The Children's Train: Escape on the Kindertransport

by Jana Zinser

“You took your sister’s place? Yes? You look too old to be on this train,” Gregory said.

  “I’m big for my age,” William said, flippantly.

  Gregory leaned in closer to William. “Remember, you’re still in Germany. I can send you . . .” He snatched off William’s hat, revealing his shaved head. “Ah ha! Back to the concentration camp, you filthy Jew!” Gregory yanked William onto his feet.

  William pulled back, glaring at him. “I won’t go back.”

  “You’re right. You won’t make it past this stop.” Gregory pulled his gun from its holster, held it against William’s head, and pulled him down the aisle. The children watched in fear, motionless in their seats, as Gregory opened the train door and shoved William out.

  Peter searched out the window to see what Gregory would do. It was dark, and the shadowy movement made it hard to see what was happening.

  A gunshot rang out. A body fell with a thud in the dark, and disappeared underneath the train.

  Becca pulled on Peter’s shirt. “Did he kill William?”

  Peter put his finger to his mouth, glaring at her to be quiet, but he knew she wouldn’t listen. She never did.

  “I just want to know,” Becca whispered.

  The door between the cars opened. Becca and Peter looked at each other with wide eyes.

  Gregory strutted in, acting like nothing had happened. He randomly opened suitcases and searched through them. When he found nothing but children’s clothes and toys, he dumped them on the floor of the train.

  Becca dropped her doll, and Peter bent down to pick it up, glancing at the basket under Hans’s seat. The checkered cloth had moved off the baby’s wiggling head, and her eyes opened, but Hans could not see her. The baby’s face scrunched, ready to cry.

  Peter fidgeted nervously, afraid the baby would be found, and Hans would be kicked off the train. He got back up and gave Becca her doll.

  Gregory walked to Hans and Stephen’s seat. He pointed to the edge of the basket under their seat. “What is that?”

  Panicking, Peter pushed the violin off the seat to distract him. It clattered to the floor and slid into the aisle.

  Gregory stopped his advance on the basket baby. He stooped and picked up the violin. “Ah, whose is this?” he asked.

  No one said anything. Becca, clutching her doll, grabbed Peter’s arm. Gregory turned over the cardboard number attached to the violin.

  “I can find out. Number 1—” Gregory said.

  “It’s mine,” Hans said, jumping up.

  Peter froze as he realized Hans would be blamed. Protect me, he prayed to God, as he slowly stood up. “No, he’s mistaken. It’s mine.”

  Becca pulled on Peter’s shirt, trying to get him to sit back down.

  Gregory advanced on Peter until he was right in front of him. Peter closed his eyes for a second, but didn’t move, not from bravery, but out of mind-numbing fear. “What is this? Are you smuggling valuables to England to sell?” Gregory accused.

  Peter shook his head. “No, it’s my violin.”

  Hans sank back down in his seat. He bent down and glanced quickly at the baby and rocked the basket with his foot. The baby fluttered her eyelids and went back to sleep. Hans let out a heavy sigh.

  Gregory threw the violin case at Peter. “Open it. Quickly! Schnell! Schnell!”

  Peter opened the case and showed Gregory the violin. Gregory examined it. “This must be very valuable. You could sell it for a large sum of money in England, couldn’t you?”

  “No. It’s old and very out of tune.”

  “What do you plan to do with it then?” Gregory asked.

  Peter shrugged. “Play it.”

  “Play it? You?” Gregory sneered, cocking his head back. “You are a tiny bit of a boy. You are nothing. This is yours?”

  Peter nodded.

  Gregory shoved the violin at him. “Then play it.”

  “I haven’t played in a long time,” Peter said, thinking it was a trick.

  “I said play it!” Gregory ordered.

  Peter, hesitatingly, tucked the instrument under his chin. He clumsily dropped the bow. It clattered to the floor. He picked it up and took a breath. All eyes were on him. Not a sound was heard in the train car. Marla watched from the front of the car, her brow sweating, her hands shaking.

  Peter moved the bow, and the violin strings howled like a wolf. He looked around. Becca’s face was red, and Peter realized she was holding her breath. He gripped his bow and made it dance slowly on the violin, playing the song that reminded him of Becca. He played “Schmetterling,” a song about a butterfly, but instead of the normal lively flitting of notes, he played it slowly, like a funeral march. Becca released her breath.

  The flawless notes from the tiny minstrel reverberated in the train car. When the swaying music of the distorted children’s song ended, some of the children’s faces were streaked with tears from the memories of the homes they had left, but no sound was heard.

  Gregory looked around, his faced pinched with anger. “It’s out of tune! Better get it fixed! Sit down. You will never be a good musician.”

  Peter carried the violin to his seat. His hands shook. Hans looked at the baby, and her eyes fluttered open.

