Kindertransport (9 page)
Authors: Olga Levy Drucker
A JOB!
I
was sipping my sugarless tea in Auntie Mona's kitchen. It was Thursday, my usual visiting day. I had mixed feelings about visiting Auntie Mona. Part of me wanted to come back to the house that had been home for over three years. The other part of me was slipping away from her strict Baptist rules. Today had already gone off on the wrong foot, right from the start.
was sipping my sugarless tea in Auntie Mona's kitchen. It was Thursday, my usual visiting day. I had mixed feelings about visiting Auntie Mona. Part of me wanted to come back to the house that had been home for over three years. The other part of me was slipping away from her strict Baptist rules. Today had already gone off on the wrong foot, right from the start.
“Someone saw you at the cinema last week, Olga,” said Auntie Mona straight out.
I stared at the grayish brown liquid sloshing around in my teacup. I had half expected this.
“On Sunday!” continued Auntie Mona, like a relentless toothache. I kept up my interest in tea.
“Well, what have you to say? Does Sunday mean nothing to you any longer? Have you forgotten so soon?”
For a second I looked up to see her eyes actually well up. Quickly I lowered mine again.
It was perfectly true. Megan, home on a short weekend leave, had invited me to go with her to see
Bambi
.
Bambi
.
“But it's Sunday,” I had objected, without much conviction. “I'm not supposed to go to the movies on Sundays.”
“Oh, bother Sundays!” Megan had laughed off my guilt. “And anyway, who will see you?”
Someone evidently had and had gone straight to Auntie Mona to report me. Just as I was preparing my self-defenseâI had loved the sad but funny Walt Disney movieâthe doorbell rang, and Auntie Mona jumped up to answer it. She was gone for a few minutes. When she came back, she was all smiles. It was as if the sun had suddenly come out from behind the thunderclouds.
“There is someone outside whom I think you would like to meet,” she said. My sin seemed forgiven, perhaps forgotten.
“Who is it?”
“Come see. Better put your jacket on, it's a bit nippy out today.”
A tall, thin woman stood where the garden gate had once been. Her eyes were dancing behind her glasses, as if they knew a joke they wanted to share with us. She was holding on to a baby carriage. I was most impressed with her attire. Instead of a coat or jacket, she wore a colorful shawl about her big shoulders, and her long legs were ensconced in thick woolen stockings. Laughing with
obvious pleasure, she invited me to inspect the baby carriage.
obvious pleasure, she invited me to inspect the baby carriage.
“It's twins!” I shouted. I couldn't take my eyes off them.
“Yes. Two boys. Charles and Douglas. They just had their first birthday,” their mother informed us proudly.
“Oh, they are beautiful!” I said, then blurted out: “I want to be a baby nurse, you know.”
“Well, what luck! I've been looking for someone to help me. There are four other children in our house. Well, three actually. The oldest boy is away at boarding school now.”
Auntie Mona joined in: “This lady is Mrs. Wolton, our neighbor. Her house is at the top of this street, Olga, the one going across. It's the big house with the circular driveway.” She paused for a minute, then said: “Do you think you would like to work for the Waltons?”
Without a moment's thought I answered:
“Would I!”
Later that evening I sprang my news to Auntie Millie and Uncle Albert. I must admit, they were less enthusiastic than I.
“But I thought you wanted to go to nursing school?” Uncle Albert reminded me.
“I did,” I assured him. “But this is much better. I'll get experience while doing the work and get paid for it.
Mrs. Wolton is so nice. Her husband is headmaster of the boys' school.” I saved the best part for last: “And I'll be able to stay right here in Wellingborough. If I get a day off I'll visit you. Of course,” I added soberly, “I'll have to visit Auntie Mona and Uncle Larry, too, sometimes. I'll be right around the corner from them.”
Mrs. Wolton is so nice. Her husband is headmaster of the boys' school.” I saved the best part for last: “And I'll be able to stay right here in Wellingborough. If I get a day off I'll visit you. Of course,” I added soberly, “I'll have to visit Auntie Mona and Uncle Larry, too, sometimes. I'll be right around the corner from them.”
I earned two shillings and sixpence a monthâabout five dollars. It was a lot of money to me. I saved some of it toward my bicycle fund. But most of it I spent on licorice candy or an occasional movie. Hans, to whom I still wrote faithfully once a week, supplied me with postage stamps and writing paper, as well as news from America, when there was any. My clothes came mostly from the Jewish Refugee Committee in London. I needed little else.
