The Last Telegram. Лиз Тренау

tried to approximate the dance we’d learned on New Year’s Eve. Kurt and Walter watched for a moment and then came to join us, doing their own wild version, waving arms and legs around without any regard for the rhythm.

      From the piano, Stefan shouted, ‘Swingjugend, swing. Swing heil!’ Kurt and Walter raised their arms in mock-Nazi salutes and repeated ‘Swing heil! Swing heil!’

      Mother’s eyebrows raised in alarm.

      ‘What that all about?’ I shouted to Kurt.

      ‘American jazz. Banned by the Nazis,’ Kurt shouted back.

      ‘Why is it banned?’

      He shrugged. ‘Stefan plays it for – what do you say?’

      Stefan stopped playing and swivelled round. In the sudden stillness his voice was firm and clear, ‘We play it because it is not allowed.’

      ‘Who’s we, Stefan?’ John asked.

      ‘Swingjugend.’

      ‘Until they were arrested,’ Kurt said, almost under his breath.

      ‘“Arrested”?’ I repeated, failing for a moment to understand the full import of the word.

      Stefan glowered at him. ‘They just gave us a beating. As a warning.’

      It was such a shocking image none of us knew what to say next. My mind whirled, trying to understand. How could the police – or was it soldiers? – be so violent against young boys, just for playing music? The sense of menace seemed to seep into the room like a poison.

      Mother spoke carefully, ‘Are you saying that the police beat you and put you in prison, Stefan?’

      Stefan nodded. ‘The SS,’ he said. ‘But we were not in prison for long. It was just a warning.’ He paused and then went on, ‘That is why I had to leave Germany.’

      ‘You poor boy,’ she murmured. ‘No wonder …’

      ‘Were you all members … of this group?’ I stuttered.

      ‘Only Stefan,’ Kurt said. ‘We do not know about it till he tell us.’

      ‘There is no Jugend where we live,’ Walter added.

      ‘Perhaps we make our own group, here in Westbury?’ Kurt smiled, and the tension in the room started to settle. ‘Can he play some more?’

      Stefan looked at Father, who nodded.

      This time we listened quietly. It didn’t seem right to dance. Trying to make sense of what the boys had told us, I began to understand why this music was so important for Stefan. The baby grand had never known such spirited, emphatic playing. It was an act of protest and defiance, seeming to drive the menace out of the room.

      After a few minutes he stopped, and we all applauded and cheered. As Stefan straightened up from a mock-formal bow, I saw for the first time his face fully illuminated with happiness.