?” Father said.
“But I’ve rarely even been out of the city,” I said. “And then only for outings in the countryside.”
“Nevertheless,” said Father, sitting down and picking up his newspaper, “I see many great adventures ahead of you.”
Though still doubtful, I tucked the heavy book about Mary Kingsley under my arm. I would read a few chapters before leaving. And I would try my very best to make this awful trip into an adventure.
On the day of my departure, 14 September, the rain poured down in sheets, soaking the city. London seemed particularly grey and dismal, coated with wet soot and ashes.
Father said farewell in the morning before leaving for work. He looked sadder and more serious than I had ever seen him. His final words were, “Beatrice, you will undoubtedly encounter many things you have never encountered before.” He paused thoughtfully. “But that’s a very good thing, really.” Then he gave me a long hug. “Be brave, my dearest girl.” His voice was scratchy. “I must rush off now to the War Office.” Just as he was climbing into a cab, however, he turned back for an instant. “Be sure and keep your notebook handy.”
I didn’t leave until that evening. Cook and a chambermaid stood in the foyer to say goodbye. Cook, who had known me since I was a tiny baby, hugged me. The new chambermaid, her blond braids tucked under a little white cap, curtsied. I gave a final desperate squeeze to Alfie, my dear little dog. He was a Yorkshire Terrier with long golden hair that fell in his eyes and a sweet little tail that stuck straight up.
“Be brave,” I whispered in Alfie’s furry ear and kissed his tiny cold nose. A tear dripped on his silky coat.
Henry, the chauffeur, loaded my trunk into the Bentley, our shiny black limousine. As Willy, Mother and I were driven to the train station, I pressed my forehead to the cool glass and stared out. It was a dark night. Due to the blackout, automobile headlights couldn’t be turned on and there wasn’t another trace of light. Every window had been covered with heavy black paper. No one could even smoke a cigarette outside because that tiny glimmer of light might aid a Nazi airman far above. They might see where to drop their accursed bombs.
Still, even in the dark, I knew these streets so well I could imagine the tall stone and brick buildings on either side, so solid and friendly. Would any of them still be standing when I returned? Or would they all have tumbled down in a pile of dust and rubble?
Suddenly, our automobile jolted, throwing us all forward in a heap. “Sorry, M’um,” said Henry, “but the street’s torn up bad with holes nearly as big as the kitchen stove.”
“Don’t worry, Henry, I know you’re doing the best you can,” Mother said. She sat on the edge of the green velveteen seat grasping my hand. Her pointy red nails dug into my palm but I didn’t complain. I knew she was nervous and upset.
“I just hope the fighting lasts long enough for me to join up,” said Willy. Unlike Father, Mother and me, he was big, strong and athletic, with a ruddy pink face and curly blond hair.
“Please, don’t wish that,” said Mother. “I couldn’t bear it.”
“I wish I could join up, too,” I exclaimed.
“Oh, darling,” Mother moaned.
“What could you possibly do?” asked Willy.
“Nurse the wounded,” I quickly responded.
“Nurse the wounded? You’re still bandaging your dollies, aren’t you?” Willy always picked times like this to act beastly.
I tried to punch him but Mother pleaded, “Please, children, we have a very short time left to be together. Let’s be nice to one another.” Indeed, at that moment, we reached Victoria Station. The train station, always busy, was now in shambles. Thousands of people, old and young, were frantically trying to leave London.
After one look at the crowd, Mother sank back in the seat. “I can’t go any farther. I’m simply too overcome with emotion.” Kissing me on the cheek, she begged me, “Please, darling, let’s not make a scene. Just pretend you’re going away on holiday.” For her sake, I held back my sniffles. Mother was a frail person with “weak nerves,” as Father said.
“Really, darling,” she went on, “this wretched business can’t last very long. You’ll probably be home for Christmas.” She squeezed my hand as I climbed out of the limousine.
