Remember Me

by Irene N. Watts

  Miss Baxter checked the number on Marianne’s identification label, and scrutinized the remaining names on her list. Marianne saw that most of them had already been crossed off.

  “I’m afraid there isn’t a Marianne Kohn listed. Nothing to worry about,” she said reassuringly. “I’m sure we can sort it out. Miss Martin speaks German and you can explain to her. Follow me.”

  Marianne carried her suitcase to the table where the lady in blue was sitting. Speaking in German, the woman asked, “Is there a reason why there isn’t a record of your name here, my dear?”

  “I came with the group from the Berlin orphanage. It was all sort of last minute because two of the girls got measles.” It was a relief to speak in German. But before Marianne could continue, the ladies began to confer.

  “The orphans are supposed to stay together in the hostel at Dovercourt in Harwich, till homes can be found for them. I don’t know how this child got separated from the group. We’ll have to make arrangements to send her back to them.”

  “Send back? Zurück schicken?” Those were the only words Marianne understood. “Please, no. Ich bin Jüdisch – I am Jewish. No send back.” Don’t these ladies understand? But how can they? They don’t know about the Gestapo; they haven’t been on the train out of Germany. Marianne sat on her suitcase, and hid her face on her arm.

  Miss Baxter said, “No one is going to send you back to Germany.”

  Miss Martin continued, “You misunderstood. Now, tell us slowly, calmly, all about the measles and why you are not with the other orphans. Please don’t worry; I promise you are quite safe.”

  Marianne looked up at their kind faces and said, “My mother helped out at the orphanage. Two of the girls got measles and couldn’t travel, so the supervisor said I could come instead. I’m sorry I took someone’s place.”

  “Now I understand, but I’m sure they’ll come when they’re better. Don’t worry about that,” said Miss Martin.

  Miss Baxter wrote Marianne’s name on the list and showed it to her. “There, you’re quite official now.”

  A tall thin woman wearing a coat with an elegant fur collar approached. In a voice that matched her sharp features she announced, “I am Mrs. Abercrombie Jones. Is this girl Leah Stein?”

  Miss Martin turned to Marianne and said quietly in German, “Just wait, dear.”

  Marianne sat very still, watching, trying to understand what was happening.

  “I know you’ve been waiting some time, Mrs. Abercrombie Jones. I’m afraid Leah has not arrived. She may have changed her mind, or been detained in Holland. This is Marianne Kohn.”

  The lady ignored the introduction and looked round the room as if Leah might be hiding somewhere. Marianne noticed that she was the last girl. All the rows were empty except for four boys sitting together in the back.

  “Marianne does not have a sponsor,” Miss Baxter said. “It seems quite providential in a way. You did specify a girl, didn’t you?”

  The woman’s mouth set in a straight line. “This is all rather haphazard, isn’t it? The girl’s aunt wrote me that Leah is a responsible domesticated fourteen year old – the school leaving age. My husband and I agreed to take in a refugee to help around the house. Why wasn’t I notified?”

  Miss Baxter said, “I’m sure you’re aware, Mrs. Abercrombie Jones, that this is the first Kindertransport that has been allowed to leave Germany. We must be grateful that so many refugee children at risk have arrived safely.” Somewhere a station clock struck 3:00 P.M. It echoed in the cavernous room. “It’s getting late. I’m sure Marianne will fit in splendidly. Won’t you, Marianne?”

  “Please,” said Marianne, totally confused, but sensing this woman did not seem to want her. She reminds me of that horrible Miss Friedrich at school.

  “How old are you?” the lady asked.

  Marianne stood up and curtsied. “I am eleven and one-half years old.” She’d practiced this sentence. She could also talk about the weather, and she knew how to say “good morning,” “good-bye,” “how do you do,” “please,” and “thank you.” She knew lots of words. She’d been taking lessons for two years – the English Miss had been a good teacher, and English had been one of her favorite subjects at school before the Nazis had expelled Jewish students. Was it really such a short time ago?

