The Children of Willesden Lane: Beyond The Kindertransport: A Memoir of Music, Love, and Survival (10 page)

The station at Whitechapel was marked by a large sign: “London Underground.” She melded into the stream of people passing through the turnstiles, and before she knew it she was stepping onto a large wooden escalator going down, down, down. The tubular passageway was enormous and deep.

Lisa couldn’t imagine how they had ever dug such a hole. At the end of the escalator, the people flowed down a white tile corridor and spilled onto a platform. A train burst through the black opening and screeched to a stop. She stepped across the gap, landing safely aboard the train, and was very proud of herself indeed.

She followed her instructions to Willesden Green station, got off without a hitch, and headed up Walm Lane. On the corner was a shop with the enticing odor of fish and chips, and Lisa watched a large man in work boots through the window as he sprinkled vinegar on the treasure in front of him. She was starving but only had a tup-pence in her pocket. Perhaps Mrs. Glazer had a pot of something stewing on the stove.

Continuing up the street, she saw a woman working in the front garden of a nondescript brick house. The middle-aged lady wore a plain black dress, and her white hair was pulled severely back in a bun.

The woman stared intensely at Lisa as she walked by; the effect was chilling, but she remembered how her mother had told her to be friendly to one’s neighbors. Despite her hunger and exhaustion, she did what the voice inside told her to do.

“Good afternoon! I’m a new neighbor from up the block,” Lisa said.

The scary woman gave a curt nod, then turned back to her vegetables. Lisa shivered and walked on.

The door to the hostel was kept locked from 9 to 4:30 when most of the children were at work. Lisa rang the bell and Mrs. Glazer let her in.

“Any luck?” the cook asked in a friendly tone.

“Yes, I start tomorrow,” Lisa replied, and trying not to sound too desperate, she added, “Is there any lunch left?”

“Of course, we’ll find you something.”

Lisa rested on her bed after eating and enjoyed the eerie quiet of the hostel. Mrs. Cohen was out shopping, and the two youngsters were at the synagogue nearby, learning Hebrew.

She pictured the living room downstairs and the treasure it held. It was now or never, she thought. She got up, went downstairs, and walked to the piano, gently pulling back the shawl that covered it.

Looking around guiltily, she lifted the lid covering the keys. A Bechstein—the professor had told her they were very good pianos. She sat down and stretched her fingers silently over the keys. It had been almost nine months since she had played a piano; would her fingers work at all?

Slowly, she began the opening theme of the Grieg Piano Concerto in A Minor. With a shiver of delight, she attacked the keyboard in earnest.

She felt a strange sensation—as if someone else were playing and she were only a spectator. She was oblivious to everything. She didn’t notice out the window that the nun had stopped watering the hyacinths next door or that Mrs. Glazer had come out of the kitchen and was peeking in from the foyer.

Finally, during a soft, lyrical passage, Lisa’s reverie was interrupted by footsteps. She turned to see Paul, the blond boy, trying to shut the front door quietly so she wouldn’t be disturbed.

“Please don’t stop, it sounds so lovely,” he said, smiling. Lisa played on as one by one the children arrived home. Even before they could open the door they heard the music, hypnotic and beautiful. Without saying a word, they gathered in the living room, on the stairs—anywhere they could hear.

Edith slithered to the sideboard, took out her knitting, and settled in for the concert.

Somewhere into the third, thunderous movement, Mrs. Cohen came through the door carrying a box of groceries; she stopped and stared. Lisa saw her and immediately stopped playing.

“Listen to Lisa!” Edith said proudly to Mrs. Cohen. “She can play the piano!”

Mrs. Cohen responded with a slight nod and continued on toward the back of the house.

“Don’t stop!” Edith begged Lisa.

“Oh, play something else, please?” asked Gunter, coming over to stand by her side.

Lisa began Beethoven’s 32 Variations in C Minor; she hoped she would remember the notes. Paul came closer, too, and watched in wonder as her nimble fingers flew over the keys.

Thrilled by the attention, Lisa launched into her favorite, “Clair de Lune,” just as Gina came in the door, followed closely by Aaron. When Gina saw her friend at the piano, surrounded by all the boys, she couldn’t believe her eyes.

“Gina, come listen!” Gunter said.

In spite of her immediate jealousy, Gina came over and stood transfixed by the music.

