Good-bye Marianne (7 page)

T
he rest of the day passed much too quickly. Marianne began by piling all her “must-take-this” belongings on her bed.

Mrs. Kohn said, “Two steamer trunks wouldn’t be big enough for all of this. Look, I’ve made a list. The glass animals would really be safer at Oma’s, don’t you think?”

The pile on the bed swayed.

“The Tower of Pisa’s falling,” said Marianne. She started to laugh and then looked at her mother. They spoke at exactly the same time.

“I don’t want to choose, I love my things. I don’t want to go.”

“I never want to finish packing, or see you shut this suitcase,” said Mrs. Kohn. And then they hugged each other tightly.

Marianne thought, ‘I’m really saying good-bye. This is good-bye, and I don’t understand how it all happened so quickly. It’s a horrible dream, and I want to wake up.’

“Why don’t we pretend you’re going away to a holiday camp? It’s true in a way. Campers can only carry one suitcase because it’s a long way to the campsite, and there’s no one to help.”

“Is that what the Nazis said? I don’t mean the part about camp, more likely to be a concentration camp.” Marianne immediately wished she hadn’t made the flippant remark. She was always doing that lately, but it helped her to bear things more easily. Her mother’s ashen face made her realize this wasn’t the right time, but Mrs. Kohn answered Marianne as if she hadn’t noticed the cruel reference.

“Yes. Each child is entirely responsible for his own belongings, even the smallest children. No valuables allowed, nothing that might be sold, or you could have your things confiscated, and be turned back.”

“Terrific, you’d hear a knock on the door and it’d be me.” Marianne ran to the bedroom door and rapped on it sharply. She turned round dramatically, saw her mother’s stricken face and said, “I don’t know why I’m behaving like this. I can’t seem to help it. Sorry.”

“I know, my darling,” said Mrs. Kohn. “Let’s start again.”

Finally they decided on: hairbrush, comb, toothbrush and toothpaste. Dressing gown and slippers. Three pairs of socks. Three pairs of underwear – vests and underpants. Two sweaters – one red and one navy. Two blouses, two skirts. One pair of shoes, three handkerchiefs, paper and envelopes, and a German/English dictionary.

“You’ll wear your brown lace-up boots and your Star of David
like you always do, under your blouse. And, of course, your winter overcoat. England is very cold and damp, I’m told.”

“What about my new dress – surely there’ll be special occasions in England?” Marianne stroked the velvet skirt of her party frock.

“I could make room, but you’d have to wear more underwear on the journey. That would leave us enough space.”

“Mutti, do you want me to die of heatstroke before I get there?” said Marianne, and this time she was only half joking.

“In December? You exaggerate so, Marianne.”

Marianne said, “Are we going to have a fight?”

“Of course,” said her mother, “isn’t this a normal day? Come here, wicked daughter, and give me a hug. I forgot something. Fold your dress in tissue paper. We’ll manage.”

As soon as her mother left the room, Marianne squashed her teddy bear down the side of the case. He was quite thin after years of hugging. She couldn’t go to sleep without him.

Marianne shut the case, then walked round the room with it, testing its weight. She smiled at her mother as she came back into the room. “I can manage this really easily; it’s not heavy at all,” she fibbed.

“Here are ten marks. The Nazis won’t allow you to take more than that out of the country. It’s very little, but as soon as you are settled, I’ll try to send you more. Now put five marks in your purse and I’ll pin the other five inside your coat pocket. Just to be on the safe side.”

“You sound just like Emil’s mother,” said Marianne, and stopped. She remembered Ernest. She hoped she’d never see
him
again.

“Here is your passport. You’ll need to show it when you cross the Dutch frontier. The ss will come aboard, or perhaps the Gestapo. Don’t be afraid. Your papers are in order – you are on the list of children permitted to travel. Marianne, you know what I’m going to say.”

“Be careful, don’t draw attention to myself, be polite. I know,” said Marianne.

“No smart remarks. You always make jokes – they could be misunderstood,” said her mother.

Marianne looked at her passport. She clutched her stomach. “Oh, the pain, it’s awful.” She bent over in agony.

“Oh, my darling, what is it? Appendicitis?” Mrs. Kohn helped Marianne to the bed. “Sit down and tell me where it hurts.”

“It’s just the picture – I look so awful. It’s even worse than my school one. And look at that dreadful red
J
. Do they think I’ll forget I’m Jewish?”

“Marianne, you see what I mean, you
have
to stop this playacting, at least till you get out of Germany. Once you’re over the border, you’ll be safe. Promise me to be sensible.”

