by Mona Golabek
“You first.”
Lisa chattered about the hostel and the Howard Hotel, but the more she went on, the more she realized she was looking at a changed Aaron. Where was his devilish swagger? He seemed so remote. She waited until he finished his drink, then she stood up, grabbing his hand. “Come on! Let’s go for a walk. I see too much of this hotel already.”
They walked slowly through the narrow cobblestone streets near Covent Garden, then meandered west up the wider avenues heading for Hyde Park. The streets were dark and deserted except for the occasional giggling couple, hurrying back to their homes or to barracks after a late-night rendezvous.
The gates to Hyde Park, where Lisa and Aaron had walked so often before, were locked. The antiaircraft guns stood as silent sentries behind the iron fence. They could make out the red glow of lit cigarettes near the huge guns, then staring closer, saw gunnery sergeants peering through binoculars into the clear, starry sky.
“Tell me about it, Aaron, what is it like?” Lisa asked gently, putting her arm on his shoulder.
In a monotone, he spoke about his regiment and his training. He had joined a parachute company in the 1st
Airborne Division and had trained in a secret location. When he described the sensations of jumping out of a plane, he became briefly animated, like the Aaron she remembered. Then he fell silent again, just walking slowly, as though he had no destination.
Lisa took his hand but didn’t feel any warmth from it; his coldness frightened her. The closer she clung to him, the more distanced she felt.
She wondered many things that she was afraid to ask. Were all soldiers like this? Was this what war did? Did it ruin everything? Where was the charming suitor who had whistled the Grieg in her ear? Where was the hurt but gentle boy who had watched his father walk out of the house, never to return.
“What was it like when you landed someplace?” she asked.
“You don’t want to know,” he answered, lighting two cigarettes and giving her one.
“Were you scared?”
“Of course, what do you think?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking. I want you to talk to me,” she begged.
Aaron stayed stubbornly silent, and finally, Lisa stopped asking questions. After a while, he stopped abruptly, cocking his head toward the sky.
“What is it?” Lisa asked, alarmed.
“Shh,” he answered, standing perfectly still. Suddenly, before she could hear the sound that Aaron heard, the night was broken with the wail of air-raid sirens.
“It’s a V-2, hurry!” He took her hand and they ran together toward the underground station at Marble Arch. A wave of people rushed frantically from their blacked-out apartments and onto the sidewalks, carrying books, blankets, and hastily grabbed snacks. Aaron and Lisa ran after them, joining the hurried stream of Londoners running down the stairs into the safety of the tubes.
Down and down they went; Lisa stopped counting how many flights, grateful to be so deeply hidden from the approach of the German buzz bombs. When they arrived at the lowest floor, the cold tiled platforms were already covered by rows of sleeping bodies; these were the early birds, who had taken to spending every night in the tubes, not waiting for the sirens.
People were everywhere—on the escalators, on the stairs, draped over benches and chairs. The more organized families had brought cots and blankets; the others lay huddled next to strangers for warmth. Lisa’s mouth dropped at the sight of all the people; she had heard about these places, but had never been caught out at night in an air raid before.
With sleepy eyes, the tightly packed masses readjusted themselves to make room for the latecomers. Aaron found a wall to lean against, and the family next to them moved over a few inches with a nod of respect to his uniform. He took off his jacket and spread it underneath Lisa to shield her from the cold.
They were too far underground to hear the whine of the bombers, but every few minutes the ceiling gave off a layer of dirt and dust, shaken loose by the explosions topside.
Aaron leaned his head against the dirty, cement wall and stared at the sooty Londoners around him. “People are a sorry lot, aren’t they? We’re nothing but canon fodder,” his voice drifted off again into silence.
Lisa leaned her head on his shoulder and stared at the sleeping children next to them. An angelic two-year-old slept next to her leg, and as he tossed and turned, he yanked his blanket off, exposing his little pink legs. She pulled it back over him and realized as she did that tears were streaming from her eyes. She closed them and buried her face deeply into Aaron’s shoulder.
