by Trudi Kanter
While we are in Prague, we are invited every night to a different family member’s home. They push money into Walter’s pockets and take us shopping for new clothes.
“Stay in Prague with us,” Aunt Dinah begs. “We’ll open a business for you, Truderl. We can find you lovely premises.”
“We’ll give you all the money you need to get started,” Uncle Karli says. “Prague could do with a decent milliner!”
I explain that I can’t possibly live in a country that has a frontier with Germany. They don’t understand. They feel as safe as we did before the flood of German Jewish refugees arrived in Vienna. They rented a flat for us, tried to persuade us to stay.
Walter suggested to them that they should send the children to schools in England. I offered to look after them.
“Then, if anything should happen, they’ll be safe,” Walter pleaded. “Between England and Germany is the sea. If Hitler doesn’t invade Czechoslovakia, I’ll bring them back.”
We try to warn them.
The documentation for my business trip to London expires at the end of September; it is now the 24th. We are waiting for Walter’s British visa and are growing anxious. Finally, it arrives, but because people are panicking about a possible German occupation of the Sudetenland, no seats are available on any of the airplanes leaving Prague. It is impossible to go by train, as the route passes through Germany. People are so desperate to leave that they adopt extreme strategies. A distant cousin of mine tells me that she and twenty of her friends have bought an airplane to get them out of Prague. She apologizes that there is no room for us; I don’t tell her that we couldn’t have afforded it anyway.
Walking across Wenzelsplatz, I see an Air France sign. “Let’s try here,” I suggest.
Walter shakes his head. “It’s no use.”
“We have to try! Doing nothing will get us nowhere!”
The young fellow at the desk looks good-natured. I explain the situation and show him my documents.
“You can see, they expire at the end of this month. If I’m caught here, even for a few days, they will be void. You know what that means.”
“I wish I could help, but there are no seats available on any plane, at any time. People are leaving Prague as if fleeing the plague. If the Germans come, I’ll be caught here myself—I have no way out.”
A thought struck me—I don’t know how. It could have come only from God.
“Where is the next plane into Prague coming from?”
“Vienna.”
I am certain that no one will fly into a country that is about to be overrun by Germany. There will have been cancellations. Seats from Vienna should be available.
“Please,” I beg. “Telephone Vienna and try to book two seats from there. I’ll pay for the call.”
Walter picks up my gloves from the floor where I have dropped them and makes me sit down. He holds my hand.
The young man walks into the back office. Through the glass door, I see him pick up the telephone. He shakes his head and seems to be arguing with someone. I clench my fists.
“Calm down, darling,” Walter whispers. My gaze is fixed on the glass door. The young man shrugs, nods, writes something down, seems to be arguing again. He smiles as he replaces the receiver.
He comes out and tells us that he has got us two seats on a plane this evening. I burst into tears.
It is hard for us to say good-bye. Uncles, aunts, nieces and nephews, cousins, grandmother. Seventeen people.
I remember a tiny pink and white gingham dress trimmed with white rickrack.
None of Walter’s family survived Theresienstadt.
3
It is raining. The small airplane sits on the tarmac. In the canteen, people peer at it through the darkness. They drink coffee mixed with brandy. The loudspeaker makes them jump. They are nervous.
We are led out to the airplane. The pilot is separated from the passengers by a curtain. The engine outside my window spits fire into the rain. For a split second it lights up clouds, sheets of rain, a red circle around the propeller. Every one of the thirty uncomfortable seats is occupied. The passengers sit silently with their eyes closed. A young woman clenches her fists. A little girl clings to her father. Where is her mother? Are these people returning home, or are they refugees, forced to leave?
I sit there worrying. Will they let us in? Even with our visas, an English immigration officer has the right to refuse us entry.
We circle over London, a twinkling city.
