The Children of Willesden Lane: Beyond The Kindertransport: A Memoir of Music, Love, and Survival (27 page)

When Aaron turned around, he saw her deep in troubled thought and knew her answer.

A week later, Aaron came to the hostel before his final departure, bringing candies and cakes. Everyone was overjoyed, and no one asked him how he got them. He was trying to be positive and forward looking, fighting, as they all were, for a reason to go on. He had found his in the journey to America.

Lisa’s reason? She didn’t know. She could only stand sadly on the steps of the hostel, next to Gunter and Gina, and wave good-bye.

The Rachmaninoff Prelude in C-sharp Minor reached into the vast emptiness of Wigmore Hall. Professor Floyd arranged for Lisa to practice in the art deco auditorium where her concert would take place in two months’ time.

Lisa worked through her program, playing flawlessly, but with a disquieting coldness that worried her teacher. Mrs. Floyd knew the unbearable pressures that her prized student was under. She had been following the terrible reports of the Jewish Holocaust in the newspapers, but she hoped a gentle prodding would keep her prized pupil on track.

From several rows back in the empty theater, she called. “Lisa, did you practice the things we spoke about last week?”

“A little bit, I’m sorry, not like I should have,” Lisa answered, afraid to admit that she hadn’t practiced at all.

“Let’s not forget that the date is almost upon us. I don’t want to frighten you, but the critics can be quite harsh on a new pianist. Ah, let’s try the prelude from the
maestoso,
shall we?”

Lisa closed her eyes and began again, but there were no pictures or images to inspire her. She couldn’t see the faces of the people she loved. She played on and tried to shield herself from the heartbreaking beauty of the music, which she knew her family, lost forever, would never share.

25

G
INA AND GUNTER
made a handsome bride and groom. Their big day had finally arrived and they sat with the rabbi in the living room of the hostel and signed the
ketubah.

In spite of Mrs. Cohen’s dedicated planning, the day had been hectic with last minute preparations. The older girls had swarmed into the kitchen, turning hoarded sugar and flour into kugel, Sacher torten, and an only moderately successful
apfelstrudel.
The boys, meanwhile, were frantically putting the finishing touches on the
chuppah
in the backyard.

The florist from the high street delivered the flowers with thirty minutes to spare. And last but not least, with a herculean effort, six of the strongest boys had lifted the piano and carried it out to the back lawn.

Lisa had put on her brightest face for the happy occasion, a feat made easier because finally, her sister Sonia had been allowed to move to London. She had moved into the hostel the week before. The war was over, and the city was safe, but even so the conscientious Bateses had called every day to see how their beloved charge was adjusting to her new life. Sonia was delighted to be near her older sister; most traces of her frightened demeanor had completely disappeared. The sisters had been put in charge of the wedding dress and had helped Gina to shop in the secondhand stores on the Edgeware Road until they found the perfect elegant lace gown.

Now, with ten minutes to spare, Gina had put her foot through the hem. The Jura sisters yelled for a needle and thread, and in no time, the beautiful bride was ready.

Rabbi Silverstein performed the ceremony, reciting the ancient prayers and asking the couple to exchange the traditional Jewish vows.

Yet for all the merriment that led up to it, the service itself was a somber occasion. Everyone was painfully aware of the enormity of the void in the group of gathered relatives and friends.

Gina’s parents had died in Treblinka. Gunter’s father had succumbed to a heart attack while being deported. Gone were Mrs. Cohen’s entire family, as were Mrs. Glazer’s . . . and so the list of the void went on down to the last orphan who stood watching. Only Gunter’s mother had been on the “lists,” and she was still in a hospital in a displaced persons camp near Theresienstadt.

Some of the “children” like Gina and Gunter were trying to move forward with their lives and had accepted the terrible news. But others still held out hope that at any moment, from out of the wreckage of Europe, their parents and siblings would miraculously appear. Lisa wavered between the two extremes.

When the vows were over, Gunter kissed his bride and stepped on the champagne glass to cries of
“Mazel tov!”
Then the assembly of well-wishers clapped and the music began.