“Of course I promise. I’m just nervous. My lips will be sealed. I could even put a handkerchief over my mouth and pretend I’ve just come from the dentist and can’t talk. Alright, I’ll stop. Just teasing.”

Mrs. Kohn shook her head in mock despair. “You won’t like this either, I’m afraid, Marianne.” Mrs. Kohn put a cardboard label tied to a piece of string around Marianne’s neck. “We have
been told all children have to wear this as identification. See, I’ve printed your name, destination, and your number – 206.”

“I feel like a piece of luggage. Let’s hope I don’t get lost.”

Mrs. Kohn said, “We’ll put all your things in the hall. We must leave at six in the morning. It’s a long way to the railway station.”

Marianne said, “If I have to listen to one more thing about tomorrow, I’ll scream.”

“But I haven’t even told you about the boat that’s waiting at the Hook to take you to England.”

Marianne continued quite seriously, “Please, let’s not talk about tomorrow anymore. Do you know what I’d like to do? Bake a chocolate cake for your birthday and eat it tonight.”

“Before we do that, I have to give you one more thing. Don’t groan, it’s an early Hanukkah gift. It’s from Vati too, and we want you to open it now.”

Marianne undid the daintily wrapped parcel. Her mother had glued paper candles on the tissue paper. For once Marianne took her time. She threw her arms round her mother’s neck.

“I’ve so longed to have a copy of
Emil and the Detectives
of my own. I won’t even peek at it until I’m in England. I’ll save it, something from home to look forward to. Thank you a thousand times.”

Mother and daughter went into the kitchen with their arms around each other.

N
ext morning at ten minutes to six, Marianne stood in the hall, dressed and ready to go, with the luggage label fastened around her neck. Her mother was in the kitchen, making a big lunch for Marianne to take on the train.

There was a knock on the door. Marianne opened it.

Ernest, dressed in the outfit he had worn on that first day when he arrived in Berlin from Freiburg, stood there. He was holding a small package. “I’m going back today,” said Ernest hesitantly. “Home to Freiburg.”

“I’m leaving too, in a few minutes,” said Marianne. “I’m going to England.”

“I bet it’s a long way on the train,” said Ernest. “Watch out for men in bowler hats.”

They both started laughing, remembering their first meeting. Ernest said, “Well, I just came to say good-bye. I brought you
something.” He handed Marianne an oddly-shaped package, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. “You can open it when I’m gone.”

A harsh voice called from downstairs, “Ernest, I forbade you to go upstairs again. Come down this minute.” Ernest straightened up, his arm flew out and, for a dreadful moment, Marianne thought he was going to say,
“Heil Hitler.”

Ernest stuck out his hand; Marianne took it. They shook hands.

“Good luck, Marianne. Perhaps you’ll come back to Berlin someday.”

“Good-bye. Thanks Ernest,” said Marianne.

Ernest ran downstairs, two steps at a time. The door of Number One closed behind him. Marianne went back inside her apartment and shut the door. She ripped open the parcel. Inside was Ernest’s most precious possession – the motor-horn. On the back of a postcard with a view of Unter den Linden, Ernest had written:

Marianne put the motor-horn in her coat pocket, and the postcard in her purse. Mr. Altmann had been right. Ernest was one of the brave voices.

“Who was that?” asked her mother.

“A friend,” said Marianne. “He came to say good-bye.”

I
n the subway all the way to the railway station, standing wedged tightly against her mother, Marianne was aware of Ernest’s present in her coat pocket. She repeated the words on the card silently to herself:

They comforted her a little.

Now and again, Mrs. Kohn smiled gently at Marianne. It was wiser not to speak in the compartment crowded with early-morning workers. Someone might be listening and cause problems.

It was a relief to get out at last into the frosty December air. Marianne looked at her watch: 7:15
A.M.
precisely. There was still almost three-quarters of an hour left. She needn’t say good-bye yet.

“Please let me carry my suitcase, Mutti. I have to get used to being on my own.” Mrs. Kohn didn’t argue, she just squeezed Marianne’s fingers and then handed her the case. They walked through the vast pillared doorway of the Berlin railway station. Immediately they were assaulted by sights and sounds of such confusion, noise, and terror that Marianne’s questions were left unspoken.

The glass and steel roof of the huge terminal was high and cavernous. The daylight, which entered through the tall windows, seemed pale in comparison to the blaze of electric light that lit up every sad face. There were seemingly endless railway tracks, which Marianne knew sent trains all over Europe. SS guards stood every few paces. Some had powerfully muscled watchdogs beside them. Marianne was afraid to look at the dogs. She thought, ‘If one jumps up at me, it could tear out my throat.’ Their leather collars gleamed as brightly as their masters’ glossy boots.