* * *
Three immigration officers sit at three high desks, like lecterns. Do they sit so high to make us look up, to remind us of church, to make us tell the truth? They have the power to send us back. God is with me. He guides me to the officer on the right. I drop my passport, blush, grope for it on the floor, and hand it to him. He turns the pages, then looks at me. My nails cut into my palms.
“Where is your husband?” His voice is kind. I point at Walter.
“Call him over,” he says. We stand in front of him together. “Why is your passport in the name of Miller?” he asks. I explain.
“You have a visa to enter this country on business. You are permitted to stay for fourteen days.”
He examines Walter’s passport.
“Your husband has a visitor’s permit for three months. I will extend yours for the same amount of time.”
I unclench my fists, straighten my back. The officer looks at me, concerned.
“How long do you wish to remain in England?” he asks.
“Forever,” I reply innocently.
He smiles broadly. “You are only allowed to stay for three months,” the officer says.
“Can’t we apply for a longer stay?”
“Yes, but what will you do if you are refused? You can’t go back to Austria.”
“We’ll have to try to go to America—Australia—South Africa—wherever will have us,” Walter says in his broken English.
The officer stamps our passports with an entry visa for three months. “Good luck,” he says, handing them to us.
We fetch our luggage and go to the arrivals hall, where Stefan, Walter’s cousin, is waiting for us. He is small and slim, wears a navy blue suit. His blue-black hair and slanting eyes lend him a Japanese air.
We stand on English soil. I look at the wide, busy roads, the tall, impressive buildings, the orderly stream of traffic. I thank God.
We take a taxi to the Strand Palace Hotel. Stefan helps Walter with our luggage. He pays for our room for a night.
He says, “Uncle Paul brought me to England, too, and is letting me stay with him until I am settled. I have to do as he says. He wants me to let you know that business is bad, and that he has had heavy losses on the stock exchange. I don’t believe it, but he doesn’t want any further obligations.”
I remember Prague.
* * *
There is a sharp knock at the door. Half-asleep, I sit up. The Gestapo? Walter jumps out of bed, opens the door. Early morning sun sneaks around the corner of a tall building. It is seven o’clock.
“Breakfast, sir.” The waiter rolls in the table trolley, opens it up, pushes it between our beds, straightens the white linen tablecloth. I’m in a modern bedroom. Beige walls, carpets, and curtains. Two small chairs covered in orange tweed. A desk. Writing paper and envelopes. Advertising brochures. On my bedside table is a telephone and a Bible.
Walter is in the bathroom. “Hurry up,” I call. “I’m starving.”
Pretty pink flowers painted on white china. Butter, jam, marmalade, and rolls. Napkins, arranged like cones, stand at attention. There are two large plates covered with huge silver domes. I lift mine.
“Walter, an English breakfast! Bacon, eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms—hurry, it’s getting cold!”
We drink coffee, eat, and talk all at once. I lie back to rest, to digest the huge meal and everything that has happened. Stefan is already waiting for us downstairs. He arranges for most of our luggage to be stored at the hotel until
tomorrow. He is taking us to Kilburn to find us a room. I glance at the folded newspaper on the front desk: PEACE FOR OUR TIME, reads the headline.
4
It seems a long bus ride from the Strand to Kilburn. It is a warm, sunny autumn day. White clouds streak the blue sky. The air is fresher, cleaner than in Vienna. The bus crawls along the crowded Kilburn High Road. Mothers push prams, their small children holding on to them, eating apples. Window-shoppers drift. It is Saturday.
People look neat and clean. They seem to have money to spend. I have heard that two million people in England are unemployed, but maybe not in London?
A man sells flowers from a small cart. “Walter, look! English people queue for flowers!” I say. An old woman in a man’s black felt hat is selling fruit.
The bus stops. Stefan takes us to a shop that sells newspapers, sweets, writing paper and envelopes, some paperback books. We look in the window and read the handwritten cards displayed there. A pram to sell. A boy’s bicycle. Many of the cards read ROOM TO LET. Stefan notes down some addresses. He points out a large store.
