by Mona Golabek
A murmur of disquiet went through the group. “Please be patient, and bear with me!” The matron looked genuinely distraught at the prospect of sending the children away. “I know how important it is to all of you to remain in contact with each other; we’ve become a family. So you have my promise that I will do everything in my power to get our hostel repaired as soon as possible.
“Please wait until your name is called, then move as quickly as possible to the front door,” continued the matron.
A line of families stretched from the front door out onto the sidewalk, waiting to pick up their charges.
“David Mittelman, Arnold Fogel . . . Gertie Sherman,” the list began.
“Gina Kampf,” Mrs. Cohen called, continuing to read from her hastily scribbled list. Gina stood up, hoisting her large suitcase, and waved forlornly at the committee. A nicely dressed woman put her arm around her and led her away. Lisa waved back at her sadly.
Lisa sat still for the next hour and watched her house-mates and friends leave one by one. First Gina, then Gunter, then Aaron, her spirits sinking lower and lower as her friends left. Finally, Lisa’s name was called; she was almost the last.
“Lisa Jura,” Mrs. Cohen said finally, and the Quaker lady in black stepped into the foyer. Lisa looked up at her, surprised. This woman had done so much for her already!
“Hello, dear Lisa,” said Mrs. Canfield. “Will thou forgive me for being so late? I’m so sorry, I wanted to get here early, but I was held up at meeting.” She took Lisa’s hand and helped her gather her belongings. Together they walked down the lane to Riffel Road.
Lisa paused shyly in front of her new home.
“Come in, please. Consider this house thine own,” said Mrs. Canfield, as Lisa stepped into the foyer. The furnishings were austere; the chairs were wooden and the dining table very simple. There was none of the overstuffed comfort of the hostel living room—and there was no piano.
“I’m sure it is difficult being separated from your friends, but I will try to make thee a home nonetheless. We’ve all had a fright, now, haven’t we,” Mrs. Canfield said kindly, leading her up the stairs to a tiny bedroom. On the bureau was a framed photograph of a thoughtful-looking young man in a military uniform.
“That’s my son, John. He’s somewhere in Africa, I believe. He would be happy to know his room is being put to good use.”
“He’s very handsome,” said Lisa, trying to make conversation.
“He’s a medic,” Mrs. Canfield said, looking at the photo lovingly. “We don’t believe in fighting, of course, but he’s doing his part to help his country. I’m very proud of him.”
The next few months were agonizingly lonely. Each day Lisa would pass the empty hostel on her way to work and think of the friends and the piano she missed so desperately. After an arduous day at the factory, Lisa would return to the Riffel Road home and the two women would dine together, with little conversation passing between them. When the meal was over, they would sit in the parlor where Mrs. Canfield would read aloud from the Scriptures, Lisa taking whatever solace she could from the words.
The worst part, of course, continued to be the bombing raids; they had become less frequent, but now that their neighborhood had been hit, Lisa felt more vulnerable. The raids no longer came like clockwork every night, they were more erratic now, but not knowing when the next one would come made Lisa feel even less secure.
The air raid drill at Mrs. Canfield’s was as follows: The siren blasted, and they rolled themselves out of warm beds, into their waiting shoes and coats, and out into the backyard. Mrs. Canfield carried a small lantern, which lit the way to the corrugated metal shelter that had been placed in the regulation three-foot-deep hole. It was freezing and damp, and week after week Lisa huddled on her cot and listened to the explosions while Mrs. Canfield snored gently.
When the explosions came close, Mrs. Canfield awoke and the two of them locked eyes during the agonizing seconds between the whistling sound and the boom. The longer the whistling lasted, it seemed, the louder and closer the explosion.
“Feel free to hum something, dear, it might make you feel better.”
But Lisa’s teeth were chattering too fast to allow her to carry a tune.
