by Mona Golabek
“All right, dear, that’s enough. Thank you,” the Captain said.
A young girl shouldn’t hear it? Lisa asked herself. I have lived it, I have seen it! She thought of Kristallnacht and saw her father on the ground, naked and humiliated, an image she could not erase from her mind. Suddenly, she was overwhelmed with a desire to be with others like her. Yes, Monty was friendly, Gladys meant well, and the lady was kind, too; she had enough to eat and she was safe; it should be enough, she told herself, but it wasn’t.
It was hard to get back to the routine of her job, but Lisa dutifully laid out the mistress’s outfits and matched the shoes to the purse and the skirt to the jacket. As always, the lady was very pleased.
“A wonderful choice, Lisa.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Lisa said. Her heart had been heavy with guilt. She needed to ask the most important question, and she’d been putting it off. “Madam? May I ask you something?”
“Certainly, what is it?”
“I have a sister in Vienna. She’s very sweet and she could work in the kitchen. We very much need someone to sponsor her so she can get on the kinder train, and if there’s any—”
The lady looked at her, interrupting. “How old is she?” “Twelve.”
The lady frowned.
“She’ll be thirteen in a week,” Lisa added, exaggerating. “I’d take care of her on my time off. She’d be no trouble, I promise. She’s very well behaved. . . .”
The lady gave her a sad smile. “I wish I could make these kinds of decisions on my own . . . but I promise I’ll ask my husband. You’ve got nerve, I like that.”
Sunday morning came and Gladys came into Lisa’s room as usual. “Are you certain I can’t coax you to church? There’s a lot of young boys there! Might be fun. It’d get you out of the house.”
“No, thank you,” Lisa said politely. She couldn’t imagine the idea of going to church. She listened to Gladys and Monty’s laughter echo through the hall, as they made their way out the kitchen door and into the pickup. She lay on her bed and listened to the wind rustling through the leaves out the window.
She missed her family so. Closing her eyes she pictured the ceramic tailor of Dresden on the sideboard of the living room and scanned the pictures on the wall in her mind’s eye. This was her ritual; she was determined not to forget a thing. She imagined she could hear her parents speaking in their native German—and missed their voices.
The wind reminded her of the last movement of the Chopin Sonata in B Minor. She got up and crept to the distant room where the piano was. She sat on the bench, lifted the lid, and put her fingers to the keys. Everyone was away, but still she was frightened—so she played the keys with silent strokes, not making a sound. Her fingers flew over the familiar patterns and for a moment she felt a great joy, connected to her music and to her family, even if it was only in her imagination. This was what her mother had begged her to do, so she played for her mother, and she played for herself, for the joy of it, until she could hear the sounds of the footsteps returning. Then she crept secretly back to her room.
The next day Lisa was polishing the two-toned open-toed pumps in the walk-in closet off the lady’s bedroom. The lady had seemed upset about many things—about the baby’s colic, about the Home Guard officers’ cigar smoke, about the perfume she had spilled—about the day in general. She called Lisa into the boudoir, where she was seated at the mirror.
“I’ve talked to the captain,” she said. “Unfortunately we won’t be able to take on another person . . . I’m sorry.”
The words fell heavily on Lisa and seemed to fall heavily on the lady as well. “You see, he’s given half the house to the government and he feels he’s done his duty.”
“Thank you for asking him,” Lisa said softly.
The woman kept powdering her face, and Lisa turned to go.
“Lisa? How old are you?” “I’ll be fifteen.”
“That’s a wonderful age. I wish I were fifteen again.” The woman’s voice was distant, unhappy. Lisa didn’t know how to respond. “When I was fifteen, I thought the world was my oyster. I thought I was going to make something of my life. . . .” She looked directly into Lisa’s eyes. “I’m sorry. . . .”
The lady’s voice trailed off. “Lay out my green jacket, would you?”
“Make something of yourself.” The phrase ran through Lisa’s mind as she ironed the jackets, pressed the skirts, and polished the shoes. Over and over came the calm voice of her mother—its gentle insistence invading her thoughts. Whom could she look to for guidance if not her mother?
