Remember Me

by Irene N. Watts

  “Mairi it shall be. Mairi Roberts. Got a ring to it.”

  Marianne wondered if all the other girls in her class were being renamed.

  “Sit down, Mairi, and eat your soup. Elisabeth loved my lamb broth. Those last days we had her, it was all she could get down. Do you like it, Mairi?”

  “It’s very good, thank you.” Marianne was beginning to dread every mention of poor little Elisabeth.

  “Uncle Dai said, “Church or chapel, Mairi?”

  “In London I went to church, but at home in –”

  Uncle Dai interrupted her. “Chapel it is. Baptists we are. Wait till you hear the sermon tomorrow. Reverend Thomas guiding us down the paths of righteousness. Your auntie goes to meetings twice a week and sings in the chapel choir; beautiful voice she has.”

  Marianne offered to do the dishes.

  “No, no, you go and play in the garden. I’ll just heat up the kettle. Take the ball now,” said Auntie Vi, and handed it to her.

  Marianne went out into the back. The yard was narrow, with dusty-looking grass. The coal shed took up most of the space. She saw Mrs. Roberts peering at her through the scullery window.

  Marianne began to bounce the ball, obediently, doing the accompanying actions.

  Charlie Chaplin went to France

  To teach the ladies how to dance

  And this is what he taught them

  Heel toe

  Over we go

  Don’t forget to twist.

  Marianne wondered what Elisabeth had died of. Perhaps from breathing in the fine dust that had already turned her white blouse gray.

  She didn’t feel like playing ball anymore. She was twelve, not a little girl. She leaned against the coal shed, shutting her eyes against the glare of the sun. In London she’d never thought about where coal came from. It was just there, brought in from outside in the brass coal scuttle. Warming cold rooms. Coal so shiny black it sparkled. What must it be like working day after day in all that blackness? Like moles burrowing underground. Are the miners ever afraid? Don’t they miss seeing the sun?

  Marianne went back into the kitchen.

  “Excuse me, Auntie Vi, the lady at the library said if you sign this form, I can join the library.”

  “Library, is it? Dai, you sign it, please, before you go back to work.”

  “Give me the card. Clever as well as pretty, are you?” He signed it.

  They are so nice to me. I couldn’t wish for a better billet, so why do I feel so uncomfortable?

  When she reached the library, Marianne sat down on the wooden bench in the cool lobby and tried to think things out. How could she explain to anyone that she felt as if she couldn’t breathe, that these kind people were smothering her? No one could be part of a family that quickly. She knew Mr. and Mrs. Roberts were looking for someone to fill the gap left by Elisabeth, but they weren’t giving her time. How could they love someone they’d only known for five minutes? It was like being sucked down into a whirlpool – no way to escape. It sounded silly to be frightened of people being nice. She looked at the clock. How many hours till bedtime? Tonight I’ll have to go to sleep with that awful doll staring at me. Perhaps I can move it to the floor and put it back in the morning before Auntie Vi notices.

  Marianne handed in her form. She asked the librarian if there were any stories about Wales, and was given a book of Welsh legends. The librarian told her about Merlin the magician, who had been born in South Wales and became advisor to King Arthur and his knights. “He will come and save the land if we need him,” the librarian said seriously. “Only sleeping he is, in a cave in the mountains.”

  That night it took Marianne a long time to go to sleep. She heard Uncle Dai come upstairs and go to bed.

  Something woke her. She felt cold lips on her forehead, and then a whispered “Nos da, Elisabeth.”

  She lay very still and, from under almost closed lids, watched Auntie Vi go to the chest and put the doll back in its usual spot. Then she shut the window and went out.

  Marianne waited five minutes, then crept out of bed and opened the window again. There was a moon. I know you’re out there somewhere, Mutti. Please come soon – please come and get me. Then she took the doll and put her facedown on the chest, and went to sleep holding her bear.

  • 23 •

  “It is war”

  After breakfast on Sunday, Auntie Vi tied Marianne’s hair with a ribbon she took from Elisabeth’s drawer, and they set off for Greenfield Chapel. There was a big sign outside, which said: GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN THAN HE LAY DOWN HIS LIFE FOR HIS FRIENDS. The roof was almost flat, not like a church spire. But as the sermon was mostly in Welsh, Marianne couldn’t tell whether there were any other differences. It was very noisy.

