The Fourth Estate

3 The Times 6 July 1923 Communist Forces at Work

There are some advantages and many disadvantages in being born a Ruthenian Jew, but it was to be a long time before Lubji Hoch discovered any of the advantages.

Lubji was born in a small stone cottage on the outskirts of Douski, a town that nestled on the Czech, Romanian and Polish borders. He could never be certain of the exact date of his birth, as the family kept no records, but he was roughly a year older than his brother and a year younger than his sister.

As his mother held the child in her arms she smiled. He was perfect, right down to the bright red birthmark below his right shoulderblade — just like his father’s.

The tiny cottage in which they lived was owned by his great-uncle, a rabbi. The rabbi had repeatedly begged Zelta not to marry Sergei Hoch, the son of a local cattle trader. The young girl had been too ashamed to admit to her uncle that she was pregnant with Sergei’s child. Although she went against his wishes, the rabbi gave the newly married couple the little cottage as a wedding gift.

When Lubji entered the world the four rooms were already overcrowded; by the time he could walk, he had been joined by another brother and a second sister.

His father, of whom the family saw little, left the house soon after the sun had risen every morning and did not return until nightfall.

Lubji’s mother explained that he was going about his work.

‘And what is that work?’ asked Lubji.

‘He is tending the cattle left to him by your grandfather.’ His mother made no pretense that a few cows and their calves constituted a herd.

‘And where does Father work?’ asked Lubji.

‘In the fields on the other side of town.’

‘What is a town?’ asked Lubji.

Zelta went on answering his questions until the child finally fell asleep in her arms.

The rabbi never spoke to Lubji about his father, but he did tell him on many occasions that in her youth his mother had been courted by numerous admirers, as she was considered not only the most beautiful, but also the brightest girl in the town. With such a start in life she should have become a teacher in the local school, the rabbi told him, but now she had to be satisfied with passing on her knowledge to her ever-increasing family.

But of all her children, only Lubji responded to her efforts, sitting at his mother’s feet, devouring her every word and the answers to any question he posed. As the years passed, the rabbi began to show interest in Lubji’s progress — and to worry about which side of the family would gain dominance in the boy’s character.

His fears had first been aroused when Lubji began to crawl, and had discovered the front door: from that moment his attention had been diverted from his mother, chained to the stove, and had focused on his father and on where he went when he left the house every morning.

Once Lubji could stand up, he turned the door handle, and the moment he could walk he stepped out onto the path and into the larger world occupied by his father. For a few weeks he was quite content to hold his hand as they walked through the cobbled streets of the sleeping town until they reached the fields where Papa tended the cattle.

But Lubji quickly became bored by the cows that just stood around, waiting first to be milked and later to give birth. He wanted to find out what went on in the town that was just waking as they passed through it every morning.

To describe Douski as a town might in truth be to exaggerate its importance, for it consisted of only a few rows of stone houses, half a dozen shops, an inn, a small synagogue — where Lubji’s mother took the whole family every Saturday — and a town hall he had never once entered. But for Lubji it was the most exciting place on earth.

One morning, without explanation, his father tied up two cows and began to lead them back toward the town. Lubji trotted happily by his side, firing off question after question about what he intended to do with the cattle. But unlike the questions he asked his mother, answers were not always forthcoming, and were rarely illuminating.

Lubji gave up asking any more questions, as the answer was always ‘Wait and see.’ When they reached the outskirts of Douski the cattle were coaxed through the streets toward the market.

Suddenly his father stopped at a less than crowded corner. Lubji decided that there was no purpose in asking him why he had chosen that particular spot, because he knew he was unlikely to get an answer. Father and son stood in silence. It was some time before anyone showed any interest in the two cows.

Lubji watched with fascination as people began to circle the cattle, some prodding them, others simply offering opinions as to their worth, in tongues he had never heard before. He became aware of the disadvantage his father labored under in speaking only one language in a town on the borders of three countries. He looked vacantly at most of those who offered an opinion after examining the scrawny beasts.

When his father finally received an offer in the one tongue he understood, he immediately accepted it without attempting to bargain. Several pieces of colored paper changed hands, the cows were handed to their new owner, and his father marched off into the market, where he purchased a sack of grain, a box of potatoes, some gefilte fish, various items of clothing, a pair of secondhand shoes which badly needed repairing and a few other items, including a sleigh and a large brass buckle that he must have felt someone in the family needed. It struck Lubji as strange that while others bargained with the stallholders, Papa always handed over the sum demanded without question.

On the way home his father dropped into the town’s only inn, leaving Lubji sitting on the ground outside, guarding their purchases. It was not until the sun had disappeared behind the town hall that his father, having downed several bottles of slivovice, emerged swaying from the inn, happy to allow Lubji to struggle with the sleigh full of goods with one hand and to guide him with the other.

When his mother opened the front door, Papa staggered past her and collapsed onto the mattress. Within moments he was snoring.

Lubji helped his mother drag their purchases into the cottage. But however warmly her eldest son spoke about them, she didn’t seem at all pleased with the results of a year’s labor. She shook her head as she decided what needed to be done with each of the items.

The sack of grain was propped up in a corner of the kitchen, the potatoes left in their wooden box and the fish placed by the window. The clothes were then checked for size before Zelta decided which of her children they should be allocated to. The shoes were left by the door for whoever needed them. Finally, the buckle was deposited in a small cardboard box which Lubji watched his mother hide below a loose floorboard on his father’s side of the bed.

That night, while the rest of the family slept, Lubji decided that he had followed his father into the fields for the last time. The next morning, when Papa rose, Lubji slipped into the shoes left by the door, only to discover that they were too large for him. He followed his father out of the house, but this time he went only as far as the outskirts of the town, where he hid behind a tree. He watched as Papa disappeared out of sight, never once looking back to see if the heir to his kingdom was following.

Lubji turned and ran back toward the market. He spent the rest of the day walking around the stalls, finding out what each of them had to offer. Some sold fruit and vegetables, while others specialized in furniture or household necessities. But most of them were willing to trade anything if they thought they could make a profit. He enjoyed watching the different techniques the traders used when bargaining with their customers: some bullying, some cajoling, almost all lying about the provenance of their wares. What made it more exciting for Lubji was the different languages they conversed in. He quickly discovered that most of the customers, like his father, ended up with a poor bargain. During the afternoon he listened more carefully, and began to pick up a few words in languages other than his own.

By the time he returned home that night, he had a hundred questions to ask his mother, and for the first time he discovered that there were some even she couldn’t answer. Her final comment that night to yet another unanswered question was simply, ‘It’s time you went to school, little one.’ The only problem was that there wasn’t a school in Douski for anyone so young. Zelta resolved to speak to her uncle about the problem as soon as the opportunity arose. After all, with a brain as good as Lubji’s, her son might even end up as a rabbi.

The following morning Lubji rose even before his father had stirred, slipped into the one pair of shoes, and crept out of the house without waking his brothers or sisters. He ran all the way to the market, and once again began to walk around the stalls, watching the traders as they set out their wares in preparation for the day ahead. He listened as they bartered, and he began to understand more and more of what they were saying. He also started to realize what his mother had meant when she had told him that he had a God-given gift for languages. What she couldn’t have known was that he had a genius for bartering.

Lubji stood mesmerized as he watched someone trade a dozen candles for a chicken, while another parted with a chest of drawers in exchange for two sacks of potatoes. He moved on to see a goat being offered in exchange for a worn-out carpet and a cartful of logs being handed over for a mattress. How he wished he could have afforded the mattress, which was wider and thicker than the one his entire family slept on.

Every morning he would return to the marketplace. He learned that a barterer’s skill depended not only on the goods you had to sell, but in your ability to convince the customer of his need for them. It took him only a few days to realize that those who dealt in colored notes were not only better dressed, but unquestionably in a stronger position to strike a good bargain.

When his father decided the time had come to drag the next two cows to market, the six-year-old boy was more than ready to take over the haggling. That evening the young trader once again guided his father home. But after the drunken man had collapsed on the mattress, his mother just stood staring at the large pile of wares her son placed in front of her.

Lubji spent over an hour helping her distribute the goods among the rest of the family, but didn’t tell her that he still had a piece of colored paper with a ‘ten’ marked on it. He wanted to find out what else he could purchase with it.

The following morning, Lubji did not head straight for the market, but for the first time he ventured into Schull Street to study what was being sold in the shops his great-uncle occasionally visited. He stopped outside a baker, a butcher, a potter, a clothes shop, and finally a jeweler — Mr. Lekski — the only establishment that had a name printed in gold above the door. He stared at a brooch displayed in the center of the window. It was even more beautiful than the one his mother wore once a year at Rosh Hashanah, and which she had once told him was a family heirloom. When he returned home that night, he stood by the fire while his mother prepared their one-course meal. He informed her that shops were nothing more than stationary stalls with windows in front of them, and that when he had pushed his nose up against the pane of glass, he had seen that nearly all of the customers inside traded with pieces of paper, and made no attempt to bargain with the shopkeeper.

The next day, Lubji returned to Schull Street. He took the piece of paper out of his pocket and studied it for some time. He still had no idea what anyone would give him in exchange for it. After an hour of staring through windows, he marched confidently into the baker’s shop and handed the note to the man behind the counter. The baker took it and shrugged his shoulders. Lubji pointed hopefully to a loaf of bread on the shelf behind him, which the shopkeeper passed over. Satisfied with the transaction, the boy turned to leave, but the shopkeeper shouted after him, ‘Don’t forget your change.’

Lubji turned back, unsure what he meant. He then watched as the shopkeeper deposited the note in a tin box and extracted some coins, which he handed across the counter.

Once he was back on the street, the six-year-old studied the coins with great interest. They had numbers stamped on one side, and the head of a man he didn’t recognize on the other.

Encouraged by this transaction, he moved on to the potter’s shop, where he purchased a bowl which he hoped his mother would find some use for in exchange for half his coins.

Lubji’s next stop was at Mr. Lekski’s, the jeweler, where his eyes settled on the beautiful brooch displayed in the center of the window. He pushed open the door and marched up to the counter, coming face to face with an old man who wore a suit and tie.

‘And how can I help you, little one?’ Mr. Lekski asked, leaning over to look down at him.

‘I want to buy that brooch for my mother,’ he said, pointing back toward the window and hoping that he sounded confident. He opened his clenched fist to reveal the three small coins left over from the morning’s bargaining.

The old man didn’t laugh, but gently explained to Lubji that he would need many more coins than that before he could hope to purchase the brooch. Lubji’s cheeks reddened as he curled up his fingers and quickly turned to leave.

‘But why don’t you come back tomorrow,’ suggested the old man. ‘Perhaps I’ll be able to find something for you.’ Lubji’s face was so red that he ran onto the street without looking back.

Lubji couldn’t sleep that night. He kept repeating over and over to himself the words Mr. Lekski had said. The following morning he was standing outside the shop long before the old man had arrived to open the front door. The first lesson Lubji learned from Mr. Lekski was that people who can afford to buy jewelry don’t rise early in the morning.

Mr. Lekski, an elder of the town, had been so impressed by the sheer chutzpah of the six-year-old child in daring to enter his shop with nothing more than a few worthless coins, that over the next few weeks he indulged the son of the cattle trader by answering his constant stream of questions. It wasn’t long before Lubji began to drop into the shop for a few minutes every afternoon. But he would always wait outside if the old man was serving someone. Only after the customer had left would he march in, stand by the counter and rattle off the questions he’d thought up the previous night.

Mr. Lekski noted with approval that Lubji never asked the same question twice, and that whenever a customer entered the shop he would quickly retreat into the corner and hide behind the old man’s daily newspaper. Although he turned the pages, the jeweler couldn’t be sure if he was reading the words or just looking at the pictures.

One evening, after Mr. Lekski had locked up for the night, he took Lubji round to the back of the shop to show him his motor vehicle. Lubji’s eyes opened wide when he was told that this magnificent object could move on its own without being pulled by a horse. ‘But it has no legs,’ he shouted in disbelief. He opened the car door and climbed in beside Mr. Lekski. When the old man pressed a button to start the engine, Lubji felt both sick and frightened at the same time. But despite the fact that he could only just see over the dashboard, within moments he wanted to change places with Mr. Lekski and sit in the driver’s seat.

Mr. Lekski drove Lubji through the town, and dropped him outside the front door of the cottage. The child immediately ran into the kitchen and shouted to his mother, ‘One day I will own a motor vehicle.’ Zelta smiled at the thought, and didn’t mention that even the rabbi only had a bicycle. She went on feeding her youngest child — swearing once again it would be the last. This new addition had meant that the fast-growing Lubji could no longer squeeze onto the mattress with his sisters and brothers. Lately he had had to be satisfied with copies of the rabbi’s old newspapers laid out in the fireplace.

Almost as soon as it was dusk, the children would fight for a place on the mattress: the Hochs couldn’t afford to waste their small supply of candles on lengthening the day. Night after night, Lubji would lie in the fireplace thinking about Mr. Lekski’s motor car, trying to work out how he could prove his mother wrong. Then he remembered the brooch she only wore at Rosh Hashanah. He began counting on his fingers, and calculated that he would have to wait another six weeks before he could carry out the plan already forming in his mind.

Lubji lay awake for most of the night before Rosh Hashanah. Once his mother had dressed the following morning, his eyes rarely left her — or, to be more accurate, the brooch she wore. After the service she was surprised that when they left the synagogue he clung to her hand on the way back home, something she couldn’t recall him doing since his third birthday. Once they were inside their little cottage, Lubji sat cross-legged in the corner of the fireplace and watched his mother unclip the tiny piece of jewelry from her dress. For a moment Zelta stared at the heirloom, before kneeling and removing the loose plank from the floor beside the mattress, and putting the brooch carefully in the old cardboard box before replacing the plank.

Lubji remained so still as he watched her that his mother became worried, and asked him if he wasn’t feeling well.

‘I’m all right, Mother,’ he said. ‘But as it’s Rosh Hashanah, I was thinking about what I ought to be doing in the new year.’ His mother smiled, still nurturing the hope that she had produced one child who might become a rabbi. Lubji didn’t speak again as he considered the problem of the box. He felt no guilt about committing what his mother would have described as a sin, because he had already convinced himself that long before the year was up he would return everything, and no one would be any the wiser.

That night, after the rest of the family had climbed onto the mattress, Lubji huddled up in the corner of the fireplace and pretended to be asleep until he was sure that everyone else was. He knew that for the six restless, cramped bodies, two heads at the top, another two at the bottom, with his mother and father at the ends, sleep was a luxury that rarely lasted more than a few minutes.

Once Lubji was confident that no one else was awake, he began to crawl cautiously round the edge of the room, until he reached the far side of the mattress. His father’s snoring was so thunderous that Lubji feared that at any moment one of his brothers or sisters must surely wake and discover him.

Lubji held his breath as he ran his fingers across the floorboards, trying to discover which one would prize open.

The seconds turned into minutes, but suddenly one of the planks shifted slightly. By pressing on one end with the palm of his right hand Lubji was able to ease it up slowly. He lowered his left hand into the hole, and felt the edge of something. He gripped it with his fingers, and slowly pulled out the cardboard box, then lowered the plank back into place.

Lubji remained absolutely still until he was certain that no one had witnessed his actions. One of his younger brothers turned over, and his sisters groaned and followed suit. Lubji took advantage of the fuddled commotion and scurried back around the edge of the room, only stopping when he reached the front door.

He pushed himself up off his knees, and began to search for the doorknob. His sweaty palm gripped the handle and turned it slowly. The old spindle creaked noisily in a way he had never noticed before. He stepped outside into the path and placed the cardboard box on the ground, held his breath and slowly closed the door behind him.

Lubji ran away from the house clutching the little box to his chest. He didn’t look back; but had he done so, he would have seen his great-uncle staring at him from his larger house behind the cottage. ‘Just as I feared,’ the rabbi muttered to himself. ‘He takes after his father’s side of the family.’

Once Lubji was out of sight, he stared down into the box for the first time, but even with the help of the moonlight he was unable to make out its contents properly. He walked on, still fearful that someone might spot him. When he reached the center of the town, he sat on the steps of a waterless fountain, trembling and excited. But it was several minutes before he could clearly make out all the treasures that were secreted in the box.

There were two brass buckles, several unmatching buttons, including a large shiny one, and an old coin which bore the head of the Czar. And there, in the corner of the box, rested the most desirable prize of all: a small circular silver brooch surrounded by little stones which sparkled in the early morning sunlight.

When the clock on the town hall struck six, Lubji tucked the box under his arm and headed in the direction of the market. Once he was back among the traders, he sat down between two of the stalls and removed everything from the box. He then turned it upside down and set out all the objects on the flat, gray surface, with the brooch taking pride of place in the center. No sooner had he done this than a man carrying a sack of potatoes over his shoulder stopped and stared down at his wares.

‘What do you want for that?’ the man asked in Czech, pointing at the large shiny button.

The boy remembered that Mr. Lekski never replied to a question with an answer, but always with another question.

‘What do you have to offer?’ he inquired in the man’s native tongue.

The farmer lowered his sack onto the ground. ‘Six spuds,’ he said.

Lubji shook his head. ‘I would need at least twelve potatoes for something as valuable as that,’ he said, holding the button up in the sunlight so that his potential customer could take a closer look.

The farmer scowled.

‘Nine,’ he said finally.

