THE BLOOMSBURY HOUSE was still a madhouse of volunteers, arriving children, and file boxes. Lisa walked down the hall in guilty trepidation and gave her name to one of the secretaries.
“Have a seat, dearie, he’ll be with you soon as he’s able. Care for some tea?”
She accepted gratefully and watched as boxes of donations were sorted and stacked. Britain had responded to the arrival of the Kindertransports with an outpouring of cutlery, linens, rocking horses, and dolls; all manner of whatnots seemed to have landed in the hallway in front of her. The offices were full; the overflow of prospective foster parents spilled into corners and onto stairwells.
“I know you said you could only take two, but it would be terrible to break up the family,” a volunteer implored into a telephone. “They’re so lovely, and very well behaved, too.” The worker glanced at the three children next to her who were holding tight to one another’s hands. Her eyes were sparkling in encouragement, and her chin nodded up and down.
Lisa wondered how she’d be described—not well behaved certainly, more like a troublemaker. No matter, she’d made her decision. She wouldn’t go back. Anything, she told herself, was better than the terrible loneliness of the last six months.
The volunteers continued their phone calling and their cajoling, fielding offers of buildings to be converted to orphanages and giving advice on bedwetting and tantrums. Lisa accepted more and more cookies.
“Lisa Jura? Mr. Hardesty will see you now.” She walked into his office and half imagined that Mr. Hardesty groaned when he saw the dark red hair approach.
“Aha, it’s you!” he said as recognition dawned. “We were worried—the captain told us you’d gone missing.” But instead of the brash young bundle of energy he remembered, before him stood an exhausted girl with un-combed hair and wrinkled clothes. Lisa was too tired to think of anything to say.
Mr. Hardesty picked up a file with Lisa’s picture on the front and several papers clipped to the back.
“Were they treating you badly?”
Lisa reddened in embarrassment. “No, sir.”
“Were you getting enough to eat?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Hardesty let out a large breath, exhaling weeks and months of fatigue and frustration. He loosened his collar. He was sweltering in the airless August afternoon.
Lisa forced herself to begin the speech she had rehearsed over and over in her head. “I want to make something of myself. I don’t want to be a servant. I want to learn something. Please, let me stay in London.”
Mr. Hardesty studied this outspoken young woman and let out another long breath. “I’m afraid that’s very difficult. So many people are leaving London, and I don’t know if I could find a family here to take you. The hostels are full up.”
“People are leaving?” Lisa said, her eyes filled with fear.
Mr. Hardesty softened his expression. “Didn’t you get any news down there? Most people are expecting a war— and I’m afraid I am, too. Looks like Warsaw will be next. Chamberlain is over there now pleading, but it won’t come to anything, if you want my opinion.”
He looked at her proud but vulnerable expression and added, “We’d prefer to send as many of you to the countryside as we can. Most people expect we’ll be bombed.”
“Please, don’t send me back. I can work in a factory! I need to make some money to send to my parents to bring Sonia over.”
“Sonia?” Mr. Hardesty asked.
“My sister, Sonia. I’m hoping she will come soon on the Kindertransport.”
“What’s her name, again?”
“Sonia Jura, from Vienna.”
“He fumbled for a long time through a file box and finally located a typed card. “Sonia Jura, aha. Yes, but we don’t have a sponsor for her yet. If she doesn’t have a sponsor, they won’t let her into England.”
“What if they don’t find one?” Lisa pressed.
“We are doing our best, but it’s very difficult right now, there are so many who need sponsors.”
“Please let me stay in London, I’ll help look for someone, too, I promise,” she begged.
Mr. Hardesty sighed. “Let me see what I can do, at least temporarily.”
He ran his index finger down a list of telephone numbers wedged under the glass top of his desk, picked up the phone, and dialed.
“I’ll get a tongue-lashing, but hopefully it’ll be a short one,” he muttered.
Lisa watched as Mr. Hardesty wrinkled up his face and began: “Mrs. Cohen? Alfred Hardesty, here, Bloomsbury House. We have a bit of an unusual situation here, and I know I promised not to send so much as one more sardine your way, but there’s a lovely young lady just needs a place for a month. . . .”
