There had been no repercussions for Harry after the unsuccessful escape. Everyone assumed that he had been the unwilling victim of an insane prisoner. Harry readily accepted this version of events. He knew that both he and Alfred had been in real danger from Rolf and that it was Alfred’s courage that had saved them. That made Alfred his hero. Only Hans Bruch looked at him askance when he returned to the house after his adventure and Harry knew Hans thought he had been a willing participant in Rolf’s plan. However, Hans said nothing and Harry, banishing any thoughts of escape, soon came to believe the accepted story himself.
When Alfred returned to the house, he was still weak and needed rest, but it wasn’t in his nature to sit about and before long he started up his classes again and this time Harry joined in with enthusiasm. During Harry’s visits to Alfred in the hospital, a closeness had developed between them. It surprised Alfred. He had been right when he’d said that he was old enough to be Harry’s father, but he hadn’t expected his affection for the prickly boy to be so strong. He had saved him from Rolf, but more importantly he’d also saved him from himself. Alfred knew that, despite Harry’s protestations that he’d been too afraid of Rolf to betray him, the hope of escape had long been in Harry’s mind too. Alfred could only hope that after the fright Rolf had given him, Harry would put all such thoughts aside and set about acquiring the skills he would need after the war.
‘You really do need to improve your English,’ he insisted, ‘and from now on you and I will only speak English to each other.’
Harry gave him a rueful shrug. ‘All right, Alfred. You win. English it is.’
Alfred was an excellent teacher and an exacting taskmaster, continually correcting grammar, vocabulary and accent, and over the weeks, Harry’s spoken English improved out of all recognition.
Alfred had been right, Harry was intelligent, and now he was self-motivated it took him little time to learn to read and write. Once he could read, Harry discovered a whole new world open to him and he devoured the books from the camp library that Alfred suggested.
‘Now it’s time to try and get you out of here,’ Alfred said to him one evening. ‘You know they’re gradually releasing people, don’t you?’
Harry shrugged. ‘Yes, but it’s not going to be me, is it?’
‘Why not?’
‘Why would it be?’
‘Well, you clearly aren’t a threat to national security, are you? And they could use you in the war effort.’
‘I don’t think anyone knows I’m here. Who’s going to let me out?’
‘You have to make contact with the right people, Harry. Don’t forget, as a refugee you can volunteer for the army. The Pioneer Corps is taking men from the occupied countries and using them to support the front-line troops. You should ask to see the camp commander and it’s time you wrote some letters.’
‘But who do I write to?’
‘Anyone and everyone,’ answered Alfred, ‘from the chiefs of staff to the secretary of state for war!’
Thus the letter-writing began.
All through the spring and early summer Harry had been going out of camp on work parties and had earned himself some pay. It was credited to his camp account and with it he could buy the stamps he needed for his letters. He was not the only one writing such letters, of course, and some of the letter-writers had managed to reach the right people. At five o’clock each day the names of those who were to be released the next day were announced. Those who had applied for release waited with baited breath to hear if they had been successful. If so, they were called in to see the camp commander. The wheels of bureaucracy moved incredibly slowly and most of those waiting hopefully to hear their names were disappointed, but the lucky few were jubilant.
One evening in June, Harry was listening to the list of names, when a name leaped out at him. ‘Alfred Muller’. Harry was dumbstruck. Alfred had been summoned to the commander’s office, which meant, almost certainly, he was going to be released... tomorrow. He’d be taken to the dock and put on a ship for Liverpool. Alfred was going home to his family. Alfred was leaving and Harry hadn’t even realised he’d been applying for release.
‘That’s stupid!’ he told himself. ‘Of course he was applying, everyone is!’ But even so, somehow he felt betrayed. Alfred was leaving and he, Harry, was still stuck here in this shithole. He looked round but couldn’t see Alfred anywhere. That made him angry too. The man had applied to be released and he wasn’t even here to hear his summons.
Harry turned away and stumped back to the house. Alfred was in the kitchen with Hans, overseeing preparation of the evening meal.
Harry barged in and said, ‘Better pack your bag, Alfred. You’re leaving tomorrow!’
Alfred laughed. ‘What a great idea, Harry. You know I think I will, just in case!’ Then he turned back to Hans and the supper.
‘Listen!’ Harry was almost shouting now. ‘Listen, you stupid bastard, you’ve been called to see the commander. You must be on the list for release. I didn’t know you’d even applied!’