  Marianne took her father’s German/English dictionary out of her bag. She’d found it lying facedown under his desk the night after the Gestapo had left their apartment. The leather binding was scratched, but the pages were fine after she’d smoothed them out. Her father’s name was written inside the cover – “David Kohn.” The publisher’s name was Hugo. Vati used to say, “Bring my little Hugo and we’ll look it up,” when he helped her with her English homework. It was a small pocket dictionary, which fitted into her palm, and feeling it was as though she were holding Vati’s hand.

  I won’t cry; please God, don’t let me cry now.

  Miss Baxter said firmly, “I’m sure Marianne will suit you beautifully, Mrs. Abercrombie Jones.” She patted Marianne’s arm.

  The lady asked Marianne, “Do you speak English?”

  Marianne nodded. “Yes, please. I speak a little.”

  Mrs. Abercrombie Jones smoothed the fingers of the leather gloves she was wearing. “She looks young for her age. Our house is not suitable for children; however, as I’ve told everyone we are sponsoring a refugee girl, I shall keep my word.”

  “Thank you so much. Good-bye, Mrs. Abercrombie Jones.”

  Miss Baxter turned to the last boys waiting to be called.

  “Come along, Mary Anne,” said the lady, not even attempting to pronounce Marianne’s name correctly.

  Marianne followed Mrs. Abercrombie Jones. She doesn’t look very motherly. I hope we get to like each other.

  • 3 •

  “Welcome to London”

  Outside Liverpool Street Station, the city of London soared out of the fog. “Here I am in the biggest, most wonderful city in the whole world.” Marianne wrote a letter in her head to her mother. “A big red double-decker bus just passed by, and guess what, Mutti? It says BUCKINGHAM PALACE on the front. Imagine, I could just climb onboard and go right to the palace and see the king and queen and the two little princesses – Elizabeth and Margaret Rose.”

  Marianne remembered how she and her cousin Ruth used to read every bit of news they could about the royal family. The winter coat Marianne was wearing today was in the same double-breasted style that she and Ruth had so admired when they saw the princesses wearing it in the photograph in the Berliner Illustrierte. Her mother had cut down an old coat of her father’s to make the coat fit her, and had finished it just before Kristallnacht – the Night of Broken Glass. It felt strange wearing Vati’s coat and having no idea where he was hiding.

  “Watch where you’re going, ducks.” A uniformed sleeve steadied her. Marianne looked up into the smiling face of a helmeted London policeman.

  “I’m so sorry, officer. She’s just arrived from Germany.” Mrs. Abercrombie Jones sounded as if she were apologizing for a badly behaved puppy.

  “No harm done. Good day, Ma’am. Welcome to London, Miss.”

  “Taxi,” called Mrs. Abercrombie Jones. A shiny black automobile halted at the curb.

  My first taxi ride, Mutti.

  “Twelve Circus Road, St. John’s Wood, please.” Mrs. Abercrombie Jones settled herself in the center of the leather cushions and pointed for Marianne to sit on the pull-down seat under the driver’s window.

  Marianne sat down. Circus? Does the lady live in a circus? She doesn’t look like anyone who has anything to do with animals. Perhaps I could help hand out tickets. She definitely said “circus.” Opa loved attending the circus – long ago, when Jews were still allowed to go. One day he’d told her all about the elephants, how they held flags in their trunks and waved them in time to the band. Then Opa had laughed and whispered, “I hear they’re training the seals to bark ‘Heil Hitler.’ ” He’d put his finger to his lips
in warning. “Walls have ears.”

  Marianne looked at Mrs. Abercrombie Jones, and was sure she wouldn’t make jokes. The lady noticed Marianne staring. Their eyes met. Marianne smoothed her coat over her knees, and pulled up her kneesocks. She had to make a good impression. I’ll be good and polite. It’ll be easy to behave perfectly. My English isn’t good enough to answer back yet. She smiled at Mrs. Abercrombie Jones.

  Mrs. Abercrombie Jones cleared her throat. Marianne looked up apprehensively. Suppose I can’t understand what she says to me?

  “I’m dying for my tea, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Marianne, hoping this was the correct reply.

  “Where did you learn to speak English, Mary Anne?”

  “I learn in school.”

  “In school? Oh yes, of course, school.” She paused, frowning a little. “You will have to go to school, I suppose. Monday, if possible.” She sighed.

  “I like so much go to school,” said Marianne.