That night she slept fitfully, tossing and turning as the summer rains beat down on the slanted roof close to her head. In the morning, she was awakened by a rap at the door.
“Are you coming or not, sleepyhead?” Gladys yelled. She dressed hurriedly, opened the drawer, and grabbed the envelope that held the money she had saved from her wages, stuffing it into her pocket.
The weekly trip to town didn’t have the same carefree air it normally did. Gladys and Monty seemed sad, sitting close to one another but saying nothing. Was it a lovers’ quarrel? Lisa had never had a boyfriend, and it seemed so mysterious. She watched Gladys lean her head on Monty’s huge shoulder; there were tears in her eyes.
Lisa helped Gladys pick through the parsnips and celery while Monty headed for the high street with a purposeful stride.
“You’re watching the last steps of a free man,” the head maid said, watching him go. “The big lout is signing up for the navy today.”
“The navy?” Lisa asked, filled with wonder.
“There’s a rumor that the mobilization is going to be announced any minute; he wanted to beat them to it.”
Lisa, filled with emotion, kept staring at Monty.
In an uncharacteristic gesture, Gladys put her arm around Lisa. “He’ll show those Germans, you’ll see . . . it’s going to be all right.” But Gladys started to cry. “I’m sorry, luv, look at this silly blubbering.”
They finished the shopping and Lisa carried the heavy vegetables to the truck.
“May I do an errand, ma’am?”
“Go ahead, of course you can.”
Lisa doubled back around the corner and found the secondhand shop. She summoned up all her courage and walked in.
“I want to buy the bicycle,” she said, trying as hard as she could to pronounce the “w” the way the English people did. She saw the curious expression of the shopkeeper and knew her accent was still dreadfully foreign.
“So, you must be that refugee we’ve heard about. My wife told me we had one of you nearby.”
“Yes,” Lisa said, feeling self-conscious.
“And you’re looking for a bicycle?”
“Yes . . . I have money.”
The man walked up to the bike that Lisa was pointing to and looked at the tag. “Four pound two shillings. Hmm, seems a bit pricey for what it is. How does two pound sound?” he asked with a wink.
Lisa fished in her envelope and handed two large coins to the man. She fought back a feeling of guilt; this was the money for Sonia! But she’d make more money soon, she promised herself.
“Can you keep it here until I come to get it?” “Whenever you need it, it’ll be here.”
7
LISA WAITED until the day after she was paid her small wages, then arose before dawn and packed her things. The sun was coming up when she tiptoed into the kitchen and opened the cupboard. She cut a wedge of cheese from under the damp towel in the larder and took bite after bite, fearful of the hunger that had so often gnawed at her during the last months in Vienna. She cut a portion of dried meat, wrapped it in newspaper, and stuffed it in her coat pocket.
The cold damp of dawn greeted her as she opened the back door. She stood on the threshold for a long moment, then came back into the warmth of the kitchen, drawn by the kindness she had felt in this house. Using the pencil Gladys kept for the grocery list, she wrote carefully: “Thank you. I’m sorry, Lisa Jura.”
She walked the two miles to the village. When the secondhand shop opened, she collected her red bike, tied her small suitcase to the back, and was off. The sun was just breaking through the morning fog as she left the village. The sign read: “Brighton—45 miles.”
The rhythm of the pedals reminded her of a toccata and fugue by Bach, which she began to hum as she flew through the countryside, passing cows in the fields and birds on the telephone wires. She tapped out its staccato beat with her feet and began to sing at full volume. She was happy; she was free! She was going to London. She would go to Bloomsbury House and make them find a place for her in the big city.
As the day wore on and the miles got longer, she was hit by a wave of indecision. Was it terrible to have left a house with caring people who fed and sheltered her? The captain’s wife must hate her now; Gladys and Monty must think the worst of refugees. Would she even make it to London?