He held the phone away from his ear and Lisa heard the raised voice of a woman. Cupping his hand over the mouthpiece, Mr. Hardesty leaned forward and said sotto voce: “I think you two will get along famously.”
Anxious to get some relief from the heat, and concerned about smoothing Mrs. Cohen’s ruffled feathers, Mr. Hardesty himself escorted Lisa to her new home: the hostel at 243 Willesden Lane, in Willesden Green, a twenty-minute taxi ride from the Bloomsbury House. Willesden Green was an older neighborhood of large brick houses. Its corners were alive with tiny shops—a butcher’s, a druggist’s, a laundry, and a bakery. Only one shop was boarded and had a sign: “Long Live Britain, God Bless You All.”
The houses on Willesden Lane were surrounded by neatly manicured lawns. As the taxi slowed, Lisa noticed a building with a cross carved into the stone lintel above the door; three nuns were in the front flower garden, watering the plants. The cab rolled to a stop at the next house, a rambling three-story structure whose shutters and fence were in need of paint, but whose lawn was recently mowed and trimmed. Its semicircular driveway was bordered with a fringe of lilacs.
The two of them got out and headed up the stone walk-way. Mr. Hardesty knocked and, while waiting, adjusted the crooked bronze numbers 2-4-3 back into alignment.
An imposing middle-aged woman in a dark purple dress opened the door. She had a rigid, upper-class bearing and held her chin tilted upward. It looked to Lisa as though she were trying to balance the huge, tightly wound bun of auburn hair so it wouldn’t fall off the top of her head.
“Please come in.” She surveyed Lisa and glanced at the little suitcase. “Is that all you have?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Come in then! Let’s not stand here while the house fills up with flies.”
Mr. Hardesty picked up Lisa’s suitcase and put his arm around her shoulder, easing her through the doorway.
Lisa walked into a dark-paneled foyer, which opened into a pleasant drawing room with two sofas and several groups of chairs and tables. Two well-worn chess boards were arranged neatly on top of a card table. A graceful staircase led upstairs, and a dining room was visible across the foyer. She stepped farther into the parlor and saw the large fireplace and the bay window that looked out on the convent next door. Nestled in the cove by the window was a distinctive shape, covered with a hand-crocheted shawl.
Lisa’s heart beat faster; it was a piano!
“We’re overcrowded, you know. We can only make room for you temporarily,” Mrs. Cohen said, not noticing Lisa’s expression of wonder. “I’ll have one of the girls tell you the rules.”
Mrs. Cohen’s firm stride took her to the base of the stairs. “Gina Kampf, come down here, please!” she shouted in a remarkably strong voice.
She has an even heavier German accent than I do, Lisa thought to herself, smiling. She felt comfortable here already.
At the sound of youthful steps thundering down the staircase, Mrs. Cohen turned to Mr. Hardesty. “While you’re here, Alfred, I have some receipts I’d like to go over with you.”
Mr. Hardesty turned to Lisa and shook her hand. “Now, please mind Mrs. Cohen; she has her hands full with all of you and I don’t want to hear any stories about any more, ah, unexpected trips, all right?” Lisa knew he thought her a troublemaker, but she’d show him. She would make something of herself, and then he’d understand.
“Hi, I’m Gina!” A pretty, dark-haired girl with vivacious eyes finished bounding down the stairs. “You must be the new girl.”
“Yes, I’m Lisa Jura.”
“Pleased to meet you!” she said with an exaggerated bow. “Isn’t my English fabulous? Mrs. Cohen says I’m the best English speaker in the whole house. Oh, that’s the first rule, she says you have to speak English on the first floor at all times. There are millions of rules, but don’t worry, I’ll go over everything.”
Gina started running back up the stairs. “Come on, hurry up! I’ll show you our room, you’ll be in with me and Ruth and Edith and Ingrid. I’m so glad you’re here; Edith and Ingrid are really boring.”
Lisa was shown a bedroom with two bunk beds and a small army cot wedged against the wall. There was hardly room to walk. Gina pulled open a large drawer and pushed some clothes to the side.
