Kindertransport (3 page)
Authors: Olga Levy Drucker
In January 1939, a man started coming to the house to teach me English. His name was Mr. Cooperson. Mr. Cooperson was bony and had greasy hair. I hated him. But I learned to say “The dog is under the table” in English. I didn't learn much else, and I certainly did not want to go to England. Why couldn't I stay in Stuttgart with Mama and Papa? I remembered summer camp. I had fallen sick there, but I had come home. This would not be the same at all. What if I never came back from England?
At school we learned about Purim, the next Jewish holiday to come up. Teacher told us about the wicked Haman. Haman, prime minister of Persia thousands of years ago, had planned to kill all the Jews in his country. But Queen Esther heard about it and told her husband, King Ahasuerus, and Haman was hanged.
That evening, when Mama kissed me good night, I said: “I think the wicked Haman was just like the wicked Hitler.” Mama turned pale and told me not to say such things. “The walls have ears,” she said. I imagined little ears all over the blue walls of my room and giggled. Still, I thought, I'd better not say such things anymore. I knew what she meant. You never knew
who
might be listening!
who
might be listening!
Soon after Purim, a letter came from the Refugee Committee, saying that I was to leave on March 3. That was a month away. A week later, I got sick. My head hurt. I threw up my breakfast. Mama took my temperature and said I had a fever. She called Dr. Oppenheimer. He came over, walked into my room, took one look at me and said: “Measles.” I secretly hoped this would postpone my departure.
Even while I was ill, our seamstress came to the house to sew new clothes for me. I liked the school uniforms she was making for me. Mrs. Liebman, the lady the committee said I was to stay with, had sent us a drawing of one. All the school girls in England wore them, she wrote. I thought I looked quite good in mine, except that my legs were too skinny.
Mama was busy packing all my stuff in crates and suitcases. An S.A. man in brown Nazi uniform came and stood around, watching her. I didn't know why he was there, because all he did was get in Mama's way. When it came to my cello, he asked if this was something valuable. Mama knew I would not be allowed to take anything of value along. So she laughed and said: “This old thing?” Luckily, he didn't know that, sometimes, the older a musical instrument is, the more valuable it becomes. The cello came with me, but, as it turned out, I didn't see it again for a long time. Mama even packed Peter, my favorite doll, although I told her I didn't think I would have much use for him in England. Did she want everybody to think I was a baby? She packed the doll anyway.
Another letter came from the Liebmans in England. There was a color-tinted photograph in it of the family. Their daughter seemed to be about my age. The pastel colors made them look funny, and their lips were too red. I asked Mama, what if they don't like me? “Of course they will like you,” she said.
Even if they do, I thought, I won't like them.
March 3, 1939. Before I knew it, the fateful day arrived. There was no stopping it. I still had a few spots from the measles, but the doctor said I was no longer contagious. This was the day I was to go to England! I was excited and fearful all at the same time. Here I was,
eleven years old, and leaving home all by myself. It was hard to separate the two emotions. One minute I wanted to laugh, the next to cry. To overcome my confusion, I talked. Nonstop.
eleven years old, and leaving home all by myself. It was hard to separate the two emotions. One minute I wanted to laugh, the next to cry. To overcome my confusion, I talked. Nonstop.
Mama got permission to go with me on the train as far as Wiesbaden, where her mother, my Oma, lived. I had said good-bye yesterday to Herr and Frau Gumpel. They said they wished they could come too. But the train was only for children. I hoped that they would be able to leave Germany soon, too. They looked so sad.
Mama said that she and Papa thought they would get to England in about six weeks, “God willing.” The way she said it, I was not sure whether I believed her. A thought kept coming into my head: What if we never see each other again? I tried not to think about this.
Before we left for the station, I walked from room to room, starting upstairs and all the way into the cellar where the wine was kept, and where the laundry was done. I wanted to remember every corner forever. Piepsi, the canary, was perched in his cage under the rubber tree, which by now had reached to the ceiling. The little bird cocked his yellow head and looked at me with his bright, shiny eyes, but he didn't sing. I was sure he knew I was leaving.
Herr Kopfer, our neighbor the magician, drove Mama, Papa, and me to the station. We thought we were early, but when we got there, some children were already on the train. I kissed and hugged Papa hard. He tried to
smile, but something funny was happening to his mouth. I hugged him again, so he wouldn't see my scrunched up face. He and the other fathers did not have permission from the Nazis to come into the train. We all tried so hard to be brave.
smile, but something funny was happening to his mouth. I hugged him again, so he wouldn't see my scrunched up face. He and the other fathers did not have permission from the Nazis to come into the train. We all tried so hard to be brave.