But she kept pedaling and began to chant aloud: “I will go to London. I will go to London.” With sheer force of will, and with every yard of distance between her and the castle, she left her indecision behind.
She waited to eat as long as she could, then pulled over to the side of the road, leaned her bike against a hedge, and pulled out the precious piece of meat she’d taken from the pantry. She nibbled carefully, determined to keep some for later. The countryside was quiet, and the bees were at work in the hayfields. The tall grass soothed her aching legs. In no time she was asleep, dreaming of Franzenbrückestrasse. People were running down the streets, and her mother was yelling, “Find Papa, find Papa!” She was running through piles and piles of broken glass, looking for her father. The piles of glass got deeper and deeper and felt sharper under her feet.
She jerked awake and was frightened to see a figure hunched over her—a face right next to hers, a cold hand on her thigh. She screamed and scrambled to her feet, throwing the man to the side.
“Wait a second, good-looking; don’t run off so fast!” The man was middle-aged and ill shaven and looked as if he’d been working in the fields. He moved to Lisa’s bike and put both hands on the handlebars ominously.
“Don’t be running anywhere just yet.”
Lisa’s heart was beating furiously. “Give me my bike.” But the man stood still, smiling menacingly. She stepped quickly into the middle of the road, looking frantically up and down, but it was completely deserted. When she looked back, she saw the man wheeling her bike behind the hedge.
“Let me show you something, good-looking,” he said, wheeling the bike farther and farther away from the road.
Lisa forced herself to keep her wits about her. She considered running away, but everything she had in the world was in the suitcase strapped to the bike. She had to stall until a car came down the road.
“Wait! I can’t walk, I’ve hurt my foot,” she said, throwing herself back to the ground near the edge of the road. “I think I have broken my foot.”
The man looked at her skeptically but wheeled the bike back to where she sat on the ground.
“Come talk to me,” Lisa said, smiling flirtatiously. “Do you work near here?” The man nodded and came over, leaning against the hedge. He brought out a hand-rolled cigarette and lit it.
“I work very near here,” Lisa pressed on. “Perhaps I could meet you later.”
Every minute that went by was an eternity but she hid her terror and made false promise after false promise about a fictitious rendezvous. Luckily, the man was gullible and arrogant, nodding his head and smiling. Finally, ten agonizing minutes later, she heard the noise of a vehicle in the distance.
As it approached, she jumped up and lurched into the road, waving her arms frantically. A military jeep pulled to a stop in front of her.
“Sorry, miss, no riders, government orders.”
Before Lisa could even explain about her attacker, the man had fled into the field and disappeared. Trembling, she thanked the soldier, got on her bike and pedaled as fast and as far as she could.
She entered the outskirts of the city of Brighton at nightfall and followed the signs to the train station. Her muscles were shaking as she got off the bike and limped up to the ticket master’s booth.
“The next train to London?” she asked wearily.
“Not till morning, six-eighteen, track four.”
She fished for the required shillings and pence from her pocket, and was handed a ticket.
“Is that your bicycle?”
Lisa nodded.
“You’ll have to wait for the afternoon train, then; no bikes allowed on the commuter express.”
“Are you sure?”
“Rules are rules.”
Lisa hung her head and wheeled her bicycle through the station, finally finding the ladies’ room, grateful to see a small wooden bench inside. She lay down on it and put her head on her suitcase. She was too tired to dream.
The sound of the flushing toilet woke her up. Two giggling teenage girls in school uniforms were putting on lipstick and laughing, oblivious of Lisa’s presence. “Hurry up!” one of them yelled to the other. “You’ll miss the train.”
Lisa hurried, too, grabbing her things and running onto the platform. The train doors were open and inviting. She glanced back at her red bicycle, said good-bye, and boarded.
The compartment was crowded, but she found a seat next to a group of teenage boys with green duffel bags. She supposed they were being called up for the draft as part of the national mobilization. Their faces were soft and young; one of them was covered in pimples. She didn’t think they stood a chance against the steely-eyed Nazi soldiers she had seen at home, and a dark mood of worry seized her. Lisa tried to distract herself by looking out the window at the lush green countryside, steering her mind onto a more cheerful path of thoughts about the big city ahead of her.
