Remember Me (10 page)

There’d been notices about schoolchildren being evacuated to the countryside, and lists of things to bring. They practiced and practiced how to behave on “the day.”

Perfect sunshine continued right through the summer holidays.

“Ma says she thinks my last year’s bathing suit will fit you. You do know how to swim, don’t you?” Bridget handed Marianne a bright blue shirred elastic suit.

Marianne remembered the last time she’d gone to the swimming baths in Berlin. There was a large notice beside the booth where you paid for your entrance fee. It said:
JEWS AND DOGS NOT ADMITTED
.

Her mother had taken her hand and they’d walked past. She’d said, “Another time, perhaps, darling.” Now here she was doing all those things that she’d missed so much. The knowledge that her mother couldn’t share this golden summer nagged at her, making her feel guilty at having fun. The thought kept
returning like a wasp that came back even after you’d swatted it away.

“I don’t believe there’s going to be a war. It’s much too hot, who’d want to fight?” Bridget said, fanning herself with the copy of
Film Fun
she’d been reading.

The girls finished their sandwiches. They ate in Bridget’s garden, or in the park, most afternoons.

“Your Anderson shelter looks pretty. I like the flowerpots your mother arranged at the side. Kind of like a rockery, with all that greenery on top. Uncle Geoffrey told us, ‘I refuse to ruin my lawn or disturb my roses for that tin contraption. We will use the cupboard under the stairs if there is any danger from bombs.’ Gladys and I had to clear out the cupboard. I don’t know how I’m going to sit in that cubbyhole breathing in smoke from Uncle Geoffrey’s pipe and listening to Aunt Vera complaining about everything.”

“The Anderson smells damp already, and there’s slugs. Think of stepping on them in the dark – ugh! Let’s hope there’ll never be an air raid,” said Bridget, sharing her Milky Way bar with Marianne.

On August 29, the school recalled the girls for a final evacuation dress rehearsal. The headmistress told them to keep their rucksacks and bags packed, as they might have to leave at any moment. They were told to bring a stamped addressed card so they could write their parents as soon as they knew their new addresses. Even the teachers had no idea where they were going.

Bridget smiled at Marianne, who deliberately pretended not to see. She hated being pitied because she had no parents to send information to. The moment war broke out, she’d be cut off from her family forever. She really would be an orphan.

On the way home from school, Bridget and Marianne stopped to watch the swans in Regent’s Park. “What will happen to them in an air raid, do you think?” Marianne asked.

“They’ll hide under the little bridge, or in the rushes, I expect. They’ll be alright. Stop worrying so much, Mary Anne.”

“Can’t help it. Bridget, I’ve had the same dream two nights in a row.”

“You mean a nightmare?”

“No, this time it’s a good dream. I’m standing on the platform at the station – a train’s just come in. The guard opens the carriage door and my mother comes down the steps, and she’s holding out her arms to me. It means she’s coming, doesn’t it?”

“Or that the letter’s on its way saying when she’s going to arrive. Or, listen, Mary Anne, it may mean that you want it to happen so much.…”

“You mean wishful thinking, don’t you? It isn’t only that, I won’t believe that. I’m going to the station every single day to wait for her.”

“Everyday?”

“I have to go. I’ll tell you something I haven’t told anyone. I went to Liverpool Street Station once before. I mean, I never actually got there. I turned back. It was after I arrived. I was so lonely. Then I got scared.”

“Of what? What did you think could happen?”

“I don’t know exactly. I couldn’t speak much English, and it reminded me of leaving Berlin. There was no point in going anyway. I wouldn’t have known anyone. I’m going to try again. I know that if I do this, she’ll be there.”

Bridget said, “I’ll call for you in the morning. Wait for me. We’ll go together the first time. You don’t have to go alone.”

Next morning the household was in a small uproar. Marianne could tell Gladys was upset by the way she put down the plates. She’d learnt to watch for danger signals even before she could speak English properly. It was important to do that when you lived in someone else’s home.

Aunt Vera was speaking in her highest voice and her cheeks were flushed as though she’d put on too much rouge. “I’m afraid you’ll have to manage, Gladys. I’m sorry about your afternoon off, but it can’t be helped. We’re almost at war. I shall catch the 9:10
A.M.
to Torquay. Mr. Abercrombie Jones thinks he has found a flat that might do for us while his office is relocated. Please keep the wireless on, in case of any announcements.”

