by Helen Peters
CHAPTER SIX
Anna Must Go
A few days later, Uncle Paul came out of Buchenwald too. Since the Nazis had taken his home, he came to live with us until he could get to France. His emigration papers had expired while he was in the concentration camp, so he had to go to the consulates every day to try to get the necessary permissions again.
Papa couldn’t go back to work. While he was in Buchenwald, the Nazis took his publishing company. They made a law that all Jewish businesses had to be transferred to non-Jewish owners.
Now it wasn’t only Uncle Paul telling him we had to get out of Germany. Everyone we knew told us to leave. And Papa, who looked older and sadder every day, finally agreed. He left the apartment each morning at the same time as before, but instead of going to his office he and Uncle Paul spent every day in queues at the foreign consulates, trying to get the right papers to go to America, Holland or England. But every week the Nazis were making new rules about emigration, and each new law meant new documents were needed. You had to have several different documents before they would let you leave, and each one was only valid for a short time, so it was very difficult to have all the right papers at once. Every day, Papa and Uncle Paul came home looking more tired and more defeated.
One Monday morning, in April 1939, while Papa was out, a letter arrived for Mama. She took it to the kitchen and sat at the table, where I was learning English vocabulary. The kitchen table was one of the only pieces of furniture we had left after Kristallnacht.
I glanced at Mama as she read the letter. She was whiter than I had ever seen her.
“Who’s it from?” I asked.
She didn’t answer. Her hands shook as she put the letter back in the envelope and tucked it in her apron pocket. I didn’t ask her again. I was too scared of what the answer might be.
All day, my stomach was knotted with worry. I tried to work on my English, but I couldn’t concentrate. I tried to read a book, but I couldn’t take in the words. I did some drawing, but it didn’t take my mind off the letter. What did it say? Were they going to take Papa away again? Were they going to take us all away?
Papa came home in the afternoon, tired and preoccupied. Paul had gone to visit a friend. Mama made my favourite supper of little sausages and potato salad. It was her favourite supper too, but that evening she hardly ate any of it. Her face was strained and she just pushed the food around the plate. Papa barely spoke, and he didn’t seem to notice how tense Mama was. Their quietness paralysed me into silence, too. The meal seemed to last forever.
Eventually, when Papa and I had finished eating, Mama looked up from her plate.
“I had a letter today,” she said.
I stopped breathing. Papa looked up expectantly. Mama took a long quavery breath.
“There’s a place for Anna on a children’s transport going to England.”
I stared at her. “For me?”
She nodded.
“Just me? On my own? Without you?”
Mama nodded again. My insides felt as though they had been scooped out.
“No. I’m not going on my own. I can’t go without you.”
I turned to Papa. He had gone completely white.
“I can’t, can I, Papa? Tell Mama I can’t go.”
Papa said nothing. I felt hollow.
Mama’s hands were gripping the table. “It’s only for a little while. It will give me and Papa time to get everything sorted out here, and then we can come and join you.”
“But why can’t we all go together? What’s a children’s transport, anyway?”
“Frau Heinkel told me about it.” Her voice was strained and her eyes didn’t meet mine. “People are organising trains to take Jewish children to England, to live with foster families. I put your name on the list. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think you’d get a place. But I heard this morning that you have, and there’s a kind family in England who have offered to take you in.”
“But I don’t want to live with another family!”
“It’s just for a short time. Until we get our papers. They’re making it easier for children to get papers, you see, so you can go first. As soon as we can, we’ll come and join you.”
“With the same family?”
“If we can, yes. Or close by, anyway.”
Suddenly I had an idea that filled me with relief.
“I can find work for you!”
If I could do a useful job, then there was some sense in my going to England before them.
“When I get to England, I’ll ask everybody I meet, and I’ll find jobs for both of you.”
I expected Papa to object, but he just sat with his head bowed so I couldn’t see his expression. Mama gave me a tight smile. Her cheeks were flushed and she looked feverish.
I couldn’t bear the silence.
“When am I leaving?”
Mama hesitated and glanced at Papa. When she spoke, her voice was choked.
“Wednesday.”
I stared at her. “Next Wednesday? In six days?”
Mama nodded. I had that hollowed-out feeling again.
“Who are the family? What are they like? What if they don’t like me?”
“Of course they’ll like you,” said Mama. She tried to turn her strained expression into a smile. “Who could help liking you?”
I thought of everyone at school turning their backs when I tried to talk to them.
“But who are they?” I asked. “Are they Jewish?”
“I don’t know anything about them,” said Mama, “but I know they’ll be good people. The British government has agreed to take in Jewish children, to keep them safe, and kind people all over Britain have volunteered to be foster parents.”
I said nothing. Why couldn’t we be safe in our own country? Why should we have to leave our home? My hatred for Hitler surged up so violently that I wanted to hit something.
“Walter?” said Mama. “Are you all right? What do you think?”
