I woke up as we drew in to Liverpool Street Station, a vast glass-roofed space swirling with steam. Ezra was still sleeping. I bent to pick up his basket, but a lady who spoke German came into our compartment and said, “Thank you for looking after the baby. I’ll take him now.”
“But what’s going to happen to him?”
“Mrs Simons will meet us here and take him home. He’ll be very well looked after, don’t you worry.”
“But how will his mother know where to find him?”
“We’ll keep all his details at Bloomsbury House,” she said.
Before I could ask any more, a whistle blew and we were ushered out of the train into a huge crowd of people waiting on the platform. Immediately, people began shouting and waving. Eva, who was going to stay with her auntie, cried, “Tante Rosi, Tante Rosi!” and a small, dark-haired woman turned around and beamed, throwing her arms wide open as Eva pushed through the crowd. She swept Eva into an enormous hug. I looked at them and felt sick with loneliness and longing.
The ladies in charge were desperately trying to keep order. One of them close to me blew a whistle that nearly deafened me. Everybody on the platform was startled into silence. In a loud voice, she gave what were clearly instructions, though I couldn’t understand most of the words. Then she gestured for everybody to follow her.
She led us to a vast, gloomy underground room below the station. Another lady handed each of us a paper bag. Inside were sandwiches, made with that funny white bread again, and also an apple and an orange, which was nice. We had to sit in rows in one part of the room while our new foster parents sat in another part, behind a rope barrier. The list was in alphabetical order so, with the surname Schlesinger, I guessed I’d be waiting for hours.
I sat there, cradling my orange. I couldn’t see anybody from my compartment on the German train, and it felt so strange not to be looking after Ezra any more. I looked all around the hall but I couldn’t see him anywhere. The mysterious Mrs Simons must have already taken him home with her. I hadn’t even said goodbye. Tears prickled my eyelids, but I bit my cheeks and blinked them back.
I couldn’t just sit there, getting more and more anxious about meeting my foster parents. I had to distract myself somehow. I could read Heidi, but I was too nervous to concentrate on a book.
Then I remembered. I hadn’t written to my parents. I’d promised them I’d write on the train.
I felt a terrible wave of guilt. I quickly opened my case and got out my writing things.
Writing to Mama and Papa was wonderfully comforting. It almost felt like talking to them. I told them all about Ezra and the lovely Dutch ladies and the kind sailors. I didn’t put in any of the bad stuff.
When I eventually finished and looked up from the paper, I was surprised to see hardly any children left in the huge room. One of the organisers called out, “Renate Woolf?”
Woolf? They’d reached W? But where was my family? Had they changed their minds? Had they forgotten me? Had I not heard when they’d called my name, because I’d been so absorbed in my letter? But wouldn’t somebody have come and found me?
Perhaps I should walk over to the curtained-off part of the room where the smart ladies sat, and ask them why I hadn’t been called. But they might be annoyed if I did that. And what if they told me the family didn’t want me after all? If that was going to be the news, I didn’t want to hear it.
I sat there, gripping the edges of the hard wooden bench, hovering half off the seat in an agony of indecision.
“Anna Schlesinger?”
I looked up. One of the ladies smiled and beckoned me towards the curtained-off area.
“Would you like me to put a stamp on this and post it for you?” she said, looking at the envelope clutched in my hand.
“Yes, please,” I said gratefully. “Thank you very much.”
My stomach churned and my hands were damp with sweat as I walked up to the other end of the hall and behind the big tarpaulins.
Another lady looked at me across a table covered with papers.
“Anna Schlesinger?”
“Yes.” My voice was a croak.
“Anna, this is Mrs Dean, your foster mother.”
She gestured to a pretty, plump woman with wavy dark hair and a warm smile, who hurried over and gave me a big hug. Relief flooded over me. A kind foster mother!
Mrs Dean picked up my case and started talking to me in very fast English. I couldn’t understand a word she said. The lady at the table said something to her. I think she must have been telling her I didn’t speak much English, because when Mrs Dean turned back to me, she spoke more slowly.
“Welcome to England, Anna. It’s so lovely to meet you.”