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Later, when it was all over, Margia wondered how on earth she'd become so cut off from the rest of the world, but at the time it wasn't something she gave much notice to.
She was finally concentrating all her heart and soul on music at the conservatoire, and it was fabulous. Hours of practice, uninterrupted by such mundanities as arithmetic or science. Lessons dedicated to the finer points of composition and technique. The very best teachers to be had. It was heaven, all things considered, and Margia loved it.
Oh, she had spasms of missing the Chalet School and it's friendly atmosphere. There were times and seasons when she missed the company of comrades in pranks. There were hours and minutes when she wished that her very best friends - the rest of the quintet - were just around the corner, waiting for her in the common room. But she wasn't the sort of girl that gave into those sorts of feelings. Indeed, as befitted someone who'd been away from family (and what were the quintet if not family?) since the age of eleven, Margia managed keep those feelings firmly in check.
What helped a very great deal was the fact that, for her last two years at the school the quintet had perforce been split up, with Corny and Evvy still classed as middles (albeit very senior ones) while Margia herself, Elsie and Lonny had moved up to being seniors. Indeed, in her last year, she and Elsie had counted as one of the school's grandees - and that had perhaps been the biggest break in their grouping. For all that they'd split up, though, there remained a very close bond between the five of them and Margia did miss them all.
And yet, as her course progressed, she missed them less and less. She simply didn't have the time to dwell on those she'd left behind. There was practice and seminars and harmony and through bass and counterpoint and composition and rehearsals and performances and even the growing unrest in Europe didn't really penetrate the safe little cocoon Margia found herself in.
Even the news of the Austrian Anschluss didn't really penetrate. When she heard about it, Margia was concentrating on some thoroughly sticky counterpoint and as a consequence she didn't quite take it in, but she did begin to wonder, a few days later, why her usual letter from her sister was so late in arriving.
Later, when she thought back on those few days of blissful ignorance, Margia felt immense shame for her self-absorption. Her time at the Chalet School had taught her far better than that, but wrapped up in the safety of a Parisian arondisment it was all too easy to forget the world outside.
Things began to change when that much-delayed letter finally arrived. It was a curious confection that was so unlike her sister's usual letters that Margia finally began to surface. (She later learned that all the Chalet girls had had their letters carefully vetted by their form teachers to make sure that no innocent remarks might accidentally gain the censor's notice.) She wondered at the guarded phrasing; she wondered even more at the news the school was no longer down at Briesau but was up at the Sonnalpe.
Two days later, while she was still puzzling over it all, she received another letter from Amy. That in itself was surprising, given her sister tended to only write once a month. But then there was the postmark, of Stockholm, which made Margia's blood run first hot and then cold. She knew Stockholm was where her parents were currently stationed, but what on earth was Amy doing to be there?
Margia tore into the envelope with a haste that spoke to panic and unfolded the letter.
Dear Margia
The most horrendous thing has happened to us: the school has been forced to close!
I don't know exactly what happened in Spartz, but I know something did. Suddenly Miss Wilson, Joey, The Robin, Evvy, Corny, Lorenz, Hilary, Maria Marani and Jeanne all disappeared. And Dr Jack and Dr Gottfried also vanished.
That was as far as Margia got before she gave vent to a low cry of distress. All of those named were friends of hers and two of them were in her innermost circle. And they'd disappeared. Suddenly the implications and truth of what the Anschluss meant for her friends crashed in on her and for a few moments, guilt warred with fear. She was safe; they were not.
After a few moments she managed to collect herself to read the rest of Amy's missive, in the hopes that it might give her some clue as to the fate of her friends, but Amy had no more information to give. Instead it talked of the rather hair-raising journey out of Austria that the school themselves had taken, and of the departure of all the German and Austrian girls - there Amy was sufficiently young to not realise what it would mean for them, but Margia understood all too well. Here, at least, was one aspect of reality that had long since intruded on her sheltered existence - for her roommate had been a German flautist called Heidi Blume who had, rather tearfully, been forced to leave the conservatoire a few months earlier.
