1921
From Warsaw, the boat traveled down the Vistula River. I sat silently, staring at the riverbank. I glimpsed a tall woman pumping water vigorously at a well, and for a moment the woman was Aunt Friedka. I saw a man in a cart pulled by a horse. Papa? But the boat kept moving onward, and soon we were accosted by the shouts and smells of the huge and busy port of Danzig.
“Stay close to me,” Daddy Ochberg ordered. “This is no place to get lost. Children, hold hands tightly. Don’t let go!”
Two men carrying a heavy crate swore violently as an unbroken line of two hundred orphans with linked hands scuttled across their path. Another dockworker bent double to duck under our arms and hurried ahead, trailing an odor of sweat and garlic. The scream of steel grinding against steel hurt my ears.
“This way, this way.” Even Mr. Bobrow sounded nervous as he called to us. “Our boat is this way. Stay together.”
My fingers were sore from linking with Nechama’s so tightly. I had to keep looking down to avoid slipping in the garbage strewn on the wet dock. Isaac Ochberg was up ahead, talking to the captain of the small freighter he had chartered.
“On board!” he called out to us, relief in his voice. “Here’s our boat. Everyone on board.”
The next part of the journey took longer, but I can’t remember anything about it. There was no place to be but on the flat deck, and we sat or lay under a makeshift canopy of canvas, wrapped in all the clothes we owned. I felt sunk in heavy clay. I dozed and woke up to check that Nechama was nearby, then dozed again.
When I finally woke, my eyes opened to behold a scene finer than any dream. A gracious and glorious city was spread before our boat: bridges and towers, bells in belfries. There was a beautiful domed building that brought pleasure to my eyes, as Papa used to say, and a tall pillar supporting a statue of someone grand and proud. Blue glints shone like jewels among the feathers of strutting pigeons; the sun turned old blocks of stone to silver. Scrambling to my feet, I ran to the railing around the deck and stared and stared, drinking in the beauty.
Someone put an arm around my shoulders. It was Daddy Ochberg. “I see you like London,” he whispered. “I love London, too, little one. We’ll wait here until a liner is ready to leave for South Africa.” Then he hurried on.
“London, London,” I repeated, softly so that the dream wouldn’t vanish. But it only grew richer.
“Is that the King’s palace?” Nechama asked me with wide eyes when our buses pulled up in front of a huge building with flags snapping in the wind. There were towers on either side, with ivy coloring the walls and framing hundreds of windows.
“No …” I answered uncertainly. “I heard Mr. Bobrow say the Jewish people of London have paid for us to stay in a hotel.”
A hotel. None of us had ever stayed in a hotel before. As we climbed down from the bus, a hush fell. The hotel had the strangest entrance I had ever seen. Framed in brass was a huge glass door that moved around in a circle. People were walking through it casually and disappearing. Then other people would appear in their place, walking around the circle in the opposite direction.
“Follow me,” urged Daddy Ochberg, and only because he was Daddy was I brave enough to shuffle through that door. “And out you step, quickly now,” Daddy warned as the door spun Nechama and me into the hotel lobby.
I had never dreamed of such a place, glittering with chandeliers and polished brass. The lobby was much bigger and even more beautiful than Madame Engel’s restaurant. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Nechama crouch down. “Ooh, soft,” she was murmuring, stroking the thick red and gold carpeting.
“Nechama, stand up. You’re embarrassing me,” I told her.
There wasn’t time to linger in the lobby. A boy wearing a shiny uniform and a cap with a gold ribbon led us to a tiny mirrored room where a lady in a different uniform and white gloves stood next to a panel of buttons on the wall. As more and more children were squeezed into the small space, I hung back. But then Nechama stepped in without hesitation, so I had to follow. Suddenly the lady pulled a lever, the gold-barred door clanged shut, and the entire mirrored room began to shudder upward. My eyes opened wide with alarm. Nechama let out a cry. The boy in the uniform lifted his gloved hand too late to cover his grin; then the doors opened again and he led us out.
Somehow we had been transported to a completely different place, a long hallway lined with doors. The boy stopped at one of the doors, opened it with a big brass key, and pointed us into a room. It was almost completely filled with small beds. Immediately, Nechama scrambled onto one of the strange firm mattresses and began to jump up and down.
“Whee!” she shouted. “Try it, Devorah. There is some kind of bouncy straw inside here!”
I knew I should stop Nechama from bouncing on the bed, but I was too busy staring at the flowered curtains and the pretty pictures on the walls. This was where we were to sleep?