‘No,’ replied Lubji firmly. ‘Always remember that my first offer is my best offer.’ He hoped he sounded like Mr. Lekski dealing with an awkward customer.

The farmer shook his head, picked up the sack of potatoes, threw it over his shoulder and headed off toward the center of the town. Lubji wondered if he had made a bad mistake by not accepting the nine potatoes. He cursed, and rearranged the objects on the box to better advantage, leaving the brooch in the center.

‘And how much are you expecting to get for that?’ asked another customer, pointing down at the brooch.

‘What do you have to offer in exchange?’ asked Lubji, switching to Hungarian.

‘A sack of my best grain,’ said the farmer, proudly removing a bag from a laden donkey and dumping it in front of Lubji.

‘And why do you want the brooch?’ asked Lubji, remembering another of Mr. Lekski’s techniques.

‘It’s my wife’s birthday tomorrow,’ he explained, ‘and I forgot to give her a present last year.’

‘I’ll trade this beautiful heirloom, which has been in my family for several generations,’ Lubji said, holding up the brooch for him to study, ‘in exchange for that ring on your finger...’

‘But my ring is gold,’ said the farmer, laughing, ‘and your brooch is only silver.’

‘...and a bag of your grain,’ said Lubji, as if he hadn’t been given the chance to complete his sentence.

‘You must be mad,’ replied the farmer.

‘This brooch was once worn by a great aristocrat before she fell on hard times, so I’m bound to ask: is it not worthy of the woman who has borne your children?’ Lubji had no idea if the man had any children, but charged on: ‘Or is she to be forgotten for another year?’

The Hungarian fell silent as he considered the child’s words. Lubji replaced the brooch in the center of the box, his eyes resting fixedly on it, never once looking at the ring.

‘The ring I agree to,’ said the farmer finally, ‘but not the bag of grain as well.’

Lubji frowned as he pretended to consider the offer. He picked up the brooch and studied it again in the sunlight. ‘All right,’ he said with a sigh. ‘But only because it’s your wife’s birthday.’ Mr. Lekski had taught him always to allow the customer to feel he had the better of the bargain. The farmer quickly removed the heavy gold ring from his finger and grabbed the brooch.

No sooner had the bargain been completed than Lubji’s first customer returned, carrying an old spade. He dropped his half-empty sack of potatoes onto the ground in front of the boy.

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ said the Czech. ‘I will give you twelve spuds for the button.’

But Lubji shook his head. ‘I now want fifteen,’ he said without looking up.

‘But this morning you only wanted twelve!’

‘Yes, but since then you have traded half of your potatoes — and I suspect the better half — for that spade,’ Lubji said.

The farmer hesitated.

‘Come back tomorrow,’ said Lubji. ‘By then I’ll want twenty.’

The scowl returned to the Czech’s face, but this time he didn’t pick up his bag and march off. ‘I accept,’ he said angrily and began to remove some potatoes from the top of the sack.

Lubji shook his head again.

‘What do you want now?’ he shouted at the boy. ‘I thought we had a bargain.’

‘You have seen my button,’ said Lubji, ‘but I haven’t seen your potatoes. It’s only right that I should make the choice, not you.’

The Czech shrugged his shoulders, opened the sack and allowed the child to dig deep and to select fifteen potatoes.

Lubji did not close another deal that day, and once the traders began to dismantle their stalls, he gathered up his possessions, old and new, put them in the cardboard box, and for the first time began to worry about his mother finding out what he had been up to.

He walked slowly through the market toward the far side of the town, stopping where the road forked into two narrow paths. One led to the fields where his father would be tending the cattle, the other into the forest. Lubji checked the road that led back into the town to be certain no one had followed him, then disappeared into the undergrowth. After a short time he stopped by a tree that he knew he could not fail to recognize whenever he returned. He dug a hole near its base with his bare hands and buried the box, and twelve of the potatoes.

When he was satisfied there was no sign that anything had been hidden, he walked slowly back to the road, counting the paces as he went. Two hundred and seven. He glanced briefly back into the forest and then ran through the town, not stopping until he reached the front door of the little cottage. He waited for a few moments to catch his breath and then marched in.

His mother was already ladling her watered-down turnip soup into bowls, and there might have been many more questions about why he was so late if he hadn’t quickly produced the three potatoes. Screeches of delight erupted from his brothers and sisters when they saw what he had to offer.

His mother dropped the ladle in the pot and looked directly at him. ‘Did you steal them, Lubji?’ she asked, placing her hands on her hips.

‘No, Mother,’ he replied, ‘I did not.’ Zelta looked relieved and took the potatoes from him. One by one she washed them in a bucket that leaked whenever it was more than half full. Once she had removed all the earth from them, she began to peel them efficiently with her thumbnails. She then cut each of them into segments, allowing her husband an extra portion. Sergei didn’t even think of asking his son where he had got the best food they had seen in days.

That night, long before it was dark, Lubji fell asleep exhausted from his first day’s work as a trader.

The following morning he left the house even before his father woke. He ran all the way to the forest, counted two hundred and seven paces, stopped when he came to the base of the tree and began digging. Once he had retrieved the cardboard box, he returned to the town to watch the traders setting up their stalls.

On this occasion he perched himself between two stalls at the far end of the market, but by the time the straggling customers had reached him, most of them had either completed their deals or had little of interest left to trade. That evening, Mr. Lekski explained to him the three most important rules of trading: position, position and position.

The following morning Lubji set up his box near the entrance to the market. He quickly found that many more people stopped to consider what he had to offer, several of them inquiring in different languages about what he would be willing to exchange for the gold ring. Some even tried it on for size, but despite several offers, he was unable to close a deal that he considered to his advantage.

Lubji was trying to trade twelve potatoes and three buttons for a bucket that didn’t leak when he became aware of a distinguished gentleman in a long black coat standing to one side, patiently waiting for him to complete the bargain.

The moment the boy looked up and saw who it was, he rose and said, ‘Good morning, Mr. Lekski,’ and quickly waved away his other customer.

The old man took a pace forward, bent down and began picking up the objects on the top of the box. Lubji couldn’t believe that the jeweler might be interested in his wares. Mr. Lekski first considered the old coin with the head of the Czar. He studied it for some time. Lubji realized that he had no real interest in the coin: this was simply a ploy he had seen him carry out many times before asking the price of the object he really wanted. ‘Never let them work out what you’re after,’ he must have told the boy a hundred times.

Lubji waited patiently for the old man to turn his attention to the center of the box.

‘And how much do you expect to get for this?’ the jeweler asked finally, picking up the gold ring.

‘What are you offering?’ inquired the boy, playing him at his own game.

‘One hundred korunas,’ replied the old man.

Lubji wasn’t quite sure how to react, as no one had ever offered him more than ten korunas for anything before. Then he remembered his mentor’s maxim: ‘Ask for triple and settle for double.’ He stared up at his tutor. ‘Three hundred korunas.’

The jeweler bent down and placed the ring back on the center of the box. ‘Two hundred is my best offer,’ he replied firmly.

‘Two hundred and fifty,’ said Lubji hopefully.

Mr. Lekski didn’t speak for some time, continuing to stare at the ring. ‘Two hundred and twenty-five,’ he eventually said. ‘But only if you throw in the old coin as well.’

Lubji nodded immediately, trying to mask his delight at the outcome of the transaction.

Mr. Lekski extracted a purse from the inside pocket of his coat, handed over two hundred and twenty-five korunas and pocketed the ancient coin and the heavy gold ring. Lubji looked up at the old man and wondered if he had anything left to teach him.

Lubji was unable to strike another bargain that afternoon, so he packed up his cardboard box early and headed into the center of the town, satisfied with his day’s work. When he reached Schull Street he purchased a brand-new bucket for twelve korunas, a chicken for five and a loaf of fresh bread from the bakery for one.

The young trader began to whistle as he walked down the main street. When he passed Mr. Lekski’s shop he glanced at the window to check that the beautiful brooch he intended to purchase for his mother before Rosh Hashanah was still on sale.

Lubji dropped his new bucket on the ground in disbelief. His eyes opened wider and wider. The brooch had been replaced by an old coin, with a label stating that it bore the head of Czar Nicholas I and was dated 1829. He checked the price printed on the card below.

‘One thousand five hundred korunas.’

4 Melbourne Courier 25 October 1929 Wall Street Crisis: Stock Market Collapses

There are many advantages and some disadvantages in being born a second-generation Australian. It was not long before Keith Townsend discovered some of the disadvantages.

Keith was born at 2:37 P.M. on 9 February 1928 in a large colonial mansion in Toorak. His mother’s first telephone call from her bed was to the headmaster of St. Andrew’s Grammar School to register her first-born son for entry in 1941. His father’s, from his office, was to the secretary of the Melbourne Cricket Club to put his name down for membership, as there was a fifteen-year waiting list.

Keith’s father, Sir Graham Townsend, was originally from Dundee in Scotland, but at the turn of the century he and his parents had arrived in Australia on a cattle boat. Despite Sir Graham’s position as the proprietor of the Melbourne Courier and the Adelaide Gazette, crowned by a knighthood the previous year, Melbourne society — some members of which had been around for nearly a century, and never tired of reminding you that they were not the descendants of convicts — either ignored him or simply referred to him in the third person.

Sir Graham didn’t give a damn for their opinions; or if he did, he certainly never showed it. The people he liked to mix with worked on newspapers, and the ones he numbered among his friends also tended to spend at least one afternoon a week at the racecourse. Horses or greyhounds, it made no difference to Sir Graham.

But Keith had a mother whom Melbourne society could not dismiss quite so easily, a woman whose lineage stretched back to a senior naval officer in the First Fleet. Had she been born a generation later, this tale might well have been about her, and not her son.

As Keith was his only son — he was the second of three children, the other two being girls — Sir Graham assumed from his birth that the boy would follow him into the newspaper business, and to that end he set about educating him for the real world. Keith paid his first visit to his father’s presses at the Melbourne Courier at the age of three, and immediately became intoxicated by the smell of ink, the pounding of typewriters and the clanging of machinery. From that moment on he would accompany his father to the office whenever he was given the chance.

Sir Graham never discouraged Keith, and even allowed him to tag along whenever he disappeared off to the racetrack on a Saturday afternoon. Lady Townsend did not approve of such goings on, and insisted that young Keith should always attend church the following morning. To her disappointment, their only son quickly revealed a preference for the bookie rather than the preacher.

Lady Townsend became so determined to reverse this early decline that she set about a counter-offensive. While Sir Graham was away in Perth on a long business trip, she appointed a nanny called Florrie whose simple job description was: take the children in hand. But Florrie, a widow in her fifties, proved no match for Keith, aged four, and within weeks she was promising not to let his mother know when he was taken to the racecourse. When Lady Townsend eventually discovered this subterfuge, she waited for her husband to make his annual trip to New Zealand, then placed an advertisement on the front page of the London Times. Three months later, Miss Steadman disembarked at Station Pier and reported to Toorak for duty. She turned out to be everything her references had promised.

The second daughter of a Scottish Presbyterian minister, educated at St. Leonard’s, Dumfries, she knew exactly what was expected of her. Florrie remained as devoted to the children as they were to her, but Miss Steadman seemed devoted to nothing other than her vocation and the carrying out of what she considered to be her bounden duty.

She insisted on being addressed at all times and by everyone, whatever their station, as Miss Steadman, and left no one in any doubt where they fitted into her social scale. The chauffeur intoned the words with a slight bow, Sir Graham with respect.

From the day she arrived, Miss Steadman organized the nursery in a fashion that would have impressed an officer in the Black Watch. Keith tried everything, from charm to sulking to bawling, to bring her into line, but he quickly discovered that she could not be moved. His father would have come to the boy’s rescue had his wife not continued to sing Miss Steadman’s praises — especially when it came to her valiant attempts to teach the young gentleman to speak the King’s English.

At the age of five Keith began school, and at the end of the first week he complained to Miss Steadman that none of the other boys wanted to play with him. She did not consider it her place to tell the child that his father had made a great many enemies over the years.

The second week turned out to be even worse, because Keith was continually bullied by a boy called Desmond Motson, whose father had recently been involved in a mining scam which had made the front page of the Melbourne Courier for several days. It didn’t help that Motson was two inches taller and half a stone heavier than Keith.

Keith often considered discussing the problem with his father. But as they only ever saw each other at weekends, he contented himself with joining the old man in his study on a Sunday morning to listen to his views on the contents of the previous week’s Courier and Gazette, before comparing their efforts with those of his rivals.

‘“Benevolent Dictator” — weak headline,’ his father declared one Sunday morning as he glanced at the front page of the previous day’s Adelaide Gazette. A few moments later he added, ‘And an even weaker story. Neither of these people should ever be allowed near a front page again.’

‘But there’s only one name on top of the column,’ said Keith, who had been listening intently to his father.

Sir Graham chuckled. ‘True, my boy, but the headline would have been set up by a sub-editor, probably long after the journalist who wrote the piece had left for the day.’

Keith remained puzzled until his father explained that headlines could be changed only moments before the paper was put to bed. ‘You must grab the readers’ attention with the headline, otherwise they will never bother to read the story.’

Sir Graham read out loud an article about the new German leader. It was the first time Keith had heard the name of Adolf Hitler. ‘Damned good photograph, though,’ his father added, as he pointed to the picture of a little man with a toothbrush moustache, striking a pose with his right hand held high in the air. ‘Never forget the hoary old cliché, my boy: “A picture’s worth a thousand words.”’

There was a sharp rap on the door that both of them knew could only have been administered by the knuckle of Miss Steadman. Sir Graham doubted if the timing of her knock each Sunday had varied by more than a few seconds since the day she had arrived.

‘Enter,’ he said in his sternest voice. He turned to wink at his son. Neither of the male Townsends ever let anyone else know that behind her back they called Miss Steadman ‘Gruppenführer.’

Miss Steadman stepped into the study and delivered the same words she had repeated every Sunday for the past year: ‘It’s time for Master Keith to get ready for church, Sir Graham.’

‘Good heavens, Miss Steadman, is it that late already?’ he would reply before shooing his son toward the door. Keith reluctantly left the safe haven of his father’s study and followed Miss Steadman out of the room.

‘Do you know what my father has just told me, Miss Steadman?’ Keith said, in a broad Australian accent that he felt sure would annoy her.

‘I have no idea, Master Keith,’ she replied. ‘But whatever it was, let us hope that it will not stop you concentrating properly on the Reverend Davidson’s sermon.’ Keith fell into a gloomy silence as they continued their route march up the stairs to his bedroom. He didn’t utter a sound again until he had joined his father and mother in the back of the Rolls.

Keith knew that he would have to concentrate on the minister’s every word, because Miss Steadman always tested him and his sisters on the most minute details of the text before they went to bed. Sir Graham was relieved that she never subjected him to the same examination.

Three nights in the treehouse — which Miss Steadman had constructed within weeks of her arrival — was the punishment for any child who obtained less than 80 percent in the sermon test. ‘Good for character-building,’ she would continually remind them. What Keith never told her was that he occasionally gave the wrong answer deliberately, because three nights in the treehouse was a blessed escape from her tyranny.

Two decisions were made when Keith was eleven which were to shape the rest of his life, and both of them caused him to burst into tears.

Following the declaration of war on Germany, Sir Graham was given a special assignment by the Australian government which, he explained to his son, would require him to spend a considerable amount of time abroad. That was the first.

The second came only days after Sir Graham had departed for London, when Keith was offered, and on his mother’s insistence took up, a place at St. Andrew’s Grammar — a boys’ boarding school on the outskirts of Melbourne.

Keith wasn’t sure which of the decisions caused him more anguish.

Dressed in his first pair of long trousers, the tearful boy was driven to St. Andrew’s for the opening day of the new term. His mother handed him over to a matron who looked as if she had been chiseled out of the same piece of stone as Miss Steadman. The first boy Keith set eyes on as he entered the front door was Desmond Motson, and he was later horrified to discover that they were not only in the same house, but the same dormitory. He didn’t sleep the first night.

The following morning, Keith stood at the back of the school hall and listened to an address from Mr. Jessop, his new headmaster, who hailed from somewhere in England called Winchester. Within days the new boy discovered that Mr. Jessop’s idea of fun was a ten-mile cross-country run followed by a cold shower. That was for the good boys who, once they had changed and were back in their rooms, were expected to read Homer in the original. Keith’s reading had lately concentrated almost exclusively on the tales of ‘our gallant war heroes’ and their exploits in the front line, as reported in the Courier. After a month at St. Andrew’s he would have been quite willing to change places with them.

During his first holiday Keith told his mother that if schooldays were the happiest days of your life, there was no hope for him in the future. Even she had been made aware that he had few friends and was becoming something of a loner.

The only day of the week Keith looked forward to was Wednesday, when he could escape from St. Andrew’s at midday and didn’t have to be back until lights out. Once the school bell had rung he would cycle the seven miles to the nearest racetrack, where he would spend a happy afternoon moving between the railings and the winners’ enclosure. At the age of twelve he thought of himself as something of a wizard of the turf, and only wished he had some more money of his own so he could start placing serious bets. After the last race he would cycle to the offices of the Courier and watch the first edition coming off the stone, returning to school just before lights out.

