The Children's Train: Escape on the Kindertransport

by Jana Zinser

  The ringing of the phone in the Rosenbergs’ house woke Eva. The telephone was seldom used. When it rang, it usually meant important news. Her father answered it in the living room, and she could hear the fear in his voice.

  “Yes, are you sure? Yes, we will. Thank you, Jacob,” Bert said. “You are a good friend.”

  Eva sat up in bed as she heard her father’s footsteps hurry up the stairs, shuffling in his slippers. Bert burst into her room. “Eva! Eva, you must do as I say, right now. Put on your shoes and grab your coat. We must go to the root cellar. Now.”

  Eva jumped out of bed. “The root cellar? Now?”

  “Now! No questions!” Bert said, sternly.

  Eva heard the firmness in her father’s usually gentle voice and understood it was a time to obey. She put on her shoes, although it took her longer than usual because her hands shook. She grabbed her coat, and then searched frantically under her bed and in her closet. “I can’t find Snowflake, Papa.”

  Bert patted his daughter’s shoulder. “She’ll be fine. No time to look now.”

  “If they find her, they’ll—”

  “Come now, Eva,” Bert’s voice shook. “We must be quick.”

  Eva and her parents ran across their backyard and pulled open the heavy door to the cellar. They climbed carefully down into the cold, damp root cellar, feeling for each step with their feet before moving down into the darkness.

  “What’s the reason for this nonsense in the middle of the night?” Helga hissed.

  “Jacob called. They’re hunting Jews tonight,” Bert said, as the cellar door slammed shut.

  Even with the door shut, they could still hear the Nazis kicking in the Rosenbergs’ front door and storming into the house, breaking furniture, smashing dishes, and ransacking the family’s valuables.

  Under the ground in the dark cellar, Eva trembled, sweating despite the cold, damp cellar air. She heard the horrifying screeching of her cat Snowflake, somewhere inside her invaded home, and then a gunshot.

  “Not Snowflake! No! No! Papa! No!” she whispered.

  Bert put his arms around his little girl. “Shhh. Not now. At least we are safe.”

  Then there was only silence, and that was even worse. Eva dissolved into quiet sobs of grief for the loss of her snowy white cat.

  Helga looked at Bert over Eva’s head. “Tonight, the line was crossed,” she whispered. “There is no going back to our old life.”

  A few blocks away, Jacob, Nora, and Stephen Levy ran across dark backyards, to the small house of their friends Klaus and Clara. Klaus, an elderly man still in his nightclothes with a huge sweater wrapped hastily around him, hurried them inside. “Dr. Levy, please come in,” Klaus said, as if ushering him in for a drink.

  Klaus led the Levys down the hall and directly to the attic stairs. Clara shuffled behind them in her nightgown and rose-colored chenille robe, carrying a plate piled with roast beef sandwiches and a bottle of cold milk. She huffed as she hurried, her body nearly as wide as the narrow attic stairs.

  Mattresses and blankets were piled on the floor of the dusty attic, with only two small windows, one on each side. Stephen flopped down on one of the mattresses, and a cloud of dust billowed up. He coughed.

  Jacob grabbed Klaus’s shoulder and shook his hand. “We are very grateful to you and Clara.”

  “You’re a great doctor. You’ve saved our lives many times,” Klaus said. “We’re not all Nazis.”

  Clara put her arm around Nora. “I’m sorry it’s not more comfortable, dear.”

  Nora hugged Clara. “It’s beautiful, Clara, really perfect. Thank you.”

  Stephen picked up a sandwich from the plate and took a bite. “I hope this doesn’t last long.”

  Miles away, at the border between Germany and Holland, William Rosenberg presented his forged papers to the bulky, intimidating German border guard. The guard looked at the papers, and back at William. “Where are you going tonight? It is late.”

  “To visit my uncle in Amsterdam. He’s sick.”

  The guard studied William’s papers again. “Ah, I see.” He looked up at William.

  William gave the Hitler salute. “Heil Hitler!”

  The guard returned the salute. “Heil Hitler!” He paused, glancing at William from the side, and nodded. “You may pass.”

  William held his breath and continued purposefully to the gate, as it slowly rose.

  The guard yelled a few Yiddish words he had memorized, meaning, “Look out, duck your head!”

  William reflexively ducked his head and spun around. A moment later, he realized what giving away that he knew Yiddish would mean to the guards. His heart sank.

  The guard pointed his gun at William’s head and raised his bushy eyebrows. “Looks like you picked the wrong night to be a Jew.”

  As Berlin’s brutal night faded away, Frank Soleman walked home, past the smoldering synagogue. He stopped and stared at the broken windows and doors of the demolished butcher shop. There was a light on in the Weinbergs’ apartment. Frank’s eyes became vacant as he shuffled on to his apartment building a few blocks away.