Even better was to come. The boy gestured us to follow him, and he led us down the hall and pushed open the door to a big room. I peeked inside. Everything was white: white floors, white walls, and a gleaming white tub the size of a horse trough, standing on curvy white legs.
Nechama ran straight in and fingered with interest some little brass wheels at the end of the bath. I hurried in after her to stop her from touching the strange things.
“Aha!” said the boy with another grin, his face lighting up with understanding. “On, turn it on,” he commanded, showing me to turn one of the wheels to the left.
Whoosh! Water rushed out of a gold-colored pipe and thundered into the bath. I jumped back. The boy doubled over in good-natured laughter. I stared at the indoor waterfall, and then I also burst out laughing.
“See here?” The boy pointed. “Hot. Very hot.” He pretended to burn his hand. “And this one is cold. Very cold.” He shivered dramatically.
My eyes shone. No more heavy pumps, no more icy splashing in the morning. I wished Papa and Mama could see the magical bathroom.
But a short time later, when we sat down to eat, I couldn’t bear to think about Papa and Mama. They would have fattened up handsomely, they would never have become sick and died if they had had even a fraction of this meal. Milk, hot tea, cheese, apples, slices of soft white bread stuck together with butter and jam, even cake with slivers of nuts and bits of fruit in it. I ate until my stomach stuck out like a ball.
The next morning I woke to angel music: all the bells of London were chiming, leading and following in charmingly uncoordinated peals. “Nechama, wake up! Listen!” I whispered, and Nechama opened sleepy eyes and smiled back at me. “Let’s get dressed quickly,” I urged. What would the new day bring in this wonderful place?
After breakfast, Daddy Ochberg announced, “We will all gather in the writing room now. We have had donations of clothing, and they will be given out according to your sizes.”
But the best was hidden at the bottom of a sturdy steamer trunk of dresses. Daddy Ochberg reached in deep and lifted out a pile of big colored boards with bright pictures on them. He opened the top one, revealing many pages.
“A book!” I exclaimed.
Daddy Ochberg turned to me with a smile. “Are you more interested in books than in pretty dresses, mamaleh?” he asked.
“Mama used to let me dust Papa’s books sometimes,” I said softly. “There were only a few, but they smelled good, of leather, and the pages were so thin and soft.” I stretched out my hand and dared to touch. “I’ve never seen books like these, though, with colors and pictures.”
“And I’ve never heard you say so many words in a row.” Daddy Ochberg smiled. “How would you like to be our librarian?”
I didn’t know what a librarian was, but it had to have something to do with those books, so I nodded my head vigorously.
“Come and stand next to me,” Daddy Ochberg said.
I stumbled past the other children, my cheeks flaming at the whispers and stares.
“Devorah Lehrman,” he announced in a formal voice, “is now our librarian, and all books given to us will be kept under her bed. When any of you wants to read a book, you may go to her and ask to choose one. Then you must sign your name on a piece of paper and you can keep the book for three nights. That is what we call a library.”
“Devorah’s only twelve,” objected Itzik. “Why is she the lyberian?”
“Because she loves books and she is responsible,” replied Daddy Ochberg firmly, putting an arm around my shoulders. “I know she’ll take care of things.”
My face was on fire and my hands were sweating. “I can carry them all to my room myself,” I said, and I didn’t stop to rest until I reached my door, even though my fingers were numb with the weight. Kneeling on the floor, I sorted out the books on my bed. Those with many pictures and only a few big words were obviously for the little children; those with tiny, difficult English writing and only one single picture at the beginning, with a thin sheet of tissue to protect it, must be for Laya and Pesha’s age group.
As for myself, I was determined to look through them all. I started immediately with the easiest ones, poring over the shiny pages bearing mysterious pictures, such as a boy flying through the air, a rabbit dressed in a blue jacket, and a baby boy living in a den of wild animals.
Nechama didn’t return to our room until almost dinnertime; she had been trying on new dresses and coats with her friends in their room. She twirled around a few times to show me her finery, brushed down her curls, and left again. But a few other children came in timidly, and I helped each of them to choose a book and write down their names. I even tried to read a story to little Malke, making up the words I couldn’t understand by looking at the pictures.
Suddenly a very loud bang made Malke flinch next to me. I hugged her in fright. Then I laughed. “It’s just the door, Malke! The wind blew it open against the closet.” The door swung closed again, and as it did I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the back. Myself? Was that me? There was a girl sitting on a soft bed, holding a colorful book in her hand. She had long wavy hair falling around her face, and she wore a relieved smile, which made her look quite pretty. I blushed and hugged Malke again.