Mama and I climbed aboard. I waved to Papa until he was only a tiny speck in the distance. The train turned a curve, and he was gone.
An hour or so later we pulled into Wiesbaden. I pressed my face against the window to look for Oma. I had been here many times before. But today I could not get off the train. Instead, Oma came to the train to say good-bye to me. I saw her round, sweet face, anxiously peering into each car before we had even come to a full stop. Mama stood up suddenly, gave me another kiss and said: “Remember to be a good girl.” Then she quickly jumped off the train. The platform teemed with people of all ages. Many wore Nazi uniforms. The train filled up with more children. Their parents stood under the train windows, looking forlorn. Some were crying. The children were excited. Some cried too, others were silent, with their lips pressed together. The hands of the big station clock under the steamed-up glass dome moved on relentlessly. The station master shouted: “
Alles einsteigen!
” “All aboard!” and slowly we started to move again. I leaned out as far as I could. Other children behind me pushed and shoved to get a last glimpse as well. While we were still moving slowly, Oma reached up and slipped a small package into
my hand. There wasn't even time to say thank you as the train began to gather speed. I slipped Oma's gift into my coat pocket, waving with my other hand until I couldn't see Mama or Oma anymore. Tears were streaming down my face.
Alles einsteigen!
” “All aboard!” and slowly we started to move again. I leaned out as far as I could. Other children behind me pushed and shoved to get a last glimpse as well. While we were still moving slowly, Oma reached up and slipped a small package into
my hand. There wasn't even time to say thank you as the train began to gather speed. I slipped Oma's gift into my coat pocket, waving with my other hand until I couldn't see Mama or Oma anymore. Tears were streaming down my face.
Now the steam engine had gathered full speed. Soon I saw that we had left the city and were hurling through the countryside. I suddenly needed to go to the bathroom. When I came back out, some children were laughing and pointing at me. I looked down and saw that my blue wool-knit dress was tucked into my matching underpants. I was furiousâperhaps at them, perhaps at myself, perhaps at this whole situation. Quickly I fixed my clothes and sat stiffly in my seat. I had to keep rubbing my wet eyes.
JOURNEY TO ENGLAND
T
he train rushed past pine woods, shimmering lakes, rivers, and distant mountains, past towns and villages and church spires like spears poking holes in the gray sky. After some hours, the landscape became even flatter. Raindrops splashed against the windows and ran down in rivulets, making crazy patterns from top to bottom. The train slowed down. We were at the Dutch border.
he train rushed past pine woods, shimmering lakes, rivers, and distant mountains, past towns and villages and church spires like spears poking holes in the gray sky. After some hours, the landscape became even flatter. Raindrops splashed against the windows and ran down in rivulets, making crazy patterns from top to bottom. The train slowed down. We were at the Dutch border.
This time there was no Papa to take care of passports. I was one of about a hundred children, from about four years old to seventeen. We were supervised by a few adults from the Jewish Refugee Committee, who carried our papers. German officers came strutting through our compartments. They checked us off on their lists. In their black uniforms; red, white, and black swastika armbands; high-peaked caps; and especially tall, polished boots, they looked menacing. One or two stopped to ask some of the children a question. To me they sounded like snarling dogs. I slouched into my seat, hoping they wouldn't notice
me. As they passed me, one man looked at me and was about to speak. But his comrade pushed him from behind, pointing at his watch. They kept going.
me. As they passed me, one man looked at me and was about to speak. But his comrade pushed him from behind, pointing at his watch. They kept going.
With a shudder the train moved forward a few yards and stopped again. Some children had been standing. They tumbled over. Now it was the turn of the Dutch customs officials. These men had smiles on their faces, and although we couldn't understand a word they said, we knew they were saying “Welcome to Holland.” We all relaxed. Even the little ones stopped crying. Every now and then my fingers touched Oma's last-minute present, still stuffed into my pocket. Soon, I promised myself, I would open it.
After a little while longer, we were allowed off the train. Down we spilled onto the platform, where the Dutch women were waiting for us. They gave us hot cocoa and cookies. They, too, had smiles on their faces.
But all too soon we were herded into a large room to wait for the ship. The Dutch harbor, Hoek van Holland, lies on the English Channel, directly across from a town in England called Harwich. The sea in the Channel is famous for its stormy winds and swelling waves. This night was typical.
