‘Don’t be silly,’ Frederika laughed. ‘Of course I won’t be going back. Anyway I have a plan, I shall wear my hat with a veil and no one will notice – just as long as you don’t go saying anything and drawing it to their attention. Promise me?’
‘I promise.’
Without further protest I stuck my arm into the sleeve of yet another cardigan.
I thought Frederika looked lovely even if she was ill. She was wearing a green dress which made her brown eyes look more like shiny chestnuts against her fair (but blotchy) skin. Her rich dark red hair gleamed in the sunlight; and she had a little green pillbox hat perched at an angle on her head. Frederika took a deep breath and looked at herself in the cabin mirror one last time. Then she nodded at me and lowered the veil to hide most of her face. I thought this made her look beautiful and mysterious. Then with a small smile she stretched out her hand towards me and together we walked towards the cabin door.
We joined the other passengers on deck as the ship sailed slowly up a wide river with ancient, rundown warehouses bordering the banks on either side.
‘This is the River Thames,’ Frederika told me, ‘the most important river in England.’
It certainly looked very important. I had never seen so many boats going up and down one stretch of water before. Long thin barges, carrying steel and coal, chugged past in either direction. There were even police boats going up and down very fast, making the waves roll towards the shore tossing smaller boats up and down.
The people on the other boats waved as they passed and we waved back. The sun was already hot and my layers of clothes felt unbearable. I gradually peeled off the cardigans and left them in a pile at my feet. Frederika said nothing; she seemed entranced by the scene before her; the faraway look in her eye had returned. I wondered what she was thinking.
As I followed Frederika’s gaze, I saw straight ahead in the distance a huge bridge. As we sailed closer I noticed that there was a tall house at each end. The bridge seemed quite low. Our ship would only just pass beneath it, I thought. As we got nearer I realised, with horror, that what I’d thought was the bridge was not the bridge at all. Far below it, just above the water, was a second bridge. There was absolutely no way a tall ship like ours would fit underneath – and we were heading straight towards it. The ship wasn’t slowing down. I began to panic. I imagined the houses at each end with their pointy spires and pretty windows tumbling into the water and the beautiful bridge destroyed.
I squeezed my eyes in fright and held my breath.
But there was no crash, no screams from passengers on board and when, after a few moments, I opened my eyes, I saw – to my amazement – that the lower level of the bridge had parted. The two halves were slowly rising and, like two giant arms, they waved to us.
Welcome to London!
The ship passed through. All noise on deck had stopped and everyone turned to watch the giant arms, having waved us through, slowly lower themselves. Then our chatter and laughter erupted, far louder than before. No one could believe such an astonishing bridge.
‘Tower Bridge,’ breathed Frederika quietly. ‘Renata, that was Tower Bridge.’
Just beyond Tower Bridge our boat slowed down, churning up the brown waters of the Thames before coming to a standstill alongside a dock. Thick ropes were thrown and caught as the sailors jumped into action. They fastened the ropes to the enormous bollards that stood in a straight row along the harbour wall.
When they were ready the sailors helped us and our luggage down the gangways and into small boats that took it in turns to take groups of us further up the river.
‘Why are we going on little boats?’ I asked Frederika who was trying to keep the veil from blowing about in the breeze.
‘That’s why,’ said Frederika and she pointed to a low bridge that barely seemed to skim the water’s surface ahead of us.
Further up the river I spied a magical fairy castle with golden towers and spires glowing in the sunshine. It was covered in windows and a huge clock stood tall over everything; its face watching over London.
‘The Palace of Westminster. That is where the government of Great Britain meets and works and makes all the laws for the land,’ said Frederika.
I was in awe – this is where the government met?
‘So where does the King live?’ I asked.
‘He lives in Buckingham Palace. I expect your father will show you it before you leave London,’ Frederika replied.
‘Oh, but I thought the King must live there,’ I said, pointing to the Houses of Parliament. ‘He could lie in bed and look at the clock out of his window. I think it’s far too grand for the government.’