Like his father, Keith felt much more at ease with journalists and the racing fraternity than he ever did with the sons of Melbourne society. How he longed to tell the careers master that all he really wanted to do when he left school was be the racing correspondent for the Sporting Globe, another of his father’s papers. But he never let anyone into his secret for fear that they might pass the information on to his mother, who had already hinted that she had other plans for his future.

When his father had taken him racing — never informing his mother or Miss Steadman where they were going — Keith would watch as the old man placed large sums of money on every race, occasionally passing over sixpence to his son so he could also try his luck. To begin with Keith’s bets did no more than reflect his father’s selections, but to his surprise he found that this usually resulted in his returning home with empty pockets.

After several such Wednesday-afternoon trips to the racetrack, and having discovered that most of his sixpences ended up in the bookmaker’s bulky leather bag, Keith decided to invest a penny a week in the Sporting Globe. As he turned the pages, he learned the form of every jockey, trainer and owner recognized by the Victoria Racing Club, but even with this newfound knowledge he seemed to lose just as regularly as before. By the third week of term he had often gambled away all his pocket money.

Keith’s life changed the day he spotted a book advertised in the Sporting Globe called How to Beat the Bookie, by ‘Lucky Joe.’ He talked Florrie into lending him half a crown, and sent a postal order off to the address at the bottom of the advertisement. He greeted the postman every morning until the book appeared nineteen days later. From the moment Keith opened the first page, Lucky Joe replaced Homer as his compulsory reading during the evening prep period. After he had read the book twice, he was confident that he had found a system which would ensure that he always won. The following Wednesday he returned to the racecourse, puzzled as to why his father hadn’t taken advantage of Lucky Joe’s infallible method.

Keith cycled home that night having parted with a whole term’s pocket money in one afternoon. He refused to blame Lucky Joe for his failure, and assumed that he simply hadn’t fully understood the system. After he had read the book a third time, he realized his mistake. As Lucky Joe explained on page seventy-one, you must have a certain amount of capital to start off with, otherwise you can never hope to beat the bookie. Page seventy-two suggested that the sum required was £10, but as Keith’s father was still abroad, and his mother’s favorite maxim was ‘neither a borrower nor a lender be,’ he had no immediate way of proving that Lucky Joe was right.

He therefore came to the conclusion that he must somehow make a little extra cash, but as it was against school rules to earn any money during term time, he had to satisfy himself with reading Lucky Joe’s book yet again. He would have received ‘A’ grades in the end-of-term exams if How to Beat the Bookie had been the set text.

Once term was over, Keith returned to Toorak and discussed his financial problems with Florrie. She told him of several ways that her brothers had earned pocket money during their school holidays. After listening to her advice, Keith returned to the racecourse the following Saturday, not this time to place a bet — he still didn’t have any spare cash — but to collect manure from behind the stables, which he shoveled into a sugarbag that had been supplied by Florrie. He then cycled back to Melbourne with the heavy sack on his handlebars, before spreading the muck over his relatives’ flowerbeds. After forty-seven such journeys back and forth to the racecourse in ten days, Keith had pocketed thirty shillings, satisfied the needs of all his relatives, and had moved on to their next-door neighbors.

By the end of the holiday he had amassed £3 7s. 4d. After his mother had handed over his next term’s pocket money of a pound, he couldn’t wait to return to the race-track and make himself a fortune. The only problem was that Lucky Joe’s foolproof system stated on page seventy-two, and repeated on page seventy-three: ‘Don’t attempt the system with less than £10.’

Keith would have read How to Beat the Bookie a ninth time if his housemaster, Mr. Clarke, had not caught him thumbing through it during prep. Not only was his dearest treasure confiscated, and probably destroyed, but he had to face the humiliation of a public beating meted out by the headmaster in front of the whole school. As he bent over the table he stared down at Desmond Motson in the front row, who was unable to keep the smirk off his face.

Mr. Clarke told Keith before lights out that night that if he hadn’t intervened on his behalf, Keith would undoubtedly have been expelled. He knew this would not have pleased his father — who was on his way back from a place called Yalta in the Crimea — or his mother, who had begun talking about him going to a university in England called Oxford. But Keith remained more concerned by how he could convert his £3 7s. 4d. into £10.

It was during the third week of term that Keith came up with an idea for doubling his money which he felt sure the authorities would never latch on to.

The school tuck shop opened every Friday between the hours of five and six, and then remained closed until the same time the following week. By Monday morning most of the boys had devoured all their Cherry Ripes, munched their way through several packets of chips and happily guzzled countless bottles of Marchants’ lemonade. Although they were temporarily sated, Keith was in no doubt that they still craved more. He considered that, in these circumstances, Tuesday to Thursday presented an ideal opportunity to create a seller’s market. All he needed to do was stockpile some of the most popular items from the tuck shop, then flog them off at a profit as soon as the other boys had consumed their weekly supplies.

When the tuck shop opened the following Friday, Keith was to be found at the front of the queue. The duty master was surprised that young Townsend spent £3 purchasing a large carton of Minties, an even larger one of thirty-six packets of chips, two dozen Cherry Ripes and two wooden boxes containing a dozen bottles of Marchants’ lemonade. He reported the incident to Keith’s housemaster. Mr. Clarke’s only observation was, ‘I’m surprised that Lady Townsend indulges the boy with so much pocket money.’

Keith dragged his spoils off to the changing room, where he hid everything at the back of his games locker. He then waited patiently for the weekend to pass.

On the Saturday afternoon Keith cycled off to the racecourse, although he was meant to be watching the first eleven play their annual match against Geelong Grammar. He had a frustrating time, unable to place any bets. Strange, he reflected, how you could always pick winner after winner when you had no money.

After chapel on Sunday, Keith checked the senior and junior common rooms, and was delighted to discover that food and drink supplies were already running low. During the Monday morning break he watched his classmates standing around in the corridor, swapping their last sweets, unwrapping their final chocolate bars and swigging their remaining gulps of lemonade.

On Tuesday morning he saw the rows of empty bottles being lined up by the dustbins in the corner of the quad. By the afternoon he was ready to put his theory into practice.

During the games period he locked himself into the school’s small printing room, for which his father had supplied the equipment the previous year. Although the press was fairly ancient and could only be worked by hand, it was quite adequate for Keith’s needs.

An hour later he emerged clutching thirty copies of his first tabloid, which announced that an alternative tuck shop would be open every Wednesday between the hours of five and six, outside locker number nineteen in the senior changing room. The other side of the page showed the range of goods on offer and their ‘revised’ prices.

Keith distributed a copy of the news sheet to every member of his class at the beginning of the final lesson that afternoon, completing the task only moments before the geography master entered the room. He was already planning a bumper edition for the following week if the exercise turned out to be a success.

When Keith appeared in the changing room a few minutes before five the following afternoon, he found a queue had already formed outside his locker. He quickly unbolted the tin door and tugged the boxes out onto the floor. Long before the hour was up, he had sold out of his entire stock. A mark-up of at least 25 percent on most items showed him a clear profit of just over a pound.

Only Desmond Motson, who had stood in a corner watching the money changing hands, grumbled about Townsend’s extortionate prices. The young entrepreneur simply told him, ‘You have a choice. You can join the queue or wait till Friday.’ Motson had stalked out of the changing room, muttering veiled threats under his breath.

On Friday afternoon Keith was back at the front of the tuck shop queue and, having made a note of which items had sold out first, purchased his new stock accordingly.

When Mr. Clarke was informed that Townsend had spent £4 10s. on tuck that Friday, he admitted to being puzzled, and decided to have a word with the headmaster.

That Saturday afternoon Keith didn’t go to the racecourse, using the time to print up a hundred pages of the second edition of his sales sheet, which he distributed the following Monday — not only to his own classmates, but also to those in the two forms below him.

On Tuesday morning, during a lesson on British History 1815–1867, he calculated on the back of a copy of the 1832 Reform Bill that at this rate it would take him only another three weeks to raise the £10 he needed to test Lucky Joe’s infallible system.

It was in a Latin lesson on Wednesday afternoon that Keith’s own infallible system began to falter. The headmaster entered the classroom unannounced, and asked Townsend to join him in the corridor immediately. ‘And bring your locker key with you,’ he added ominously. As they marched silently down the long gray corridor Mr. Jessop presented him with a single sheet of paper. Keith studied the list he could have recited far more fluently than any of the tables in Kennedy’s Latin Primer. ‘Minties 8d, Chips 4d, Cherry Ripes 4d, Marchants’ Lemonade one shilling. Be outside Locker 19 in the senior changing room on Thursday at five o’clock sharp. Our slogan is “First come, first served.”’

Keith managed to keep a straight face as he was frog-marched down the corridor.

When they entered the changing room, Keith found his housemaster and the sports master already stationed by his locker.

‘Unlock the door, Townsend,’ was all the headmaster said.

Keith placed the little key in the lock and turned it slowly. He pulled open the door and the four of them peered inside. Mr. Jessop was surprised to discover that there was nothing to be seen other than a cricket bat, a pair of old pads, and a crumpled white shirt that looked as if it hadn’t been worn for several weeks.

The headmaster looked angry, his housemaster puzzled, and the sports master embarrassed.

‘Could it be that you’ve got the wrong boy?’ asked Keith, with an air of injured innocence.

‘Lock the door and return to your class immediately, Townsend,’ said the headmaster. Keith obeyed with an insolent nod of the head and strolled slowly back down the corridor.

Once he was seated at his desk, Keith realized that he had to decide on which course of action to take. Should he rescue his wares and save his investment, or drop a hint as to where the tuck might be found and settle an old score once and for all?

Desmond Motson turned round to stare at him. He looked surprised and disappointed to find Townsend back in his place.

Keith gave him a huge smile, and immediately knew which of the two options he should take.

5 The Times 9 March 1936 German Troops in the Rhineland

It was not until after the Germans had remilitarised the Rhineland that Lubji first heard the name of Adolf Hitler.

His mother winced when she read about the Führer’s exploits in the rabbi’s weekly paper. As she finished each page she handed it on to her eldest son. She stopped only when it became too dark for her to see the words. Lubji was able to go on reading for a few more minutes.

‘Will we all have to wear a yellow star if Hitler crosses our border?’ he asked.

Zelta pretended to have fallen asleep.

For some time his mother had been unable to hide from the rest of her family the fact that Lubji had become her favorite — even though she suspected that he was responsible for the disappearance of her precious brooch — and she had watched with pride as he grew into a tall, handsome youth. But she remained adamant that despite his success as a trader, from which she acknowledged the whole family had benefited, he was still destined to be a rabbi. She might have wasted her life, but she was determined that Lubji wouldn’t waste his.

For the past six years Lubji had spent each morning being tutored by her uncle in the house on the hill. He was released at midday so that he could return to the market, where he had recently purchased his own stall. A few weeks after his bar mitzvah the old rabbi had handed Lubji’s mother the letter informing him that Lubji had been awarded a scholarship to the academy in Ostrava. It was the happiest day of Zelta’s life. She knew her son was clever, perhaps exceptional, but she also realized that such an offer could only have been secured by her uncle’s reputation.

When Lubji was first told the news of his scholarship, he tried not to show his dismay. Although he was only allowed to go to the market in the afternoon, he was already making enough money to have provided every member of the family with a pair of shoes and two meals a day. He wanted to explain to his mother that there was no point in being a rabbi if all you really wanted to do was to build a shop on the vacant plot next to Mr. Lekski’s.

Mr. Lekski shut the shop and took the day off to drive the young scholar to the academy, and on the long journey to Ostrava he told him that he hoped he would take over his shop once he had completed his studies. Lubji wanted to return home immediately, and it was only after considerable persuasion that he picked up his little leather bag — the last barter he had made the previous day — and passed under the massive stone archway that led to the academy. If Mr. Lekski hadn’t added that he wouldn’t consider taking Lubji on unless he completed his five years at the academy, he would have jumped back into the car.

It wasn’t long before Lubji discovered that there were no other children at the academy who had come from such a humble background as himself. Several of his classmates made it clear, directly or indirectly, that he was not the sort of person they had expected to mix with. As the weeks passed, he also discovered that the skills he had picked up as a market trader were of little use in such an establishment — though even the most prejudiced could not deny that he had a natural flair for languages. And certainly long hours, little sleep, and rigorous discipline held no fears for the boy from Douski.

At the end of his first year at Ostrava, Lubji finished in the upper half of his class in most subjects. He was top in mathematics and third in Hungarian, which was now his second language. But even the principal of the academy could not fail to notice that the gifted child had few friends, and had become something of a loner. He was relieved at least that no one bullied the young ruffian — the only boy who ever tried had ended up in the sanatorium.

When Lubji returned to Douski, he was surprised to find how small the town was, just how impoverished his family were, and how much they had grown to depend on him.

Every morning after his father had left for the fields, Lubji would walk up the hill to the rabbi’s house and continue his studies. The old scholar marveled at the boy’s command of languages, and admitted that he was no longer able to keep up with him in mathematics. In the afternoons Lubji returned to the market, and on a good day he could bring home enough supplies to feed the entire family.

He tried to teach his brothers how to trade, so that they could run the stall in the mornings and while he was away. He quickly concluded it was a hopeless task, and wished his mother would allow him to stay at home and build up a business they could all benefit from. But Zelta showed no interest in what he got up to at the market, and only questioned him about his studies. She read his report cards again and again, and by the end of the holiday must have known them off by heart. It made Lubji even more determined that when he presented her with his next year’s reports, they would please her even more.

When his six-week break came to an end, Lubji reluctantly packed his little leather bag and was driven back to Ostrava by Mr. Lekski. ‘The offer to join me is still open,’ he reminded the young man, ‘but not until you’ve completed your studies.’

During Lubji’s second year at the academy the name of Adolf Hitler came up in conversation almost as often as that of Moses. Jews were fleeing across the border every day reporting the horrors taking place in Germany, and Lubji could only wonder what the Führer might have planned next. He read every newspaper he could lay his hands on, in whatever language and however out of date.

‘Hitler Looks East’ read a headline on page one of The Ostrava. When Lubji turned to page seven to read the rest of the story he found it was missing, but that didn’t stop him wondering how long it would be before the Führer’s tanks rolled into Czechoslovakia. He was certain of one thing: Hitler’s master race wouldn’t include the likes of him.

Later that morning he expressed these fears to his history master, but he seemed incapable of stretching his mind beyond Hannibal, and the question of whether he would make it across the Alps. Lubji closed his old history book and, without considering the consequences, marched out of the classroom and down the corridor toward the principal’s private quarters. He stopped in front of a door he had never entered, hesitated for a moment and then knocked boldly.

‘Come,’ said a voice.

Lubji opened the door slowly and entered the principal’s study. The godly man was garbed in full academic robes of red and gray, and a black skullcap rested on top of his long black ringlets. He looked up from his desk. ‘I presume this is something of vital importance, Hoch?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Lubji confidently. Then he lost his nerve.

‘Well?’ prompted the principal, after some time had elapsed.

‘We must be prepared to leave at a moment’s notice,’ Lubji finally blurted out. ‘We have to assume that it will not be long before Hitler...’

The old man smiled up at the fifteen-year-old boy and waved a dismissive hand. ‘Hitler has told us a hundred times that he has no interest in occupying any other territory,’ he said, as if he were correcting a minor error Lubji had made in a history exam.

‘I’m sorry to have bothered you, sir,’ Lubji said, realizing that however well he presented his case, he wasn’t going to persuade such an unworldly man.

But as the weeks passed, first his tutor, then his housemaster, and finally the principal, had to admit that history was being written before their eyes.

It was on a warm September evening that the principal, carrying out his rounds, began to alert the pupils that they should gather together their possessions, as they would be leaving at dawn the following day. He was not surprised to find Lubji’s room already empty.

A few minutes after midnight, a division of German tanks crossed the border and advanced unchallenged toward Ostrava. The soldiers ransacked the academy even before the breakfast bell had rung, and dragged all the students out into waiting lorries. There was only one pupil who wasn’t present to answer the final roll-call. Lubji Hoch had left the previous night. After cramming all his possessions into the little leather case, he had joined the stream of refugees heading toward the Hungarian border. He prayed that his mother had read not only the papers, but Hitler’s mind, and would somehow have escaped with the rest of the family. He had recently heard rumors about the Germans rounding up Jews and placing them in internment camps. He tried not to think of what might happen to his family if they were captured.

When Lubji slipped out of the academy gates that night he didn’t stop to watch the local people rushing from house to house searching for their relatives, while others loaded their possessions onto horse-drawn carts that would surely be overtaken by the slowest armed vehicle. This was not a night to spend fussing about personal possessions: you can’t shoot a possession, Lubji wanted to tell them. But no one stood still long enough to listen to the tall, powerfully built young man with long black ringlets, dressed in his academy uniform. By the time the German tanks had surrounded the academy, he had already covered several miles on the road that led south to the border.

Lubji didn’t even consider sleeping. He could already hear the roar of guns as the enemy advanced into the city from the west. On and on he strode, past those who were slowed by the burden of pushing and pulling their lives’ possessions. He overtook laden donkeys, carts that needed their wheels repaired and families with young children and aging relatives, held up by the pace of the slowest. He watched as mothers cut the locks from their sons’ hair and began to abandon anything that might identify them as Jewish. He would have stopped to remonstrate with them but didn’t want to lose any precious time. He swore that nothing would ever make him abandon his religion.