“This is Woolworth’s,” he says. “Here you can buy nearly everything you need. They have only two prices: threepence and sixpence.”
We arrive at the first address that Stefan has written down. The house is dilapidated, the windows dirty. I refuse to go inside. We walk to the next one. It looks somber. Stefan bangs the iron door knocker. A fat woman appears. Through the half-open door, I glimpse a dark hall, torn, dirty wallpaper, worn linoleum. She looks us up and down.
“Are you foreigners?” Her double chin quivers.
“Yes,” I say quickly, and smile at her. She slams the door. I won’t show Walter that I’m upset. We walk to Victoria Road, a side street off Kilburn High Road. It seems a friendly street, slightly wider than most, tidier, less noisy. I notice a low-built corner house. On a ground-floor window is a printed card: ROOM TO LET. There is a beautiful lime tree in the garden.
“Let’s look at this one, Walter.” I ring the bell. A withered old man opens the door. His toothless mouth and indrawn lips move up and down. Bright, friendly eyes question us.
“Is it about the room?” he peeps. We nod. “Come in.” He opens the door wide. The walls in the hall are newly papered. There is a mirror. Some prints. A small, brightly colored rug lies on the stained, polished wooden floor. He takes us up to the top floor. I step through the door of a large, bright room. The sun shines through three clean windows. There is a large mahogany table and chairs. A huge cupboard stands against the off-white wall. I know we will be happy here. So does Walter.
“I have to charge fifteen shillings a week,” the little man says. “There is a bathroom on the landing below. I’m afraid you’ll have to pay threepence for each bath. Do you think that is too much?” He looks anxiously from Walter to me and back again.
“No, sir,” Walter says. “We’d like to take it.”
We give the landlord fifteen shillings and get in return two keys for the front door and two for our room.
“I hoped you would take it. I like to have young people in the house. I’m a widower; I live alone.”
Stefan says good-bye; Uncle Paul is expecting him at home.
“Good luck to you both.” He kisses me. “I’m sure you’ll be happy here. Trudi, make him go to bed early. Tomorrow will be a hard day. I’ll be over at eight in the morning. I’ve borrowed a handcart to collect your luggage.”
When he is gone, Walter takes my arm. “Let’s do some shopping—there’s no food in the house.”
* * *
Later on, after dinner, Walter is making coffee.
“Sit down,” I say. “I want to talk to you.”
“What about? Why are you looking so serious?”
“I don’t want you to collect our luggage in a handcart.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want you to do it. There’s no need.”
“How will we get it here otherwise, without it costing a fortune? We’re refugees now. We’ve got no money. No income. I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to it.”
“We have no money, Walter, but we’re not poor.”
“We can’t go to unnecessary expense.” Walter’s getting angry.
“We can charge my letters of credit,” I argue. “Then we’ll have some money, and you won’t have to push a cart.”
“Trudi, we have been through this. The money you have from Vienna is going into a bank account, where it will stay. Even if we have to live on bread and water. When your parents come, we will have to make a decent home for the four of us, and then we’ll need it.”
“I can’t see what difference a few pounds will make.”
“Oh, God, Trudi, a few pounds here, a few pounds there—soon there’ll be nothing left. No. It can’t be done.”
“Look, Walter, I brought ten pounds in cash with me. We can use some of that, surely?”
“No. We need that money for living.”
“It is just too much for you to drag that heavy cart. And it’s degrading.”
“Degrading? What are you talking about? It would be degrading to use your money, to pretend I’m still a gentleman of means. I’ll take any job, do any work, but your money will stay in the bank.”
Next morning, I am woken by the slam of the door to our room. Walter has gone. I rush to the window and look into the street; Walter and Stefan are pushing a cart toward Kilburn High Road.
* * *
“You are expected on Tuesday at seven o’clock for dinner,” Stefan says. It sounds as though Uncle Paul is issuing an order rather than an invitation. He lives in a block of flats in St. John’s Wood.
