17 March 1939, London
1
As the ferry foghorn blares overhead, Rosa rests on the railing and looks into the mist. At first she can see nothing; then a quay emerges, teeming with life, followed by England itself. Her first impression is of an overcrowded, bustling city in browns and blacks and greys, smelling of coal and oil, covered in cloud, where people have white, knobby faces and terrible teeth, seem to be smiling for no reason at all, and speak in voices that come from the belly. She walks down the gangplank, single file, with all the other children, as if on a factory conveyor belt, each with a single suitcase and a number round the neck. Carefully she steps, holding the handrail, somebody checks her number again, England is nothing like she expected, she thought it would be more stately, somehow, more refined, filled with people like the king and queen, who conducted themselves with an air of nobility, not these gangs of scruffy-looking men with cloth caps and potato noses, not these urchins darting round corners and down alleyways, not these women sitting idly in doorways in the middle of the day.
The sky hangs brown over the children’s heads like the lid of a shoebox. Rosa is caught up in a whirl of busyness and bustle, followed by a period of waiting, followed by more busyness, and throughout she speaks not a word to anyone, least of all to Gusti. Soon, numbed by an endless stream of checks of her passport and her number, and dazed by lack of sleep, Rosa slips into a blankness, allowing herself to be herded from one queue to another, along pavement after pavement, into a railway station.
Then there is a period of rest, collapsed on the seat of an English train, among foreign colours, smells and words, packed in with other disoriented children. Rosa finds her head lolling; it hits the window a few times then comes to rest upon it, the vibrations of the engine erode her thoughts and the whipping telegraph poles outside the window lull her to sleep. And then she is awake again, trying to rub her eyes, lugging her suitcase with both hands, struggling down the aisle and out of the train, the younger children are noisy, they seem so cheerful, somehow, the little ones; and there is Wollheim – the baby is nowhere to be seen – what is he saying, something about Liverpool Street, better just wait and see. Then forward along the platform, causing a disruption to the English people streaming by alongside, and there are soldiers dotted about, different from the ones in Germany, scruffier, more cheerful, quite silly-looking. How busy everything is, Rosa thinks, England seems to exist in a perpetual state of chaos!
The children settle down in a corner amid occasional clouds of steam, and there follows an endless period of waiting. One of the black-coated twins falls instantly asleep, the other looks worriedly about. Wollheim is the only one who does not seem to be tired, patrolling the perimeter of the group of children, speaking occasionally to a policeman wearing an impressive swooping cape and a cone-shaped helmet topped with silver. Rosa sits on her suitcase and stands again, then, exhausted by the commotion around her, sits down and cups her chin in her hands. This station is so different from the ones in Berlin; it is strange that if one turns in any direction and keeps going, eventually one will arrive in a place where people speak a different language, and have different buildings, and different air and food. The whole world is one country. If she were to travel east at a precise trajectory, eventually she would end up back in Berlin with her parents, she would be home in a matter of days.
The wait is interminable, and Liverpool Street station slides around her like a dream. Hundreds of feet overhead is a spectacular web of girders curving into interlocking domes, and the air is filled with coal dust. Then, two by two, the adults start to arrive, they speak to Wollheim, locate the children they are fostering and lead them away. The little ones seem to be going first. Rosa, with a start, thinks about Herr and Frau Kremer for the first time; what will they look like? How will she recognise them? Will Herr Kremer look like Papa? They are cousins – she thinks Papa said they are cousins. Do they have children of their own? Papa wasn’t sure, he hasn’t seen them for years, and they haven’t been in touch. Situations like these tend to bring families together, meine Püppchen, he had told her, as well as tear them apart; I am sure they are very nice, a little religious for our taste, but that’s neither here nor there, they are willing to take you in and that’s all that counts, it will only be a temporary arrangement, just for a matter of weeks or months until we are able to join you.