I soon found out that I no longer needed to save money for a bicycle, because I could borrow Mrs. Wolton's bike anytime she didn't need to use it herself. I rode it across town, down the hill, and up the hill on the other side when I visited Auntie Millie.
“What's it like at the Woltons'?” she asked. “Tell me about it. Have another apple tart. I made them for you this morning. Well? Do you like it?” She sounded as if she had actually missed me.
“I love it.” I assumed Auntie Millie meant how do I like my new job. I bit into the sweet, spicy tart and continued talking with my mouth full. “It's great fun. So
many people! Let's see, there's Carol, she's the oldest girl, almost eight. Then there's Ann Marie, she's five. And Irene who is only three and a half. She's the naughty one. May I have another tart? And, of course, the twins, Charles and Douglas. And ⦔
many people! Let's see, there's Carol, she's the oldest girl, almost eight. Then there's Ann Marie, she's five. And Irene who is only three and a half. She's the naughty one. May I have another tart? And, of course, the twins, Charles and Douglas. And ⦔
“There are more?” Auntie Millie forgot to close her mouth.
“Oh yes. Let me see. There's the nanny, Emily. I help her with everything. I really love her. And a Mrs. Alford and her little girl, Fay. Fay's father is in the war, and Mrs. Alford is living with the Woltons because she doesn't want to live in London right now. The Blitz, you know. I think Mr. Alford is a captain in the army.”
“How old is little Fay?”
“About as old as Irene. But the two are not a bit alike. They quarrel a lot. Irene is always getting into trouble. Everybody thinks Fay is a good girl, but she's really a bit sneaky.”
“Sounds noisy to me,” said Auntie Millie, and she pursed her lips.
I ignored her. “It's a huge house. Lots of rooms. Then there are the armed service boys. They keep popping in and out. We never know when one of them might show up. They come whenever they get leave.”
“British boys?”
“Mostly. And Americans, too.” I neglected to tell her that I already had a crush on several of them. I was sure she wouldn't have understood.
Every day on the radio, we heard about air raids over London and Berlin, of battles on the high seas, of invasion landings in France and elsewhere. In Poland, as we were to find out later, thousands of Jewish people were being forced by the Nazis to live in small, walled-in areas, called ghettos. This made it easier for the Nazis to round them up, like cattle, andâlike cattleâto herd them into railway cars. They were taken to “extermination camps,” where they were brutally killedâwomen, men, and children, too. The Jews of Warsaw, Poland, and of other ghettos tried to fight back, but the Nazis had more weapons and overpowered their resistance. Millions of Jews and other “undesirables” were being slaughtered in Hitler's death camps, with few words about it from our newspapers or radios. These things were happening only a few hours' travel time from Wellingborough. But, while we were certainly aware of
some
of the horrors of the war, no one could have known the whole truth. There still was laughter and music and the sound of children's voices and the good smells of cooking, despite the scarcity of certain foods. The house I now lived in, the Woltons' house, was filled with life and love.
some
of the horrors of the war, no one could have known the whole truth. There still was laughter and music and the sound of children's voices and the good smells of cooking, despite the scarcity of certain foods. The house I now lived in, the Woltons' house, was filled with life and love.
I stopped visiting Auntie Mona on Thursdays and going to church on Sundays. I rarely biked across town to drink tea with Auntie Millie and Uncle Albert. My picture
of the Good Shepherd got tucked away in a drawer, under my socks and blouses. Soon I forgot about it. I was too busy with the children, whom I adored.
of the Good Shepherd got tucked away in a drawer, under my socks and blouses. Soon I forgot about it. I was too busy with the children, whom I adored.
Once, Hans came down from London to see me. He seemed like a stranger to me, and I think he was as glad as I when the visit was over.
Although a few got lost, due to the war, some letters from America reached me. Mama and Papa were working hard, they wrote. They longed for the family to be together again. They were doing everything possible to obtain the papers necessary for my brother's and my immigration, but the war slowed all progress. I don't know about Hans, but I was in no rush. Yes, I wanted to be with my parents again. But my life was now in England, and I was content to stay there, forever if need be. Slowly, I had begun to sink roots in another country, another culture. Stuttgart was fading away, as a dream forgotten.
News had reached Mama and Papa that Oma, my grandmother, had gone on a “journey east.” They knew, they wrote, that this could mean only one thing. Concentration camp. Dimly I remembered my grandmother at the station, waving goodbye and handing me a small presentâthe dictionaries. At that time all I could say in English was “the dog is under the table.” How surprised she would have been to learn that now, only six years later, I had forgotten nearly all my German.