“You sound just like Myra Hess,” Aaron said, reverently. “You’ve heard about Myra Hess?” Lisa said, her eyes shining at the handsome boy.

“Who is Myra Hess?” Gina said, dying to be included. “A famous pianist, silly.”

“Well, pardon me!” Gina said.

“I’ve seen her at the Royal Albert Hall,” Aaron boasted. “No, you haven’t!” Paul and Gunter said in unison. “Maybe I have, maybe I haven’t, maybe I’ll get tickets next time she plays,” Aaron said charmingly.

Lisa continued playing the Debussy. The room grew hushed, everyone transfixed by the beauty of the music.

Lisa was the star of dinner; she hardly got to touch her food. Everyone wanted to know where she had learned to play so well and how long she had studied. Gina sat at the other end of the table talking with Edith, unhappy to see her popularity usurped but putting on a good face. Mrs. Cohen watched silently from the head of the table.

After the meal, the matron switched on the large wooden radio in the living room and everyone gathered to listen to the BBC. A reporter was giving details of a British negotiating team, which was headed for Russia, where they would try to make an agreement with the Soviets to block Hitler’s expected advance into Poland. It was August of 1939.

When the broadcast was over, the children resumed their chess games and conversations. As the din of the evening’s social hour got under way, Mrs. Cohen said in her formal voice: “Lisa, would you please follow me to my room.”

Everyone looked up in surprise. Gina looked at Lisa with an expression that said she feared the worst. Lisa followed the large woman to her room in trepidation.

“I see you’ve studied the piano,” Mrs. Cohen said, closing the door behind her.

“Yes, ma’am,” Lisa answered, taking in Mrs. Cohen’s small room. It had an old world warmth that reminded her of her parents’ bedroom in Vienna; there was a four-poster bed with a thick duvet, and next to it was a beautiful mahogany dresser topped with photographs in silver frames, porcelain figurines, and a Victrola with a tall stack of 78 rpm records.

“And would you like to practice while you’re here?” Lisa didn’t know if this was a trick question, or what kind of answer was expected. She decided to speak from her heart.

“I would very much like to, if you—”

“My son plays the piano,” Mrs. Cohen said, interrupting.

Lisa hadn’t known there was a son. She didn’t have the nerve to ask where he was, fearing he was trapped somewhere by the Nazi nightmare.

“He is in London, in a special school, but he’ll be coming here soon,” Mrs. Cohen explained in a tone that was devoid of affect. “You may practice for an hour when you come home from work, then you must let the others use the living room for their purposes. If you like, you may play popular songs for us on Sunday.”

“Thank you, Ma’am.”

“Please close the door as you leave,” Mrs. Cohen said, and Lisa let herself out.

Aaron, Gunter, and Gina were waiting for her. “What happened?” Gina asked, dying of curiosity.

Lisa feigned a snobbish look of superiority and held out her hand as though she expected them to kiss it. “I will be performing in the main chamber for an hour daily. You may attend if you wish.”

“Ooh!” Gina said in mock fury, and chased her up the stairs.

10

M
ORNINGS WERE HURRIED
. Gina and Lisa developed a routine of holding each other’s places in line for the bathroom, then dashing in together to spend as much time as possible in front of the mirror before the other girls banged on the door. Gina showed Lisa how to achieve the fashionable pin curls that would best survive the scarves and hairnets required at the factory.

At breakfast they drank warm tea and milk and gobbled down bread and jam. Lunch items were laid out, and Mrs. Glazer helped them assemble brown bags to take with them. On lucky days, there were cookies or shortbread as a bonus.

Platz & Sons was organized by floor, women’s garments on the third, men’s on the second, offices on the first.

Lisa was assigned to men’s trousers, considered a good place for a beginner. She was surprised by the speed of the work, having been used to her father’s meticulous style of double stitching and finished seams. Clearly, the goal at Platz & Sons was quantity, not quality. Lisa was given the machine next to Mrs. McRae, a quiet woman who patiently explained the intricacies of the job.

Panels of fabric were stacked on her left, and she was to sew them together exactly three-quarters of an inch from the edge. Every panel was exactly the same size and exactly the same color. If she went too slowly, there would be a pileup.

As Mrs. McRae put it: “Mr. Dimble will be here quicker than you can skin a cat, and you’ll be in for it.”

