“The Anderson smells damp already, and there’s slugs. Think of stepping on them in the dark – ugh! Let’s hope there’ll never be an air raid,” said Bridget, sharing her Milky Way bar with Marianne.
On August 29, the school recalled the girls for a final evacuation dress rehearsal. The headmistress told them to keep their rucksacks and bags packed, as they might have to leave at any moment. They were told to bring a stamped addressed card so they could write their parents as soon as they knew their new addresses. Even the teachers had no idea where they were going.
Bridget smiled at Marianne, who deliberately pretended not to see. She hated being pitied because she had no parents to send information to. The moment war broke out, she’d be cut off from her family forever. She really would be an orphan.
On the way home from school, Bridget and Marianne stopped to watch the swans in Regent’s Park. “What will happen to them in an air raid, do you think?” Marianne asked.
“They’ll hide under the little bridge, or in the rushes, I expect. They’ll be alright. Stop worrying so much, Mary Anne.”
“Can’t help it. Bridget, I’ve had the same dream two nights in a row.”
“You mean a nightmare?”
“No, this time it’s a good dream. I’m standing on the platform at the station – a train’s just come in. The guard opens the carriage door and my mother comes down the steps, and she’s holding out her arms to me. It means she’s coming, doesn’t it?”
“Or that the letter’s on its way saying when she’s going to arrive. Or, listen, Mary Anne, it may mean that you want it to happen so much.…”
“You mean wishful thinking, don’t you? It isn’t only that, I won’t believe that. I’m going to the station every single day to wait for her.”
“Everyday?”
“I have to go. I’ll tell you something I haven’t told anyone. I went to Liverpool Street Station once before. I mean, I never actually got there. I turned back. It was after I arrived. I was so lonely. Then I got scared.”
“Of what? What did you think could happen?”
“I don’t know exactly. I couldn’t speak much English, and it reminded me of leaving Berlin. There was no point in going anyway. I wouldn’t have known anyone. I’m going to try again. I know that if I do this, she’ll be there.”
Bridget said, “I’ll call for you in the morning. Wait for me. We’ll go together the first time. You don’t have to go alone.”
Next morning the household was in a small uproar. Marianne could tell Gladys was upset by the way she put down the plates. She’d learnt to watch for danger signals even before she could speak English properly. It was important to do that when you lived in someone else’s home.
Aunt Vera was speaking in her highest voice and her cheeks were flushed as though she’d put on too much rouge. “I’m afraid you’ll have to manage, Gladys. I’m sorry about your afternoon off, but it can’t be helped. We’re almost at war. I shall catch the 9:10 A.M. to Torquay. Mr. Abercrombie Jones thinks he has found a flat that might do for us while his office is relocated. Please keep the wireless on, in case of any announcements.”
“Do you mean about trains to Torquay, Aunt Vera?” Marianne asked.
“Are you being impertinent, or is this another example of your German sense of humor?”
Marianne met Aunt Vera’s eyes. It was hard not to answer back. There was no point in aggravating Aunt Vera when she was in this mood. “I’m sorry, Aunt Vera, I did not understand what you meant,” Marianne said politely.
Mrs. Abercrombie Jones turned to Gladys, who was wiping the table. “There may be a government announcement concerning the evacuation, or a declaration of war at any moment. Mary Anne, give your room a thorough cleaning and polish the floor, please. Everything must be ready.” Aunt Vera swept out of the room.
Ready for what? Do invaders care if the floors are shiny?
There was a knock on the scullery door.
“My hands are soapy,” said Gladys.
Marianne opened the door.
“Bridget, I was waiting for you. I’ll get my blazer and tell Gladys we’ll be gone the rest of the day.”
“No, don’t. I can’t stay. I have to go straight back home, but first I’ve got to tell you something. Come out a minute.” Bridget looked pale. Her eyes were red, as though she’d been crying.
