FEBRUARY BECAME March, but the weather in the spring of 1942 remained bitterly cold. The bombings grew more sporadic as the unusually icy weather made it more difficult for the Luftwaffe to fly as far as London. Lisa started working overtime at the factory—as much to do her patriotic duty as to distract herself from the agony of waiting for the results of the audition.
She trudged down the block every morning, passing the same newsboy on the corner of Walm Lane, and read the daily ration of gloomy news, It was true the Americans had given everyone a huge boost in morale, but the news from Europe continued to be grim—frightening rumors were circulating at the synagogue about the massive deportations of all Jews from Europe.
Mail call at dinner was a sad time since most of the children had stopped receiving letters from their parents in Europe. They had now transferred their expectations to waiting for Lisa’s answer from the Royal Academy of Music.
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.