But now the Kremers are late, many of the children have been collected already. Perhaps they have changed their minds, perhaps they have decided not to come. Perhaps she will be sent back to Berlin.
2
Finally, after a long and troublesome journey, the conductor bellows, Liverpool Street station, the tram judders to a halt, and Gerald and Mimi Kremer are caught up in the bustle of passengers disembarking.
—Well, shouts Gerald, this is it.
—I don’t doubt it, says Mimi.
—We’re late, we’d best hurry, says Gerald.
—Go on then, lead the way, says Mimi.
They pass through the row of stone plinths at the entrance, wind their way through banks of taxis and enter the station proper. Immediately they are confronted by the morning crowds; they pause for a moment, a black film of coal dust settling gently on their shoulders.
—I wouldn’t want to be in London, says Mimi, if there’s a war.
—I’ve told you, says Gerald distractedly, if war breaks out I’ll shift us all out to Harry’s place in Norfolk quick smart. I’ve made the preparations already. Now where are those refugees?
He raises himself to his toes, jutting his chin in the air and swivelling his head left and right above the seething crowds. The strap of his gas mask box slips from his shoulder to his elbow; he hitches it back up, automatically.
—We’re really rather late, he says, looking at his watch. Can’t see the children anywhere.
—Maybe we’ve missed them, says Mimi.
—Don’t be daft. They’re not going anywhere, are they? says Gerald and pushes his way into the crowd, trailing his wife from his arm.
—There they are, says Gerald, over there.
They break free of the crowd and make their way towards a corner of the concourse where a group of exhausted-looking children can be seen sitting on their suitcases, dozing at strange angles, tags round their necks.
—I hope our little girl’s still there, says Gerald. Where’s the man in charge, can you see him?
—Afraid not, dear, says Mimi.
Gerald leads his wife past the children, picking his way round ankles and luggage, waving to catch the attention of Wollheim, who is standing beside the group of children, his gaunt face incongruous in the London crowds. Rosa, sitting on her suitcase at the back, watches the Kremers closely.
—Are you in charge? says Gerald, out of breath.
—You could say so, says Wollheim in accented English. You are here to collect a child?
—Yes indeed, says Gerald.
—Very good. Names please?
—Gerald and Mimi Kremer, how do you do.
—Thank you, says Wollheim. Now let’s see: Kremer.
He runs his finger down the list of names on his clipboard.
—Chaos, this station, isn’t it, says Gerald. Like The Last Train from Madrid only without the guns. Did you see that picture?
—No, says Wollheim, I didn’t.
There is an awkward pause. Gerald looks into Wollheim’s face and is taken aback; the man’s skin is stretched like a drum over his skull, his forehead is etched with lines and his eyes burn with deprivation.
—Are you ill, old boy? says Gerald, failing to disguise his concern.
—I’m fine, Wollheim replies. A little tired. We’ve been travelling all night.
—How are the conditions in Germany? I have heard that things are not so good.
—Rabbi Baeck says the hour of German Jewry has come to an end.
—You’re going to stay in England, surely?
—I must return or they’ll stop the transp
orts for the children.
Gerald, acutely aware of his own freedom, coughs and clears his throat. There is a pause while both men search for a place to rest their eyes. Mimi picks at her embroidered gas mask case.
—Ah so, says Wollheim suddenly, number 126, Klein. You will find her over there somewhere, wearing the number. At least I hope she is wearing the number. Some of the children have taken their tags off. That’s children, no?
The Kremers look over at the group of children but are unable to see a 126. Wollheim rummages in a briefcase.
—In this envelope, he says, are the necessary documents, her passport and so on. Sign here, if you please.
—Of course.
—Many thanks to you both. He who saves one life saves the world in time. I wish you the very best of luck.
—Thank you kindly, says Gerald. Before you go, please think of yourself also. If there’s anything we can do …
—Naturally.
