The Children of Willesden Lane: Beyond The Kindertransport: A Memoir of Music, Love, and Survival (23 page)

Each night at dinner, there was a hush if Lisa’s name was called.

“Lisa Jura?” Mrs. Cohen would say, looking at the handwriting on the envelope.

Breaths would be held.

“It’s from your sister, Sonia . . . again,” Mrs. Cohen would add quickly, to relieve the unbearable tension.

Sonia’s letters were now written in fluent English and filled with more positive news about what she had learned in school.

One Friday night, at the Shabbat meal, Lisa thought she detected a strange excitement. More than a few heads turned to look her way. She knew that often, whoever had taken in the mail spread the gossip of who had a letter waiting, and such news traveled like wildfire.

But no one had said anything to her, so why were they all looking at her so strangely? she wondered.

“Lisa Jura?” Mrs. Cohen said, holding up a letter. “It’s from the London Royal Academy of Music.” A hush came over the room.

As was the custom, Mrs. Cohen handed the envelope to the boy on her left, who passed it around the large dining room table. Each person gently stroked the embossed gold letters of the Royal Academy emblem with their eager fingers. When the letter made its way to Lisa, she took it and stared, paralyzed.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” Mrs. Cohen questioned gently.

Lisa could not respond, she kept staring at the envelope before her. Could she face another disappointment?

“Would you like me to open it?” Mrs. Cohen asked finally.

Lisa nodded and sent the letter back up the table. She had wanted to wait, to be alone, but she knew instinctively that she must share the news, good or bad, with everyone. This was her family, they had helped her through it—this was their answer also.

Mrs. Cohen opened the letter with a clean knife, to preserve it, if need be, for posterity. She unfolded the thick, elegant stationery and read: “The Associated Board of the London Royal Academy of Music is”—here Mrs. Cohen paused to take a breath—“pleased to inform Miss Lisa Jura that . . .”

There was a scream at the end of the table from a young boy, who had a hand slapped over his mouth quickly, so the rest of the glowing faces at the table could hear the end of the sentence.

“. . . she has been accepted into the scholarship program for the study of the pianoforte. Please report—”

A tumult as loud as any of the octaves from the end of the ballade broke out at the table. Lisa was swarmed and enveloped by kisses, hugs, and thumbs-up signs, and those who couldn’t get close enough to give one started to clap. One boy began to whistle “God Save the King,” while another yelled, “Soon we’ll have to pay to hear her!” Lisa was a hero, and the children of Willesden Lane desperately needed a victory.

Everyone insisted that Lisa play them something from the audition, so the entire hostel crowded down the stairs to hear the
presto con fuoco
ending of the ballade. Hans, Gunter, and Gina put their arms around one another, swaying back and forth, savoring the payoff of their months of hard work. Even Aaron’s absence could not mar Lisa’s joy on this wonderful evening.

After the finale, Mrs. Glazer called them up for the special dessert she had made in secret (hoping that the news of the letter would be good). “Gingerbread for all,” she announced, and the stampede began.

Mrs. Cohen stayed behind smiling; Lisa came up to her and put her arms around the matron. “I never would have even known about the audition if it weren’t for you. How can I ever thank you?”

“You have thanked me. You’ve brought honor to this house,” Mrs. Cohen replied.

“It’s wonderful to see everyone so excited,” Lisa answered shyly.

“Of course they’re excited,” the matron said. “We all need to dream, and tonight, everyone is living their dream through you.”

To add to Lisa’s euphoria, Aaron was released the following week from detention camp. He showed up at 243 Willesden to help celebrate Lisa’s triumph.

“Where are you taking me?” Lisa demanded in that flirtatious tone Aaron loved.

“We’re going to celebrate, and that’s all I’m saying,” was his answer.

Lisa ran upstairs, putting on her new pleated skirt and a chic blue blouse, topped by a stylish felt hat, and met him in the foyer. He whistled his approval, and off they went.

They jumped on a double-decker bus and hurried up the stairs to the top, huddling together in the cold, in order to appreciate the magnificent view from the open deck. The bus weaved its way past Buckingham Palace, down Oxford Street, and south toward the Thames. Each time Lisa insisted on knowing where they were going, Aaron merely laughed. They were having so much fun, they almost missed their stop—the Parliament building, or what was left of it after the bombing.

