Lilli's Quest (11 page)

“But I only want to comfort her,” I pleaded to the snub-nosed Miss A., whose piercing blue eyes glared at me coldly through rimless eyeglasses.

When I was allowed to see my aunt, who now lay in her bed, pale, listless and drugged, she insisted on talking about my future. “You must finish school, Helga dear, no matter what the difficulties, and you must go on to college. Herman and I have talked about this, and he will see you through. And,” she added, “you should seek a profession or a career, not just marriage. You mustn't be a ninny like me. I never even finished high school. I was lucky to have met your uncle. But I did nothing at all important with my . . . life.” Aunt Harriette's breathing had become labored, and Nurse Anderson bore down on me like a bird of prey and shooed me out of the bedroom.

A few weeks later, on the cusp of Christmas, Aunt Harriette died at home. At the end, her sickroom was equipped with an oxygen tent and other life-saving devices, all to no avail.

The burial took place on a Sunday. It was preceded by a religious ceremony at a Jewish chapel. I had never been to an event like this before. As people began to gather prior to entering the chapel, I shrank to the sidelines. Among my aunt and uncle's neighbors, friends, and acquaintances, I knew no one. Everybody, however, seemed to know me. I was “the niece brought over from Europe.” They were “sorry” for my loss. No one could have known the true depth of my sorrow. Was I destined to lose everybody—Papa, Mutti, my two sisters—and
now the healing and joyful spirit of my aunt? Again, I saw this as fitting punishment for my betrayal of Helga.

As the only relatives (no one from Aunt Harriette's widely-dispersed family came to the service and burial), Uncle Herman and I sat alone in the first row of the chapel, which was reserved for mourners from the immediate family. A closed coffin of richly-carved mahogany rested on a bier beside the rabbi's pulpit. I closed my eyes to avoid the sight of the coffin, as well as that of the black-bearded rabbi, whose meaningless words had nothing in the world to do with Aunt Harriette. I doubted that he had even known her.

Once the service was over, we were instructed to get into our cars and follow the hearse to the cemetery, for the “interment.” How elegant these Americans made the process of parting with the remains of the deceased. A grassy green cloth had been laid around the newly dug grave. There were more words from the rabbi, and then the coffin was slowly lowered by whispering machinery into the earth. A shovel was handed to Uncle Herman to cover the costly, burnished coffin with the first clods of earth. My turn was next, and then the shovel was passed from one mourner to the next to complete the symbolic gesture. We all left the grave site before the real covering up of the coffin began.

Following the funeral, we gathered in my aunt and uncle's house for a sumptuous banquet. A large buffet
table was laden with what Mrs. Brandt explained to Isabel and me were customary Jewish funeral foods. Salty smoked fish was served to replace the tears shed for the dead, and eggs appeared on the table as symbols of the renewal of life. In addition to these, there was an array of salads, cheeses, fresh rolls, and all sorts of miniature pastries. Two hired servants and Maggie, the housekeeper, prepared alcoholic drinks and poured coffee.

The serious tenor of the mourners at the funeral had given way to a lighter atmosphere. Two of Aunt Harriette's women friends stood, cocktails in hand, admiring each other's jewelry. Uncle Herman's business acquaintances were off in a corner, chatting and drinking highballs and feasting on imported smoked salmon and black caviar. Isabel was greedily filling a plate with tiny chocolate eclairs and jam-filled tarts.

I turned my back on the self-comforting assembly, and hurried up the stairs to my room. Its cheerful flowered chintz and crisp organdy trappings, caringly designed by Aunt Harriette, were all wrong for me. I didn't belong here anymore than I did with the merry crowd downstairs.

Just for a moment, I thought of Uncle Herman. I hadn't seen him since we had returned to the house. Surely, he was downstairs somewhere among the guests?

However, I could not and would not go down there again.

