The Uncommon Life of Alfred Warner in Six Days

by Juliet Conlin

  ‘It’s all right, son,’ he whispered, ‘it’s all right.’

  Given the tragic events that had put him there, Alfred’s time at the Waisenhaus was as untroubled and happy as it could have been, though if he had paid more attention, he would have spotted the portents of what was to come: an unspoken anxiety that seemed to weigh more and more heavily on the adults with every newspaper article they read silently over breakfast, every wireless broadcast they prohibited the children from listening to, every unanticipated knock on the large front door after nightfall, and the furtive, late-night discussions among the older boys and girls that seemed to revolve around the terms ‘Nuremberg Laws’, ‘Palestine’ and ‘youth Aliya’, terms that meant nothing to Alfred at the time.

  Then, in Alfred’s fourth year there (he had turned twelve in the summer), several events occurred in quick succession that would upset this fragile tranquillity of his life for good. One day in late October 1938, he came down with a stomach ache and diarrhoea. Fräulein Merz was summoned, who diagnosed a mild case of gastroenteritis, administered a dose of milk of magnesia and prescribed a day of bed rest. Alfred was distraught. His entire class, all twenty-three boys as well as three members of staff, were preparing for an excursion across the city to the synagogue in Münchener Straße to attend Salomon’s bar mitzvah. Such outings had become increasingly rare – indeed, during Alfred’s final year there, a siege mentality had begun to develop at the Waisenhaus. None of those living at the orphanage ever quite became accustomed to the shouts of ‘Death to the Jews!’ and ‘Kill the dirty pigs!’ that were hurled regularly over the school walls, growing in frequency and vehemence, and the insults and abuse targeted towards the children when they were out in public had long since threatened to tip over into real violence. But an exception had been made at the request of Salomon’s grandparents, Gustav and Margarete Bronstein, to hold the bar mitzvah at their local synagogue in the district of Schöneberg. The children’s excitement at the prospect of this special outing was palpable, and the staff were faced with the difficult task of conveying to a group of giggling, restless children the real dangers they might encounter beyond the secure Waisenhaus gates.

  Alfred lay alone in his dormitory, listening to the excitement swell and pulse in the corridor outside, feeling utterly sorry for himself. The medicine had helped settle his stomach, and although he felt somewhat weak from a night spent on the toilet, he was sorely disappointed to be left out. He was just resigning himself to a day in bed, bored and miserable, when he heard

  Alfred. Get out of bed and get dressed.

  ‘I can’t,’ he answered silently. ‘I have to stay here.’

  Nonsense. Now get up. Go and tell Fräulein Merz that you are feeling better.

  ‘But it’s useless. She won’t let me go.’

  Not if you keep that sorry look on your face, she won’t. Just do as we say and tell her your stomach ache has gone. Salomon is your best friend, isn’t he? Do you really think she’ll prevent you from joining him on this special day if you’re feeling better?

  Alfred thought hard for a moment. Then, realising he had nothing to lose by asking, he jumped out of bed and got dressed. Fräulein Merz demurred for all of two minutes, infected perhaps by the general excitement as well as Alfred’s enthusiasm, took his temperature for good measure and declared him fit for the outing.

  It took them a good hour to reach Münchener Straße. One tram driver refused to let them board, forcing them to take a twenty-minute walk to the nearest bus stop that would take them anywhere near the synagogue. When they finally arrived, frozen through, Alfred was beginning to regret not having stayed at home in his nice warm bed. But the ceremony, though solemn, was exciting and enjoyable for all, Salomon stumbling more or less smoothly through his haftarah reading, and the event culminated in an exuberant celebration, during which the boys were permitted a small cup of wine each and as many jam doughnuts as they could stomach. As a result, the mood of the entire group was markedly more jovial when returning home than on the journey there. Unhappily, this wasn’t to last.

  Waiting at the tram stop, two of the boys who had surreptitiously snuck a few more cups of wine than allowed, began to sing. It was a popular song, a pleasant upbeat melody that Alfred was familiar with, a song that invited dancing and foot-tapping. And it was in Yiddish. Several of the people waiting at the tram stop looked over at them, some of them shaking their heads.