Thank goodness Willy finally stopped acting like a pig and started acting like my very dear big brother again. “Don’t worry, Beatrice, I’ll accompany you to the train with Henry.” He helped Henry fetch my large red traveling trunk. Mother waved goodbye through the limousine window, but the glass fogged up so quickly her face was soon a blur.
“Come on, dearie,” Henry gestured and hoisted my heavy trunk onto his wide shoulders. I reluctantly followed, staying close behind him and Willy as we burrowed our way through the crowd of desperate people.
On the train platform, I spied a mother giving last minute instructions to her four youngsters, two boys and two girls. “Now, Lucy, you are all heading for an old house in the country,” she said, wiping a smudge from the face of the youngest, a small blond girl. “Be very patient with your great-uncle. He’s not accustomed to children.”
The girl named Lucy smiled brightly, “Of course we will, Mummy. We’ll be very, very good.” Her mother gave her a big hug.
“How fortunate those children are,” I muttered to Willy. “There are four of them, which is far more cheerful than just being one. And they’re staying in England.” He nodded but it was too hard to speak in the crowd with the noise of train whistles and people shouting all around.
By staying in England, those children would know all the customs and manners. What was the right thing to do and say and how to use a butter knife and a finger bowl. Where I was going, I knew none of the manners. Or even if the people who lived in that faraway land of New Mexico had any proper manners at all.
The three of us squeezed through the mass of people until we reached the platform for departing trains. We found the one I was supposed to ride on. Seeing the train made me realize that in a few minutes I would truly be on my own. Alone. My knees felt so weak I wasn’t certain they’d keep holding me up.
I gasped, “Who will watch over Alfie? What if no one carries him to the air raid shelter at night? What if he escapes and goes looking for me in the fire and smoke?”
“Don’t worry, Beatrice, I’ll look after Alfie!” Willy exclaimed. “And I’ll look after Father, Mother, our home and all of London. Everything will be fine when you return.” He gave me a hard, quick squeeze. “I know this feels bloody awful, Beatrice, but you’re a kicker, you’ll survive.”
I nodded and felt in the pocket of my wool jacket for the little red notebook Father had given me. Its soft smooth leather was comforting.
“And write, Beatrice, don’t forget to write. Often as you like,” Willy added.
“If you’ll write back, I will.” I said.
Henry helped me up the steep step onto the train. “You’ll do fine, luv,” he muttered. “I don’t know much about New Mexico, but I’ve heard Mexico is a very jolly place. Very jolly!”
He loaded my trunk into a first-class compartment which, I noticed, was not filled with first-class people. Some were wearing dingy clothes. The air was thick and warm and smelled like stewed prunes. But I had no choice; this was my seat. Fitting myself between a large old lady clutching a brown paper bag and a thin ill-looking woman with a sharp pointed nose, I recalled Cook’s remark, “The war is causing everyone hardships, even the better class of people.”
At the last minute, a tall, grubby boy popped into the compartment and squeezed down opposite me, though it was easy to see there wasn’t an inch of extra space. I looked at him indignantly, but he just glared back. Sneering at my fine clothes, shiny shoes and white gloves, he jabbered, “Whatcha’ think this is, ducky, Buckingham Palace?”
The train jolted into motion. I caught one last glimpse of Willy and Henry, wildly waving. Then they were gone. The grubby boy was still staring. My lower lip began to quiver; I bit it hard, squeezing both hands into tight fists. That horrid boy will not see me cry, I thought. Not for all the tea in China.
Chapter Two
A crowded smelly train coach is a dreadful way to begin a trip. Hours later, I walked up the gangplank of the Duchess of York, a ship bound for the United States. I hoped it would be a vast improvement on the train.
Naturally, Father had booked me a first-class stateroom. So I was extremely surprised to open the door of No.14 and see three small boys seated on one of the bunks. Their clothes were ragged and their hair looked like it hadn’t been trimmed for months. They scratched their heads as if – oh my God – they might have lice!