By the end of a day, Lisa’s arms ached and her fingers were sore, but she was grateful that the difficult work demanded her total attention—that way she had no time to worry obsessively about her family or whether a sponsor for Sonia had been found.

Later in the week, Lisa decided to go by Bloomsbury House in the West End. Gina came along to window-shop on Oxford Street; her favorite store was Harvey Nichols, where window after window of elegant mannequins with cigarette holders gazed out arrogantly at passersby.

Lisa loved the hats. “Ooh, that’s the one I want,” she cooed to Gina, eyeing a soft felt masterpiece with a swooping brim, which projected forward over the mannequin’s forehead. A matching-color cord tied in the back. It was the essence of chic. She read aloud from the card at the base: The hat was called “the Margo” and came in “Amethyst, Eau-de-Nil, and Dawn.”

“What does that mean?” Lisa asked.

“Purple, green, and tan, silly.”

“Why don’t they just say that?”

“Because it’s fashion. Don’t you know anything?” Gina scoffed, happy to enjoy a moment of superiority.

The chaos at Bloomsbury House was still in full swing. More children were arriving on the twice weekly trains— almost ten thousand had come already. Young boys in tweed jackets and ties and girls clutching dolls wandered the hallways. Lisa was again assured that Sonia was on the list, but there was still no word on a sponsor.

Mr. Hardesty’s secretary handed her a letter that had just arrived from Vienna—the stamp on the front had a picture of Adolf Hitler. Lisa quickly ripped into the envelope, both to get to the cherished letter within and to destroy the picture of that hateful man.

“Dear Liseleh,” she read in her mother’s familiar handwriting, “I am afraid I have no good news to report, except that, other than your father’s arthritis, we are in good health. Sonia is anxious to join you soon, and it is with difficulty that we have patience to await our turn for the train. Rosie and Leo, too, are trying to come up with plans to join you. I pray they succeed. I hope you are practicing your music. I will send remembrances from home so you do not forget us. Love, Mama.”

Tears were running down Lisa’s cheeks. Forget them! How could she forget them? They were her very soul.

That night, Lisa sat next to Gunter and Gina at dinner, and they saw how worried and withdrawn she looked.

“Are you all right?” Gunter asked.

“All I can think about is how to help my sister get a sponsor, but I don’t know what to do!”

“Where is she?” Gunter asked.

“She’s still in Vienna.” She hadn’t wanted to speak too much about her problems, because she knew that everyone had terrible problems and worries just like hers. “She has a place on the train, but they haven’t found a sponsor.”

“You should do what Paul did,” Gunter said. “Paul! Come here!” he shouted down the table. The blond boy hurried over and squeezed in beside them. “Tell Lisa about your idea.” Gunter turned to Lisa and explained, “Paul’s brother is still in Munich.”

“I went through the phone book for people with my same last name, then rang them up.”

“Why?” Lisa asked, not yet understanding.

“I told them I thought they are my relatives! Who knows, maybe they are.”

Lisa’s eyes lit up. What a good idea! She would try it immediately. After hurrying through dinner, Gunter, Gina, Paul, and Lisa huddled over the heavy phone books of London northwest.

“Mueller,” Paul said, paging through the directory. “I looked it up first with the ‘e’ and then without.” He showed Lisa the twenty listings he had underlined. “I called them all. I have two appointments to visit on Saturday.”

“But what did you tell them?”

“I said I thought they might be my third cousins!” “But they’re not,” Gina said.

“Of course not, but I get to see them, and maybe they’ll like me.”

Lisa quickly turned to the Js, Jura. Dragging her finger down the page, she found a Juracek, and then several Justices—there were no Juras in this part of London.

Aaron came in the room, leaned over the phone directory with them, and listened for a moment. “Try Y instead of J. People change the spelling sometimes.”

She turned quickly to the last page; there was nothing between Young and Yusef.

“Maybe we could counterfeit an affidavit,” Aaron offered.

“How would you know how to do that?” Gina asked suspiciously.

“There are ways,” he answered with a look that allowed no further questions.

The talk of counterfeiting reminded Lisa of Michael, the boy she had befriended on the train, who spoke so much of Sherlock Holmes. She remembered the two huge fur coats that surrounded him at the train station and figured his sponsors were rich—what was his name? Her mind was a blank. Then suddenly she saw the image of poor cousin Sid on the platform and her face brightened.