“Do you mean about trains to Torquay, Aunt Vera?” Marianne asked.

“Are you being impertinent, or is this another example of your German sense of humor?”

Marianne met Aunt Vera’s eyes. It was hard not to answer back. There was no point in aggravating Aunt Vera when she was in this mood. “I’m sorry, Aunt Vera, I did not understand what you meant,” Marianne said politely.

Mrs. Abercrombie Jones turned to Gladys, who was wiping the table. “There may be a government announcement concerning the evacuation, or a declaration of war at any moment. Mary Anne, give your room a thorough cleaning and polish the floor, please. Everything must be ready.” Aunt Vera swept out of the room.

Ready for what? Do invaders care if the floors are shiny?

There was a knock on the scullery door.

“My hands are soapy,” said Gladys.

Marianne opened the door.

“Bridget, I was waiting for you. I’ll get my blazer and tell Gladys we’ll be gone the rest of the day.”

“No, don’t. I can’t stay. I have to go straight back home, but first I’ve got to tell you something. Come out a minute.” Bridget looked pale. Her eyes were red, as though she’d been crying.

Marianne shut the door behind them, and they crossed the street and walked down Wellington Road towards the park. “What happened?” Marianne asked. “Aren’t you allowed to come to the station?”

“Much worse than that.” Bridget blew her nose. “I’m leaving for Canada. Uncle John sent a telegram from Montreal. It said:
SEND BRIDGET IMMEDIATELY
. Then Pa telephoned and it’s all arranged – I’m going.”

“It’s awfully far away,” said Marianne.

“I begged Pa,” said Bridget. “I told him I wanted to go with the school, that we wanted to stay together. I said, ‘I’m not a baby – I’m entitled to my opinion,’ and Pa slammed his fist on the table
and said, ‘The subject is not up for discussion. John is my elder brother. You will be safe with him.’ Then he stormed out.”

“Didn’t your mother say anything?” Marianne asked, hoping that somehow it would end happily, that somehow they wouldn’t be parted.

“Naturally, she took Pa’s side. She said it’s important to be with your own flesh and blood, and how Canada was a wonderful country, and about the food and fresh air, and how it wouldn’t be for long. You know the kind of things parents say.”

“When are you leaving?” Marianne asked very quietly, trying not to show how upset she was.

“The boat sails tomorrow,” said Bridget. “I have to break my promise. Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. I understand,” said Marianne.

They walked back without talking anymore. When they reached the corner of Circus Road, Bridget handed her a note. “Here is my address in Canada. I wrote it out for you. Tell me everything that happens to you and your parents, and oh, Mary Anne, I wish you were coming with me and let’s always stay friends.”

They hugged good-bye.

When Marianne got back, she went up to her bedroom and closed the door quietly. Then she threw herself on her bed and cried and cried.

It was late before she finished cleaning her room, too late to go to the station.

M
arianne got up very early next morning. She scribbled a note to Gladys: “I’ll be back tonight, something I must do.”

Luckily Gladys was still talking to the milkman on the front steps, so she didn’t need to explain. She grabbed a couple of apples and put them in her blazer pocket. Closing the door carefully behind her, she ran to catch the bus that would take her to her mother.

The number eleven stopped at the end of the High Street. Marianne held tightly to the wooden railings so as not to lose her balance as she climbed to the top of the bus. The penny halfpenny ride took her through the heart of London. Marianne knew that the moment war was declared, the lights of all the neon signs in Piccadilly Circus, advertising
BOVRIL, SCHWEPPES
, the latest films, would be blacked out. She couldn’t imagine the whole city in darkness.

The statue of the little boy Eros had sandbags around the base. They were piled up around Nelson’s Column in Trafalgar Square, too.

The bus went down Threadneedle Street. Marianne visualized all the tailors and seamstresses who had worked and lived here over the centuries, for whom the street had been named. She was sure there were immigrants like her among them. Now they were passing St. Paul’s Cathedral – the spires seemed to touch the sky.

The conductor rang the bell. “Liverpool Street Station, next stop.”