The discipline that had been instilled in him at the academy over the previous two years allowed Lubji to carry on without food or rest until daybreak. When he eventually slept, it was on the back of a cart, and then later in the front seat of a lorry. He was determined that nothing would stop his progress toward a friendly country.

Although freedom was a mere 180 kilometers away, Lubji saw the sun rise and set three times before he heard the cries from those ahead of him who had reached the sovereign state of Hungary. He came to a halt at the end of a straggling queue of would-be immigrants. Three hours later he had traveled only a few hundred yards, and the queue of people ahead of him began to settle down for the night. Anxious eyes looked back to see smoke rising high into the sky, and the sound of guns could be heard as the Germans continued their relentless advance.

Lubji waited until it was pitch dark, and then silently made his way past the sleeping families, until he could clearly see the lights of the border post ahead of him. He lay down in a ditch as inconspicuously as possible, his head resting on his little leather case. As the customs officer raised the barrier the following morning, Lubji was waiting at the front of the queue. When those behind him woke and saw the young man in his academic garb chanting a psalm under his breath, none of them considered asking him how he had got there.

The customs officer didn’t waste a lot of time searching Lubji’s little case. Once he had crossed the border, he never strayed off the road to Budapest, the only Hungarian city he had heard of. Another two days and nights of sharing food with generous families, relieved to have escaped from the wrath of the Germans, brought him to the outskirts of the capital on 23 September 1939.

Lubji couldn’t believe the sights that greeted him. Surely this must be the largest city on earth? He spent his first few hours just walking through the streets, becoming more and more intoxicated with each pace he took. He finally collapsed on the steps of a massive synagogue, and when he woke the following morning, the first thing he did was to ask for directions to the marketplace.

Lubji stood in awe as he stared at row upon row of covered stalls, stretching as far as the eye could see. Some only sold vegetables, others just fruit, while a few dealt in furniture, and one simply in pictures, some of which even had frames.

But despite the fact that he spoke their language fluently, when he offered his services to the traders their only question was, ‘Do you have anything to sell?’ For the second time in his life, Lubji faced the problem of having nothing to barter with. He stood and watched as refugees traded priceless family heirlooms, sometimes for no more than a loaf of bread or a sack of potatoes. It quickly became clear to him that war allowed some people to amass a great fortune.

Day after day Lubji searched for work. At night he would collapse onto the pavement, hungry and exhausted, but still determined. After every trader in the market had turned him down, he was reduced to begging on street corners.

Late one afternoon, on the verge of despair, he passed an old woman in a newspaper kiosk on the corner of a quiet street, and noticed that she wore the Star of David on a thin gold chain around her neck. He gave her a smile, hoping she might take pity on him, but she ignored the filthy young immigrant and carried on with her work.

Lubji was just about to move on when a young man, only a few years older than him, strolled up to the kiosk, selected a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches, and then walked off without paying the old lady. She jumped out of the kiosk, waving her arms and shouting, ‘Thief! Thief!’ But the young man simply shrugged his shoulders and lit one of the cigarettes. Lubji ran down the road after him and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. When he turned round, Lubji said, ‘You haven’t paid for the cigarettes.’

‘Get lost, you bloody Slovak,’ the man said, pushing him away before continuing down the street. Lubji ran after him again and this time grabbed his arm. The man turned a second time, and without warning threw a punch at his pursuer. Lubji ducked, and the clenched fist flew over his shoulder. As the man rocked forward, Lubji landed an uppercut in his solar plexus with such force that the man staggered backward and collapsed in a heap on the ground, dropping the cigarettes and matches. Lubji had discovered something else he must have inherited from his father.

Lubji had been so surprised by his own strength that he hesitated for a moment before bending down to pick up the cigarettes and matches. He left the man clutching his stomach and ran back to the kiosk.

‘Thank you,’ the old woman said when he handed back her goods.

‘My name is Lubji Hoch,’ he told her, and bowed low.

‘And mine is Mrs. Cerani,’ she said.

When the old lady went home that night, Lubji slept on the pavement behind the kiosk. The following morning she was surprised to find him still there, sitting on a stack of unopened newspapers.

The moment he saw her coming down the street, he began to untie the bundles. He watched as she sorted out the papers and placed them in racks to attract the early-morning workers. During the day Mrs. Cerani started to tell Lubji about the different papers, and was amazed to find how many languages he could read. It wasn’t long before she discovered that he could also converse with any refugee who came in search of news from his own country.

The next day Lubji had all the papers set out in their racks long before Mrs. Cerani arrived. He had even sold a couple of them to early customers. By the end of the week she could often be found snoozing happily in the corner of her kiosk, needing only to offer the occasional piece of advice if Lubji was unable to answer a customer’s query.

After Mrs. Cerani locked up the kiosk on the Friday evening, she beckoned Lubji to follow her. They walked in silence for some time, before stopping at a little house about a mile from the kiosk. The old lady invited him to come inside, and ushered him through to the front room to meet her husband. Mr. Cerani was shocked when he first saw the filthy young giant, but softened a little when he learned that Lubji was a Jewish refugee from Ostrava. He invited him to join them for supper. It was the first time Lubji had sat at a table since he had left the academy.

Over the meal Lubji learned that Mr. Cerani ran a paper shop that supplied the kiosk where his wife worked. He began to ask his host a series of questions about returned copies, loss leaders, margins and alternative stock. It was not long before the newsagent realized why the profits at the kiosk had shot up that week. While Lubji did the washing up, Mr. and Mrs. Cerani conferred in the corner of the kitchen. When they had finished speaking, Mrs. Cerani beckoned to Lubji, who assumed the time had come for him to leave. But instead of showing him to the door, she began to climb the stairs. She turned and beckoned again, and he followed in her wake. At the top of the stairs she opened a door that led into a tiny room. There was no carpet on the floor, and the only furniture was a single bed, a battered chest of drawers and a small table. The old lady stared at the empty bed with a sad look on her face, gestured toward it and quickly left without another word.

So many immigrants from so many lands came to converse with the young man — who seemed to have read every paper — about what was taking place in their own countries, that by the end of the first month Lubji had almost doubled the takings of the little kiosk. On the last day of the month Mr. Cerani presented Lubji with his first wage packet. Over supper that night he told the young man that on Monday he was to join him at the shop, in order to learn more about the trade. Mrs. Cerani looked disappointed, despite her husband’s assurance that it would only be for a week.

At the shop, the boy quickly learned the names of the regular customers, their choice of daily paper and their favorite brand of cigarettes. During the second week he became aware of a Mr. Farkas, who ran the rival shop on the other side of the road, but as neither Mr. nor Mrs. Cerani ever mentioned him by name, he didn’t raise the subject. On the Sunday evening, Mr. Cerani told his wife that Lubji would be joining him at the shop permanently. She didn’t seem surprised.

Every morning Lubji would rise at four and leave the house to go and open the shop. It was not long before he was delivering the papers to the kiosk and serving the first customers before Mr. or Mrs. Cerani had finished their breakfast. As the weeks passed, Mr. Cerani began coming into the shop later and later each day, and after he had counted up the cash in the evening, he would often slip a coin or two into Lubji’s hand.

Lubji stacked the coins on the table by the side of his bed, converting them into a little green note every time he had acquired ten. At night he would lie awake, dreaming of taking over the paper shop and kiosk when Mr. and Mrs. Cerani eventually retired. Lately they had begun treating him as if he were their own son, giving him small presents, and Mrs. Cerani even hugged him before he went to bed. It made him think of his mother.

Lubji began to believe his ambition might be realized when Mr. Cerani took a day off from the shop, and later a weekend, to find on his return that the takings had risen slightly.

One Saturday morning on his way back from synagogue, Lubji had the feeling he was being followed. He stopped and turned to see Mr. Farkas, the rival newsagent from across the road, hovering only a few paces behind him.

‘Good morning, Mr. Farkas,’ said Lubji, raising his wide-rimmed black hat.

‘Good morning, Mr. Hoch,’ he replied. Until that moment Lubji had never thought of himself as Mr. Hoch. After all, he had only recently celebrated his seventeenth birthday.

‘Do you wish to speak to me?’ asked Lubji.

‘Yes, Mr. Hoch, I do,’ he said, and walked up to his side. He began to shift uneasily from foot to foot. Lubji recalled Mr. Lekski’s advice: ‘Whenever a customer looks nervous, say nothing.’

‘I was thinking of offering you a job in one of my shops,’ said Mr. Farkas, looking up at him.

For the first time Lubji realized Mr. Farkas had more than one shop. ‘In what capacity?’ he asked.

‘Assistant manager.’

‘And my salary?’ When Lubji heard the amount he made no comment, although a hundred pengös a week was almost double what Mr. Cerani was paying him.

‘And where would I live?’

‘There is a room above the premises,’ said Mr. Farkas, ‘which I suspect is far larger than the little attic you presently occupy at the top of the Ceranis’ house.’

Lubji looked down at him. ‘I’ll consider your offer, Mr. Farkas,’ he said, and once again raised his hat. By the time he had arrived back at the house, he had decided to report the entire conversation to Mr. Cerani before someone else did.

The old man touched his thick moustache and sighed when Lubji came to the end of his tale. But he did not respond.

‘I made it clear, of course, that I was not interested in working for him,’ said Lubji, waiting to see how his boss would react. Mr. Cerani still said nothing, and did not refer to the subject again until they had all sat down for supper the following evening. Lubji smiled when he learned that he would be getting a rise at the end of the week. But on Friday he was disappointed when he opened his little brown envelope and discovered how small the increase turned out to be.

When Mr. Farkas approached him again the following Saturday and asked if he had made up his mind yet, Lubji simply replied that he was satisfied with the remuneration he was presently receiving. He bowed low before walking away, hoping he had left the impression that he was still open to a counter-offer.

As he went about his work over the next few weeks, Lubji occasionally glanced up at the large room over the paper shop on the other side of the road. At night as he lay in bed, he tried to envisage what it might be like inside.

After he had been working for the Ceranis for six months, Lubji had managed to save almost all his wages. His only real outlay had been on a secondhand double-breasted suit, two shirts and a spotted tie which had recently replaced his academic garb. But despite his newfound security, he was becoming more and more fearful about where Hitler would attack next. After the Führer had invaded Poland, he had continued to make speeches assuring the Hungarian people that he considered them his allies. But judging by his past record, ‘ally’ was not a word he had looked up in the Polish dictionary.

Lubji tried not to think about having to move on again, but as each day passed he was made painfully aware of people pointing out that he was Jewish, and he couldn’t help noticing that some of the local inhabitants seemed to be preparing to welcome the Nazis.

One morning when he was walking to work, a passer-by hissed at Lubji. He was taken by surprise, but within days this became a regular occurrence. Then the first stones were thrown at Mr. Ceranis shop window, and some of the regular customers began to cross the road to transfer their custom to Mr. Farkas. But Mr. Cerani continued to insist that Hitler had categorically stated he would never infringe the territorial integrity of Hungary.

Lubji reminded his boss that those were the exact words the Führer had used before he invaded Poland. He went on to tell him about a British gentleman called Chamberlain, who had handed in his resignation as prime minister only a few months before.

Lubji knew that he hadn’t yet saved enough money to cross another border, so the following Monday, long before the Ceranis came down for breakfast, he walked boldly across the road and into his rival’s shop. Mr. Farkas couldn’t hide his surprise when he saw Lubji come through the door.

‘Is your offer of assistant manager still open?’ Lubji asked immediately, not wanting to be caught on the wrong side of the road.

‘Not for a Jewboy it isn’t,’ replied Mr. Farkas, looking straight at him. ‘However good you think you are. In any case, as soon as Hitler invades I’ll be taking over your shop.’

Lubji left without another word. When Mr. Cerani came into the shop an hour later, he told him that Mr. Farkas had made him yet another offer, ‘But I told him I couldn’t be bought.’ Mr. Cerani nodded but said nothing. Lubji was not surprised to find, when he opened his pay packet on Friday, that it contained another small rise.

Lubji continued to save almost all his earnings. When Jews started being arrested for minor offenses, he began to consider an escape route. Each night after the Ceranis had retired to bed, Lubji would creep downstairs and study the old atlas in Mr. Ceranis little study. He went over the alternatives several times. He would have to avoid crossing into Yugoslavia: surely it would be only a matter of time before it suffered the same fate as Poland and Czechoslovakia. Italy was out of the question, as was Russia. He finally settled on Turkey. Although he had no official papers, he decided that he would go to the railway station at the end of the week and see if he could somehow get on a train making the journey through Romania and Bulgaria to Istanbul. Just after midnight, Lubji closed the old maps of Europe for the last time and returned to his tiny room at the top of the house.

He knew the time was fast approaching when he would have to tell Mr. Cerani of his plans, but decided to put it off until he had received his pay packet on the following Friday. He climbed into bed and fell asleep, trying to imagine what life would be like in Istanbul. Did they have a market, and were the Turks a race who enjoyed bargaining?

He was woken from a deep sleep by a loud banging. He leapt out of bed and ran to the little window that overlooked the street. The road was full of soldiers carrying rifles. Some were banging on doors with the butts of their rifles. It would be only moments before they reached the Ceranis’ house. Lubji quickly threw on yesterday’s clothes, removed the wad of money from under his mattress and tucked it into his waist, tightening the wide leather belt that held up his trousers.

He ran downstairs to the first landing, and disappeared into the bathroom that he shared with the Ceranis. He grabbed the old man’s razor, and quickly cut off the long black ringlets that hung down to his shoulders. He dropped the severed locks into the lavatory and flushed them away. Then he opened the small medicine cabinet and removed Mr. Cerani’s hair cream, plastering a handful on his head in the hope that it would disguise the fact that his hair had been so recently cropped.

Lubji stared at himself in the mirror and prayed that in his light gray double-breasted suit with its wide lapels, white shirt and spotted blue tie, the invaders just might believe he was nothing more than a Hungarian businessman visiting the capital. At least he could now speak the language without any trace of an accent. He paused before stepping back out onto the landing. As he moved noiselessly down the stairs, he could hear someone already banging on the door of the next house. He quickly checked in the front room, but there was no sign of the Ceranis. He moved on to the kitchen, where he found the old couple hiding under the table, clinging on to each other. While the seven candles of David stood in the corner of the room, there wasn’t going to be an easy way of concealing the fact that they were Jewish.

Without saying a word, Lubji tiptoed over to the kitchen window, which looked out onto the backyard. He eased it up cautiously and stuck his head out. There was no sign of any soldiers. He turned his gaze to the right and saw a cat scampering up a tree. He looked to the left and stared into the eyes of a soldier. Standing next to him was Mr. Farkas, who nodded and said, ‘That’s him.’

Lubji smiled hopefully, but the soldier brutally slammed the butt of his rifle into his chin. He fell head first out of the window and crashed down onto the path.

He looked up to find a bayonet hovering between his eyes.

‘I’m not Jewish!’ he screamed. ‘I’m not Jewish!’

The soldier might have been more convinced if Lubji hadn’t blurted out the words in Yiddish.

6 Daily Mail 8 February 1945 Yalta: Big Three Confer

When Keith returned for his final year at St. Andrew’s Grammar, no one was surprised that the headmaster didn’t invite him to become a school prefect.

There was, however, one position of authority that Keith did want to hold before he left, even if none of his contemporaries gave him the slightest chance of achieving it.

Keith hoped to become the editor of the St. Andy, the school magazine, like his father before him. His only rival for the post was a boy from his own form called ‘Swotty’ Tomkins, who had been the deputy editor during the previous year and was looked on by the headmaster as ‘a safe pair of hands.’ Tomkins, who had already been offered a place at Cambridge to read English, was considered to be odds-on favorite by the sixty-three sixth formers who had a vote. But that was before anyone realized how far Keith was willing to go to secure the position.

Shortly before the election was due to take place, Keith discussed the problem with his father as they took a walk around the family’s country property.

‘Voters often change their minds at the last moment,’ his father told him, ‘and most of them are susceptible to bribery or fear. That has always been my experience, both in politics and business. I can’t see why it should be any different for the sixth form at St. Andrew’s.’ Sir Graham paused when they reached the top of the hill that overlooked the property. ‘And never forget,’ he continued, ‘you have an advantage over most candidates in other elections.’

‘What’s that?’ asked the seventeen-year-old as they strolled down the hill on their way back to the house.

‘With such a tiny electorate, you know all the voters personally.’

‘That might be an advantage if I were more popular than Tomkins,’ said Keith, ‘but I’m not.’

‘Few politicians rely solely on popularity to get elected,’ his father assured him. ‘If they did, half the world’s leaders would be out of office. No better example than Churchill.’

Keith listened intently to his father’s words as they walked back to the house.

When Keith returned to St. Andrew’s, he had only ten days in which to carry out his father’s recommendations before the election took place. He tried every form of persuasion he could think of: tickets at the MCG, bottles of beer, illegal packets of cigarettes. He even promised one voter a date with his elder sister. But whenever he tried to calculate how many votes he had secured, he still didn’t feel confident that he would have a majority. There was simply no way of telling how anyone would cast his vote in a secret ballot. And Keith wasn’t helped by the fact that the headmaster didn’t hesitate to make it clear who his preferred candidate was.

With forty-eight hours to go before the ballot, Keith began to consider his father’s second option — that of fear. But however long he lay awake at night pondering the idea, he still couldn’t come up with anything feasible.

The next afternoon he received a visit from Duncan Alexander, the newly appointed head boy.

