The Children of Willesden Lane: Beyond The Kindertransport: A Memoir of Music, Love, and Survival

by Mona Golabek

  “It’s not like Mama’s cooking, but don’t worry, I’m trying to eat as much as I can.” Not satisfied by this response, Lisa devoted most of the weekend they spent together to plying Sonia with whatever extra portions she could sneak from the kitchen.

  Lisa took Sonia to all of her favorite spots in her new city: At Buckingham Palace they strained for a glimpse of the princess. Lisa wanted to show Sonia the tube but was unable to get her to ride the trains; the younger girl balked at entering the frightening hole in the ground, and no amount of convincing could persuade her. Giving up, Lisa suggested the double-decker bus, which they rode happily for hours before getting off to feed the pigeons in Trafalgar Square.

  When they walked past Big Ben, Lisa confided that she had been kissed on top of the bell tower. Sonia’s eyes widened at her sister’s brazen behavior, but Lisa told her that soon she, too, would meet a boy, and then she would understand.

  The night was more difficult; Sonia cried out for their mother in her sleep, and asked, tearily, in the morning, when Lisa thought they would see their parents and Rosie again.

  “I don’t know,” Lisa began, but seeing Sonia’s mournful expression, she added, “I’m sure it will be soon.”

  Despite the rough moments, it was a wonderful visit, and both sisters were distraught on Sunday afternoon when it was time to part once again. They vowed to keep writing often, especially if either heard any news of the family.

  Just a few weeks after Sonia’s visit, Lisa got a short letter from Leo’s cousin in Mexico. While letters from Austria had stopped completely, occasionally they still slipped in from other places. Lisa ripped open this letter and scanned it quickly for news.

  “Still haven’t heard from Leo or Rosie, but we did get news that most all Jews from Vienna have now been deported to detention camps in Poland, near Lodz, we think. We have tried desperately to get word about our aunts and uncles there, but there are few ways to communicate from here in Mexico. Do you have better sources for information over there? Please write us if you hear anything at all.”

  In panic, Lisa brought this letter to the Bloomsbury House, but neither they, nor the Jewish Refugee Agency, nor anyone else, could answer their frantic appeals. All letters came back stamped “Undeliverable,” and every attempt Lisa and the others at the hostel made to contact their parents was unsuccessful.

  Lisa struggled to maintain a degree of normalcy in her life. Her routine was hard; she awoke early and worked the first shift at the factory. By 1943, Platz & Sons was making military accessories—duffel bags, backpacks, mudguards, camouflage, all sewn from heavy green canvas. The work was harder than before, and Lisa’s tired fingers began to feel the strain from the difficult, repetitive work of pushing yard after yard of heavy canvas under the presser foot of the sewing machine.

  Then came her afternoon classes at the school of music, followed by the hours of practicing necessary to keep Mrs. Floyd happy. Because she was always working, she had no time to make friends with the other students and envied those she saw lounging and chatting in the halls, seemingly without a care in the world. She told herself that someday the hard work would pay off; she knew her mother would be proud of her.

  On occasion, she, Hans, and Mrs. Cohen would go to the venerable Royal Albert Hall, with free tickets courtesy of Bloomsbury House. Lisa listened in rapture to the likes of pianist Clifford Curzon and the conducting of Sir John Barbirolli and was enthralled to see her idol, Myra Hess, play once again.

  The centerpiece of her week was her lesson with Mabel Floyd. After faithfully practicing all that she had been assigned, she would appear enthusiastically at the master teacher’s studio at three-thirty on Thursdays.

  “No, no, no,” Mrs. Floyd interrupted Lisa after just a few beats. “A trill is something light! Think of fairy dust, the tinkling of little bells. This sounds like a parade of army boots.”

  Lisa rubbed the painful muscles of her right forearm hurriedly and began again. The same results.

  “No, no, try it from the beginning, please.”

  Again Lisa rubbed her arm before beginning.

  “Is your arm bothering you, dear?” the teacher asked. “No, it’s all right. Just a little sore,” Lisa answered, inadvertently rubbing it again.

  “Maybe you’re practicing too hard,” Mrs. Floyd said, suddenly concerned. “How many hours do you practice every day?”

