The Children's Train: Escape on the Kindertransport

by Jana Zinser

  Sebastian stepped up beside her. “Marla’s right. Everyone pull out every favor you can.”

  “Do whatever it takes. Beg, cajole, threaten if you have to,” Marla said, “but we must help find these children places in the countryside. We’ve done no good if the German bombs get them now.”

  Later that night, Peter, covered with dust from the explosion and with nothing but his violin, and the picture of his family in his pocket, sat in the hall of Bloomsbury House. Children shouted and milled about. The phones rang, and general chaos ruled.

  Marla walked into the hall with a file. “Peter? Peter, where are you?” she called out.

  Peter stood up, chalky debris dust still falling from his clothes. Marla walked over to him. “Peter, I’m sorry about Emil and Maude. That must have been horrible.” Marla patted Peter’s arm. “Don’t fret, I will find another family who will take you.”

  Peter held out his calloused, blistered, and bleeding hands. “No, what I need may require more than that,” he said.

  A small girl with a bandage on her head tottered down the hall. “Miss Marla! I need you,” she cried. Marla stopped to tend to her.

  Peter hurried down the hall, but he turned off when he came to the reception desk. There was so much confusion that no one noticed him when he opened the file cabinets and searched quickly through the files. He found his sister’s file and memorized her London address: 16 Poppleton Circle. He stuffed the file back in the drawer and closed it. Then he picked up his violin, his only remaining possession, and hurried out the door.

  Peter was no longer willing to wait for answers. He was going to find them himself. Despite the risks, he decided he preferred the London streets to the daily rigors and humiliation of English farm life. He was going to find Becca and extract her from the clutches of the English.

  The next morning, Peter, in the same ragged, filthy clothes, woke up on the sidewalk outside the gate of the beautiful Cohen house at 16 Poppleton Circle. The house was intact and unharmed. He stood up.

  Under the light of morning, he could see full well the beauty of the prestigious home. His idea of rescuing Becca and their living together on the streets of London, happily begging for their food each day, and exploring the city’s music halls, washed away with the waterfall fountain in the middle of the circular drive.

  The door to the house opened, and a girl pushed another girl in a wheelchair out the door. Peter gasped. It was nine-year-old Becca. She had grown. It shocked him to see her looking so much like a proper, wealthy English girl.

  Peter hesitated, then backed up and hid in the bushes by the street. Maybe it was not the time to rescue Becca. Maybe Becca was best off where she was.

  Peter took out his violin. He hadn’t played it much since the Dovercourt dining room serenade. Hidden from view behind the bushes on the street, he played “God Save the King” memorized from the sheet music his mother had sent him, its lilting notes floating on the morning air.

  “Listen, everyone. Someone’s serenading us!” Priscilla yelled.

  Doris, Mrs. Daniels, and Harry hurried outside to listen to the great violinist weave his notes into a musical tapestry. When the beautiful tribute to England ended, another song began. Peter’s distinctive violin style played “Schmetterling.”

  Becca jumped up and down. She ran across the front lawn, turning excitedly every which way. “It’s Peter! That’s my brother!” she shouted. “Peter!”

  “That can’t be your brother, dear,” Doris said. “Miss Marla said he’s at a farm in Coventry. That’s over sixty-four kilometers from here.”

  “No! No! He’s here. I know that’s Peter!” Becca said. She grabbed Mrs. Daniels’s hand. “That’s him, Mrs. Daniels. I know that’s him. I just do.”

  Mrs. Daniels looked at Becca, as she ran across the lawn, searching for Peter. “Blimey, I hope you’re right, lass,” Mrs. Daniels said to herself. “I certainly do.”

  “Peter! Oh, Peter, where are you?” Becca called. A butterfly flitted around her head. She cried out, “It is Peter! It is!”

  Doris turned to Mrs. Daniels. “That can’t be her brother playing. Poor dear’s been under a lot of stress.”

  “I don’t know, ma’am. She seems very sure,” Mrs. Daniels said.

  Peter watched through the thick trees and bushes. Becca smiled, clapped, and danced as she ran toward the music.

  The song ended, and Peter ducked out of sight, smiling. Becca was happy, and she was safer with them than with him. He would never ruin that. Now he was free to become a rebel.

  Marla was at Bloomsbury House, sorting files and cleaning up. In the background, the radio played “I’ll Be Waiting for You.”

  I’ll be waiting for you, no matter how long it takes.

  I’ll be waiting for you, no matter what the stakes.

  I’ll be waiting across the sea,

  Just come home to me.

  Just come home to me.

  Marla heard footsteps and looked up. Peter stood in front of her. She smiled. “Peter? What are you doing here?”

  “This time I came to apologize to you.”

  “For what?”

