A Song for Summer

Tamara's pleasure in the meeting was unfeigned. Her mother's colliery village on the bleak coastal plain was only thirty miles from Crowthorpe; she knew of the Frobishers' importance and Crowthorpe's size.

She wanted

an invitation to the wedding, and she got it. Appalled by the reduction of the sinewy sun worshipper and maker of icon corners to Mrs Smith's Beryl, Ellen invited her not only to the wedding but--since there were no buses from Tamara's village--to the house party on the night before.

On a morning in late November a number of men were pulled out of the routine roll call in the camp and told to report to the commandant. From Sunnydene, an elderly lawyer named Koblitzer who walked with a stick, and a journalist named Klaus Fischer; from Resthaven, Herr Rosenheimer and his son Leon; and from Mon Repos (from which the defenestrated Unterhausen had been taken to Brixton Jail), Marcus von Altenburg.

Wondering what they had done, they made their way down the grey rain-washed streets towards the hotel by the gates which housed Captain Henley's office.

"We'll need a chair for Koblitzer," said Marek when they were assembled, and a chair was brought.

In spite of this request, an air of cheerfulness prevailed. The commandant had shown himself a good friend to the inmates; conditions in the camp had improved considerably in the last two months. Even the disagreeable lieutenant looked relaxed.

"I have good news for you," said the commandant. "The order has come through for your release. You're to collect your belongings and be ready for the transport at seven in the morning. The ferry for Liverpool sails at ten, and tickets will be issued for your chosen destination."

The men looked at each other, hardly taking it in at first.

"On what grounds, as a matter of curiosity?"' asked Leon's father. "To whom do we owe our freedom?"'

Captain Henley looked down at his papers. "You, Rosenheimer, on the grounds that you are employing nearly five hundred British workers in your business, and your son on the grounds that he is under age.

Klaus Fischer has been spoken for by the Society of Authors, who say he's been writing anti-Nazi books since 1933,

and Koblitzer on grounds of ill health."

Not one of them pointed out that all this information was available at the time they were arrested. Yet their joy was not unalloyed; they had made friendships of great intensity, had started enterprises which must be left undone. Fischer ran a poetry class, Rosenheimer had started a business school--and all of them sang in Marek's choir.

One by one the men stepped forward, signed a paper to say they had not been ill-treated, were given their documents. Then it was Marek's turn.

"You've been requested by the commander of the Royal Air Force Depot, Cosford. The Czechs have formed a squadron there to fly with the RAF." Henley looked at Marek with a certain reproach. "You could have told us you flew with the Poles and the French."

Marek, who had in fact explained this several times to the interrogators at Dover and elsewhere, only smiled--and then produced his bombshell.

"I shall be very happy to be released," he said, "but not before the end of next week."

"What?"' The second lieutenant couldn't believe his ears.

"We're performing the B Minor Mass on Sunday week. The men have been rehearsing for months; there's absolutely no question of my walking out on them at this stage. They'll understand at Cosford."

The commandant was an easy-going man, but this was mutiny. "Men in this camp are released as and when the orders come through. I'm not running a holiday camp."

Nobody made the obvious comment. They were all staring at Marek.

"If you want me to go before the concert you'll have to take me by force. I shall resist and Klaus here can make a scandal when he gets to London; he's an excellent journalist. "Czech Pilot Manhandled by Brutal Soldiery"--that kind of thing. I'm entirely serious about this."

No one knew what to say. They thought of the work of the last weeks, the slow growth of confidence, the obstacles overcome--and then the excitement as the sublime music grew under Marek's tutelage. No one who had sung Dona

Nobis Pacem in this miserable place would ever forget it.

"They're coming from the other camps," Marek

reminded him.

The commandant did not need to be told this. He himself had authorised a hundred men to come and had borrowed spare copies of the score from the cathedral choir in Douglas; news of the performance had attracted interest all over the island. If morale had improved, if there had been no suicides, no serious breakdowns in his camp, the Mass in B Minor had played a part.

"Someone else can take your place, I'm sure," said the lieutenant.

"No, they can't. They can't!" Leon spoke for the first time. "Only Marek can do it." He stepped forward, leaning towards the commandant. "And I want to stay too! I don't want to be released till Marek is; I want to--"'