Authors: Olga Levy Drucker
Kindertransport (6 page)
PLEASE DON'T LET ANYTHING HAPPEN TO MAMA AND PAPA!
D
ecember 1939. The winter holidays were coming up. Also my twelfth birthday.
ecember 1939. The winter holidays were coming up. Also my twelfth birthday.
The few girls that were still students at my boarding school were getting ready to leave for home. I had no prospects this time and did not look forward to being left alone with Miss Carter, the headmistress. The house, which during school term was a noisy, alive, and busy place, was suddenly turning into a tomb in which two people, a lonely girl and an old lady, were stealthily creeping around. Miss Carter used one small wing as her living quarters. We girls had often been invited to her room for Bible studies or prayer meetings. But now the idea of sitting alone with her, sweet as she was, was not a happy one. I hated holidays!
One morning, three days before Christmas, I woke up, the only girl in a dormitory for four, trying to hang on to my dream in which I was back on the roof of my house in Stuttgart. In my dream I was able to fly like a bird just
by spreading my arms apart. But something, perhaps the chime of a clock, woke me. Slowly I sat up and pushed back the blackout curtain from the window next to my bed. Snowflakes as big as tennis ballsâwell, almost!âwere drifting down from a leaden sky. Some melted the minute they reached the ground. But enough stayed to turn the world, little by little, into a white wonderland. All sound seemed muffled. On a tree branch that nearly touched my window, a lone bird sat chirping. It puffed up its feathers, then flew away. Now, nothing.
by spreading my arms apart. But something, perhaps the chime of a clock, woke me. Slowly I sat up and pushed back the blackout curtain from the window next to my bed. Snowflakes as big as tennis ballsâwell, almost!âwere drifting down from a leaden sky. Some melted the minute they reached the ground. But enough stayed to turn the world, little by little, into a white wonderland. All sound seemed muffled. On a tree branch that nearly touched my window, a lone bird sat chirping. It puffed up its feathers, then flew away. Now, nothing.
I fell back on my pillow and stared at the ceiling. Even the Good Shepherd seemed disinterested this morning. I rubbed my eyes to hold back the tears.
Then I saw it. A package wrapped in red at the foot of my bed. For me? I reached for the box and held it in my hands for a minute or so. Someone had given me a present. Who?
It could not have come from Mama and Papa. Since the war began, they couldn't even send normal letters, just some stupid Red Cross postcards, with no more than twenty-five words. They took forever to get here. Hans? His last letter to me had come from the Isle of Man, a small island in the south of England. The police had interned him there as an “enemy alien.” I remembered Dachau and other concentration camps. Surely a British internment camp was not like these? Never! Impossible! I would ask Miss Carter about that. Hans had written that there were many other German Jews of his age (and older)
in this predicament. Also many German non-Jews. Apparently, the British government hadn't yet learned the difference. In any case, the package could not have come from him.
in this predicament. Also many German non-Jews. Apparently, the British government hadn't yet learned the difference. In any case, the package could not have come from him.
The next moment I had the red paper flying all over the room. On my covers over my scrunched up knees sat a cake made of solid marzipan. My favorite! I remembered telling someone about the sweet confection made of sugar and almond paste, wishing I could have some again. I described how Mama had always given me little marzipan fruits or potatoes for my birthday. Who had bought it? Where had she found it? Surely it was a miracle, since everything from bread to beef was now very hard to find. We all had been given green ration cards. Just about everything was rationed, so that nobody would get more than anybody else. Extra rations were issued to children, but candy was considered a luxury. Surely, marzipan was the biggest luxury of all.
Before I could take out the card that would tell me who gave me this wonderful gift, the door opened softly and Miss Carter came to stand by my bed.
“Good morning, dear,” she greeted me cheerfully. “Sleep well? You don't mind my coming in, do you? I'd like to talk to you.”
What was wrong? Had I done something bad?
“Put on your dressing gown, it's cold today. Mind if I sit here?”
She settled herself on the edge of my bed, ignoring the
mess of red paper and my beautiful marzipan cake. I could feel it getting warm and soft under my hand.
mess of red paper and my beautiful marzipan cake. I could feel it getting warm and soft under my hand.
“I'll get straight to the point. You know that most of our girls will not be back until the war is over. A lot of my teachers, too. I have to make a difficult decision, dear. I may be forced to close the school.”
“Close the school? But ⦔ My mouth stayed open. She sat ramrod straight. Her eyes, behind her steel-rimmed glasses, were fixed on something outside the window. Slowly she turned and patted my hand.
