The Children of Willesden Lane: Beyond The Kindertransport: A Memoir of Music, Love, and Survival (18 page)

1. Open to all students with a proficiency in musical performance of the classical repertoire.”

The London Royal Academy? Lisa felt a rush of emotion. This was where the great musicians studied; this was where Myra Hess herself had studied! Could she possibly qualify for such a school?

“Would you like to apply for an audition?” Mrs. Cohen asked.

“Would they let a refugee girl go to the Royal Academy?” Lisa asked incredulously.

“Why shouldn’t they? There’s no shame in being a refugee, young lady,” Mrs. Cohen scolded.

Lisa was overwhelmed, not just with the possibility of an audition, but with gratitude toward the matron. She could hardly believe that someone was actually looking out for her, helping her with decisions about her future. She was so used to having only herself to rely on since she’d said good-bye to her parents two years ago.

“But I haven’t studied in three years.” “You’ve been practicing, haven’t you?”

“I haven’t had a teacher, maybe it’s all been wrong,” she said, suddenly feeling terribly insecure.

“Don’t you trust your ability, dear?”

Lisa’s eyes were shining, but she was tongue-tied.

“I take it you do. Are you interested?”

The phrase “make something of yourself ” had never been far from her consciousness, and now it was center stage in her mind. She knew this would make her mother so proud. It would be the first thing she would tell her when she saw her. An audition at the Royal Academy!

“Yes, ma’am. I am,” she answered firmly. “Good. Now, let’s go to dinner.”

Mrs. Glazer carried out the steaming platters of meat, and the crowded table clapped in appreciation. She paused before rushing back to the kitchen and said: “It’s so nice to have all of you back again. If truth be told, I missed your mess, it’s been downright boring without you!” Everyone laughed.

When it was time for the lighting of the candles, everyone noticed that it was Mrs. Cohen who, for the first time, uttered the blessing. She was seated beside the rabbi from the neighborhood synagogue. She tapped her fork on the wine glass.

“Rabbi Silverstein spoke to me today about how important it is for all of us to have faith . . . to keep on with our lives. I know these months have been difficult for you away from our home here on Willesden Lane . . . but I’m also aware that the months in front of us will perhaps be even more trying. Many of you have shared with me your tremendous worries for the safety of your families and loved ones on the continent . . .” Uncharacteristically, her voice choked, and she motioned to the rabbi seated next to her.

He stood and cleared his throat. “I wish I had some concrete news to report. As you no doubt have heard on the radio, Hitler is trying to frighten us with threats on the very future of the Jewish people. It is a time that tests our faith to the limits of our endurance, and we must all join forces and pray together to help one another survive through these terrible moments. Please join me in thanks for the warmth and friendship that surrounds you here.”

There was total silence at the table. The rabbi looked at the young faces, made too serious and too adult before their time. “I look forward to seeing you all tomorrow at synagogue,” he said, standing to leave.

Mrs. Cohen held up a small pile of correspondence. “Not many letters are getting through, I’m afraid, but I do have a few . . . Lewin, Kingman, Weisel, Jura, and Mueller.”

The letters were passed down the line to waiting hands, and Lisa took hers gingerly. The stamp had the words
República de Mexico
engraved on it and she didn’t recognize the name on the return address. She quickly stuffed it in her pocket.

“Aren’t you going to read it?” Aaron asked.

“It’s not polite, I’ll wait until after dinner,” she bluffed. But the truth was that Lisa was always terrified when she received a letter. The only thing worse than getting a letter was not getting one. The news was never good and brought so many disappointments. She resolved to enjoy what was left of the Sabbath dinner before learning what worrisome things awaited her. She would read it and cry herself to sleep later.

After the
Kinder
devoured dessert, they got up from the table with an enormous scraping of chairs and headed for the social pursuits of the living room. Mrs. Cohen must have known her Victrola would be wildly popular. The one rule she had set was that Hans was the only one allowed to touch the fragile 78 rpm records. He took them meticulously from their envelopes and placed them by feel onto the platter, as trustworthy Edith dropped the needle and the room was filled with sound.

But Lisa wasn’t interested; the letter was burning a hole in her pocket.

“Get your coat, let’s go next door,” Aaron whispered in her ear. She nodded and disappeared upstairs.

