I spotted a slim young man who reminded me of Uncle Moric Gottlieb from Przemyśl. When he saw me, he ran over and started hugging me. It was, in fact, Ludwik Gottlieb, my third cousin once removed on my father’s side. I’d only met him once in Przemyśl when I was little, but even then he bore a strong resemblance to his father. Everyone called him Ludek (in Poland, nearly every name was made into a diminutive). When he finally let go of me, he looked me up and down.
“My goodness, how you have grown,” he marveled. Somehow he thought I had remained the same age, six or seven.
The formalities and the trip to London took several hours. I’d packed a small trunk of clothes that I’d accumulated in Katowice. I sat on a bus in awe of others and how polite they were—schoolgirls in hats and uniforms, laughing and babbling in a language I didn’t understand. The single word I understood was “yes.” In those first days in London, English sounded incomprehensible to my ears. How would I ever learn and understand those impossible sounds? The city itself was overwhelming, its crowds of people, the way they were dressed, red double-decker buses and streetcars, stores that looked grand, although England had just begun to recover from bombings during the war. Comparing it to Poland, it was luxurious.
Nothing else mattered. I was in London! What a glorious feeling, so indescribable, so amazing, so English! Three months before, I’d been destitute, depressed and desperate, with no future or hope, no way of improving my lot. And now I was in London without cares or fear. I didn’t speak English and most British people didn’t speak Polish, so we had no way of communicating. I never thought of this problem before I left Poland, but having my cousin speak Polish solved the problem upon arrival.
Cousin Ludek took me by several buses to the center of London. He brought me to his tiny flat where his wife, Joan, and baby son, Stephen, were both sick in bed. Joan spoke only English. The Gottliebs’ flat was tiny, just one room, so Ludek wanted to treat me by giving me a memorable welcome to London and a deluxe one for a young orphan from Poland. Later I found out that booking a room for me at the hotel was quite a financial sacrifice, because the Gottliebs had to count their pennies. Joan was a nurse but was not working then, having just given birth. And the BBC where Ludek worked didn’t pay much. Ludek and I waved to Joan and left for the hotel.
Ludek advised me that since I spoke no English, when I went to the dining room the next morning, I should say “Yes, please,” to all the questions that the waitress would ask. He told me that breakfast came with the hotel room and I could have anything that was offered. He told me he’d pick me up after breakfast before going to BBC.
Having a hotel room all to myself seemed grand. The bed was made up in a way I’d never seen before. The blanket and the counterpane were tucked tightly under the mattress. Not wanting to disturb the bed, I found it difficult sliding in between the sheets. The sheets were typically cold, almost damp, since the English weather was very damp. Eventually I slipped between the tight sheets and within minutes I was asleep.
The next morning, I dressed and feeling rather hungry, I took a lift downstairs to the dining room. I was seated at a table by the window with a white tablecloth and napkin and several pieces of cutlery. A friendly waitress asked a question and I said very proudly, “Yes, please.” She brought me a pot of tea, a pitcher of milk, and a toast in a toast rack. I’d never seen a toast rack before. Then she asked me other questions and porridge appeared with cream and brown sugar on the side. I’d never eaten porridge, but it tasted delicious in my empty stomach. Next came a plate with two fried eggs, bacon, and bangers or English sausage—a delicious new taste— as well as a triangle of fried bread with baked beans. Evidently, I’d ordered everything on the menu, except for smoked Scottish trout. I had never eaten such a huge and delicious breakfast nor had I ever eaten so much at one meal. Reality began to sink in. I was in the fabulous city of London and had eaten an English breakfast in a hotel! It was a new world with strange people whom I couldn’t understand, nor could they understand me. What a wonderful experience! I then waited for Ludek, but the wait seemed rather long, so I decided to go to his flat and surprise him.
When he opened the door, he was shocked.
“Why didn’t you wait for me, Gerda? I told you I’d pick you up at the hotel.”