‘Of course I’ve applied,’ answered Alfred mildly. ‘I’ve been applying ever since I got here.’
‘So why the hell didn’t you go and find out?’ demanded Harry, a little more quietly.
‘Because, Harry,’ Alfred answered with a sigh, ‘I got tired of being disappointed. So, let’s forget it and get this meal on the table.’
‘But Alfred,’ Harry said, ‘it’s true. Your name was called this evening. You’re going home tomorrow.’
Alfred turned slowly back to look at him. ‘You’re not joking, Harry? It’s a pretty poor joke if you are!’
Harry, now containing his own disappointment, managed a smile and replied, ‘No, Alfred. I wouldn’t joke about anything so important.’
Alfred stared at him for a moment and then he gathered him into a bear hug and began to weep.
Harry watched Alfred leave the following morning and felt utterly bereft. Alfred had become his mainstay and now he’d gone, Harry was alone.
‘Keep writing those letters,’ Alfred said as he gave Harry a final hug. ‘They’re sure to let you out soon, they’ll need people who speak both English and German. I’ll keep writing on your behalf, too. One way or another we’ll get you out.’
Harry wasn’t so sure. He’d been to see the camp commander some weeks earlier, but he hadn’t seemed very helpful, simply saying he’d look into his case.
‘You’re under age,’ he’d said. ‘Can’t join up until you’re eighteen.’
‘I can join then though?’
‘Maybe. It’s not up to me.’
‘You mean I’m stuck in this... camp,’ Harry changed the word he’d been going to use just in time, ‘until I’m eighteen? That’s another eighteen months.’
The commander shrugged. ‘Probably,’ he conceded, ‘unless someone finds a use for you before that. Then you might get out.’
Harry had left the office extremely depressed, but Alfred had encouraged him to go on writing to people in London.
‘You never know, someone might pick you up.’
Now Alfred had gone Harry’s spirits plummeted. He knew he was on the Isle of Man for the duration.
Harry still went out on work parties; he quite enjoyed the physical work and at least it got him out of the camp for a while. Spending days working in the fields and with enough regular food, he grew stronger, growing another couple of inches and filling out so that he looked more like a healthy young man and less like a scrawny street urchin. He missed Alfred more than he would have thought possible and though he still continued with his reading, his morale was low.
Sometimes the internees were escorted out of the camp and taken to the beach, where they could exercise and swim in the sea. Occasionally Harry went too, but he found such excursions made it increasingly difficult to return to the confines of the camp. Many of those around him seemed content to live life a day at time like this, but Harry became increasingly bored and low-spirited.
It was early August before he came up for release and like Alfred, he’d almost given up.
‘Heinrich Schwarz. To the commander’s office.’
At first Harry didn’t react. No one called him Heinrich now, but of course it was how he was registered within the camp. Like Alfred the news almost brought him to tears. Tomorrow! Tomorrow he’d be out of this place and on his way.
Harry left the camp next morning. First thing, he had reported to the guard room, where he was given his papers and the belongings that had been taken from him on his arrival. It was the beginning of the long release process. He was still listed as an alien and so there were still restrictions, but he was no longer a prisoner. The ship took him to Fleetwood and once his documents had been checked, yet again, by the police there, he was free to continue his journey. Harry was on his way back to London. He’d been given a travel warrant and asked to supply an address where he could be contacted and reminded he must report to the police on his arrival. To begin with he was at a loss for an address. There was no way he was going back to the hostel where he’d been arrested nearly nine months ago, but he was terrified that they might not let him leave unless he wrote something. He was about to wing it and make up an address when he remembered Dan Federman. He’d stayed the night in his house, been fire-watching with him; surely he wouldn’t mind Harry giving his address, 65 Kemble Street. The house where Lisa had lived. His only link with her.
Harry had given occasional thought to Lisa while he’d been incarcerated, but she hadn’t been at the forefront of his mind. Harry had long ago learned not to dwell on the past and those who peopled it. He’d been fond of Lisa, but she was dead. He had moved on from her as he’d moved on from his parents. Kemble Street, however, was another matter altogether. Perhaps Dan would let him sleep in the cellar again, just until he found somewhere.