The convent door was open. Aaron had brought a blanket and a candle, and they made themselves comfortable in one of the rooms in the front of the building.

“Will you read it to me?” Lisa asked in a small, frightened voice, handing him the letter. She was grateful to be in his presence, no longer confined to the solitude she had felt before when reading letters.

He opened the envelope with care; the blue airmail paper was covered with neat handwriting and dated March 20, 1941, only the week before.

“Dear Lisa, My name is Alex Bronson. I am your brother-in-law Leo’s cousin. I am writing you to see if you have any information regarding Leo and Rosie, as we have lost contact with them since their escape to Paris.”

“Paris? They made it to Paris?” Lisa asked, relieved and worried at the same time.

Aaron continued reading: “In case you haven’t heard, Rosie and Leo pretended to be drunken Dutch tourists returning after a New Year’s Eve in Vienna and successfully fooled the Nazi guards into letting them get on the train. They traveled to Antwerp, where my father helped smuggle them to France. We got a postcard a month later saying that they’d gotten married, then our visas came through and we left for Mexico. That was eight months ago and we have had no news of them since.”

Lisa let out a sob. She remembered the terrible vision she had seen in the newspaper of Hitler strutting under the Arc de Triomphe in Paris.

Aaron handed her his handkerchief and waited until she calmed down.

Lisa finally nodded. “Go on.”

“We pray Leo and Rosie have been able to leave France because we are receiving news that Jews are no longer safe there; deportations have begun to camps in Poland. We are making inquiries to the Red Cross but have gotten nowhere. We are hoping that you may have received some word of them and could get in contact with us, since they do not have our address in Mexico.”

Lisa shivered as she thought about her beautiful sister and tried to conjure up an image of her and Leo safe somewhere. Were they hiding somewhere? Had they escaped?

Her head kept spinning.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the air raid siren sending out its shrill call. Aaron and Lisa waited in each other’s arms until they saw the procession of lanterns and footsteps from next door, heading for the convent.

“Be careful, Johnny,” they heard Mrs. Cohen say outside as she said good-bye to the brave volunteer who headed off to fight the fires that were sure to come somewhere in the next few hours. They then joined the parade to the bomb shelter beneath them, to wait out the terror of another night.

The raid was mercifully short. Maybe it was the comfort of the Willesden Lane reunion that buoyed Lisa’s spirit, or the hours spent in Aaron’s arms. Whatever it was, Lisa was humming the Grieg concerto to herself when the all clear signal sounded and the
Kinder
tramped upstairs to a blissful sleep.

17

T
HE NEXT DAY
, as soon as the dishes from breakfast were washed and the last person helped out the front door, Mrs. Cohen went to the telephone in the alcove and called Bloomsbury House. Mr. Hardesty took her call immediately.

“Good morning, Mrs. Cohen, I trust the first night back went well?”

The matron sped through the small talk and got right to the subject of Lisa’s audition. “Are there any funds available to help with the ten pounds necessary for the application fee?” she asked bluntly.

“I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, Mrs. Cohen, but the Royal Academy is a very prestigious school. Just getting accepted is difficult enough, but a scholarship?”

“Surely there must be some cultural fund, it’s just ten pounds,” Mrs. Cohen persisted.

“I am sorry, Mrs. Cohen, but whatever funds we have available for cultural matters should be put to use for all the children . . . on things that aren’t so, ah, improbable.”

“Improbable?” she asked icily.

“I know Miss Jura is a lovely young lady, and I am sure that she plays beautifully, but—”

“Mr. Hardesty, I know you have a very busy schedule, but I’d like you to come to the hostel tomorrow at five o’clock.”

There was silence and the hint of an exasperated sigh on the other end of the line.

Mrs. Cohen continued: “Perhaps if tomorrow isn’t convenient, the next day would—”

“I’ll be there tomorrow, Mrs. Cohen.”

“Thank you very much,” she said, and hung up smiling.

At the factory, Lisa was in an exuberant mood as her overactive imagination spun tales of fame and glory. It was much too early to mention anything to anyone about this faint, almost minuscule hope of an audition, but that didn’t stop her from thinking about it every living second.