“Don't worry. I've taken care of you, dear. In fact, I wrote to your parents only a few days ago. I told them that I would be ready to be your legal guardian in the event ⦔ She swallowed and seemed to have a hard time speaking to me. “ ⦠in the unlikely event, my dear, that anything should happen to them. You've heard from them not so long ago, haven't you?”
My head was spinning from all the information she had just packed into this fast-moving little speech. Even though my English was by now very good, I had trouble, this particular morning, keeping up with her.
Close the school? Legal guardian? In the event that �
“Heard from them?” I said. “Yes, I think about two weeks ago. Yes, week before last. A fortnight, I remember. The day of the exams. Arithmetic was hard, and Latin. But I did well in drawing and music.” I rambled on.
“The usual Red Cross postcard, I suppose?”
“Yes. Twenty-five words. It took a long time to get here. Mama and Papa said they were coming soon. The card was sent over a month ago.”
My fingers were making dents in the mushy marzipan. Miss Carter cleared her throat and dabbed at her eyes behind her glasses.
“Well, we've all been praying for them, dear. Now, about you. How would you like to spend the holidays with June's family? You know her father is my brother. They have a nice little house ⦔
“Will June be there?” I interrupted, suddenly feeling more cheerful.
“If she gets leave from the army. You can pack your things today, and tomorrow I will take you there on the bus.”
She must have seen me looking, just for a second, at the Good Shepherd. “Do you like that picture, dear?” With one purposeful movement she rose and took it off the wall. “Here, dear. It's yours. Get dressed now and go down. Cook has your porridge waiting for you.” She was at the door. Then she turned. “Do you like your present, dear? It's from all the teachers.” Then she left. I stared after her, forgetting to close my mouth.
I didn't go down right away. I sat, dressed in my robe, on the edge of my bed, fingering my marzipan. All the teachers? Wow! I took a small bite out of it. It didn't taste
quite the same as it used to at home. As I chewed, I kept staring at the picture in my hand, which was now mine.
quite the same as it used to at home. As I chewed, I kept staring at the picture in my hand, which was now mine.
“Please, don't let anything happen to Mama and Papa,” I whispered. I didn't know whether I was praying to a badly painted picture of an unlikely dressed man, or to God, or to what. I just kept saying it over and over again:
“Please don't let anything happen to Mama and Papa.”
EVACUATED REFUGEE
W
e arrived in Wellingborough the next evening. Two people about Mama's and Papa's ages were waiting to greet us. A wonderful smell came from somewhere in back. It was too dark in the hallway to see where it was coming from, but it reminded me of the cookies Frieda and I used to bake at home, in Stuttgart.
e arrived in Wellingborough the next evening. Two people about Mama's and Papa's ages were waiting to greet us. A wonderful smell came from somewhere in back. It was too dark in the hallway to see where it was coming from, but it reminded me of the cookies Frieda and I used to bake at home, in Stuttgart.
“Welcome to Kirkholm,” the woman said and shook my hand. “You can call me Auntie Mona. And this is Uncle Larry.” She nodded her head toward her husband and went on talking. “We call our house Kirkholm. You see, we English like to give our houses names. It gives them an identity. You must have noticed that they all look alike. This street looks like any other street in any other town, and all the houses look one like the other. All semidetached. But a sign in the front somewhere that tells you what the name of this house is ⦠well, it gives it a distinction, you see. âKirkholm' means âChurch Home.' From the Scottish. I'm part Scottish myself. The other
part of me comes from the French Huguenots. They were persecuted by the Catholics and driven out of France.”
part of me comes from the French Huguenots. They were persecuted by the Catholics and driven out of France.”
I didn't know if she meant recently, the way I was driven out of Germany. But by now we were taking our coats off, and anyway, I was too shy to ask. My eyes had adjusted to the dimness and I was starting to look around.
Kirkholm was built narrow and long. A tiny garden patch, the size of a flower bed, faced the street. Although it was December, there was still one faded rose stubbornly hanging on to its long stem. The wind was doing its best to blow it down, but it clung to its stem and leaned up against the wrought-iron fence at the edge of the sidewalk. There was a little gate there. Everybody in England had a gate like that.
The front door had stained glass in it near the top, for the sun to shine through during the day. But now it was evening and getting dark. Immediately to one side was the Sunday parlor. Like all English rooms I'd seen, the parlor had a fireplace. This was probably the largest room in the house, but since this was not Sunday, the fire was not lit. I noticed an old upright piano against the wall. There was an open hymn book on the stand above the closed lid, and more hymn books were stacked on the floor. I can't wait till Sunday, I thought to myself. I loved singing hymns. My favorite was “Let Me Count My Blessings.”
