The Children of Willesden Lane: Beyond The Kindertransport: A Memoir of Music, Love, and Survival (6 page)

She climbed the imposing stairs and sat with the others in the hallways. Children were everywhere. The phones were ringing shrilly, and people were shouting in languages she didn’t understand. Occasionally someone yelled in Yiddish or German, and she smiled. But mainly it was the buzz of unfamiliar sounds. It reminded her of the tale that the old storyteller who used to visit in on Shabbes had told about the Tower of Babel—about the arrogance of mankind wanting to build a tower so tall that it would reach all the way to heaven—and how God had punished man by making him speak in different languages so people wouldn’t understand each other. Yes, someone was punishing them, she thought. She just wished she could understand why.

Names were called, and one by one children went into an office for an interview. Women circulated with trays of sandwiches. Lisa was amused that anyone would put cucumbers on bread and forget the meat, but they tasted good anyway.

“Jura, Lisa Jura,” a voice called, and she was waved politely into a small office. The tall and balding man behind the desk peered over his glasses and motioned for her to take a seat. Stacks upon stacks of papers in no discernible order covered the desk and spilled onto the floor.

“I’m Alfred Hardesty, nice to meet you.”

Lisa smiled politely.

“How are you feeling?”

“Very well,” she said in her best English pronunciation. “Glad to hear it. Has anyone told you about Bloomsbury House?” Seeing her shake her head, he continued, “We are an organization designed to oversee children like you whom we have helped bring to England during this difficult time and if you’re willing to do some work, you could actually earn some money, in addition to receiving room and board. Does that interest you?”

“Oh, yes, yes.”

“Good. Now what skills do you have? What sorts of things can you do?”

“I play the piano,” Lisa said proudly.

“Well, now, that’s lovely, I’m sure you play beautifully, but what do you do that would be more useful? Do you sew?”

“Yes, yes, I sew.”

“Good,” Mr. Hardesty said, and checked a little box on the form he was filling out.

Before she knew it, she was escorted out of the office as the next child was ushered in. She was halfway down the hallway when she realized she hadn’t gotten to ask about Sonia. She marched back into the office without knocking.

“I have a sister . . . in Vienna.” Mr. Hardesty looked at the long line of children before him, then back to the girl with the dark red hair two feet in front of him.

“All in good time, Miss Jura,” he said with a sigh, and crossed the room to escort the insistent young girl gently out of the room.

When Lisa finally arrived at Dovercourt relocation camp in Essex, three hours south of London, she was exhausted and her feet were swollen. The children’s holiday camp had been hastily pressed into service to shelter the hundreds of young refugees who didn’t yet have homes. She looked at all the children and again recognized no one. She supposed Mela and the other girl from the train had gone to wealthy relatives and would be sleeping in comfortable beds by now. Michael was probably prowling the streets of London looking for Sherlock Holmes.

She sat quietly and apart from the other kids in the large army-style mess hall, eating a breakfast of porridge, eggs, toast, and some strange fish called kippers. Why bother making new friends if they’d all be leaving soon anyway?

They slept on cots in drafty cabins. Lisa put on her sweater and coat and huddled under the single wool blanket against the damp December weather. She wanted to cry but was too ashamed to have the other girls hear her. Everyone was asleep. She forced herself to concentrate on the Chopin prelude that she and her mother had played together, letting her fingers float through the air over the blankets. Before she could mime the last chord, she was asleep.

The next day, she attended the makeshift English class and looked out the window as columns of cars pulled up to the main administration office. Men and women of all descriptions went in and out of the office, consulting lists and digging through the children’s life histories. Groups of them would appear like specters in the back of the class, pointing to a particular child they wanted to interview. Lisa worried that her nose wasn’t straight enough. That her hair was too red. She scrutinized each arrival—was this the one who would want her?

Older girls were picked first, since they could work and pay their way. Small children were chosen next by childless couples and taken to homes in the countryside. The rest waited to be sent to hostels and orphanages that were being readied by Quakers, Jewish groups, churches, and kind souls all over England. On the third day of camp, while she was participating in a gas mask training class, a hand landed on her shoulder and she was called to the office.