Wollheim hands over the envelope of documents, shakes Gerald by the hand, raises his hat to Mimi, then turns to greet another couple. Gerald and Mimi walk over to the children.
—The poor sod, says Gerald, to be stuck in Germany like that.
—For a moment I thought you were going to adopt him as well, says Mimi. How about this pretty little thing over here? What’s your number, dear?
The round-faced girl makes no response. Mimi rummages in her pocket for a bag of barley sugar and offers one, but the girl does not acknowledge it.
—Not very friendly, are you, dear? says Mimi, putting the bag back in her pocket. How about your little friend here? she says. And what number are you?
The children fall silent as Mimi and Gerald approach, regarding them with unblinking eyes or turning their gaze to the floor. Some of them make an effort to smile – don’t, Gerald wants to say, we’re here for one girl and one girl only, we can’t possibly take any more of you in, we have a family of our own to think about. Suddenly he can look into their eyes no longer, it is as if they are scrutinising his soul for the shadows that lie upon it.
Rosa, at the back, near the wall, looks away. It’s not them, she thinks, it can’t be them, those people are looking for a little one. I really have been forgotten – I really will be sent back to Berlin. Her head is heavy, she sits on the ground, rests her head on the suitcase, allowing her eyes to close.
After a while Gerald and Mimi have gone the length and breadth of the group and checked the tags of all the girls who look the right age; still 126 is nowhere to be found. They stand at the corner of the concourse, watching as more and more children are led away. Gerald puts his hands on his hips and arches his back.
—Hard work this, he says, rummaging in his pockets for a cigarette.
—Somebody has probably taken her by mistake, says Mimi. Or perhaps she has removed her tag.
—Your guess is as good as mine, replies her husband. Let’s have one more try and then I’ll go and consult the man in charge again. Where’s he gone, anyway?
—Talking to that policeman.
—Yes, I see.
Gerald lights his cigarette, pushes his hat back, blows smoke from his nose and looks pensively around. There is a pause.
—Hello, says Mimi. Can you see that one over there? The one in the middle?
Gerald follows her finger to an older girl slumped over her suitcase at the back of the group, with tightly curling hair and crescent-shaped eyes at once innocent and distrustful, bold and afraid; around her neck hangs the number 126.
—It was 126, wasn’t it? says Mimi.
—It’s probably a mistake, says Gerald, sucking deeply on his cigarette. I’ll go and talk to her. Let’s hope she speaks some English.
—There’s no point, dear, says Mimi, that girl’s fifteen if she’s a day. You’d better consult the man in charge again.
—Might as well have a go, says Gerald. It won’t do any harm.
He picks his way through the cluster of children; the girl regards him silently and he clears his throat.
—Number 126? he says, hesitantly. She gets hurriedly to her feet.
—Yes, she says in heavily accented English. Is me.
—You’re not called Klein, are you? asks Gerald.
—Klein? Yes, is me.
—Your name is Klein?
—Yes.
—Rosa Klein?
—Yes.
—Who are your parents?
—I beg your pardon?
—Your parents? Father and mother?
—Ah, so. Yes. Klein, Otto und Inga.
—Well I’ll be…wait there a moment.
Gerald weaves his way back to his wife, sucking tensely on his cigarette.
—Well? says Mimi, glancing doubtfully in the direction of the girl.
—Her name is Klein, says Gerald. And her first name is Rosa. And her parents are Otto and Inga.
—Are you sure? That can’t be right.
Struck by a sudden brainwave, Gerald opens the envelope Wollheim gave him; among the documents is a passport showing a picture of a curly-haired girl of around fifteen.
—That’s settled, then, he says. It’s her.
—No it’s not, says Mimi. We agreed to take an eight-year-old. I’m not taking a girl of that age into my house. Her little sister could be on the train, did you ask her that? That older one could be going somewhere else.
—There can’t be two sisters by the same name, says Gerald. We are collecting a Rosa.