  The reverend shouted up to the rafters and to the congregation. No chance of anyone dozing off here! The only good part was the singing. Marianne didn’t think their school choir could ever produce music that was so magical.

  The voices stopped suddenly when the sound of the air-raid siren signaling danger filled the air with a great wailing, floating up and down in a terrifying series of notes.

  A man hurried up the aisle and whispered something in the preacher’s ear.

  “It is war,” Reverend Thomas said in English. “God will punish the wicked and bless the meek. Let us pray now for a conclusion to the evil that fills the world.”

  The prayers in Welsh went on until the long, one-note sound of the all clear.

  Their walk home through the streets was slow. Every few minutes they stopped to talk to neighbors, whose comments in both languages ranged from how the Germans would never conquer the French, to the atrocities in Belgium in the last war, and to the dire forecasts of parachutists landing on the beach momentarily.

  Marianne stuffed Elisabeth’s hair ribbon in her pocket. War meant only one thing to her at this moment – she and her parents were on opposite sides of the English Channel. There would be no more letters. She was alone.

  Lucy had said they’d be back in London by Christmas. Would the war be over by then? But what if Lucy was wrong? How many more birthdays and holidays would there be, spent apart from her father and mother?

  After dinner, when she had helped Auntie Vi clear up, Marianne excused herself and went to write to Bridget. She’d just written the date – September 3, 1939 – when Auntie Vi called her downstairs. “Mairi, come down here, please.”

  Marianne did as she was told, though she felt like saying, “Please call me by my real name.” Her name was all she had left of her life with her parents. Changing her name couldn’t turn her into Auntie Vi’s daughter.

  “Look who’s here to say hello, bach. It’s Mrs. Jenkins from next door. Come and say shwmae.”

  “Shwmae, Main Now you call me Auntie Blodwen,” said their neighbor.

  “Shwmae, Auntie Blodwen,” said Marianne. Another aunt! Then she said to Auntie Vi, “I was just going to write a letter to my friend Bridget in Canada.”

  The two women looked at each other. “No, Mairi. Not on a Sunday. Sinful, that is.”

  Mrs. Jenkins said, “Terrible to declare war on a Sunday. They should have waited.”

  “There’s glad I am our Elisabeth was spared this day,” said Auntie Vi. “I’ll just go and make a pot of tea, Blodwen.”

  “And where are you from, Mair, bach? You don’t sound like a girl from London. Not that I have much to do with people from there. Swansea’s as far as I go. Cardiff once or twice to see my mam.”

  “I’ve been living in London since last year,” said Marianne. “But before that I lived in Germany.” The moment she saw Auntie Blodwen’s face, she realized her mistake.

  “Never! So you speak German, then? Did you ever see Hitler?”

  “I don’t speak German anymore, and Jews kept away from Hitler.”

  Auntie Vi came in and poured tea. Mrs. Jenkins drank hers so quickly, it was a wonder her tongue wasn’t scalded.

  “Have a Welsh cake, Blodwen, do,” said Auntie Vi
.

  “No, no, I must be getting back. Company’s coming for supper.” She was suddenly in a great hurry.

  Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything about coming from Germany. People might not understand that I’m a refugee, that I’m more anti-Hitler than any of them. Or is it because I said I’m Jewish?

  Marianne went upstairs to get her book, then remembered she wasn’t supposed to do that on Sunday. “Can I go for a walk, Auntie Vi?”

  “Don’t forget to take your gas mask, and be home in twenty minutes.”

  As Marianne walked down the street, she saw Mrs. Jenkins on the step of her house. She went inside quickly and shut the door.

  Is it all going to start again? Even here?

  That night Uncle Dai climbed up and down the stepladder to make sure all the blackout curtains were in place.

  Auntie Vi came in with her Sunday face on.

  “Don’t tell me it’s Sunday,” said Uncle Dai. “If the German planes bomb the street because they can see our light, that’ll be a bigger sin, especially as I’ve signed on as a warden for A.R.P. duty. Mairi, bach, hold the ladder steady, please.”