The all clear siren sounded several hours later and they dusted themselves off, making their way toward Willesden Lane. Overcome with exhaustion, Aaron and Lisa stood silently for a long moment in front of the hostel, watching the first light of dawn glowing in the eastern sky.
When they kissed good-bye, Lisa held him tightly, transported for a moment to the feelings she had the night when he first kissed her outside Mrs. Canfield’s house. The tighter she clung, the more she felt confused. Were these feelings merely the ghosts of her feelings from the past, or did she truly still care for him?
When she finally let go, Aaron smiled mysteriously and picked up his satchel.
“I’ll write you when I arrive,” he said, and walked slowly down the road.
She watched until he turned the corner and was sure she heard him whistling the first few bars of the Grieg.
“Lisa! Thank God!” Gina shouted when she saw Lisa tiptoe into the bedroom a few minutes later. “We were worried sick! Where were you?”
“I was caught in an air raid,” Lisa answered, in no mood to share confidences. “I had to spend the night in the underground.”
“We were really worried, they said a rocket fell near the hotel.”
Lisa said nothing as she put on her warm flannel nightgown and climbed into bed.
“Can I tell you something?” Gina asked, her voice filled with excitement.
Lisa waited silently, still lost in her upsetting thoughts. “Gunter and I are engaged, look!” Gina exclaimed, holding out her left hand. There was a simple gold ring on her finger. “This is just temporary,” she said, “until he can afford the real one. He promised someday he’ll buy me a diamond. You have to promise you’ll play at our wedding! Promise?”
“Of course,” Lisa answered smiling, disguising her sadness.
“Oh, thank you, thank you! I can’t begin to tell you how excited I am,” Gina went on, detailing the plans from beginning to end.
Lisa listened but her mind kept wandering to Aaron, trying to picture the images of happier times. Maybe when the war is over, he will change back into the Aaron I love, she told herself.
The next day, she felt grateful to escape her dark thoughts and return to her work entertaining the cheerful, raucous soldiers at the Howard Hotel.
23
BY 1944, the war was finally going their way. The Allies were heading for Rome and Russia had liberated Odessa. London was now crawling with soldiers—more than ever before—they were on the streets, in the theaters, and packed in, standing room only, at the Howard Hotel. Lisa reveled in the attention of the soldiers—the feeling that the war’s tide was turning in their favor buoyed their spirits and led to an increase in mash notes and free drinks sent her way.
Tonight, Lisa was wearing a long gray dress with a deep V and a triple strand of fake pearls that looked almost like the real thing. She was looking her sophisticated best and decided to use the opportunity of such a large crowd to try out the Rachmaninoff prelude she had just learned in preparation for her year-end recital.
The mysterious aura of the Rachmaninoff matched the mood of expectation. Leaves had been canceled abruptly; most of the soldiers knew they would be back on ships and planes the next day. The hush in the lounge was deeper than usual; there were none of the customary interruptions by the more inebriated soldiers at the bar. When Lisa played the powerful ending, several soldiers gath
ered around the piano to watch the bravura of her flying octaves.
After the applause, three soldiers approached, led by a lieutenant, carrying a carnation. He stepped forward and said:
“Mademoiselle! There is a gentleman who wants to meet you.” The soldier had such a strong French accent and such charming determination that Lisa didn’t feel the least bit like saying no. Besides, it was time for her break.
She followed them back to a table, where a tall man, with compelling dark brown eyes and a wonderfully direct expression stood up immediately. He held out his hand and she took it, assuming he wanted to shake, but he raised it to his lips gracefully and kissed it instead.
“C’était magnifique! Que vous êtes magnifique!”
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak French,” Lisa said. Seeing his puzzled look, she tried to mime the words and threw her hands in the air in a playful shrug of defeat.
“Rachmaninoff!” he said, cupping both hands over his heart.