“Here, you can share this drawer with Edith, she won’t mind.”
The beds were neatly made, and nothing in the room was out of place.
“Where is everyone?” Lisa asked.
“Everybody’s working! We all have jobs. You’ll have to get one, too, you know. I’m only here because I help Mrs. Cohen do the books on Fridays—because my English is so good. The matron speaks dreadfully, but she doesn’t care, she’s old and doesn’t need to impress anybody.”
Lisa put down the suitcase and went to the window. She surveyed the large lawn where two ten-year-old boys were playing soccer. “That’s Arnold and Shepsel. They’re too young to work, so they get to play all day, the creeps,” explained her exuberant roommate.
Gina headed out the door. “Come on, come on! I’ll show you the washroom. There’s only one for all seventeen girls, and we’re not allowed to use the boys’ upstairs unless we’re dying or something.” Lisa looked at the small bathroom with its gleaming white bathtub and tried to conjure up the image of seventeen girls fighting for a place in front of the mirror.
The tour continued. She was shown the third floor where the boys slept, met the cook, a blond Czechoslovakian named Mrs. Glazer, and was told too many rules to remember. Curfew was ten, lights out ten-thirty, no food allowed in the bedrooms (for fear of mice), hot bath once a week (to save coal), telephone calls no longer than one minute (egg timer on the table), chores on Saturday, obligatory picnic Sundays (to boost morale).
Gina kept chattering and laughing and gossiping about everything and everyone. Lisa tried to follow it all, but she could hardly keep her eyes open. She heard herself offer a weak thank-you and fell onto the cot for a nap. She’d had a difficult twenty-four hours.
When she awoke, the house was transformed by the commotion of thirty-two children. German and Yiddish and Czech and English mixed together in the hall. The smell of roasting meat drifted into the room while the sounds of loud footsteps mixed with the screeching of chairs and tables from downstairs.
“Hurry up! You’re late, I let you nap as long as I could!” Gina said. “Mrs. Cohen will have our heads if we’re late for Shabbes.”
Shabbes! Lisa had forgotten it was Friday. Shabbes! It had been six months without it. She looked out the window and saw that the sun was setting. Jumping up, she combed her hair, smoothed her skirt the best she could, and ran downstairs.
The thirty-two children ranged in age from ten to seventeen and sat at two long tables in the dining room. Chairs and stools of varying heights had been pressed into service. The ones on stools couldn’t fit their legs under the table. The room was so tightly packed that some of the children had to crawl under the table to reach the chairs on the other side. Gina had graciously saved the seat next to her for Lisa, who was the last to arrive. She felt like she was sitting down to dinner at a carnival merry-go-round. A hush fell over the room and all eyes turned to Mrs. Cohen, who made a gesture to Mrs. Glazer.
The cook then lit the two candles and moved her arms in the circular gesture of the berachah, saying, “Blessed art Thou, King of the Universe, Who commands us to kindle the Sabbath candles.”
Lisa recited the prayer along with the others, feeling like crying because of the deep feeling it evoked in her. It was the first time someone other than her mother had lit the candles, and she ached for her presence.
Then the challah bread was blessed and passed around the table; each child broke off a piece and ate.
It was Mrs. Glazer again who began the prayer over the wine. Gina leaned over and whispered conspiratorially to Lisa. “Mrs. Glazer has to do it because Mrs. Cohen doesn’t know the words. Somebody said she doesn’t like to admit she’s Jewish!”
When the prayers were over, the children attacked the platters of food, spooning the chicken and dumplings and string beans onto their plates. The girls assigned to kitchen duty got up from the table to ferry additional items to and from the kitchen.
Partway through the meal, Mrs. Cohen tapped her fork against her water glass and cleared her throat. “We have a new girl tonight, Lisa Jura. She is from Vienna. I want all of you to take the time after dinner to introduce yourselves to her courteously.”
The instant Mrs. Cohen stopped speaking, the children resumed eating, hardly missing a beat. Lisa was momentarily hurt by the lack of interest, but Gina leaned over to explain. “There’s always somebody coming or going—after dinner I’ll introduce you to the interesting people, don’t worry.”