For me, the war had become a way of life. Not since
Greta had I seen another Jew. I never thought about it. Despite everything, I was happy. For one thing, no one at the Woltons' ever told me that I had to be grateful.
Greta had I seen another Jew. I never thought about it. Despite everything, I was happy. For one thing, no one at the Woltons' ever told me that I had to be grateful.
And then, almost a year since I'd come to work here, I got the letter for which I'd been waiting all this time, with so much hope, and so much dread.
New York, U.S.A.
March 1945
March 1945
Dearest Ollie
,
,
Good news! We have your visa. Come to America ⦠.
SAILING TO AMERICA
T
ime to leave. Tears flowed. My ribs were sore from all the hugs. Mrs. Wolton traveled with me to the ship in Swansea, Wales, by way of London. In London, at one of its finest department stores, she bought me a suit. It was to last me for many years.
ime to leave. Tears flowed. My ribs were sore from all the hugs. Mrs. Wolton traveled with me to the ship in Swansea, Wales, by way of London. In London, at one of its finest department stores, she bought me a suit. It was to last me for many years.
In Swansea, we cried again.
“I don't want to leave!” I wailed.
“Neither do I want you to, darling. But your parents have waited for you long enough. One day you will come back,” she promised, trying to smile. I sniffed and looked away.
The ship was an old freighter modified to take on a few passengers. We sailed on a cold, rainy day in April. The sea was rough. To me, it looked unfriendly. And I was right. But this was not altogether due to the waves. It had mostly to do with the war. Because one ship alone on the ocean would have been vulnerable, we picked up a convoy along the way. This meant other ships of various
sizes and builds, including naval vessels, zigzagged back and forth across the ocean together. At times, when the clouds lifted, we could see one another in the distance. Just knowing we were not alone made us all feel a little safer. Because our speed had to conform to that of the slowest ship in convoy, it took thirteen days to cross. During that time, we did have at least one torpedo scare, but nothing came of it. The sea was stormy almost all the way. Sometimes the furniture slid from one side of the room to the other, and dishes flew.
sizes and builds, including naval vessels, zigzagged back and forth across the ocean together. At times, when the clouds lifted, we could see one another in the distance. Just knowing we were not alone made us all feel a little safer. Because our speed had to conform to that of the slowest ship in convoy, it took thirteen days to cross. During that time, we did have at least one torpedo scare, but nothing came of it. The sea was stormy almost all the way. Sometimes the furniture slid from one side of the room to the other, and dishes flew.
After thirteen days, we docked in Halifax, Canada. I was glad to step onto solid land, land that didn't move under my feet.
From Halifax, we rode south to New York on a Pullman sleeper. I had a little compartment that converted into a bed by night. A conductor came around to make up the beds. By day it became a regular train seat again.
After three days and three nights, we pulled into Grand Central Station, New York. Eagerly I peered through the window. Last stop. America!
I jumped off the train, adjusted my pillbox hat, hitched up my shoulder bag, straightened my back, and strode purposefully down the long, crowded platform. So many people! My heart was racing madly. My mouth felt suddenly dry, the palms of my hands sweaty. It had been six years. Would I recognize Mama and Papa again? And how would I ever find them in this crowd? For a moment I saw myself six years earlier, a skinny kid with pigtails,
waving good-bye to Mama and Oma from the
Kindertransport
train, the train that took me away from Germany forever. How long ago it all seemed! In England I had been so engrossed with my own everyday life that I hadn't given much thought to Oma. Then came the news that she had been taken “east,” to the dreaded concentration camp. For the first time in six years, I missed her. I wished I could talk to her again. Hear her voice again ⦠.
waving good-bye to Mama and Oma from the
Kindertransport
train, the train that took me away from Germany forever. How long ago it all seemed! In England I had been so engrossed with my own everyday life that I hadn't given much thought to Oma. Then came the news that she had been taken “east,” to the dreaded concentration camp. For the first time in six years, I missed her. I wished I could talk to her again. Hear her voice again ⦠.
Then, suddenly I saw them! They were walking toward me, their eyes darting left and right, searching, searching. I spoke first: “Hello, Mama! Hello, Papa!”
They stopped and stared at me. For a minute no one spoke. All sound ceased. The crowd became as shadows, silently passing by in slow motion. Then Mama found her voice.