Harry was not sure why he’d suddenly been given his freedom. He still wasn’t eighteen but he’d said in all of his letters that if he were allowed to go free he would do anything to help the war effort. He reminded everyone that he was fluent in both German and English, this last not quite true but near enough to get him by. Whatever it had been that had convinced the powers that be that he was no longer a security risk, Harry didn’t care. He was out! Once through the formalities at Fleetwood, he was allowed to board the London train. With a jubilant heart, he climbed into the carriage. The compartment was crowded but Harry didn’t care, he was free.
The journey took hours, as the train was often shunted into a siding to let a more important train steam by, but when at last he arrived at Euston it was the early hours of the following morning.
Harry not only had his suitcase, but the money he’d had on him at the time of his arrest. He’d been amazed by that. He’d expected that to have disappeared into someone else’s pocket along the way. Added to this was the small amount he’d earned while working from the camp. Despite his tiredness, Harry walked along the blacked-out platform with a spring in his step. He was a man of means, he could read and write and he was determined, he was about to go up in the world.
As the sun began to climb above the roofs of London, still tired and gritty-eyed, Harry made his way to Kemble Street. He hoped the Federmans might let him live with them as a boarder, at least for a short while, then he could report his address, as required, to the police station. The sight that met him when he turned off the main road into Kemble Street made him pull up short and stare. One side of the street still provided homes, though many of the houses had minor damage with doors and windows boarded up, and one or two houses wore tarpaulin caps. The other side of the street was a line of derelict houses. Clearly fire had swept through them some time ago and they’d been left standing empty throughout the winter. The ravages of the freezing weather and the northerly winds were obvious as the houses sagged together as if relying on each other for strength to stay upright.
Harry walked slowly along the pavement until he came to number sixty-five. It looked as bad as the others, its roof burned out, its window frames twisted by the heat and holding only a few shards of broken, smoke-streaked glass; weeds flourished beside what had been the front door.
Harry wondered what had happened to the Federmans. Had they been killed in the fire? Harry thought about Dan. He, surely, must have been out fire-watching when this had happened. Had his wife survived? She’d been left in the cellar shelter the night Harry had gone to the fire post with Dan.
Has the cellar survived? Harry wondered suddenly. Can I still get into the house and down into the cellar?
He still needed somewhere to sleep himself and he remembered the cellar had a mattress. Perhaps he could still use it as his place until the Federmans came back.
He cast his eyes up and down the road, but there was no one about, so he walked up to the gaping front door and edged his way inside.
The whole of the house was burned out, all the furniture destroyed, blackened walls and ceilings bearing witness to the strength of the fire. He walked down the narrow passage that led to the kitchen. As he’d remembered, the door to the cellar was in the far corner. It was charred, but made of good solid wood, it seemed to have withstood the ravages of the fire better than the rest of the house. The closed door stood behind a festoon of cobwebs, clearly unopened for a long time. Harry tried to turn the handle but it was stiff and unmoving. Grasping it in both hands he tried again. This time it gave a little and he realised that the door wasn’t on its hinges, it was simply pushed into its frame and wedged into place with a sliver of wood at the bottom. A good hard pull was all it needed to pull it free. Harry pulled and the door, suddenly released, fell towards him, nearly knocking him to the ground. He propped it against the wall and peered down the steps that lay beyond. The only light came through the broken kitchen window, but dusty fingers of sunlight probed the stairs and Harry made his way carefully down them. He wished he had a torch, but remembered that there had been some candle and matches on a shelf, and as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he felt his way round the walls until he found what he was looking for. He struck a match and lit a stub of candle, still pushed into the top of a beer bottle. By its flickering light he saw the cellar still had chairs and a mattress.
This’ll do, he thought, delighted. It’s dry and a place to sleep. They aren’t here, so there’s no reason why I shouldn’t move in.
Harry had never been a great respecter of other people’s property and dumping his case on the floor, he blew out the candle and went back up the steps. He heaved the door back into place and wedged it carefully as it had been before.
His visit to the police station went without a hitch. He registered himself at 65 Kemble Street with a busy desk sergeant and then set off to buy himself a few necessities. He’d been given back his ration book along with his identity papers and so he bought a few provisions, and to make the cellar a little more habitable he managed to get hold of a Tilley lamp. Carrying his purchases back to Kemble Street he once more slipped in through the front door of number sixty-five. He’d have to make sure no light leaked out from his underground haven at night, but otherwise he’d be snug and dry, with a place to lay his head. He managed to pull the cellar door closed behind him and, having unloaded his shopping, he ate some bread and cheese. Then, pulling a couple of blankets from a box, he flung himself down on the mattress and slept the clock round.