The children ate as rapidly as possible, knowing that the special food of Shabbes disappeared more quickly than the ordinary fare. The faster one ate, the more food one got.
Mrs. Cohen tried to preserve some dignity by slowing down the worst offenders. “Nathan? Put your fork down and count to twenty. Let someone else have a dumpling, would you?”
When the food was gone, Mrs. Cohen again tapped her fork on her wineglass. “Does anyone have any news they would like to share?”
Everyone quieted down.
“I understand you received a letter today, Paul,” she continued, turning to a blond sixteen-year-old with wavy hair. “Is it something you’d like to talk about?”
Paul felt all eyes turn his way; he wiped his mouth neatly and folded his napkin. “My parents have written to say they are no longer in Berlin. Their apartment has been taken away.”
The others listened carefully to Paul as he said the difficult words. “They have gone to live with people they know in Munich, but they aren’t sure they’ll be able to stay there long. They are looking for visas to Shanghai; I hope my brother will be coming soon on the train.”
As they all listened, each child thought of his own parents, his own nightmare, his own hope.
Lisa thought of her parents and wondered if they would be able to stay in their apartment. She looked around the table at the others and saw her own sadness mirrored in their faces. They shared a terrible anxiety. It was odd, she thought, how being with others like herself made her fears easier to endure. Part of the weight of the great loneliness she had felt since her arrival in England was lifting. Now, maybe, she could almost bear the long wait until she could see her mother and father again.
After dinner, the younger boys raced to the living room and took dibs on who would be first at the game boards. Two dark-haired boys sat down at the chess set and resumed their game. Several of the girls pulled out their knitting bags; soon there was a clacking of needles. Because it was the Sabbath, the large wooden radio set in the corner was silent.
Gina took Lisa’s arm and sat her next to her on the sofa, determined to be the arbiter of all news about “who was who.”
“See the boys playing chess? The one facing us is Gunter. He’s got a crush on me, but I’m still deciding. The other one is a dreamboat, but he has a girlfriend, the rat. Oh, by the way, whatever you do, don’t disturb Mrs. Cohen after dinner. See that door?”
Lisa turned around and saw a closed door at the end of the downstairs hallway.
“That’s her room. People say she’s got gold and jewels stashed inside. I don’t think anyone’s ever been there, though.”
The front door opened and a sixteen-year-old with a leather jacket walked in with a swagger. Lisa’s eyes widened at his handsome arrogance. Gina waved at him.
“Aaron, come here a minute, meet the new girl,” said Gina. “This is Lisa.”
“Hi, I’m Aaron,” the boy replied easily, with a bright white smile.
“Hi,” she said, fascinated by the unshaven stubble on his chin.
“I hope you don’t believe anything Gina’s telling you, I’m sure none of it’s true,” he joked.
“Aaron! What a mean thing to say!” Gina said with every ounce of charm she possessed.
“Just kidding,” he said, winking, then headed for the kitchen.
“Why is he here so late?” Lisa asked, curious to find out more about him.
“He’s the mystery man, isn’t that fabulous?”
The rest of the evening brought a parade of nice faces saying polite words to Lisa. Only one person didn’t come forward, a very large boy who had spent the evening writing in a notebook. He was more than six feet tall, and his forearms and biceps were gigantic.
“Who’s that?” Lisa asked.
“That’s Johnny, otherwise known as Johnny ‘King Kong,’ Gina said, snickering.
“Johnny what?” Lisa asked.
“Didn’t you see the movie King Kong? King Kong is a big ape just like him!”
“That’s not very nice,” Lisa said.
“It’s just a nickname, silly.”
But Lisa still thought it was an insult and resolved to be nice to the hulking boy with the serious face. “What’s he writing?”
“How would I know? He doesn’t show it to anybody,” Gina answered.
At ten-thirty it was lights out. Putting her head on the pillow, Lisa heard wave after wave of polite nice-to-meet-yous drifting through her brain and realized she couldn’t remember anybody’s name.
Gina was still gossiping when Lisa fell asleep on the bed next to her.