Marianne shut the door behind them, and they crossed the street and walked down Wellington Road towards the park. “What happened?” Marianne asked. “Aren’t you allowed to come to the station?”
“Much worse than that.” Bridget blew her nose. “I’m leaving for Canada. Uncle John sent a telegram from Montreal. It said: SEND BRIDGET IMMEDIATELY. Then Pa telephoned and it’s all arranged – I’m going.”
“It’s awfully far away,” said Marianne.
“I begged Pa,” said Bridget. “I told him I wanted to go with the school, that we wanted to stay together. I said, ‘I’m not a baby – I’m entitled to my opinion,’ and Pa slammed his fist on the table and said, ‘The subject is not up for discussion. John is my elder brother. You will be safe with him.’ Then he stormed out.”
“Didn’t your mother say anything?” Marianne asked, hoping that somehow it would end happily, that somehow they wouldn’t be parted.
“Naturally, she took Pa’s side. She said it’s important to be with your own flesh and blood, and how Canada was a wonderful country, and about the food and fresh air, and how it wouldn’t be for long. You know the kind of things parents say.”
“When are you leaving?” Marianne asked very quietly, trying not to show how upset she was.
“The boat sails tomorrow,” said Bridget. “I have to break my promise. Sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. I understand,” said Marianne.
They walked back without talking anymore. When they reached the corner of Circus Road, Bridget handed her a note. “Here is my address in Canada. I wrote it out for you. Tell me everything that happens to you and your parents, and oh, Mary Anne, I wish you were coming with me and let’s always stay friends.”
They hugged good-bye.
When Marianne got back, she went up to her bedroom and closed the door quietly. Then she threw herself on her bed and cried and cried.
It was late before she finished cleaning her room, too late to go to the station.
• 16 •
“Remember me”
Marianne got up very early next morning. She scribbled a note to Gladys: “I’ll be back tonight, something I must do.”
Luckily Gladys was still talking to the milkman on the front steps, so she didn’t need to explain. She grabbed a couple of apples and put them in her blazer pocket. Closing the door carefully behind her, she ran to catch the bus that would take her to her mother.
The number eleven stopped at the end of the High Street. Marianne held tightly to the wooden railings so as not to lose her balance as she climbed to the top of the bus. The penny halfpenny ride took her through the heart of London. Marianne knew that the moment war was declared, the lights of all the neon signs in Piccadilly Circus, advertising BOVRIL, SCHWEPPES, the latest films, would be blacked out. She couldn’t imagine the whole city in darkness.
The statue of the little boy Eros had sandbags around the base. They were piled up around Nelson’s Column in Trafalgar Square, too.
The bus went down Threadneedle Street. Marianne visualized all the tailors and seamstresses who had worked and lived here over the centuries, for whom the street had been named. She was sure there were immigrants like her among them. Now they were passing St. Paul’s Cathedral – the spires seemed to touch the sky.
The conductor rang the bell. “Liverpool Street Station, next stop.”
Marianne hurried down the steps of the bus. The station was just as she remembered it: the tall wrought-iron gates next to the taxi ramp, the newsboys brandishing their papers, the shining glass roof. Today the sun glared through. It was too hot to wear a blazer. Marianne suddenly rea
lized she could understand all the announcements. She did not even have to translate the words first.
She asked a porter, “Which platform for the boat train from Harwich, please?”
“Platform five, ducks, due in three minutes,” he said.
A boy shouted a news headline: HITLER SEEKS ENGLISH GERMAN FRIENDSHIP.
A soldier leaning against a pillar said, “Not bloody likely.” And stubbed out his cigarette, grinding it into the floor.
Marianne followed a large woman, her husband, and two children onto platform five. The train was just coming in. The ticket collector must have thought she belonged to the family – he didn’t ask to see her platform ticket. She hadn’t bought one. She was trying to save money for when her mother arrived.
The platform was packed with friends, families, and officials to greet the new arrivals. They surged forward as the compartments emptied. Snatches of Polish, French, German, and Czech floated in the air.
