The Children of Willesden Lane: Beyond The Kindertransport: A Memoir of Music, Love, and Survival (21 page)

Gina looked on. “Don’t worry, he used to do this lots of times before you came. He’ll be back.”

But Aaron didn’t come back the next night, nor the night after. Lisa lay on her bed at the call for lights-out, her body racked by coughing.

“Maybe you should stop practicing for a while, Lisa. It’s too cold down there,” Gina suggested, concerned.

“It’s just a cough, it will go away, don’t worry.”

“If it doesn’t go away soon, we won’t get any sleep,” Gina said, only half joking.

On the third night, the telephone in the hallway rang, and the girls heard Mrs. Cohen’s footsteps on the stairs.

“Lisa?” the matron called. “It’s Aaron Lewin—on the telephone.”

Lisa jumped up and ran downstairs, grabbing the receiver. “Aaron, Aaron, are you all right?”

Gina crept down the stairs and listened to her friend as she clutched the telephone to her ear.

“What? For how long?” Lisa cried out, alarmed. “Wait, wait, don’t hang up! Aaron? Aaron?” she shouted. The receiver went dead in her hand.

“He only had a one-minute call,” she said in disbelief to the matron and Gina as they approached.

“What happened?” they asked in unison.

“Aaron’s been arrested! And sent to the Isle of Man— as an alien!”

“Oh, my God, for how long?” Gina asked.

“I d-don’t know,” Lisa stammered.

Mrs. Cohen took the receiver and hung it back on the hook. “It was bound to happen to him sooner or later. You have to admit he was asking for it.”

As tears sprang to Lisa’s eyes, Mrs. Cohen put her arm around the distraught teenager. “It won’t be forever. Now, go upstairs, dear, try to get some sleep.”

Lisa disentangled herself from Mrs. Cohen’s awkward embrace, ran up the staircase, and threw herself on the covers of her ice-cold bed. Her sobs turned into a fit of coughing.

Gina stood over her friend, worried. “Why don’t I see if Mrs. Cohen could make you some hot water and lemon or something?”

“He doesn’t deserve it! Why would he deserve it? She must hate him.”

“She didn’t mean anything. Of course he doesn’t deserve it.”

“It’s all my fault!”

“Why is it your fault? Lots of the boys are getting picked up. Look at Paul!” Gina said with as much sympathy as she could muster at that time of night.

Lisa kept mumbling to herself, not listening. “It’s all my fault. If only I hadn’t been so mean he wouldn’t have left. Aaron’s right, the only thing I think about is my music.”

“It’s not your fault, and besides, Paul said it wasn’t so bad in the camp, remember?” Gina added.

“What do you know about it!” Lisa exploded, jumping out of bed and slamming the door behind her. Gina could hear the sounds of Lisa throwing things behind the bathroom door.

How was she going to live without Aaron?

December was miserable for Lisa. She practiced as hard as ever, but the relentless cold had no warm embrace at the end of the evening. Aaron sent several postcards, apologizing for being so careless, but his brief words made her miss him even more.

Lisa’s cough got worse; it was so bad that sometimes Mrs. Cohen could hear it through the closed door of the cellar. One night, as Mrs. Cohen stood at the top of the stairs and listened to the alarming sound, she got an idea. She went to the telephone and made a call.

The following evening, as Lisa was playing a lyrical passage from the
Pathétique,
she heard a knock at the door. It opened slightly and a familiar face poked through the opening.

“Lisa? May I come in?” said Mrs. Canfield.

“Oh, hello!” Lisa said, surprised. “Yes, please, come on down.”

Mrs. Canfield stepped carefully down the steps, followed by Johnny, who was carrying a small, old-fashioned coal-burning stove. Lisa recognized it from her house on Riffel Road.

“I can’t accept this,” Lisa protested.

“Nonsense,” said the Quaker lady. “You’ll catch your death down here.”

“What will you use at home?”

“I have plenty of jumpers and coats. I don’t need it.”

“I really appreciate it, but I just can’t,” Lisa insisted. “You can and you will,” Mrs. Canfield said in an un-yielding tone.

Lisa finally relented. “Thank you,” she said gratefully. She hadn’t wanted to admit how weak she had been feeling of late, and the warmth certainly would help.

Johnny lit the stove, and when he was sure it was functioning properly, stood up and handed her a folded sheet of paper. She opened it quickly, saw it was a poem, and smiled. “Thank you, Johnny, I’ll keep it on the piano to inspire me!”