“Ah, so you know!” She beamed at him.
Then it was his turn to throw his hands in the air. “You don’t speak any English?” Lisa asked.
“His English is terrible,” said his friend, speaking for him. “But he’s really a smart fellow, underneath.”
“Czy ty mowiszi?”
“He’s asking if you speak Polish. He’s from Lomja, but he’s in the Resistance, fighting for the Free French. He’s our captain.”
“No Polish,” Lisa said, laughing.
“Voulez-vous du Cointreau?” he asked, offering a small glass filled with the golden liqueur.
She shook her head. “No, thank you.”
The captain then said something in a deep voice to his lieutenant, who turned to Lisa and translated.
“He says to tell you that you are the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.”
Lisa had heard this quite a bit at the Howard Hotel from soldiers who had been away from their girlfriends too long, never letting it go to her head. But this time, intrigued by the aura of strength about the French captain, she found herself believing it, just a little.
Suddenly she became aware of the time. Realizing she’d been chatting for half an hour—twice her standard break—she excused herself, thanked them for their compliments, and went back to the piano, where she gave in to the audience’s irrepressible desire to hear “Peg o’ My Heart” yet another agonizing time.
When it came near to the eleven o’clock closing—the time most soldiers had to get back to barracks—she looked up and saw, through the thinning crowd, that the Resistance soldier was still there. He was now sitting alone at the table, with his eyes trained firmly on Lisa. When she finished the last chord, he made his way through the jumble of men and women to the piano.
“Beau-ti-ful,” he said, once again putting his hands over his heart.
His friend came through the crowd right behind him, tapping his watch. The captain pulled out his calling card and handed it to Lisa, looking in her eyes and saying a few words in French.
The lieutenant translated: “He says you must promise to invite him if ever you give a concert. He says, no matter where he is, he will come.”
The next night, there was an unusual emptiness at the Howard Hotel. Lisa played a few songs for the bartender and the waitresses and the ten or so soldiers who milled about with pints of lager. The manager soon told her to take the night off.
On her way back home, she looked up at the sky and saw wave after wave of transport planes flying overhead. The Allied invasion of Europe had begun.
Lisa had been working toward the final, end-of-term recital that students gave in late June to the faculty and students of the Royal Academy of Music.
She arrived at her lesson with Mrs. Floyd and played through the pieces in a run-through for the upcoming event. Mrs. Floyd clapped appreciatively at the end, and Lisa took out her pencil and prepared to mark the music as usual with the new round of critiques. To her surprise, the teacher asked her to put her pencil away.
“Lisa, I don’t have any notes today. It is time to trust yourself; you are ready to soar!”
After so many lessons where she had heard her playing dissected and analyzed, this was wonderful news. Lisa would go to this recital and finally play “what was in her heart.”
“One more thing,” Mrs. Floyd said with a twinkle in her eye.
Lisa waited.
“It’s time to think about your debut.”
Lisa was so stunned, she said nothing.
“Usually, a student’s family helps toward the expenses of a debut, but because of your circumstances, the faculty has recommended that the academy help in the arrangements.”
Lisa remained speechless.
“That is, if you would like a debut,” Mrs. Floyd said, teasing.
Lisa leapt from her seat, crying, “Of course I would!” and wrapped her arms around her instructor in an exuberant, spontaneous hug. “I don’t know how to thank you,” Lisa said, genuinely honored.
“Oh, and one more thing. For the location of your debut . . . we are thinking of Wigmore Hall.”
Wigmore Hall! It was incredible. The moment she had dreamed about all her life was finally within her grasp.
24
THE JUNE recital had gone off without a hitch and Lisa settled into a summer and fall of choosing and preparing new repertoire for her debut. The Howard Hotel remained a popular night spot and now Gunter took to joining Gina for a weekly Friday-night visit.
