War Brides

by Helen Bryan

Albert looked from one to the other, his mustache twitching. The little baggage!

  Mr. Hammet blushed again. “Er, not at all. My pleasure entirely. Do take my arm. I’m actually a sort of cousin of Lady Marchmont’s, distant, of course, very distant. Albert, do you think you might possibly see to the rest of Miss Falconleigh’s, er, things?” He gestured toward the luggage mountain, wondering at the amount of things this girl needed for travelling. He simply couldn’t imagine. He was acquainted with very few young women. The only child of an elderly vicar whose wife had died when Oliver was a baby, Oliver had attended a boarding school for clergymen’s sons and gone to Cambridge with all his belongings in the same two ancient leather suitcases that his father had taken to Cambridge forty years earlier.

  “Right you are, Vicar, I’ll get Jimmy to bring them round on the cart to Glebe House,” said Albert. Mr. Hammet was too busy gazing at Miss Falconleigh to reply—the cat had gotten his tongue.

  Frances Falconleigh shifted from foot to foot. “I should have been utterly stranded if not for you,” she breathed finally, with a devastating glance at her rescuer, and tugged his elbow to bring him back to the present. “Now I expect Aunt Muriel will be wondering if I’ve arrived.” She steered him firmly toward the station steps. “Mustn’t worry her.”

  “No indeed. Yes, you had better hold my arm quite tightly—the gravel’s a bit tricky,” said the vicar as Frances’s high-heeled shoes slid on the path and she clutched his arm tight to her bosom. The feathers on her hat hid her face, and he didn’t see—although Albert did—Frances mouth “Damn!” as her ankle twisted.

  Albert watched them go, torn between disapproval and amusement. The girl was clinging to the vicar like a limpet.

  He returned to his abandoned paper to check the photos he had seen earlier. Sure enough she was the daughter of Admiral Tudor Falconleigh. Very high up in Whitehall.

  Albert shook his head and went back to the editorial. When he had finished he asked himself what the country was coming to.

  An interesting visitor for Lady Marchmont, he thought.

  6.

  London, August 1939

  When Tanni and Bruno had landed at Southampton on a gray January morning, they had done their best to neaten their travel-worn appearance, but had seen at once that they were making a far from favorable impression on the lady official at Immigration. She had been cold and stern, reading their documents and passports carefully, as if they must be false. Finally she had sniffed disapprovingly and handed them leaflets in English, printed in large type. She tapped one with her forefinger, then said in clipped, precise tones, slightly louder than necessary, “You are in England now. However you may be accustomed to behave where you come from, you are strongly advised to adapt at once to the ways of your host country. We have prepared a list of things you should and should not do in order to fit in. ‘The English,’” she read, “‘are naturally reserved, keep themselves to themselves.’”

  They did not like, she went on, when foreigners, especially refugees, dressed garishly or wore outlandish costumes. They should do nothing to call attention to themselves. They should dress normally, be modest, polite, and self-effacing, never complain or criticize anything in the country that had so generously allowed them in. Above all they should not put themselves forward for jobs local people wanted. Tanni and Bruno must make every effort to adjust quietly and remember to be grateful. “I hope, Professor,” she said thinly, “you appreciate how very fortunate you are to be here.”

  Tanni had been tired and numb from months of travelling, crowded trains, waiting for papers and permits to be issued, more crowded trains, more waiting for documents to be stamped, long stretches of walking, and finally the rough channel crossing. She did not understand all the words, but the hostile tone was clear enough. She glanced at Bruno, then nodded meekly. She could tell that he was masking his fury at the way they were being treated.

  He put a reassuring arm round Tanni’s shoulders. “My wife is very tired,” he said, then whispered, still in English, just loudly enough for the woman to hear, “All will be well.”

  “Now, Mrs. Zayman, if you will step over there for a medical examination,” barked the woman. They didn’t check all the newcomers for disease, just those who looked worst. Fortunately a doctor was on hand to examine them today. If the girl, this so-called professor’s wife, had tuberculosis or some foreign disease she would be quarantined. “Step over there,” the woman ordered, pointing to a curtained-off area where several other wan-looking women were waiting.

