I woke with a jerk. Everything was dark. There were sounds of clanking metal and raised voices. The train wasn’t moving. Eva’s head lay heavy on my shoulder. Compartment doors were opening. There was a jumble of voices, but I couldn’t make out any words.
The others were waking up too, moving and stretching, opening their eyes. Eva lifted her head from my shoulder. I looked down and saw that Ezra was still sleeping.
“Where are we?” I asked Otto.
The compartment door opened. My stomach lurched as a man in uniform appeared from the shadows. But it wasn’t Nazi uniform. And he was smiling.
“Gather all your belongings,” he said, “and be ready to leave the train when you are told to do so.”
He spoke in German, but with a foreign accent. I wanted to ask him where we were but, even though he looked friendly, I couldn’t bring myself to trust him. I waited until he’d left the compartment, and then I asked Otto again.
“I think we’re at the coast,” he said.
I had always wanted to see the sea. But this boat journey would take me even further away from my parents.
Luckily, there was no time to think. We were told to leave the train, and Otto and I were busy buttoning up the little ones’ coats and checking under the seats in case anything had been left. I took the rinsed-out nappies from where I had hung them to dry on the luggage rack. They were still damp. I folded them and put them in my coat pocket. Hopefully there would be somewhere warm on the boat to dry them.
Otto carried my suitcase so I could carry Ezra’s basket. The lighted platform was full of kind, smiling faces. It felt as though we really would be safe now.
We stood in line on the platform for a long time, slowly shuffling towards a table where two smiling Jewish Agency ladies sat with lists in front of them. They were checking each child’s label and the matching label on their suitcase.
Otto was in front of me. When his name had been ticked off the list, the lady indicated for him to move forward and join the next line. He shot an anxious glance at Ezra as he walked off.
The ladies smiled at me. They checked my labels and ticked my name off the list. Then the younger one said, in German, “And what do you have in the basket?”
I panicked. “Nothing.”
“Shall we have a look?” asked the younger lady kindly. She stood up and reached for the basket. I clutched it more tightly. She opened the lid.
“Oh! The dearest little baby!”
The other lady peered into the basket. She smiled and cooed at Ezra.
“Your brother or sister?” asked the young lady.
I shook my head, and then immediately cursed myself. Why was I so stupid? If I’d said he was my brother, perhaps they would have let me take him through.
But it was too late now.
“He’s called Ezra,” I said. “Ezra Neumann.”
“Can you show me his papers?” the lady asked.
I stared at her dumbly.
“Do you have his papers?”
I shook my head.
“Where are his papers then? Who has them?”
“I… I don’t know.”
She frowned. “What did you say his name was?”
“Ezra Neumann.”
She ran her finger down the list of names. For a split second, I had a brief, crazy surge of hope, like a flash of sunlight through the clouds. Maybe his name was on the list. Maybe his mother had registered him for the transport but had forgotten to pack his papers in the basket.
The lady shook her head. “His name isn’t here. How is it that you’re looking after him?”
I would have to tell the truth. Surely they wouldn’t send him back?
“His mother gave him to me. She handed him through the train window. I promised I’d look after him.”
She turned and spoke to the other lady in Dutch. They called another lady over. She looked at Ezra and they all held an intense conversation. Then the one who spoke German turned to me and said, very kindly, “Because the baby was not expected, no arrangements have been made for him. Therefore, we think the best thing to do would be to put him in an orphanage here in Holland and—”
“No!” I shouted. “You can’t put him in an orphanage! His mother gave him to me to look after. I won’t leave him!”
I grabbed Ezra from his basket and clutched him to me. The ladies looked startled. I felt startled. Had I really screamed like that? But I couldn’t stop now.
“If the English people will take hundreds of children into their homes, surely they will take one little baby! I promised his mother I would take him to England. You can’t take him away from me.”
The ladies stared at me. I stared back, the baby in my arms. I felt fierce and strong, grown up all of a sudden.
The older lady said something to me in Dutch, clearly trying to calm me down.
They had a murmured conversation. Then the young woman touched my arm.
“We will see what can be done. Come over here, while we register the other children. Don’t worry. We will sort something out.”
She took me by the arm and led me towards a bench beside the ticket office. Cold fear crept over me. What if they made me stay in Holland too? What if they put both of us in an orphanage?
I pulled away from her and walked back to the table.
“I’m going to England,” I said, “and so is Ezra. I’m going to wait here.”
It took a long time. An endless queue of exhausted children, some crying, some almost asleep on their feet, filed slowly past the table, as the list filled up with ticks. Ezra woke and started to cry. I gave him the rest of the milk and went to the waiting room to change his nappy. I washed the wet nappy in the sink, wrung it out and tied it around the handle of my suitcase to dry. When I walked back to the table, the kind German-speaking lady looked up and smiled at me.
“We will send a telegraph to the British authorities,” she said. “We will make arrangements. Do not worry. You can take the baby to England.”