  “Good,” said Mrs. Abercrombie Jones. She took a small gold compact out of her handbag, and powdered her nose.

  Marianne could smell her perfume, like lilies of the valley. Mrs. Abercrombie Jones undid the fur collar of her brown coat, and Marianne saw that she wore a strand of pearls and a pale blue cardigan over her cream-colored silk blouse. Her skirt was of brown tweed.

  She’d write Mutti everything, tell her about the smart clothes, and the fine shops, and the statues and parks. But the harder Marianne looked at the passing scene through the taxi window, the more blurred the city appeared. Mutti’s anxious face kept coming between Marianne and the view. Her mother looked the way Marianne remembered her in those last precious few minutes in their apartment in Berlin. Marianne could still hear her voice, “Everything will be different, Marianne – the language, the customs, the food. You’re bound to be homesick at first. You must try to fit in, to adapt. Be grateful, darling. How kind people are to give a home to a child they don’t know. It may take a while for us to get a visa to come to England. Who knows? You might be the one to find someone to sponsor us; you’re certain to meet lots of English people. All we need is an offer of work, and an address. We must have an address you see, darling, to get a permit. Why don’t you try and see what you can do?”

  She’d said it with a little smile, and patted Marianne’s cheek, so that Marianne needn’t take the request too seriously. But Marianne knew she’d been very serious.

  Marianne had said, “Of course I will, Mutti.” Now she repeated the promise silently.

  The taxi stopped. “ ’Ere you are, Ma’am, 12 Circus Road.”

  Marianne was startled; her thoughts had been so far away.

  Mrs. Abercrombie Jones paid the driver, counted her change, and gave him a coin. He touched his cap, smiled at Marianne, and drove off.

  Marianne looked around for signs of animals. It was just a street. Not a circus at all. She couldn’t even see a dog.

  Mrs. Abercrombie Jones pushed open a black wrought-iron gate, and Marianne followed her along a short path of paving stones to the door. There was a neat hedge around the square front garden and two flower beds.

  Marianne had never lived in a house before, except on holiday when she’d stayed with her grandparents in their house. In Berlin, the people she knew lived in apartments.

  It was very cold. A maid in a black dress and white apron and cap answered the door. She said, “Good afternoon, Madam,” and helped the lady off with her coat.

  “This is Mary Anne.” Mrs. Abercrombie Jones pronounced it like two words, the English way. “And this is Gladys. Gladys has been with us since she was fourteen – isn’t that right, Gladys?”

  “Yes, Madam. Welcome,” Gladys said. She had a freckled face and a snub nose. Her smile was real, not just polite.

  “Tea in ten minutes, Gladys. Come along, Mary Anne. I’ll show you to your room and you can wash and unpack before tea.”

  Marianne couldn’t work out if all these words needed a yes or no, please or thank you. So she said nothing at all, and followed Mrs. Abercrombie Jones.

  “This is the drawing room; it looks over the front garden. It gets the sun in summer.” Mrs. Abercrombie Jones spoke loudly to Marianne, as though she were deaf. Marianne understood one or two words, and guessed the rest.

  Mrs. Abercrombie Jones opened the first door in the wood paneled hallway, and Marianne just had time to notice a dark pink couch with matching armchairs, several occasional chairs, and a pink and green rug centered on the polished wood floor.

  “This is the dining room. The kitchen is at the end of the corridor. Tomorrow you will eat your meals there with Gladys.”

  She went up the stairs, her feet silent on the brown wool carpet. Marianne followed. When they reached the landing, Mrs. Abercrombie Jones showed her the bathroom.

  “Do you have running water at home?”

  This seemed a strange question. Marianne thought it was safe to say yes.

  The lady seemed surprised at her response. They passed closed doors. Then more stairs – this time uncarpeted. Marianne’s suitcase felt as heavy as if it were full of bricks. The linoleum squeaked under their feet.

  Mrs. Abercrombie Jones switched on the light. “Gladys sleeps next door. Come down when you’re ready.” She ran her fingertips lightly along the window ledge, checking for dust, and went out.

  Marianne said “sank you” to her retreating back. Mrs. Abercrombie Jones did not reply.