The next evening he went to the fire post Dan had taken him to. He hoped that someone there might have news of the Federmans and he’d be able to find them. Perhaps, he thought, as he hurried through the streets, they’ll be living somewhere nearby and I can shack up with them after all. He was all too aware that if the police came round and checked on the address he’d given them, they’d realise he was a squatter and he might be turned out.
He was greeted by John Anderson at the fire post.
‘Eh, lad, I’ve seen you here before.’
‘Yes, I came once with Dan Federman.’
‘And never again.’
Harry glared at Anderson and said, ‘The day after I was here, I was arrested as an enemy alien. I’ve only just been released.’
‘So you aren’t an enemy any more?’ asked Anderson with a grin.
‘I never was,’ snapped Harry. ‘I’m a Jewish refugee from Germany. I hate the Nazis and want to fight.’
‘Well, if you want to fight fires, lad,’ Anderson replied, ‘you’re more than welcome here.’
‘But where is Dan Federman?’ Harry asked. ‘It’s him I’m looking for.’
‘Don’t know, lad. His house was burnt and we think he must have moved out of London to be with his wife in Suffolk. We haven’t seen him for months. We haven’t had any raids since the end of May, just a few alarms that came to nothing, so the volunteers have dropped away, Dan Federman with them.’
‘Oh, well,’ shrugged Harry, anxious to change the subject, ‘never mind.’ He raised a hand and slipped away. He didn’t want to be called as a volunteer again now that he’d heard the Federmans had moved away. Now he had their house to himself. ‘I’m a friend of Dan Federman’s,’ he would say if anyone challenged him. ‘He said I could sleep in his cellar till I found somewhere permanent.’
John Anderson made no move to stop him and once he was out of sight Harry hurried back to Kemble Street. Once inside number sixty-five, he went back down to the cellar and took stock. He had very little money and needed to find a way to make some. Could he go back and work for Mikey again? Perhaps as a last resort.
The next day, as he emerged from the house, a man was passing. He looked at Harry and said, ‘Who’re you then? What you doing in there?’
‘Who’s asking?’ Harry countered.
‘Albert Johnson, citizen patrol,’ came the reply. ‘Keeping an eye...’
‘I’m a friend of Dan Federman’s...’ Harry trotted out the prepared line.
‘Cellar-rat, are you?’ said the man. ‘Well, I suppose you need somewhere to sleep and if Dan said you could stay... I’m just keeping an eye... you know, to see there ain’t no looting.’ Albert Johnson nodded and passed on along the road, his head swivelling from side to side as if searching out hidden looters among the ruins. Harry’s ruse had worked and it gave him confidence. Perhaps the police would accept it, too, if they should bother to come round checking on him.
‘Looting’, the man had said. Surely, Harry thought, there was nothing left to loot, if there ever had been. The houses stood bare and stark against the September sky. There was surely nothing left of value in any of them. But it had given him an idea. There might be other places, other bomb sites in richer areas might be worth a look. And if he did find something worth having, well he could always go and see Mikey Sharp again.
Harry needed money while he waited for his call-up, so in the meantime he got himself a job in the docks. It was heavy work, but Harry didn’t mind. He was happy to be working in the fresh air and being paid enough to live on. His work also gave him the opportunity to expand his own private and lucrative business.
It had begun in a very small way. He had been walking through a cleared bomb site near the docks – a patch of wilderness, scrub and weeds covering the rubble and debris left behind – and there it was, winking at him as a shaft of sunshine struck through a tuft of willowherb, something bright. Looking round to be sure he was unobserved, Harry bent down as if to tie his shoe and reaching in among the weeds his fingers closed on his prize. A ring. Without looking at it, he slipped it into his pocket and continued to walk slowly across the open ground where once a row of houses had stood. As he walked his eyes scoured the derelict ground about him, but there was nothing else to see.
Safely back in the cellar in Kemble Street away from prying eyes, he pulled the ring from his pocket and looked at it. A gold band, if it was gold, with a diamond set in a cluster of tiny red stones. Could that diamond be real? Harry wondered. It was quite big. And the little red stones, rubies? He considered what to do with it. He could go back to the market and sell it to Mikey Sharp, but before he did, he needed to find out if it was real, not just a piece of glass. He needed to know what it might be worth. He didn’t intend to let Mikey cheat him. Harry had learned a lot during his incarceration on the Isle of Man, but reading and writing weren’t everything. He’d always been streetwise and he knew finding this ring was his big chance.