Once they’d passed through the barrier, Marianne and her mother found the platform crammed with children of all ages. Some in brand-new clothes, others wearing hand-me-downs, or so many layers that their faces were red and sweating.

Parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, older and younger brothers and sisters stood in mournful clumps, trying to create a small, last-minute zone of comfort to make their grief at being parted more private.

Marianne and her mother walked along the platform, jostling for a place to be alone for a minute.

“The journey won’t be easy, Marianne,” said her mother. “Have you got your lunch?”

“Right here, Mutti. I won’t starve,” said Marianne. Mrs. Kohn straightened Marianne’s label.

“How will you all manage with only three supervisors amongst so many children? And they have to come back to Berlin as soon as you reach the Dutch border. They promised the authorities, and if they don’t keep their word, the Nazis won’t allow any more children to leave. Oh, Marianne!” She suppressed a sob.

“Mutti, please stop worrying. I’m almost twelve years old. I can look after myself. There are children much younger than me going by themselves.” Marianne looked at the faces behind the barrier. “I thought perhaps, I hoped, you know, that Vati might come to see me off too. I know he can’t. I understand,” said Marianne. “Tell him…” The rest of her words were lost in a hiss of steam as the big green and black and chrome train pulled into the station.

“I’ll tell him, darling. I’ll tell him good-bye for you.”

A voice over the loudspeaker announced, “All Aboard.” Pandemonium, as people pushed and scrambled to get their children on board and settled.

“The adults have to wait behind the gate, Marianne. Be quick,” said Mrs. Kohn.

The station clock pointed to four minutes to 8:00
A.M.
Trains always left punctually in the Third
Reich.
Marianne grabbed her case and hurled it onto a wooden seat by the window to reserve
her place, then jumped down the high train steps to spend her last precious two minutes with her mother.

The train filled with children. Last-minute advice was shouted and whispered. Marianne saw a little boy jump into his mother’s arms, saw her carry him away through the gate and out of the station.

“I love you, Mutti, I’ll write as soon as I get to England. I’ll be alright, I promise I’ll be alright. I’ll remember everything you told me.”

“I have to go. We are not allowed to remain on the platform. I’ll wave from behind the barrier till you’re out of sight. Never forget how much we love you.” Mrs. Kohn put her hand to her daughter’s face. She kissed her cheek and hurried to stand with the other relatives.

Marianne’s eyes were so full of tears she had to feel her way back onto the train. She lifted her suitcase onto the rack. The station guard slammed the compartment doors one by one. The noise echoed along the train.

Just before the guard reached their compartment door, a woman threw in a rucksack, then lifted a little girl and stood her beside Marianne. “Please look after her. Thank you.” She kissed the child’s hand and moved away without looking back.

’I’m not going to talk about today,’ Marianne promised herself, ‘not even when I’m old and have children of my own. No one is going to believe this happened to us.’

The train whistled shrilly, and Marianne and the other children crowded round the window again to wave, until the station
was left far behind. They took off their coats and scarves. It was a relief to be away from the tension of the station. One of the boys put the little girl’s case on the rack for her.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’m Sophie Mandel. I’m seven.” They all introduced themselves. Werner was the tallest of the three boys; Heinz was the one who had helped Sophie.

“I’m Liselotte Blum,” said a pretty girl of about fourteen.

“And I’m Brigitte Levy.” A plump, dimpled face smiled in a friendly way at all of them.

“I’m Josef Stein,” said a curly-haired boy who looked about the same age as Ernest.

For the first time Marianne looked at the small girl with short, fair hair and dark eyes, sitting on the edge of the seat. She held a doll. Her legs, in wrinkled brown stockings and tightly laced brown ankle boots, swung far above the floor. Marianne smiled at the child who had been put in her charge. “I’m Marianne Kohn,” she said.

They all stared at each other, not feeling a bit shy, and there was almost a holiday feeling in the air.

Brigitte said, “What an adventure.”

Heinz said, “I’m starved. I was too nervous to eat breakfast. I’m going to eat my lunch now.” They all opened their lunch bags. Everyone had a thick sandwich and a piece of fruit. Marianne had cake as well. They cut up their sandwiches and shared. Marianne sliced her chocolate cake into seven pieces with Josef’s penknife, and Sophie contributed an orange from the pocket of her blue and white striped dress.

After lunch they practised English phrases, and taught Sophie to say, “The sun is shining.” The compartment smelled of orange peel and chocolate. They were hot and thirsty, and dozed off after awhile. Sophie slept soundly, her head on Marianne’s shoulder.

The train sped on toward the border.