As winter came, the battles in Europe raged even more intensely and it was decided to wait a season to rent Wig-more Hall for the debut. Rationing was severe and people’s minds were on war, not music. January saw the Allies battling through a frozen Europe, taking back city after city from the Third Reich. Russia marched through Poland— first Warsaw, then Lodz—and the United States and Great Britain obliterated Dresden in a firestorm.
When she heard there was a battle raging for Vienna, Lisa went to the synagogue and said a special prayer. Would it be a firestorm too? Would her city disappear as Dresden had?
Through the avalanche of news, the children of Willesden Lane waited. Waited for letters, waited for word. Straining for news from the deportation camps, where they knew their parents were waiting—to be liberated.
Lisa tried mightily to center herself in the music and her practice, and Mrs. Floyd helped her perfect the repertoire for her debut. Her favorite new piece was the Polonaise in A-flat Major of Chopin—the Heroic—whose triumphal notes seemed a fitting tribute to what surely would be a great Allied victory. Even Lisa, who was always afraid to get her hopes up, allowed herself to believe the day was near.
“That’s right, Lisa, keep it building, just like that. . . .” said Mrs. Floyd.
Lisa played the melody and accompanied it with the images in her mind. She vividly imagined the impending day of the reunion with her family. She played the chords with a boundless joy that summed up all her prayers and visions of that day. She saw her mother’s smiling face and outstretched arms, her father’s embrace, their weary faces smiling, their troubles lifted. She pounded the piano in joy, imagining Rosie’s and Sonia’s shouts of delight the day the three sisters would be united.
In the middle of a thunderous passage, the door to the studio flew open and two excited girls poked in their heads.
“Hurry up! Haven’t you heard?”
Lisa lifted her hands from the keys, and when the ringing of the polonaise died away, they could hear the faraway bells—the pealing of the clock tower, of Big Ben! Then the sounds gathered momentum—and were joined by the bells of the churches all throughout London.
Lisa ran to the window; traffic had slowed to a crawl and people were running and shouting and jumping in the air. Union Jacks sprouted from every window, and horns were honking wildly.
Lisa had never seen Mrs. Floyd move so fast, but there she was, leading a group of excited students lickety-split down the spiral staircase and into the streets, where they joined the growing crowd. T
hey boarded a packed trolley for Buckingham Palace, which wove through a sea of revelers wearing paper hats and waving noisemakers. When the trolley could no longer move, they got out and were pushed the remaining blocks to the Mall, where Churchill himself was addressing the throng.
Lisa was awestruck. She had heard his broadcasts, seen him on the newsreels and in the newspapers—but here he was in person, the man whose words had given strength to everyone during the dark years. Here was the obstinate, beloved prime minister, waving to the assembled masses, homburg in hand.
“God bless you all. This is your victory!” he roared into the microphone.
The crowd roared back. “No! It is yours!”
“There we stood alone, did anyone want to give in?” the prime minister thundered, his words echoing across the vast expanse.
“No!” The crowd shouted again.
“Were we downhearted?”
“No!”
“In all our long history we have never seen a greater day than this,” he said, waving his famous hat.
Then when it seemed the crowd could not get any more excited, the king and queen and the princesses appeared on the balcony, waving and saluting as the crowds cheered, and the bells redoubled their ringing.
Lisa looked at the upturned faces surrounding her and was overtaken by a profound feeling of gratitude for Britain and its people. They had endured so much and with such good spirit. She was proud to be one of them. She, too, had endured.
When the speeches were over, people began to sing and dance as bands were hastily assembled on street corners and bonfires lit. Total strangers embraced one another as they jammed overflowing pubs. For the first time since the blackout had begun five years before, the streetlights flickered to life and giant searchlights crisscrossed the sky.
The war in Europe was over! Hitler was dead! The Allies had taken Berlin! The horror was over—at least for the millions and millions of British who had fought so proudly and suffered so much.
Staring at the unmitigated joy on people’s faces, Lisa was suddenly overcome with a shiver of isolation and sadness. When would the war be over for her? Or for her friends at the hostel?