Although still in no mood to play, Lisa had agreed, out of a sense of duty, to perform the first movement of the Grieg piano concerto. As the notes of the first few bars floated into the warm outdoor air, Lisa couldn’t help but think of Aaron. He had sent a congratulatory telegram from the
Île de France,
where he was on his way to a new life. Although her feelings for him were no longer romantic, Lisa missed his presence terribly.

She played the evocative concerto and thought of the images her mother had taught her, of the fjords, of Norway, of the placid, icy waters of Grieg’s homeland. The images and their reverent mood helped to calm her overflowing emotions. She watched Gunter and Gina as she played, their love so radiantly displayed on their faces, and continued her musical tribute to their friendship—and to the friendship of all who were gathered here. So much was changing, the emotion was almost too much to bear. To keep from breaking down, she forced her thoughts back to the icy panoramas of the Grieg and managed to make it through the piece.

When she was finished, she got up to prepare a surprise. “Please wait a moment, everyone,” she said, and walked over to Hans and escorted him to the piano.

He played a beautiful rendition of “The Girl with the Flaxen Hair” by Debussy, which Lisa had been coaching him on for weeks. She had found a simple solace in being a teacher, and in truth, she hadn’t known what else to do. The lessons paid off and made for a beautiful surprise, especially for Hans’s mother, who broke down in tears.

Gunter then gave a toast to “all those missing today,” making special mention of Paul and Johnny “King Kong.” “May we remember the beauty of their gentle spirits and keep their memory in our hearts for the rest of our lives.”

Feeling the pall that had been cast by Gunter’s words, and not wanting the wedding day to turn somber, Mrs. Glazer hurried to bring out the cake. After the couple did a ceremonial cutting of the first piece, the bride rushed to open her presents, which were stacked neatly on the dining room table. Lisa waited patiently for Gina to open her gift, two silver candlesticks.

Then Gunter announced formally what they had all assumed, that he and Gina would be heading for New York as soon as his mother joined them, hopefully before the month was out. Lisa hugged her friends warmly, and was gripped by the sadness of another good-bye.

Children were arriving at the hostel from the displaced persons camps of Europe, where they had been brought from the hell of Bergen-Belsen, Auschwitz, and Dachau, and again there was a premium on space at Willesden Lane. Unlike the
Kinder
of 1939, these children had gaunt eyes that had seen things not even an adult could bear.

Mrs. Cohen had decided to stay on, having made her peace with losing the wealth and status of her past life in Berlin. She had found a calling in the difficult but rewarding job of matron.

The older
Kinder
were moving out to make room for younger children, and Lisa was among them. She was now twenty-one years old, and although it was hard for her to grasp, she had been in England for six years—many of them in this room she was now leaving.

It had been decided that Lisa would move to Mrs. Canfield’s. Her son had been killed by a mortar shell while dressing a soldier’s wounds and the matron had asked if Lisa would go live with the Quaker woman, insisting the company would do the grieving mother good. And remembering her generosity during the bombing of the hostel, Lisa was only too glad to repay the debt of kindness.

Sonia, now eighteen, would take over Lisa’s bunk. Her sister wouldn’t be under the same roof, but she would be right around the corner.

On the day of the move, Sonia watched as Lisa took down the black-and-white photo of Leslie Howard in
Gone with the Wind,
which was taped on the wall above the bed.

“Want me to leave this?” Lisa asked.

“Who is it?” said Sonia, staring at the blond heartthrob. “Who is it? I guess I’ll have to take you to the movies. We’ll go this weekend!”

Sonia’s eyes shone with anticipation. Lisa made herself a promise to introduce her little sister to all the joys that a teenager deserved. She vowed to make up for all the crucial years she had missed in her sister’s life.

Mrs. Cohen came in as Lisa was packing her suitcase. “I haven’t asked you lately how your music is going,” said the matron, visibly saddened by Lisa’s departure.

“All right, I guess,” Lisa said, not sharing that she hadn’t been able to practice.

“We’re all looking forward to your concert,” the matron said.

Lisa couldn’t find the courage to tell her that she would have to cancel her debut, since try as she might, she couldn’t find the strength to continue.

Mrs. Cohen stood by awkwardly as Lisa made her bed. Finally she spoke, breaking the reserve that she had kept for so long.

“I was thinking back to that afternoon when you first played our piano . . . when you thought you were sneaking in and no one would hear you.”