Marianne hurried down the steps of the bus. The station was just as she remembered it: the tall wrought-iron gates next to the taxi ramp, the newsboys brandishing their papers, the shining glass roof. Today the sun glared through. It was too hot to wear a blazer. Marianne suddenly realized she could understand all the announcements. She did not even have to translate the words first.

She asked a porter, “Which platform for the boat train from Harwich, please?”

“Platform five, ducks, due in three minutes,” he said.

A boy shouted a news headline:
HITLER SEEKS ENGLISH GERMAN FRIENDSHIP
.

A soldier leaning against a pillar said, “Not bloody likely.” And stubbed out his cigarette, grinding it into the floor.

Marianne followed a large woman, her husband, and two children onto platform five. The train was just coming in. The ticket
collector must have thought she belonged to the family – he didn’t ask to see her platform ticket. She hadn’t bought one. She was trying to save money for when her mother arrived.

The platform was packed with friends, families, and officials to greet the new arrivals. They surged forward as the compartments emptied. Snatches of Polish, French, German, and Czech floated in the air.

Marianne searched the faces of the passengers. There were students with bulging rucksacks, businessmen wearing Homburg hats and carrying briefcases, tired-looking men and women, some wearing fur coats in spite of the heat. They looked pale and lost standing among their luggage, as though waiting to be rescued.

A woman in a navy coat and hat stood by an open carriage door, her back to Marianne.

She is here.
“Mutti!” Marianne ran forward.

The woman turned round slowly, and looked straight at Marianne. Then she raised her hand and waved and smiled, and a man moved out of the crowd towards her. He put out his arms and lifted a little girl from the steps of the carriage. The woman clung to his arm and they walked very close together towards the exit.

Marianne felt dizzy for a moment, as though she were going to faint.

A group of about forty children, labels round their necks, filed neatly past Marianne – not talking, trying to be brave.

Is that what I looked like when I came?
Marianne wanted to call out “Don’t be afraid,” but her mouth felt too dry to speak and she
didn’t know whether to say it in English or German. She pulled out one of her apples and gave it to a small boy, trailing at the end of the line. He reminded her of Bernard.

Marianne waited until four o’clock. Many other trains arrived during that long hot day.

A train guard holding a green flag asked, “Are you waiting for someone?”

“I’m meeting my mother; she’s coming from Harwich.”

“That was the last boat train for today,” the official said.

“Thank you, Sir.” Numbly, Marianne walked away and out of the station.

On the way home on the bus, all Marianne could think was,
She isn’t coming. Not today, not ever.

When she got in, Gladys said, “Where’ve you
been?
The announcement came.” Then she looked at Marianne and said, “You look in a daze. Did you hear what I said? It was on the wireless. You’re being evacuated tomorrow. You have to be at school at 6:30
A.M.
sharp. Hurry up now and eat your tea, then put your things together. I’ll make you cheese and tomato sandwiches for the journey, shall I?”

“Thank you, Gladys,” said Marianne. She slumped down on the kitchen chair.

“Don’t slump, Marianne. You’re such a pretty girl.” Marianne looked up. Her mother’s voice was as clear as if she were sitting beside her. There was the voice again. “You mean you haven’t eaten all day? Drink your milk at once, please. You need your strength for the journey.” Marianne drank her milk to the last
drop without stopping. She ate three slices of bread and gooseberry jam, and a piece of sultana cake.

Gladys said, “Mrs. Abercrombie Jones rang up. She can’t get back till after you leave. She said to give you half a crown from the housekeeping.” She slid a coin across the table. “They’re closing up the house and staying in Torquay till all this is over.”

“But war hasn’t started yet. There’s got to be time,” Marianne said agonizingly, hoping her mother could still reach her.

“Time for what? You’ve been out too long in the sun. I give it three days at most. Friday, tomorrow, first of September. You’ll see.”

Marianne stood and hung up her blazer. Her fingers touched the gold school crest on the pocket.
IN GOD WE TRUST
. There was nothing she could do to stop the war coming. Lots of people would be separated from one another; she wasn’t the only one – Bridget and her family, Mutti and Vati, thousands of children and their parents. She’d better start acting her age, be stronger, and not feel sorry for herself all the time. She’d begin right this minute.
I’ll be someone my parents can be proud of, so I’ll have nothing to be ashamed of after the war’s over. Wars don’t last forever. Mutti could still get here.