“Be well, be warm!” Johnny called out on his way back up the stairs.

“Would thee mind if I stayed and listened?” Mrs. Canfield asked.

“Oh yes, please do,” Lisa replied.

Mrs. Canfield pulled out the knitting bag she had brought, leaned back in her chair, and smiled. Soon the basement was almost toasty, and the walls and bottles became coated with condensation as the dampness was replaced by a pleasing warmth. Lisa insisted on leaving the door open to the kitchen so some of it could escape to help the others.

She began the Beethoven
Pathétique,
her fingers moving with a new freedom over the warm keys.

“Ah, thank you, Lisa—what a comfort your beautiful music is.”

An hour later, earlier than usual, the air raid siren went off. Both Lisa and Mrs. Canfield were surprised; it had been several weeks since there had been a bombing. Mrs. Canfield got up to head for her shelter around the corner.

“Oh, no, you must stay, ma’am. It’s too cold for you in your backyard.” Lisa shivered, remembering the dreadful nights in the corrugated prison in Mrs. Canfield’s garden.

“Thank you, child, I think I will,” Mrs. Canfield said, going up the stairs to secure the door. She picked up her knitting again and listened to Lisa scare away the bombers with her chords.

Usually the “all clear” siren would sound several hours later, but this night was an exception. Hour after hour, the scream of the bombers came over them: no amount of pounding from the basement could chase the noise away. Lisa began to cough and couldn’t stop, so she huddled by the stove under a blanket next to Mrs. Canfield, who put her arm around her. Suddenly tired of being brave all the time, Lisa began to cry.

“What is wrong, my dear?” Mrs. Canfield asked. “Sometimes I miss my family so much that I feel I can’t go on . . . I can’t go on without them. I don’t even know why I should go on without them.”

Mrs. Canfield hugged the trembling girl tight. “It is not for thee to decide,” she said. “Ultimately, God is in charge of our world. We have been placed here to do his will. I believe it is his will for thee to play your music. I hear a great truth in it.”

“My mother told me to always hold on to my music.” “You must go forward with that in your heart, Lisa. Listen to your beloved mother.”

Finally, the all clear blared, and Mrs. Canfield looked at her watch. It was five in the morning. She helped Lisa up the stairs, and they walked out of the hostel into the bitter cold dawn. Willesden Lane had been spared, but it seemed as though the rest of London were burning. Were the Nazis coming? Lisa wondered in a sudden delirium. She felt herself go limp.

The next thing she remembered was waking up in her bunk bed as Gina handed her a hot cup of chicken soup.

“You’re awake! You’re awake . . . oh, Lisa, we were so worried!” Gina cried, and ran out to spread the word.

Mrs. Cohen arrived upstairs in an instant. “You gave us quite a fright, dear,” she said with a slightly scolding tone. “The doctor has confined you to bed rest for the next week; he says you have a bad bronchitis.”

“A what?” Lisa cried with alarm, not understanding the word.

“Bronchitis, a very bad cough. You’re not to get up.” “But I have to practice,” Lisa said.

“Not until you’re better, that’s an order.”

Gina was anxious to get her turn. She wanted to tell Lisa everything that was going on. “You’ve been asleep for two whole days. You’ve missed everything!” she blurted out.

“Gina!” Mrs. Cohen interrupted. “Let Lisa rest, please.” “No, Mrs. Cohen, I want to know what’s going on. Have the Nazis come?” she asked fearfully.

“The Nazis? No, silly! The Yanks are coming! You slept through the bombing of Pearl Harbor!”

“Pearl what?” Lisa asked, totally confused.

“The Americans have joined the war,” the matron explained. “We’ll tell you all about it later, dear.”

Suddenly, Gina hung her head and started to cry. “What’s wrong, please tell me!” Lisa asked.

“Hush, Gina, we must let Lisa rest,” said Mrs. Cohen. “It’s Johnny,” Gina said, paying no attention to the matron.

“Johnny? What has happened?”

“Gina!” Mrs. Cohen repeated sternly.

“Please tell me. Is he dead?” Lisa whispered.

“He’s been badly hurt. A wall gave way in a building where he was helping to put out a fire. He is fighting bravely in the hospital and wants to be remembered to all of us, and to you especially, Lisa,” Mrs. Cohen explained.

“He may lose his legs, though,” Gina added sadly. Tears streamed from Lisa’s eyes. “Oh, no! Can I go see him?” she asked.