  Nadel rushed over to the boys. ‘Be quiet!’ he hissed. ‘You’re drawing attention to us.’

  The two boys fell silent immediately, blushing and mumbling apologies. But across a green square of lawn, a group of six or so young men in Hitlerjugend uniforms had also heard. They began walking towards the group just as a loud bell announced the tram’s arrival.

  ‘Boys, get in line,’ Nadel said, unable to hide the anxious tremble in his voice. ‘Youngest first. And get on quickly as soon as the doors open. No dawdling.’

  Alfred, close to the back of the line, saw Nadel and the other two teachers looking over their shoulders nervously. It seemed to take an age for the tram to finally come to a halt and open its doors.

  ‘Quickly now,’ Nadel instructed. The boys at the front of the line began boarding the tram, one of them tripping on the step in his hurry to get on. The group of youths was only some ten metres away.

  ‘Hey, Judenschweine!’’ one of them called out. ‘Who let you out?’

  Another picked up a stone and threw it at the boys. It hit Alfred on the shoulder, but hadn’t been thrown with enough force to hurt him. He turned back around to board the tram, and it was then that he caught sight of a girl on the opposite side of the street. She was wearing a woollen coat and her hair was covered with a scarf that was tied beneath her chin – but from the swing in her step, the way she held her shoulders proud and her back straight, Alfred recognised her immediately. It was Johanna. His heart started beating so fast he thought he might faint. He cried out, ‘Johanna!’, but his shout was lost in the commotion. The tram driver had left his seat and was now herding the boys on board.

  ‘Come on, pick up your feet,’ he said, ignoring the hissed whispers from several of the passengers. Alfred remained motionless, staring across the road. But the girl had disappeared around a corner.

  ‘Alfred! Come on!’ Nadel shouted. ‘For goodness’ sake, move!’ And he grabbed Alfred’s coat and dragged him onto the tram. The doors closed before Alfred could offer any resistance. Releasing himself from Nadel’s grip, he rushed over to the other side of the moving tram and pressed his face up against the window. As the tram moved forwards and past the corner of the building opposite, Alfred spotted the figure of the girl again, walking away. He wanted to call out to her, shout her name, scream and pummel the glass, but he knew it would be futile. And so instead, he imprinted the street names on his mind, knowing that before long, he would somehow find his way back here, to the corner of Münchener Straße and Grunewaldstraße, to look for her.

  Day Two

  After the disastrous phone conversation with the nurse at Alfred’s (former) care home, I took him through to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Alfred stood with his back to me, looking out of the window.

  ‘This is the Bayerisches Viertel, isn’t it?’ he asked after a few minutes. ‘The Bavarian Quarter.’

  ‘Yes. Münchener Straße. Why, do you know the area?’ I asked.

  Alfred frowned. ‘It was a long time ago. Very long time. I didn’t recognise it at first.’

  I left him standing there and went to pour the tea.

  ‘Yes, the synagogue, of course I remember.’

  It was Alfred, whispering to himself.

  ‘Yes, yes, that’s where . . . Johanna. I know! What?’ A pause. ‘I’m not sure. Sounds a bit rude, if you ask me.’ Head bobbing around, nodding, shaking, it was hard to tell the difference. Then, ‘Oh for crying out loud, just ask her yourself then!’

  Although I may well have written off the first few comments as an old man�
��s mumblings, which are to be politely ignored, this last sentence came out with such force that I couldn’t possibly pretend I hadn’t heard it.

  ‘Alfred, is everything all right?’ I asked.

  He was clutching the windowsill, knuckles white, head still atremble.

  ‘Julia, I would like you to do me a favour.’ He didn’t look up as he spoke.

  ‘Sure. What is it?’

  He didn’t respond at first. Instead, he sat down, very slowly, at the kitchen table, and gestured for me to do the same. I passed him a cup of tea and sat down. His head had stopped trembling, thankfully.