One night as Lisa lay in bed during a lull in the bombing, she heard a familiar whistling at her bedroom window. At first she thought she must be dreaming—but there it was again, the unmistakable melody of the Grieg piano concerto. Her heart leaped. She jumped up and saw Aaron at the window, trying to appear nonchalant, whistling as loudly as he could. She rapped on the window as an answer, then tiptoed through the house and opened the front door.
“Aaron!” she said excitedly.
“Hello, Miss Jura . . . lovely evening, isn’t it? Care for a stroll?” he asked.
“I’ll get my coat!” She ran back and bundled herself up, paying careful attention in the mirror to the twist of her muffler.
They walked down Riffel Road to Willesden Lane and stood in front of the dark hostel. Lisa was aware of a shy distance between them. It had been nearly two months since she had seen him.
Aaron filled Lisa in on where he was living and how awful it was. He, too, felt isolated, and his host family was even more strict than Mrs. Cohen. Breaking off abruptly, he said, “Never mind all that . . . I want you to meet me tomorrow for lunch. I have a surprise for you.”
“I only get fifteen minutes for lunch. You know that,” she chastised him. “You’re as irresponsible as ever.” She made sure it sounded more like teasing than criticism.
“Just for an hour. You won’t regret it.”
“What is it that’s so important?”
“It’s a surprise. An important surprise.”
She wanted to believe it was important, but in the back of her mind she didn’t trust him. She couldn’t afford to make her foreman angry; she was about to ask him for a change in assignment, since she was beginning to feel a lot of pain in her right hand.
“Trafalgar Square, at noon,” he said commandingly. But in a battle of wills, Lisa was usually the winner. “I refuse to come unless you tell me what it is.”
“All right, it’s two words.”
“What?” she asked, agonizingly intrigued.
Aaron stopped for a second to prolong the suspense, then relented. “Myra Hess.”
Lisa jumped for joy, throwing her arms around him. * * *
She hated to lie to Mr. Dimble, but that’s the way it had to be. She had thought of nothing else since Aaron had uttered the words Myra Hess. To think that she would finally see her idol!
“Mr. Dimble, I’m sorry, but I have to go somewhere at lunch today. I need an extra hour, please.”
Mr. Dimble looked stricken; he pulled nervously at the pins stuck onto the felt sleeve protectors on his wrist. The factory was in full wartime schedule, and he lived and died by production targets.
“Today?”
“I have to renew my alien registration card,” she fibbed, hoping he wouldn’t know much about it. “I’ll stay late and make up the time.”
“Does it have to be today? Fridays are much easier,” he said.
Lisa thought fast. “Tomorrow’s my birthday, I have to do it before tomorrow.”
“If it has to be, all right. I’ll have someone cover your spot.”
She ran up to the third floor to find Gina in the lunch-room and asked her to keep her secret. Then she flew out the door and into the tube station, which was, mercifully, not crowded—workers were sweeping out the mounds of debris that had been left behind from the previous night’s use as an air raid shelter.
Trafalgar Square, by the north lion, he had said. It was so exciting. She looked up past the huge column in the center of the square and squinted at the sun for direction, but it was high noon and she couldn’t tell which way was north, so she walked quickly 360 degrees around the square, gleefully disturbing the repose of scores of pigeons, until she saw Aaron. He was leaning on the huge bronze of the lion’s ankle.
“Ready!”
She grabbed his hand, overwhelmed by enthusiasm, running across the street and up the stairs of the imposing National Gallery. They joined a line of smartly dressed people who were dropping their shilling into a box in front of the sign: “Lunchtime Concerts at the Gallery—today’s featured soloist, founder, Myra Hess.” Gallantly, Aaron tossed in two shillings and they filed into the enormous foyer, where columns of serpentine marble stretched up to a giant domed ceiling. The gallery walls were bare; the paintings had been removed to protect them from the bombing—no one knew exactly where they had been taken, but rumor had it that Tintorettos and Vermeers were lining castle basements in Wales. A single Rembrandt canvas was on display, labeled “Picture of the Month.”
The ornate architecture reminded her so much of Vienna, but she forced herself not to get melancholy and ruin this marvelous occasion.