The three were chattering to one another in French. But when I walked in, they stopped and stared. Who were they? What were they doing in my stateroom?
I started to shout, “Allez-vous-en, allez-vous-en!” That’s how my French tutor, Madame Dépeche, addressed Alfie when he was being a pest. It means, “Get out, get out of here!”
Instead I turned around and marched down the corridor to the ship’s steward. Looking bored, he referred me to the ship’s captain, a surprisingly young and rather handsome gentleman in uniform. I stood patiently a moment until he turned in my direction.
“Hullo. I’m Captain Wingate,” he said, “Is there a problem, young lady?”
“Excuse me, sir,” I said. “But does this ticket mention my sharing my stateroom with anyone?”
He studied the piece of paper. “You’re Beatrice Agatha Sims?” I nodded primly. “Yes, I was intending to look in on you,” he told me, smiling. “Quite bold for you to be traveling on your own like this. And I’m terribly sorry, Miss Sims, for the inconvenience. But we’ve had to squeeze a few extra passengers on board wherever we had an extra berth. These children are Jewish orphans from Belgium traveling to relatives in the United States.”
I started to complain about their being put in my stateroom. But before I could speak two words, Captain Wingate shook his head sadly. “If only you had seen the pitiful ones left behind because they had nowhere to go.”
I walked slowly back to the stateroom. I knew the Jews in Europe were having a very bad time. That’s one more good reason, Father said, why England must stand strong against the Nazis. But still – three strange boys in my cabin?
That night I did insist they leave for ten minutes while I dressed for bed. I hated for anyone, even a child, to see me in my cotton slip. So I quite pushed them out the door and jumped under the covers. Then I called out, giving them permission to return. I watched as they crowded noisily into the remaining bunk bed.
A day later, feeling bored, I came across the little red notebook in my jacket pocket. The pages were empty and white. There were no straight lines like on school notebook paper. I could write anything I wanted. Or even draw little pictures. But what to write? I had no idea. Yet if I didn’t begin now, I might never. Then I’d return to England in a few months with an empty notebook. Father would be very disappointed. I definitely needed to begin…
I thought for a moment or two. I must pretend to behave like an explorer, even if I didn’t feel like one at all. What did explorers think about? What did they write about? For a few seconds my mind went completely blank. Then I considered what an explorer like Mary Kingsley might write about. I had read enough of her book to know she wrote about the people she met on her journeys in Africa. She described them very carefully. So I sat down and wrote:
16 September 1940 – Duchess of York
My three Belgian cabin-mates are small and pale. The only clothes they have is what they’re wearing – thin sweaters, shirts and trousers. Also, I hate to say this, but they have the most atrocious table manners I’ve ever seen. The steward in the dining room seats us at the same table since we come from the same stateroom. The little boys stuff food into their mouths as if they haven’t eaten for months!!
I put down my pen, thinking. Perhaps the boys haven’t eaten for months. Writing these few lines made me realize how little I knew about these children. They probably had had a terrible time of it. They may have lost their families – why, they were even more alone than me.
When we next dined together, the boys’ table manners didn’t bother me nearly as much. In fact, watching them eat, my heart went out to them. I took my apple and carefully cut it into thirds, passing a piece to each boy. They hesitated only a second before accepting and eating their apple slices. For the rest of the voyage, I passed them anything I could spare – fruit, bread, cheese. They always gobbled it down in seconds.
In the stateroom, I still ignored them totally. Then four nights into the voyage, the ship sailed into an awful storm. The waves pitched the ship back and forth violently. My stomach did the same – rocking up and down, back and forth. I felt so horribly ill, I must have turned quite white. The three orphans sat on the opposite bunk, watching me with big frightened eyes. Finally I collapsed on the bed, groaning loudly and holding my stomach. That’s when the oldest boy came hesitantly over. He sat on the edge of the bed, wiping my forehead with a damp cloth. He even hummed a sweet lullaby he must have learned from his mother. Through that long, turbulent night, he sat close, keeping me company. While on the other bunk, his two little brothers clung to one another fearfully.