“When you didn’t come, I thought I’d come to your flat,” I answered.
“But my dear child, you don’t speak any English, what if you’d gotten lost?”
“But I didn’t,” I replied, proud of myself.
Ludek went to work, and I stayed home with Joan and the baby. Joan tried out her few Polish words, trying to teach me basic English vocabulary.
After a while, she and the baby fell asleep, as they were still under the weather. I decided to cook something for that night’s dinner. I found enough food in the tiny little fridge to actually make a meal. I found some potatoes, enough flour and an egg for the dumplings and made paluszki, gnocchi in the form of a finger. I found bacon rinds with fat remaining, which Joan was going to throw out. Instead, I rendered the fat and fried onions in it. I also made peas and carrots with butter and brown sugar. When Ludek returned that evening from the BBC, I served them dinner. My cooking brought back memories for Ludek. He remarked how much my dishes tasted like his own mother’s. He said it was the first time since leaving Poland that he’d eaten these dishes.
The next morning, I bade goodbye to Joan and baby Stephen. Ludek put me on a train going north to Leeds. Aunt Eveline was waiting for me at the station. She was a small, plump lady with white hair, rosy cheeks, and a sweet smile. I’d met my father’s sister once before the war. It felt so good to live with a member of my family and to be able to converse with her. Of course, anything would be better than living in post-war Poland, and I expected that my future would be very different than it had been with Tarasiukowa in Poznań. I looked forward to meeting her husband, Uncle Molek, who used to stop in Przemyśl on business trips to Russia. In my haste to leave Poland, I hadn’t given much thought to how I’d support myself or whether I’d be happy living with relatives. I hadn’t made firm plans about schooling or a future profession. But I was positive in my outlook and determined to do my very best. First of all, I had to learn the language to be able to function in a new country, which so far had accepted me without any restrictions.
On the bus, Aunt Eva and I spoke Polish. She brought me to her home at 19 Ashgrove, where she lived with her husband and two sons, Walter and Fred. I was given my own room, an extravagance, and assigned a day of the week on which I might bathe, as heating was rationed; England was still suffering from shortages. If you missed your one designated day, you had to wait till the next week for that opportunity to bathe again. Certain foods were also rationed: sugar, butter, eggs, and meat. One had to have a coupon for clothing and shoes. But by comparison to the privations in Poland, everything seemed plentiful and lavish. Walter, my older cousin, counseled me to listen to the radio in order to get familiar with English. Try as I might, the only words I could make out in the jumble were “yes” and “no” and “please.” My cousins spoke only German and English, so with my smattering of German, we could have a minimal conversation.
One day, a few days after my arrival, I ventured to do some shopping for my aunt. I went to the greengrocer, having memorized the words I’d need to ask for things at the store. I repeated the words all the way to the store: “I want to buy thick rhubarb. Please give me eight sticks.” When I got to the shop, the greengrocer asked, “What do you want, loov (love)?” This form of endearment took me aback. How dare he call me “loov” when we’d never met? Was he being fresh? I couldn’t answer him since my English vocabulary was limited. I just said, “I want sick rhubarb.” In Yorkshire, calling someone love was common, similar to using “Miss” or “Mrs.” I decided to ignore the way he addressed me and repeated the words I’d memorized. This made the greengrocer chuckle. “Sick rhubarb? Sick?” He held his head as if he had a headache. “You don’t want sick rh
ubarb, loov, what you want is thick rhubarb.” He repeated the word a few times more: thick. Politely I smiled, as he chose the rhubarb, but I couldn’t understand why he was repeating the same words I’d used, over and over. I took coins from my purse, paid for the rhubarb, and he gave me change. Later, I related what had happened at the grocers to my aunt, and she laughed, explaining my mispronunciation.
You see, there is no “th” sound in the Polish language, so I had to learn that pronunciation and practice that sound. The pronunciation changed the meaning of the word. I wasn’t alone; many foreigners have had the greatest trouble pronouncing “th” words and therefore speak English with a thick accent.