  Two hours later Tanni had come out from behind the curtain, flushed and confused. Bruno, who had been sitting on a bench, stood up.

  “Bruno,” Tanni whispered in German, “the doctor says I’m going to have a baby.”

  He looked at her, stunned. Her lower lip was quivering.

  “Bruno, a baby! I want my mother! I don’t know what to do!” Tanni’s eyes were wide and anxious. Bruno looked for the Immigration woman, but she was lecturing another new arrival at the top of her voice and fortunately hadn’t heard Tanni speaking German.

  “Don’t worry. Both of our mothers will be here soon,” he whispered. “We’ll all look after you, Liebling. Everything will be fine.” He had no idea what to do either, but he had to prevent Tanni worrying. “They’ll be here soon,” he repeated firmly, putting his arm round her again. “They’re probably on one of those awful trains, or waiting for a slow official to stamp their passports, but soon we’ll all be together in Oxford. The twins will go to school and your father will have patients again. Our house will have a garden where our mothers can sew and you and the baby can sit and listen to the bells from the colleges. We’ll all learn to ride bicycles, even Mutti. Everyone rides them in Oxford. You’ll see. Everything will be fine.”

  Tanni felt better and smiled at him. “Our mothers on bicycles! Imagine! I hope the garden in our new home will have a fig tree.” Bruno said he wasn’t sure they grew in England, but he had seen cherry and plum trees in Oxford. So Tanni imagined herself bustling efficiently round her Oxford kitchen making plum jam while the baby crawled about the floor and Bruno returned home to admire Tanni’s efforts and kiss the back of her neck, sending those delicious shivers down Tanni’s spine.

  But it didn’t happen as Tanni had imagined. Bruno took her to the Whitechapel boarding house where he lived in London, where they were to wait for the others to come. But the days stretched from weeks to months, and in March the Germans marched into Czechoslovakia. Bruno volunteered to translate for the British intelligence service. Someone higher up made a phone call and he was now on leave from the university. He said they had better remain at the boarding house because it was the address Tanni’s parents, the twins, and his mother had.

  For Tanni life grew more and more confusing. Her body felt as if it belonged to someone else. At first she was sick and terribly sleepy. She would drag herself down the passage to the lavatory to throw up until she was dizzy and shaking. Then her shape changed and she blew up until she felt like one of Lili and Klara’s balloons. As Tanni’s waist expanded she unpacked the sewing kit her mother had tucked into her carpetbag and let out two frocks.

  Bruno had scoured the Whitechapel markets for lemons, the only thing she wanted to eat. He watched, amazed, as she cut them into slices and ate them, peel and all. He was happy about the baby but uneasy about leaving Tanni alone. She understood little English—when people spoke to her she just smiled politely. Bruno was torn between his new work, which ate up so much of his time, and his longing to be with his wife. He was very busy and often out until late at night. When Tanni snuggled up to him in bed and giggled about how large she was getting, he could feel the baby kicking. He grew more and more anxious for the arrival of his mother and the Josephs. When Tanni went into labor a month early, they hadn’t come in time after all, not even when Tanni screamed and cried for her mother, paying no attention to the midwives who told her sharply not to make such a fuss.

  Once she was back i
n the boarding house with the baby, days and nights merged into each other until Tanni began to feel that she had always been imprisoned in the dingy room during a dusty, muggy London summer. Time slowed as one day dragged wearily into the next. Bruno was away more and more, and as she didn’t like to worry him she told him everything was fine. Really. When he wasn’t at home she went back to bed after a grim breakfast of cold toast and marmalade and stayed there, covers pulled up to her chin, moving only to feed or change the baby. Often she would not bother getting up for “tea,” as the landlady called the evening meal. If she was hungry she nibbled biscuits from the tin Bruno had brought her.

  It became an effort to do anything, even today, when the landlady knocked sharply on Tanni’s door and said, “Mrs. Zayman! Letter for you.” Tanni held her breath and sat very still in her chair. She hoped the woman would think she had gone out. It was too hard to make the effort of speaking English to her. The landlady had a thick Irish accent, and if Tanni asked her to repeat what she had said, she would raise her voice and broaden her accent. No matter how hard Tanni tried, she never seemed to do the right thing in England.