Papa’s face was tight and tense, and frighteningly white. His eyes were shining with unshed tears. I turned cold with shock. I had never seen him cry.
He swallowed and nodded. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and flat.
“Yes,” he said. “Anna must go.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
One Small Suitcase
Children travelling on the Kindertransport were allowed to take one small suitcase each. We all had to carry our own cases, so they couldn’t be too heavy. We weren’t allowed to take anything valuable out of the country, and only ten marks each in money.
Mama paid Frau Heinkel to make new dresses for me, some in my size and some bigger, in case I grew quickly. They were lovely dresses. Mama embroidered my name in all of them. I tried to imagine myself wearing them in England.
I didn’t even know which part of Britain my foster family lived in. Would I be walking by the River Thames in London wearing that wool dress, gazing up at Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament? Or would I be high up in the Scottish mountains?
Maybe they lived by the sea. I had never seen the sea, but now I would be crossing it to get to England. Every day I traced the journey on the map in my children’s atlas. Across Germany to the Dutch border, then through Holland to the English Channel, and over the sea to the port of Harwich, on the east coast of England. And from there to an unknown family.
At night, I lay in bed trying to imagine every possible type of family, so I would be prepared for whoever I ended up with. I imagined old parents and young ones; city families and country families; rich and poor; good-looking and ugly; parents with babies and parents with teenagers; families with one child and families with ten.
What if they weren’t nice to me? What if they were mean, cruel people?
But they wouldn’t be, would they? If they had offered to take in a refugee child, they must be good and kind.
Once my clothes and shoes were packed, there wasn’t much room for anything else.
“Just one toy and one b
ook, I’m afraid,” said Mama. “When we come to join you, we can bring some more. And we’ll pack up everything else carefully and leave it with friends until we get back.”
It wasn’t hard to decide which toy to take. There was no way I could have left Alfred behind. He had shared my bed for my whole life. Having him with me would be almost like travelling with a friend.
It was horrible to have to leave all the others behind though. Even though a lot of my toys were too young for me now, I didn’t want to be parted from them. Papa said the foster family would probably have things I could play with, but that wasn’t really the point. And anyway, what if they didn’t want me playing with their things?
But I didn’t say that aloud.
The worst thing was choosing which book to take. How could I possibly decide?
It seemed more sensible to take one I hadn’t read yet, but that was such a risk. What if it wasn’t any good? Then my only book would be one I didn’t even like.
In the end, I decided on Heidi. I loved that book and I knew it would be a comfort. After all, Heidi also had to leave her home to live with people she’d never met, and everything worked out well in the end.
“As soon as we have your address, we can send you some more books,” Mama said. “You can write and tell us which you’d like.”
“But what if the Nazis don’t let you send them?”
“I’m sure they won’t make a fuss about a few books,” she said.
I didn’t believe her. It was obvious that the Nazis didn’t want us to have anything at all. Why would they let me have my books?
The train was due to leave at midnight on Wednesday. I normally had to go to bed at nine, so, despite the strangeness of everything, it felt quite exciting to be up so late. Mama made my favourite supper again. Uncle Paul was very jolly.
“I expect the king and queen will be there to welcome you,” he said. “Be sure to curtsy nicely, and then you might get invited to tea with the princesses.”
Mama insisted on doing one last check of my suitcase, even though we had checked and packed it a hundred times. She slipped in a photograph of her and Papa, and then she put my writing case on top of everything else. “It will remind you to write to us as soon as you get there. You can write on the train, and then the minute you arrive in England you can post the letter, and we’ll know you’ve arrived safely. Promise you’ll do that.”
I promised. And then I tucked a little bundle of drawing pencils between my folded clothes.
Mama and Papa were so worried about being late that we set off hours early. The train was leaving from Frankfurt, so we had to take a bus to the city. It wasn’t cold outside, but to save room in my suitcase I was wearing my winter coat, hat and scarf, as well as several layers of clothing, so I was hot and sticky and really uncomfortable.
The whole way to Frankfurt, Mama and Papa each held one of my hands. Mama’s hand clutched mine so tightly I was worried she would crush my bones.
When we got to the station, Papa carried my case, and in her free hand Mama held a paper bag full of food for the journey. We had to bring enough food to last until we got to England.
Even though we were early, the platform was already packed with parents and children. SS men were striding about, keeping an eye on everyone, shouting at people and sometimes hitting somebody just for fun. Some children were crying. Much worse, some parents were crying.
“Don’t cry, will you?” I said to Mama. I could be brave as long as my parents were.
Mama flashed me a smile. “Of course not.” She seemed all right, but her face was very red and, when I kissed her, her cheeks were boiling hot.
“You will come soon, won’t you?” I said.
“Very soon, God willing.”
Those last two words sent a chill through me. What did that mean?
I locked the thought away in the box inside my head.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Try to Be Happy
We had to line up on the platform. My parents stood in line with me, still gripping my hands. A kind-looking man who wasn’t in uniform started calling out our names.