  He trudged up the stairs to his apartment, his heavy steps reverberating in the quiet after the storm. He opened the door and entered. Bruno slept by the window, unaware that his favorite butcher shop had been destroyed. A big bone lay next to him—a bone Peter had given him, Frank thought.

  Frank leaned down and petted the big German Shepherd. Bruno looked up with his big, sleepy, adoring eyes. Frank opened the front door and snapped his fingers, motioning for Bruno to go out like they did every day when they went for a walk.

  Dawn was breaking and a small sliver of light peeked over the city’s horizon. Bruno yawned and lumbered out the door, obeying his master despite the cold, smoky air. Frank suddenly shut the door behind his loyal dog, as he remained inside.

  As he let go of the doorknob that didn’t quite latch, Frank saw dried blood smeared on his hands. He went to the sink, turned on the water, and scrubbed his hands, watching the red blood swirl in the white porcelain sink and disappear down the drain.

  When he stood up, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He bent toward the mirror, staring blankly at his reflection. He took his uniform hat off and ran his hand over his mostly bald head. He put the hat back on and adjusted his uniform collar. He sat down on the worn couch, where he had spent many nights reading his paper and waiting for his loin roast to cook.

  He stared straight ahead for a long moment. Then he removed his official police-issued pistol from its stiff leather holster.

  Frank took a deep jagged breath, raised the gun to his head, and pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER 9

  BRUNO THE DOG

  (November 1938)

  As Peter watched from his bedroom window and saw the destruction of his neighborhood, he understood Goebbels’s radio threat had successfully been carried out. Peter knew there was more than glass broken that night. The massive attack on Jews had changed everything. But despite the devastation and mayhem, the morning still came. He thought of the song he liked to play: “You Are Not Alone.” He sang the words to himself in a hushed v
oice, remembering the way his mother used to sing it.

  The night is dark until the sunrise.

  Your heart is lonely until I answer your cries.

  Your path is steep and filled with stone,

  But I will walk beside you,

  You are not alone.

  He wished his father were there. He would have known what to do, but he had been snatched away by the Nazis. The rest of his family was left to clean up the wreckage of their lives.

  Peter carefully wrapped his ball and jacks, his yo-yo, and his father’s sharpest butcher shop meat cleaver in a cloth and put them in a dented tin box. He closed the bent lid and buried it under the shop’s back steps, like a ceremonial funeral for his old life.

  He returned to the front of the shop, where Sylvia was cleaning up the vandalism. Becca sat on the bottom step of the stairs, playing with her doll. Suitcases and bundles rested next to her, surrounding a sleeping Baby Lilly to keep her out of the wreckage.

  “They did this to all of us, didn’t they?” Peter said to his mother.

  Sylvia nodded sadly.

  Becca picked up her doll and held it close to her worried face. “Gina, I told you to be quiet in the wardrobe. You must not say a word,” she whispered to her doll, “or they will take away your sweet Papa.”

  Peter grabbed the other broom and began helping his mother. “I don’t understand why we’re cleaning it up,” he said. “It’s their mess now.”

  “Hitler demands it,” Sylvia said. “Anyway, your father always kept a tidy shop.”

  From around the corner, Bruno appeared, wagging his bushy tail. The tan-and-black dog ambled over to Peter. “Bruno?” he asked. “Look, Mutti, it’s Bruno!”

  Sylvia sighed. “Hurry up and take him back to Herr Frank’s apartment. But don’t go in. It’s too dangerous, and we’ve got to finish up,” she said. “Herr Frank has changed. He is no longer our friend.”

  “Herr Frank is a Nazi,” Becca said, her eyes wide. “He took Papa.”

  “It’s not Bruno’s fault,” Peter said. He slapped his hip. “Come on, boy. Let’s get you home.”

  Bruno trotted beside Peter as they walked the short way to Herr Frank’s apartment. It was a trip Peter had taken many times to deliver meat packages, but this time he had to dodge the destruction of the Nazis Storm Troopers, the SA paramilitary forces—policemen who stood by and watched and sometimes participated—and other vandals.

  Peter hesitated outside the apartment building. “Go on, Bruno. You’re home.” Bruno wouldn’t budge. He pushed his nose into Peter’s leg, and Peter sighed. “Okay, okay, I’ll walk you up.”

  Bruno followed Peter up the stairs to Herr Frank’s apartment. They stopped outside the door, which was open. Peter looked at Bruno. “You weren’t lost, were you? You came to get me.”

  Bruno nudged Peter through the apartment door. Peter stepped around the corner to see what was wrong. “Herr Frank?” Peter called, his voice shaking. He was in direct defiance of his mother and terrified of his friend turned Nazi. His foot slipped. Peter stared, his gray eyes filled with fear and confusion. Herr Frank was splayed out on the floor.

  Bruno growled and backed away. It took Peter a second to comprehend the disturbing scene. He had slipped on the slimy remains of blood, flesh, and brains on the floor. When he finally realized that he was seeing Herr Frank’s exploded head, he turned and vomited. Bruno barked.