‘I need a couple of tickets for Victoria against South Australia at the MCG.’

‘And what can I expect in return?’ asked Keith, looking up from his desk.

‘My vote,’ replied the head boy. ‘Not to mention the influence I could bring to bear on other voters.’

‘In a secret ballot?’ replied Keith. ‘You must be joking.’

‘Are you suggesting that my word is not good enough for you?’

‘Something like that,’ replied Keith.

‘And what would your attitude be if I could supply you with some dirt on Cyril Tomkins?’

‘It would depend on whether the dirt would stick,’ said Keith.

‘It will stick long enough for him to have to withdraw from the contest.’

‘If that’s the case, I’ll not only supply you with two seats in the members’ stand, but will personally introduce you to any member of the teams you want to meet. But before I even consider parting with the tickets, I’ll need to know what you have on Tomkins.’

‘Not until I’ve seen the tickets,’ said Alexander.

‘Are you suggesting my word is not good enough for you?’ Keith inquired with a grin.

‘Something like that,’ replied Alexander.

Keith pulled open the top drawer of his desk and removed a small tin box. He placed the smallest key on his chain in the lock and turned it. He lifted up the lid and rummaged around, finally extracting two long, thin tickets.

He held them up so that Alexander could study them closely.

After a smile had appeared on the head boy’s face, Keith said, ‘So what have you got on Tomkins that’s so certain to make him scratch?’

‘He’s a homosexual,’ said Alexander.

‘Everyone knows that,’ said Keith.

‘But what they don’t know,’ continued Alexander, ‘is that he came close to being expelled last term.’

‘So did I,’ said Keith, ‘so that’s hardly newsworthy.’ He placed the two tickets back in the tin.

‘But not for being caught in the bogs with young Julian Wells from the lower school,’ he paused. ‘And both of them with their trousers down.’

‘If it was that blatant, why wasn’t he expelled?’

‘Because there wasn’t enough proof. I’m told the master who discovered them opened the door a moment too late.’

‘Or a moment too early?’ suggested Keith.

‘And I’m also reliably informed that the headmaster felt it wasn’t the sort of publicity the school needed right now. Especially as Tomkins has won a scholarship to Cambridge.’

Keith’s smile broadened as he put his hand back into the tin and removed one of the tickets.

‘You promised me both of them,’ said Alexander.

‘You’ll get the other one tomorrow — if I win. That way I can feel fairly confident that your cross will be placed in the right box.’

Alexander grabbed the ticket and said, ‘I’ll be back tomorrow for the other one.’

When Alexander closed the door behind him, Keith remained at his desk and began typing furiously. He knocked out a couple of hundred words on the little Remington his father had given him for Christmas. After he had completed his copy he checked the text, made a few emendations, and then headed for the school’s printing press to prepare a limited edition.

Fifty minutes later he re-emerged, clutching a dummy front page hot off the press. He checked his watch. Cyril Tomkins was one of those boys who could always be relied on to be in his study between the hours of five and six, going over his prep. Today was to prove no exception. Keith strolled down the corridor and knocked quietly on his door.

‘Come in,’ responded Tomkins.

The studious pupil looked up from his desk as Keith entered the room. He was unable to hide his surprise: Townsend had never visited him in the past. Before he could ask what he wanted, Keith volunteered, ‘I thought you might like to see the first edition of the school magazine under my editorship.’

Tomkins pursed his podgy lips: ‘I think you’ll find,’ he said, ‘to adopt one of your more overused expressions, that when it comes to the vote tomorrow, I shall win in a canter.’

‘Not if you’ve already scratched, you won’t,’ said Keith.

‘And why should I do that?’ asked Tomkins, taking off his spectacles and cleaning them with the end of his tie. ‘You certainly can’t bribe me, the way you’ve been trying to do with the rest of the sixth.’

‘True,’ said Keith. ‘But I still have a feeling you’ll want to withdraw from the contest once you’ve read this.’ He passed over the front page.

Tomkins replaced his glasses, but did not get beyond the headline and the first few words of the opening paragraph before he was sick all over his prep.

Keith had to admit that this was a far better response than he had hoped for. He felt his father would have agreed that he had grabbed the reader’s attention with the headline.

‘Sixth Former Caught in Bogs with New Boy. Trousers Down Allegation Denied.’

Keith retrieved the front page and began tearing it up while a white-faced Tomkins tried to regain his composure. ‘Of course,’ he said, as he dropped the little pieces into the wastepaper basket at Tomkins’s side, ‘I’d be happy for you to hold the position of deputy editor, as long as you withdraw your name before the voting takes place tomorrow.’

‘The Case for Socialism’ turned out to be the banner headline in the first edition of the St. Andy under its new editor.

‘The quality of the paper and printing are of a far higher standard than I can ever recall,’ remarked the headmaster at the staff meeting the following morning. ‘However, that is more than can be said for the contents. I suppose we must be thankful that we only have to suffer two editions a term.’ The rest of the staff nodded their agreement.

Mr. Clarke then reported that Cyril Tomkins had resigned from his position as deputy editor only hours after the first edition of the magazine had been published. ‘Pity he didn’t get the job in the first place,’ the headmaster commented. ‘By the way, did anyone ever find out why he withdrew from the contest at the last minute?’

Keith laughed when this piece of information was relayed to him the following afternoon by someone who had overheard it repeated at the breakfast table.

‘But will he try to do anything about it?’ Keith asked as she zipped up her skirt.

‘My father didn’t say anything else on the subject, except that he was only thankful you hadn’t called for Australia to become a republic.’

‘Now there’s an idea,’ said Keith.

‘Can you make the same time next Saturday?’ Penny asked, as she pulled her polo-neck sweater over her head.

‘I’ll try,’ said Keith. ‘But it can’t be in the gym next week because it’s already booked for a house boxing match — unless of course you want us to do it in the middle of the ring, surrounded by cheering spectators.’

‘I think it might be wise to leave others to end up lying flat on their backs,’ said Penny. ‘What other suggestions do you have?’

‘I can give you a choice,’ said Keith. ‘The indoor rifle range or the cricket pavilion.’

‘The cricket pavilion,’ said Penny without hesitation.

‘What’s wrong with the rifle range?’ asked Keith.

‘It’s always so cold and dark down there.’

‘Is that right?’ said Keith. He paused. ‘Then it will have to be the cricket pavilion.’

‘But how will we get in?’ she asked.

‘With a key,’ he replied.

‘That’s not possible,’ she said, rising to the bait. ‘It’s always locked when the First Eleven are away.’

‘Not when the groundsman’s son works on the Courier, it isn’t.’

Penny took him in her arms, only moments after he had finished doing up his fly buttons. ‘Do you love me, Keith?’

Keith tried to think of a convincing reply that didn’t commit him. ‘Haven’t I sacrificed an afternoon at the races to be with you?’

Penny frowned as he released himself from her grip. She was just about to press him when he added, ‘See you next week.’ He unlocked the gym door and peeked out into the corridor. He turned back, smiled and said, ‘Stay put for at least another five minutes.’

He took a circuitous route back to his dormitory and let himself in through the kitchen window.

When he crept into his study, he found a note on his desk from the headmaster asking to see him at eight o’clock. He checked his watch. It was already ten to eight. He was relieved that he hadn’t succumbed to Penny’s charms and stayed a little longer in the gymnasium. He began to wonder what the headmaster was going to complain about this time, but suspected that Penny had already pointed him in the right direction.

He checked the mirror above his washbasin, to be sure there were no outward signs of the extra-curricular activities of the past two hours. He straightened his tie and removed a touch of pink lipstick from his cheek.

As he crunched across the gravel to the headmaster’s house, he began to rehearse his defense against the reprimand he had been anticipating for some days. He tried to put his thoughts into a coherent order, and felt more and more confident that he could answer every one of the headmaster’s possible admonitions. Freedom of the press, the exercise of one’s democratic rights, the evils of censorship — and if the headmaster still rebuked him after that lot, he would remind him of his address to the parents on Founder’s Day the previous year when he had condemned Hitler for carrying out exactly the same gagging tactics on the German press. Most of these arguments had been picked up from his father at the breakfast table since he had returned from Yalta.

Keith arrived outside the headmaster’s house as the clock on the school chapel struck eight. A maid answered his knock on the door and said, ‘Good evening, Mr. Townsend.’ It was the first time anyone had ever called him ‘Mr.’ She ushered him straight through to the headmaster’s study. Mr. Jessop looked up from behind a desk littered with papers.

‘Good evening, Townsend,’ he said, dispensing with the usual custom of addressing a boy in his final year by his Christian name. Keith was obviously in deep trouble.

‘Good evening, sir,’ he replied, somehow managing to make the word ‘sir’ sound condescending.

‘Do have a seat,’ said Mr. Jessop, waving an arm toward the chair opposite his desk.

Keith was surprised: if you were offered a seat, that usually meant you were not in any trouble. Surely he wasn’t going to offer him...

‘Would you care for a sherry, Townsend?’

‘No, thank you,’ replied Keith in disbelief. The sherry was normally offered only to the head boy.

Ah, thought Keith, bribery. He’s going to tell me that perhaps it might be wise in future to temper my natural tendency to be provocative by... etc., etc. Well, I already have a reply prepared for that one. You can go to hell.

‘I am of course aware, Townsend, of just how much work is involved in trying to gain a place at Oxford while at the same time attempting to edit the school magazine.’

So that’s his game. He wants me to resign. Never. He’ll have to sack me first. And if he does, I’ll publish an underground magazine the week before the official one comes out.

‘Nevertheless, I was hoping that you might feel able to take on a further responsibility.’

He’s not going to make me a prefect? I don’t believe it.

‘You may be surprised to learn, Townsend, that I consider the cricket pavilion to be unsuitable...’ continued the headmaster. Keith turned scarlet.

‘Unsuitable, Headmaster?’ he blurted out.

‘...for the first eleven of a school of our reputation. Now, I realize that you have not made your mark at St. Andrew’s as a sportsman. However, the School Council has decided that this year’s appeal should be in aid of a new pavilion.’

Well, they needn’t expect any help from me, thought Keith. But I may as well let him go on a bit before I turn him down.

‘I know you will be glad to learn that your mother has agreed to be president of the appeal.’ He paused. ‘With that in mind, I hoped you’d agree to be the student chairman.’

Keith made no attempt to respond. He knew only too well that once the old man got into his full stride, there was little point in interrupting him.

‘And as you don’t have the arduous responsibility of being a prefect, and do not represent the school in any of its teams, I felt you might be interested in taking up this challenge...’

Keith still said nothing.

‘The amount the governors had in mind for the appeal was £5,000, and were you to succeed in raising that magnificent sum, I would feel able to inform the college you’ve applied to at Oxford of your stalwart efforts.’ He paused to check some notes in front of him. ‘Worcester College, if I remember correctly. I feel that I can safely say that were your application to receive my personal blessing, it would count greatly in your favor.’

And this, thought Keith, from a man who happily climbed the steps of the pulpit every Sunday to rail against the sins of bribery and corruption.

‘I therefore hope, Townsend, that you will give the idea your serious consideration.’

As there followed a silence of over three seconds, Keith assumed the headmaster must have come to an end. His first reaction was to tell the old man to think again and to look for some other sucker to raise the money — not least because he had absolutely no interest in either cricket or in going to Oxford. He was determined that the moment he had left school, he would join the Courier as a trainee reporter. However, he accepted that for the moment his mother was still winning that particular argument, although if he deliberately failed the entrance exam, she wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.

Despite this, Keith could think of several good reasons to fall in with the headmaster’s wishes. The sum was not that large, and collecting it on behalf of the school might open some doors that had previously been slammed in his face. And then there was his mother: she would need a great deal of placating after he had failed to be offered a place at Oxford.

‘It’s unlike you to take so long to come to a decision,’ said the headmaster, breaking into his thoughts.

‘I was giving serious consideration to your proposal, Headmaster,’ said Keith gravely. He had absolutely no intention of allowing the old man to believe he could be bought off quite that easily. This time it was the headmaster who remained silent. Keith counted to three. ‘I’ll come back to you on this one if I may, sir,’ he said, hoping he sounded like a bank manager addressing a customer requesting a small overdraft.

‘And when might that be, Townsend?’ inquired the headmaster, sounding a little irritated.

‘Two or three days at the most, sir.’

‘Thank you, Townsend,’ said the headmaster, rising from his chair to indicate that the interview was over. Keith turned to leave, but before he reached the door, the headmaster added, ‘Do have a word with your mother before you make your decision.’

‘Your father wants me to be the student rep for the annual appeal,’ said Keith, as he searched round for his pants.

‘What do they want to build this time?’ asked Penny, still looking up at the ceiling.

‘A new cricket pavilion.’

‘Can’t see what’s wrong with this one.’

‘It has been known to be used for other purposes,’ said Keith, as he pulled on his trousers.

‘Can’t think why.’ She pulled at a trouser leg. He stared down at her thin naked body. ‘So, what are you going to tell him?’

‘I’m going to say yes.’

‘But why? It could take up all your spare time.’

‘I know. But it will keep him off my back, and in any case it might act as an insurance policy.’

‘An insurance policy?’ said Penny.

‘Yes, if I were ever spotted at the racecourse — or worse...’ He looked down at her again.

‘...in the slips cradle with the headmaster’s daughter?’ She pushed herself up and began kissing him again.

‘Have we time?’ he asked.

‘Don’t be so wet, Keith. If the First Eleven are playing at Wesley today and the game doesn’t end until six, they won’t be back much before nine, so we have all the time in the world.’ She fell to her knees and began to undo his fly buttons.

‘Unless it’s raining,’ said Keith.

Penny had been the first girl Keith had made love to. She had seduced him one evening when he was meant to be attending a concert by a visiting orchestra; he would never have thought there was enough room in the ladies’ loo. He was relieved that there was no way of showing the fact that he had lost his virginity. He was certain it hadn’t been Penny’s first sexual experience, because to date he hadn’t taught her a thing.

But all that had taken place at the beginning of the previous term, and now he had his eye on a girl called Betsy who served behind the counter in the local post office. In fact lately his mother had been surprised by how regularly Keith had been writing home.

Keith lay on a neatly laid-out mattress of old pads in the slips cradle, and began to wonder what Betsy would look like in the nude. He decided that this was definitely going to be the last time.

As she clipped on her bra, Penny asked casually, ‘Same time next week?’

‘Sorry, can’t make it next week,’ said Keith. ‘Got an appointment in Melbourne.’

‘Who with?’ asked Penny. ‘You’re surely not playing for the First Eleven.’

‘No, they’re not quite that desperate,’ said Keith, laughing. ‘But I do have to attend an Interview Board for Oxford.’

‘Why bother?’ said Penny. ‘If you were to end up there, it would only confirm your worst fears about the English.’

‘I know that, but my...’ he began, as he pulled up his trousers for a second time.

‘And in any case, I heard my father tell Mr. Clarke that he only added your name to the final list to please your mother.’

Penny regretted the words the moment she had said them.

Keith’s eyes narrowed as he stared down at a girl who didn’t normally blush.

Keith used the second edition of the school magazine to air his opinions on private education.

‘As we approach the second half of the twentieth century, money alone should not be able to guarantee a good education,’ the leader declared. ‘Attendance at the finest schools should be available to any child of proven ability, and not decided simply by which cot you were born in.’

Keith waited for the wrath of the headmaster to descend upon him, but only silence emanated from that quarter. Mr. Jessop did not rise to the challenge. He might have been influenced by the fact that Keith had already banked £1,470 of the £5,000 needed to build a new cricket pavilion. Most of the money had, admittedly, been extracted from his father’s contacts, who, Keith suspected, paid up in the hope that it would keep their names off the front pages in future.

In fact, the only result of publishing the article was not a complaint, but an offer of £10 from the Melbourne Age, Sir Graham’s main rival, who wanted to reproduce the five-hundred-word piece in full. Keith happily accepted his first fee as a journalist, but managed to lose the entire amount the following Wednesday, thus finally proving that Lucky Joe’s system was not infallible.

Nevertheless, Keith looked forward to the chance of impressing his father with the little coup. On Saturday he read through his prose, as reproduced in the Melbourne Age. They hadn’t changed a single word — but they had edited the piece down drastically, and given it a very misleading headline: ‘Sir Graham’s Heir Demands Scholarships for Aborigines.’

Half the page was given over to Keith’s radical views; the other half was taken up by an article from the paper’s chief educational correspondent, cogently arguing the case for private education. Readers were invited to respond with their opinions, and the following Saturday the Age had a field day at Sir Graham’s expense.

Keith was relieved that his father never raised the subject, although he did overhear him telling his mother, ‘The boy will have learned a great deal from the experience. And in any case, I agreed with a lot of what he had to say.’

His mother wasn’t quite so supportive.

During the holidays Keith spent every morning being tutored by Miss Steadman in preparation for his final exams.

‘Learning is just another form of tyranny,’ he declared at the end of one demanding session.

‘It’s nothing compared with the tyranny of being ignorant for the rest of your life,’ she assured him.

After Miss Steadman had set him some more topics to revise, Keith went off to spend the rest of the day at the Courier. Like his father, he found he was more at ease among journalists than with the rich and powerful old boys of St. Andrew’s from whom he continued to try to coax money for the pavilion appeal.