  “For not appreciating what you did for us. Now I understand that escaping is necessary. We were the lucky ones and we got out, but I was raised to have faith in my people’s destiny, and I’ve been thinking that maybe God is testing me. Maybe I should help myself, you know, not just stand by and accept everything. I think it’s time to fight back.”

  “Oh, my God, you’re so young,” Marla said.

  “I’m much older in German years,” Peter said with a smile.

  Marla hugged him. “Yes, you are, Peter. But there’s a war. It’s not safe.”

  “Neither was the farm in Coventry. I have no country, no home, no family.”

  “What about Becca?” Marla asked.

  “She has another family now. A little girl soon forgets.”

  Marla sighed, her shoulders slumping with the weight of Peter’s determination.

  “What do you need me to do, Peter?”

  “I need you to help me.”

  “If I can, I will, Peter. I owe you that. It’s just that I thought I had saved you.”

  “You did, you did. Now, it’s my turn to save others, and maybe also save a bit of myself along the way.”

  At the Bockenburg Camp, Eva and her father pulled themselves out of the gravel pit and walked toward the barracks, along with the other prisoners. Their day of breaking rocks had ended.

  “It’s been so long since I’ve heard music. Remember how good Peter was at playing the violin?” Eva said.

  “Yes, he was born with music in his soul, like you.” Bert smiled.

  “Sometimes, I sing in my head to keep my mind off the rocks.”

  Bert nodded. “Music is one thing they can’t take away from us. Don’t ever forget the songs.”

  In a dimly lit London pub, the Blue Ox Tavern, Marla talked in a hushed voice to Sloan, a handsome, dark bear of a man, and Mica, a wiry man with long hair. Both were Jewish
men from Germany.

  “Say that again,” Sloan said to Marla.

  “The Kindertransport is shut down, so I need you to help me smuggle Jewish children out of Germany and Poland,” Marla repeated.

  Sloan took a deep gulp of his ale and shook his head. “No can do, lady.”

  “Why not?” Marla said. “You’re a leader of—”

  “I’ve seen a hundred like you. You’re hollow, soft, a cream puff. The Resistance needs real commitment,” Sloan said. “You do more harm than good.”

  “I’ve already got some money lined up.” Marla smiled coyly.

  Mica nodded eagerly at Sloan, who drank his ale and slammed the empty mug on the table. His big shoulders shrugged, and he slowly, reluctantly nodded.

  “Good enough for me,” Mica said. He reached across the table and shook Marla’s hand. “Don’t mind him. He doesn’t like anybody.”

  Sloan leaned in close to Marla. “Don’t get in our way, Blue Eyes. I don’t like distractions, even pretty ones.”

  Marla stared the man down. He smiled, but he was the first one to turn away. “And one more thing,” she added. “I need you to train a boy named Peter.”

  “Train him for what?”

  “To join the Resistance,” Marla said, as if it was an ordinary thing to ask.

  “We don’t have time or resources to train anyone,” Sloan said. “Who is this boy?”

  She motioned. Peter, who was waiting in the shadows, carrying his violin, walked over. He stood up as tall as he could to look older. He tried to look serious and dangerous by squinting his eyes and furrowing his eyebrows, but inside he was reciting the cuts of meat: lamb chops, rump roast, sirloin, shank.

  Mica and Sloan looked him over. “He’s just a lad,” Mica said.

  “He’s already escaped Hitler in Germany and survived the bombing of his farmhouse in Coventry,” Marla said.

  Sloan glared at Peter, challenging him. “Why do you want to join us?”

  “Because I’m tired of waiting for somebody to do something,” Peter said earnestly. “Hiding in the English countryside will not save anyone but the cows, and even they want out.”

  Sloan smiled at Peter. He looked directly into Peter’s gray eyes, searching for the weakness that surely lived inside one so young.

  “Let me ask you, young, fiery lad, are you ready to suffer and give your life for the Resistance?” he asked. “Rebels die young, you know.”

  “What else is there to live for?” Peter said.

  “Then, welcome to the Resistance,” Sloan said. He reached out to shake Peter’s hand, but Peter was holding his violin. “What’s that?”

  “The only thing I value.”

  “A violin? Better leave it here for safekeeping.”

  “Leave it here?”

  “A pub owner is the one person worth trusting,” Sloan said. “A violin will do you no good where we’re going. If you’re coming with us, the only thing you can value is the rebellion.” He turned to Marla. “And one more thing, Blue Eyes, we’ll need money to buy a truck.” He smiled.

  Peter could see that Sloan was a shrewd man. Sloan conceded to the pretty woman, but he would demand something for having the young boy forced on him. The burden of Peter was valued equally with a truck. Peter already liked the surly, but practical, bear of a man.

  The next day, Marla helped the children, clutching their bags, climb onto double-decker buses outside the London school. “Everyone on board. The countryside awaits,” she called.