With the cocoa and cookies swishing about in my stomach, I bravely boarded the ship. I was shown my cabin, which I was to share with another girl. She was older than Iâmaybe sixteen or seventeen. Up to now I
had kept my feelings bottled up inside. Being by nature a quiet child, I had said very little. But now, when I heard my cabin mate cry in her bed, I too began to feel a lump in my throat. I buried my head into my pillow, clenched my fists in fear and anger, and wept. To make matters worse, I began to feel seasick. Our little ship was tossed about on the fierce sea, heaving and yawing, and with it my stomach. Eventually, exhaustion forced us both into a few hours of restless sleep.
had kept my feelings bottled up inside. Being by nature a quiet child, I had said very little. But now, when I heard my cabin mate cry in her bed, I too began to feel a lump in my throat. I buried my head into my pillow, clenched my fists in fear and anger, and wept. To make matters worse, I began to feel seasick. Our little ship was tossed about on the fierce sea, heaving and yawing, and with it my stomach. Eventually, exhaustion forced us both into a few hours of restless sleep.
By daybreak we steamed into the harbor of Harwich. All was calm. Most of the people of that small fishing town were still asleep. I wondered how many knew that a boatload of very young refugees from Hitler's Germany had just arrived on their shores? But a few were there to greet us. They spoke yet another language, which we did not understand.
I soon realized that my newly acquired phrase, “The dog is under the table,” would be of no use to me in this situation. By chance, my fingers touched something in my pocket. It was Oma's present. I pulled out the little package and tore the paper off. Here were two tiny books, one blue, the other red. Each was so little, it could easily fit into the palm of my hand. These books were to prove my most valuable possessions in the next few months to come. They were dictionaries: one German to English, the other English to German.
In the beginning, these little friends were with me
always. If I didn't understand what was being said to meâwhich was most of the timeâout would come my little red companion: English to German. I would simply hand it over to the speaker, who would show me the word. Then I would fish in my pocket for the blue one and find the reply in German. I would try to pronounce its English equivalent, which sometimes convulsed us both into laughter.
always. If I didn't understand what was being said to meâwhich was most of the timeâout would come my little red companion: English to German. I would simply hand it over to the speaker, who would show me the word. Then I would fish in my pocket for the blue one and find the reply in German. I would try to pronounce its English equivalent, which sometimes convulsed us both into laughter.
Anyway, for now I didn't have to rely on the spoken word in order to understand. I was marched off with the rest to the nearby Harwich station and put on a train to London, the capital city of England. I usually liked train rides. But by now I had really had enough. I must have been so tired that morning that I slept all the way. That's why I did not see the gently rolling hills of the English countryside, covered with fields and woods. I slept past the farmhouses, or “cottages.” To this day, many have roofs covered by straw, or “thatch.” Often the thatchwork is done in lovely patterns. It keeps the houses cool in summer, warm in winter, and sheds the rainwater. There is always a chimney or two, since many English houses rely, even today, on fireplaces for heat. Smoke would have been coming out of the chimneys as we raced by. I slept.
Horses, cows, pigs, chickens, children on their way to school, farmers going to work in their fieldsâall must have looked up when our train swished by. People leaning on their bicycles would have waited patiently, as they do
today, at the lowered cross guards.
Ratattat, ratattat, ratattat
, tooooot!
Still I slept.
today, at the lowered cross guards.
Ratattat, ratattat, ratattat
, tooooot!
Still I slept.
When we finally stopped, I rubbed my eyes. Where was I? Mama? Papa? Then I remembered. This must be London. I must look out for Hans. He was supposed to meet me here.
LYDIA
T
here he was! I quickly spotted his red hair in the crowd. When had he become a man? I counted quickly on my fingers. He was eighteen now.
here he was! I quickly spotted his red hair in the crowd. When had he become a man? I counted quickly on my fingers. He was eighteen now.
Hans patted me on the headâbrothers and sisters don't kissâand grabbed my bag. I skipped after him into the Undergroundâthe London subway system. My numbered cardboard tag, which I was still wearing from the
Kindertransport,
bounced from a string around my neck. We got off the Underground within walking distance of his place.
Kindertransport,
bounced from a string around my neck. We got off the Underground within walking distance of his place.
Hans lived in a rented room. His landlady was waiting at the door to greet us. Her daughter, who looked a little older than I, was at her side. A white terrier dog ran up to me. I backed up, not sure whether he wanted to play or take a nip out of my leg.
