The Runaway Family (41 page)
Read The Runaway Family Online
Authors: Diney Costeloe
“We’re here, Inge,” Laura said, still holding her sister’s hand. “We’re in England. When we get off the next train, Papa will be there.”
Yet again the children were mustered, checked and loaded onto a train. Gerda had found her brother. Laura saw her hugging a tall dark boy, as they emerged onto the quay, but she didn’t get a chance to talk to her again as they were put into different compartments.
The train sped through the cold morning air, and as the grey sky lightened, and shafts of early sunshine struck the trees and meadows, Laura stared out of the window at the unfamiliar countryside; small villages with houses clustering round the church, a stand of trees on the skyline, a solitary farmhouse with grey stone outbuildings, cows coming in from the fields to be milked, a man on a bicycle riding to work. Countryside at peace with itself, waking up to a new day. For the first time since she had left Vienna, she felt her spirits lift a little. They were going to live here, somewhere in this new country, where there were no Nazis, no SS, no Hitler. Soon, very soon, they would be with Papa.
“Look, Inge,” she said, turning to her sister, “look at the villages. This is England. This is where we’re going to live.” But Inge had, once again, retreated into herself, and showed no interest in their new country.
The train did not stop at any of the stations through which it passed, and the towns, with strange names like Ipswich and Colchester, passed by and gave way to the outward sprawl of a great city. Houses in rows, pocket-handkerchief gardens, brick warehouses and tall factory chimneys all warned of the approaching city. London.
The train slowed right down and edged its way across a multitude of tracks, clattering over the points and finally drawing under the echoing roof of Liverpool Street Station. All the children had had their noses pressed to the window, anxious to see the sort of place they had come to. As the train finally came to a halt, its great engine blowing off steam as it reached the buffers, there was nervous chatter and noise in all the carriages. Now they were going to meet their foster parents, their new families, where everyone would speak English, no one German.
Laura collected their two cases, and held one out to Inge. “Here’s yours, Inge,” she said. “You can carry it.”
Inge made no move to take the case, and one of the escorts called out to them, “Come along there. Get down from the train.” He reached up and took the cases from Laura, so that she could help her sister down onto the platform, then he handed them both back to Laura. “Take your sister over into the line,” he said and turned away to help another child.
Carrying both cases, Laura led Inge to the group of children waiting patiently, lined up in pairs.
“You’ll all wait on the platform until everyone is off the train,” they’d been told. “Then keeping together, everyone with a partner, we’ll go to the hall where your relatives and foster parents will be waiting for you.”
Gerda was standing with her brother. She waved when she saw Laura again. “This is my brother Bruno,” she said.
Bruno was tall, almost grown up. He smiled at the two girls. “Hallo,” he said. “We’ve made it, then.”
At last the train was empty. Once again the young man from the Palestine Office checked their names against his list.
“He has to go back to Vienna,” Bruno told them. “The Nazis only let him come as an escort. If he doesn’t go back, they won’t let any more children come.”
“He’s very brave,” remarked Gerda, “going back.”
I’d go back, thought Laura bleakly, watching the young man checking each child against his list. If I could, I’d go back to Mutti, Oma and the twins.
Once they were all assembled, the crocodile of children was marched off towards the hall where they would finally meet their new families. As they walked along the platform, still wearing their labels and each carrying a small suitcase, people stopped to watch them.
“Refugees,” remarked one man, “poor little buggers.”
“Never mind, darlin’,” called another, smiling at Gerda as she walked beside her brother. “You’re safe now. ’Itler ain’t comin’ ’ere!”
What were the men saying, wondered Laura? The only word she recognised was “Hitler”, and it made her shiver.
They were led to a lofty, echoing hall. It was gloomy inside, its dirty windows, high in the wall, only allowing dull, grey light to filter through. As they came through the door, each child was handed a packet of sandwiches and then told to sit down on the benches that ran along one wall. The children filed in obediently, and took a seat. One or two opened the sandwiches straightaway and began to eat them; experience had taught them that you never knew where the next meal might come from, so it was best to eat food immediately, before it vanished again.
Laura, still struggling with both cases, pushed the sandwiches into her coat pocket and said, “Inge, stay close.”
There was a great shuffling of feet and edging sideways as the children moved along the hall, trying to get a glimpse of the people who waited for them on the other side.
“Sit down, children,” called out one of the escorts. “Sit down and wait for your name to be called.”
The children sat on the hard wooden benches and waited in nervous expectation to hear their names. On the opposite side of the room were the group of sponsors and foster parents, who also waited, peering across at the assembled children, wondering. Who? Which?
Suddenly Inge let out a shriek, and leaping up from her place on the bench, she shot out across the floor, speaking for the first time in forty-eight hours; speaking… calling… crying out, “Papa!”
One of the escorts made a move to pull her back to the bench, but she pushed him aside and flung herself across the room into the waiting arms of Kurt Friedman. Laura dropped the suitcases and followed her, erupting from the bench, tears streaming down her face as she, too, found herself safe at last within the circle of her father’s arms.