  Now seemed a good time to say it. “Excuse me, Uncle Dai,” Marianne said. “Would you mind calling me by my real name?”

  She’d been wanting to ask him ever since she got here. She had to keep some of her old self. She’d start with her name.

  “Now, we don’t want to be putting on airs like those stuck-up Londoners, Mairi, bach.”

  “Well, Uncle Dai, I’m not really a Londoner, and …” Marianne faltered.

  What could she say? She didn’t really know who she was anymore.

  Uncle Dai got off the stepladder. “Your parents sent you away. We are taking care of you, right?”

  Auntie Vi came in. She must have been listening.

  “Leave my little girl alone, Dai. It’s the Lord’s will. They took my Elisabeth and sent me Mairi. Her parents sent her away for a purpose. Stands to reason. We’ll do what’s right and proper. You’ll start Sunday school next week.”

  • 24 •

  “Dirty mochyn”

  It was a relief when school started. The students were housed in two separate buildings, in different parts of the town, and were always having to run from one class to the other. Marianne ran to be in time when it was English! She didn’t want to miss a word of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, which Miss Barry had begun to read with them. She dawdled when it was math. Once she and Celia arrived so late, they had to hide in the cloakroom till recess. It was easy to make excuses and fun until Miss Lacey warned the school, in Assembly one morning, that war or no war, there’d be report cards as usual. Marianne knew that one day her mother would want to see those!

  Miss Lacey reminded the girls that they were all one family, that their parents had sent them away to be safe from air-raid attacks, and that they should make the most of their new experiences of living in a Welsh mining town. “Write regularly to your parents and try not to worry them.”

  Marianne dreaded being told to write to her family. If only I could!

  When Miss Barry called attendance on the second Monday in their temporary classroom, three girls had gone back to London. Miss Barry said, “Don’t keep your problems to yourself. Come and tell me after school, so I can try and help.”

  That day six girls waited to see her. Marianne had so many worries she didn’t know where to start, and she didn’t think she could explain things to Miss Barry without sounding emotional, something English girls didn’t do! She wrote to Bridget instead, waiting till Auntie Vi was shopping, so she could write without her foster mother peering over her shoulder.

  28 September, 1939

  Dear Bridget,

  I got your letter. Thanks for answering me so quickly. I’m glad you like your aunt and uncle and living in Montreal. It must be awfully hard going to a French school. Are you very behind in the classes? I rather like learning bits of Welsh.

  Auntie Vi, who’s convinced she’s my mother, has added another routine to her bedtime visits. Now she says a prayer over me as well as saying nos da – the Welsh for ‘goodnight.’ I think of Lady Macbeth driven mad by grief. Miss Barry says Shakespeare wrote about every human emotion. It’s all very well on paper, but I’m afraid to go to sleep at night. Did I tell you Auntie Vi reads tea leaves? She said, “They predicted someone new would be joining the family!”

  The school play’s going to be A Midsummer Night’s Dream and I’m Peaseblossom. I’ve only one word to say: “Ready.” Then I have to scratch Bottom’s ears. Bottom is the perfect role for Lucy. She’s so blind without her spectacles, she bumps into things quite naturally, and is hilarious acting the role of a workman who’s been transformed into a donkey. We’re performing early in November. Miss Lacey’s made a rule that only the sixth formers are allowed out without a grown-up after dark because of the blackout, so rehearsals are mainly during school hours.

  The big excitement last week was the visit of the school nurse. Guess who had nits in her hair? Hilary Bartlett Brown. She was in hysterics, you can imagine. We were all sent home with a notice to wash our hair with a special black soap. It reeked. I rinsed my hair in vinegar to take away the smell. Hilary was subdued – for her – for one whole day and then went back to normal.

  Mrs. Blodwen Jenkins, next door, heard about the nurse’s visit. Nothing’s a secret in this town. She said “Dirty mochyn” when I passed her door. It means ‘dirty pig,’ and my hair was clean. You’d think I’d personally brought lice into Wales.