  Gregory stomped through the car, knocking the remaining suitcases down. He spat on the floor. “Don’t come back to Germany, you godless scum! May England rot with your stench!” He climbed down the train stairs and slammed the door.

  “Go ahead and take the Jews! Let them infect England!” he shouted from outside the train.

  No one moved inside the train. The baby cried as the whistle blew, and the train slowly inched forward.

  William appeared at the door between the cars. He swaggered in, filthy but gloating, with his usual arrogance and spite.

  “William? How did—” Stephen sputtered.

  “You didn’t think the Nazis got rid of me that easily, did you?” William flopped down on the seat. “I dodged the bullet and played dead till the man left. Then I climbed back in through the window of the next car.”

  The children were quiet. The wheels on the train turned, and it slowly crossed the border into Holland. The children on the Kindertransport were finally out of Germany and beyond Hitler’s reach.

  As the train rolled onto Dutch soil, Peter stared out the window and breathed deeply for the first time since he’d boarded the train. The wheels of the train screeched, and the train stopped again on the other side of the Dutch border.

  The Dutch border guard stepped on board. He looked at the frightened faces of the children, then smiled and opened his arms. “The Nazis are gone! Welcome to Holland, my German friends!”

  The smiling children cheered and clapped, the noise deafening in the car’s small space.

  Peter tucked his violin under his chin, rose to his feet, and played “Schmetterling” the way it was meant to be, happy, fluttering, and joyous. When the children heard the change in the tune, they laughed and smiled. Some danced in the aisles. They all joined in loudly singing:

  On a
bright and sunny afternoon

  Out of its dark and lonely cocoon

  Crawled a beautiful schmetterling.

  Flitter-fly, passing by

  Dancing on the air with new wings

  Flying magic everywhere.

  Hovering above my milking pail.

  The swishing of the cow’s tail

  It’s an old German tale

  That the Butterfly is a witch’s scheme

  To try to steal the cow’s cream.

  A plump woman with her hair in a bun, and a friendly teenage girl with braids, brought trays of hot cocoa and cookies on board the train. The woman offered the cookies to Becca, who slowly reached out and tentatively took one.

  “Take two, my little sunshine,” the woman said.

  Becca looked at Peter. “Is she talking to me?”

  Peter nodded. Becca smiled and quickly took two. “Danke.”

  Peter also took two cookies. He and Becca ate them quickly, as if they might magically disappear.

  The border guard checked off the children’s names on his sheets. Hans and Stephen looked out the window, but it was dark.

  A woman in a hood ran onto the train car behind them. She ran down the aisle, looking in each seat. “I’m looking for my sister’s baby, Karla Blinker. Please,” she said, frantically. “Someone, please! She’s got to be here!”

  Hans and Stephen stood up and gestured, pointing to the baby. “Shhh. She’s sleeping,” Stephen said.

  “Ah!” the woman said, relieved to find the baby. She lovingly took the basket with the sleeping child and gently kissed the little girl. At ease, she looked at Hans and Stephen and bowed her head to them. “Thank you. God put this child in the right hands. Your parents are very lucky to have you for sons.”

  Hans pointed to Peter. “He’s the one who knows babies. He’s the one who kept her quiet.”

  The woman smiled at Peter. “May God be with you on your journey. You will save the Jews.” She hurried down the train aisle with the basket in her arms, and disappeared into the night with the baby, who had escaped Hitler through a train window.

  Peter looked at Becca. “I wish everyone would stop saying that.”

  CHAPTER 16

  ARE WE ALLOWED IN?

  (January 1939)

  The Kindertransport started up again and traveled on through Holland. The children laughed and talked. When weariness overtook them, the train grew quiet, and the constant rhythm of the wheels on the track rocked the little ones to sleep at last.

  Stephen and Hans stared out the dark windows. Stephen turned back in his seat to look at William over Peter’s seat.

  “Eva should be here,” Stephen whispered.

  “William doesn’t deserve to take her place,” Hans said.

  Becca shifted in the seat next to him. “I hate William. He’s not a good brother. A good brother helps you out.” She rested her head on Peter’s shoulder. “I love Eva. Peter does, too.”

  The spunky little spitfire didn’t see her brother’s glare, because she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep, knowing that the responsibility to keep her safe was now Peter’s.

  At the Rosenbergs’ tailor shop in Berlin, Eva, dirty and disheveled, slept fitfully on the hard cold floor. When she awoke, her eyes darted around the dark room.

  A rat lurked in the corner, its two calculating eyes staring at Eva, who froze at the sight of it. The filthy vermin scooted out from the corner and moved toward her, its rodent claws scratching. She bit her lip to prevent herself from screaming.

