My Story about two German kids being taken to Narnia left two artefacts behind, a letter and one book. Here are a series of loosely connected chapters written to tie up loose ends.

Let us first meet a certain British soldier . . .

Ah, by the way; C S Lewis (all honour to him!) who created Narnia and its main characters, did not tell us where in London the Pevensies actually lived. Neither did Andrew Adamson, the latest to try filming the Chronicles of Narnia. The headline of this chapter is instead attributed to actress Anna Popplewell, who spontaneously blurted it out beside manuscript during filming in the Beaver's home:

-"We are from Finchley!"

Finchley

Northern London, 1955

I did not serve in the war. I was too young for that. When it was time for my military service the enemy was already defeated and the Germany I was shipped over to divided into four parts, each administered by one of four allies who had been forced to stand up against dictatorship or terror.

Maybe it was the fact that my training was short and that I had never seen a battle; or maybe it was only that I was young and naïve. Whatever the reason, I have to admit that this was something I in no way was prepared for.

There is a small park just opposite one of Finchley's many public buildings, and I find a refuge on it, while breathing long, controlled, breaths; with the odd shaking of my head, to get rid of the very surprise I had just had.

Sitting down on the bench, I felt my whole world spinning, and a need for answers to several quite important questions. Like 'Who am I?', 'Where am I?', 'Why am I here?' 'What am I doing here?

I am so happy for my grand mother, who taught me to actively breathe. Any crises could according to her be met in a two step approach. First breathing slowly; in and out, in and out ,for several long minutes. After beginning to calm down this way, a sugar spiced cup of tea, or several cups if so was needed, would take the rest of our minds back to normal.

I had used it during the Blitz, when we had run to the shelter after being woken up by the hollowing alarms. I had used it to keep my upper lip stiff as the train left Euston station to take me and other kids off to the safer countryside. And I had used it getting the news, two years later, of the fall of Singapore meaning my father was either dead or taken prisoner (which meant he would soon be a dead man anyway).

Breathing took me slowly back to a conscious perception of reality.

I am – no, not yet, but I am soon going to be, God willing, if studies succeed – a classic language scholar. Having begun studying in Durham before my sejour in Germany, I had been admitted to Cambridge for post graduate studies and I was scheduled to begin research and writing my thesis on the contribution to Old Testament text criticism from the newly found Dead Sea Scrolls soon.

It was therefore I had bought that Biblia Hebraica published by professor Kittel. I could not explain neither how a seemingly unused book could be sold in a mouldy shop for second hand things, nor how the very building the shop occupied the basement of could had ever survived the final allies' terror bombings in 1945.

In that book there was a letter; completed but obviously never sent off. It was not for me to read, of course; as it was clearly meant for four Pevensies living in a northern suburb of London, but I saw that the author was a German girl, writing at the time Britain was evacuating children away from German bombs.

It took me some time to find the recipients, and I had to ask for help to get anywhere in my search. There was no result until I got help from a friend of mine, a math genius and post-doc to professor Turing, who had served at some highly classified site in Blenchley Park. Bless his soul, I hope he got away with what he did to find me the Pevensies.

Having not much time when I was home and long time between visits, I thought the most important was to see my ageing, ill mum; who had hard to cope with the loss of her husband and my elder bro in the horrible dictators' war.

So it was, that it was not until I was cleared to leave Stuttgart for good and go home, that I decided it was my duty to actually deliver the letter. This was the year occupation ended and Germany was divided into two different, but autonomous states. Only a year ago a unified German team had come to the soccer world cup in Switzerland, coming home as winners; but now the country found it self free from both Nazi and allied occupation, although divided.

The day was beautiful when my ringing of the doorbell was responded to and the door opened by an elegant lady in her late twenties. She bade me enter, and walked in front of me through the hallway to show me into a living room. Her heals clicked as she walked so regally that I might have thought she were brought up in the aristocracy, or educated for publicity. She wore the latest fashion, even the famous new nylon stockings, replacing silk in the upper classes.