Hastily, I began to pack, concentrating on warm clothes, sturdy boots, and taking along my ice skates. This time I knew exactly where I was going. I took one last look around my artificial world, the home I never deserved. Then, stealthily, dressed in a wool cap and a heavily padded jacket, I descended the back stairs at the opposite end of the long corridor of sleeping rooms, and headed directly for the railroad station.

Thirteen

A ten minute walk in the icy air of a late December day brought me to the Westchester branch line, from which I could change trains for Harper's Falls. I had learned about this from Ruth, when we were at Shady Pines. “If you're at your aunt's house this winter, you can easily get up here by train to visit us where we live in town,” she had told me hospitably, explaining that the hotel itself was closed until late spring. “There's ice-skating and skiing just outside town. You'd have fun.”

“Harper's Falls?” asked the woman at the ticket window. Even though a fire was burning in a pot-bellied stove across the room, she was bundled up against the cold. “I could sell you a ticket, but you wouldn't get there tonight. You'd have to get off to change trains at Highwater Junction. Nothing going out of there until morning.”

I looked around nervously. “But I want to leave now.”

“Okay by me, young lady. Only don't get mad when you sit up there in Highwater all night freezing your tootsies off. Next train out of here's in ten minutes. Want to grab it?”

“Yes,” I said emphatically. I could neither go back to the house I'd just run away from, nor could I take the chance of being caught so close to the scene of my escape.

Unlike the New York City subway where I'd been shadowed by the police officer, the train for Highwater Junction came in quietly and I stepped aboard, grateful to find asylum so quickly.

To my surprise, the car was filled with soldiers, many of whom were lying across the seats in various positions of sleep. My entrance, though, seemed to cause a ripple of interest, for several of the men straightened up and patted the seats beside them invitingly. I looked around quickly to see if there were any women in the railway car. Seeing none, I took a seat beside an older man wearing glasses and sergeant's stripes. Since my experience at the USO, I was frightened of hot-headed younger soldiers. But who knew if it was any safer sitting next to a non-commissioned officer?

“Going upstate for the skiing?” my seat companion inquired by way of opening a conversation.

I nodded, fearful of even saying “yes.” Suppose he picked up on my accent. Would there be a replay of the melee at the USO? I leaned back in my seat as far as I could and closed my eyes.

“Okay, miss,” the voice beside me said, with a sharp thrust of sarcasm. “I guess there are some Americans
who don't care to talk to the men who are ready to fight for their freedom.”

His words stung, but I kept my eyes shut and willed myself into a state of numbness for an hour or so, until the conductor called out “Highwater Junction!”

The sergeant nudged me. “You getting off here by any chance, duchess?”

I quickly gathered my things, murmuring a “thank you,” which must have puzzled him, and fled.

It was dark and extremely cold on the open-air platform, which was speckled with falling snow. I headed for the waiting room, anticipating a pot-bellied stove giving off welcoming warmth while I waited for the first train to Harper's Falls early the next morning. However, the coal fire had been banked and the ticket window was closed. The snack counter was covered with only a large white cloth, offering access to puny white bread sandwiches wrapped in wax paper and a variety of dried-out muffins and stale doughnuts. I pulled two chairs as close to the dwindling warmth of the stove as I could and prepared to stretch out for some real rather than feigned sleep.

While it was wonderful to be alone, without questioners and threats of being taken into custody, I wondered how safe I was, alone in the dimly lit waiting room. Although no more trains were scheduled to arrive in Highwater Junction that night, anyone from the surrounding area had access to the station. Even
though the war effort was now giving employment to many Americans who had been without jobs during the Great Depression of the 1930s, there were still plenty of vagrants who slept in doorways or camped out in vacant lots. Robberies and murders committed by such people were reported in the newspapers every day.

But I could not afford to be fearful. What, after all, was I doing here? I was playing out my own death wish. I had gone as far as I could go. I believed that the end of my life in America lay before me.

