precious gold coins—well, when people are frightened and living
too close together, anything can happen.
The next thing I knew Papa was shaking me awake,
giving me a cup of the weak tea we all drank for breakfast. Some adult had
found enough canned milk for each child to get a tablespoon in it most
mornings.
If I had realized I wouldn’t see any of them again—but
it was hard enough to leave, to go to a strange country where we knew only
cousin Minna, and only that she was a bitter woman who made all the children
uncomfortable when she came to Kleinsee for her three-week holiday in the summers—if
I’d known it was the last good-bye I wouldn’t have been able to bear—the
leaving, or the next several years.
When the train left it was a cold April day, rain
pouring in sheets across the Leopoldsgasse as we walked—not to the central
station but a small suburban one that wouldn’t attract attention. Papa wore a
long red scarf, which he put on so Hugo and I could spot him easily from the
train. He was a café violinist, or had been, anyway, and when he saw us leaning
out a window, he whipped out his violin and tried to play one of the Gypsy
tunes he had taught us to dance to. Even Hugo could tell misery was making his
hand quaver, and he howled at Papa to stop making such a noise.
“I will see you very soon,” Papa assured us.
“Lottchen, you will find someone who needs a willing worker. I can do anything,
remember that—wait tables, haul wood or coal, play in a hotel orchestra.”
As the train pulled away I held the back of Hugo’s
jacket and the two of us leaned out the window with all the other children, waving
until Papa’s red scarf had turned to an invisible speck in our own eyes.
We had the usual fears all Kindertransport children
report as we traveled through Austria and Germany, of the guards who tried to
frighten us, of the searches through our luggage, standing very still while
they looked for any valuables: we were allowed a single ten-mark piece each. I
thought my heart would be visible through my dress, it was beating so hard, but
they didn’t feel my clothes, and the gold coins traveled with me safely. And
then we passed out of Germany into Holland, and for the first time since the
Anschluss we were suddenly surrounded by warm and welcoming adults, who
showered us with bread and meat and chocolates.
I don’t remember much of the crossing. We had a calm
sea, I think, but I was so nervous that my stomach was twisted in knots even
without any serious waves. When we landed we looked around anxiously for Minna
in the crowd of adults who had come to meet the boat, but all the children were
claimed and we were left standing on the dock. Finally a woman from the refugee
committee showed up: Minna had left instructions for us to be sent on to London
by train, but she had delayed getting word to the refugee committee until that
morning. We spent the night in the camp at Harwich with the other children who
had no sponsors, and went on to London in the morning. When we got to the
station, to Liverpool Street—it was massive, we clung to each other while
engines belched and loudspeakers bellowed incomprehensible syllables and people
brushed past us on important missions. I clutched Hugo’s hand tightly.
Cousin Minna had sent a workman to fetch us, giving
him a photograph against which he anxiously studied our faces. He spoke
English, which we didn’t understand at all, or Yiddish, which we didn’t
understand well, but he was pleasant, bustling us into a cab, pointing out the
Houses of Parliament and Big Ben, giving us each a bit of queer paste-filled
sandwich in case we were hungry after our long trip.
It was only when we got to that narrow old house in
the north of London that we found out Minna would take me and not Hugo. The man
from the factory settled us in a forbidding front room, where we sat without
moving, so fearful we were of making a noise or being a nuisance. After some
very long time,
too close together, anything can happen.
The next thing I knew Papa was shaking me awake,
giving me a cup of the weak tea we all drank for breakfast. Some adult had
found enough canned milk for each child to get a tablespoon in it most
mornings.
If I had realized I wouldn’t see any of them again—but
it was hard enough to leave, to go to a strange country where we knew only
cousin Minna, and only that she was a bitter woman who made all the children
uncomfortable when she came to Kleinsee for her three-week holiday in the summers—if
I’d known it was the last good-bye I wouldn’t have been able to bear—the
leaving, or the next several years.
When the train left it was a cold April day, rain
pouring in sheets across the Leopoldsgasse as we walked—not to the central
station but a small suburban one that wouldn’t attract attention. Papa wore a
long red scarf, which he put on so Hugo and I could spot him easily from the
train. He was a café violinist, or had been, anyway, and when he saw us leaning
out a window, he whipped out his violin and tried to play one of the Gypsy
tunes he had taught us to dance to. Even Hugo could tell misery was making his
hand quaver, and he howled at Papa to stop making such a noise.
“I will see you very soon,” Papa assured us.
“Lottchen, you will find someone who needs a willing worker. I can do anything,
remember that—wait tables, haul wood or coal, play in a hotel orchestra.”
As the train pulled away I held the back of Hugo’s
jacket and the two of us leaned out the window with all the other children, waving
until Papa’s red scarf had turned to an invisible speck in our own eyes.
We had the usual fears all Kindertransport children
report as we traveled through Austria and Germany, of the guards who tried to
frighten us, of the searches through our luggage, standing very still while
they looked for any valuables: we were allowed a single ten-mark piece each. I
thought my heart would be visible through my dress, it was beating so hard, but
they didn’t feel my clothes, and the gold coins traveled with me safely. And
then we passed out of Germany into Holland, and for the first time since the
Anschluss we were suddenly surrounded by warm and welcoming adults, who
showered us with bread and meat and chocolates.
I don’t remember much of the crossing. We had a calm
sea, I think, but I was so nervous that my stomach was twisted in knots even
without any serious waves. When we landed we looked around anxiously for Minna
in the crowd of adults who had come to meet the boat, but all the children were
claimed and we were left standing on the dock. Finally a woman from the refugee
committee showed up: Minna had left instructions for us to be sent on to London
by train, but she had delayed getting word to the refugee committee until that
morning. We spent the night in the camp at Harwich with the other children who
had no sponsors, and went on to London in the morning. When we got to the
station, to Liverpool Street—it was massive, we clung to each other while
engines belched and loudspeakers bellowed incomprehensible syllables and people
brushed past us on important missions. I clutched Hugo’s hand tightly.
Cousin Minna had sent a workman to fetch us, giving
him a photograph against which he anxiously studied our faces. He spoke
English, which we didn’t understand at all, or Yiddish, which we didn’t
understand well, but he was pleasant, bustling us into a cab, pointing out the
Houses of Parliament and Big Ben, giving us each a bit of queer paste-filled
sandwich in case we were hungry after our long trip.
It was only when we got to that narrow old house in
the north of London that we found out Minna would take me and not Hugo. The man
from the factory settled us in a forbidding front room, where we sat without
moving, so fearful we were of making a noise or being a nuisance. After some
very long time,
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