“Miss Jura?” began a stout English lady in sensible shoes. “We understand you like to sew, which is excellent, but we’d also like to know if you get along well with, ah, younger children.”

“I have a younger sister. I’m looking for someone to help me get her out of Vienna! Can you help? Do you know anyone that—”

“First things first, my dear, let’s get you settled first. There’s a very important military officer who’s turning his sizable mansion into a civil defense headquarters, and they need some extra help. The lady of the house has a new baby. What do you think, dear?”

Lisa was thrilled at the idea of going to a rich person’s home. She’d make them love her right away and then they’d help her.

“I adore babies!”

“It’s all settled, then, young lady. Someone will meet you at the station in Brighton tomorrow.”

For the first time since her arrival, Lisa had hope and walked with a springy step back to the cabin. She sat on her bed, pulled out the photo of her mother, and placed it in front of her. Unfolding a sheet of paper she had torn out of her English primer, she began: “Dear Mama and Papa . . .”

She filled the letter with positive thoughts and English phrases she hoped would impress them: “I am determined not to be thought of as an
ausländer
—a foreigner—as long as I’m here, I’ll try my best to be a real English girl.” And then she signed it. The well-meaning but overworked camp officials hadn’t thought about things like stamps, so after dinner, as the other children stacked their plates and glasses on the sideboard, Lisa walked through the double doors to the kitchen and approached a ruddy-faced dishwasher, smiling sweetly. “If I helped you wash the dishes, would you buy me a stamp for a letter?”

“Of course, young lady. There’s a sponge under the sink.”

Lisa grabbed a plate and started scrubbing.

6

B
RIGHTON
-
BY
-
THE
-
SEA
was a city renowned for summer holidays and family vacations. Winter was another story.

The train station was hollow and empty and cold. Lisa was relieved to see a heavyset man in his twenties standing on the quay holding up a hand-lettered sign with her name on it. He wore a neatly pressed dark blue uniform and matching cap.

“I’m Monty,” he said, offering his hand in a hearty English handshake. For a second Lisa thought he’d broken the bones in her fingers and shook them surreptitiously behind her.

He took her small suitcase and led her to an elegant black sedan. Driven to her English home by a chauffeur! If Mama could only see her now.

They drove through the brown countryside, its fallow fields neatly bordered by trees whose leafless branches stretched upward like inverted brooms. The sedan turned off the main road at a stone pillar. The sign read “Peacock Manor.” At the end of a long driveway was a massive country estate house—three stories tall, with turrets decorating the left and right corners. It looked every bit like a castle from her daydreams.

Monty pulled the sedan through the elegant porte cochere and continued around to the servants entrance at the back. The cook, three maids, and a butler came out to meet her. “Welcome to Peacock Manor,” said a lady with a no-nonsense air about her. “I’m Gladys, this here’s Lola, and this is Betsy, and this is Carrie. And this fine man is Mr. Piedmont, our butler. You’ll meet the rest of us later; come in and take a hot bath and we’ll get you some tea.”

As Lisa struggled to say something polite, Gladys added, “We’ve heard all about you, so don’t you worry. We’ll take good care of you.”

Lisa felt conspicuous in her old wool coat, long dress, and leggings; she knew she must look shabby and that every eye was on her. She dusted herself off and tried to smile.

Gladys showed her to a small but cozy room in the servants wing and gave her a starched white maid’s uniform. When she was pronounced presentable, she was ushered through the vast, ornate foyer, past a dining room with a splendid chandelier, and down a long hallway whose walls were covered with oil paintings. Lisa swung her head quickly right and left, taking in the grandeur of it all.

She was shown into the study where her sponsor, Captain Richmond, and the butler were packing oil paints, easels, and half-finished canvases into cardboard boxes. The captain was a man in his sixties and sported two patches of white hair at the edges of a pink, bald head. A fragrant pipe hung from his mouth.

“So there you are, missy.” He thrust out his hand. Lisa took it, preparing for the worst, but his handshake was mercifully gentle. “Good to have you here. You make sure Gladys treats you nicely!” He winked good-naturedly at the head maid.

“Thank you,” said Lisa.

“My wife looks forward to meeting you; she’s off gallivanting in Paris—back next week. Don’t mind this mess. I’m giving my painting studio over to the Home Guard; we’re certainly not hoping for a war, Chamberlain has my complete trust, but just in case . . . we had best be prepared.”