  • 4 •

  “Where this house, please?”

  Everything was green – light green. Marianne felt as if she were underwater. The bed stuck out from a green painted wall. The heavy cotton counterpane was green and white. A wooden chair stood at the bottom of the bed. Marianne put her suitcase on it, carefully, so as not to dirty the towel that hung over the back of the chair.

  Under the window was a small wooden chest of drawers, also painted green, and there was a narrow wardrobe for hanging her clothes. There was no bookshelf, but that was alright. There’d only been room to pack one book – her parents’ early Hanukkah gift to her – and, of course, her precious dictionary.

  There was no bedside table or lamp. A green fringed lamp shade covered the electric lightbulb, which hung from the center of the ceiling. A picture on the wall was of a smiling lady in a white dress, sitting under a tree and reading to a small blonde girl.

  Marianne drew the thin curtains. It was dark outside, but the light from the kitchen window below gave a glimpse of the shadowy garden. She could just make out one small tree, bare of leaves, and a shed. Marianne shivered and drew the curtains again, to hide the night.

  “This is the loneliest place in the world.” Marianne spoke out loud to break the silence. If I run away, who’d come to look for me? Who’d care enough to find me? Marianne breathed deeply, forcing herself to be sensible. Mutti will come soon and get me. I can bear it till then.

  Marianne unpacked quickly. She placed the picture of her parents, which she’d put in her shoulder bag at the last minute, in the center of the chest of drawers.

  It didn’t take long to put her socks, underwear, and sweaters away and hook her dressing gown on the back of the door. She hung her two skirts, two blouses, and best velvet dress in the wardrobe. There was a mirror inside the door. She looked just the same as she had in Berlin. Somehow she’d expected to look more English. Finally, she picked up her worn teddy bear and held him against her cheek for a moment, before stuffing him under the sheets with her pajamas.

  Marianne gave her hair a quick brush, and checked herself again in the mirror. Was it her imagination, or did her face reflect the green of the walls? Marianne closed her bedroom door softly and went to wash her hands and face in the bathroom. Anything to delay the moment of going downstairs.

  Voices came from the dining room. The door was ajar. Am I supposed to knock or just go in? Marianne stood in the doorway and waited to be noticed.

  A dining table and four chairs with carved backs stood in the cente
r of the room. There was also a sideboard, with a radio on one end and a cut-glass decanter and matching tumblers on the other. Two more chairs stood against the wall, which was patterned with wallpaper of green leaves and little bunches of grapes.

  Green must be the family’s favorite color.

  The other wall, the one facing the window, was dominated by a tall cupboard with glass doors. The shelves were full of china. Marianne tried not to think of the mess there’d be if the Gestapo came in the night and smashed it. Her fingertips tingled as she remembered the feel of the sharp edges of broken plates. She heard again her mother’s urgent whisper: “Careful, you’ll hurt yourself.” Deliberately, Marianne willed herself to return to the present.

  I wonder why we don’t have tea at the table. I hope I don’t make crumbs. The fire looks so nice and warm I’d like to curl up in front of it and go to sleep.

  Mrs. Abercrombie Jones looked up and saw her. “Come in and say ‘how do you do,’ Mary Anne.”

  A man dressed in black, with a stiff round white collar, stood by the mantelpiece, his back to the fire. He was talking to another man, who was smaller and thinner, wearing a business suit. They both stopped talking and looked at Marianne.

  Mrs. Abercrombie Jones sat in an upholstered chair in front of a coal fire. Beside her was a tea trolley on which were delicate china teacups, with a rose pattern to match the large teapot. There was a plate of thin bread and butter, and another of finger sandwiches. A dish of raisin scones and a layered jam sponge were arranged on a tiered silver cake stand.

  Nodding towards the small thin man, Mrs. Abercrombie Jones said, “This is my husband, Mr. Abercrombie Jones, and this is Reverend James, who has dropped in for tea especially to meet you, Mary Anne.”

  Marianne curtsied and said, “How do you do.” Just the way she and Vati had rehearsed.

  The man in black said to Marianne in German, “I like to walk in your beautiful country. I love the Black Forest.” And then he turned to Mrs. Abercrombie Jones and said something Marianne didn’t understand.