  Stephen looked at Hans. “Does this remind you of anything?”

  “Dovercourt,” they said together, nodding.

  “London is the bombing target now. You will be safer in the countryside,” Marla said.

  “Tell that to Peter,” Stephen said.

  That night, as the sun set golden on the horizon of the English countryside, the buses pulled up at a huge estate called Pellbrooke. It was a beautiful old stone mansion resting on a hill that sloped gently to a manicured lawn, perfect for a spirited game of football.

  The children streamed out of the double-decker London buses, again chased from their homes by Hitler. They were getting good at moving.

  CHAPTER 32

  THE WEIGHT OF THE NAZIS

  (May 1941)

  The Blitz lasted until May 1941, but no one in the Dinsdorf Jewish Residential District knew that. Anna, Jacob, and Nora were so removed from what was going on in the rest of the world that they believed Hans and Stephen were safe from the destructive hands of Adolf Hitler. It was the one bright spot they loved to dwell on, often playing the game, “What are the boys doing now?”

  Eddie had just turned ten, but he really hadn’t grown any. In some ways, he seemed smaller, as if he were turning inward, crumpling under the weight of the Nazis. With the lack of food, the intense but tedious work of loading bricks, and the constant stress, Eddie’s growth was stunted.

  Eva was fourteen, and despite the filth and hard work of the Bockenburg Camp, she was growing into a young woman and a pretty one. Late one night, she walked back to her unit from the gravel pit, having been required to stay longer than the others because Grundy had accused her of breaking her rocks too slowly.

  Suddenly, he appeared as she rounded the bend. He grabbed her and pulled her to him with a hard jerk. His fingers dug into her arm, as he pressed his lips against hers. His breath smelled foul, and his forceful kiss was painful. Tired from twelve hours of hammering rocks, Eva struggled to pull away, but he was stronger and unrelenting.

  His filthy hand clamped over her mouth as she let out a muffled cry. From behind, she heard footsteps.

  “There you are, Eva,” a voice said loudly. “The matron is looking for you. She needs to finish her count. You better hurry, or she will come looking for you.” It was her father. His voice was calm, but she could recognize anger in his eyes.

  Eva pulled away, and Grundy released her as he glared at her father. She ran for the women’s barracks.

  Bert did not see Grundy raising the butt of the gun behind him, because he was too intent on watching Eva get safely back. When she disappeared inside, Grundy smashed the hard end of the gun into the back of Bert’s head, and stomped off.

  Bert lay on the hard cold ground all night.

  Hans and Stephen washed dishes in the back kitchen at Percy’s Tavern restaurant, one of many establishments owned by Marla’s father.

  “I hate our lives,” Hans said, as the cook brought him a huge pan with burned-on sauce.

  “Yes,” Stephen agreed.

  On a dark road in a Dutch forest, Sloan and Mica hid guns under the belly of a truck. The vehicle had been purchased with Marla’s money, taken in exchange for Peter.

  “Marla wanted us to use him,” Mica said.

  “He’s just a kid,” Sloan said. “He’s had no training.”

  “Neither did we.”

  “He’s a farmhand. He should be in England milking cows or something,” Sloan said.

  “He’s smart and willing,” Mica said. “The rest will come.”

>   “If he stays alive long enough.”

  “Wait, you like him. That’s it, isn’t it? What happened to ‘there’s no room for emotion in a rebellion’?” Mica asked. “Listen Sloan, I like him, too, but Isha is planning the train depot bombing. There aren’t many of us. We need more people. They don’t know his face, and he might just surprise you.”

  “Not yet. He can be our runner, but here in England. Give him time to season,” Sloan said.

  “You like him too much, Sloan. It’s affecting your judgment,” Mica said, but he smiled. “Me, too.”

  In the morning, on her way to the Bockenburg Camp rock quarry, Eva saw her father sprawled on the ground with a lump on the back of his head.

  “Papa, what are you doing here?”

  “I must have stumbled,” he said, letting her help him up. He looked into her beautiful young face full of worry and love, and the pain in his head seemed a small matter.

  CHAPTER 33

  JUST LIKE RABBIT HUNTING

  (December 1941)

  More than a year had passed since Peter’s escape from Coventry. At the beginning of December 1941, after several weeks of traveling, he arrived in Soblin, Poland. He was fourteen.

  He’d spent the previous year in England running errands and delivering messages, transporting supplies and food, and keeping tabs on Becca. He had gotten used to the sounds of bombs and the destruction of homes and businesses. It had become a way of life. The bombing had stopped in May, but he had continued to live in the underground train station and scrounge for food. He was often seen outside the London concert hall, listening to the concerts as the sounds seeped out the windows, and playing along on his imaginary violin. He had become good at surviving.