Lisa was so overwhelmed that she was grateful when Gladys handed her a feather duster and led her up the large staircase into the main hall. “I can’t be bothered explaining everything to you, so just follow along and keep your eyes open.”

Lisa quickly fell into the routine of the castle. She had a keen eye for the out-of-place article and the dust that gathered in corners, and by the end of the first week Gladys seemed duly impressed.

“You might just work out,” the head maid announced in front of the others at the servants dinner table.

“And coming from her tough hide, that’s a huge compliment,” laughed Monty. Gladys slapped Monty on the shoulder, and Lisa saw a sparkle in her eye. He leaned over and quickly planted a kiss on her cheek. It was a gesture that reminded her suddenly of her father and mother, and she was overwhelmed momentarily with memories; tears sprang to her eyes, so she apologized and excused herself.

That night Lisa wrote another letter to her parents. She described the elegant furnishings and grand surroundings, hoping her mother would be proud of her. She realized while writing how happy she was to be settled after weeks of uncertainty and vowed to be useful and cheerful at all times. She arose early, put on the crisp white uniform, and flipped up the starched collar in the back, trying for a more sophisticated look. By the time the sun came up, she was hard at work, scrubbing floors, fetching coal, and dusting endlessly. Often, her day was not over until well into the evening. She worked with only one purpose—to make the money her parents needed to send Sonia.

The next day she went on a tour, holding her duster aloft as an alibi. She dusted her way through bedrooms and hallways until she found what she was looking for: a piano. Any self-respecting castle like this would have one, she’d figured. It was located on the first floor, in the parlor off a guest bedroom, and was a solid baby grand. She cautiously opened the lid and ran her fingers lightly over the keys. It was out of tune, but at least the keys didn’t stick, so she began a simple nocturne. Loud footsteps clattered down the hall immediately and Gladys appeared at the door, out of breath and furious.

“And what might you be doing!”

“I, I—”

“The captain’s having his nap! If you wake him, there’ll be hell to pay.” She folded down the lid and pushed Lisa out of the room. “Now, go down to the basement and help sort through the onions. Lola needs help with the soup— and keep your hands off things that don’t belong to you.”

“But in Vienna, I played the piano!”

“Well, isn’t that marvelous,” Gladys said cuttingly. “Yes, it is marvelous,” Lisa retorted, walking down the hall and biting her tongue so as not to say: “If you only knew something about music, you’d know how marvelous it is!”

Lisa knew the captain’s wife had arrived from Paris when she heard the squeal of an infant echoing through the hallways. She was introduced to the twenty-five-year-old lady of the house, who wore a cream-colored Chanel suit and matching hat. Lisa was mesmerized by her elegance. She was given the added chore of “nanny’s assistant,” which involved washing the baby clothes, hanging them to dry, and folding them neatly in the bassinet drawers. Unfortunately, the job also involved washing the dirty diapers or, as she soon discovered, boiling them.

One day when she was tired, she looked up at the stacks of clean diapers and told herself that no one would miss it if she tossed a dirty one in the bin. This solution was so simple that every time there was an exceptional mess, she would toss out the offending diaper. There were hundreds more waiting on the shelf.

A while later Gladys greeted her with a smelly bag. “And what, might I ask, have we here?” Monty had found her secret in the trash and fished it out. “I’ve counted the diapers and there’s only a dozen left! You’ve been chucking them out, haven’t you?”

“No,” Lisa heard herself saying. She never lied, but she was fearful she’d be sent away. “No, I haven’t.” But for the rest of the day, Lisa had a terrible ache in her stomach. She was eaten up with guilt and fear and finally went to Gladys to confess. “Of course I knew you chucked ’em. I wasn’t born yesterday, you know. The lady wants to see you upstairs.” Lisa didn’t move. “That would be now!” Gladys yelled, and Lisa ran upstairs.

She stood anxiously at the door to the grand bedroom and imagined the worst, but the lady of the house was laughing when she opened the door. “I suppose my husband would give you a lecture about thrift—he’s very proud of being thrifty. So I won’t tell him about the diapers, all right?”