Marianne searched the faces of the passengers. There were students with bulging rucksacks, businessmen wearing Homburg hats and carrying briefcases, tired-looking men and women, some wearing fur coats in spite of the heat. They looked pale and lost standing among their luggage, as though waiting to be rescued.
A woman in a navy coat and hat stood by an open carriage door, her back to Marianne.
She is here. “Mutti!” Marianne ran forward.
The woman turned round slowly, and looked straight at Marianne. Then she raised her hand and waved and smiled, and a man moved out of the crowd towards her. He put out his arms and lifted a little girl from the steps of the carriage. The woman clung to his arm and they walked very close together towards the exit.
Marianne felt dizzy for a moment, as though she were going to faint.
A group of about forty children, labels round their necks, filed neatly past Marianne – not talking, trying to be brave.
Is that what I looked like when I came? Marianne wanted to call out “Don’t be afraid,” but her mouth felt too dry to speak and she didn’t know whether to say it in English or German. She pulled out one of her apples and gave it to a small boy, trailing at the end of the line. He reminded her of Bernard.
Marianne waited until four o’clock. Many other trains arrived during that long hot day.
A train guard holding a green flag asked, “Are you waiting for someone?”
“I’m meeting my mother; she’s coming from Harwich.”
“That was the last boat train for today,” the official said.
“Thank you, Sir.” Numbly, Marianne walked away and out of the station.
On the way home on the bus, all Marianne could think was, She isn’t coming. Not today, not ever.
When she got in, Gladys said, “Where’ve you been? The announcement came.” Then she looked at Marianne and said, “You look in a daze. Did you hear what I said? It was on the wireless. You’re being evacuated tomorrow. You have to be at school at 6:30 A.M. sharp. Hurry up now and eat your tea, then put your things together. I’ll make you cheese and tomato sandwiches for the journey, shall I?”
“Thank you, Gladys,” said Marianne. She slumped down on the kitchen chair.
“Don’t slump, Marianne. You’re such a pretty girl.” Marianne looked up. Her mother’s voice was as clear as if she were sitting beside her. There was the voice again. “You mean you haven’t eaten all day? Drink your milk at once, please. You need your strength for the journey.” Marianne drank her milk to the last drop without stopping. She ate three slices of bread and gooseberry jam, and a piece of sultana cake.
Gladys said, “Mrs. Abercrombie Jones rang up. She can’t get back till after you leave. She said to give you half a crown from the housekeeping.” She slid a coin across the table. “They’re closing up the house and staying in Torquay till all this is over.”
“But war hasn’t started yet. There’s got to be time,” Marianne said agonizingly, hoping her mother could still reach her.
“Time for what? You’ve been out too long in the sun. I give it three days at most. Friday, tomorrow, first of September. You’ll see.”
Marianne stood and hung up her blazer. Her fingers touched the gold school crest on the pocket. IN GOD WE TRUST. There was nothing she could do to stop the war coming. Lots of people would be separated from one another; she wasn’t the only one – Bridget and her family, Mutti and Vati, thousands of children and their parents. She’d better start acting her age, be stronger, and not feel sorry for herself all the time. She’d begin right this minute. I’ll be someone my parents can be proud of, so I’ll have nothing to be ashamed of after the war’s over. Wars don’t last forever. Mutti could still get here.
“What’s going to happen to you, Gladys? Are you getting married now?” Marianne asked.
“Not till it’s all over. I’ll look for war work. There’ll be plenty of jobs going. Even the milkman’s joining the army. He told me this morning. I always fancied working on the buses. A clippie, you know. Clipping tickets. Now you go up to bed. You look done in,” Gladys said kindly.
“Thank you, Gladys, and for all the good meals and everything. Goodnight.”
Marianne didn’t have much to pack; she’d done most of it. Only last-minute things were left. She washed out her underclothes and hung them out of the window, so that they’d be dry by morning. She checked the room to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. She wasn’t glad or sorry to leave. It was just a room she’d been lent. It had never really felt like her own.