“Come in, come in,” Stefan says. Uncle Paul is a tall, thin man of about fifty. We shake hands.
“Let me introduce you to Helen,” he says, taking us into the sitting room. His girlfriend is a dumpy, middle-aged English lady. He shows us around the flat, then sits in a deep armchair, his long legs crossed. His dark hair is thick; his nose protrudes. He looks like a Tyrolean peasant. He shows Walter his golf trophies. I find it hard to make conversation with Helen. Stefan offers us sherry. Helen has cooked a simple dinner. Stefan serves the coffee and port.
“That was lovely, Helen, thank you,” I say. She doesn’t reply. I look at the mass-produced furniture, the loose covers, the faded curtains.
“How are you managing financially?” asks Uncle Paul.
“Trudi has some money. She also has her business allowance in letters of credit,” Walter explains. “But there seems to be a hitch. She has to open a bank account before she can cash them, and we have been told that to do that she needs a reference from someone who lives here.”
“That’s correct.” Uncle Paul laughs. “You can’t go round opening bank accounts just like that!”
“Whyever not?”
“They like to know who they are dealing with.”
“Ridiculous. It is we who need to know that. We are giving them our money. As Bernard Shaw said, ‘The banker should provide the reference, since he is the one being trusted.’ How does Trudi know they won’t steal her money?”
“This is England! Such things don’t happen here. However, Trudi”—he includes me in the conversation for the first time—“I have a better idea. Why don’t you give me your money and let me put it into my account? I assure you it will be perfectly safe, and I can draw from it whenever you need money.”
Walter winks at me.
“That is very kind of you, Uncle Paul, but we couldn’t possibly put you to that kind of trouble every time we need money.”
“Uncle, can’t you recommend Trudi to your own bank manager so she can open an account there?” Walter asks.
“Well . . . er . . . yes . . . why not? I daresay that might be arranged.”
“Shall we go in the morning?”
“No, I’m afraid that’s out of the question. I’m busy all week, I’m afraid.” He gazes at the carpet.
We go into the sitting room. Uncle Paul lo
oks annoyed.
“I want to thank you for helping Walter,” I say. “Do you realize that you saved his life? Bless you.” He doesn’t reply.
“Our country is doing a fine job,” he says. “We’re taking in all these penniless people without knowing anything about them or their backgrounds. As if we haven’t enough unemployment! Now there’ll be more mouths to feed. They are not permitted to work, and we taxpayers will have to keep them. They should be grateful to everyone in this country. They should never for a moment forget that they are allowed to be here only by the grace of our king and country. They should behave accordingly. Isn’t that so, Helen?”
“Quite right, darling.” She sounds disgusted. “But they are foreigners. Present company excepted, of course.”
The last bus home is our excuse to leave. The good-byes are cool.
Stefan sees us to the bus stop. “You must forgive them,” he says. “They’re ignorant. They’re not really bad people.” I like Stefan.
I am very upset when we get home. Walter tries to cheer me up.
“Don’t take any notice. Paul’s a has-been who never was. Just because he’s naturalized, he imagines he’s English. Pompous old goat.”
“No one will let us forget that we are foreigners!” I shout. “It’s a dirty word!”
“Look, darling, for anyone coming to England, the first year is bound to be hard.”
“Hard? It’s impossible! Everything is so difficult! I speak English, but I can’t understand even the newspaper headlines. I can’t understand the advertisements on the Underground. The money confuses me. An English shilling is twelve pence, not ten, like in Austria. I can’t do the calculations.”
“You’re taking things too seriously.”
I shake my head. “How was I to know we were overstaying our welcome? And I didn’t know it’s rude to pay a compliment. When I praised Helen’s cooking, she pretended not to hear. English people are so cold!”
“Not cold, darling. Reserved.”
“I nearly cried when I mentioned my parents, and I don’t understand why I should hide the fact that I’m unhappy. It’s absurd!”