"I do not wish to return," she had sobbed. "But I must. My mother and father..."
She had trailed off there, clearly not wishing to give name to what she feared, but Margia - journalist's daughter that she was - knew enough to be able to read between those unspoken lines. She had simply hugged her friend and wished her all the best. It was all that she could do.
Now people she'd known for far longer were in the same position. Gio and Alixe; Emmie and Joanna; the Muller sisters. Margia spared a moment to send a prayer to them all, that God would keep them safe from the oncoming storm. Then a new group of people crossed her mind: their old girls. Bette and Bernhilda and Gisela and Wanda and Marie and Frieda - would they be any safer? A few days later her mind was eased about their fates as she heard from Gillian Linton (safely ensconced on Guernsey) who relayed the news that a great many of their old girls had made it safely out of Austria. But there were still those who hadn't, and for them, Margia prayed once more.
That was later, though. For now, Amy's letter left Margia in a state of ferment and fear. Not even the glorious complexity of her current practice piece, nor the news that she would be joining the conservatoire's tour of the Southern Hemisphere (an honour reserved only for the very best students at the end of their courses), could distract her from her worries. Not now. She was awake to the world and for the first time she wished that she were more gifted with practicality than with something so useless as music. (A conversation with Miss Annersley shortly before her departure for South Africa disabused her of the notion that her music was useless, but that came several months later, and long after the time for immediate worry had passed.)
For three days, Margia existed in a nightmare state. Waiting and wondering and hoping and fearing and praying with every thread of her soul that her friends would be all right. Then came another letter from Amy.
Dad's found out a bit more, Amy wrote. There was a riot in Spartz - thugs went after that nice old watchmaker Herr Goldmann. Robin and Joey and Corny (at least from the descriptions) tried to protect him and they, in turn, were helped by Vater Johann.
Margia had little trouble believing Robin and Joey would intervene in such circumstances. They were far too kind hearted and good to allow such an injustice to stand. Then she thought about it a little more and realised that had she been there, she would have stood shoulder to shoulder with them. It was the essence of what the Chalet School stood for. In that context, it wasn't hard to imagine Corny's involvement, nor the involvement of the rest.
She didn't need to read the rest of Amy's letter to know their efforts had been in vain. She read on anyway, hoping that there might be news on what had happened to the party after that, but Amy knew little more.
Another day passed. Then another. Then a letter arrived for her from Switzerland. The handwriting on the envelope belonged to Corny, and for the first time in almost a week, Margia felt herself able to breath more easily. Opening it, she realised the missive was actually a joint effort between Corny, Maria and Evvy. They said nothing of what had transpired, just simply that they were safe and that they would be heading for Paris with Evvy's father just as soon as could be arranged.
Relief made Margia shaky and inclined towards being tearful. They were safe, and they would be coming here just as soon as they could manage it. That was all that mattered.
Then a new thought occurred to her, and pulling out her writing things, she penned a quick note to her sister.
They're safe.
A week later (a week in which, Margia realised later, the authorities of the conservatoire rode her very lightly and excused even elementary slips in work - she wondered just how much the authorities had known about it all) and Margia, with Elsie and Lonny, who had likewise been existing in a state of utter tension for the past month, found herself waiting at the Gare du Nord for the arrival of the overnight train from Geneva.
Evvy was the first to appear. Margia was instantly struck by how much older her friend looked, as compared to the last time they'd seen each other. Corny was next through the barrier. She too looked older and more worn. Not for the first time, Margia wondered at what had happened to them.
Then came Maria, and Margia felt fear grip her once again. For this was not the Maria Marani she had known. This was an old woman in her friend's skin.
Then there was no time for wondering as the six of them came together in a group hug and there were smiles and tears and joy and even Maria lost her elderly air for a moment or two.
Later, Margia would ask what had happened. Later, Evvy would tell her. Later she would learn what had made Maria so sober. Later she would promise to never become so self-involved again. Much, much later, she would remember that promise and abandon her tour to become a nurse and contribute to the war effort in that way.
But that was all later.
For now she had her friends back and they were safe and, right there and then, that was enough.