  “Three,” Lisa responded.

  “Hmm, that sounds right. But let’s work with the left hand for a while, give the right one a rest, shall we? Why don’t you turn to that problem spot on page twelve.”

  As she flipped the pages, the discerning teacher noticed the worry in her pupil’s eyes.

  “Is there something else you need to tell me, dear?” she asked with concern.

  Lisa had been reluctant to talk about her factory job with Mrs. Floyd, but finally she described her arduous work. The teacher had found out very little about her student; she knew only that she was a refugee and that she lived in a hostel, but she hadn’t known the details about the rigors of the assembly line.

  “My, my, we’ll have to do something about that,” was her brisk response. Saying no more about it, she gathered up Lisa’s music and handed it to her. “Go home and get some rest. I’ll see you next week. There will be no assignment.”

  At the end of the next lesson Mrs. Floyd handed Lisa a letter, handwritten in bold, black ink, on the embossed stationery of the Royal Academy.

  “Take this to the Howard Hotel, the address is inside. They are looking for a pianist to entertain the soldiers. I believe the pay is reasonable and the work will be much more suitable.”

  Lisa drew in her breath—a little gasp of delight. “Oh, thank you! Thank you, Mrs. Floyd.”

  “And I’m sure you will, ah, take care to be, how do the French say it? Sage.”

  Lisa thought she saw the feisty woman wink, but it was so fast that she might have imagined it.

  She floated several inches off the pavement all the way to the Howard Hotel, where she presented the letter to the manager, was shown the piano in the lounge adjacent to the bar, and was told she could begin the following week.

  The next day at the factory was difficult; Lisa dreaded good-byes. She sat, teary eyed, as she was presented with a camouflage backpack that had been autographed by all the ladies on her floor. “Wishing you the best of luck, Love Lois, Doris, Deirdre, Rachel, Louise, et al.”

  Mr. Dimble said, “We’re sorry to lose you, but good luck in show business.” Lisa laughed and thanked him with a kiss on the cheek that made the poor man blush.

  The farewell to Mrs. McRae was the hardest. “I’ll be reading the newspapers, searching for your name, Lisa. I’ll be reading the arts section! Won’t that set them a-titterin’.” They hugged, and with no further ceremony Lisa left the life of the factory behind.

  22

  THE HOWARD HOTEL was a bustling night spot in the West End of London, with a large restaurant, a small ballroom with swing dances on Saturday nights, and “entertainment in the lounge” the other six nights a week. Lisa posed for a photograph that was placed on an easel in the foyer: “In the Oak Room, Lisa Jura, at the Piano.”

  She had explained her classical training and lack of “popular repertoire” to the enormously busy manager.

  “Fine, fine, fine, don’t worry! You’re very pretty, that’s the main thing,” he said, returning to his inventory of the glasses and bottles behind the bar.

  The hotel atmosphere took some getting used to—the chatter and laughter, the clinking of glasses, the occasional brawl. But Lisa was happy and grateful, not only to be playing music, but to feel a part of the sophisticated beat of London.

  The City was crawling with soldiers on leave—the Yanks, the Free French, and the Royal Navy, Air Force, and Army. Uniforms were as ubiquitous as civilian clothes, and it seemed that as many women wore them as men.

  Gina was green with envy, but she rose above her feelings to help Lisa get ready for t
he first night. Lisa floated into the beauty salon, where her friend had stayed late to curl, swirl, and wrap her hair in the latest fashion. A touch of bright red lipstick, and off she went.

  The first night, she chose the liveliest of Chopin’s mazurkas and several of Mendelssohn’s songs without words. She learned fast to avoid Bach and Beethoven. The crowd was appreciative, and so was the manager when he saw the patrons moving from the restaurant to the lounge to order additional drinks.

  “Play ‘Peg o’ My Heart’!” someone yelled. “No, play ‘I’ll be Seeing You’!”

  Lisa smiled and tried to be charming, but she realized immediately that she had better find some new music. The next day, reveling in the wonder of having a free morning, she shopped near Tottenham Court for the favorite tunes of the day.