Across the narrow hall, opposite the Sunday parlor, was a staircase. Just under the stairs, facing the hallway, was a
tiny door. I wondered what was behind it and where it led.
tiny door. I wondered what was behind it and where it led.
“It's a bit dark here,” Auntie Mona laughed. “We'll have to light the gas pretty soon, Larry.”
Light the gas? Whatever did she mean? Everyone had electricity, didn't they? Wrong. Not in this house. Uncle Larry saw the puzzled look on my face as I watched him reach up to the little globe inside the glass lamp on the wall and hold a long lighted match to it. A faint blue glow quickly grew into a soft yellow light. It didn't make too much difference really. At most, now, you could just about see where you were going.
“Never saw gaslight before, eh?” asked Uncle Larry. “Well now, I say this, young lady. What was good enough for my father, I say, is good enough for me. Never had much use for those newfangled inventions, is what I say. You'll get used to it, girl.”
“Oh, Larry! Can't you see she's tired and hungry?” chided Auntie Mona. “Let's go in the kitchen and have a nice cup o' tea. She can see the upstairs later.” A kettle was already whistling away on the stove.
I skipped behind her and Miss Carter into the kitchen as Uncle Larry quickly disappeared out the back door.
Auntie Mona asked: “Have you tasted mince pie yet?”
I shook my head.
“No? Well then, we have a treat for you. I've been baking all afternoon. Mince pies are a tradition here in England at this time of year. Sit down.”
Miss Carter and I made ourselves comfortable at the kitchen table as Auntie Mona held up a big tray filled with little pies, no bigger than my hand. The spicy, fruity smell was heavenly. “Here, take one. They're still warm. It won't spoil your appetite for supper, I shouldn't think. You look like you could use some fattening up. You like it? I thought you would. Have another. Happy Christmas.”
“They're wonderful, Mona,” said Miss Carter. She hadn't said more than two words till now. “What kind of suet did you use? Wherever were you able to get the mince meat? Everything is so hard to come by these days, and when you do find what you're looking for, it's too expensive.” They started talking about recipes and about the high cost of necessities, while I munched happily away and helped myself to more. Then came a lull in their conversation, and Auntie Mona suddenly remembered me.
“Ready to see where you'll be sleeping? Have another, first. No? Right, you'd better not or you won't have any room for your supper, will you?” She turned to Miss Carter. “You're staying, aren't you, Ellen?”
Miss Carter shook her head. “I'd best be going back before it gets too late. It's so dark these nights, what with the blackout and everything. And you never know if there's to be an air raid or not. Jerry's been flying over more and more lately. We're lucky we haven't been hit yet.”
Jerry was the English nickname for the Germans.
“That reminds me,” said Auntie Mona. “I want to show you where your air-raid shelter is, Olga.”
“My air-raid shelter?”
“Right. We don't expect too much bombing in these parts. That's why Miss Carter brought you here. We're in the Midlands. Too far inland for Jerry most of the time. But just in case ⦠. And anyway, the air-raid warden said we had to have something if we're to have children here. What I'm showing you was his idea.”
To my great surprise, she led me to the little door underneath the stairs. When she opened it, I saw a tiny space, just big enough for someone my size to crawl into. “It used to be the broom storage,” said Auntie Mona. I saw a mattress on the floor, made up with sheets and blankets and a pillow. It looked very cozy.
“When the sirens go off, whatever time of night, you jump into your clothes and come down here and snuggle up in this bed and go back to sleep.”
“In my clothes?”
“Yes. That's what the air-raid warden said. You lay out your clothes on the chair next to your bed upstairsâI'll show it to you in a minuteâso all you have to do is jump into them. The whole thing should take less than two minutes, with a little practice. You needn't wear your shoes, but bring them. And don't forget your gas mask, of course.”
“Of course.”
Miss Carter kissed me good-bye on my forehead and
left before supper. Uncle Larry had come back by that time, with something limp and furry hanging over the handlebar of his rusty old bike. A gun was slung over his shoulder. His cap was pulled down over his forehead, against the wind. His nose was red and dripping.
left before supper. Uncle Larry had come back by that time, with something limp and furry hanging over the handlebar of his rusty old bike. A gun was slung over his shoulder. His cap was pulled down over his forehead, against the wind. His nose was red and dripping.
“Brought you a rabbit, girl,” he sniffed. He was quite pleased with himself. “Your Auntie will make us a nice rabbit pie out of that.” He sneezed and blew his nose and rubbed his hands together. “Getting a bit chilly out there.”