Next morning, I lay in bed a long while, feeling grumpy. I was mortified at my behavior. After all, here was a shabbily dressed young boy (with no table manners) who had behaved far better to me than I had behaved toward him.
Later that morning he arrived with a cup of weak tea for me. I sat straight up and asked his name. “Comment appellez vous?”
He put down the tea, smiled grandly and bowed. “Je m’appelle Alphonse.” Then he introduced his little brothers as André and Alfred; they also bowed politely.
Still smiling, Alphonse asked if I would like to play checkers.
“Oui, oui,” I replied. For the remainder of the trip, we got along very well, often playing checkers or dominoes in the ship’s lounge. They played so brilliantly, however, I lost nearly every game.
A few days later, late at night, the ship docked. The moment I awoke, I could feel the ship’s engines had stopped and we were no longer moving through the waves. I jumped up, hastily dressed and ran up on deck, the little boys fast behind me. I couldn’t wait to see the Statue of Liberty and giant skyscrapers of New York harbour.
But when I reached the deck of our ship, there was neither a huge statue nor tall, tall buildings.
“This is Norfolk, Virginia,” explained Captain Wingate, standing nearby and noticing our disappointment. “We had to zigzag across the ocean to outwit deadly German U-boats. That’s why we ended up here instead of in New York.”
What a disappointment. Like all British children traveling to the United States, I’d been given a booklet called The Token of Freedom. The booklet reassured English children about leaving their homes and families. It helped them understand why Britain was standing fast against the Nazi threat. I read the booklet over and over and kept it under my pillow at night. One paragraph I had memorized:
“When you see the Statue of Liberty in New York’s harbour, remember why she is holding up a light. It is what any brave mother would do if her children were traveling a dangerous road in what Chaucer called ‘the dark darknesses’ of this world. The spirit of freedom is so dear to the Free People that they made her image enormous, strong as bronze, beautiful as a proud young mother.”
What stirring words those were! I wished I spoke French well enough to tell Alphonse and his brothers how the “dark darknesses” were spreading in the world. But that brave, free people would always fight against them.
The English were now in the battle and Father believed the Americans would soon join them. “The English and the Americans have been strong allies before and shall be again,” he had predicted.
But now we were in Virginia, not New York. Even at the end of September, the weather was sticky and hot. Flowering bushes bloomed like June in England. All the passengers filed off the ship in an orderly fashion. I stood next to my trunk, dressed in long woolen socks and a grey wool argyle sweater over my blouse. In a few minutes, the cotton blouse was damp with sweat.
Alphonse, André and Alfred stood next to me on the dock. Alphonse was quickly learning English. “Wanna play checkers?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No, thank you. Not now.”
At that moment, an old couple appeared. Seeing the boys, they shouted with happiness. Then hurrying over, they hugged the children with tears flowing down their wrinkled faces. Before leaving, the boys crowded round me. Each one kissed me on both cheeks. “Au revoir, au revoir. Bonne chance.” Then the family walked away, hand-in-hand, chattering to one another. Looking after them, I pulled out my little notebook and jotted down a few words.
21 September 1940 – Norfolk, Virginia
The refugee children, Alphonse, Andre and Alfred, now have a safe home and will be well-fed. I am very glad I am not a refugee. I am a visitor and a sort of explorer, which is very different.
I am seeing real Americans for the first time. There are many tall young men in blue and white Navy uniforms. (Their uniforms are mostly white with blue trim while British uniforms are mostly blue with white trim.) I can only hope these sailors will soon be crossing the ocean to aid England in winning the war.
I had barely put away my notebook when the handsome Captain Wingate strolled over. He patted my shoulder. “You still have quite a long trip ahead of you, dear girl.”
I frowned. That was not what I wanted to hear. I felt I had traveled quite long enough and I wished simply to be somewhere. Alphonse, Andre and Alfred already had a home, why couldn’t I?