The following morning, I timidly opened the door to “Roy's” cabin. Outside, no people or vehicles were anywhere in sight. The snow of the night before had stopped. The air was icy and crisp. It was a glistening, sun-drenched day. I knew at once that it would be perfect for skating on the lake that served the bungalow colony in summer.

Having arrived on the early train from Highwater Junction, I'd barely had time to examine the interior of the cottage. In the semi-dark, I had retrieved the key from its hiding place, and, once inside, thrown myself onto the nearest bed. Wrapped in all the blankets I could find, I made up for the lost sleep of the night I'd spent in the chilly waiting room. I had also brought a sandwich and a doughnut along from the Highwater Junction snack counter (for which I'd left payment).

But I soon discovered that the cabin was stocked with canned goods. Did this mean that Roy's relatives might be planning on using the place during the Christmas holiday? One thing was clear to me—I couldn't stay here long.

On departing the cottage, I noticed that my hiking boots were leaving telltale footprints in the fallen snow, a sure means of detection. All I could do was hope that the sun would quickly melt them.

I hastened on toward the wooded area that led to the lake, where I took a circuitous route that I had discovered during my visit in the summer. At last the lake came into view, crystalline and deserted. How marvelous it was going to be to skate endlessly in solitude, without the suspicious stares of our German playmates, already indoctrinated into the Nazi teachings regarding Jews.

I gave a final tug to my boot laces and shouted into the stillness, “This is for you, Helga!” There had been so many times in Germany when Helga and I had been driven off the ice, first with catcalls and later with stones. When we came home one time with bloody foreheads, Papa strictly forbade our leaving the house on Heinrichstrasse again.

As I glided toward the icy expanse before me, I could see that the lake had not completely over. Dark patches of ice, so thin that one could see the water beneath, were scattered about the spots that were covered with packed snow. I quickly mapped out a safe route, giving myself up
to the joy of moving freely and lightly, as though I were disembodied. Magically, I was transported to a much earlier time, before Jews were forbidden to participate in leisure-time activities. Helga and I, as well as Mutti and Papa and Elspeth, were enjoying a family skating party. Papa was calling out, admiring our not very skillful leaps and jumps, and everyone was laughing as Elspeth fell down on her backside and kicked her little legs in the air, squealing like a piglet. How amazing! I could even hear their voices shouting, “H-e-l-g-a, H-e-l-g-a.”

What did they want with my sister? She was fine, skating in loops around me, here one moment, gone the next. It was something she liked to do in her innate teasing way. There had always been a dark, unknowable side to her.

“H-e-l-g-a,” again. A hoarse, urgent voice, not Mutti or Papa. And, with that, my reverie was shattered. I looked up to see Isabel struggling toward me across the ice, some of it so thin that a dropped coin would have cracked it into transparent shards. Behind her, on the shore, stood Ruth, trying to warn Isabel, as she staggered on in clumsy boots, that the lake surface was dangerous. Ruth, who lived up here year-round, knew these things. But Isabel was . . . Isabel. Even though I tried to wave her away, she continued her awkward pursuit. She wanted to talk to me. How did Isabel even know I was here? The answer came in a flash. While I'd been at Aunt
Harriette's, she had once again been snooping among my things. She had found Roy's letter and read it!

Furious, I skated away from her. She was a ruthless busybody, who couldn't keep her clutches off me or my things. Why did she even care so much? Why couldn't she just . . .

A loud crash. Isabel had fallen on the ice and was scrambling to get up, slipping and sliding, and falling down again. Ruth was screaming instructions to her. But Isabel continued to flop like a panicked baby sea lion. Foolish and reckless as she was, I knew that Isabel was now in real danger. I hastened to her side. She looked at me with wide, grateful eyes as I helped her to her feet, and carefully escorted her in the direction of the shore. For once, Isabel had taken one of her compulsions too far, and I could see that she had truly been frightened.