“Don't worry. His name is Spot. He's very friendly,” the girl said. I
thought
it was what she said, for I didn't understand the words at all. Like Spot, I only got the meaning of her words from her tone of voice. The older
woman took a picture of us with the Brownie box camera I brought along. It used to belong to Mama. She had given it to me ⦠yesterday. Was that only yesterday? I swallowed a lump and forced myself to think: Now I can say “the dog is under the table.”
thought
it was what she said, for I didn't understand the words at all. Like Spot, I only got the meaning of her words from her tone of voice. The older
woman took a picture of us with the Brownie box camera I brought along. It used to belong to Mama. She had given it to me ⦠yesterday. Was that only yesterday? I swallowed a lump and forced myself to think: Now I can say “the dog is under the table.”
“Tonight you'll sleep here,” Hans told me. “Then tomorrow I'll go with you to the Liebmans. My boss gave me the day off.”
“Boss? Don't you go to school anymore?” I asked. It seemed, in all the excitement of the last few weeks, no one had bothered to tell me anything.
“No. I need to earn some money now, you see. I work in a radio factory. Our parents have enough problems of their own right now.”
I hung my head. At the mention of Mama and Papa, that silly lump formed in my throat again. Once again, I swallowed it. “I know,” I agreed. Then, as if to cheer him up, I said: “I remember when you were home, you always fiddled around with radios and stuff. Remember the telephone? Two tin cans on a string? You went in one room, I in another. The string was supposed to carry the sound of our voices, like telephone wires.”
He chuckled. “I remember. To tell you the truth, we could have just shouted to one another.”
“Yes. But it was fun.”
For a minute I forgot the reality of the moment. Then it hit me again. I am not at home with Mama and Papa. Mama is not about to call us for lunch. Tonight I will
sleep in a strange bedâand all the nights to follow, maybe for six whole weeks. Or even longer.
sleep in a strange bedâand all the nights to follow, maybe for six whole weeks. Or even longer.
Mrs. Williams, the landlady, must have sensed what I was thinking. She put her arm around me and led me into her house.
“Come on, then, love. Let's have some tea and biscuits, shall we? You'll feel better with something inside you.”
This was how I first found out about tea and biscuits. “Biscuits” is what the English call cookies. Tea and biscuits are the national remedy for whatever ails you. In England, as I was soon to learn, we had tea and biscuits between breakfast and lunch and between lunch and supper. It slows down the pace and lets you catch your breath. Even now I wonder why everyone in the world doesn't have the custom of tea and biscuits.
That afternoon, Hans and I sent a telegram to Mama and Papa to tell them I had arrived.
On my second day in England, I was taken to my new family, the Liebmans. They lived in a poor section of London. It meant another train ride on the Underground. By now I was thoroughly sick of trains. I wouldn't care if I never saw another train in my whole life! When we got there, all the houses looked alike. But Hans and I found the street and the right number, and we
climbed down a few steps from the sidewalk to the front door. It needed painting. In a tiny patch of earth in front of it, a faded rose struggled bravely to stay alive.
climbed down a few steps from the sidewalk to the front door. It needed painting. In a tiny patch of earth in front of it, a faded rose struggled bravely to stay alive.
Hans set down my suitcase and rang the bell. I adjusted my navy blue cap and pulled at my tan coat. My dress, the one with the matching underpants, felt scratchy. My heart was racing a hundred miles a second. Stuttgart was so very far away.
Scuffling footsteps. The door was flung open. But I could see nothing. It was dismally dark inside, much darker than the cloudy day outside. Out of the darkness, a woman in a cotton house dress appeared. Her bare feet were stuck in floppy old slippers. They were not like the slippers Mama kept in our vestibule to keep the white linoleum from scuff marks. These looked ⦠well ⦠they looked like a couple of moth-eaten rats. A girl crept up behind her. She was thin like me, but at least a head taller. She wore a bathrobe with brown stains on it. The robe might have been pink once.
“Is that her, Mum?” the girl seemed to be asking, pointing at me. To which the girl's mother seemed to be saying: “Shush, Lydia, that's rude.”
Mrs. Liebman, Lydia's “mum,” asked us in. I tried to follow her words. I thought she was apologizing to Hans about the state of her apartment. She might have said something like: “It isn't much, but it's home.” Then she said the two words that I got to learn very early on:
“Some tea?” Her tired eyes avoided mine. The girl, Lydia, stood awkwardly rooted to the floor, gawking at me and scratching her head.
“Some tea?” Her tired eyes avoided mine. The girl, Lydia, stood awkwardly rooted to the floor, gawking at me and scratching her head.
