Remember Me (2 page)

“No,” said the girl and her lip trembled.

“Sorry,” said Marianne. “I only meant …” She didn’t say any more, and they hurried to catch up to the other children.

The ticket collector must have known they were coming. He smiled and waved them through.

Miss Baxter stopped at last.

“It’s clever of her to wear a red hat with that little feather. Like a bird showing us the way,” Marianne told Sophie.

“Like Hansel and Gretel,” Sophie said, giving a little skip. She’d cheered up again. “Will everyone be nice in England?” she asked.

“Well, it’s bound to be better than Germany. Can you imagine the Nazis smiling and holding our hands?” said Marianne.

They followed the red hat into a big room at the end of the station. As soon as they were inside, a woman handed each of them a paper bag with an orange, some chocolate, and a sandwich.

Miss Baxter pointed to rows of slatted wooden chairs lined up on one side of the gloomy room, ready for the new arrivals. The
children sat. Across from them, on the other side of the room waiting in a separate section, were the adults. Although it was daylight outside, all the electric lightbulbs were on. The two groups gazed at each other. Some adults stood up, craning their necks to look the newcomers over. A few of them held photographs and were trying to compare the reality in front of them with the posed pictures in their hands.

Miss Baxter announced what was happening in English, and a woman next to her translated her words for the children. “Every sponsor will be paired with a child on my list. We must make sure the names and numbers match. Please wait patiently until you hear your name called.”

The woman who spoke German sat at a table in the center of the room and smiled nervously at no one in particular. She was dressed in blue. There was a pile of papers in front of her. Miss Baxter began calling out names, and children and sponsors met for the first time. It went on and on – the names called, the walk under staring eyes, the signing of forms. The endless terrifying anticipation.

Marianne noticed how, sometimes, two children went together. There were nods and smiles and handshakes. Occasionally the adults looked as if they’d expected someone different. The new arrivals followed behind their grown-ups, mostly not turning back to look at the others, who were still waiting to be collected. A few children fidgeted, or whispered. Most sat quiet and watchful.

Marianne held her bag of food so tightly that she could feel the sandwich squish between her fingers. “Do you want my orange?” she asked Sophie. “I can’t bear the smell anymore.” She knew the bright fruit had been a gesture of kindness – meant to comfort. At this moment, nothing could console Marianne.

Sophie did not answer; she was asleep. She’d pushed her chair very close to Marianne’s and was half leaning against her.

The girl sitting on Marianne’s other side said, “I’ll take your orange if you don’t want it.”

Marianne gave it to her.

The girl asked, “Is that your little sister?”

“No,” Marianne said. “The only thing I know about her is her name and her age. Her mother pushed her onto the train just as we were leaving and asked me to take care of her till we got here. I think it was because I was standing closest to the door. It’s worked out alright. She’s very good for a seven year old. I won’t know anyone when she goes.”

“Waiting’s horrible, isn’t it?” said the girl.

“Sophie Mandel,” Miss Baxter called.

“That’s you, Sophie. Come on, you’ve got to wake up.” Marianne pulled Sophie to her feet.

A pleasant-looking woman in a gray coat and hat said to her in German: “
Nicht stören
– don’t wake her. I can carry her.”

Sophie woke up anyway.

“Hello, Sophie. I am Aunt Margaret, a friend of your mother’s. I’ve come to take you to your new home.”

Sophie put her arms around Marianne’s neck and hugged her, as if she didn’t want to leave her behind.

“Good-bye, Sophie. She looks very nice,” Marianne whispered, and kissed her cheek.

Sophie went off bravely, carrying her doll and her rucksack. Marianne saw the lady smile at the little girl and heard her answer a question. Sophie turned at the exit and waved to Marianne. It was all Marianne could do, not to cry. She blew her nose, pretending she’d caught a cold.

Why do I mind Sophie leaving? It’s not as if we’re even related. Everyone’s being separated.
The boy she’d talked to in the line had been one of the first to go, and Bernard’s sister had left too, with an elderly man and woman. She’d tried to explain to Miss Baxter about staying with her brother, but the couple were anxious to leave and didn’t let her finish talking. Marianne saw the girl turn round to look at Bernard. He hung his head and refused to look up. He sat slumped like that for ages, even when the lady in blue came over to him and put a note in his hand. “Your sister’s address,” she told him.

