I am concerned that writing to the British government will draw attention to B’s origins. There is such an intense anti-German mood in the country that it amounts to hysteria. Already young men of German birth who live in Britain - including many who escaped here because of the Nazis - have been rounded up and interned somewhere: out of temptation’s way, as someone nastily put it. Now the politicians, and some elements of the press, are talking about what to do with the rest of the German nationals: older men, but also the women and children.
April 29, 1940
When I came in this evening, wet through from the drizzling rain, after the long bicycle ride up the hill from Macclesfield, B showed me something that had been pushed through the letterbox while she was out at the village shop. It was a large brown envelope with my name written on the front in childish capitals. Inside was a white feather.
B had opened the envelope. She said she burst into tears when she realized what was in there.
My father warned me that something like this was likely to happen, but what really troubles me is that it must have come from someone in the village, someone we know, perhaps even a neighbour. Few people outside the immediate vicinity of the village know anything about me. I have been trying not to dwell on the mystery of the identity of the sender, but I can’t help it. It is the first event of the war which has made me angry, made me want to do something about it.
I went out into what we hope one day will be our vegetable garden. I kicked at some stones, felt violence rising in me like a mad drug. I was ashamed of myself afterwards.
When it was dark I walked down the lane to the telephone box outside the shop and tried to speak to Jack at the phone number Dad had told me was the RAF station’s. The man who answered would not say where Jack was. I could imagine what that might mean.
Afterwards, walking back along the dark lane, the drizzle settling on my hair and shoulders, I did wonder if it might have been Jack himself who had sent the feather.
Now, while I am writing in my notebook, I feel my hatred of war rising all over again. This time the anger is against the effect war has on men’s thoughts. The effect it has on my thoughts.
May 3, 1940
I have a new job and that has been my main concern for the last few days. For all that time the news from the war has been almost too horrible to bear. Every night on the wireless it seems there is more bad news. There have been losses on both sides, huge losses. Ships have been sunk, aircraft have been lost, men have been killed and wounded, civilians have been uprooted from their homes. The British troops are giving up in Norway at last. It is not their fault. The blame lies with that menace Churchill, the man who was responsible for the disaster in the Dardanelles in the last war. History will go on repeating itself so long as warmongers lead us.
I can’t help feeling we are being told only part of the story.
My new job is with the British Red Cross, in a building in the centre of Manchester. My first task there is to compile an inventory of the surgical materials, dressings and medicines they hold in stock. This is part of a national effort by the Society, so that should bombing of the cities begin, or if there is an invasion, the Red Cross will at least know what stocks they hold.
B says that she has had one answer to the postcard she placed in the Post Office window in Macclesfield: a child of eight needs violin lessons once a week. I am relieved that B will at last be doing something she loves and is good at, and that takes her out of the house for a few hours.
So far, we can be thankful that few civilians have been affected by bombing. There are rumours that bombs have been dropped on the Orkney Islands, but it is impossible to find out about casualties. Because of the Royal Navy base up there, secrecy obscures everything.
Another envelope with a white feather has been shoved through our door, this time while we were asleep last night. I managed to conceal it from B and later put the feather in the chicken run, where I hope she will not notice it.
May 4, 1940
This being a Saturday I had to go to work in the morning but I was home again after lunch. B and I attempted more work on the vegetable plot. This time we made progress because during the week B arranged for a local farmer to deliver some dung. We scooped it on to the patch and dug it in.
Late in the afternoon a number of twin-engined aircraft flew low over the hills, their engines making a loud, throbbing noise. We assumed they were British by the slow and unaggressive way in which they were being flown, but neither of us could identify them for sure. B is terrified by the thought of German aircraft coming anywhere near her. I still cannot even begin to imagine what she suffered while she was in Berlin. I know that she is in constant dread of finding out what happened to her parents. I can give her no hope beyond the blandest kind of reassurance.
I am becoming obsessed with the belief that the war must be ended as soon as possible. Europe, which has been driven mad by Hitler’s ambitions, must come to its senses. I feel a steady fury about the ineffectual way I am living my life. Still I count the rolls of bandages and lint dressings. My mind says that Europe needs soothing ointments to heal its wounds, but increasingly my heart seeks a terrible revenge against the men who are conducting the war.
Pacifists, Canon Dick Sheppard once said to me, are more interested in war, and better informed about it, than the most bloodthirsty of warriors. The reason is because we think of it endlessly and because the warmongers think of it not at all.
The Red Cross has enough plasters and bandages to wrap around the entire population of Manchester, should the need arise. I know, because I feel as if I have personally counted most of them.
May 6, 1940
Everyone in the Red Cross office seemed tense today, presumably sensing that the war is about to take a turn for the worse. There is talk of a detachment of Red Cross volunteers being sent to France. I cannot decide if I should like to be one of them. I do not want to leave B alone, but the restlessness and raging that goes on inside me is not being quelled by the clerkly preparations we are making in Manchester. My immediate supervisor, Mrs Alicia Woodhurst, seems pleased with me and said today that she will find me more interesting work in future. I shrugged, pretending not to care.
Austerely, I tell myself that to work with the plasters and bottles of antiseptic is pacifist enough. If I am bored by the task, then that is the price to pay for my beliefs.
But in truth I am desperate to be doing something more active. Today, briefly, I found myself envying Jack. He at least has a clear role in the war. I stand to one side.
I was moved to Mrs Woodhurst’s office today, now that the inventory is complete. She set me to catching up with her filing. I worked slowly through it, reading as much of it as I dared, trying to find my way around in what I realize is a vast international organization.
Later, Mrs Woodhurst asked me if I would stay late at the office. She had to go out while I was to stand by in case anyone telephoned us. The evening wore on, making me hungry, tired and increasingly anxious to go home. The telephone did not ring once. Mrs Woodhurst finally returned after eight o’clock and I set off to London Road Station, stopping on the way to buy some fish and chips, which I ate from the paper as I walked along. It was almost dark by the time I reached Macclesfield, the blackout complete across the streets. Only a residual glow remained in the western sky. As I left the station I noticed a group of older men standing around outside the pub next to the pedestrian tunnel beneath the railway tracks I have to push my bike through the tunnel to reach the main road. They saw me with my bicycle and from the way they moved their heads and shoulders, shunning me, they apparently knew who I was. I had to weave my bicycle between them to get past.