“You are not to get out of bed,” the matron said firmly. Lisa turned away from them to control her emotions. What a terrible thing this war is, she thought as she prayed for her friend.

19

T
WO WEEKS
of bed rest cured Lisa’s fever, but her cough lingered. The audition date was fast approaching, so despite Mrs. Cohen’s reservations, she resumed a modified practice schedule.

Her support staff redoubled its efforts: Gunter took over Aaron’s duties and quizzed her on theory, Gina suffered through the do-re-mi’s, and Hans listened to her interpretation. Three weeks and counting; so far, so good. Hans even ventured that Aaron’s absence lent her music a depth well beyond her seventeen years. “Ah, now that’s Chopin!”

The week before the audition, Lisa skipped her Monday evening practice and went to see Johnny in the hospital. She picked a giant stalk of hollyhocks from the convent garden and set out on the journey alone. The ward was filled with civilian casualties as well as injured police and fire personnel. Some had plaster casts, others were burn victims, their limbs totally wrapped in gauze. Johnny, pale and visibly thinner, had been confined to his bed and the head nurse told Lisa that her visit would have to be kept short.

He smiled when she approached, and she kissed him on the forehead. “Oh, Johnny, I’ve missed you!”

“You’ve stolen all the nun’s flowers. Shame on you!” His banter covered his emotion, but his expression didn’t lie about how happy he was to see her.

They chatted about life at the hostel, and she went on about the hours of practicing and the excruciating lessons with the committee in the cellar. She saw how Johnny loved hearing the news. He wanted to know every detail. She asked about his poetry but didn’t have the heart to question him about his legs.

“So are you ready?” he asked.

“For what?” she joked, as if she didn’t know that everyone, not just herself, was counting down the hours to the audition.

“What will you play first?”

“The Chopin.”

“Good choice, although it’s so powerful it will be hard to follow.”

“Hmm, maybe you’re right,” she said, smiling.

They were interrupted by the ward nurse, who let them know that visiting hours were over.

“Before we say good-bye, I have a request,” Johnny said gravely. “When you play the Chopin, will you think of me?”

“Only if you give me another poem,” she teased. Johnny put his head back slowly, closed his eyes, and began reciting softly.

Tell me, what does God hear?

I have despaired of prayers with words

All of my prayers are your music.

Lisa took his huge hands in her own, smiling at the contrast in size. “Of course I’ll think of you, Johnny. I only wish I could play it for you right now.”

“You don’t have to, all I have to do is close my eyes and I can hear it.” Lisa kissed him gently and left.

With three days to go before the audition, Lisa was little good to Mrs. McRae or Mr. Dimble at the factory; she would fret about her playing and chatter nervously about her insecurities.

“I’ll be up against students from the finest families in England,” she complained. “And I don’t even have a decent dress to wear.”

“That’s a shame, isn’t it,” Mrs. McRae commented dryly.

Lisa realized with remorse how frivolous she must sound to this woman who had lost her husband in the war, and tried to get to work with no further complaints.

So it was with surprise that Lisa came to work the next morning and found a package, tied with recycled string, sitting on her chair.

“What’s this?” she asked.

Several of the other ladies stood up and gathered around, saying nothing.

Mrs. McRae looked up from her work with a mischievous grin, as if she didn’t understand the question.

So Lisa picked it up and unwrapped it carefully. She pulled out a beautiful dark blue dress. “Mrs. McRae, you didn’t . . .” Stunned, Lisa held up the elegant new dress and the ladies around her clapped.

“Very fancy, that is, Mrs. McRae!” a co-worker said. “Next thing you know, you’ll be seamstress to the queen!”

Mrs. McRae smiled proudly. “That’ll impress ’em, I hope.”

“Oh, thank you! Thank you!” Lisa threw her arms around the woman.

The Saturday before the audition, Lisa worked alone in the cellar, having told Hans that she needed time for quiet reflection. She practiced slowly, softly, with intense concentration, every note taking on a depth and significance. She went over and over the coda of the ballade, sometimes elated by her mastery of it, at other times terrified that she was out of control.

Then, in one of the soft passages, she heard a familiar whistling coming from the kitchen. It was the Grieg! She leapt up.

Could it be? Had Aaron miraculously come back to wish her luck? She ran to the top of the stairs only to find Gunter! She tried to hide her disappointment as he laughed at her confusion and handed her a letter from Aaron.

She tore open the letter and raced quickly through his words. Aaron was uncharacteristically positive, almost chatty, and convinced that he would be released soon.