Miss Baxter called his name. A cheerful young woman collected him. She had a small boy with her who looked about Bernard’s age. The boys began making faces at each other almost immediately. He’d be alright.

The girl she’d given her orange to had left with a woman in a fur jacket. The room was almost empty.
Suppose no one comes for me? Is there a special room for unclaimed children?
Marianne wished
she’d never let her mother talk her into coming here. She planned her first letter home:

Perhaps Miss Baxter would give her a stamp.

Marianne tried to push this moment out of her thoughts. She closed her eyes, hoping the sick feeling in her stomach would go away.

“A
re you Leah Stein?”

Marianne opened her eyes and saw Miss Baxter stooping beside her.

“I must have fallen asleep. Sorry.” She spoke in German, then remembered where she was. “My name is Marianne Kohn.”

Miss Baxter checked the number on Marianne’s identification label, and scrutinized the remaining names on her list. Marianne saw that most of them had already been crossed off.

“I’m afraid there isn’t a Marianne Kohn listed. Nothing to worry about,” she said reassuringly. “I’m sure we can sort it out. Miss Martin speaks German and you can explain to her. Follow me.”

Marianne carried her suitcase to the table where the lady in blue was sitting. Speaking in German, the woman asked, “Is there a reason why there isn’t a record of your name here, my dear?”

“I came with the group from the Berlin orphanage. It was all sort of last minute because two of the girls got measles.” It was a relief to speak in German. But before Marianne could continue, the ladies began to confer.

“The orphans are supposed to stay together in the hostel at Dovercourt in Harwich, till homes can be found for them. I don’t know how this child got separated from the group. We’ll have to make arrangements to send her back to them.”

“Send back?
Zurück schicken
?” Those were the only words Marianne understood. “Please, no.
Ich bin Jüdisch
– I am Jewish. No send back.”
Don’t these ladies understand? But how can they? They don’t know about the Gestapo; they haven’t been on the train out of Germany.
Marianne sat on her suitcase, and hid her face on her arm.

Miss Baxter said, “No one is going to send you back to Germany.”

Miss Martin continued, “You misunderstood. Now, tell us slowly, calmly, all about the measles and why you are not with the other orphans. Please don’t worry; I promise you are quite safe.”

Marianne looked up at their kind faces and said, “My mother helped out at the orphanage. Two of the girls got measles and couldn’t travel, so the supervisor said I could come instead. I’m sorry I took someone’s place.”

“Now I understand, but I’m sure they’ll come when they’re better. Don’t worry about that,” said Miss Martin.

Miss Baxter wrote Marianne’s name on the list and showed it to her. “There, you’re quite official now.”

A tall thin woman wearing a coat with an elegant fur collar approached. In a voice that matched her sharp features she announced, “I am Mrs. Abercrombie Jones. Is this girl Leah Stein?”

Miss Martin turned to Marianne and said quietly in German, “Just wait, dear.”

Marianne sat very still, watching, trying to understand what was happening.

“I know you’ve been waiting some time, Mrs. Abercrombie Jones. I’m afraid Leah has not arrived. She may have changed her mind, or been detained in Holland. This is Marianne Kohn.”

The lady ignored the introduction and looked round the room as if Leah might be hiding somewhere. Marianne noticed that she was the last girl. All the rows were empty except for four boys sitting together in the back.

“Marianne does not have a sponsor,” Miss Baxter said. “It seems quite providential in a way. You did specify a girl, didn’t you?”

The woman’s mouth set in a straight line. “This is all rather haphazard, isn’t it? The girl’s aunt wrote me that Leah is a responsible domesticated fourteen year old – the school leaving age. My husband and I agreed to take in a refugee to help around the house. Why wasn’t I notified?”

Miss Baxter said, “I’m sure you’re aware, Mrs. Abercrombie Jones, that this is the first
Kindertransport
that has been allowed to leave Germany. We must be grateful that so many refugee children at risk have arrived safely.” Somewhere a station clock struck 3:00 P.M. It echoed in the cavernous room. “It’s getting late. I’m sure Marianne will fit in splendidly. Won’t you, Marianne?”