Both Walter and Fred, born in Vienna and raised in Munich, spoke fluent English and German. My German was minimal at best, so I couldn’t converse with them. I understood the language better than I could speak. It was frustrating, not knowing how my life would turn out, but my main focus would be learning the new, baffling language and catching up with my neglected education.
My aunt thought that if I were to live with an English-speaking family, I might be able to learn English more quickly. She’d heard about Professor Vincent Benn, who taught French at Leeds University. His wife, Mildred, taught French in high school and English to foreign students during the summer. It was decided that I would go to live with the Benns that summer. They lived in Otley, a charming little township near Yorkshire Moors and Dales, a scant half hour from Leeds by bus.
One June day I packed my belongings into a suitcase and boarded a bus to Otley. Though I hadn’t met the Benns, I was full of expectations and optimistic about learning English. It would certainly be another new experience for me. I got off the bus and walked via the directions I’d been given. Otley was a town with typical streets, shops, and flowers growing in front of stores and at street corners. I came upon a typical looking English home with a large rounded window of the master bedroom that faced a charming rose garden. Suitcase in hand, I rang the bell. A little blue-eyed blonde girl, Julia, opened the door and I immediately introduced myself as Gerda. She looked up at me with serious eyes. “Gerda,” Julia said in her lovely British accent, “Do you know how to spell the word ‘beautiful’?” In fact, I did know, and I spelled it for her slowly and carefully.
“Oh, Gerda” she said, “you’re so clever!”
During the war I’d frequently been told how stupid I was, how badly I had done everything, and all of a sudden, I was told a moment after our meeting that I was clever, there on a strange threshold in England, simply said by a lovely little girl. What a promising introduction to the Benn family! I then met Mildred Benn, a tall, slender woman with a kind smile and friendly demeanor. Dr. Vincent Benn appeared, smiling and welcoming. Finally, I met Nicholas, an eight-year-old boy, who was quite serious but had the same smile as his father. They showed me “my” room along with the rest of the lived-in and cozy house, with its many books and articles piled everywhere.
They told me that from then on I was to speak only English, no matter how badly I mispronounced words or messed up grammar. When I made a mistake, I was told to try to correct it myself; the Benn children never laughed at my many mistakes and botched pronunciations. They informed me why a certain expression was wrong, or when I used the wrong grammar, so that I wouldn’t repeat the same mistake. Since it was summer, there was no school for the children, so they spent all days with us. Each day after breakfast, I helped with the dishes, and then the four of us would go to a farm to buy fresh vegetables and greens, and strawberries for teatime. Everything was new to me, pleasant and enjoyable and so normal. The Benns didn’t own a car; they never did. They either walked or took a bus, but bus transportation was very good. As we walked on the moors, Mildred named all the flowers and bushes we came upon during our climb. She had a vast knowledge of flora and enjoyed sharing it. We all loved being in the outdoors and absorbed Mildred’s information. The children were never bored during our walks; they skipped, picked flowers, and asked their mother the names of plants, or remarked about everything they did or saw.
Our life was without stress and happy. While Vincent went to the University by bus each day, we tidied up the house. All four of us did household chores and spent afternoons in the garden, planting and weeding or walking the moors with its greenery and heather, its wildlife.
Teatime, an old English tradition, was an important meal of the day, during which the whole family gathered and discussed any subject that was interesting or new. The children participated in the conversation, telling stories or asking questions; they never interrupted when the adults spoke and always asked politely if they could be excused from the table, once they’d finished eating. Their good manners and politeness made a deep impression on me.
Mildred spent time teaching me the fundamentals of English, making it painless and easy to absorb. As the days passed, my speaking and understanding of English improved without my noticing it. I soon became comfortable in conversing with everyone, and most people congratulated me on how well I used the language.