Mrs. McRae noticed Lisa humming—not a sentimental love song like those other young ladies hummed when they worked, but funny-sounding la, la, ti, das. “Got a new beau, dear?” she asked.

Lisa remained mysterious. She just winked and kept humming.

Mrs. McRae laughed. “You’re an odd duck,” she said, and returned to her work.

At four o’clock sharp Lisa ran out the door and caught the underground train home; she couldn’t wait to start practicing.

Mrs. Cohen intercepted her on the way down the stairs to the basement. “Lisa?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“I wonder if you’d mind playing the Grieg concerto for us. You do that so well. If you leave the door open, we can hear it up in the kitchen.”

Lisa agreed, flattered by the attention.

At five o’clock to the minute, Mr. Hardesty rang the bell and Mrs. Cohen welcomed him with a finger to her lips and a gesture, guiding him to the back of the house.

She asked him to stand at the top of the cellar stairs, where he listened to the thunderous cascading octaves of the cadenza of the Grieg Piano Concerto in A Minor. No upright piano Mr. Hardesty had ever heard had sounded like this. He could hardly believe he wasn’t in a concert hall. He tiptoed closer, descending the rickety steps one by one. He watched as Lisa’s hands traveled over the keyboard with astounding speed and dexterity.

Lisa’s concentration never broke; she never even noticed his presence. Ten minutes later, he came back up the stairs into the kitchen.

“I had no idea,” he said to Mrs. Cohen, fishing into his pocket for his worn leather wallet. “I’d be honored to pay for the fee myself,” he said, handing her a ten-pound note.

Mrs. Cohen couldn’t hide a knowing grin, but she thanked him politely as she pocketed the money.

At the factory, Lisa decided it was time to include Mr. Dimble and Mrs. McRae in her “other life,” and she asked if she could work a shorter shift (with a cut in pay, of course) to allow extra time to practice. She showed them the newspaper clipping with its impressive “Royal Academy” logo and told them of her plans to apply for an audition.

“My, my, that’s very posh,” Mr. Dimble said, somewhat skeptical.

“Have a heart, Raymond, you’ve let other people have shorter shifts before, I’ve seen you! Why not let her off to practice the piano?” interjected Mrs. McRae.

Mr. Dimble shook his head as though it were way beyond his understanding.

“Three o’clock it is, then, but no slacking off before then, my girl!”

“Thank you so much,” Lisa called after him as he headed down the line to intercept a cartload of fabric.

Mrs. McRae turned back once more. “Very exciting, all this. You’ll ’ave to come over and play for us East Enders sometime. There’s a piano at the pub,” she said quickly before immersing her head back in her work.

“I’d love to,” Lisa promised, eyes shining.

After work, Lisa went straight to the Royal Academy of Music in the heart of London. She hadn’t been to the city center since the devastation of the December firebombs and was disheartened to see the tremendous destruction. Whole blocks were burned to the ground; the House of Commons was badly damaged; churches and taverns were in ruins. Luckily, St. Paul’s Cathedral had escaped. Johnny had told her about the all-night fire brigades that had saved the great church.

In the midst of the bombed-out buildings, men with pin-striped suits and umbrellas were walking energetically around roadblocks as if nothing at all were strange.

The Royal Academy had also escaped damage. Lisa approached the five-story brick building with a pounding heart and climbed the exterior staircase with its majestic canopy of glass and wrought iron and entered the large foyer, which was presided over by gilded portraits of King Edward and Queen Elizabeth. A magnificent spiral staircase wove upward five floors to a dome above her head. The sounds of French horns, bassoons, and violins descended into a booming cacophony around her.

Even though she realized it was probably bad luck, Lisa couldn’t help but fantasize about what it would be like to study in this exalted institution, following in the tradition of so many of the greats.

She had been worried about how she was dressed, but the serious students who strode by were too busy to notice her at all. She quickly located a sign that led her to the registrar’s office.

The secretary was polite and reached behind her for a packet of papers, handing the mimeographed sheets to Lisa. “The deadline for the application is next Friday. Please fill out your choice of repertoire and bring the completed form back to us.”

As she walked out, Lisa again studied the young men and women who were rushing by her, carrying music cases and smoking cigarettes. She heard snatches of their conversations, which included words like “art” and “soul” and “beauty.” It was all too wonderful.