I nodded and made a diligent note.
‘Church every Sunday, and Sunday School in the afternoon. Mr Battersby was a bit concerned about that, them being Jewish, but I said they’d find God just as well in a good English church as in a synagogue. You’ll forgive me, Mr— I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name, but I realize you aren’t English, and so if that remark is offensive to you, I apologize. I was brought up a good Anglican, you see, and it’s difficult to change.’
Sch?nbrunn smiled at her (he is shameless at times), and she blinked, then went on.
‘They seemed to settle down so well, although missing their homes dreadfully, of course, but they were such good, well-behaved little mites, we thought they were adjusting. So bright and clever they were, and we noticed a remarkable thing – to teach one of them something was to teach both the same thing.’
Neither Sch?nbrunn nor I made any response to this, but we both knew it was this extraordinary vein of telepathy that Mengele’s people had been so greedy for.
‘Then,’ said Mrs Battersby, ‘what do they do but up and run away.’
‘Run away?’ I said in surprise, for I had not been expecting this, but before I could say more, Sch?nbrunn was commenting on what a sad thing that was to hear.
‘Well, it’s the only conclusion we could reach,’ said Mrs Battersby. ‘They became ill, you see, that was how it started. Not from any lack of care on my part, I’d like it known.’
‘I’m sure not.’
‘Meningitis, it was. A dreadful cruel illness, and a real epidemic. Half the children hereabouts caught it. The authorities set up a temporary isolation hospital, and to my mind they didn’t do so badly, given the difficulties.’ Again, this was directed to me, and I nodded.
‘We weren’t allowed to visit them,’ said Mrs Battersby, ‘but we were glad to hear that at least they had a friend with them – Leo Rosendale, who came to England with them. He’s living with the Hursts over at Willow Bank Farm – very strict, they are, but I have to say they made everyone very welcome last Christmas – a Boxing Day supper it was, although a pity that Mr Porringer was there. Mr Battersby has no time for Mr Paul Porringer and neither do I, nothing but a jumped-up counter-pusher, he is, for all he likes to boast how his grandfather had his own shop in the days of the old Queen.’
(‘Old Queen’ clearly refers to Queen Victoria, who is still remembered by elderly people here.)
‘But the little girls vanished?’ I managed to say. ‘From the hospital itself?’
‘Clean disappeared late one night. The doctors reported it at once, and the police came to tell us, and Mr Battersby went straight along to the police station to help organize a search. Most of the village turned out. Searched all night and all the next day. The police went on for several days – notices at railway stations, photographs in the newspapers, even a piece on the wireless. And they talked to the other children, those who had been in the hospital that night. Leo Rosendale, and one or two of the others. But none of them seemed to know anything, and of course they’d all been so poorly. I don’t mind admitting I was chilled to the marrow to think of those little mites out there, such a bitter cold night it was, straight after Christmas, and them still poorly from that meningitis, even though the doctors said they hadn’t got it very severely.’