Waterloo station was filled to the brim with travelers. Whole families were on the move, and porters were wheeling huge carts overflowing with suitcases. The warm smell from a bakery stall made her stomach ache, and she went and ordered a hot-cross bun. She made herself eat slowly so she could enjoy it; it seemed like the most delicious bun on earth.
Following the careful directions of helpful pedestrians, Lisa walked the weary miles to Bloomsbury House.
8
THE BLOOMSBURY HOUSE was still a madhouse of volunteers, arriving children, and file boxes. Lisa walked down the hall in guilty trepidation and gave her name to one of the secretaries.
“Have a seat, dearie, he’ll be with you soon as he’s able. Care for some tea?”
She accepted gratefully and watched as boxes of donations were sorted and stacked. Britain had responded to the arrival of the Kindertransports with an outpouring of cutlery, linens, rocking horses, and dolls; all manner of whatnots seemed to have landed in the hallway in front of her. The offices were full; the overflow of prospective foster parents spilled into corners and onto stairwells.
“I know you said you could only take two, but it would be terrible to break up the family,” a volunteer implored into a telephone. “They’re so lovely, and very well behaved, too.” The worker glanced at the three children next to her who were holding tight to one another’s hands. Her eyes were sparkling in encouragement, and her chin nodded up and down.
Lisa wondered how she’d be described—not well behaved certainly, more like a troublemaker. No matter, she’d made her decision. She wouldn’t go back. Anything, she told herself, was better than the terrible loneliness of the last six months.
The volunteers continued their phone calling and their cajoling, fielding offers of buildings to be converted to orphanages and giving advice on bedwetting and tantrums. Lisa accepted more and more cookies.
“Lisa Jura? Mr. Hardesty will see you now.” She walked into his office and half imagined that Mr. Hardesty groaned when he saw the dark red hair approach.
“Aha, it’s you!” he said as recognition dawned. “We were worried—the captain told us you’d gone missing.” But instead
of the brash young bundle of energy he remembered, before him stood an exhausted girl with un-combed hair and wrinkled clothes. Lisa was too tired to think of anything to say.
Mr. Hardesty picked up a file with Lisa’s picture on the front and several papers clipped to the back.
“Were they treating you badly?”
Lisa reddened in embarrassment. “No, sir.”
“Were you getting enough to eat?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Hardesty let out a large breath, exhaling weeks and months of fatigue and frustration. He loosened his collar. He was sweltering in the airless August afternoon.
Lisa forced herself to begin the speech she had rehearsed over and over in her head. “I want to make something of myself. I don’t want to be a servant. I want to learn something. Please, let me stay in London.”
Mr. Hardesty studied this outspoken young woman and let out another long breath. “I’m afraid that’s very difficult. So many people are leaving London, and I don’t know if I could find a family here to take you. The hostels are full up.”
“People are leaving?” Lisa said, her eyes filled with fear.
Mr. Hardesty softened his expression. “Didn’t you get any news down there? Most people are expecting a war— and I’m afraid I am, too. Looks like Warsaw will be next. Chamberlain is over there now pleading, but it won’t come to anything, if you want my opinion.”
He looked at her proud but vulnerable expression and added, “We’d prefer to send as many of you to the countryside as we can. Most people expect we’ll be bombed.”
“Please, don’t send me back. I can work in a factory! I need to make some money to send to my parents to bring Sonia over.”
“Sonia?” Mr. Hardesty asked.
“My sister, Sonia. I’m hoping she will come soon on the Kindertransport.”
“What’s her name, again?”
“Sonia Jura, from Vienna.”
“He fumbled for a long time through a file box and finally located a typed card. “Sonia Jura, aha. Yes, but we don’t have a sponsor for her yet. If she doesn’t have a sponsor, they won’t let her into England.”
