THE TRAIN rumbled through the English countryside past cows and hayfields, hedgerows and country lanes. The weary children collapsed onto one another, heads upon shoulders, their tiny, loose legs dangling with the swaying of the train.
Soon the winter pastures gave way to suburbs, and the suburbs gave way to stone buildings, and the journey reached its destination—Liverpool station, London.
Lisa and the two hundred exhausted children were met by a small battalion of well-wishers—nuns, rabbis, Quakers, clergy of every denomination, and Red Cross workers with clipboards. The new arrivals were lined up in the reception hall, sorted, and checked against the meticulously organized lists that had been prepared by the Jewish Refugee Agency at the Bloomsbury House. With a “Welcome to England, children, we’re delighted to have you,” the Red Cross workers moved down the line. Lisa waited anxiously and looked up at the huge windows of the cavernous structure as they extended to the ceiling to meet a massive glass dome, which filtered bright morning light onto people below. Finally, Lisa showed her papers and number and was relieved to see her name on the list.
A little girl next to her, five years old and teary eyed, hung on to Lisa’s skirt. “Is my mommy going to be here? I want to see my mommy!” The girl began to cry inconsolably, and a volunteer came over, knelt down, and held her hand while they waited.
When the lists were completely checked and each child accounted for, barricades were opened and a stream of excited people holding photos flooded in. Some had signs— “Kaplan.” “Samuel,” “Friedler.” They headed for the lines of waiting faces and yelled out names. “Ruthie Goldstein!” “Martin Muller!”
Lisa caught sight of Michael down the line and waved. He waved back, and then she watched as a man and woman in floor-length fur coats came up and hugged him, swallowing him up in their furry effusiveness.
The wait seemed interminable. Lisa held the handle of her suitcase and watched patiently as half the children departed in a flurry of handshakes and kisses. After what seemed like hours, she broke ranks and went up to a Red Cross worker who was handing out cookies. “Jura, Lisa Jura,” she began, but that was as far as she got. She wanted to say, “My cousins are coming to get me,” but suddenly couldn’t remember the English words she had memorized so carefully.
“Be patient, dear, these things take time. Better get back in line so they can find you.”
“Muss ich zurück?” Lisa asked, panicking. “Do we have to go back?” She suddenly imagined having to get on the train and go back if no one met her.
The Red Cross worker looked at her terrified face. “Of course not! Zurück nicht,” the lady said in heavily anglicized German. “Don’t worry, even if there’s no one to meet you, we will take you to a very nice place. Let’s get back in line . . . there’s a good girl.” She was leading Lisa back in line when a small man in a worn brown overcoat, holding a photo, came up and spoke to her in Yiddish.
“Lisa Jura? I’m your father’s cousin, Sid Danziger.”
Lisa expected that he would hug her, but he hung back, bowed his head slightly, and handed her some English treats. He asked about her family and consoled her as she spoke rapidly about the awful state of things in Vienna.
Then he cleared his throat and continued. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.” He spoke so quietly, she could hardly hear him above the din.
“I’m afraid we’ve had to move outside London. My wife just had a baby, so we’re leaving the city, and well, we’re moving to a one-room flat, you see. There just isn’t enough room. We won’t be able to take you; we’re very sorry.” The man’s face was flushed with embarrassment.
Lisa didn’t know what to say. These were her relatives, her cousins, the only people that knew her in all of England.
When Sid saw the utter terror on her face, he stammered, “Please don’t worry, I personally spoke to the people at Bloomsbury to make sure a good spot is found for you . . . and the main thing is that you are here in England.”
Lisa couldn’t hear all his words. Panic set in again. “But what about Sonia?” Her voice was frantic. She had fanta-sized that she could convince them to take her little sister as well.
“We’ll do our best to ask our friends. We’re not wealthy people, I’m sorry.”
Lisa steeled herself against the disappointment. Mama would have wanted her to be polite. “Thank you for coming to sign for me,” she managed.
“It’s the least I could do,” Sid replied sadly, and turned and walked away.
Lisa didn’t speak during the ride from Liverpool station to the Bloomsbury House. She was wedged in the huge coach with the rest of the unclaimed children; there were dozens and dozens of them. She stared out the window at the bustle of London streets. What a hurried city! Horns honked, black taxis weaved in between double-decker buses—what a contrast to the placid pace of Vienna.
The Bloomsbury House that her father had spoken so much about was a massive stone building in London’s West End. Getting off the bus, she saw Englishmen in pin-striped suits and shiny bowler hats walk by, looking just like the pictures she had seen in her schoolbooks.
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.