  Peter looked around in a panic. “Come on, Bruno, you can’t stay here.”

  Bruno barked again. Peter grabbed Bruno’s collar and pulled him out the door. He didn’t stop running until he reached the butcher shop.

  “Mutti!” he cried as soon as he spotted his mother.

  Sylvia stopped sweeping when she saw the horrified look on Peter’s pale face. She put the broom down and straightened up. “What is it? Peter, what happened? Why is Bruno still with you? I told you to take him back to Herr Frank’s apartment.”

  Breathing heavily, Peter spit as he talked. “Herr Frank is dead,” he whispered. “I think he killed himself.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Peter nodded. “His fingers were still wrapped around the gun, but his head was gone.”

  Sylvia hugged Peter, clutching him to her as if the tighter she held him, the more it would protect him. “I told you not to go in. I told you it was too dangerous.”

  “I’m sorry.” Peter couldn’t believe that Herr Frank had arrested his father, or taken his life and left Bruno alone. He had seemed like such a good man. “I couldn’t leave Bruno there with him, the way he was, you know. There’s no one left to take care of him.”

  “Peter, I’m so sorry, but we can’t take care of Bruno. We need to go. This is all too much.” Sylvia looked up at the building that had been her home, her livelihood, and sighed. “We have to move on. I don’t know just where yet.”

  Sylvia picked up the suitcase and rested Baby Lilly on her hip. She, Becca, and Peter walked down the street of their neighborhood. Peter carried his violin and a suitcase. Becca held her doll and a small bundle tied with a rope.

  “What’s Bruno doing here?” Becca asked.

  Peter looked at his mother.

  “Herr Frank is dead, Becca,” Sylvia explained.

  “I’m glad he’s dead. He used to be nice, and then he wasn’t. He took Papa away.”

  “It’s hard to judge a person trapped in fear and desperation,” Sylvia said.

  They walked slowly, maneuvering around broken glass. Peter looked at Bruno. “You can’t go with us.” He turned away, following his mother. Bruno trotted after him. He had nowhere to go either.

  “Where are we going?” Becca asked her mother.

  “Away from here,” Sylvia said, as she stared vacantly into the distance. “Somewhere.”

  After a sleepless night in Klaus and Clara’s attic, Stephen Levy and his parents were walking back to check on their house. Stephen spotted familiar people walking up the street ahead of them: a woman and some children. One carried a violin case.

  He tapped his mother’s arm. “Mutti, there’s Peter and Becca.”

  “Henry’s not with them,” Jacob noticed.

  Nora looked at Jacob, and he nodded. Nora called out, “Sylvia!”

  Sylvia spun around at the sound of her name. Nora held out her arms, and Sylvia stumbled into her embrace.

  “They took him, Nora,” Sylvia said.

  “They took Henry?” Nora asked.

  Sylvia nodded, as tears rolled down her face.

  “Do you need a place to stay?” Nora asked.

  Sylvia nodded again. “They’ve taken everything.”

  “You’re welcome to stay with us, if we still have a house,” Jacob said.

  “Thank you, yes,” Sylvia said. “Yes, I would be so grateful. With Henry gone, and the children—” Her voice trembled with emotion.

  “It’s okay,” Nora said, taking Baby Lilly from Sylvia’s arms.

  Jacob put his hands on Peter’s shoulder, noticing the big dog following him. “You know we can’t take care of a d
og.”

  “I know, but he’s got nobody but me.” Peter looked up at Jacob. “You wouldn’t leave one of your patients if he needed you, would you, Dr. Levy? Even if he wasn’t Jewish?”

  Jacob clicked his teeth. “Quite right. Bring the dog. He can stay in the back room.”

  Peter smiled and patted Bruno. Then he ran to catch up to Stephen, with Bruno right on his heels.

  At a café in London, Sebastian and Marla sipped their tea and ate biscuits.

  “Are you sure this is something you want to do?” Sebastian asked. “It’s a huge job and it could be dangerous.”

  “We’ve got to get the Jewish children out of Germany.”

  He nodded. “They’re getting the Quakers and the Christian and Jewish leaders to work together, which is really quite remarkable. We’ll guarantee to pay for each child’s care and education through private funds.”

  “I hope it’s soon. The children need to get out, and so do I.”

  After the “Night of Broken Glass,” all Jewish children in Germany were expelled from the schools. Peter’s school had been a foreshadowing of the nightmare to come. Nothing of normal life was left.

  In Berlin, Stephen and Peter knocked on the front door of the Vogners’ house. Hans opened the door.

  “Have you heard anything about your father?” Stephen asked.

  Hans shook his head. “No.”

  “My mother says you can come live with us, if you want,” Stephen said, nodding at Peter. “Peter and his mother and sisters are already with us.”

  They sat on the front porch steps.

  “Someone cut off our electricity, but Mutti wants to stay, so my father can find us when he comes back,” Hans said.