“Ollie! Is it you? Are you Olga?”
Suddenly, the last six years in England melted away. I was safely in the arms of my parents again.
In the telling of my story, I have used real names only of those of my immediate family. All others have been changed. The events are true to the best of my ability to remember.
F
ifty years after I had left Germany with the
Kindertransport
in 1939, I was again on a journey from London to New York. This time I traveled by air. It was not my first time since I had left England in 1945. I had been back often to visit the Wolton family, as they had visited me in America. But this time something was different. This time, I was coming back from a fiftieth reunion of the
Kindertransport.
ifty years after I had left Germany with the
Kindertransport
in 1939, I was again on a journey from London to New York. This time I traveled by air. It was not my first time since I had left England in 1945. I had been back often to visit the Wolton family, as they had visited me in America. But this time something was different. This time, I was coming back from a fiftieth reunion of the
Kindertransport.
Two thousand people had attended, two hundred of them from the United States. Now, on my way home, I was still filled with excitement. After so many years, some of my questions had been answered at last. For one thing, I had always assumed that I was one of a few hundred children of this unique rescue operation. To my surprise I learned that I had been one of
ten thousand
!
ten thousand
!
As I sat on the plane, flying across the now peaceful Atlantic Ocean, I thought about how things had turned out for me. Miraculously, mine is a story with a happy
ending. One of the terrible things I found out at the two-day reunion was that of the ten thousand children, nine thousand never saw their parents again. Others never saw their brothers or sisters again. Just about all had lost cousins, uncles, aunts, a friend, a neighborâsomeoneâin that murderous time in history, now called the Holocaust.
ending. One of the terrible things I found out at the two-day reunion was that of the ten thousand children, nine thousand never saw their parents again. Others never saw their brothers or sisters again. Just about all had lost cousins, uncles, aunts, a friend, a neighborâsomeoneâin that murderous time in history, now called the Holocaust.
I was one of the lucky ones. Not only was my life saved, but so was that of my brother and my parents. My grandmother was not as lucky. Shortly after the war ended, in April 1945, we found out that the Nazis had murdered Oma in a concentration camp in Terezin, Czechoslovakia. The Germans called it Theresienstadt.
This is what we were told, partly by Tante Nelly, Mama's sister, and partly by Lilo, her daughter:
Oma managed to stay in her own house in Wiesbaden until some time in 1943. By then she was quite old and already weak from hunger. When the Nazis came to drag her away, Tante Nelly and her husband, Onkel Julius, were taken along with her. I remembered the news we got that Oma was “going on a trip east.” We had never been quite certain what it had meant. Now we learned that many others had received similar news from loved ones in Europe. There is no longer a doubt. They were code words for what really took place.
Eventually, Tante Nelly and Onkel Julius escaped from Theresienstadt by getting on the wrong train. Years later, on one of my visits to London, my cousin Lilo told me about it:
Every day the freight trains of cattle cars would stand on the tracks waiting to be loaded with their human cargo. Although none of the people knew, they were going to Auschwitz, another notorious concentration camp, where gas chambers and ovens were waiting to kill all who came there. But on this day, Tante Nelly saw two trains, and the second one was a regular passenger train.
She was ordered by the Nazi official to board that one. With unbelievable courage, Tante Nelly defied her tormentor by demanding that Onkel Julius come with her. What made them agree to it? We'll never know. But the two were hastily pushed into that second train, and with shades drawn over the windowsâon strict ordersâthey sped away from that dreadful place. They had no idea where to. They were fearful that it might be to another camp. Another place of suffering and death.
When they could open the shades again, they saw that they were in Switzerland.
Switzerland was a neutral country during World War II. On that day the Swiss happened to have made an agreement with Hitler: Switzerland would be allowed to take in a few Jews if the Swiss government paid the Nazis a large sum of money. Hitler needed cash. My uncle's and aunt's lives had been bought by the Swiss. In due time they were to become Swiss citizens.
But Oma had died in the concentration camp. Herr and Frau Gumpel, our former neighbors in Stuttgart, had also been killed.
Hans, being of military age during the 1940s, could not get his visa to America yet. Nor could he get permission from the British to leave England. In fact, soon after the onset of war, in 1941, the British government decided to intern all German-born men and women of military age. They did not discriminate between Jews and non-Jews. Anyone, they thought, might have been a spy or a collaborator. Hans was one of the many young men deported to the Isle of Man, a small island off the southern coast of England. Others, including another uncle of ours, were shipped off to Australia or Canada. They were not mistreated, but there is no getting around the fact that they were imprisoned. In less than a year, however, the authorities must have realized their mistake. They let the Jewish Germans out. Hans returned to London and worked in a war productions factory. He was still not able to leave the country and had to wait until 1946, after the war, to join Mama, Papa, and me in New York.
