A lot of people got angry with Joe Patience, but back then, in 1915, they didn’t do anything more than shout at him when he started talking politics. It wasn’t until later that they did worse things.
That February, the same day that Alfie got a letter from his dad telling him all about the training barracks at Aldershot, Margie called him into the kitchen where she was counting out change from her purse. Back then, she was still at home most of the time where she was knitting from morning till night, as were most of the women from Damley Road, and sending socks and jumpers over to the men at something she called “the Front.”
“Run down to Mr. Janáček for me, will you, Alfie?” she asked. “I need a couple of apples, a bag of flour, and today’s newspaper. Make sure it’s the latest edition. There’ll be a penny left over for a few sweets.”
Alfie’s face lit up as he grabbed the money and ran down the street to where Mr. Janáček was standing outside his shop, staring, trembling a little, his face pale. The windows had been smashed, there was glass everywhere on the road, and someone had scrawled three words in paint all over the front door: No Spies Here!
“Who’s a spy?” asked Alfie, frowning. “And what happened to your windows? And do you have any apple drops in stock?”
Mr. Janáček, who was always so friendly, stared down at him but didn’t smile. His shoes were as shiny as ever. “What do you need, Alfie?” he asked in a voice trembling with rage and fear.
“A couple of apples, a bag of flour, and today’s newspaper. I’m supposed to make sure it’s the latest edition.”
“You better go to the corner shop at Damley Park,” said Mr. Janáček. “I don’t think I’ll be open for business today. As you can see, my windows have all been broken.” My vindows have all been broken.
“Who did this?” asked Alfie, feeling the soft crunch of the glass beneath his shoes.
“I said go to Damley Park,” said Mr. Janáček, raising his voice a little. “I don’t have time for this right now.”
Alfie sighed and turned away. He hated going to Mrs. Bessworth’s shop as she had a reputation for stealing children, baking them in pies, and eating them for her supper. (A friend of Alfie’s knew somebody whose cousin had a neighbor that this had happened to, so it was definitely true.)
This wasn’t the last time that the shop windows were smashed, but every time it happened Mr. Janáček replaced them within a day or two. And then one evening, as Kalena was playing hopscotch on the street, the squares marked off in chalk on the pavement, and Alfie was sitting on the curb watching her, an army van appeared and pulled up outside number six; when Mr. Janáček opened the door they told him that he was to come with them immediately or there’d be trouble.
“But I have done nothing wrong!” he protested.
“You’re a German,” shouted Mrs. Milchin from number seven, whose two oldest boys had already been killed at Ypres and whose youngest son, Johnny, was about to turn eighteen. (No one had seen Johnny in weeks; the rumor was that Mrs. Milchin had sent him to her sister-in-law in the Outer Hebrides.)
“But I’m not!” protested Mr. Janáček. “I am from Prague. You are aware of this!” You are avare of zis! “I have never even been to Germany!”
Kalena ran to her father and he threw his arms around her. “You’re not taking us,” he shouted.
“Come on now,” said the army men. “It’ll be easier for you if you come peacefully.”
“That’s right, take him away. He’s a spy!” shouted Mrs. Milchin, and now Margie was out on the street too, looking aghast at what was taking place.
“Leave him be,” she shouted, running down and jumping in between the Janáčeks and the soldiers. “He just told you that he’s not German, and anyway, he’s lived here for years. Kalena was born on this street. They’re no threat to anyone.”
“Step aside, missus,” said the army man, signaling to one of his colleagues to open the back doors of the van.
“You’re a traitor, Margie Summerfield!” cried Mrs. Milchin. “Cozying up to the enemy! You ought to be ashamed!”
“But he hasn’t done anything! My husband’s a soldier,” she added, as if this would help.
“Step aside, missus,” repeated the army man, “or you’ll be taken into custody too.”
A lot of fighting happened then, and it took almost twenty minutes for the Janáčeks to be loaded into the van. They weren’t allowed to go back into their house or to take anything with them. Mr. Janáček pleaded to be permitted to take a picture of his wife, but he was told that they could take the clothes they were standing up in and nothing else. Kalena ran to Alfie’s mum and threw her arms around her, and one of the soldiers had to drag her away as the little girl screamed and wept. The last Alfie saw of them was Mr. Janáček weeping in the back of the van while Kalena stared out of the window behind her at Alfie, waving silently. She looked very brave, and Alfie knew there and then that she would become prime minister one day, and when she did, she would make sure that nothing like this ever happened again.
Later that night, Margie explained what had happened. “Persons of special interest, that’s what they call them,” she told him. “Anyone German. Anyone Russian. Anyone from the Austro-Hungarian Empire, if I have it right. And that’s where the Janáčeks come from. Maybe it’s for the best.”
“But it’s not fair,” said Alfie.
“No, but they’ll be kept safe while the war is on. A few months on the Isle of Man, it’s not so bad when you think about it. Think of all the damage that has been done to their shop, after all. It was only a matter of time before those vandals turned their attentions to Mr. Janáček himself.”
The house at number six had remained empty ever since. No one else came to live there and no one ever went inside. Until one day, when Margie was sitting in the front room counting the pennies from her purse and deciding whether she should pay the rent, the coal man, or the grocer that week—it couldn’t possibly be all three; it probably couldn’t even be two—Alfie had an idea.
He ran out of the back door and made his way down the alley toward number six, jumped over the wall into the Janáčeks’ backyard, and broke the kitchen window with a stone he found near the door. Reaching in, he opened the latch and pulled it up, climbed inside and looked around, searching for the one thing that he thought might save his family from homelessness or starvation.
He found it in the corner of the parlor, sitting on the floor next to a rocking chair.
Mr. Janáček’s shoeshine box.
When Alfie left, it was the only thing that he took with him.
CHAPTER 3
KEEP THE HOME FIRES BURNING
They said it would be over by Christmas, but four Christmases had already come and gone, a fifth was on the way, and the war showed no sign of coming to an end.
Alfie was nine years old now, and six mornings a week, his mum shook him awake when she was leaving for work. He still got a shock when he opened his eyes to see her standing there in the half-light, the white dress uniform of a Queen’s Nurse gathered close around her neck and waist, the pleated cap settled neatly on her head as her tight blond curls peeped out from underneath.