In truth, my English wasn’t as wonderful as all that. Most English people who spoke only their native language said they would never have made as much progress learning Polish as I had in English in such a short time. Nicholas liked to give me dictations on spelling. He’d quiz me on spelling and grammar. One day he dictated the word “weather” and while I understood there were two meanings and spellings for that word, I didn’t know which one he meant. When I asked Nicholas which of the two words he wanted me to spell, he shyly replied, “You know, Gerda, I don’t know myself.” He was a lovely boy.
The summer months sped by, and when the fall arrived, I felt much better prepared to deal with my future. I said goodbye to the Benns and returned to Leeds. I wanted to get a job in a department store. We did not have large department stores in Poland and I thought that kind of work would be interesting and offer lots of experience and opportunities. After a couple of inquiries, I found out that such large stores would not hire foreigners who spoke with an accent. I almost got a job in a Jewish bakery in the Jewish section of Leeds, but the owner of the bakery often spoke Yiddish, and his wife expected me to help with the household. This job didn’t sound like what I was looking for, and there was certainly no opportunity to improve my English.
In the postwar days, a foreigner in England could only get one of three jobs: nursing, domestic, and land army. Land army meant working on the farm or the fields, because even after the war, men remained in service. The land army had been created during the war, due to shortage of manpower. Women worked in the fields, farmed, and tended livestock, performing all the tasks of men. They wore smart uniforms when off duty, beige jodhpurs and tall, shiny brown boots, looking like they were ready to go horseback riding. I was a city girl and didn’t think that working in the fields was my first choice. Nursing didn’t appeal to me either, in part because my aunt had suggested I try it. Since I didn’t know how to bandage a finger, I felt nursing school would not be right for me.
Domestic work, on the other hand, was something I’d done for the past four years back in Poland, and though I certainly didn’t plan on being a domestic all my life, I figured that I might be able to arrange my hours so that I could both work and go to school. Finding a job was easy since there was a great shortage of domestic help in those days. I wanted to be independent and make my own choices and I didn’t want to ask my aunt for spending money.
I also thought of going to art school to study commercial art one day. I went with Aunt Eva to Leeds University for the interview and showed the art professor my small portfolio of paintings and drawings. He was quite frank with me. He said that I had some talent but was no genius, and I knew that. He did add that after training in commercial art for three years, I could become a competent artist. He hastened to add that if a man and a woman applied for the same commercial art position, the man would surely get the job, even if the female applicant were the better artist of the two.
Dis
mayed at the professor’s frank assessment about the inequality among the sexes in the work force and not being able to afford the tuition, I decided on the spot to abandon my dreams of becoming an artist and take a job as a domestic, going to school in the evenings.
The family I worked for consisted of a husband, a wife, and an eighteen-year-old daughter, Zena. Zena and I were about the same age, but we lived a very different existence. Friday night was date night for Zena; she spent hours dressing, changing her clothing again and again, and picking out the right shade of nail polish. As she prepared herself, I occupied my time with polishing an antique sterling centerpiece on the dining table. It was a huge piece, decorated with birds, tree branches, and very intricate flowers. Nestled in its branches were crystal bowls to hold chocolates, nuts, and fruit. The piece was exquisite, but polishing its every nook and cranny on Friday nights was time-consuming and laborious. It made me see how different my life was compared to Zena’s. I promised myself then, that if ever I became wealthy, I wouldn’t buy any object of sterling silver, even if I had a maid. What a waste of my time on Friday nights! I wondered if I’d ever be free to do what I desired, free to go on dates or just read and relax or go to a movie. I really couldn’t imagine how I’d deal with such a situation. I never experienced going with girlfriends to the pictures, never had dates, and had no girlfriends. I couldn’t carry on a conversation.
In school, I signed up for shorthand and typing classes, as well as English and Russian. At that time, I was quite fluent in Russian, having learned it while under Russian occupation. I felt that the language might be useful in the future and needed some improvement.
The Girl in the Cellar Page 10