“Lydia, what's got into you? Get a move on and put the kettle up, there's the girl!” her mother said. Or something like that.
Lydia gave me another long, scathing look and ran to do what her mum told her to do.
Hans seemed ill at ease. He gulped his tea and said “no thanks” to seconds.
“Have to get back to work,” he muttered, thoughtfully translating this into German for me. I knew perfectly well that his boss had given him the day off, but I didn't say anything. He jumped off the sagging sofa, making the springs snap back, and shook Mrs. Liebman's hand. Nodding to Lydia and me, he headed for the door. I ran after him. He pummelled my back. I took it to mean: “Chin up, kiddo. It could be worse!” Then he was gone.
I was on my own.
There wasn't much to the house. The front room, where we had our tea, was used only for “company.” It was small and crowded with seldom-used, overstuffed furniture that was usually covered with sheets. A small glassfront cabinet held a few china cups and saucers. A vase filled with paper flowers stood in the fireplace. There were no bookshelves, no books.
In back, the room used as the family room was actually the kitchen. It was as dark as everything else and had a sickening smell of stale coffee and raw onions. I tried not to think about Cook's wonderful odors from our kitchen back home. In a corner was a large birdcage. But instead of Piepsi the canary, its occupant was Polly, a green parrot. He regarded me with sad, beady eyes, then turned his attention to adjusting his bedraggled feathers. “Polly want a cracker?” was to become my second English phrase, after “the dog is under the table.”
“Show her the bedroom, Lydia,” Mrs. Liebman said. She hadn't called me by my name yet.
Sulking, Lydia led me to the bedroom, next to the kitchen. A tiny window over our heads let in whatever light came in from the street above. I could see people's feet as they walked past it, to and fro. By now it had started to rain, and the feet splashed drops of water and mud onto the tiny windowpane.
“This is mine,” Lydia said, pointing to the bed on our left. The sheets and blankets were rumpled up, and the pillow squashed into a ball. A cat slept on top of it all. Mama would have been horrified. I stroked the cat.
“What she is called?”
For the first time, Lydia giggled. “Mittens. And this is yours. Mum hasn't had time to put your sheets on yet.” I flopped onto the unmade bed, shoes and all, and didn't move for two hours!
Little by little I adjusted to my new life. Mrs. Liebman
was always tired. She sighed a great deal and ordered Lydia around a lot. Me she more or less ignored. Mr. Liebman was seen only on weekends. He had a night job and slept during the day. I never got to see the master bedroom. He kept the door closed all the time. On Friday nights he had dinner with us. Mrs. Liebman lit Shabbat candles, and Mr. Liebman said the blessings over the bread and wine. On Saturday mornings he went to synagogue. When he came home, we all ate together. After that, he would sit in a lumpy old armchair in the kitchen, read the papers, and drink beer. Sunday afternoons he went to bed, and by Sunday night he was back at work.
was always tired. She sighed a great deal and ordered Lydia around a lot. Me she more or less ignored. Mr. Liebman was seen only on weekends. He had a night job and slept during the day. I never got to see the master bedroom. He kept the door closed all the time. On Friday nights he had dinner with us. Mrs. Liebman lit Shabbat candles, and Mr. Liebman said the blessings over the bread and wine. On Saturday mornings he went to synagogue. When he came home, we all ate together. After that, he would sit in a lumpy old armchair in the kitchen, read the papers, and drink beer. Sunday afternoons he went to bed, and by Sunday night he was back at work.
Our bedroom had a washstand with a porcelain bowl and pitcher. The toilet was outdoors, behind the kitchen. This being only March, it was cold out there, and smelly. In order to flush, you had to pull on a chain. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't.
As for Lydia, she's part of the story I would like to forget.
Lydia teased me without mercy. She would give me something, then snatch it away. Steal my socks, my hair brush, the food off my plate. Pinch my arm when nobody was looking, then stare me down, waiting for me to cry. I never did. She'd say something to me very fast, then laugh with glee at my expression. She knew I hadn't understood a word. If I said something to her in German, she would simply skip away, her nose in the air.