Captain Wingate must have noticed me drooping. He quickly added, “Miss Sims, would you care for an Eskimo Pie?”
“An Eskimo what?”
Captain Wingate marched over to a short plump man behind a little white pushcart. He gave the man a few coins and returned with a square of frozen vanilla ice cream covered in chocolate, on a stick. I quickly learned how delicious Eskimo Pies are! Though the heat caused the ice cream to drip on my sweater and skirt. My fingers became very sticky too. Captain Wingate pulled out his clean white handkerchief to clean up the stickiness. Then he hailed a taxicab to carry me to the train station. Finally, he handed me a thick envelope. Wishing me a good journey, he rushed back to his ship.
Inside the envelope, I discovered a train ticket and a cable from home. How lovely! I tore open the cable.
21 September 1940
Dear Sis,
By now we believe you have reached dry land. Very lucky your ship didn’t get torpedoed. There was one boat, the City of Benares, that went down several days ago and 77 children were drowned. Those poor little blokes didn’t have a chance. It was a terrible tragedy and the whole country is mourning. Now Britain won’t send any more children to the United States so you got out in the nick of time. Your ship was one of the very last to make the dangerous crossing. Of course, Mother says now if she’d known how dangerous the journey was, she’d never have permitted you to go. But it’s hardly safe here, either. If anything, the bombing is worse than before, so we’re glad you’ve reached the States. We all feel much happier knowing you’re safe.
Fondly,
William M. Sims a.k.a. Willy
Home Guard Officer
My hands trembled as I folded up the cable and put it in my pocket. Horrors! What if our ship had been hit by torpedoes? Imagine sinking into the freezing cold water! Imagine sharks snapping off my feet! A shiver ran clear through me. The mere sight of Willy’s name on the thin blue paper made my eyes brim with tears. “Oh, dear,” I murmured.
“Wha-at’s tha’ you say’d, little la-dy?” asked the big red-faced cabdriver, turning round to stare at me. I could barely understand his drawl. Did all Americans speak in such a peculiar way?
“Nothing.” I quickly wiped a tear away with the wadded-up handkerchief from kind Captain Wingate that I had forgotten to return. Then I sat up straight. After all, my journey was far from over. In fact, like it or not, my American adventure was just beginning.
Chapter Three
At first, it was pleasant not to be tossing back and forth on the ocean waves.
The train whizzed past woods, meadows, gardens, orchards, farmhouses, barns and cows. Then more of the same and even more of the same. Someone should make a law, I decided, forbidding countries to be so big. England is the perfect size for a country – no countries need be any larger than that.
I wished I had some friends to play checkers and dominoes with in the train lounge. I missed Alphonse, André and Alfred. What were they doing now? Eating everything in sight? Playing hide and seek in their new home? Did they have a dog or cat to play with? Were they making friends?
I stared out the window some more, watching whole towns pass by. Streets with street lamps and telephone poles, houses, lawns, men mowing the grass, women hanging up laundry. Young boys and girls stopped their bicycles on the roadway and waved at the passing train. I waved back, wondering if they saw me. We also passed forests and rivers. One day I spied a deer grazing in a meadow. Another time, a red fox ran close to the train tracks, pausing and looking up as the noisy train passed.
I got out my little red notebook and wrote:
22 September 1940
It’s quite remarkable how things in the train compartment fit together so neatly. There’s a small white porcelain basin with a mirror above. The water faucets turn off and on, hot and cold. Next to it is a narrow closet with four hangers inside. I hung up three white blouses, a checked skirt and a blue dress. During the day, I sit on a wide flat seat that folds into a comfortable bed at night, with very clean white sheets, a warm blanket and thick pillow. The motion of the train rocks me to sleep. I dream of small towns, forests, meadows and cornfields flashing by in the dark.