Before she went to bed, she wrote a note to Mr. and Mrs. Abercrombie Jones to leave on the hall table in the morning:
31 August, 1939
Dear Aunt Vera and Uncle Geoffrey,
Thank you for taking me into your home, and for the half crown. I have learnt a lot here. I am grateful.
Yours sincerely,
Marianne Kohn
She read it over. Aunt Vera and Uncle Geoffrey had done the best they could. They didn’t know about children, and they thought being foreign was something to be got over, like measles. They probably wouldn’t see each other again.
In the morning, she shook hands with Gladys. “Thank you, Gladys. One day I might ride on your bus. I hope so.”
“Good luck, Mary Anne.” Gladys patted Marianne’s shoulder awkwardly, and handed her a big lunch bag.
On the way to school the postman stopped her. “Off to the country, are you? My lad’s going too. You’ve got a card today. Glad I didn’t miss you.” He rummaged in his bag and handed Marianne a plain white card. It was written in pencil, which had faded a bit. It said:
Dear Marianne,
I love you. Remember me.
Vati
Marianne put the card in her shoulder bag. Her father seemed very close to her at that moment. It felt almost as if he were walking beside her, reminding her to be brave.
“Postie,” Marianne called. “Thank you very much. Good-bye.”
Her suitcase felt much lighter. She wished she could tell Bridget she’d heard from her father.
• 17 •
Evacuation
It was strange being in the school’s assembly hall so early. Every girl’s eyes were riveted on the headmistress. Miss Lacey led the school in prayers for a safe journey, then she said: “The next time we talk to one another as a school, we will be in a strange hall, in someone else’s building. None of us know when we will be back here in St. John’s, or even if our school will still be standing after the war. We are setting off on the biggest adventure of our lives, and like our brave soldiers, sailors, and airmen, we do not know where we are going or what awaits us. We do know that homes will be provided for us in places of safety.
“I am proud that our school is part of the greatest exodus from the city that has ever happened. Be good ambassadors wherever you go, so that the generous people who are opening their homes to us will be glad that they have done so.”
The girls filed back to their classrooms in total silence to the strains of the organ playin
g “Land of Hope and Glory,” The music had never sounded more eloquent.
When Miss Barry handed out luggage labels, Marianne’s hand shook. It was only nine months since she had worn one of those. Everyone in class had to print their names, and that of their school on one. Then they tied the labels round their necks with bits of string. A girl put up her hand and said, “We’re not likely to forget our names. Do we have to wear these?”
“Yes. In the event of an accident, that label may be an important means of identification,” said Miss Barry.
No one spoke another word after that.
Miss Barry smiled and said, “Time to read one more chapter.” She opened The Railway Children and continued reading to the class. They’d reached the part where the rock falls on the railway line, and Peter, Bobbie, and Phyllis have to find a way to stop the 11:29 A.M. train from hurtling off the track.
The bell rang.
“That means the buses are here,” said Miss Barry. “I’ll take the book with me and once school recommences after the holidays and we are settled in our new classroom, I shall finish the story. You may line up and walk to the gates, and remember Miss Lacey’s words: ‘Be good ambassadors wherever you go’ … and don’t forget to bring your gas masks!”
Outside the gates of the playground, a line of buses was waiting. Marianne saw that someone had written GOOD-BYE HITLER in chalk, on the side of one.
Now that Bridget was on her way to Canada, Marianne didn’t have anyone to sit with. The only empty seat was beside Hilary, whose regular partner had been sent to relatives in the country. Hilary edged as far away from Marianne as she could.
When they got to Paddington Station, the foreground was packed with single and double-decker buses. Inside, there were thousands of schoolchildren from all over London, mothers with toddlers, also going to the country, and volunteers, who handed out slabs of chocolate, cups of tea, and kind words for everyone.
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