I had never heard of rabbit pie. I wasn't sure I would like it. But I was wrong. It was truly delicious. So was everything else that Auntie Mona cooked. Though how she managed it, I'll never know. Just about everything was rationed now. With our ration cards, we could still buy a certain quantity of hard-to-get foods, such as meat and margarine. Oranges and bananas were no longer seen. Eggs were in short supply, and powdered eggs soon came to be a regular staple; also powdered milk. Children under sixteen got double rations. In that way, I suppose, I contributed to my benefactors' household. Also, the Jewish Refugee Committee in London paid Auntie Mona a small sum of money for taking me in.
But Uncle Larry, being Uncle Larry, did not rely on ration cards alone. Besides going out regularly to shoot rabbits or quail, he also tended a “Victory Garden.” I will tell you about the Victory Garden in a minute. First I have to describe for you my first air raid.
As I told you, the bedrooms were upstairs. Uncle Larry and Auntie Mona had the big one in front. I soon discovered a wondrous picture hanging over their bed. I couldn't believe my eyes when I first saw that young maiden, her hair flowing in the wind, and clad in only a wisp of a shawl. She was running merrily through the woods with her beautiful Greek god, whose only adornment was the helmet on his head. Understand that Auntie Mona came from a Baptist missionary family. She was born in China. Life at Kirkholm was very strict. It centered around hymns and prayers and the Good Book. Sin was a major concern around here. But I couldn't help from sinning, try as I might. I studied that picture earnestly every time I had to go in that room. I knew I should not, but I loved that picture. It became my favorite, nearly replacing the Good Shepherd.
My own room was the next one along. It was filled up completely by the big double bed in the center. There was just enough room for a chair on each side of it, and a dresser with a washbowl and pitcher on top. This pitcher was filled with fresh water every day. I was expected to pour some of that into the bowl and wash myself each morning. There was no heat upstairs, so many a winter morning I found a thin layer of ice floating on top in my pitcher. Washing became, at most, “a lick and a promise.” At night, I folded my clothes and laid them on the chair in such a way that I could jump into them at the first sound of the air-raid siren. Auntie Mona let me hang my
Good Shepherd on the wall where I could see him when I lay in my bed. There was also, under the bed, a chamber pot, made of blue and white porcelain.
Good Shepherd on the wall where I could see him when I lay in my bed. There was also, under the bed, a chamber pot, made of blue and white porcelain.
There was, in fact, a bathroom down the hall. It was a complicated affair. You had to pull on a chain to flush the toilet, but you had to do it just right or it didn't work. It was freezing cold in there, as was the whole upstairs. The bathwater was heated in a boiler above the tub, which you had to turn on before you wanted to use it. Everybody took a bath once a week. Believe me, we didn't dawdle.
Two other little bedrooms snuggled up together at the back of the house. You had to walk through the bathroom to get to them. One was June's when she came home on leave from the army. The other belonged to her brother James. James was a sailor. Neither was home when I first came to live at Kirkholm.
That very first night I got to experience my first air raid. I was all curled up into a ball and had just managed to warm up a spot under my mountain of blankets, talking to Mama and Papa in my head. Perhaps I had fallen asleep; it's possible. The wail of the siren brought me out of my warm nest in a second. My feet touched the cold floor before it stopped. My clothes were on me while its last groan was still hanging in the night air. Shoes and flashlight in hand, gas mask slung over my shoulder, I
flew downstairs. I crawled into my shelter, and Auntie Mona came to help me fix the blankets up to my chin. Then all was quiet. I could hear her puttering about in the kitchen. I could hear her talking to Uncle Larry, and I could hear him answering her back. They both talked in low voices. My eyes were wide open, trained on the crack of light coming through a chink in the door of my cubbyhole. That gas light didn't seem as dim as before. I was glad to have it there.
flew downstairs. I crawled into my shelter, and Auntie Mona came to help me fix the blankets up to my chin. Then all was quiet. I could hear her puttering about in the kitchen. I could hear her talking to Uncle Larry, and I could hear him answering her back. They both talked in low voices. My eyes were wide open, trained on the crack of light coming through a chink in the door of my cubbyhole. That gas light didn't seem as dim as before. I was glad to have it there.
Then I heard a new sound.
Brrum
â¦
brrrum
â¦
brrummm
⦠. I knew it had to be a plane. The question was, was it Jerry or one of ours? In time I was to learn the difference, just from the sound. But not yet. The Blitz of London had only just begun.
Brrum
â¦
brrrum
â¦
brrummm
⦠. I knew it had to be a plane. The question was, was it Jerry or one of ours? In time I was to learn the difference, just from the sound. But not yet. The Blitz of London had only just begun.
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