Last Telegram by Liz Trenow

added. I could hear the warmth in her voice, and even as I knew she was right—he already understood the elegant mechanics of the loom, how to balance the weights and tensions, and was deftly locating and retying lost warp threads—I felt a pinch of envy. She’d never praised me like that, not to my face at least.
    â€œYou’d better watch out. He’ll soon be teaching you,” I laughed, trying to conceal my annoyance.
    â€œI look forward to it. He’s a very polite, charming young man. Deeper than the other two. Has an artistic touch. What do you think?”
    â€œYou’d know better than me,” I said, niggled she’d found something else to admire. “With that art school background you said you’d tell me about.”
    â€œYou should come for tea some time, then maybe I will.”
    â€œSo you keep promising,” I said. I’d dropped so many hints over the past weeks, with no response, that I was starting to wonder why she was so reluctant. Did she just not like me enough to invite me into her personal life? Or was there something else, something she didn’t want to reveal? Gwen was such an enigma.
    As we finished our rounds and parted at the front door, she touched me lightly on the shoulder, elusive as ever. “Enjoy your weekend.”
    â€¢ • •
    Once the boys had moved into the cottage, we invited them to join us for lunch at The Chestnuts every Sunday.
    â€œHelp them learn proper manners. They’ll turn into savages in no time, living on their own,” Father said. “We need to civilize them.”
    Mother enjoyed sharing her pleasure in English cooking, and it was usually a roast with all the trimmings, which they appeared to relish.
    Though homesickness still showed in their faces, Kurt and Walter were like other teenage boys—gawky, clumsy, fascinated by football and motorbikes. They struggled with English table etiquette, muddling their cutlery, slurping their drinks, leaning elbows on the table. At first, Father was lenient, but after a few weeks, he’d bark stern reminders: “No talking with your mouth full.” They were slow to learn, and more than once he had to threaten them, “If you don’t take those elbows off the table at once, there will be no more lunch for you.” Walter giggled and Kurt—always the rebellious one—grimaced, but their hungry stomachs forced them into reluctant compliance.
    Stefan needed no such prompting. His manners were already sophisticated, and what he didn’t already know of English etiquette, he quickly picked up by watching. Now that he had abandoned the old leather jacket and black trousers for the cords, jumpers, and jacket John had bought him, he looked almost like an English boy, apart from the hairstyle he insisted on keeping unfashionably long. But he was unlike any other boy I knew.
    What I had mistaken for shyness, I slowly began to realize, was actually a confident stillness. While the others always needed to be active, Stefan seemed content to observe the world around him quietly, with an expression of mild curiosity and, I sensed, amusement simmering just below the surface. Little escapes those dark eyes, I thought, with a slight shiver.
    That Sunday, Stefan handed back my copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles with one of his rare smiles.
    â€œI enjoy very much, Miss Lily,” he said, his eyes sparkling. “I would like to be a perfect English gentleman like your Sherlock Holmes.” He raised an imaginary bowler hat, pretended to twirl an umbrella, and bowed deeply, making me laugh out loud. Stefan the clown was a side of his character he hadn’t revealed till now.
    In just two months, his English improved so much I’d abandoned my intention to speak German. I was astonished by how quickly he learned; he could already read in another language. This was the second Conan Doyle book I’d lent him, and every time he visited he