“Please,” said Marianne, totally confused, but sensing this woman did not seem to want her.
She reminds me of that horrible Miss Friedrich at school.

“How old are you?” the lady asked.

Marianne stood up and curtsied. “I am eleven and one-half years old.” She’d practiced this sentence. She could also talk about the weather, and she knew how to say “good morning,” “good-bye,” “how do you do,” “please,” and “thank you.” She knew lots of words. She’d been taking lessons for two years – the English Miss had been a good teacher, and English had been one of her favorite subjects at school before the Nazis had expelled Jewish students.
Was it really such a short time ago?

Marianne took her father’s German/English dictionary out of her bag. She’d found it lying facedown under his desk the night after the Gestapo had left their apartment. The leather binding was scratched, but the pages were fine after she’d smoothed them out. Her father’s name was written inside the cover – “David Kohn.” The publisher’s name was Hugo. Vati used to say, “Bring my little Hugo and we’ll look it up,” when he helped her with her English homework. It was a small pocket dictionary, which fitted into her palm, and feeling it was as though she were holding Vati’s hand.

I won’t cry; please God, don’t let me cry now.

Miss Baxter said firmly, “I’m sure Marianne will suit you beautifully, Mrs. Abercrombie Jones.” She patted Marianne’s arm.

The lady asked Marianne, “Do you speak English?”

Marianne nodded. “Yes, please. I speak a little.”

Mrs. Abercrombie Jones smoothed the fingers of the leather gloves she was wearing. “She looks young for her age. Our house is not suitable for children; however, as I’ve told everyone we are sponsoring a refugee girl, I shall keep my word.”

“Thank you so much. Good-bye, Mrs. Abercrombie Jones.”

Miss Baxter turned to the last boys waiting to be called.

“Come along, Mary Anne,” said the lady, not even attempting to pronounce Marianne’s name correctly.

Marianne followed Mrs. Abercrombie Jones.
She doesn’t look very motherly. I hope we get to like each other.

O
utside Liverpool Street Station, the city of London soared out of the fog. “Here I am in the biggest, most wonderful city in the whole world.” Marianne wrote a letter in her head to her mother. “A big red double-decker bus just passed by, and guess what, Mutti? It says
BUCKINGHAM PALACE
on the front. Imagine, I could just climb onboard and go right to the palace and see the king and queen and the two little princesses – Elizabeth and Margaret Rose.”

Marianne remembered how she and her cousin Ruth used to read every bit of news they could about the royal family. The winter coat Marianne was wearing today was in the same double-breasted style that she and Ruth had so admired when they saw the princesses wearing it in the photograph in the
Berliner Illustrierte.
Her mother had cut down an old coat of her father’s to make the coat fit her, and had finished it just before
Kristallnacht
– the Night of Broken Glass. It felt strange wearing Vati’s coat and having no idea where he was hiding.

“Watch where you’re going, ducks.” A uniformed sleeve steadied her. Marianne looked up into the smiling face of a helmeted London policeman.

“I’m so sorry, officer. She’s just arrived from Germany.” Mrs. Abercrombie Jones sounded as if she were apologizing for a badly behaved puppy.

“No harm done. Good day, Ma’am. Welcome to London, Miss.”

“Taxi,” called Mrs. Abercrombie Jones. A shiny black automobile halted at the curb.

My first taxi ride, Mutti.

“Twelve Circus Road, St. John’s Wood, please.” Mrs. Abercrombie Jones settled herself in the center of the leather cushions and pointed for Marianne to sit on the pull-down seat under the driver’s window.

Marianne sat down.
Circus? Does the lady live in a circus? She doesn’t look like anyone who has anything to do with animals. Perhaps I could help hand out tickets. She definitely said “circus.”
Opa loved attending the circus – long ago, when Jews were still allowed to go. One day he’d told her all about the elephants, how they held flags in their trunks and waved them in time to the band. Then Opa had laughed and whispered, “I hear they’re training the seals to bark
‘Heil Hitler.
’ ” He’d put his finger to his lips in warning. “Walls have ears.”