I waited and waited. Almost all the children were on the train now. Had there been some terrible mistake? Maybe I wasn’t on the list after all.
I was sure my parents were having the same worry, because they stopped talking and just stared, as rigid as statues, at the man calling out the names. I was so tense I could hardly breathe.
I realised, to my surprise, that I would be devastated if I couldn’t leave on this train. I had to get to England. I had to find jobs for my parents so they could get out too.
“Anna Schlesinger?” the man called.
I felt dizzy with relief. Dragging my parents behind me, I went to the table where the man was sitting. A lady hung a cardboard label with a number on it on a piece of string around my neck. Another lady tied a label with the same number to my suitcase.
“You can get on the train now,” she said.
Now I was worried I’d start crying. I bit my cheeks. I didn’t dare look my parents in the eye. They were gripping my hands even more tightly than before.
Together, we walked towards the train. As we were about to board it, an SS officer stepped in front of us.
“No adults on the train!” he barked.
Mama pulled me into her coat and hugged me fiercely. Then Papa did the same. The rough wool felt scratchy against my face. My cheek was crushed against his top button. He lifted me up and kissed me, and Mama put her arms around both of us, and she stood on tiptoe and kissed me too. Then Papa put me down and handed me my suitcase. He kissed me again and said, “You’d better get on the train.”
“We’ll see you soon, darling,” said Mama. “Be a good, helpful girl to your foster parents. We’ll all be together again soon.”
“You must be my brave, cheerful daughter,” said Papa. “And we’ll come and join you, as soon as we’ve got everything sorted out.”
As I was about to climb the steps, Mama clutched my hand again.
“Try to be happy,” she said. “Always be kind. And make the most of every opportunity you get. Fill your head with good things. And remember, we’ll be thinking of you and sending our love to you every moment of every day.”
I nodded, but I couldn’t speak for the lump in my throat, and I didn’t dare look at them in case it made me cry.
A man called, “Everybody on the train now!”
I wriggled my hand out of Mama’s grip and climbed up the steps. “Write to us,” she called. “Write to us as soon as you get there.”
I nodded again, but I didn’t trust myself to turn and look at them. I walked into the train corridor.
A lady with a list checked my number and showed me into a compartment. She put my case on the luggage rack.
The children in the compartment were jostling at the open window, calling and waving to their parents. Some of them were sobbing.
I hadn’t said goodbye! I hadn’t even looked at my parents. I had to see them and say goodbye properly. I had to smile and wave and show them I was all right.
I leaned over the smaller children and frantically scanned the crowd. Where were they? I tried to arrange my face into a smile, in case they were looking at me.
The soldiers started pushing all the parents away from the platform. One mother was crying hysterically, trying to get to the train. A soldier yelled at her but she took no notice. He slapped her in the face and she fell to the ground. Other parents helped her up.
Papa! There he was, helping her, comforting her. And there was Mama next to him, scooping up the handbag the woman had dropped, saving it from being crushed by the throng.
The whistle blew. Steam hissed. My parents looked up and finally I caught their eyes. They smiled and waved and blew me kisses, and I waved and smiled and blew kisses back to them.
The train started to move out of the station. A soldier was standing in front of them now and I couldn’t see their faces. I kept waving and looking in
their direction, desperately hoping for one last glimpse.
The train chugged along the platform and I saw them again. At least, I saw the backs of their coats. Soldiers were herding them off the platform. Papa had his arm around Mama’s shoulders. Their heads were bowed and they suddenly looked old and frail. And then more people surged behind them, and they were gone.
CHAPTER NINE
Look After My Baby
I stood at the window as the train inched out of the station, staring numbly at the empty space where my parents had been.
When would I see them again? How would they manage without me?
I had promised to find them jobs. Would I really be able to do that?
I had to do it. I had no choice. Somehow, I would do it.
Something was happening. A young woman was running along the platform, weaving through the throng, her eyes wild and desperate.
As she drew level with our compartment, she caught my gaze and thrust a wicker hamper through the window at me. A picnic basket, I supposed, that her child had forgotten. I grabbed it and pulled it inside the compartment.
“Please,” she called, running beside the train as it gathered speed, “please look after my baby. Take him to England. Please.”
I stared at her. The train had almost left the platform. “His name is Ezra,” she cried. “Ezra Neumann.”
The train curved around a bend and the woman was out of sight. Numb with shock, I turned away from the window. The other children had sat down on the two wooden benches that faced each other across the compartment. Some of them were crying. The others gazed wide-eyed at the wicker basket clutched in my arms.
Wordlessly, two little children shuffled apart to make room for me. Wordlessly, I sat between them.
Every pair of eyes was fixed on the basket. Could there really be a baby in there?
Heart thumping, I fumbled with the leather strap and opened the lid.
Wrapped in a white blanket, sleeping like an angel, lay a tiny, black-haired baby. Tucked at the edge of the basket were two bottles of milk.