I could now clearly see the faces of the people standing and waving from the dock. They were happy faces, pleased to see us, and everyone was eager for us to come ashore. They were so different from the pale, tight, sad faces I had left behind. As the other children on the boat pushed and jostled to get closer to the side to wave to the crowds, an almighty cheer rose into the air, upwards and upwards, until it surrounded us. I felt then that we couldn’t have had a better welcome anywhere in the world. But all the while I was scanning the people in front of me for the one that I was sure I would recognise. When I saw no familiar face, panic set in. I grabbed Frederika’s arm.
‘Renata, that’s about the fourth time you have nearly wrenched my arm off. What is it this time?’ Frederika sounded cross as she tried to steady herself.
‘How will Tatuś be able to recognise us? Suppose he takes somebody else home instead? What will we do? We can’t possibly find him in this crowd.’
‘You are a terrible worrier,’ Frederika said, shaking herself free. ‘Of course he will recognise us. Don’t forget he knew me long before the war. I haven’t changed that much.’
She was adjusting her hat as she spoke and then drew out a small powder compact from her bag and carefully powdered her nose and cheeks trying yet again to mask the blotchiness of her face.
With a loud clanking the gangplanks were moved into position and the ropes tied. At the end of each gangplank there were men in uniform who looked at all our papers to check if we were allowed to get off the boat. When they said you could go, you had to make your way over to another group of officials who had registers, and were waiting to lead the children to the next stage of their journey, either to a place where they would be met by someone, or a meeting place for groups travelling on to another town or country.
I thought of Tomasz. I hadn’t seen him on board and I knew that I wouldn’t see him again. I hoped he was going to be safe and looked after and happy in his new life. I hoped I was going to be too.
Frederika and I stood in silence watching the file of children and few remaining adults slowly make their way ashore. She wasn’t in a hurry and I couldn’t think of anything to say. Frederika said nothing either but stood quietly at my side. Watching. Waiting.
When at last it was our turn to make our way down the gangplank I found I was clutching my documents so tightly that they were becoming damp and creased in my hands. My heart was in my mouth as I tried to flatten the crumpled papers. Frederika checked the veil covering her flushed face one last time and led the way off the boat.
At the end of the gangplank we were met by a tall man in a military uniform talking to one of the passengers. As we approached, Frederika uttered a little cry and her grip lightened on my shoulders. The man looked swiftly up back and then down again before his head snapped up for a second time. He ignored the boy he had been talking to and held out his arms towards us. I recognised him immediately from the photograph he had sent. My father with his broad shoulders and dark hair that had gone grey around his ears. I could remember those dark eyes and lovely smile. But best of all he recognised me. Dazed, I saw him take a few paces towards us, then felt his hands around my waist and he was lifting me high into the air. Just as he had done so many years ago back home in our apartment in Przemyśl. Up into the sunlight, into the deep blue sky. Up and up, t
owards the clouds – and heaven.
Then he was hugging me with a love that I knew had kept him looking for me all these years. I could feel his deep intakes of breath and the clenching in his jaw, the slight roughness of his face and the wetness on his cheeks. After a while he put me down and turned to Frederika, who had been standing quietly watching us. Still she didn’t say a word and my father embraced her politely. Then suddenly he hugged us both, again and again, with tears streaming down his cheeks that he made no effort to brush away. We laughed and cried, all three of us together, as the people behind us on the gangplank and the officials on the dock watched and smiled.
‘Hello, Tatuś,’ I said. ‘Here we are at last. This is Frederika. I think you know her. She is very nice and I think that if you are planning to marry again you ought to marry her.’
Frederika gasped and looked horrified.
‘Renata, how could you?’ she said, looking at me angrily from under her veil. I immediately regretted my words and felt very embarrassed.
My father said nothing but looked at Frederika for a long time. Then he turned to me and said very gravely, ‘Thank you for your advice, young lady. We will have to talk about it later on because now I am going to have to send you both in a taxi to the hotel where I have booked rooms for us all.’