“What are we doing here?” Lisa asked, somewhat disappointed.

“Just wait, you’ll see.”

They waited for many cold minutes, as Aaron lit cigarette after cigarette, looking at his watch nervously.

“This better be good!” she teased, blowing a breath of frosty air at him.

Finally an old gentleman arrived and waved. “Hello, Mr. Lewin!” he said, shaking Aaron’s hand. “Let’s go!”

The man unlocked a nondescript door and ushered them into a hallway leading to some narrow stairs.

“Come on, hurry up!” Aaron said, and they followed the man up and up the stairs.

“Are we there yet?”

“Keep climbing! You’ll just have to trust me,” Aaron said, holding her hand tightly.

She followed him into the darkness of the winding stairwell.

When they reached the top, Lisa was blinded by the bright sunlight shooting through an open tower. Then she saw it—a giant clock with its inner workings and huge bells.

“It’s Big Ben!” Aaron exclaimed.

“I can’t believe it!” Lisa cried delightedly.

“Come on . . . look over here,” Aaron said, pointing. “And here! Look!”

They were high above London, and the City stretched out below them, the House of Commons, the great dome of St. Paul, and the crowded winding streets. The Thames flowed peacefully and disappeared into the distance. Lisa slipped her hand into Aaron’s, but instead of taking it, he wrapped his arms around her, enveloping her in a kiss.

Then they stood, speechless, staring at the great panorama before them. The war, the bombs, and the destruction seemed to disappear, too.

At that moment, Lisa dared to have hope. Hope that the war could be won, hope that she’d see her family again, and hope that her dreams could come true. She could study! And if she studied hard enough, she could become what she had always dreamed—a concert pianist.

As she stared at the thousands of buildings and homes laid out before her, she imagined she was staring at a thousand faces—the faces in a concert hall—the faces in the daydream she used to have on the streetcar in Vienna. She allowed herself again to imagine the elegantly dressed audience waiting for her to begin. She could hear the hush and feel the anticipation as she sat in front of the nine-foot grand piano and began. Why couldn’t it be so?

When she came out of her reverie and looked at Aaron, she saw he was also dreaming of faraway things. But he wasn’t staring at the horizon, he was looking down at a group of British soldiers gathered beneath Big Ben’s tower.

21

T
HE REAPPEARANCE
of the crocuses in the spring of 1943 meant that another year had passed, but Lisa had barely noticed, she was so absorbed in her new studies. She hardly had time to read the corner chalkboard, which was plastered with encouraging headlines like
ALLIES ENTER NAPLES
and
KIEV LIBERATED
!

The Royal Academy of Music had proved as exciting as she had hoped and as demanding as she had anticipated. Theory classes, history classes, elements of orchestration— Lisa loved them all.

In the fall of 1942, her first year, she had been assigned a “master teacher” and was surprised when she opened the door to the small studio to find that it was the same small lady who had been on the jury at the audition. Her name was Mabel Floyd, a teacher with a very distinguished reputation.

Mrs. Floyd had greeted her warmly, giving Lisa great assurances about her talent (calling her a “diamond in the rough”), then launched into a first lesson where she corrected almost everything about Lisa’s playing.

In the entire first hour of that first lesson, she did nothing but go over and over and over the first two pages of Chopin’s ballade.

“Why did you put the space there, Lisa? Listen . . . it continues . . . it’s a question, then an answer . . . keep going, Lisa! . . . That’s right, it’s driving now! Don’t stop! . . . There! Wonderful, Lisa!”

That day Lisa walked home with Mabel Floyd’s parting words ringing in her ears: “We have a lot of work to do!”

She couldn’t wait to tell Hans all about it. “Can you believe it? One hour on two pages! At first, I thought she was going to be so reserved, this little British lady. But do you know what she did? She started singing the phrases before I played them. You should have seen her waving her arms all around, like she was conducting!”

Then Lisa sat at the piano: “Listen to this,” she said, playing the new phrasing of the Chopin.

Hans listened carefully, smiling in appreciation. “Ah! Now you’re sounding like Rubinstein!”

“You said I sounded like Rubinstein before,” she shouted, above her playing.

“I was fibbing,” he said, laughing.

She stopped, grabbed the music, and beat him playfully on the head.