A day later, I changed trains in St. Louis. Soon after that, as I gazed out the window, everything became a monotonous blur. Endless fields of crops with only a few lonely farmhouses scattered here and there. Nothing looked cozy and familiar. I had truly arrived in a strange and different land; remote from everything I knew and loved. Indeed, how little I knew about the United States. Before coming, Father had told me the country was filled with immigrants.
“What do you mean?” I had asked.
“Most Englishmen have lived in Britain all their lives,” said Father. “So did their parents, their grandparents, their great-grandparents and all their ancestors dating back to William the Conqueror.”
“But that’s not true in the United States?”
“No, Beatrice. In the United States, most people arrived a fairly short time ago. The Indians have always lived there of course. But everyone else came ten years ago, fifty years ago, one or two hundred years ago,” he explained. “Some immigrated from England while others came from France or Germany or Italy. There are even immigrants who came from faraway lands like China and Turkey.”
Imagining all those people – Germans, Turks, Chinese – heaped together in one place made me feel quite dizzy. I was accustomed to people who looked, sounded and behaved more or less like me. Indeed, my jaw nearly dropped open when I first answered a knock on the train compartment door. Cracking open the door, I saw a tall man in a neat white jacket and dark cap. His round face was dark as coffee; his short grey hair was fuzzy as lamb’s wool.
“Excuse me, Miss Beatrice,” the tall man said. “I see your name on the top of my list of passengers. I’m Hamilton, porter for this here Pullman car. It’s my responsibility that you get looked after, good as can be.”
He glanced around the compartment. “You honest-to-God travelin’ on your own?”
I nodded, still too stunned to speak. Hamilton didn’t seem to mind; he shook his head. “Ain’t you Brits something!” And gave me an admiring look. “Perhaps you’d like me to fetch you a bite to eat from the dining car.” He considered. “How about a nice cold Coca Cola with ice, Miss Beatrice?”
“A Coca…what?” I muttered, finally finding my voice.
“Just you wait and see,” he replied. Minutes later, he returned with a tray on which I spied a bottle of dark fizzy liquid and a glass filled with ice. He carefully poured the drink into the glass and waited a moment while I tasted it. The sweet bubbly drink sizzled on my tongue. I couldn’t help but smile. Hamilton grinned.
“How about a hot dog with mustard and relish?” he inquired next.
“What kind of a dog?” I asked.
He chuckled. “On the menu it says a frankfurter, but most folks here in America call it a hot dog or Coney Island dog.”
He brought me one, dripping with all the “fixings” – ketchup, mustard, relish. With such delicious goodies to sample, I certainly didn’t lose any weight on the trip.
24 September 1940
Dear Willy,
You may think I’m a little piggy because of how much I’m eating. Especially when people in England are doing without in order that the soldiers can have enough. You are probably still very short on sugar and butter and eggs. But here there’s plenty – we dine on ice cream and grilled cheese toast and sweet bubbly soda pops. Hamilton, the porter, who’s a very kind person, makes sure that I have the best of everything. Not that I wouldn’t give up any of this delicious food to be with you and Mummy and Father and Alfie. But at least I’m not starving on top of the misery of being here without you.
Sincerely,
Beatrice
The next afternoon, I gathered courage and decided to explore the entire train. It was very long – eighteen cars. Passing through the dining car, I saw several passengers loudly arguing and paused to listen to what they were saying.
A bulky man in a grey suit yelled, “We don’t have any business getting involved in this fight. Those countries over there in Europe should have learned their lesson the last time we bailed ‘em out!”
A blonde woman with thick red lipstick and rouge agreed. She pointed to her husband, who was a short mousy fellow with a mustache. “I wouldn’t want George fighting, anyway. He’s already done his part for Uncle Sam.” And she added loudly, “Besides, who would he fight for? I’ve got German relatives myself and so do lots of other red-blooded Americans!”
I couldn’t bear hearing another word. “What do you mean?” I burst out, glaring at the woman. “England didn’t start this war. England is just trying to keep our people safe from those bullies, the Nazis.” My lower lip started to tremble. “This horrid war is all their fault!”