The noise around them faded, the business of matching child to foster parent blurred behind them as the three held and hugged and laughed and cried. Kurt on his knees, his daughters crushed against him. A middle-aged couple stood behind them, watching the ecstatic reunion. They looked at each other. “Can we really be parents to these little girls?” their eyes seemed to say. “They already have a parent here.” They waited patiently for another few minutes and then the man stepped forward and coughed.
Kurt looked up and forced a smile to his lips. The Gladstones. He had met them already, had thanked them for offering to take his daughters into their home, but even as they stood there waiting to be introduced to their foster children, he could hardly bear it. His girls were here safe, and within minutes he was going to have to give them up again. He got to his feet, and still holding the girls against him, turned them towards the Gladstones.
“Laura, Inge, here are the kind lady and gentleman who are going to give you a home. Mr and Mrs Gladstone. Say how do you do.”
Neither girl moved at first, but at a gentle push from her father, Laura stepped forward and dropped a small curtsey. “How do you do?” she said in German.
“You must be Laura,” said the woman and coming forward took Laura’s hand.
Laura, recognising her own name, although it wasn’t said quite right, smiled and said, “Laura.” Then she pointed to Inge, who had buried her face in her father’s stomach, and said, “Inge.”
The woman pointed to herself, “Aunt Jane,” she said, “and this,” she pointed to her husband, “is Uncle Frank.”
Gradually the echoing hall was emptying as the children were claimed by their new families. Kurt picked up the girls’ suitcases and led the little group over to the man with the clipboard, explaining who he was and where the children were going.
“That’s right,” said the man marking them off. “To Mr and Mrs Gladstone.” He shook the Gladstones by the hand and said in careful English, “Thank you for taking these children, your generosity has brought them to safety.”
Kurt travelled with them to their new home, having agreed with the couple beforehand that he would see the children into the house and then leave. So, after drinking a cup of tea in the Gladstones’ parlour, he stood up to take his leave.
Immediately Inge burst into tears. “I don’t want you to go, Papa,” she wept. “I don’t like it here. I want to come with you.”
“I can’t stay, my darling,” Kurt said gently. “And you can’t come with me, because there is no room for you where I live, but I promise I will come and see you on Sunday, all right?”
It wasn’t all right, and Inge continued to cry, clinging to him, burying her face against him. Kurt looked over her head at Laura, who was fighting tears of her own.
“Be brave, my darlings,” he begged. “Be brave and I will tell you some wonderful news. I have found a sponsor for Mutti. It won’t be long before she and the twins will be here as well. So be good, my darlings. It won’t be forever. In a few weeks we shall all be together again. Mutti’s coming to England.”
Wednesday, 30th August 1939
Inge and I are so excited. The twins arrive in London today. They’ve had to come by themselves, like we did. They’re such little boys, I hope they weren’t too scared. Aunt Jane and Uncle Frank are taking us to the station to meet them. I can’t wait to see them! Will they remember us, I wonder? It’s more than six months since we saw them. I wish Mutti was coming with them, but Papa says she’ll be coming next weekend and then we’ll all be together. She would have come sooner, but Oma was ill and she had to stay and look after her. Poor Oma has died now, but she was very old. Poor Oma.
Aunt Jane and Uncle Frank have been very kind and we shall still have to live in their house, but we shall all be safe. The boys at school say, “We ain’t afraid of Ole ’Itler.” I am, and I think they should be too.
~
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The Throwaway Children
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Gritty, heartrending and unputdownable – the story of two sisters sent first to an English, then an Australian orphanage in the aftermath of World War 2.
Rita and Rosie Stevens are only nine and five years old when their widowed mother marries a violent bully called Jimmy Randall and has a baby boy by him. Under pressure from her new husband, she is persuaded to send the girls to an orphanage – not knowing that the papers she has signed will entitle them to do what they like with the children.
And it is not long before the powers that be decide to send a consignment of orphans to their sister institution in Australia. Among them – without their family’s consent or knowledge – are Rita and Rosie, the throwaway children.
Belcaster 1948
Raised voices again. Rita could hear them through the floor; her mother’s, a querulous wail, the man’s an angry roar. For a moment she lay still in bed, listening. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it was clear that they were arguing.
Rosie, her sister, was peacefully asleep at the other end of their shared single bed, the stray cat, Felix, curled against her. She never seemed to wake up however loud the shouting downstairs. Rita slid out from under the bedclothes and tip-toeing across the room, crept out onto the landing. Limpid green light from a street lamp shone through the small landing window, lighting the narrow staircase. A shaft of dull yellow light, shining through the half-open kitchen door, lit the cracked brown lino and cast shadows in the hall. The voices came from the kitchen, still loud, still angry. Rita crouched against the banister, her face pressed to its bars. From here she could actually hear some of what was being said.
‘…my children from me.’ Her mother’s voice.
‘…another man’s brats!’ His voice.