That first year brought many other changes in Lisa’s life. After a long struggle, Johnny had died, leaving a hole in the heart of the hostel. Lisa was devastated—she had really thought her friend would pull through, but his internal injuries were more severe than any of them had known. She missed him terribly.

To add to her loneliness, Aaron enlisted in the Auxiliary Military Pioneer Corps as a paratrooper. After having seen the look in his eyes as he watched the soldiers from the tower of Big Ben, Lisa knew his announcement should have come as no surprise—how long could he bear looking at the parade of heroes and not feel left behind?

At first she was excited, visualizing a war hero for a boyfriend. “Ooh, look at you, handsome!” Lisa said when Aaron first appeared in his neatly pressed uniform, having returned from training camp.

But when Lisa had to face the reality of their impending separation, she was distraught. On the night before he was to ship out, he came to the hostel to say good-bye, Mrs. Cohen kindly lending them her room for a few private hours to say good-bye.

When the evening was over, Aaron came into the living room and shook everyone’s hands. It was especially hard for Gunter to see him go; he was feeling guilty for not having enlisted himself. But Gina consoled him by reminding him of his recent decision to dedicate himself to his studies. Gunter had decided to become a doctor, even though he knew it would be a struggle, since he was only now being given the opportunity to attend middle school.

Lisa was crying so hard that she couldn’t leave Mrs. Cohen’s room for the final glimpse of him going out the door.

At first she wrote him every day, then every week, but then she grew so busy that she wrote just once a fortnight. Aaron had done the same, as he was swept up in the life of the regiment and the hardships of the parachute division. In the beginning his letters were detailed and enthusiastic, but after his first combat experience, they became more guarded; Lisa tried to read between the lines. What was it like? What had he seen? She didn’t want to imagine.

When the weather got warmer, Mrs. Cohen had the children plant the year’s Victory garden—tomatoes, green beans and cucumbers. The younger children were given responsibility for the newest innovation—a backyard flock of laying hens.

“Eggs! I’d forgotten what they looked like,” Mrs. Glazer said, marveling when the first one dropped.

The summer of 1943 brought the glorious news that, after a year of begging, the Bateses finally agreed that it was safe enough to allow Sonia to come and visit with her older sister in London.

Lisa met Sonia at the train and enveloped her in an enormous hug. She was surprised to see that Sonia was still thin and small for her sixteen years. “Are you getting enough to eat out in the country?” she asked anxiously.

“It’s not like Mama’s cooking, but don’t worry, I’m trying to eat as much as I can.” Not satisfied by this response, Lisa devoted most of the weekend they spent together to plying Sonia with whatever extra portions she could sneak from the kitchen.

Lisa took Sonia to all of her favorite spots in her new city: At Buckingham Palace they strained for a glimpse of the princess. Lisa wanted to show Sonia the tube but was unable to get her to ride the trains; the younger girl balked at entering the frightening hole in the ground, and no amount of convincing could persuade her. Giving up, Lisa suggested the double-decker bus, which they rode happily for hours before getting off to feed the pigeons in Trafalgar Square.

When they walked past Big Ben, Lisa confided that she had been kissed on top of the bell tower. Sonia’s eyes widened at her sister’s brazen behavior, but Lisa told her that soon she, too, would meet a boy, and then she would understand.

The night was more difficult; Sonia cried out for their mother in her sleep, and asked, tearily, in the morning, when Lisa thought they would see their parents and Rosie again.

“I don’t know,” Lisa began, but seeing Sonia’s mournful expression, she added, “I’m sure it will be soon.”

Despite the rough moments, it was a wonderful visit, and both sisters were distraught on Sunday afternoon when it was time to part once again. They vowed to keep writing often, especially if either heard any news of the family.

Just a few weeks after Sonia’s visit, Lisa got a short letter from Leo’s cousin in Mexico. While letters from Austria had stopped completely, occasionally they still slipped in from other places. Lisa ripped open this letter and scanned it quickly for news.

“Still haven’t heard from Leo or Rosie, but we did get news that most all Jews from Vienna have now been deported to detention camps in Poland, near Lodz, we think. We have tried desperately to get word about our aunts and uncles there, but there are few ways to communicate from here in Mexico. Do you have better sources for information over there? Please write us if you hear anything at all.”