  ‘You are a very kind lady, Julia,’ he began. ‘And I cannot begin to tell you how grateful I am for all your help. It’s incredible, really. Just think about it!’ He let out an unexpected chuckle. ‘Picking up some doddering old fool you’d never laid eyes on before, giving him a bed for the night, driving him around town, taking him to the hospital to see his . . . ’ He faltered at this point and took a sip of tea. ‘Yes, you are a very special lady,’ he continued. ‘A great generosity of spirit. But I must ask you to do me yet one more favour. I am very concerned for Brynja. I don’t mean her . . . her injuries; I have every confidence that she will recover fully. But – Damn, it’s so difficult to explain!’

  Then he did something quite peculiar: he shifted his gaze slightly to the left of my head and, as though I were not there at all, began a one-sided conversation. It was most bizarre to witness; it wasn’t as though he was talking to himself. No – he spoke, then paused, sometimes nodding or shaking his head. His body language was also in on the act: shrugs, frowns, raised palms.

  ‘I know, but what?’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say . . . ’

  ‘You know as well as I do . . . ’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘But she can’t take it back.’

  ‘Take, not make! With a T!’

  But then the conversation appeared to turn into an argument, with Alfred raising his voice, seemingly being interrupted in mid-speech, and turning rather red in the face. Apart from the plain weirdness of him holding this unilateral conversation in the middle of my kitchen, it soon began to concern me that he was becoming very upset.

  ‘Alfred. Stop it!’ I spoke louder than I had intended, but it proved effective. Alfred blinked and looked straight at me. He was quiet.

  ‘Who are you talking to?’ I said.

  He let out a heavy sigh. The colour of his face slowly returned to normal. ‘I . . . ’ he began.

  ‘Alfred, what’s the matter?’

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I will try to explain it to you, but you must let me finish. I – I can hear voices.’

  ‘Oh – ’

  He raised his hand to interrupt me. ‘Please, Julia. It’s not important now for me to explain why or how. But it is important that you know firstly, that I am neither mad nor dangerous. Secondly, you must know that my granddaughter Brynja also hears voices. But she is much tormented by them. Very much so. She hasn’t been . . . she doesn’t . . . ’ He struggled to find the right words. ‘Brynja doesn’t understand,’ he said finally. ‘It should be a gift, but to her it is a curse. I need to let her know that.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I interjected, not knowing if it was my turn to speak yet, and if so, what exactly I should say.

  ‘The problem,’ he continued, ‘is that I will not have the opportunity to tell her. My days, as they say, are numbered. And I’m afraid those days and her regaining consciousness will not overlap.’

  He paused and took a sip of tea. ‘Well, Julia? Do you think you might do me this favour?’

  ‘What favour?’

  ‘Tell her my story, of course.’

  ‘Oh. Well, Alfred, I . . . ’

  ‘I will tell you, and you will tell her. When she recovers.’

  1938 - 1939

  A week after Salomon’s bar mitzvah and Alfred’s sighting of Johanna, the hitherto safe perimeters of the Waisenhaus were finally breached. One afternoon, a group of men broke down a side door – having tried unsuccessfully to storm the building through the front entrance – and entered the building, shouting threats and abuse. Alfred was sitting in a classroom on the first floor when he heard shouting and the sound of breaking glass.

  ‘Get under your desks,’ the teacher said, and left the room to see what was happening. Ignoring the teacher’s instructions to hide, Alfred, Salomon and David crept out after him, to the large stairwell that led down to the entrance hall. Below them, they saw a mob of around fifty young men, some in uniform, some in work clothes, armed with sticks and pipes, knocking over furniture and smashing mirrors and pictures. The noise was deafening.

  Nadel was standing at the top of the stairs, a small boy in his arms.

  ‘Ingrid,’ he called to Fräulein Merz, who came running out of one of the girls’ classrooms. ‘Call the police.’

  She rushed back down the corridor, and was back a few minutes later. ‘They said they’re busy. That I should call back later. I tried to explain, but – ’

  She was interrupted by an enormous crashing noise and the sound of wood splintering.

