The light was hazy in Groningen, Jem Blythe observed, as he was leaning on Roy Cronin, as they walked cautiously towards the telegram office, in their worn uniforms, from which all insignia had been torn off. Groningen, that beautiful, quiet province in the north of the Netherlands, where they had been taken after crossing the border. The stern-looking border officials had only glanced at them, unarmed, paperless, and exhausted, with their military bearing and shadowy, strained eyes.
That trip had gone in a haze, like the whole escape, which felt like a vague dream, to one neat internment camp, in Groningen where there were other prisoners of war, of Allied forces, mainly Brits, who had escaped from Germany. The residents who had been in that camp longer had explained the rules of the place, which were not very many. There was freedom of movement, one could participate in church services in the nearby town, if one wanted, as well as other local activities, this camp even had its own variety show group that traveled around the Netherlands to entertain locals. The food offered was good, but bit slim pickings, because of rationing. There had been potato-riots year before, housewifes had done a stampede, and there had been few casualities. The neutral status of the Netherlands made the country a desired stopover, for many for variety of reasons.
Jem felt how his leg ached, it stung and burned, the infection was raging in it still, as it had not been healing in quite proper way. Capitain Roy Cronin, glanced cautiously at Lt. Blythe, whose face was pale with pain, but there was a determined, unflinching look in his hazel eyes as he had insisted on being able to send a telegram to his family in Canada as soon as possible. And now that moment had come. Roy Cronin recalled their second successful escape, from German POW-camp, because the first one had failed, and it had been almost a quirk of fate that they now walked free under the foggy September sky alive, bit bruised, exhausted and tattered, but still together. Still companions in arms.
As Jem carefully dictated his brief message of about ten words to the tired and bored official, there were small clatters as the golden guldens changed hands, as the man said, in quite good english, "Oh, this is going to Canada." Roy Cronin looked around the small telegram office. Propaganda posters with a neutral tone, a few issues of Nieuwe Amsterdammer magazine.
Standing again on the idyllic cobbled street, Roy glanced around and said, "Come with me to England, that leg of yours needs extra care, as the camp doctor pointed out, as does my own wound too. And you need, like me, more than a few good old fashioned meals. I'm sure Mummy has helped Myra, she may be living at my familys estate in Scotland right now. It even may be that our loved ones have become friends, wouldn't that be something."
They walked through the canal-crossed streets, colorful and beautiful, the houses breathed peace around them, but everything showed that the state of war affected the everyday life of the citizens. The women walking down the street had a tense expression, as they were carrying their ration-booklets in their hands, as if they were their first-born children. The September light cast its rays on the colorful houses, as Jem replied, in a stiff tone. " I've had enough of all the camps, the internment camp is just another camp among others, we're corralled there like chickens or pigs, mostly for the safety of the locals. And as for your idea, it has some merit, I think Faith and Myra might like each other, but nothing is certain. War has taught that."
Roy, touched his pocket where the little love-token resided, as he said with a confident charm, "I understand your irritation old chum. I really do, but we've been in worse places, before!"
Jem didn't answer, for all his energy went into staying upright, and into one thought, England might be Roy's homeland, or in fact Scotland, as he came from long line of old Scottish nobilty, but England meant only one thing to Jem, there was Faith, somewhere in a hospital, doing good, necessary work, with a flair, under stern eye of some head matron or other. Sleek and beautiful, in her uniform, golden-brown curls tousled, flowing under her little cap, rings of exhaustion under her golden brown eyes.
Jem tottered, he swayed, and with a startled oath, Roy backed Jem against the corner of a house. The greenish door opened and a blonde haired girl, shouted something in a flurry of dutch, and soon returned with a glass of water, which she handed to Roy with a shy smile and a nod towards tall, too thin redhaired quite handsome solider, slumped at her front steps.
Later at the internation camp, Roy remarked to Jem, "Now you're resting, and gathering strength. It's no use wearing yourself out. You fought to stay alive, in the POW-camp conditions, so this is just another little bend. That is an order Lieutenant Blythe."
Around them the camp was bustling. The soldiers played chess, and exchanged news, and guesses, and carefully rationed stamps, letterpaper and candies. An old gramophone plays in the distance, intermezzo from Cavalleria Rusticana.
Jem nodded tiredly as he replied in fond teasing tone, with a flash of hazel eyes. " Aye, Aye Capitan Cronin, no need to pull rank on me." Jem sketched out a letter in his mind, a letter home, to Ingelside, but unlike the previous ones written in the camp, this one would reach Ingelside, eventually perhaps under a month or so.
Anne Blythe sat on the wide windowsill, she was wrapped in her rose red kimono, she was keeping vigil with Anne in the Glass, wistfully she thought of Katie in the Glass, that friend conjured up by her imagination, in those hauntingly lonely years, of Before. The September wind swayed the branches of the trees, and the starry sky curved brightly. Already the third autumn, after Courcelette.
Tennyson's poems had not soothed her mood, poetry brought no comfort, nor dear, dear Leslie's precise letters, full of her particular gossamer touch of grace. Annoyed, unsettled, Anne picked up a silver hairbrush and began to brush her hair, that gesture, the ritual of it, it soothed.
Gilbert was away from Ingelside, this evening, on an urgent call on Upper Glen. Anne yearned for Gilbert's scent, the delicateness of his hands, artful certainty. Gently letting her hair slide automatically between her fingers, a thick braid was born, slowly.
Ingelside's late silence was broken by shrill call, of telephone, it rang, and rang - long distance ring.
And at that moment Anne's soul trembled, of sudden, aching pain, of bliss. Strange certainty was blooming, in her heart, as Anne heard Rilla's voice respond, triftle tremoulus way, "Yes, Yes, Yes.."
Anne crept to the door of the hall, and looked at her youngest. Rilla wearing white, reddish-brown hair curling over her shoulders, as she put the phone down slowly and turned slowly, like a sleepwalker. Looking into Rilla's face, Anne just said, "it was a word from Jem."
Numbly Rilla nodded, and said, "My brother is alive, and well, he's in Holland."
A strange hush had fallen.
Calmly Anne walked past Rilla and said, "Gilbert needs to get word immediately, I'll call Upper Glen."
Rilla, leaned on the stairs, she was almost feeling faint, but not completely. This kind of sudden bliss seemed too great. She felt like she should cry or laugh with happiness, but instead she effectively walked over to wake first Gertrude and then Susan, who upon waking and hearing the news simply said, "Thank God. I knew Dog Monday would know. Now we need cups of warm, strong tea."
The smell of strong tea and the clinking of the Rosebud tea set could be heard faintly from the kitchen, mixed with the sounds of conversation as Susan, Gertrude and Anne Blythe all sat at the kitchen table.
Gertrude glanced thoughtfully at Anne Blythe, as her reaction was not at all what Gertrude had expected. That calmness and efficiency was almost eerie, there was no need of storms of emotions, but it was as if the news had locked Anne into a state where nothing really touched her.
Anne drank her tea in silence.
There was peculiar, intent gleam in her luminous grey-green eyes, which sent cold shivers down Gertrude's back.
Hermes the tortoise crept quietly to the threshold, of the kitchen, and in Grim way, Susan just looked at it and waved her spoon, and didn't get up to chase it away, as she would do usually. Apparently tonight even Hermes had found favor in Susan's eyes.
In the peace of her own room, Rilla sat kneeling by the open window, glistening tears streaming down her cheeks, that horrible, torturous despair and doubt that had lasted for months, it was finally over. Jem was alive, she had not lost another brother to the insidious huns.