“I very much doubt it. Although I must say I’m rather impressed with his artistic skills, for a spy that is.”
We were still laughing as we walked down to the road. He had left his bicycle leaning against the wall, beside my creeping roses.
“Thank you for coming,” I said, “and for the information, although Heaven knows what I’m to do with it. I suppose I’ll just keep it to myself and see if he shows up.”
“Yes,” Carrington said, climbing onto his bicycle. “Better to be circumspect.” He gave me the loveliest of smiles and a “Cheerio,” and was off down the road to Litchfield.
I wandered back into the house trying to absorb this news. Should I tell Venetia about Slater? I decided to leave it for the moment. She seems to be improving, and I wouldn’t want to build up her hopes again.
The Colonel gave me a knowing look as I walked into the living room.
“I didn’t know you were friends with young Carrington.”
“Yes,” I said, shooting him a sidelong glance. “It’s good to have friends in the right places.”
Thursday, 15th August, 1940
This Hideous War!
It all started early this afternoon when Silvie and I arrived back from riding, Silvie galloping headlong across the fields as if her life depended on it. Having let ourselves in the side door, we wandered through the kitchen to the hall, hoping to catch Mama having tea with maybe a few sandwiches to spare. The sound of her meandering voice, then Venetia’s languid tones, echoed crisply through the galleried marble hall, and Silvie and I exchanged small smiles. We were in luck.
How wrong could I have been! As we approached the door, I felt Silvie’s cold little hand touch my arm, holding me back. I looked back to her quizzically, but she put her finger to her lips. “Shh.”
“I know,” Mama was saying. “I honestly don’t know how to break it to her. Let me read you what he says.” She coughed slightly, then came the sound of paper unfolding—a letter. “?‘We are sorry to say that Silvie’s parents have been found. For the last few months they were hidden in a neighbor’s barn, the Dornaks’.”
I looked at Silvie, and she nodded, whispering, “They’re our friends. I played with their daughter.”
“?‘But they were found, the Dornaks taken out and shot dead as punishment.’?”
Silvie’s eyes dropped from mine to the floor, her face as white as a sheet. With all this information flying at us through the open door, I decided to make our presence known and took her arm forward. But she held me back angrily, giving me such a hard look that I didn’t dare.
“?‘Her parents were taken to a work camp for Jewish people in northern Czechoslovakia. There is no mention of her brother.’?”
For a haze of a moment, Silvie’s face looked translucent, as if she was a pale ghost of a child here from antiquity, and then—quick as a wisp—she turned and fled. Out through the hall, through the kitchen and side door, and out into the wide open space of nature, the emerald and amber of late summer enveloping her, a tiny figure under the vast blue sky. In a few strides she was gone, into the thicket, into the wood, like a small creature under perpetual attack.
We spent the rest of the afternoon looking for her.
The first places I looked for Silvie
She wasn’t in the stables, cuddling up with Amadeus
All the horses were still there, so she hadn’t galloped off somewhere
She wasn’t at the dam in the stream, or by the beehives
She wasn’t at Old George’s bush in Peasepotter Wood
Mama and Venetia had hurried into the village to get help, and by the time I returned home, exhausted and worried, a group of ladies were being debriefed by Mrs. B. on the front lawn.
“Today we have a vital mission,” she began, marching up and down in front of them. “Our task is to find this defenseless young girl, who has been placed in our care, before the day is out. We need to show her that although she has lost one family, she can depend on us, her new community, to look after her, to protect her from those Nazi brutes.” At which point she threw a menacing look toward the coast. “And to show her that there are still some places where good, decent people welcome her into the fold.”
A round of “hear, hear” followed, as Mrs. B. began shouting orders, as if advancing into battle. “I’ll cover Peasepotter Wood with you, you, and you”—she pointed at various women who stepped forward—“and the rest of you comb the fields. Mrs. Quail, you take a group toward Dawkins Farm, and Mrs. Gibbs, you take a group over to the west side of the village. We’ll reconvene here at half past four for tea.”
With that, everyone disbanded, and I was left standing, hands on hips and still out of breath, with Venetia looking at me with a puzzled expression.
“There’s got to be a way to work out where she’s gone,” she said quietly, almost as if she was talking to herself. “Let’s think this through, Kitty. Where would you go if you were her?”