Next day, when his shift was finished, he found a small jeweller’s shop in Hackney. The name ING was painted in faded gold letters above the window and hanging above the door were the three gold balls indicating that Mr Ing was also a pawnbroker. Harry peered in through the window at the items of jewellery offered for sale. He needed a shop where few questions would be asked and this seemed the right sort of place. He had prepared his story and so with one last glance at the watches and brooches displayed in the window, he pushed open the door and went in. A bell jangled as he entered and a small man emerged from behind a curtain. He stood behind the counter and regarded Harry through wire-rimmed spectacles, before saying in a soft voice, ‘Good afternoon. Can I be of help?’
‘Are you Mr Ing?’ Harry asked.
The man nodded. ‘I am indeed,’ he said.
‘Good,’ said Harry. ‘Well, my mum wants her ring valued, see.’ He placed the ring on the counter.
‘Does she now?’ The man looked sceptical.
Innocently, Harry met his eye, apparently completely unaware of the jeweller’s scepticism. ‘Yeah, she was bombed out. My dad was killed in the raid and she’s lost everything. She don’t want to sell it, she just wants to know what it might fetch, just in case, know what I mean?’
Mr Ing thought he did. ‘Yes, I see,’ he said. ‘Well, let me have a look at it.’ He removed his spectacles and fixed an eyeglass into his eye. Holding the ring up to the light, he peered at it. ‘A pretty thing,’ he said. ‘But you say she doesn’t want to sell it?’
‘No,’ Harry replied firmly. ‘It’s not for sale.’
Mr Ing nodded. ‘Would she care to borrow against it?’
‘Well,’ Harry sounded hesitant, ‘what would you lend... if she did?’
‘I would have to consider,’ Mr Ing said thoughtfully. ‘If I was lending, maybe ten pounds.’
‘Pull the other one,’ Harry jeered. ‘I know what my dad give for it.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ agreed Mr Ing in a tone that belied his words. ‘But things are different now...’ He didn’t say ‘there’s a war on’ but the words hung in the air.
Harry picked up the ring and put it back in his pocket. ‘No,’ he said, ‘she wouldn’t want to hock it for that. Sentimental value, you know? Thanks anyway.’
As he turned to the door Mr Ing said, ‘I might be able to raise my offer a little, seeing as your mother’s circumstances are so sad. Say twelve pounds ten?’
‘I’ll tell her,’ said Harry and left the shop. He’d learned what he wanted to know. Mr Ing might even have gone a little higher than twelve pounds ten shillings, but he’d sell the ring on for more, so Harry felt certain that it must be worth at least twenty pounds. He set off to find Mikey Sharp.
Since then, Harry had gradually increased his business. Unloading ships at the docks meant there were occasions when small items came his way and were easily concealed in the pockets of his work clothes, but his main source was the bomb sites. The east end of the city still revealed the determination of the Luftwaffe to bring it into submission. Skeletal buildings still stood, their precarious walls displaying ragged wallpaper and hanging fireplaces. Such buildings were cordoned off, but for a street-rat like Harry, the barriers presented no problems and under cover of dusk, he crept through ruins, climbed up broken walls into the remains of upper rooms, searching for treasure. And he found it. Not huge amounts, but occasional pieces abandoned or lost in an air raid, things that could be quickly turned into cash through Mikey and others, like Mr Ing, not too choosy where such items came from.
Harry wasn’t making a fortune, but his savings, stashed safely in the cellar at 65 Kemble Street, were building up. He kept the money in a cocoa tin which he hid in a small cavity he’d hollowed out under the cellar steps. He was still determined to go to Australia after the war and he was equally determined not to go empty-handed.
When his call-up papers came through he found that he was to be deferred as he was now a docker and thus in a reserved occupation. He continued to live in the cellar of sixty-five and people in the area got used to seeing him coming and going. If questioned he always said he was a friend of the Federmans who, as they must know, had moved out of London when Mrs Federman’s baby was due.
So many of the houses in the street had been damaged, many of the people who’d known the Federmans no longer lived there, and those few who did, accepted his story. With the destruction of so many homes during the months of the Blitz, people were living wherever they could find a roof. The man had called him a ‘cellar-rat’, well, Harry knew he was not the only one.