  Her training in sight-reading really paid off, and soon the entire room was singing along with Lisa’s spirited versions of the wartime hit parade. She played “We’ll Meet Again” and “I’m Gonna Get Lit Up (When the Lights Go Up in London)” and “When They Sound the Last ‘All Clear.’ ”

  More and more Americans were coming in, the overflow from the famous Rainbow Corners dance hall up the street, where Count Basie and Woody Herman blasted the big band sound to frenzied dancers leaping to the jitterbug. The Yanks loved it when she played “Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition” and yelled out for “Deep in the Heart of Texas.” There was always some outgoing type who led the crowd in singing along, cheering loudly at the end of each favorite.

  Truth be told, one of the things Lisa loved best about the job was being the center of attention. She was now nineteen; her hair was bobbed, there was a charming sway in her walk, and flirtatiousness was in her blood. The soldiers were young and oh, so handsome, and she was the center of this small universe in the lounge of the Howard Hotel. Mash notes were a nightly occurrence. “Would the beautiful lady with the red hair care to join me for our own Hungarian rhapsody? Squadron leader Lou ‘Lucky’ McGuire.”

  Sometimes, when she saw a soldier in an RAF uniform, she would think of Aaron, although more with nostalgia than with the sting of longing she had first felt at their parting. But her worry about him intensified after the hostel received a telegram from the War Department advising them that Paul Goldschmidt had died. The telegram was addressed to Mrs. Cohen, whose name had been filled in under “Mother.” Mrs. Cohen passed the telegram around the quiet dinner table, and saddened fingers touched the words valiantly gave his life in service . . .

  Mrs. Glazer led the recitation of the kaddish: “May God remember the soul of Paul Goldschmidt who has gone to his eternal home. . . .”

  Paul’s death was a blow to Lisa, not only because she missed his sunny smile but because it brought home the reality of the danger Aaron faced. The next day, she went to a small storefront shop that she had often passed in Cavendish Square, where she had seen the sign “Star Sound Studios—Send greetings to your loved ones far away!”

  Even though the man was impressed by Lisa’s rendition of Liszt’s romantic Liebesträume, adjusting the dials of the huge machine that cut the grooves into the 78 rpm gramo-phone record, he still charged the full two pounds for the service. She left him the address of the paratroops division headquarters and inscribed the gold-and-white label in the center “Dear Aaron, with all my love, Lisa.”

  As time went by it became easier to put thoughts of Aaron aside as night after night Lisa entered this sophisticated new world. She loved her new job, and what she loved most about it was the fellowship, the soldiers and bomb-weary Londoners who were looking for a haven of friendly camaraderie as much as she was.

  But how many times could she play “Peg o’ My Heart” without feeling starved for the depth and beauty of the great composers? So it was with renewed enthusiasm that she redoubled her practicing and went to her weekly lesson with Mabel Floyd.

  “Architecture!” the master teacher said for what seemed like the hundredth time. “You must envision the whole of the piece, not just these little segments I hear. Try the last section again, please.”

  And once again Lisa played the offending section while Mrs. Floyd listened intently.

  “Shh! Let the melody build, don’t give it all away at the start,” she said, starting to sing the beautiful melody, raising and lowering the volume of her voice as Lisa approached the climactic moments. “That’s it! Hear that? It’s the answer to the question on the other page. . . . Now keep it going! . . . Don’t stop there! . . . That’s right, Lisa! Listen to the response!”

  Eyes shining, Lisa began building to the thunderous conclusion. She was beginning to think she’d make it this time.

  “No, no, no!” Mrs. Floyd said, stopping her once again. “You’ve lost the rhythm. If the pattern of the left hand becomes erratic, the architecture is lost! Once again, now.”

  By the end of a lesson, the pages of Lisa’s music were covered by arrows, circles, and annotations of all descriptions. It was hard work, but Lisa emerged from the studio filled with exhilaration.

  Gina usually got back to the hostel from the beauty parlor around the time Lisa was putting the finishing touches on her makeup, readying herself for her evening of glamour on the West End. Recently her smiles and compliments at Lisa’s elegant new clothing had dried up and were replaced by a coolness that was subtle but unmistakable.