—Perhaps we could swap her. Oh, where is the man in charge when you need him?
—There’s nothing for it.
Gerald adjusts his gas mask box on his shoulder and makes his way once more through the refugee children.
—Rosa Klein, correct? he says.
—Yes, the girl replies.
—We were expecting someone a little younger.
Rosa looks blank.
—Are there any other Kleins here? Do you have a sister?
—A sister yes I have.
—How old is she?
—She is eight, says Rosa, concentrating hard.
—That’s the one. What is her name?
—Her name is Hedi.
—Ah, Hedi. And she is here?
—In Germany.
—No more Kleins here? No sisters?
—Only me.
—And your parents are Otto and Inga?
—Father and Mother.
—Right. Gerald sighs, draws on his cigarette, then extinguishes it on the ground with the toe of his shoe.
—Very well. This is your suitcase? Come with me.
He carries Rosa’s suitcase towards his wife, who is standing with an expression of incredulity on her face.
—This is Mrs Kremer, says Gerald. Be polite, Mimi, come on. And I am Mr Kremer. Sorry, I don’t shake women’s hands. It’s the religion, you see. Nothing personal.
Rosa lowers her hand, baffled.
—Perhaps you should call us Aunt Mimi and Uncle Gerald, says Gerald. Mimi, thin-lipped, rolls her eyes. Gerald opens Rosa’s passport.
—There are two names here, he says, Rosa and Sara. Which one is it?
—Jewish girl Sara, says the girl, Jewish boy Israel.
—Sorry? says Gerald.
—It’s the law, says Rosa, speaking in German. In Deutschland they gave all Jewish girls the name Sara and all boys the name Israel.
—I’m sorry, love, says Gerald. You’re in England now. A bissel Yiddish but that’s about all you’ll get.
—Rosa looks like the official name to me, says Mimi tersely.
—Very well, Rosa it is then, says Gerald breezily. Let’s get you home, Rosa.
—Get her home? says Mimi.
—What are we going to do, send her back to Berlin? Gerald replies.
—I don’t give a hoot, says Mimi. I need a fifteen-year-old girl like I need a hole in the head. Where’s the man in charge?
—Give it a rest, says Gerald sharply. I gave Otto and Inga my word and I’m not going
back on it. Now come along. I’ll hear no more about it.
—I would never have agreed if I’d known, says Mimi subversively.
Gerald ignores her, heaves Rosa’s suitcase onto his thigh the way her father had done the day before and staggers towards the exit.
—What’ve you got in here, rocks? he says.
—I beg your pardon? says Rosa.
—More fine clothes I shouldn’t wonder, says Mimi. Well dressed for a refugee, aren’t you, dear?
3
They walk out of the station onto Bishopsgate and wait at a tram stop in the heavy London cold. Gerald tries to catch his breath and lights another cigarette.
—So, Rosa, he says, did you have a good journey?
—I beg your pardon? says Rosa.
—Her English isn’t up to much, says Mimi, looking aimlessly across the street.
—We go home now, Rosa, yes? says Gerald in a loud voice.
—Yes, says Rosa.
—Looks like rain, says Mimi, and hugs her fur collar tighter.
They settle into an uncomfortable silence. Gerald watches Rosa gazing glassy-eyed and tries to imagine how the grimy splendour of Bishopsgate must look to her; not as glamorous as it used to be, things are getting harder, people aren’t spending as much as they were, especially not on furs if recent business is anything to go by. And here they are with another mouth to feed. He clenches his cigarette between his lips and pulls himself together.
—It’ll be grand, says Gerald, having a guest in the house.
—Don’t know why I agreed to it in the first place, says Mimi.
—Why don’t you just give over, says Gerald, blowing a double jet of smoke from his nose. I’ve taken the day off work, you know.
—It was your idea.
—Well we couldn’t very well refuse, could we? There’s going to be a war, we’ve got to do our bit.
The English German Girl Page 18