For his first official assignment at the Courier, Keith was attached to the paper’s crime reporter, Barry Evans, who sent him off every afternoon to cover court proceedings — petty theft, burglary, shoplifting and even the occasional bigamy. ‘Search for names that just might be recognized,’ Evans told him. ‘Or better still, for those who might be related to people who are well known. Best of all, those who are well known.’ Keith worked diligently, but without a great deal to show for his efforts. Whenever he did manage to get a piece into the paper, he often found it had been savagely cut.

‘I don’t want to know your opinions,’ the old crime reporter would repeat. ‘I just want the facts.’ Evans had done his training on the Manchester Guardian, and never tired of repeating the words of C.P. Scott: ‘Comment is free, but facts are sacred.’ Keith decided that if he ever owned a newspaper, he would never employ anyone who had worked for the Manchester Guardian.

He returned to St. Andrew’s for the second term, and used the leader in the first edition of the school magazine to suggest that the time had come for Australia to sever its ties with Britain. The article declared that Churchill had abandoned Australia to its fate, while concentrating on the war in Europe.

Once again the Melbourne Age offered Keith the chance to disseminate his views to a far wider audience, but this time he refused — despite the tempting offer of £20, four times the sum he had earned in his fortnight as a cub reporter on the Courier. He decided to offer the article to the Adelaide Gazette, one of his father’s papers, but the editor spiked it even before he had reached the second paragraph.

By the second week of term, Keith realized that his biggest problem had become how to rid himself of Penny, who no longer believed his excuses for not seeing her, even when he was telling the truth. He had already asked Betsy to go to the cinema with him the following Saturday afternoon. However, there remained the unsolved problem of how you dated the next girl before you had disposed of her predecessor.

At their most recent meeting in the gym, when he suggested that perhaps the time had come for them to... Penny had hinted that she would tell her father how they had been spending Saturday afternoons. Keith didn’t give a damn who she told, but he did care about embarrassing his mother. During the week he stayed in his study, working unusually hard and avoiding going anywhere he might bump into Penny.

On Saturday afternoon he took a circuitous route into town, and met up with Betsy outside the Roxy cinema. Nothing like breaking three school rules in one day, he thought. He purchased two tickets for Chips Rafferty in The Rats of Tobruk, and guided Betsy into a double seat in the back row. By the time ‘The End’ flashed up on the screen, he hadn’t seen much of the film and his tongue ached. He couldn’t wait for next Saturday, when the First Eleven were playing away and he could introduce Betsy to the pleasures of the cricket pavilion.

He was relieved to find that Penny didn’t try to contact him during the following week. So on Thursday, when he went to post another letter to his mother, he fixed a date to see Betsy on Saturday afternoon. He promised to take her somewhere she had never been before.

Once the first team’s bus was out of sight, Keith hung around behind the trees on the north side of the sports ground, waiting for Betsy to appear. After half an hour he began to wonder if she was going to turn up, but a few moments later he spotted her strolling across the fields, and immediately forgot his impatience. Her long fair hair was done up in a ponytail, secured by an elastic band. She wore a yellow sweater which clung so tightly to her body that it reminded him of Lana Turner, and a black skirt so restricting that when she walked she had no choice but to take extremely short steps.

Keith waited for her to join him behind the trees, then took her by the arm and guided her quickly in the direction of the pavilion. He stopped every few yards to kiss her, and had located the zip on her skirt with at least twenty-two yards still to cover.

When they reached the back door, Keith removed a large key from his jacket pocket and inserted it into the lock. He turned it slowly and pushed the door open, fumbling around for the light switch. He flicked it on, and then heard the groans. Keith stared down in disbelief at the sight that greeted him. Four eyes blinked back up at him. One of the two was shielding herself from the naked light-bulb, but Keith could recognize those legs, even if he couldn’t see her face. He turned his attention to the other body lying on top of her.

Duncan Alexander would certainly never forget the day he lost his virginity.

7 The Times 21 November 1940 Hungary Drawn into Axis Net: Ribbentrop’s Boast that ‘Others Will Follow’

Lubji lay on the ground, doubled up, clutching his jaw. The soldier kept the bayonet pointing between his eyes, and with a flick of the head indicated that he should join the others in the waiting lorry.

Lubji tried to continue his protest in Hungarian, but he knew it was too late. ‘Save your breath, Jew,’ hissed the soldier, ‘or I’ll kick it out of you.’ The bayonet ripped into his trousers and tore open the skin of his right leg. Lubji hobbled off as quickly as he could to the waiting lorry, and joined a group of stunned, helpless people who had only one thing in common: they were all thought to be Jews. Mr. and Mrs. Cerani were thrown on board before the lorry began its slow journey out of the city. An hour later they reached the compound of the local prison, and Lubji and his fellow-passengers were unloaded as if they were nothing more than cattle.

The men were lined up and led across the courtyard into a large stone hall. A few minutes later an SS sergeant marched in, followed by a dozen German soldiers. He barked out an order in his native tongue. ‘He’s saying we must strip,’ whispered Lubji, translating the words into Hungarian.

They all took off their clothes, and the soldiers began herding the naked bodies into lines — most of them shivering, some of them crying. Lubji’s eyes darted around the room trying to see if there was any way he might escape. There was only one door — guarded by soldiers — and three small windows high up in the walls.

A few minutes later a smartly dressed SS officer marched in, smoking a thin cigar. He stood in the center of the room and, in a brief perfunctory speech, informed them that they were now prisoners of war. ‘Heil Hitler,’ he said, and turned to leave.

Lubji took a pace forward and smiled as the officer passed him. ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he said. The officer stopped, and stared with disgust at the young man. Lubji began to claim in pidgin German that they had made a dreadful mistake, and then opened his hand to reveal a wad of Hungarian pengös.

The officer smiled at Lubji, took the notes and set light to them with his cigar. The flame grew until he could hold the wad no longer, when he dropped the burning paper on the floor at Lubji’s feet and marched off. Lubji could only think of how many months it had taken him to save that amount of money.

The prisoners stood shivering in the stone hall. The guards ignored them; some smoked, while others talked to each other as if the naked men simply didn’t exist. It was to be another hour before a group of men in long white coats wearing rubber gloves entered the hall. They began walking up and down the lines, stopping for a few seconds to check each prisoner’s penis. Three men were ordered to dress and told they could return to their homes. That was all the proof needed. Lubji wondered what test the women were being subjected to.

After the men in white coats had left, the prisoners were ordered to dress and then led out of the hall. As they crossed the courtyard Lubji’s eyes darted around, looking for any avenue of escape, but there were always soldiers with bayonets no more than a few paces away. They were herded into a long corridor and coaxed down a narrow stone staircase with only an occasional gas lamp giving any suggestion of light. On both sides Lubji passed cells crammed with people; he could hear screaming and pleading in so many different tongues that he didn’t dare to turn round and look. Then, suddenly, one of the cell doors was opened and he was grabbed by the collar and hurled in, head first. He would have hit the stone floor if he hadn’t landed on a pile of bodies.

He lay still for a moment and then stood up, trying to focus on those around him. But as there was only one small barred window, it was some time before he could make out individual faces.

A rabbi was chanting a psalm — but the response was muted. Lubji tried to stand to one side as an elderly man was sick all over him. He moved away from the stench, only to bump into another prisoner with his trousers down. He sat in the corner with his back to the wall — that way no one could take him by surprise.

When the door was opened again, Lubji had no way of knowing how long he had been in that stench-ridden cell. A group of soldiers entered the room with torches, and flashed their lights into blinking eyes. If the eyes didn’t blink, the body was dragged out into the corridor and never seen again. It was the last time he saw Mr. Cerani.

Other than watching light followed by darkness through the slit in the wall, and sharing the one meal that was left for the prisoners every morning, there was no way of counting the days. Every few hours the soldiers returned to remove more bodies, until they were confident that only the fittest had survived. Lubji assumed that in time he too must die, as that seemed to be the only way out of the little prison. With each day that passed, his suit hung more loosely on his body, and he began to tighten his belt, notch by notch.

Without warning, one morning a group of soldiers rushed into the cell and dragged out those prisoners who were still alive. They were ordered to march along the corridor and back up the stone steps to the courtyard. When Lubji stepped out into the morning sun, he had to hold his hand up to protect his eyes. He had spent ten, fifteen, perhaps twenty days in that dungeon, and had developed what the prisoners called ‘cat’s eyes.’

And then he heard the hammering. He turned his head to the left, and saw a group of prisoners erecting a wooden scaffold. He counted eight nooses. He would have been sick, but there was nothing in his stomach to bring up. A bayonet touched his hip and he quickly followed the other prisoners clambering into line, ready to board the crowded lorries.

A laughing guard informed them on the journey back into the city that they were going to honor them with a trial before they returned to the prison and hanged every one of them. Hope turned to despair, as once again Lubji assumed he was about to die. For the first time he wasn’t sure if he cared.

The lorries came to a standstill outside the courthouse, and the prisoners were led into the building. Lubji became aware that there were no longer any bayonets, and that the soldiers kept their distance. Once inside the building, the prisoners were allowed to sit on wooden benches in the well-lit corridor, and were even given slices of bread on tin plates. Lubji became suspicious, and began to listen to the guards as they chatted to each other. He picked up from different conversations that the Germans were going through the motions of ‘proving’ that all the Jews were criminals, because a Red Cross observer from Geneva was present in court that morning. Surely, Lubji thought, such a man would find it more than a coincidence that every one of them was Jewish. Before he could think how to take advantage of this information, a corporal grabbed him by the arm and led him into the courtroom. Lubji stood in the dock, facing an elderly judge who sat in a raised chair in front of him. The trial — if that’s how it could be described — lasted for only a few minutes. Before the judge passed the death sentence, an official even had to ask Lubji to remind them of his name.

The tall, thin young man looked down at the Red Cross observer seated on his right. He was staring at the ground in front of him, apparently bored, and only looked up when the death sentence was passed.

Another soldier took Lubji’s arm and started to usher him out of the dock so that the next prisoner could take his place. Suddenly the observer stood up and asked the judge a question in a language Lubji couldn’t understand.

The judge frowned, and turned his attention back to the prisoner in the dock.

‘How old are you?’ he asked him in Hungarian.

‘Seventeen,’ replied Lubji. The prosecuting counsel came forward to the bench and whispered to the judge.

The judge looked at Lubji, scowled, and said, ‘Sentence commuted to life imprisonment.’ He paused and smiled, then said, ‘Retrial in twelve months’ time.’ The observer seemed satisfied with his morning’s work, and nodded his approval.

The guard, who obviously felt Lubji had been dealt with far too leniently, stepped forward, grabbed him by the shoulder and led him back to the corridor. He was handcuffed, marched out into the courtyard and hurled onto an open lorry. Other prisoners sat silently waiting for him, as if he were the last passenger joining them on a local bus.

The tailboard was slammed closed, and moments later the lorry lurched forward. Lubji was thrown onto the floorboards, quite unable to keep his balance.

He remained on his knees and looked around. There were two guards on the truck, seated opposite each other next to the tailboard. Both were clutching rifles, but one of them had lost his right arm. He looked almost as resigned to his destiny as the prisoners.

Lubji crawled back toward the rear of the lorry and sat on the floorboards next to the guard with two arms. He bowed his head and tried to concentrate. The journey to the prison would take about forty minutes, and he felt sure that this would be his last chance if he wasn’t to join the others on the gallows. But how could he possibly escape, he pondered, as the lorry slowed to pass through a tunnel. When they re-emerged, Lubji tried to recall how many tunnels there had been between the prison and the courthouse. Three, perhaps four. He couldn’t be certain.

As the lorry drove through the next tunnel a few minutes later, he began to count slowly. ‘One, two, three.’ They were in complete darkness for almost four seconds. He had one advantage over the guards for those few seconds: after his three weeks in a dungeon, they couldn’t hope to handle themselves in the dark as well as he could. Against that, he would have two of them to deal with. He glanced across at the other guard. Well, one and a half.

Lubji stared ahead of him and took in the passing terrain. He calculated that they must be about halfway between the city and the jail. On the near side of the road flowed a river. It might be difficult, if not impossible, to cross, as he had no way of knowing how deep it was. On the other side, fields stretched toward a bank of trees that he estimated must have been about three to four hundred yards away.

How long would it take for him to cover three hundred yards, with the movement of his arms restricted? He turned his head to see if another tunnel was coming into sight, but there was none, and Lubji became fearful that they had passed through the last tunnel before the jail. Could he risk attempting an escape in broad daylight? He came to the conclusion that he had little choice if there was no sign of a tunnel in the next couple of miles.

Another mile passed, and he decided that once they drove round the next bend, he would have to make a decision. He slowly drew his legs up under his chin, and rested his handcuffs on his knees. He pressed his spine firmly against the back of the lorry and moved his weight to the tips of his toes.

Lubji stared down the road as the lorry careered round the bend. He almost shouted ‘Mazeltov!’ when he saw the tunnel about five hundred yards away. From the tiny pinprick of light at the far end, he judged it to be at least a four-second tunnel.

He remained on the tips of his toes, tensed and ready to spring. He could feel his heart beating so strongly that the guards must surely sense some imminent danger. He glanced up at the two-armed guard as he removed a cigarette from an inside pocket, lazily placed it in his mouth and began searching for a match. Lubji turned his attention in the direction of the tunnel, now only a hundred yards away. He knew that once they had entered the darkness he would have only a few seconds.

Fifty yards... forty... thirty... twenty... ten. Lubji took a deep breath, counted one, then sprang up and threw his handcuffs around the throat of the two-armed guard, twisting with such force that the German fell over the side of the lorry, screaming as he hit the road.

The lorry screeched to a halt as it skidded out of the far end of the tunnel. Lubji leapt over the side and immediately ran back into the temporary safety of the darkness. He was followed by two or three other prisoners. Once he emerged from the other end of the tunnel, he swung right and charged into the fields, never once looking back. He must have covered a hundred yards before he heard the first bullet whistle above his head. He tried to cover the second hundred without losing any speed, but every few paces were now accompanied by a volley of bullets. He swerved from side to side. Then he heard the scream. He looked back and saw that one of the prisoners who had leapt out after him was lying motionless on the ground, while a second was still running flat out, only yards behind him. Lubji hoped the gun was being fired by the one-armed guard.

Ahead of him the trees loomed, a mere hundred yards away. Each bullet acted like a starting pistol and spurred him on as he forced an extra yard out of his trembling body. Then he heard the second scream. This time he didn’t look back. With fifty yards to go, he recalled that a prisoner had once told him that German rifles had a range of three hundred yards, so he guessed he must be six or seven seconds from safety. Then the bullet came crashing into his shoulder. The force of the impact pushed him on for a few more paces, but it was only moments before he collapsed headlong into the mud. He tried to crawl, but could only manage a couple of yards before he finally slumped on his face. He remained head down, resigned to death.

Within moments he felt a rough pair of hands grab at his shoulders. Another yanked him up by the ankles. Lubji’s only thought was to wonder how the Germans had managed to reach him so quickly. He would have found out if he hadn’t fainted.

Lubji had no way of knowing what time it was when he woke. He could only assume, as it was pitch black, that he must be back in his cell awaiting execution. Then he felt the excruciating pain in his shoulder. He tried to push himself up with the palms of his hands, but he just couldn’t move. He wriggled his fingers, and was surprised to discover that at least they had removed his handcuffs.

He blinked and tried to call out, but could only manage a whisper that must have made him sound like a wounded animal. Once again he tried to push himself up, once again he failed. He blinked, unable to believe what he saw standing in front of him. A young girl fell on her knees and mopped his brow with a rough wet rag. He spoke to her in several languages, but she just shook her head. When she finally did say something, it was in a tongue he had never heard before. Then she smiled, pointed to herself and said simply, ‘Mari.’

He fell asleep. When he woke, a morning sun was shining in his eyes; but this time he was able to raise his head. He was surrounded by trees. He turned to his left and saw a circle of colored wagons, piled high with a myriad of possessions. Beyond them, three or four horses were cropping grass at the base of a tree. He turned in the other direction, and his eyes settled on a girl who was standing a few paces away, talking to a man with a rifle slung over his shoulder. For the first time he became aware of just how beautiful she was.

When he called out, they both looked round. The man walked quickly over to Lubji’s side and, standing above him, greeted him in his own language. ‘My name is Rudi,’ he said, before explaining how he and his little band had escaped across the Czech border some months before, only to find that the Germans were still following them. They had to keep on the move, as the master race considered gypsies inferior even to Jews.

Lubji began to fire questions at him: ‘Who are you? Where am I?’ And, most important, ‘Where are the Germans?’ He stopped only when Mari — who, Rudi explained, was his sister — returned with a bowl of hot liquid and a hunk of bread. She kneeled beside him and began slowly spooning the thin gruel into his mouth. She paused between mouthfuls, occasionally offering him a morsel of bread, as her brother continued to tell Lubji how he had ended up with them. Rudi had heard the shots, and had run to the edge of the forest thinking the Germans had discovered his little band, only to see the prisoners sprinting toward him. All of them had been shot, but Lubji had been close enough to the forest for his men to rescue him.

The Germans had not pursued them once they had seen him being carried off into the forest. ‘Perhaps they were fearful of what they might come up against, although in truth the nine of us have only two rifles, a pistol, and an assortment of weapons from a pitchfork to a fish knife,’ Rudi laughed. ‘I suspect they were more anxious about losing the other prisoners if they went in search of you. But one thing was certain: the moment the sun came up, they would return in great numbers. That is why I gave the order that once the bullet had been removed from your shoulder, we must move on and take you with us.’