  Lucky you, learning to skate. Miss you, Bridget. No, there’s no news at all of the family. I wrote to Ruth last week. Hope I get a reply soon – she may know something. Thanks for asking. If ever I hear anything, I’ll let you know. It’s awful having a German name – people stare at me as if I’m the enemy. Mrs. Jenkins told everyone in the street where I was born. I hear them whisper about me when I go by and I’m not exaggerating.

  Love from Marianne, also known as

  Mary Anne, also known as Mairi.

  • 25 •

  “O land of my fathers’ ”

  Auntie Vi said, “Put down the Echo, Dai. I want you to listen to Mairi sing the national anthem.”

  Uncle Dai folded the newspaper, and Marianne sang, and Uncle Dai joined in the Gwlad, Gwlad – Wales, Wales part after the first verse.

  Mae hen wlad fy nhadau yn annwyl imi,

  Gwlad beirdd a chantorion, enwogion o fri.

  Marianne knew it almost by heart – she only had to glance at the words occasionally.

  “Getting better, you are,” said Uncle Dai, “better than the soloist at the Sunday school concert if you go on like this. Elisabeth had a beautiful voice, didn’t she, Vi?”

  “Beautiful and good through and through she was.”

  “I’m supposed to find out what the words mean,” said Marianne, thankful to change the subject from Elisabeth. “For school.”

  “Well, now,” said Uncle Dai, “glad it is I am that they’re taking an interest. It means – are you writing it down, bach?”

  “Oh yes, Uncle Dai, I am. It’s homework.”

  O land of my fathers’

  So precious to me

  Proud mother of minstrels

  High home of the free.

  “And then, Gwlad, Gwlad means ‘Wales, Wales,’ my heart is in Wales forever. When I was a boy, my father told me stories of our heroes, how they fought and fell in battle, like they do now.”

  “Thank you very much,” said Marianne. “It’s very beautiful. Miss Barry, our teacher, has started a rambling club. ‘So that we can learn to appreciate the beauty of the countryside,’ she said, and the first meeting is on Saturday morning. So will it be alright if I go after I’ve cleaned up my room?”

  Marianne had planned this speech as carefully as though she were asking for some huge favor, not just a walk. Auntie Vi liked to make all Marianne’s plans for her.

  “Oh, there’s disappointed I am, Mairi,” she said
. “Uncle Dai’s managed to get us a railway pass to Swansea. You know how difficult that is in wartime. I wanted to take you to my sister Lilian. She hasn’t met her new little niece yet.” There was a pause, “However, as it’s educational, you shall go this time. But I don’t want to wait till Christmas to introduce you to your relatives.”

  “Yes, Auntie Vi, thank you.”

  Relatives! Auntie Vi is getting worse.

  Auntie Vi said, “I won’t be that late getting back, long before blackout. Isn’t that so, Dai? And you’ll come straight home after your walk.”

  “I will, thank you, Auntie Vi,” said Marianne with genuine gratitude. She was having to pretend to be someone she was not, more and more lately. Inside, she was still Marianne, and outside, someone called Mairi.

  On Saturday, eight girls from Marianne’s class were met by Miss Barry in the town hall square. They walked three miles to Pwll, a small village outside the town, named for the pond around which the small houses clustered. They climbed the hill that overlooked the town beach below.

  The beach was strictly out-of-bounds now because of the danger of land mines. It was closed off by barbed wire – not that that had stopped some of the local and London children climbing through and looking for any scrap metal washed in by the tide. Everyone knew that one of the evacuees had gone there with her foster brother on a dare, but no one gave her away.

  The girls shared their sandwiches and Marianne swapped her jam ones for Celia’s larver bread.

  “Doesn’t seem fair,” Celia said. “You don’t have to, Mary Anne.”

  “I love it. Honestly, I’m not being noble.”

  “It’s true,” said Lucy. “She likes it.”

  Hilary said, “Well, keep away from me. I can’t stand that fishy smell.”

  Miss Barry said, “I brought some Welsh cakes. I made them from my landlady’s own recipe. I hope they’re good; I’ve kept them warm in the tin.” The cakes disappeared rapidly.

  “I never thought about teachers being billeted,” said Jane.