  Suddenly, the back door crashed in, smashing the rat. Eva jumped back. Startled, Helga sat up as two men barged in.

  Bert jumped up and faced them: Simon and Burl, two local young men the family knew. “What do you boys want?”

  “Where’s William?” Simon was a rough-looking young man, spitting with anger.

  “He’s not here,” Bert answered.

  “He’s on a train to England!” Helga said, haughtily. “Long gone.”

  “I doubt that,” Burl huffed. “Search this place.”

  Simon searched the shop as Burl, a chubby young man with an unusually large head, kept a gun trained on the Rosenbergs. Slowly, Eva crept behind Bert, holding his waist, as she dared to peek around him to stare at the intimidating intruders.

  Simon came back and shook his head. “He’s not here.”

  Burl put down his gun.

  “What’s he done?” Bert’s voice sounded exhausted.

  “He stole food and blamed it on Vincent Vogner,” Burl said.

  Helga shook her head vigorously. “No, that can’t be true. William would never do that.”

  “The Nazis killed Herr Vogner and let William out of Sothausen because he promised to emigrate,” Simon said. “He told them he had the needed documents and that he’d be gone in a week.”

  Eva gripped her father’s arm tightly. Bert buried his face in his hands as the men stomped out.

  Peter looked out the window of the train, as Becca slept, resting on his shoulder. The Holland air smelled different, cleaner somehow, and he filled his lungs.

  William stretched his feet onto the train seat beside him, pushing a little boy against the window.

  The train passed Rotterdam and pulled into a dimly lit station at Hook Van Holland on the English Channel, directly across from Harwich, a small English fishing town.

  The children, carrying their belongings, streamed out of the train as a bone-chilling dampness greeted them. Peter’s breath blew smoky in the chill. He wondered if Jewish people were allowed to play music in Holland.

  Marla escorted the sleepy children into a building at the Harbor House. Hans, Peter, Stephen, and Becca shuffled into line with the rest of the disheveled, hungry children. Becca and Peter stopped at the door, reluctant to enter.

  Marla motioned them in. “What’s the matter?”

  “Are we allowed in?” Peter asked, quietly, as if someone might overhear his impertinent question.

  “Yes, of course. This is all for you,” Marla said.

  Becca smiled up at Peter. “They knew we were coming, and it’s still open.”

  “Then we better go in while we can,” Peter said.

  Inside the Harbor House, a table was laid with hard-boiled eggs, sandwiches, and milk. Becca slipped a couple of eggs into her coat pockets. Around them, the children laughed, ate, and ran around, acting like youngsters again.

  Peter nudged Becca next to him. “We’re one boat ride away from England and our new English family.”

  In Bert’s tailor shop, the morning light streamed in through the windows, waking Eva before the others. She sat up and looked around at the destruction. The door the men had kicked in was propped back up against the doorway. Reams of colorful cloth and spools of thread were tossed about, and the sewing machines were bashed in. It was such a contrast from the neat shop her father had run for over twenty years. He had sewn clothes for many of the most powerful leaders of Germany. Now, he was secretly sleepi
ng among the ruins of his profession.

  A man’s face suddenly appeared in the window, staring at Eva. She recognized him; she’d seen him around the neighborhood many times since the Nazis had come to power. His name was Grundy. He was a young Nazi officer with a misshapen face, and an apparent need to make up for his lack of attractiveness by proving himself a loyal tormentor.

  Eva reached over and grabbed Bert’s arm. As Grundy kicked the broken door aside and stormed in, Bert jumped to his feet.

  “You are trespassing!” Grundy shouted.

  “It is my shop,” Bert answered, motioning to all his equipment and materials. “I am Bert Rosenberg, the tailor.”

  “You used to be the tailor, but not anymore. Get up! You are all under arrest! Your son William used this shop to run a document forging business.”

  Bert helped Helga up. He looked at Eva, his eyes filled with sadness and regret. “I’m sorry, Eva. That seat on the train was rightfully yours.”

  “No talking! Get out!” Grundy shouted.

  As Grundy marched them out the door, Eva looked back. She saw her Kindertransport suitcase, the last bit of comfort she owned, propped against a broken sewing machine, the teddy bear’s leg still hanging out.

  At Harbor House, the adults began calling the children into a line as a ferryboat steamed slowly into the port. Peter carried his violin and pushed Becca toward the group. She dragged her feet as she pulled one more hard-boiled egg from her pocket, peeled it, and stuffed half of it in her mouth.

  “Hurry up, Becca.”

  “Do you think Charlie’s mad that he’s not on holiday anymore?” Becca asked, as bits of egg popped out of her mouth.

  “No, at least he’s home,” Peter said. “You and I will live with strangers who don’t even speak our language.”

  “But we know English,” Becca said happily through a mouthful of egg. “And we’ll be together.”