Now he did look directly at Eve, his eyes troubled. She remembered his tale of Nancy Linnet, the young teacher who had become his sweetheart all those years ago, and Eve couldn't tell if the regret in his eyes was for Nancy and their doomed relationship, or for the children who had suffered so much in this place. She picked up the black book from the table and opened it.
God, Gabe was right, she thought, staring at the neat, rigid handwriting: there were names and dates, punishments accorded as well as the reasons for them, all written down in dulled-by-time blue ink. The reason for punishment was the same in every case: misbehaviour. And as far as Eve could tell, none of the children appeared to have escaped it, for all the names she remembered from the church's memorial board were mentioned, some more than others. And the dates started around late August 1943, apparently soon after the evacuees had arrived at Crickley Hall.
Eve turned several pages, glancing at the names and punishments, the latter of which were marked down 4, 6 or 10, presumably denoting the number of strokes of the cane that were dealt out each time.
'It goes on page after page,' remarked Gabe as he returned the cane to the table. 'Seems not a day went by without some of the kids being disciplined. Percy tells me there were other kinds of penalties for misbehaviour too, like making the kids stand on one spot in the hall all day, wearing nothing but their underwear.'
'Nancy tol' me about the punishments.' Percy shifted awkwardly in his seat. 'She said the children often went without food for the day, or was forced to take cold baths. Sometimes, when Cribben were in a rage, he laid about them with the thick leather belt he always wore, but mostly he used the stick. Nancy tried to put a stop to it, but the Cribbens wouldn't listen, said the kiddies was being purified, atonin' for their sins, like.'
Eve considered the page she had stopped at. This boy Stefan Rosenbaum is mentioned more than most; he seems to be on nearly every page. Didn't you tell me he was Polish and could hardly speak any English? Wasn't he just five years old?'
The old gardener nodded. 'Five years.'
'But why was he punished so much? Was he that naughty?'
'None of 'em was, Missus Caleigh. They was all good kiddies. Bit lively when they first arrived, but that were soon knocked out of 'em. No, Cribben had a special dislikin' for the little Polish boy.'
'Turn towards the middle of the book,' Gabe advised Eve and she did so.
The handwriting had changed: it was looser, sometimes a scrawl, sometimes too big, sometimes almost illegible. Still it went on, though, and she turned more pages, the handwriting changing dramatically as if the author was gradually becoming deranged, the punishments becoming more severe and more frequent. Soon it seemed like the hand of a lunatic. Ten strokes of the cane, fifteen, twenty. And Stefan Rosenbaum's name came up consistently. A five-year-old boy being beaten like this! Why Stefan, why so cruel to him in particular?
As if reading her mind, Gabe said, 'Now move on to some of the later pages. You'll see Cribben's handwriting gets even worse, like he's totally flipped. And you'll see why he picked on this kid Stefan so much.'
Eve leafed through the pages faster, no longer reading each individual record, absorbing the pages as a whole. And then she got to it. The true reason for punishing the same boy over and over again.
The scrawl had descended to an erratic scratching by now. But the word that stunned Eve was clear enough, for it was in spiky capital letters and gave the reason why Stefan Rosenbaum had been constantly punished. It simply said:
JEWBOY
31: THE PHOTOGRAPH
The word had been written crudely, almost brutally, as if its author was enraged—no, was
'How could he…?' The words petered out.
Percy leaned towards her, one bony and calloused hand resting on the table between them. 'There's some people, them what went through the last world war, who like to forget it, don't like to be reminded of how the Jews was hated in them days. Lotsa people even blamed the war on the Jews, thought Hitler had the right idea when he tried to rid Germany an' other countries of 'em. An' that kind of bigotry ran through all classes, rich or poor. Even some royalty shook hands with Hitler afore the war got started.'
'But… but Augustus Cribben was a teacher,' Eve protested. 'And he was a guardian of the children. How could he be a bigot? His background must have been checked by the Ministry of Education and whoever was in charge of evacuation. Surely his sentiments would have been discovered.'
'How?' argued Gabe. 'They'd hardly ask him if he had a thing against Jews, would they? And even if they did, he only had to lie.'
'Oh, Cribben and his sister knew how to play the part, all right,' put in Percy. 'They was admired an' respected when they first came to Hollow Bay. They was looked upon as righteous folk; a little bit unsociable, mind, a little bit standoffish, but otherwise upstanding people as fer as the locals was concerned. Our vicar in them days were certainly impressed with 'em, like I told yer afore, missus. The Cribbens could do no wrong as fer as old Reverend Rossbridger were concerned. That's what broke him when the rumours went about after the flood.'
Eve shook her head in dismay. 'But to victimize this young boy just because he was Jewish. How did Cribben get away with it?'
'Things that went on inside these walls was kep' secret. Who would the kiddies tell? They was kep' away from outsiders an' when they was seen—like goin' to church Sunday mornins—they was always behaved, never spoke to no one. But they couldn't help the way they looked, couldn't hide the misery on their faces. Course, people hereabouts jus' thought the orphans was well disciplined an' didn't look any further than that. Folks didn't want to, the war brought 'em problems of their own.'
Percy's hand dropped to his lap again and he wrung his cap out as if in regret.
'Cribben and his sister, Magda, had the kiddies trained, y'see. Nobody could tell if there were anythin' wrong with 'em, save they was quieter than the local children would ever be. Cribben even had me rig up the swing that's still in the garden today so anyone passin' by would see the kiddies enjoyin' 'emselves. He only let them out there two at a time, mind, an' that were only at weekends. My Nancy told me it were Magda Cribben's idea, lettin' the kids play outside. She knew the things goin' on inside Crickley Hall weren't right, but she supported her brother. Afraid of him too. But her heart were stone. In her own way she were worse then him, 'cause she were a woman an' should've had more compassion for the orphans. Well, she pushed 'em on that swing, only it were like another punishment for 'em when nobody were passin' by. She pushed 'em too hard an' too high, so in the end they was terrified. An' Magda, she liked that, like to see 'em cryin' 'cause they was terrified.'
Eve closed the Punishment Book and put it back on the table. Gabe slipped a hand round her waist, aware of her distress.
'So, they were all badly treated,' she said grimly, 'but little Stefan suffered most of all just because of his race.'
Percy nodded, then picked up the photograph that had been lying on the table in front of him. He held it out to Eve. 'You only had to see Cribben an' his sister to know they was wicked. This were took afore Nancy left Crickley Hall. You can see fer yourself how unhappy the orphans was.'
Eve was almost reluctant to take the photograph; she already had enough grief of her own without looking for more. Her hand trembled slightly as she examined the old creased black-and-white picture, and she realized her heart was racing. It had been a traumatic and disappointing morning, and now this.
Percy came round the table to stand beside her so that he, too, could look at the photograph. Gabe dropped his hand from Eve's waist, although he remained close to her. He had seen the photograph earlier, but he was still drawn towards its images.
It was an eight-by-six print, probably taken with an old-fashioned glass-plate camera, the negative as large as the picture itself, and it showed two rows of children, the taller ones at the back, with two adults sitting on chairs in the centre of the front row. The orphans and their guardians were outside on the lawn, Crickley Hall's big front door plainly visible behind them. The images were extremely sharp and the contrast stark, the black areas quite dense.
Eve suppressed a shudder when she gazed at Augustus Cribben and his sister Magda.
The man could have been anywhere between forty and sixty years of age. His hair, which was bushy on top,