  One Friday night, when Lisa was trying on an expensive new jacket (which had cost a week’s salary and used up her remaining allotment of sixteen clothing ration coupons), Gina walked in, put her purse on the bed, and frowned.

  “Isn’t it dreamy?” Lisa asked, anxious for her friend’s approval of the tailored masterpiece.

  “The color is awful on you,” she answered. “It’s totally wrong for a redhead.” Gina turned and walked downstairs for dinner.

  Lisa surveyed herself again in the mirror, turning nervously. She had paid a lot of money for this jacket! Suddenly, from the top bunk across the room, came the voice of Edith from over the pages of her movie magazine.

  “It looks just fine, don’t listen to her.”

  “I wish she’d just be nice for once!” Lisa said angrily. “Don’t you see what she wants, silly?” said Edith. “What?” Lisa asked, genuinely not having a clue.

  “She wants you to take her with you,” came the advice from her usually silent roommate.

  It was so simple, Lisa couldn’t imagine why she hadn’t thought of it before.

  Lisa was thrilled at the prospect of sharing the evening at the lounge with her best friend and delighted that Gina had accepted her invitation. She was also amazed that Gunter had let Gina come without him; he’d become a real bore since he’d begun to study so hard.

  “Ooh, it’s a good thing the stick-in-the-mud isn’t coming! Wait until you see all the Yanks!” said Lisa as the two young women hurried up Shaftsbury Street.

  At first Gina sat alone at her own table, but she was soon mobbed by soldiers looking for a date. She bantered and chatted with the calm confidence of a woman who knows her heart is already taken.

  Lisa played a moving rendition of “Deep Purple,” which momentarily stopped the chatter in the crowded room. At the end of it, she stood up to acknowledge the applause, and looked over in Gina’s direction, announcing loudly: “That was dedicated to my best friend.”

  Gina took a little bow, and a group of American sailors rushed over to the pretty girl, saying, “Let me buy you a drink to celebrate!”

  “Why not?” Gina smiled.

  “ ‘Red River Valley’!” one of the sailors called out, and Lisa launched into the simple tune. After a few bars, he began to sing. “From this valley they say you are going . . . We will miss your bright eyes and sweet smile . . .” He had a haunting tenor voice, and the raucous crowd quieted immediately. He sang so beautifully that Lisa stopped playing and let him finish a capella.

  “So remember the Red River Valley . . . And the cowboy who loved you so true. . . .”

  When he finished, there we
re tears in the eyes of many soldiers who were thinking mournfully of the beautiful girls back home.

  At the end of the evening, Gina gathered up her purse and coat and walked over to Lisa. “I’m coming back every Friday night, no matter what you-know-who thinks. It’s too much fun to miss!”

  One night, Lisa glanced out at the faces of the soldiers in the room and did a double take. For there was Aaron, completely unexpected, but, judging from the quickening of her pulse, more welcome than she had realized. She immediately stopped the piece she was playing, jumped up, threw her arms around him, and gave him a kiss. The crowd burst into cheers and catcalls, which then turned into the rhythmic clapping whose message was unmistakable: Get back to the piano!

  “Sit right there! I’ll join you at the break!” Lisa said excitedly, then sat back down and launched into a heartfelt rendition of the Liebesträume, just for him.

  Several inebriated flyboys nearby saw the fond looks she was throwing Aaron and whistled their approval.

  When at last her work was done, she hurried to his table, where he sat alone in front of several emptied glasses.

  “How about this place? Pretty fancy, don’t you think?” she said, pulling out a cigarette. Saying nothing, Aaron leaned forward and lit it with his lighter.

  “Don’t look at me like that, you smoke, too! So, what do you think?” she continued with excitement.

  “You played even more beautifully than your recording.”

  “Oh, you got it!” Lisa cried out happily.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  A soldier approached Lisa, offering to buy her a drink, but she refused politely, following Aaron’s eyes as he watched the handsome soldiers all around her.

  “Now, don’t be jealous. It’s just a job.”

  Aaron smiled wryly, and blew smoke rings into the air. “So, tell me everything!” she begged.