CHAPTER 6
September 1939
Hazel had known the minute she saw the note in Mum’s hand flapping in the breeze that something terrible had happened—the evacuation notice had come through. Tears ran down Mum’s cheek and she didn’t bother to wipe them away.
“It’s an order from the government,” Mum had explained. “Germany invaded Poland and now… this.”
OPERATION Pied Piper: EVACUATION OF ALL CHILDREN FROM LONDON IMMEDIATELY.
While Mum and Flora slept, Hazel awoke to the gentle pattering of rain on the window. Slipping out of bed, her bare feet sank into the sheepskin rug and her new plaid flannel nightgown, which was a bit too long, dragged along the floor.
In the dark of night, Hazel tiptoed into the living room, quieter than a feather falling. Light from the lamppost outside filled the room with a hazy glow, just enough to help her locate what she needed: Grimm’s Fairy Tales.
She remembered a snowy afternoon long ago, before Flora was born. Hazel had sat on her papa’s lap as he read the story of Cinderella from his family’s pale blue Brothers Grimm book. Mum had been cooking in the kitchen and the world was right and true—even as the birds pecked out the eyeballs of the evil stepsisters.
“Theo!” Mum had appeared suddenly at their side, grabbing the colorful book from Hazel’s father’s hands. “Don’t scare her. She’s too young for such grisly tales.”
Papa had pulled Hazel close and kissed the top of her head. “Hazel knows that fairy tales aren’t real.”
Mum had dragged a wooden chair from the corner with a high screeching sound, stood on its seat in her stocking feet, and slipped the book onto the top shelf where Hazel couldn’t reach it.
Now, Hazel looked up and there it was, exactly where Mum had put it all those years ago on the top bookshelf to the right of the hearth. Inside those blue covers, she knew, was the story of the Pied Piper.
She brought the same wooden chair to the bookshelves, stood on it, and grabbed the book from its spot. She carried the book to a cozy corner chair covered in chintz, curled her legs beneath her, and read by the outdoor lamppost light.
Hazel soon found the story she was looking for. A piper who arrived in a German city named Hamelin was given the job of luring the town’s hated rats to a river to be drowned. By doing this, the Pied Piper saved the town.
That was good, wasn’t it? The Pied Piper saved the town!
She read on.
Then the mayor of Hamelin refused to pay the colorfully attired piper. In return, the man donned a bright red cap, played his seductive flute tune, and led the town’s children into the hills and valleys and rivers beyond, never to be seen again.
Only two children—blind and lame, who could not follow the piper—were spared. The rest of the town’s children disappeared forever.
Hazel let out a cry of despair, then quickly covered her mouth. If she was looking for comfort in this story, it was not to be found. No Pied Piper would take them away forever. She would protect Flora until their return to Bloomsbury.
She would have to make up her own stories.
Hazel awoke the next morning, scared and not wanting to show it. Flora was curled next to her; she’d wiggled free of her own tangled sheets in the middle of the night and climbed into Hazel’s bed.
The sounds of Mum cooking breakfast seeped under the bedroom door: the clang of pans, her singing, the whistle of the kettle. Flora still slept as she rounded into Hazel, back-to-back. Hazel rolled over and put her arms around her little sister, causing her to stir. Flora twisted around to face her.
“No!” she said firmly.
“I know,” Hazel replied in a whisper, knowing exactly what Flora’s declaration meant. Do not get up. Do not take me from this place. Do not let this be the morning we must leave.
“Not yet?” she asked.
“No, sleep a little longer,” said Hazel.
A sword of sunlight sliced through the thin slat of open curtain and landed between Flora and Hazel. Hazel reached over and rested her hand on the sunlight to cover it, ensuring nothing came between them.
After breakfast, Mum snapped a photo of the two sisters on the front stoop. Then they walked to the Argyle School where Hazel and Flora joined the children marching to the train station. The air was wet and cold, the kind of weather that moves to the bones. Mums, fathers, and children were crowded together as they followed the teachers through thin alleyways and up ascending streets. Gas masks swung from knapsacks like huge insect heads, terrifying Hazel each time she accidently glanced at one. Girls with bows in their hair wore swing coats and scarves pulled tight around necks. A growing crowd behind them propelled them forward.
They passed women and men who stopped what they were doing to sadly observe the desultory line of children marching past, as if they were harbingers of doom. Shopkeepers watched the procession while others leaned against iron lampposts, some of them waving at the children even as they taped huge X-patterns across their windows so they would not shatter when the bombs dropped. Bloomsbury Park—with the sitting statue of Charles James Fox that the girls had climbed around and hidden behind—was empty. Hazel imagined the brightly dressed Pied Piper leading them away from family and home.
Her knapsack seemed to grow heavier by the minute. Weeks ago, she’d packed it with Mum and Flora, only half expecting to ever actually carry it to the train station. They’d ticked through the printed list from the government.
Gas mask.
Plimsolls.
Identity card and ration book.
Toothbrush.
Comb.
Spare socks.
Mackintosh.
Hazel hoisted her bag higher as lines of children from other schools and other areas converged on the train station’s platform.
Mum held on to the sisters’ hands; Flora on one side, with her teddy bear dangling from her tight grip, its ragged paw dragging on the ground, and Hazel on the other. Their teacher, Miss Plink, hurried ahead of them, and they hustled to keep up. Miss Plink held a sign for Hazel’s class, and then they were on the edge of the platform, as people pushed and shoved and cried out for friends or parents. Flora was allowed to go with Miss Plink’s class and stay with Hazel.
Mum, Flora, and Hazel stood silently clinging to each other.
From her jersey pocket Mum produced two tags fastened with strings. She slipped them around her daughters’ necks as if the girls were luggage.