A mammoth nine-foot grand piano was at the end of the gallery and hundreds of folding chairs were filling up fast with music lovers. She pulled Aaron by the hand and found the seat with the best visibility. Many of the elegant ladies wore extravagant hats; she had to take care not to sit behind one.
The program notes were written on a large chalkboard: Today’s concert would be divided into two parts, the first, Miss Hess, solo piano, performing Bach’s “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring,” followed by Schumann’s Carnival. The second half would be a Schumann string quartet.
A diminutive woman with short dark hair and a no-nonsense demeanor entered to a thunderous standing ovation and stood by the piano bench. “This performance is dedicated to the brave men and women who are serving Britain,” she announced.
A shiver of pure exhilaration went through Lisa as the opening hush fell over the audience and the concert began.
The bell-like tone of the Steinway grand enveloped the large hall and filled Lisa’s heart. What clear and heartfelt phrasing! What sure and steady fingers that could express the delicacy of the softest pianissimo without its tone disappearing. This was the way Professor Isseles had taught her to play—it was everything she was striving for in her music. Lisa allowed her mind to wander to the fantasy that had so often filled her in Vienna, of playing in front of a grand audience herself in a huge concert hall; she closed her eyes, and for an instant it seemed almost real. She lived a thousand dreams in the next forty minutes.
Aaron, seeing her expression, whispered, “What is it?” “I used to hear her records in Vienna. . . . I can’t believe I am really here!”
“Someday it will be you up there,” he said, taking her hand.
Lisa smiled, but when she looked at her threadbare coat and worn shoes, she was overcome with the reality of her situation. How could a poor refugee girl ever make it to a concert stage? She didn’t even have a piano to practice on anymore.
Lisa had been too wrapped up in the first part of the program to pay much attention to Aaron, but now that the string quartet had begun, she sneaked a look his way. He was handsome, she couldn’t argue with that; she couldn’t decide whether it was his long brown eyelashes or his rakish smile that she liked best. But suddenly, under the lashes, she noticed there were tears in his eyes.
She wished she knew more about him, but he had been so guarded about his past. She thought he had mentioned something about his father building bridges, but she couldn’t quite remember.
Lisa hated when the beautiful notes slipped away and the concert ended. There was so much she wanted to say to Aaron. But now there was no time; she was needed back at the factory. She gave him a hurried thank-you hug and ran for the bus.
At lunch the next day she was embarrassed to hear Mrs. McRae and the other workers sing her a verse from “Happy Birthday.” Gina began to laugh at Lisa’s dismay but stopped when Lisa shot her a warning look. After blowing out the single candle on top of the tiny cupcake, Lisa split the sweet dessert with her as a payoff for her silence.
“I have some news,” Gina said. “I’m not going to work here anymore.”
“What do you mean? Why not?” Lisa asked, surprised and alarmed.
“The lady where I’m staying wants me to help take care of her new baby.”
“Oh, no! How far away is it?” Lisa asked.
“Forty minutes by train. Not so bad, I guess.”
Lisa felt suddenly abandoned.
“I won’t just be a servant, though, like the last time,” Gina said to cheer things up. “The lady says I can go to school in the morning! Isn’t that wonderful?”
“Yes, it is,” said Lisa, trying to hide her sadness as the buzz of the crowded lunchroom disappeared into the inner silence of another loss.
The whistle of the Grieg again sounded at her window that evening. Having hoped it would come again soon, she had laid out her shoes, her coat, and a muffler just in case. She tiptoed out the front door, leaving it slightly ajar.
She and Aaron strolled through the streets, darkened by the blackout, and once again the stars seemed to vibrate in the heavens. It was blessedly quiet; there were no antiair-craft guns or ambulances or air raids, though every few minutes a search beam would sweep the sky for enemy aircraft. They strolled slowly toward no destination in particular.