-"I am Susan Pevensie," had she said, opening the door, extending her hand. "And by whom am I honoured to be visited?"

I stumbled through an abbreviated version of my reason to be there; I might even had forgotten to say my name. After all I had come with a letter, and giving it to her was my important task, not to show off myself, my titles or my scholarly work.

We had tea, did some small talk and Susan stole once and a while a glance of the letter. She then tried to pour me some more tea, but found the pot empty.

-"Oh dear, please allow me to brew us another pot of tea. This afternoon is too pleasant to not have more Darjeeling, enjoy my aunt's cookie recipes and enjoy chatting, don't you think?

Getting the kettle to boil and brewing the tea took at least another quarter of an hour; and I had time both to let my thoughts wonder and watch the elaborately furnished room. As elegant as the lady living here, I thought.

On the walls were some beautiful landscapes, seemingly almost out of this world. I really enjoyed one showing a palace all but hanging on a cliff over a calm, glittering sea, lit by the southern sun. I saw it was signed Lucy P.

On a small table stood some framed photos of two adults and four children. I could recognise a very much younger miss Susan, and realised this must be the four Pevensie siblings the German letter was meant for.

-"Did you read the letter yourself, sir?" Inaudible had Susan Pevensie entered, and she now poured us both another cup of lovely tea and pointed me to the sugar to help myself of it.

-"Ah, no, miss Susan, that would be highly over the line and very rude."

-"Very well! Of course you did not. I think you shall do, however, and maybe even pass it on to a publisher of childrens' books. It is such a lovely story." Susan smiled with her mouth, but that smile did, contrary to before, never reach her eyes.

She folded the letter, put it back into the envelope I had had it protected in and returned it to me.

-"It was written by a German girl to me and my sister and brothers." She sighed.

-"Did you know her? I was astounded from the possibility of British and German children being in contact during the war.

-"We … did meet." Something cold had begun to radiate from my hostess. "As many children we were evacuated from London during the Blitz. The four of us came to professor Kirk's country estate, and Ruth lived not far away."

-"I was also sent out of the city."

-"Of course, naturally." I noted that the elegantissima in front of me had become less talkative.

-"We were mostly left to our selves, me and my siblings; and were we not outside, we explored the great land house. It was an excellent place for children's fantasies to merge with …. history."

I could imagine them looking at the historic artefacts, reading books on Medieval life, and …..

-"We played we were Kings and Queens, you see. Taken by a talking Lion to deliberate and rule over a land inhabited by animals talking. You should just have heard the squirrels, who seemed to compete with the dogs about whom spent most awake hours talking …"

I awaited her continuation, but none came. Instead she had her eyes fixed onto the largest painting, the one with the stunning Marble palace.

-"Cair Paravel," she was just thinking aloud now , suddenly oblivious of my presence. "High King Peter the Magnificent, King Edmund the Just and Queen Lucy the Valiant."

-"But I should call her Lucy the grand Artist, sir." My hostess had suddenly returned to our world. She is the one having painted these …. landscapes."

-"And here they are," she continued, picking up one of the framed photographs. "This was taken just seven years ago, long after we returned for the last time … from professor Kirk's estate."

Until now I had not thought much of Susan being alone at home. Now, however, her appearance had changed. Shoulders slumped, sadness beginning to cloud her face.

-"There was an accident, sir."

"In the countryside? In the old house?"

I was answered by the faintest of smiles, and the smallest of voices.

-"We got many battle scars when in Nar …. er, when playing. City kids are not used to such great freedom . . ."

-"But, no, the accident I refer to was here, in London. Being abroad you might not have heard of the lethal train crash in 1949."

Oh, I had, because my great-grand aunt Polly had died in that crash. But I did not want to go down that road. Susan had enough sadness to be enough and more for both of us. I shook my head.

-"I am sorry. No, I heard not many news from here when In Stuttgart. So sorry, miss Pevensie. My sincerest condolences."