‘How will I ever repay you?’ murmured Lubji.

When Mari had finished feeding him, two of the gypsies raised Lubji gently up onto the caravan, and the little train continued its journey deeper into the forest. On and on they went, avoiding villages, even roads, as they distanced themselves from the scene of the shooting. Day after day Mari tended Lubji, until eventually he could push himself up. She was delighted by how quickly he learned to speak their language. For several hours he practiced one particular sentence he wanted to say to her. Then, when she came to feed him that evening, he told her in fluent Romany that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She blushed, and ran away, not to return again until breakfast.

With Mari’s constant attention, Lubji recovered quickly, and was soon able to join his rescuers round the fire in the evening. As the days turned into weeks, he not only began to fill his suit again, but started letting out the notches on his belt.

One evening, after he had returned from hunting with Rudi, Lubji told his host that it would not be long before he had to leave. ‘I must find a port, and get as far away from the Germans as possible,’ he explained. Rudi nodded as they sat round the fire, sharing a rabbit. Neither of them saw the look of sadness that came into Mari’s eyes.

When Lubji returned to the caravan that night, he found Mari waiting for him. He climbed up to join her and tried to explain that as his wound had nearly healed, he no longer required her help to undress. She smiled and began to remove his shirt gently from his shoulder, taking off the bandages and cleaning the wound. She looked in her canvas bag, frowned, hesitated for a moment, and started to tear her dress, using the material to rebandage his shoulder.

Lubji just stared at Mari’s long brown legs as she slowly ran her fingers down his chest to the top of his trousers. She smiled at him and began to undo the buttons. He placed a cold hand on her thigh, and turned scarlet as she lifted up her dress to reveal that she was wearing nothing underneath.

Mari waited expectantly for him to move his hand, but he continued to stare. She leaned forward and pulled off his pants, then climbed across him and lowered herself gently onto him. He remained as still as he had when felled by the bullet, until she began to move slowly up and down, her head tossed back. She took his other hand and placed it inside the top of her dress, shuddering when he first touched her warm breast. He just left it there, still not moving, even though her rhythm became faster and faster. Just when he wanted to shout out, he quickly pulled her down, kissing her roughly on the lips. A few seconds later he lay back exhausted, wondering if he had hurt her, until he opened his eyes and saw the expression on her face. She sank on his shoulder, rolled onto one side and fell into a deep sleep.

He lay awake, thinking that he might have died without ever having experienced such pleasure. A few hours passed before he woke her. This time he didn’t remain motionless, his hands continually discovering different parts of her body, and he found that he enjoyed the experience even more the second time. Then they both slept.

When the caravans moved on the next day, Rudi told Lubji that during the night they had crossed yet another border, and were now in Yugoslavia.

‘And what is the name of those hills covered in snow?’ asked Lubji.

‘From this distance they may look like hills,’ said Rudi, ‘but they are the treacherous Dinaric Mountains. My caravans cannot hope to make it across them to the coast.’ For some time he didn’t speak, then he added, ‘But a determined man just might.’

They traveled on for three more days, resting only for a few hours each night, avoiding towns and villages, until they finally came to the foot of the mountains.

That night, Lubji lay awake as Mari slept on his shoulder. He began to think about his new life and the happiness he had experienced during the past few weeks, wondering if he really wanted to leave the little band and be on his own again. But he decided that if he were ever to escape the wrath of the Germans, he must somehow reach the other side of those mountains and find a boat to take him as far away as possible. The next morning he dressed long before Mari woke. After breakfast he walked around the camp, shaking hands and bidding farewell to every one of his compatriots, ending with Rudi.

Mari waited until he returned to her caravan. He leaned forward, took her in his arms and kissed her for the last time. She clung to him long after his arms had fallen to his side. After she had finally released him, she passed over a large bundle of food. He smiled and then walked quickly away from the camp toward the foot of the mountains. Although he could hear her following for the first few paces, he never once looked back.

Lubji traveled on and on up into the mountains until it was too dark to see even a pace in front of him. He selected a large rock to shelter him from the worst of the bitter wind, but even huddled up he still nearly froze. He spent a sleepless night eating Mari’s food and thinking about the warmth of her body.

As soon as the sun came up he was on the move again, rarely stopping for more than a few moments. At nightfall he wondered if the harsh, cold wind would freeze him to death while he was asleep. But he woke each morning with the sun shining in his eyes.

By the end of the third day he had no food left, and could see nothing but mountains in every direction he looked. He began to wonder why he had ever left Rudi and his little gypsy band.

On the fourth morning he could barely put one foot in front of the other: perhaps starvation would achieve what the Germans had failed to do. By the evening of the fifth day he was just wandering aimlessly forward, almost indifferent to his fate, when he thought he saw smoke rising in the distance. But he had to freeze for another night before flickering lights confirmed the testimony of his eyes. For there in front of him lay a village and, beyond that, his first sight of the sea.

Coming down the mountains might have been quicker than climbing them, but it was no less treacherous. He fell several times, and failed to reach the flat, green plains before sunset, by which time the moon was darting in and out between the clouds, fitfully lighting his slow progress.

Most of the lamps in the little houses had already been blown out by the time he reached the edge of the village, but he hobbled on, hoping he would find someone who was still awake. When he reached the first house, which looked as if it was part of a small farm, he considered knocking on the door, but as there were no lights to be seen he decided against it. He was waiting for the moon to reappear from behind a cloud when his eyes made out a barn on the far side of the yard. He slowly made his way toward the ramshackle building. Stray chickens squawked as they jumped out of his path, and he nearly walked into a black cow which had no intention of moving for the stranger. The door of the barn was half open. He crept inside, collapsed onto the straw and fell into a deep sleep.

When Lubji woke the next morning he found he couldn’t move his neck; it was pinned firmly to the ground. He thought for a moment that he must be back in jail, until he opened his eyes and stared up at a massive figure towering above him. The man was attached to a long pitchfork, which turned out to be the reason why he couldn’t move.

The farmer shouted some words in yet another language. Lubji was only relieved that it wasn’t German. He raised his eyes to heaven and thanked his tutors for the breadth of his education. Lubji told the man on the end of the pitchfork that he had come over the mountains after escaping from the Germans. The farmer looked incredulous, until he had examined the bullet scar on Lubji’s shoulder. His father had owned the farm before him, and he had never told him of anyone crossing those mountains.

He led Lubji back to the farmhouse, keeping the pitchfork firmly in his hand. Over a breakfast of bacon and eggs, and thick slabs of bread supplied by the farmer’s wife, Lubji told them, more with hand gestures than words, what he had been through during the past few months. The farmer’s wife looked sympathetic and kept filling his empty plate. The farmer said little, and still looked doubtful.

When Lubji came to the end of his tale, the farmer warned him that despite the brave words of Tito, the partisan leader, he didn’t think it would be long before the Germans would invade Yugoslavia. Lubji began to wonder if any country on earth was safe from the ambitions of the Führer. Perhaps he would have to spend the rest of his life just running away from him.

‘I must get to the coast,’ he said. ‘Then if I could get on a boat and cross the ocean...’

‘It doesn’t matter where you go,’ said the farmer, ‘as long as it’s as far away from this war as possible.’ He dug his teeth into an apple. ‘If they ever catch up with you again, they won’t let you escape a second time. Find yourself a ship — any ship. Go to America, Mexico, the West Indies, even Africa,’ said the farmer.

‘How do I reach the nearest port?’

‘Dubrovnik is two hundred kilometers south-east of us,’ said the farmer, lighting up a pipe. ‘There you will find many ships only too happy to sail away from this war.’

‘I must leave at once,’ said Lubji, jumping up.

‘Don’t be in such a hurry, young man,’ said the farmer, puffing away. ‘The Germans won’t be crossing those mountains for some time yet.’ Lubji sat back down, and the farmer’s wife cut the crust off a second loaf and covered it in dripping, placing it on the table in front of him.

There was only a pile of crumbs left on his plate when Lubji eventually rose from the table and followed the farmer out of the kitchen. When he reached the door, the farmer’s wife loaded him down with apples, cheese and more bread, before he jumped onto the back of her husband’s tractor and was taken to the edge of the village. The farmer eventually left him by the side of a road that he assured him led to the coast.

Lubji walked along the road, sticking his thumb in the air whenever he saw a vehicle approaching. But for the first two hours every one of them, however fast or slow, simply ignored him. It was quite late in the afternoon when a battered old Tatra came to a halt a few yards ahead of him.

He ran up to the driver’s side as the window was being wound down.

‘Where are you going?’ asked the driver.

‘Dubrovnik,’ said Lubji, with a smile. The driver shrugged, wound up the window and drove off without another word.

Several tractors, two cars and a lorry passed him before another car stopped, and to the same question Lubji gave the same answer.

‘I’m not going that far,’ came back the reply, ‘but I could take you part of the way.’

One car, two lorries, three horse-drawn carts and the pillion of a motorcycle completed the three-day journey to Dubrovnik. By that time Lubji had devoured all the food the farmer’s wife had supplied, and had gathered what knowledge he could on how to go about finding a ship in Dubrovnik that might help him to escape from the Germans.

Once he had been dropped on the outskirts of the busy port, it only took a few minutes to discover that the farmer’s worst fears had been accurate: everywhere he turned he could see citizens preparing for a German invasion. Lubji had no intention of waiting around to greet them a second time as they goose-stepped their way down the streets of yet another foreign town. This was one city he didn’t intend to be caught asleep in.

Acting on the farmer’s advice, he made his way to the docks. Once he had reached the quayside he spent the next couple of hours walking up and down, trying to work out which ships had come from which ports and where they were bound. He shortlisted three likely vessels, but had no way of knowing when they might be sailing or where they were destined for. He continued to hang around on the quayside. Whenever he spotted anyone in uniform he would quickly disappear into the shadows of one of the many alleys that ran alongside the dock, and once even into a packed bar, despite the fact he had no money.

He slipped into a seat in the farthest corner of the dingy tavern, hoping that no one would notice him, and began to eavesdrop on conversations taking place in different languages at the tables around him. He picked up information on where you could buy a woman, who was paying the best rate for stokers, even where you could get yourself a tattoo of Neptune at a cut price; but among the noisy banter, he also discovered that the next boat due to weigh anchor was the Arridin, which would cast off the moment it had finished loading a cargo of wheat. But he couldn’t find out where it was bound for.

One of the deckhands kept repeating the word ‘Egypt.’ Lubji’s first thought was of Moses and the Promised Land.

He slipped out of the bar and back onto the quayside. This time he checked each ship carefully until he came to a group of men loading sacks into the hold of a small cargo steamer that bore the name Arridin on its bow. Lubji studied the flag hanging limply from the ship’s mast. There was no wind, so he couldn’t be sure where she was registered. But he was certain of one thing: the flag wasn’t a swastika.

Lubji stood to one side and watched as the men humped sacks onto their shoulders, carried them up the gangplank and then dropped them into a hole in the middle of the deck. A foreman stood at the top of the gangplank, making a tick on a clipboard as each load passed him. Every few moments a gap in the line would appear as one of the men returned down the gangplank at a different pace. Lubji waited patiently for the exact moment when he could join the line without being noticed. He ambled forward, pretending to be passing by, then suddenly bent down, threw one of the sacks over his left shoulder and walked toward the ship, hiding his face behind the sack from the man at the top of the gangplank. When he reached the deck, he dropped it into the gaping hole.

Lubji repeated the exercise several times, learning a little more about the layout of the ship with each circle he made. An idea began to form in his mind. After a dozen or so drops, he found he could, by speeding up, be on the heels of the man in front of him and a clear distance from the man following him. As the pile of sacks on the quay diminished, Lubji realized he had little opportunity left. The timing would be critical.

He hauled another sack up onto his shoulder. Within moments he had caught up with the man in front of him, who dropped his bag into the hold and began walking back down the gangplank.

When Lubji reached the deck he also dropped his sack into the hold, but, without daring to look back, he jumped in after it, landing awkwardly on top of the pile. He scampered quickly to the farthest corner, and waited fearfully for the raised voices of men rushing forward to help him out. But it was several seconds before the next loader appeared above the hole. He simply leaned over to deposit his sack, without even bothering to look where it landed.

Lubji tried to position himself so that he would be hidden from anyone who might look down into the hold, while at the same time avoiding having a sack of wheat land on top of him. If he made certain of remaining hidden, he almost suffocated, so after each sack came hurtling down, he shot up for a quick breath of fresh air before quickly disappearing back out of sight. By the time the last sack had been dropped into the hold, Lubji was not only bruised from head to toe, but was gasping like a drowning rat.

Just as he began to think it couldn’t get any worse, the cover of the cargo hold was dropped into place and a slab of wood wedged between the iron grids. Lubji tried desperately to work his way to the top of the pile, so that he could press his mouth up against the tiny cracks in the slits above him and gulp in the fresh air.

No sooner had he settled himself on the top of the sacks than the engines started up below him. A few minutes later, he began to feel the slight sway of the vessel as it moved slowly out of the harbor. He could hear voices up on the deck, and occasionally feet walked across the boards just above his head. Once the little cargo ship was clear of the harbor, the swaying and bobbing turned into a lurching and crashing as it plowed into deeper waters. Lubji positioned himself between two sacks and clung on to each with an outstretched arm, trying not to be flung about.

He and the sacks were continually tossed from side to side in the hold until he wanted to scream out for help, but it was now dark, and only the stars were above him, as the deckhands had all disappeared below. He doubted if they would even hear his cries.

He had no idea how long the voyage to Egypt would take, and began to wonder if he could survive in that hold during a storm. When the sun came up, he was pleased to be still alive. By nightfall he wanted to die.

He could not be sure how many days had passed when they eventually reached calmer waters, though he was certain he had remained awake for most of them. Were they entering a harbor? There was now almost no movement, and the engine was only just turning over. He assumed the vessel must have come to a halt when he heard the anchor being lowered, even though his stomach was still moving around as if they were in the middle of the ocean.

At least another hour passed before a sailor bent down and removed the bar that kept the cover of the hold in place. Moments later Lubji heard a new set of voices, in a tongue he’d never encountered before. He assumed it must be Egyptian, and was again thankful it wasn’t German. The cover of the hold was finally removed, to reveal two burly men staring down at him.

‘So, what have we got ourselves here?’ said one of them, as Lubji thrust his hands up desperately toward the sky.

‘A German spy, mark my words,’ said his mate, with a gruff laugh. The first one leaned forward, grabbed Lubji’s outstretched arms and yanked him out onto the deck as if he were just another sack of wheat. Lubji sat in front of them, legs outstretched, gulping in the fresh air as he waited to be put in someone else’s jail.

He looked up and blinked at the morning sun. ‘Where am I?’ he asked in Czech. But the dockers showed no sign of understanding him. He tried Hungarian, Russian and, reluctantly, German, but received no response other than shrugs and laughter. Finally they lifted him off the deck and frogmarched him down the gangplank, without making the slightest attempt to converse with him in any language.

Lubji’s feet hardly touched the ground as the two men dragged him off the boat and down to the dockside. They then hurried him off toward a white building at the far end of the wharf. Across the top of the door were printed words that meant nothing to the illegal immigrant: DOCKS POLICE, PORT OF LIVERPOOL, ENGLAND.

8 St. Andy 12 September 1945 Dawn of a New Republic

‘Abolish the Honors System’ read the banner headline in the third edition of the St. Andy.

In the editor’s opinion, the honors system was nothing more than an excuse for a bunch of clapped-out politicians to award themselves and their friends titles that they didn’t deserve. ‘Honors are almost always given to the undeserving. This offensive display of self-aggrandisement is just another example of the last remnants of a colonial empire, and ought to be done away with at the first possible opportunity. We should consign this antiquated system to the dustbin of history.’

Several members of his class wrote to the editor, pointing out that his father had accepted a knighthood, and the more historically informed among them went on to add that the last sentence had been plagiarized from a far better cause.

Keith was unable to ascertain the headmaster’s view as expressed at the weekly staff meeting, because Penny no longer spoke to him. Duncan Alexander and others openly referred to him as a traitor to his class. To everyone’s annoyance, Keith gave no sign of caring what they thought.

As the term wore on, he began to wonder if he was more likely to be called up by the army board than to be offered a place at Oxford. Despite these misgivings, he stopped working for the Courier in the afternoons so as to give himself more time to study, redoubling his efforts when his father offered to buy him a sports car if he passed the exams. The thought of both proving the headmaster wrong and owning his own car was irresistible. Miss Steadman, who continued to tutor him through the long dark evenings, seemed to thrive on being expected to double her workload.

By the time Keith returned to St. Andrew’s for his final term, he felt ready to face both the examiners and the headmaster: the appeal for the new pavilion was now only a few hundred pounds short of its target, and Keith decided he would use the final edition of the St. Andy to announce its success. He hoped that this would make it hard for the headmaster to do anything about an article he intended to run in the next edition, calling for the abolition of the Monarchy.

‘Australia doesn’t need a middle-class German family who live over ten thousand miles away to rule over us. Why should we approach the second half of the twentieth century propping up such an elitist system? Let’s be rid of the lot of them,’ trumpeted the editorial, ‘plus the National Anthem, the British flag and the pound. Once the war is over, the time will surely have come for Australia to declare itself a republic.’