‘Why do we have to go alone? Aren’t you coming with us?’ I asked in a small voice, worried that I had upset him already and desperately not wanting to be separated from him again now that we had found each other at last.
‘Don’t look so worried,’ my father replied, stroking my hair and caressing my cheek with his thumb. ‘I have to check that all the children on these boats are healthy. But I shan’t be too long, I promise.’
We drove away with our luggage piled high in the back of a big black London taxi. I had never been in a car before and as I climbed inside I thought back to what the fiacre driver had told me. This car had leather seats, it was black and rather dusty, not polished and shiny. There was no hood but a solid roof. The driver didn’t wear a long coat with long gloves and goggles but ordinary clothes with a flat cap and a stub of a cigarette hung off his bottom lip.
I relaxed into the deep seats as the car drew away from the quay. Frederika sat beside me, still rather quiet, and I thought she must be feeling ill. I looked at the scenes racing past the window outside. It was Sunday. We drove past enormous white houses with gleaming windows and the remains of black railings. We sped past parks and open spaces. Men and women were walking along the pavements, holding hands with small children or pushing babies in prams.
Then all of a sudden the taxi driver stopped. He opened his door and got out. We watched as he made his way across the road to a flower stall full of golden daffodils. They were arranged in buckets on a cart and were bright and cheerful. They looked the way I felt. The taxi driver spoke briefly with the flower seller and fumbled in his pocket before returning to the taxi. He opened the door nearest to Frederika and held out his bouquet to her.
‘Beautiful flowers for a beautiful lady,’ he said.
Frederika was completely taken by surprise. I saw her jaw drop and a flush start at her neck and rise slowly up towards her hair.
‘Thank you,’ was all she could manage in English.
‘What did he say, Frederika?’ I asked.
‘Oh nothing, darling,’ she replied, obviously embarrassed.
‘Tell me! Tell me!’
Frederika looked at me and laughed and then she repeated what the man had said.
‘How nice,’ I smiled, ‘and completely true of course.’
As Frederika laid her bouquet on her lap so that she could wipe some smut from her eye (or so she said), the taxi driver started up the engine again and began whistling, which he continued to do all the way to the hotel.
My father had reserved two rooms at a Park Lane hotel. The taxi driver helped us upstairs with our bags and Frederika gave him one of her wonderful smiles and said, ‘Thank you,’ again in her broken English. He went away whistling. I walked across the thick carpet to the bedroom window and stared out.
‘Frederika, come and have a look,’ I called out. ‘There is a man down there who has hung up all of his paintings on the railings. Isn’t it strange? What will he do if it rains?’
‘What, on a day like this?’ Frederika laughed, removing her pillbox hat and laying it on the bed.
She was right, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky and it was hard to imagine on this balmy sunny day that it ever rained in England.
‘In London it is the custom for artists to hang paintings on rails. They are for sale.’
I was impressed. My cousin knew a lot about this new country. I turned to ask how she knew about these things when something caught my eye and made me stop. When I turned back to face Frederika I noticed one single bed and … a cot. A baby’s cot with wooden sides that could be lowered and raised; surely it wasn’t for me. My eight-and-a-half-year-old pride was mortally wounded. I could not believe my eyes – not only was the cot far too small for me, but the insult was unbearable. Did my father imagine I was still a baby?
‘Look at that cot!’ I cried.
Frederika looked up and for a moment said nothing. Then seeing how upset I was said, ‘Don’t worry about it, darling.’
She could not have said a worse thing. Was she expecting me to sleep in a cot too? Who did she think I was?
‘How dare he!’ I screamed. ‘I am not a baby. I want to go back to Poland. I want my Aunt Zuzia. I am not staying here. Take me back, please take me back.’ I stamped my foot and all the love I had felt for this new country, the waving bridge, the whistling taxi driver, the smiling people all disappeared and I wanted to be back in the comfort and security of people who knew me.