-"Stuttgart was it? … I hope it was a nice city …. not much destroyed by catapults like my Cair ..."

-"Sorry, I am sitting here gibbering Rubbish." Susan Pevensie collected herself. "Please take some time to read the letter. But pardon me; just for a moment."

She rose swiftly, not waiting for my answer, and left the room. I could hear her heals click and a door open and close. If I had wanted to, I could also have heard her weep. Being a gentleman, I did not listen to it, of course, that would have been rude; but I did read the letter.

When miss Pevensie finally returned, beautiful as ever, she wore a slight hint of red eyes, mourning the obvious reason.

-"Thank you for letting me read the letter, miss Susan, it is quite a special story."

-"Well, we had great imaginations, we four kids. Some could have become great artists if Asl … if only they had been allowed to live."

I looked again at the palace Susan had called Cair Paravel, and nodded my agreement.

-"Ruth ..." I began.

-"The Jewish girl? Yes, she had come form Germany. We met her during our exile and she some times joined in in our fantasies and played with us; she was such a lovely Lady. Clever mind and great Heart; our best Detective and a great Healer, too. I even think one of my Royal valets took a special liking to her … only in our games of course!"

-"And you, Milady," I unknowingly began to address Susan as a noble woman, "In these child's games, who were you? Your brothers and sisters had so lovely additions to their names, Lucy as the valiant ..."

-"Ah," a smile was back on Susan's face, but her eyes hard as steel, "I was the Gentle Queen. In all games we organised I led the great balls, dinners and festivals; like when we received the foreign dignitaries."

-"In fact, my best friend has hinted that at a party tonight her twin brother will propose to me. In a near future I will again be the hostess of great fiests, maybe even balls, wearing my best gowns and my silver ..."

-"Crown? Just like when Ruth first saw you in the Great Hall in Cair Paravel, sitting on your throne, given to you by the Great Lion Aslan?"

That was a stupid thing to say. The air froze in a blink; and I did not even have the time to give my humble apologies. Queen Susan's stoned face clearly communicated that she definitely did not want to talk about this.

-"Ruth? There never was any Ruth. How could it be? How could a Jewish girl first be evacuated to Britain and then later write here from Germany? From a country extinguishing her and her lot? Can you not realise this is not logical, sir?"

"Let me be fully clear, soldier, whoever you are, I was never any Queen, no one named Ruth came to see me, and my life was never saved by a German crippled kid coming to Narnia, being there by Aslan both healed and made a Knight."

The flash of anger was gone as soon as it came.

-"But I should not have said that. I apologise!"

-"And I." having at least some idea of the elaborate and time consuming work a young woman needed to get ready for a party, "I have intruded on your hospitality all too long. Please forgive me, miss Pevensie, I have an old mother waiting for me to visit her today. Rather sooner than later, I am afraid."

Susan Pevensie's face just for a fraction of a second revealed the relief she must have felt.

She gave me the letter, walked me to the door and saw me off with a non-committal smile below two angry, darkened eyes.

While I stood still outside, trying to remember which was the way back to the Underground station, I realised that the former gentle Queen had returned to the bathroom downstairs. Only the window was open, and I could not even for my life not hear the wrath wreathed in there.

-"I hate you Aslan! Giving me all, taking it away, leaving me alone; and just when I were on my way to cope with a life on my own in this Shadow world, you dare to remind me of all hurt you have inflicted on me!"

-"Never, and I am not saying please; never have anything to do with me ever again!"

This hit me like a grenade. I staggered down the street; fell onto a bench and began to count my breaths, to get calm and composed.

When the stars in front of my eyes receded, I smiled. Was it the irony of fate, or was it planned, that the park I was sitting in was just in front of a Synagogue?

The large, beautiful building with its Hebrew letters and Star of David. It did indeed remind me of Ruth (and Karl), but it did not, in fact, make me decide to write their story. That was the paper boy, coming to set up his stand and writing the most important headline in front of it:

Oxford literature professor awarded Best Childrens' Books' Prize for his Chronicles of Narnia!