“Oh, Helga, thank you. But why wouldn't you listen to me before? How could you run away like that? Everybody is so worried, Helga . . .”

I glared at her, stone-faced. I had heard these admonitions so many times. Why could nobody allow me to suffer my guilt? Angry tears filled my eyes. It was time at last to spit out the truth, and take the consequences, whatever they might be.

“Listen to me, Isabel,” I declared firmly, “I am
not
Helga. I am never Helga. You must not call me that again.”

“If you aren't Helga, who are you?” Isabel asked, startled.

“I am Lilli,” I answered “My name is Lilli. I am the elder sister of Helga . . . and I have done her a terrible injustice.”

Isabel, Ruth, and I sat at the kitchen table in the comfort of the Moskin home as Ruth's mother—who cooked all the delicious meals at Shady Pines—warmed us up with hot tea and feed us her thick, buttery cookies, sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon.

Bitterly, I had thrust my Kindertransport “passport” on the table so that all present could witness my guilt. Isabel studied the photo of the real Helga, wearing a white Peter Pan collar, her dark hair cut short. “Well,” she commented, “the picture's kind of muddy. But that could have been you back in 1939, before you grew your hair long. I still don't understand, though.”

Painfully, I described Helga's stubbornness and her flight that day from the Bayer house, my pursuit of her, and how it came about that I broke her arm and dislocated her shoulder. The words of understanding and sympathy that I received from my three listeners only sent me into a further paroxysm of weeping into the already-sopping handkerchief that had been proffered by Mrs. Moskin. I was grateful for their kind remarks, absolving me from any wrongdoing. “But,” I declared
with fierce assertion, “when this war is over, I will go back to Europe, to Holland, to search for Helga and Elspeth and Mutti. I will never give up. I must find out what happened to them, and especially to Helga.”

“Of course, my dear child,” said Mrs. Moskin, placing her work-worn, yet surprisingly gentle hand over mine.

“Yes, you will,” added Isabel and Ruth, piling their hands on top of hers. “You will.”

Isabel and I sat in silence in the back seat of my uncle's Cadillac. As soon as he and Mr. Brandt had been advised that Isabel and I were safe, they had set out for Harper's Falls to collect us.

We had first driven to the bungalow colony, so that I could retrieve the belongings I had left there. “You know, miss,” Mr. Brandt reprimanded, “you could have been arrested for breaking and entering. Where did you get the nerve to—”

“Staying in the cabin was all right,” Isabel broke in hastily. “She knows the people who live there in the summer. They said it was okay to use.”

Mr. Brandt threw up his hands. “I never heard of such a thing. Where do you kids find these so-called friends? Where do you get your ideas?” Ever since his arrival, he had been in a tizzy as to whether to scold Isabel for her bold excursion, or to praise her for having tracked me to my lair.

Uncle Herman, on the other hand, displayed his usual calm exterior. I had the sense, though, as he embraced me on his arrival and patted my back reassuringly, that he and I would soon be having a serious talk about my future. How could I possibly return to live with the Brandts? There were years of schooling ahead, and how could Isabel and I make peace with each other? I was supposed to be grateful to her for having “saved” my life when I had been so ready to throw it away. Without mentioning the unmentionable (her having read Roy's letter), Isabel tried to tell me that her nosiness about my private life was only for the purpose of understanding the war and the terrible deeds of Hitler. “I had to know all about your struggles getting out of Nazi Germany, so I could get the kids and teachers at Simpleton to feel ashamed of that awful ‘Sieg Heil.' I learned so much from the things you told me. When you first moved in with us, I was such a stupid ninny . . .”

Isabel's words trailed off. I knew she was trying to apologize for her coldness at Shady Pines, and for her ongoing snooping. As to her unwanted intervention that afternoon on the lake, it had at least given me a new resolve. I would, in every way I could, fulfill my vow to one day return to Europe and find whatever remnants there were of my family.