Frederika sat on the bed and said nothing. She allowed me to shout and cry until I was exhausted, then quietly she took me by the hand and gently drew me down on the bed beside her.
‘Listen to me, Renata,’ she said quietly, ‘your father has not seen you for more than six years. In all that time he has thought about you all day and every day. He has held a picture in his mind of the baby he had to leave behind. This picture has helped him to survive the loneliness and unhappiness of all those years, not knowing what had happened to you, your mother, your grandmother, everyone. He simply forgot that you would have grown bigger. He prepared the cot for the daughter he remembered.’
‘But –’
‘But,’ Frederika interrupted, ‘the years have passed and now you are a big girl and, as soon as he gets here, he will realise for himself the mistake he has made. Don’t make it hard for him. He did it out of love for you.’
And suddenly I was no longer cross. All the frustration and anger I had been feeling towards my father just disappeared and was replaced by another feeling, just as strong and just as intense: that of pure love. We had found each other at last and my future with darling Tatuś lay stretched out before me in this wonderful land where I knew we would live happily ever after.
Author’s Note
This book is an account of my early years spent in Poland under the occupation, first of Nazi Germany and then of the Soviet Union. This photograph of my mother, who died together with my grandmother in Auschwitz, was the spur that prompted me to write this memoir when I unexpectedly came upon it some years ago.
Those years were terrible for millions of ordinary people, many of whom, such as my mother and grandmother, did not survive. But I did survive. My love of stories, both those that were told to me, and later those I read for myself, afforded me a place where I could retreat from the horrors of everyday life, where I could retain a perspective on what was happening, and from where I nurtured my unshakeable belief in the happy-ever-after.
For many years following my ordeal I took comfort from the people who loved and cared for me, in a happy, safe family environment both in Poland and later in Britain. This helped to heal the painful wounds and enabled me to enjoy the ordinary, normal things other girls of my
age were doing. I went to school and became totally British. I fell in love with my new country where policemen were unarmed and friendly, and one could stand on a soap box in the middle of London and shout criticisms of the government without fear of retribution.
With the passing of the years I thought less and less about my horrific childhood experience until finally I believed it was past history and forgotten. After all it had left no mark on my attitude, my reactions or indeed my relationships with family and friends. That was until the day when I heard an interview on the radio with a Holocaust survivor who had been deeply affected by her experiences and how, in turn, these experiences had affected her family. I commented to my two daughters how strange it was that I had suffered no such after-effects. They laughed and showed me that I had indeed been affected by my experiences, but they loved me just as I was.
Many friends with whom I have shared my story over the years have encouraged me to write it down. I tried, but the first publisher told me that it wasn’t violent enough. A second publisher asked why had I written it as fiction and not as a memoir. I couldn’t at that time write it as a memoir and my story was locked away in a drawer for many years.
Two years ago I was reunited with my goddaughter, Imogen van Bergen, and we decided to revisit the manuscript together. Using the editorial comments of my good friend, Graham Mays, we began again. This last year Imogen and I have worked tirelessly, rewriting the manuscript as seen through the eyes of a child. Then, through a series of coincidences that included a lunch, a sale of a house and a chain of friends including Dinah Reynolds and Rebecca Carter, this memoir reached the desk of Jemima Hunt (of The Writer’s Practice), who, acting as my agent, suggested further improvements (duly taken on board), and finally brought it to the attention of Alexandra Pringle of Bloomsbury Publishing. The rest is history.
I would like to express my sincere thanks to Imogen to whom I owe a huge debt. I am very grateful for her determination, support, enthusiasm, commitment and encouragement. We have worked so well together. I thank Graham Mays for his hours of work organising an earlier draft of my manuscript. Thanks too to Alexandra Pringle, Gillian Stern, Alexa von Hirschberg, Tess Viljoen, Mary Tomlinson, Laura Brooke and all the members of the Bloomsbury team who guided me through the marketing and production processes with patience and enthusiasm. And finally to my friends, too many to mention by name, who have all listened to my story, and urged me over the years to put pen to paper.
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