  Even the prospect of a letter failed to rouse her. She no longer cared about letters. When she didn’t open the door at once the landlady slipped something underneath it. Tanni heard the rustle of paper, then the woman grumbling as her footsteps retreated down the passageway, which smelled of boiled cabbage and drains. The envelope lay on the floor for some time before Tanni looked at it. When she finally did, she saw it was on thin blue paper, with German stamps and official markings. Her heart skipped a beat when she recognized her mother’s handwriting. She put the sleeping baby down and got up slowly. If she moved too fast she felt dizzy. She was sore and tired, though it was nearly four weeks now since she had given birth.

  She reached down and picked up the envelope. It was dated months earlier, in April, and looked as if it had been opened, then clumsily resealed. Tanni reached for her sewing scissors and slit the envelope. She took out a thin sheet of paper covered with tiny, cramped handwriting on both sides.

  My Beloved Child,

  I hope this finds you and Bruno well. And that you have received my other letters but it is hard to know, so I will write again to let you know that after the terrifying night when you left, we are safe and well. Just before the mob in the streets broke down the door we were saved by the mayor and the police chief who managed to divert the crowd—you remember Papa looked after the mayor’s little boy and pulled the police chief’s wife through pneumonia? But we were saved at a terrible cost. The best they could do for us was to direct the mob to another Jewish house. My only comfort that terrible night was in knowing that you were going to safety, and that Lili and Klara could follow you there.

  We had a letter from Bruno that you are to be a mother yourself. Happy news indeed. I long to be there to look after you, but young as you are, all will be well, I am sure. If you feel sick in the mornings a piece of preserved ginger, sucked slowly, will help. Frau Zayman advises drying out some day-old bread in the oven, with a little salt, to keep in a tin by your bed. Eat a piece before you get up. Papa says a few spoonfuls of brandy-and-water if you feel very unwell, and that you must try to have fresh milk and plenty of fruit.

  Long before the baby comes we expect to be with you in England! But many things have happened to delay us.

  Soon after you left our house was confiscated. We were given only a few moments to get our clothes and a few belongings. There was no time to sell the piano or pack the silver and paintings and Papa’s books, so we have lost those too, but they are only things and we must not allow them to become a matter of regret. We are safe and well, if somewhat crowded, living now in Frau Zayman’s little flat. Except for her arthritis we are all well thank G-D and I have become very clever at cooking potatoes. We are more fortunate than some, as the Germans have begun to transport those without exit visas for resettlement on the Polish border. We have our exit visas and are only waiting for the girls to leave first. Meanwhile we must wear a yellow star on our clothing, even Lili and Klara, and must not be on the street after dark. From time to time people are arrested.

  We long to be away. People queue all day and night for exit visas now. Papa, Frau Zayman, and I obtained ours with the mayor’s help and will follow when the little ones are safely on their way to you. They should have left on the children’s train to England in January, but at the last minute both had scarlet fever quite badly and in the end we feared to let them go. We had to cut their hair because of the fever. Lili was very slow to get better and we debated whether to send Klara alone but thought it best not. Papa has been promised they will have a place on another train soon.

  They say it is much safer for the children to go separately without us as the Kindertransports are sure to get through. I confess I do not like it. I could hardly bear to part from you, even with Bruno to take care of you, and the thought of parting with Lili and Klara even for a few weeks, when they will be at the mercy of strangers, is almost too much. Only knowing they will soon be with you keeps me calm and sensible. We wait from day to day for news that their train is leaving. Lili and Klara’s two little suitcases are packed and ready in the hall, complete with a favorite doll we managed to save for each. Frau Zayman cut down an old coat of her own to make them warm dressing gowns for England. I am impressing upon Klara every day that when the time comes she must be brave and a good girl like her big sister, a good little mother for poor Lili on the train until they are safely with you. The girls are so excited and happy to think of being with you at last. They miss you dreadfully. They ask if you have enough to eat in England, and I tell them I am sure of it. Food is scarce here and they are often hungry. We struggle to pay for the little we can find, mostly yesterday’s bread and old potatoes, sometimes a few cabbage leaves. Most shopkeepers will not sell food to Jews. I saw Frau Anna the other day. She has grown thin like many others, and looked at us with an expression I did not like. I shall be glad to leave. Papa, Frau Zayman, and I are prepared, have packed our few things, a little money and some bits of jewelry I managed to bring with me. We shall go the moment the girls are off.