When I was with the books, I was safe. And not only safe, I was rich and royal, brave and beautiful. Papa’s stories rested at the bottom of my memory while I found new legends, with pictures of creatures that Mr. Bobrow told me were called dragons and ogres and fairy godmothers. The monstrous Cossacks and devouring fires of my nightmares were replaced during the day by muscled gladiators in leather tunics and the volcanic lava that covered Pompeii hundreds of years before. I lay on my stomach, my thick braid clenched between my teeth, escaping into the pages.
But my shyness returned when we were visited by kind London matriarchs and even entire families with elaborately dressed children who stared at us curiously. It was Nechama, fearless and smiling angelically, who was often chosen to greet the visitors with her best English sentence: “Gut-day, my naam is Nechama.” One little visitor was holding a doll in exquisite lace clothing, and Nechama kept staring at it. Afterward she announced firmly, “I’m going to have a doll like that in South Africa.”
I didn’t say a word, but I promised myself that somehow I would replace the doll Nechama had lost on the Night of the Burning.
One morning, Daddy Ochberg woke us early. He seemed flustered. “Up you get, rise and shine, get yourselves washed and dressed. And see that you clean behind your ears, too, and comb your hair perfectly. We are going to have special, very special, visitors.”
Off he hurried. Within minutes, the rumor jumped from room to room: the King and Queen of England were coming to see the two hundred orphans who were on their way to South Africa. The King and Queen of England were actually coming to visit us.
Nechama squealed and jumped up onto her bed to dance a little jig, but my own excitement made me shivery and quiet. I was going to see a real live king and queen, just like the ones in the storybooks.
At breakfast I couldn’t eat, not even my favorite white toast and scrambled eggs. Afterward we were led to the hotel lobby and organized into a tight group.
“Let’s practice the English anthem one more time!” Mr. Bobrow ordered. “Sing with all your might now, children. Remember, since you will be citizens of the Union of South Africa, the English king is your king. Let me hear—”
At that moment Daddy Ochberg hurried in from his lookout position outside the revolving doors. I had never seen him dressed so smartly, or looking so nervous.
“The King and Queen are coming. Stand at attention and make me proud of you all,” he announced.
He rushed outside again, straightening his cravat, and a long moment later the hotel manager and Daddy Ochberg led in a bearded man and a serious-looking woman in street clothes, followed by a group of more men and women. I kept my eyes on the revolving doors, determined to see the golden King and Queen at the exact moment of their majestic arrival.
But Daddy Ochberg was lifting his arms in a signal to begin. The other children burst enthusiastically into a rendition of the anthem. “God save our gracious King,” they trumpeted, and the man and woman smiled very slightly.
The woman wore a soft cream-colored dress and a hat with a little veil over her face. The man had a close-cropped beard like that of the late Czar. It was not until the woman gracefully accepted a bouquet of flowers from giggling little Faygele that I was forced to admit the truth. These kind but ordinary people, without even a hint of a tiara or a rich purple cape, were the King and Queen of England.
“I’m tired,” I whispered to Mr. Bobrow after the couple had been ushered out by the hotel manager, who walked bent at the waist in an ingratiating bow. “May I go to my room, please?”
As soon as I was alone, I threw myself on my bed and sobbed bitterly. I had been so excited to see royalty, and they had seemed so ordinary. Why, on High Holidays back home, the butcher’s wife wore fancier dresses than this Queen of England. I blew my nose and reached under the bed for a book about a real king with an ermine cape and a bejeweled crown. Now, that was a king before whom I’d be honored to sing.
A few nights later, on my way to the big white bathroom, I passed the hotel room that served as an office and headquarters for Daddy Ochberg and Mr. Bobrow. Hearing their voices inside, I pressed my ear against the door and eavesdropped.
They were talking about arrangements a certain ship was making to have kosher food aboard for us. Then Daddy Ochberg gave a big sigh of relief. “Two more days and we will be on our way home. I will only rest easy when I deposit the children at the orphanage.”
I slipped back into my bed and lay shivering even though it wasn’t cold. It was time to say yet another goodbye—to this magical city. I wanted to stay in London, but not because it would ever feel like home. No, I was scared, very, very scared of the strange land we were venturing to, even farther from my village.
“Domachevo. Domachevo,” I whispered again and again until I fell asleep. But instead of dreaming of the warm stove in our home, the familiar muddy lanes, the pine forests along the Bug River, I dreamed of wild flames leaping. Aunty Friedka’s limp body. Wet knives. The Night of the Burning.