Mr. Jessop remained tight-lipped, while the Melbourne Age offered Keith £50 for the article, which he took a considerable time to turn down. Duncan Alexander let it be known that someone close to the headmaster had told him they would be surprised if Townsend managed to survive until the end of term.

During the first few weeks of his final term, Keith continued to spend most of his time preparing for the exams, taking only an occasional break to see Betsy, and the odd Wednesday afternoon off to visit the racecourse while others participated in more energetic pastimes.

Keith wouldn’t have bothered to go racing that particular Wednesday if he hadn’t been given a ‘sure thing’ by one of the lads from a local stable. He checked his finances carefully. He still had a little saved from his holiday job, plus the term’s pocket money. He decided that he would place a bet on the first race only and, having won, would return to school and continue with his revision. On the Wednesday afternoon, he picked up his bicycle from behind the post office and pedaled off to the racecourse, promising Betsy he would drop in to see her before going back to school.

The ‘sure thing’ was called Rum Punch, and was down to run in the two o’clock. His informant had been so confident about her pedigree that Keith placed five pounds on the filly to win at seven to one. Before the barrier had opened, he was already thinking about how he would spend his winnings.

Rum Punch led all the way down the home straight, and although another horse began to make headway on the rails, Keith threw his arms in the air as they flew past the winning post. He headed back toward the bookie to collect his winnings.

‘The result of the first race of the afternoon,’ came an announcement over the loudspeaker, ‘will be delayed for a few minutes, as there is a photo-finish between Rum Punch and Colonus.’ Keith was in no doubt that from where he was standing Rum Punch had won, and couldn’t understand why they had called for a photograph in the first place. Probably, he assumed, to make the officials look as if they were carrying out their duties. He checked his watch and began to think about Betsy.

‘Here is the result of the first race,’ boomed out a voice over the P.A. ‘The winner is number eleven, Colonus, at five to four, by a short head from Rum Punch, at seven to one.’

Keith cursed out loud. If only he had backed Rum Punch both ways, he would still have doubled his money. He tore up his ticket and strode off toward the exit. As he headed for the bicycle shed he glanced at the form card for the next race. Drumstick was among the runners, and well positioned at the start. Keith’s pace slowed. He had won twice in the past backing Drumstick, and felt certain it would be three in a row. His only problem was that he had placed his entire savings on Rum Punch.

As he continued in the direction of the bicycle shed, he remembered that he had the authority to withdraw money from an account with the Bank of Australia that was showing a balance of over £4,000.

He checked the form of the other horses, and couldn’t see how Drumstick could possibly lose. This time he would place £5 each way on the filly, so that at three to one he was still sure to get his money back, even if Drumstick came in third. Keith pushed his way through the turnstile, picked up his bike and pedaled furiously for about a mile until he spotted the nearest bank. He ran inside and wrote out a check for £10.

There were still fifteen minutes to go before the start of the second race, so he was confident that he had easily enough time to cash the check and be back in time to place his bet. The clerk behind the grille looked at the customer, studied the check and then telephoned Keith’s branch in Melbourne. They immediately confirmed that Mr. Townsend had signing power for that particular account, and that it was in credit. At two fifty-three the clerk pushed £10 over to the impatient young man.

Keith cycled back to the course at a speed that would have impressed the captain of athletics, abandoned his bicycle and ran to the nearest bookie. He placed £5 each way on Drumstick with Honest Syd. As the barrier sprang open, Keith walked briskly over to the rails and was just in time to watch the mêlée of horses pass him on the first circuit. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Drumstick must have been left at the start, because she was trailing the rest of the field badly as they began the second lap and, despite a gallant effort coming down the home straight, could only manage fourth place.

Keith checked the runners and riders for the third race and quickly cycled back to the bank, his backside never once touching the saddle. He asked to cash a check for £20. Another phone call was made, and on this occasion the assistant manager in Melbourne asked to speak to Keith personally. Having established Keith’s identity, he authorized that the check should be honored.

Keith fared no better in the third race, and by the time an announcement came over the P.A. to confirm the winner of the sixth, he had withdrawn £100 from the cricket pavilion account. He rode slowly back to the post office, considering the consequences of the afternoon. He knew that at the end of the month the account would be checked by the school bursar, and if he had any queries about deposits or withdrawals he would inform the headmaster, who would in turn seek clarification from the bank. The assistant manager would then inform him that Mr. Townsend had telephoned from a branch near the racecourse five times during the Wednesday afternoon in question, insisting each time that his check should be honored. Keith would certainly be expelled — a boy had been removed the previous year for stealing a bottle of ink. But worse, far worse, the news would make the front page of every paper in Australia that wasn’t owned by his father.

Betsy was surprised that Keith didn’t even drop in to speak to her after he had dumped his bike behind the post office. He walked back to school, aware that he only had three weeks in which to get his hands on £100. He went straight to his study and tried to concentrate on old exam papers, but his mind kept returning to the irregular withdrawals. He came up with a dozen stories that in different circumstances might have sounded credible. But how would he ever explain why the checks had been cashed at thirty-minute intervals, at a branch so near a racecourse?

By the following morning, he was considering signing up for the army and getting himself shipped off to Burma before anyone discovered what he had done. Perhaps if he died winning the VC they wouldn’t mention the missing £100 in his obituary. The one thing he didn’t consider was placing a bet the following week, even after he had been given another ‘sure thing’ by the same stable lad. It didn’t help when he read in Thursday morning’s Sporting Globe that this particular ‘sure thing’ had romped home at ten to one.

It was during prep the following Monday, as Keith was struggling through an essay on the gold standard, that the handwritten note was delivered to his room. It simply stated, ‘The headmaster would like to see you in his study immediately.’

Keith felt sick. He left the half-finished essay on his desk and began to make his way slowly over to the headmaster’s house. How could they have found out so quickly? Had the bank decided to cover itself and tell the bursar about several irregular withdrawals? How could they be so certain that the money hadn’t been used on legitimate expenses? ‘So, Townsend, what were those “legitimate expenses,” withdrawn from a bank at thirty-minute intervals, just a mile from a racecourse on a Wednesday afternoon?’ he could already hear the headmaster asking sarcastically.

Keith climbed the steps to the headmaster’s house, feeling cold and sick. The door was opened for him by the maid even before he had a chance to knock. She led him through to Mr. Jessop’s study without saying a word. When he entered the room, he thought he had never seen such a severe expression on the headmaster’s face. He glanced across the room and saw that his housemaster was seated on the sofa in the corner. Keith remained standing, aware that on this occasion he wouldn’t be invited to have a seat or take a glass of sherry.

‘Townsend,’ the headmaster began, ‘I am investigating a most serious allegation, in which I am sorry to report that you appear to be personally involved.’ Keith dug his nails into his palms to stop himself from trembling. ‘As you can see, Mr. Clarke has joined us. This is simply to ensure that a witness is present should it become necessary for this matter to be put in the hands of the police.’ Keith felt his legs weaken, and feared he might collapse if he wasn’t offered a chair.

‘I will come straight to the point, Townsend.’ The head paused as if searching for the right words. Keith couldn’t stop shaking. ‘My daughter, Penny, it seems is... is... pregnant,’ said Mr. Jessop, ‘and she informs me that she was raped. It appears that you’ — Keith was about to protest — ‘were the only witness to the episode. And as the accused is not only in your house, but is also the head boy, I consider it to be of the greatest importance that you feel able to cooperate fully with this inquiry.’

Keith let out an audible sigh of relief. ‘I shall do my best, sir,’ he said, as the headmaster’s eyes returned to what he suspected was a prepared script.

‘Did you on Saturday 6 October, at around three o’clock in the afternoon, have cause to enter the cricket pavilion?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Keith without hesitation. ‘I often have to visit the pavilion in connection with my responsibility for the appeal.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said the headmaster. ‘Quite right and proper that you should do so.’ Mr. Clarke looked grave, and nodded his agreement.

‘And can you tell me in your own words what you encountered when you entered the pavilion on that particular Saturday?’

Keith wanted to smirk when he heard the word ‘encountered,’ but somehow managed to keep a serious look on his face.

‘Take your time,’ said Mr. Jessop. ‘And whatever your feelings are, you mustn’t regard this as sneaking.’

Don’t worry, thought Keith, I won’t. He pondered whether this was the occasion to settle two old scores at the same time. But perhaps he would gain more by...

‘You might also care to consider that several reputations rest on your interpretation of what took place on that unfortunate afternoon.’ It was the word ‘reputations’ that helped Keith to make up his mind. He frowned as if contemplating deeply the implications of what he was about to say, and wondered just how much longer he could stretch out the agony.

‘When I entered the pavilion, Headmaster,’ he began, trying to sound unusually responsible, ‘I found the room in complete darkness, which puzzled me until I discovered that all the blinds had been pulled down. I was even more surprised to hear noises coming from the visitors’ changing rooms, as I knew the First Eleven were playing away that day. I fumbled around for the light switch, and when I flicked it on, I was shocked to see...’ Keith hesitated, trying to make it sound as if he felt too embarrassed to continue.

‘There is no need for you to worry that you are letting down a friend, Townsend,’ prompted the headmaster. ‘You can rely on our discretion.’

Which is more than you can on mine, thought Keith.

‘...to see your daughter and Duncan Alexander lying naked in the slips cradle.’ Keith paused again, and this time the headmaster didn’t press him to continue. So he took even longer. ‘Whatever had been taking place must have stopped the moment I switched the light on.’ He hesitated once more.

‘This is not easy for me either, Townsend, as you may well appreciate,’ said the headmaster.

‘I do appreciate it, sir,’ said Keith, pleased by the way he was managing to string the whole episode out.

‘In your opinion were they having, or had they had, sexual intercourse?’

‘I feel fairly confident, Headmaster, that sexual intercourse had already taken place,’ said Keith, hoping his reply sounded inconclusive.

‘But can you be certain?’ asked the headmaster.

‘Yes, I think so, sir,’ said Keith, after a long pause, ‘because...’

‘Don’t feel embarrassed, Townsend. You must understand that my only interest is in getting at the truth.’

But that may not be my only interest, thought Keith, who was not in the slightest embarrassed, although it was obvious that the other two men in the room were.

‘You must tell us exactly what you saw, Townsend.’

‘It wasn’t so much what I saw, sir, as what I heard,’ said Keith.

The headmaster lowered his head, and took some time to recover. ‘The next question is most distasteful for me, Townsend. Because not only will it be necessary for me to rely on your memory, but also on your judgment.’

‘I will do my best, sir.’

It was the headmaster’s turn to hesitate, and Keith almost had to bite his tongue to prevent himself from saying, ‘Take your time, sir.’

‘In your judgment, Townsend, and remember we’re speaking in confidence, did it appear to you, in so far as you could tell, that my daughter was, so to speak...’ he hesitated again, ‘... complying?’ Keith doubted if the headmaster had put a more clumsy sentence together in his entire life.

Keith allowed him to sweat for a few more seconds before he replied firmly, ‘I am in no doubt, sir, on that particular question.’ Both men looked directly at him. ‘It was not a case of rape.’

Mr. Jessop showed no reaction, but simply asked, ‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Because, sir, neither of the voices I heard before I turned the light on was raised in anger or fear. They were those of two people who were obviously — how shall I put it, sir? — enjoying themselves.’

‘Can you be certain of that beyond reasonable doubt, Townsend?’ asked the headmaster.

‘Yes, sir. I think I can.’

‘And why is that?’ asked Mr. Jessop.

‘Because... because I had experienced exactly the same pleasure with your daughter only a fortnight before, sir.’

‘In the pavilion?’ spluttered the headmaster in disbelief.

‘No, to be honest with you, sir, in my case it was in the gymnasium. I have a feeling that your daughter preferred the gymnasium to the pavilion. She always said it was much easier to relax on rubber mats than on cricket pads in the slips cradle.’ The housemaster was speechless.

‘Thank you, Townsend, for your frankness,’ the headmaster somehow managed.

‘Not at all, sir. Will you be needing me for anything else?’

‘No, not for the moment, Townsend.’ Keith turned to leave. ‘However, I would be obliged for your complete discretion in this matter.’

‘Of course, sir,’ said Keith, turning back to face him. He reddened slightly. ‘I am sorry, Headmaster, if I have embarrassed you, but as you reminded us all in your sermon last Sunday, whatever situation one is faced with in life, one should always remember the words of George Washington: “I cannot tell a lie.”’

Penny was nowhere to be seen during the next few weeks. When asked, the headmaster simply said that she and her mother were visiting an aunt in New Zealand.

Keith quickly put the headmaster’s problems to one side and continued to concentrate on his own woes. He still hadn’t come up with a solution as to how he could return the missing £100 to the pavilion account.

One morning, after prayers, Duncan Alexander knocked on Keith’s study door.

‘Just dropped by to thank you,’ said Alexander. ‘Jolly decent of you, old chap,’ he added, sounding more British than the British.

‘Any time, mate,’ responded Keith in a broad Australian accent. ‘After all, I only told the old man the truth.’

‘Quite so,’ said the head boy. ‘Nevertheless, I still owe you a great deal, old chap. We Alexanders have long memories.’

‘So do we Townsends,’ said Keith, not looking up at him.

‘Well, if I can be of any help to you in the future, don’t hesitate to let me know.’

‘I won’t,’ promised Keith.

Duncan opened the door and looked back before adding, ‘I must say, Townsend, you’re not quite the shit everyone says you are.’

As the door closed behind him, Keith mouthed the words of Asquith he’d quoted in an essay he’d been working on: ‘You’d better wait and see.’

‘There’s a call for you in Mr. Clarke’s study on the house phone,’ said the junior on corridor duty.

As the month drew to a close, Keith dreaded even opening his mail, or worse, receiving an unexpected call. He always assumed someone had found out. As each day passed he waited for the assistant manager of the bank to get in touch, informing him that the time had come for the latest accounts to be presented to the bursar.

‘But I’ve raised over £4,000,’ he repeated out loud again and again.

‘That’s not the point, Townsend,’ he could hear the headmaster saying.

He tried not to show the junior boy how anxious he really was. As he left his room and walked into the corridor, he could see the open door of his housemaster’s study. His strides became slower and slower. He walked in, and Mr. Clarke handed him the phone. Keith wished the housemaster would leave the room, but he just sat there and continued to mark last night’s prep.

‘Keith Townsend,’ he said.

‘Good morning, Keith. It’s Mike Adams.’

Keith immediately recognized the name of the editor of the Sydney Morning Herald. How had he found out about the missing money?

‘Are you still there?’ asked Adams.

‘Yes,’ said Keith. ‘What can I do for you?’ He was relieved that Adams couldn’t see him trembling.

‘I’ve just read the latest edition of the St. Andy, and in particular your piece on Australia becoming a republic. I think it’s first class, and I’d like to reprint the whole article in the SMH — if we can agree on a fee.’

‘It’s not for sale,’ said Keith firmly.

‘I was thinking of offering you £75,’ said Adams.

‘I wouldn’t let you reprint it, if you offered me...’

‘If we offered you how much?’

The week before Keith was due to sit his exams for Oxford, he returned to Toorak for some last-minute cramming with Miss Steadman. They went over possible questions together and read model answers she had prepared. She failed on only one thing — getting him to relax. But he couldn’t tell her that it wasn’t the exams he was nervous about.

‘I’m sure you’ll pass,’ his mother said confidently over breakfast on the Sunday morning.

‘I do hope so,’ said Keith, only too aware that the following day the Sydney Morning Herald was going to publish his ‘Dawn of a New Republic.’ But that would also be the morning he began his exams, so Keith just hoped that his father and mother would keep their counsel for at least the next ten days, and by then perhaps...

‘Well, if it’s a close-run thing,’ said his father, interrupting his thoughts, ‘I’m sure you’ll be helped by the headmaster’s strong endorsement after your amazing success with the pavilion appeal. By the way, I forgot to mention that your grandmother was so impressed by your efforts that she donated another £100 to the appeal, in your name.’

It was the first time Keith’s mother had ever heard him swear.

By the Monday morning Keith felt as ready to face the examiners as he believed he would ever be, and by the time he had completed the final paper ten days later, he was impressed by how many of the questions Miss Steadman had anticipated. He knew he’d done well in History and Geography, and only hoped that the Oxford board didn’t place too much weight on the Classics.

He phoned his mother to assure her that he thought he had performed as well as he could have hoped, and that if he wasn’t offered a place at Oxford he wouldn’t be able to complain that he’d been unlucky with the questions.

‘Neither will I complain,’ came back his mother’s immediate reply. ‘But I do have one piece of advice for you, Keith. Keep out of your father’s way for a few more days.’

The anticlimax that followed the ending of the exams was inevitable. While Keith waited to learn the results, he spent some of his time trying to raise the final few hundred pounds for the pavilion appeal, some of it at the racecourse placing small bets with his own money, and a night with the wife of a banker who ended up donating £50.

On the last Monday of term, Mr. Jessop informed his staff at their weekly meeting that St. Andrew’s would be continuing the great tradition of sending its finest students to Oxford and Cambridge, thus maintaining the link with those two great universities. He read out the names of those who had won places:

‘A shit, a swot, and a star, but not necessarily in that order,’ said the headmaster under his breath.