Lisa kept smoothing her bed, finding it difficult to remember such an innocent time.

“I remember standing outside for fifteen minutes— afraid that if I came in, you might stop,” Mrs. Cohen confessed, wiping away an uncharacteristic tear with her embroidered handkerchief.

“Perhaps I have waited too long to tell you this, but we, I . . . owe you so much. You have inspired us all.”

Lisa turned around and accepted her warm embrace. Then the matron smiled sadly and backed out the door.

Sonia helped Lisa finish cleaning out her drawers, folding her dozens of scarves, and placing her costume jewelry in a velvet bag. Then, saving them for last, Lisa took her most prized possessions, the photos of her mother and father, and her grandmother’s silver bag, and laid them reverently on top of her clothes, shutting the lid on the large suitcase and on a long chapter of her life.

Lisa left 243 Willesden Lane with her two suitcases and walked slowly down the road to Mrs. Canfield’s. The woman in black embraced her warmly when she arrived on the doorstep. “This house has been quiet for too long. It has missed thee.”

As she had done years before, Lisa unpacked her things in the son’s room. His picture on the dresser now had a black ribbon tied around it.

One week after Lisa’s departure, Mrs. Cohen received a call in the foyer of the hostel that brightened her spirits immensely. In the midst of the sea of disaster engulfing the community came a ripple of good news, a ripple that she knew would be a tidal wave for two of her “dear ones.”

She hung up the phone, ran out the door, and went bustling down the block in her sensible shoes. She was out of breath when she made it to Riffel Road.

“Lisa, Lisa! You must call Mr. Hardesty at once!” “What? What is it?” Lisa cried.

“You must call Mr. Hardesty at once,” she repeated, picking up Mrs. Canfield’s telephone and dialing for her.

Five long days later, an elegant Lisa and a well-scrubbed Sonia were picked up by Mr. Hardesty’s waiting car and taken to Liverpool station to meet the 2:22 train.

Lisa and Sonia clung to each other and waited an eternity for the train to stop. When the doors opened, a group of weary refugees appeared, walking slowly down the stairs, their faces gaunt and haggard, exhausted by the trip and by misfortune. Lisa watched as they descended onto the platform and came toward her, disappearing and reappearing into the blast of steam that enveloped them. She strained to see into the approaching line of ragged people in heavy old world overcoats. She began to tremble, imagining she was seeing the ghostly apparitions of all her cherished neighbors from Franzenbrückestrasse.

The more Lisa strained to see, the more she trembled, and Sonia had to put her arms around her shoulders to hold her up.

After another eternity, they saw an outstretched hand waving in their direction and a familiar voice shouting from down the quay.

“Lisa! Lisa! Sonia! Sonia!”

Sonia pushed Lisa forward, and from inside the mass of the crowd came a thin, handsome woman, running as fast as she could. It was Rosie. It was Rosie at last. The three sisters flew into an embrace.

They called out one another’s names, over and over, “Rosie, Sonia, Lisa!” reveling in each consonant and vowel, over and over again.

When Lisa could finally pry her eyes off her sister, she looked up at Leo, who was waiting patiently for his turn to embrace them. She grabbed him around the waist and almost tripped on a beautiful four-year-old girl who was looking up at her in wonder.

Lisa gasped.

“This is our little Esther,” Rosie announced. “Isn’t she beautiful?” Then turning to the little girl, said: “Esther, these are your aunties, Lisa and Sonia.”

Lisa’s eyes were so filled with tears she could barely see. Sonia knelt down and gave the little girl a kiss.

They went to the same restaurant in the station where Lisa had been taken with Sonia so long ago. The intervening years of war had removed the white tablecloths, and the elegant teapots had long ago been melted down for airplane parts. It was now a dingy cafeteria, but no one seemed to mind.

Leo was anxious to tell the sisters how he and Rosie had survived the last few years. Out spilled the story of their escape from Vienna as drunken tourists, the trip to freedom in Paris, then Paris fallen to Hitler, then running, and running some more.

“We were always running!” Rosie explained.

“Except when we were rounded up in a holding camp outside of Lyon,” Leo interjected.

“Leo always found a way to escape,” Rosie said proudly. “It wasn’t just me, there were many people who hid us.” “Until I had the baby.”