At the time, I was too engrossed in my own miseries
to understand why she behaved this way. Only now, many years later, does it occur to me that Lydia must have been bewildered, as was I, and certainly jealous. I can imagine that she might have thought: “Who is this scrawny looking brat whom my mum makes me share my room with? And she doesn't even speak English?” Perhaps her parents had tried to explain to her before my arrival about the dangers of Jewish life in Germany. Perhaps they had all decided as a family that, because they themselves were Jewish, they would take in one little Jewish girl in order that she might escape. Perhaps. Or perhaps not. I realize now that in the Liebman family there was very little communication. Lydia could not have understood what was going on. As I could not.
to understand why she behaved this way. Only now, many years later, does it occur to me that Lydia must have been bewildered, as was I, and certainly jealous. I can imagine that she might have thought: “Who is this scrawny looking brat whom my mum makes me share my room with? And she doesn't even speak English?” Perhaps her parents had tried to explain to her before my arrival about the dangers of Jewish life in Germany. Perhaps they had all decided as a family that, because they themselves were Jewish, they would take in one little Jewish girl in order that she might escape. Perhaps. Or perhaps not. I realize now that in the Liebman family there was very little communication. Lydia could not have understood what was going on. As I could not.
And yet, I think, in time I would have adjusted to my new life with the Liebmans, and with Lydia, if it hadn't been for the endless scratching.
From the first I noticed Lydia scratching her head all the time. I thought it was a habit she had. But soon my own scalp began to itch. After a while I was scratching just as she was. In the mornings, when I woke up, in what little light there was, I could see tiny blood stains on my pillow. What awful disease had I caught from this girl?
Mrs. Liebman made me sit down every Saturday to answer my parents' letters, which came regularly once a week. They were always short and cheerful and didn't tell
me anything that I really wanted to know. If everything was so fine, I wondered, then why was I here in England? I kept my masterpieces short, too. After all, I thought, why upset my parents? To make the letters look longer, I filled empty spaces with little drawings. Thus parrots and cats marched across the printed lines, as did clever portraits of me with the family Liebman. I did not enjoy writing letters, so I filled up the pages as quickly as possible with whatever came to mind. One particular letter must have mentioned the fact that my head was itching. Mama must have received this information with some dismay. She went into action immediately, for not long after, I had a visitor.
me anything that I really wanted to know. If everything was so fine, I wondered, then why was I here in England? I kept my masterpieces short, too. After all, I thought, why upset my parents? To make the letters look longer, I filled empty spaces with little drawings. Thus parrots and cats marched across the printed lines, as did clever portraits of me with the family Liebman. I did not enjoy writing letters, so I filled up the pages as quickly as possible with whatever came to mind. One particular letter must have mentioned the fact that my head was itching. Mama must have received this information with some dismay. She went into action immediately, for not long after, I had a visitor.
“Someone to see you, love,” announced Mrs. Liebman. I was in the kitchen, trying to teach Polly the parrot some German.
“Me?” Who would come to see me? Who even knew I existed? I scratched my head and rushed to the front room, where all visitors were received.
My guest sat stiffly on the edge of one of the overstuffed chairs, from which the sheets had been removed. Her hat was of the very latest style. It partly covered her face. I judged her to be about thirty-five or forty. She smelled wonderfully of health and cleanliness, with just a touch of some heavenly perfume. Her blond hair was neatly combed back and caught in a bun at the nape of her neck. Even my untrained eyes could see that the suit
she wore was well-tailored and no doubt very expensive. She wore silk stockings, with seams straight up the middle of her legs, and high-heeled shoes that matched her suit. She looked vaguely familiar.
she wore was well-tailored and no doubt very expensive. She wore silk stockings, with seams straight up the middle of her legs, and high-heeled shoes that matched her suit. She looked vaguely familiar.
Before I plopped myself in the chair across from hers, she held out a gloved hand to me.
“My name is Mrs. Gordon. My husband and I came to visit your parents in Stuttgart last year, on business. You may not remember.”
So that's where I had seen her before!
“How do you do?” I said in my budding English.
She smiled.
“Very well, thank you. I have a little girl at home, just about your age. How would you like to come and stay with us?”
I thought it over.
“You mean for the weekend sometime?” I asked.
“No, I mean live with us.” She coughed into her gloved hand. “Until a more permanent place can be found for you.”
I hadn't the slightest idea what “permanent” meant. All I heard was “live with us.”
“But what about Mrs. Liebman?” I asked, not knowing what else to say.
“Don't worry. I've already spoken to her. She will have you ready by Monday morning.”
So everything had already been arranged. Asking me
was only a formality. Though, truthfully, after four weeks of Lydia I was more than willing to leave. Besides, in only two more weeks the six weeks would be up. Mama and Papa would be here then!
was only a formality. Though, truthfully, after four weeks of Lydia I was more than willing to leave. Besides, in only two more weeks the six weeks would be up. Mama and Papa would be here then!
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