As soon as I arrived, I was told that I must finish school and get my high school diploma. I did manage it, though I had to repeat my senior year. I had failed American history. I went to work right after graduation. In 1948 I met my husband, Rolf, and was married in 1950. When our three children grew old enough to ask questions, I
began to explore my Jewish heritage. I have been exploring it ever since. In June 1991, when I was 63, I celebrated my own Bat Mitzvah.
began to explore my Jewish heritage. I have been exploring it ever since. In June 1991, when I was 63, I celebrated my own Bat Mitzvah.
The 1989 reunion in London, organized by a former
Kind
, whose name is Bertha Leverton, was a turning point in my life. The idea to write a book about my childhood,
for children
, first came to me there. I looked around the huge gym hall where the speeches were held, prayers offered, meals served, concerts given, and saw a roomful of elderly and aging people. Most of us were still agile and vigorous. But how many years did any of us have left? I needed to tell my story and tell it now.
Kind
, whose name is Bertha Leverton, was a turning point in my life. The idea to write a book about my childhood,
for children
, first came to me there. I looked around the huge gym hall where the speeches were held, prayers offered, meals served, concerts given, and saw a roomful of elderly and aging people. Most of us were still agile and vigorous. But how many years did any of us have left? I needed to tell my story and tell it now.
Fifty years had gone by since
Kristallnacht.
The Night of Broken Glass took place on the night of November 9â 10, 1938. Fifty years had passed since a small group of brave people hastily organized the
Kindertransport
to save the children. It took much negotiation, superhuman effort, and even an act of parliament in England. The first trainload of one hundred children left Germany on December 3, 1938. The last train was sent out at the end of August 1939, a few days before Hitler started World War II, on September 1. After that, there could be no more trains filled with children.
Kristallnacht.
The Night of Broken Glass took place on the night of November 9â 10, 1938. Fifty years had passed since a small group of brave people hastily organized the
Kindertransport
to save the children. It took much negotiation, superhuman effort, and even an act of parliament in England. The first trainload of one hundred children left Germany on December 3, 1938. The last train was sent out at the end of August 1939, a few days before Hitler started World War II, on September 1. After that, there could be no more trains filled with children.
Ten thousand children between the ages of four months and seventeen years had been rescued. Many were left
behind. Some managed to escape by other means. The majority were killed.
behind. Some managed to escape by other means. The majority were killed.
I sat on the plane on my way home from the reunion and thought about all this. I thought about how lucky I was. I thought about the millions of refugees still roaming the world todayâmany, too many of them, children. I knew how bewildered and frightened they must feel. I had been there myself. I knew that what they need, more even than shelter and food, is love and understanding. As I looked back to my childhood, I realized that these two, love and understanding, are the most difficult to give to a child not your own.
The English families who took care of me did the very best they could. Under trying circumstances, they were enormously kind to me. I'm sure I didn't always deserve their kindness, nor was I always as grateful as I was asked to be. But because they were not my parents, they could not show me the love that I craved. The one exception was the Wolton family.
Today I feel myself part of that family. We have visited each other many times. My children have come to love them as much as I. In her eighty-third year, Mrs. Wolton came to America to attend my daughter's wedding.
As I write this, another war is raging across the sea, in the Persian Gulf. Among all the other casualties, the children
of that area will be suffering too. Many thousands of them will be refugees. I hope and pray that they will be taken care of by strangers, as I was, even if they profess another religion. And that other children, when they have the chance to get to know them, will be kind to themâas were many of the children who met me, though not all. But most of all, I hope and pray that a day may come soon when there will be no more need for people to become refugees.
of that area will be suffering too. Many thousands of them will be refugees. I hope and pray that they will be taken care of by strangers, as I was, even if they profess another religion. And that other children, when they have the chance to get to know them, will be kind to themâas were many of the children who met me, though not all. But most of all, I hope and pray that a day may come soon when there will be no more need for people to become refugees.
My parents died of old age, in America, many years ago. I thank them, in particular Mama, who had so much courage and foresight in sending her little girl across the sea to safety and survival. I hope and pray that future mamas, the world over, will never have to make such decisions again.
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