  ‘Make sure the children are safe,’ Nadel said and began walking down the steps, the child still in his arms. ‘These are just children!’ he shouted at the mob. The young boy he was holding began to cry. The men looked up. ‘Are you not ashamed of yourselves?’ Nadel continued, pulling his shoulders back.

  ‘Heinz!’ Fräulein Merz whispered. ‘Come back!’

  But Nadel took another step down. The air seemed to quiver, as Alfred and the others held their breath, not daring to move.

  ‘I would like you to leave at once,’ Nadel said. His voice was loud and eerily calm. The tumult downstairs ceased, and then, like a balloon deflating, the group of men stopped what they were doing, turned and left. If he hadn’t witnessed it himself, Alfred would not have believed it. When the men were gone, and the doors had been shut and bolted, Nadel sat down on the stairs and wept.

  After this incident, things moved very quickly. The following day, Nadel and Direktor Crohn came into the classroom during a geography lesson and called out a list of names, among them, Alfred’s. The children, twelve boys and fifteen girls, were to pack a small case with clothing, toiletries and one or two small personal items, and report to Crohn’s office that afternoon. When the children later assembled there with their belongings, Alfred realised that he was standing among most of the full-orphans living at the Waisenhaus. Without giving the children the opportunity to ask any questions, Crohn told them that in light of yesterday’s attack, he had decided to do everything in his power to bring the children to safety, and that they been selected for the Kindertransport to take them to England.

  ‘But I can’t go!’ Alfred blurted out.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Crohn told him gently. ‘We have room for you, too.’

  Alarmed, Alfred called his voice-women in his head. ‘I can’t go to England. Not now. I need to find Johanna!’

  They responded immediately.

  Be calm, Alfred. Do as you’re told. This is no time for disobedience.

  ‘But you took me to see her!’ he continued silently.

  Ksss! We did no such thing.

  ‘Yes! Yes you did!’

  But the voices didn’t respond to this, and Alfred had no choice but to take his place among the children that were now lining up at the front door, suitcases in hand. Some of them were weeping quietly, others seemed stunned. Robert and Salomon were giggling nervously and kept nudging each other with their elbows. Fräulein Merz appeared and gave each of them a kiss on the cheek, holding back tears herself. She cleared her throat.

  ‘Right. If any of you needs to visit the lavatory before you leave, do it now.’

  Alfred’s arm shot up. Fräulein Merz nodded and he sped off down the hall. Nobody seemed to notice that he had taken his suitcase with him. When he got to the end of the corridor, instead of turning left to the boys’ toilets, he took a right, treading
as lightly as he could, and opened a door that led into the enclosed yard. From here, he moved silently to the back wall, his heart pounding, not daring to look over his shoulder, and before he knew it, he had climbed up and over. He was now on the grounds of the cigarette factory. Up ahead, close to the road, was a small shed. Alfred tried the door – it was unlocked – so he crept in and sat down on his case.

  Oh Alfred. What are you doing? They are waiting for you.

  ‘I’m not going. I need to find Johanna.’

  Get up and go back immediately!

  ‘No!’

  Do as you are told, Alfred! This is your final warning.

  It was a tone he’d never heard them use before, cold and harsh. But he was desperate. ‘I said: NO!’

  Then the sound hit him, a sound so loud it made him nauseous, made his ears ring and his head spin.

  ALFREEEEEEEED!!! ALFREEEEEEED!!!

  One of the voices sounded as though it had split down the middle, making his eardrums vibrate so badly he feared they might start bleeding. It was as though his head were being squeezed through a mangle. But he covered his ears (which didn’t help), screwed his eyes tightly shut and curled up into a ball, waiting for it to end. Which it did, eventually, leaving him feeling sick and exhausted. But the silence that followed was almost as painful as the noise.

  When the gloom inside the shed had turned into blackness, Alfred dared to open the door. Night had fallen. He snapped open his suitcase and retrieved the Reichsmarks he’d received on Chanukah for the past four years from a rolled-up pair of socks, slipped them into his pocket, and then crossed quickly to the edge of the site, where he managed to squeeze himself and his suitcase through a hole in the fence. The street was empty. Without glancing back at the orphanage, he set off down the road.