Hazel lifted hers from her chest and turned it round to read:
Name: Hazel Mersey Linden
Address: Bloomsbury, London
Date of Birth: June 2, 1925
School Attended: Argyle School
Then on the back of it.
DESTINATION:
And here there were three lines, one for County, one for Parish, and one for Burgh. They were blank because no one knew where they would end up.
From behind came a great surge of people. Hazel felt herself falling forward toward the tracks. She grabbed Mum’s coat, and Mum clutched Hazel’s arm. Hazel stared at the weeds growing between the shiny gray metal rails and then just like that, the train arrived with a noisy clamor, screeching, bearing down, smoking like it was on fire and emitting great puffs of white clouds.
Mum let out a cry, then placed her hand over her mouth.
“All aboard!” shouted a man’s gravelly voice.
This was it. This was the leaving. “Where is this train going?” Hazel asked.
“I don’t know,” Mum said, her voice choked, “but, Hazel, send me your postcard the minute you arrive. You must let me know you are safe.”
Miss Plink’s voice hollered, “Climb aboard! Children, get on!”
One by one, members of Hazel’s class along with their younger siblings climbed the stairs from the platform onto the railcar. Mum hugged her daughters and did not even attempt to hide the tears pouring down her face. “I will not rest until I hear from you.”
“I love you so much,” Hazel said, thinking that it could be the last thing she ever said to her mum.
Mum hugged her girls while others behind them were pushing.
“Where are we going?” Hazel asked again.
Miss Plink stood above Hazel at the top of the stairs and held out her hand to pull Hazel up. “We won’t know until we get there,” Miss Plink told her. “They keep the destination secret so there aren’t any records; it is to keep you safe. You can send a postcard as soon as you arrive.”
The train lurched forward, its whistle screamed. Another was due to arrive just after. Hazel thought about chance and luck, and how other children would get on the next train to take them somewhere different. Was her best luck on this train or the next? How could she ever know?
Hazel and Flora stumbled down the aisle and found two empty seats as the train picked up speed. Flora’s hair had come loose from the sweet pink ribbon Mum had put in and Hazel took the bow from Flora’s hair and tucked it into her jersey pocket.
The train was stuffy. Too many people filled it with their fearful breathing. Hazel squeezed Flora’s hand. Her eyes were so wide, taking in the other frightened children, the battered suitcases and ragged knapsacks, the pillowcases stuffed with clothes.
“Hazel, will there be a river of stars?” her sister asked.
“Absolutely,” Hazel stated, attempting the authority of a grown-up telling lies.
Flora fell asleep in Hazel’s lap while Hazel stared out the window. Train stations flew by without names on them—identifying signs had been removed to confound the enemy seeking to find their way. They switched tracks, and Hazel grew confused about what direction they were headed. She finally closed her eyes but never really slept. At last, she felt the train grind to a stop.
The Linden sisters climbed off the train onto a wooden platform, holding their knapsacks while Flora also clung to Berry. The afternoon sun was high and bright. Hazel couldn’t say how long they’d been traveling. It had been an hour… or five? It might have been the next day.
They stood with their classmates, close together, arm to arm, sacks bumping and jostling, but no one said a word. In the eerie quiet, they followed Miss Plink inside the station.
A black sign with white enamel letters hung on the wall—OXFORD.
Oxford, England, was a place Hazel had heard quite a bit about. Papa attended university here at Christ Church and Mum had visited him from London during his schooldays. This was a setting as legendary as Whisperwood and had always seemed just as imaginary. Until now, Bloomsbury was the only real place.
In Oxford, Mum and Papa had fallen in love.
But the scene Hazel now beheld was nothing like she’d imagined Oxford. Children were crowded and crunched together. Flora was quietly crying, Hazel held her hand. She needed to be brave. There was no one else to look to for help.
This may have been the loneliest Hazel had ever been. It was a hollowed-out feeling. If getting through this wartime was up to her, they were doomed.
“Are we staying here?” Flora asked.
Hazel answered honestly. “I don’t know.” She attempted a smile. “Let’s eat the snacks Mum made us.”
Flora nodded and wiped tears from her face with the back of her hand. Hazel kissed Flora’s cheek and tasted the salty fear. Next to them, a young boy wept, the groin and inside of his pants stained where he’d wet himself. Hazel reached over and patted his shoulder, yet he paid her no mind, insulated in his misery.
Across the station, Miss Plink spoke to a man in a blue stiff uniform. Hazel kept Miss Plink in her sights as she guided Flora a few steps away to a wooden crate to sit upon. They undid the parcel Mum had prepared: two boiled eggs, a square of cheese, two pieces of bread. A note was bent three times into a rectangle.
Flora looked up to Hazel. “Read it.”
“Let’s save it for later, when we find out where we’ll be.”
Flora picked up the note and stuffed it into the pocket of her mackintosh.
“Don’t lose it!” Hazel said in a voice too stern. Flora’s lip trembled.
“I won’t,” she said.
In silence, they ate their cheese, their bread, their eggs, and—finally, slowly—two tiny squares of chocolate.
“Miss Plink’s class, follow me!” called out an echoing male voice with a thick Cockney accent.
Another classmate, a tall boy named Padraig Logan, raised his hand just as if they were in a classroom and Miss Plink had asked them to solve the math problem on the board.
“Yes, Padraig?” Miss Plink asked.
“Where are we going?” His voice shook, and this scared Hazel as much as anything had, for Padraig was the class clown. With his wild dark hair and blue eyes that looked like tiny globes, he was the jokester who always made them laugh.
“We’ll be heading first to the town hall at city center. Once we get there, a lovely family will choose you and take you home. All will be well.”
Hazel did not quite believe Miss Plink, and she stared at the white enamel sign, emblazoned with black letters: OXFORD.