Aaron was as sweet and gentle as he had been the day before. She couldn’t figure out what would make his moods so different one day to the next. Sometimes he’d be sarcastic and bitter, then gracious and sentimental, as he was now.
“Any news of the committee?” Aaron asked.
“Gina’s got a new job as a nanny.”
“I wonder how long that’ll last?” He laughed. “Oh, did you hear about Paul?”
“No, is he all right?”
“They picked him up the day after he turned sixteen. He’s on the Isle of Man.”
“That’s terrible, how could they? It’s so stupid.”
“It’s so British.”
“That’s mean.”
“But don’t worry, Gunter got a letter from him. He says he’s fine and that the food is better than it was at the hostel. Says there are lots of Nazis and spies but they don’t say much or they’ll get beaten up. In six months they’re going to let him enlist in the army.”
They kept walking and passed the entrance to the tube station at Willesden Green. A family with small bundles was going in for the night. The deep underground stations were favorite bomb shelters, and some people preferred to spend the night on the platforms even when the sirens hadn’t gone off, just in case.
“Aaron, I want to ask you something personal, please don’t be angry,” Lisa began.
Aaron didn’t say anything, so Lisa continued.
“What were you crying about yesterday at the concert?” She had been reliving this moment for the last two days.
“I wasn’t crying,” Aaron said.
Lisa had expected as much, but she didn’t stop. “Please tell me?”
“Memories. That’s all, just memories.”
“Bad memories?”
Aaron was silent for a moment. Lisa didn’t interfere. “Good memories, they’re the worst kind.”
“About your family?”
Aaron nodded.
“You’ve never even told me where you were from.” “Mannheim. On the Rhine.”
She was quiet, hoping he would go on.
“I was remembering the chamber music at our house,” he said finally.
“You had chamber music at your house?” she said, surprised.
“When I was younger I used to fight with my mother about having to go downstairs and listen—all I wanted to do was stay in my room and build bridges, like my father did. I had hundreds of metal strips and screws and bolts that my father had made for me. . . .” His voice drifted off for a moment, then started up again. “Sunday nights, though, they made me listen to chamber music in the salon. Actually I liked it; it was quite good, you would have loved it.”
“But why were you crying?” she asked gently.
“It’s what happe
ned when the chamber music stopped. My father was very influential in Mannheim, you see, just like his father and his father’s father. He had designed the major new bridge over the Rhine. The members of the philharmonic came to the house, so did the mayor. I mean, they used to come before they were told not to—by the Nazis.” They kept walking. Aaron disappeared for a while into the memory of his story.
“And then?” Lisa asked, prodding gently.
“Then nobody came to the house anymore. And they closed my father’s office; he had to stay home all the time. One Sunday night, he dressed up again in his black tie, opened the front door and waited for the guests to arrive. My mother was crying as she watched him waiting and waiting. Of course, nobody came.”
Lisa waited as Aaron exhaled a huge sigh and then continued. “Then he walked out the door . . .”
Lisa waited for Aaron to go on, but he didn’t.
“Then what happened?”
“They found him floating in the river . . . near the bridge he had built.”
Lisa started to cry and he took her hand. They walked quietly through the streets, treasuring the comfort of each other’s presence. At the corner, in the dark under the streetlight, he put his arm around her and kissed her. She felt her heart beginning to give way.
16
IN THE SPRING of 1941 the crocuses came up in strange places; they poked their leaves between sandbags, from under piles of bricks, from anywhere their corms had been blasted by the force of the bombs.
At 243 Willesden Lane they came up in the front yard and were a welcome mat of purple flowers for the reopening of the hostel.
Repairs had been expedited at the insistence of Mrs. Cohen, who wanted her charges to be reunited as soon as possible.
She and Hans and Mrs. Glazer had lived in the house during that period, and Hans later told Lisa that his mother had admitted to feeling lonely without the chaos.
The day the children were to return, she had made sure that the postponed gingerbread cookies were finally baked and that as much meat as possible was procured from her network of donors, do-gooders, and neighborhood shopkeepers.