  The paper runs out, only room to send you our blessings and love. Be well and don’t worry, we will all be happy and cozy together in England soon. Try to be brave until then. We send you a photograph of us all, taken by Frau Zayman’s kind neighbor who had a camera. He took this one last picture before he sold it and his developing equipment for food. The girls also send you a little drawing so you won’t forget them. Klara wrote a message with only a little help from Papa. Love my dearest, Mutti

  A blurred snapshot of a couple, two little girls with shorn heads sitting on their knees, and a drawn, elderly woman fluttered to the floor, wrapped in a second thin sheet of paper. At first Tanni thought they had sent the wrong photograph, but after studying it closely she traced the familiar features of her parents in the gaunt couple, her sisters’ faces on the little bald heads, and Frau Zayman’s in the old woman. She was shocked by their appearance. Then she saw something was written on a scrap of the same thin paper. She picked it up. There were two little stick figures in dresses, with round heads topped with a fuzzy halo of short hair drawn on each, topped with enormous bows. “Dear Tanni do you miss us our hair will grow back in England lots of love and kisses from Klara and Lili”

  Tanni checked the date on the letter. Third of April. It was late August now! Over four months ago. Suddenly she was overcome with relief. By now they were all in England. She knew at once why they had not found her. The twins had probably arrived first and, not understanding English, had been unable to explain they had lost Tanni and Bruno’s address. Her parents and Frau Zayman would have arrived also and tried to contact her, but she had missed them because she had been ill and Bruno had been away. They must have come to the house and asked for Professor and Frau Professor Zayman, and the short-tempered landlady had pretended not to understand and sent them away. Tanni felt a surge of resp
onsibility. It was up to her to find her family and get everyone back together again. All she had to do was find out where they had gone and she would see them soon.

  Her spirits sank as she considered the practicalities. She had no idea how to set about finding them in England. She wished Bruno was at home, but he had been away for three days. She never knew when he would return to their little room or for how long, and when he did come back he was preoccupied and she didn’t like to bother him. The baby woke and began to cry. She had wanted to call him Johan, after Bruno’s father, but Bruno insisted they give him an English name, John, and call him Johnny. She struggled with the English pronunciation.

  Tanni sighed, unbuttoned her dress, lifted Johnny out of his cot, and settled back into the old armchair to nurse him. There was so much she needed to ask her mother about babies, like how to get Johnny nursing properly. Her nipples were sore and nursing hurt. If she moved him from breast to breast, he stopped feeding and howled. The landlady complained of the noise so Tanni winced, bit her tongue, and endured.

  As Johnny sucked, Tanni looked round her, seeing her surroundings through her fastidious mother’s eyes. The room smelled of nappies. Her few dresses and Bruno’s spare suit hung in a small wardrobe. There was a layer of grime on the window. Bruno’s books were piled beneath it, with her comb and brush and a leaflet about bathing babies on top of them. She often felt like lying down on the unmade bed and waiting for the grime to cover her too, but now the thought of her parents galvanized her. She could see dust balls under the bed. Her mother would be shocked, and Tanni decided she had better give the room a thorough clean.

  First though, she should visit her aunt, who was married to a rabbi in Bethnal Green. Tante Berthe Cohen could advise her on what to do next. She was a small, round, kindly woman, not really an aunt but a distant cousin on her mother’s side, and Tanni’s only friend. She was much older than Tanni’s mother, always busy, and had lived in England for twenty years. Rabbi Cohen had known Bruno’s father and, although Bruno was not in the least religious, had performed the bris for Johnny. Tante Berthe had supported a nervous Tanni through the ceremony and provided honey cake and wine afterward.