Remember Me (4 page)

Mrs. Abercrombie Jones stared at her. Her husband looked over the top of his paper, said “London, England,” and laughed as if he’d said something funny. “Here, I’ll write down the address for you,” he said.

Even English handwriting looked different.

“Also, please, your name?”

The lady said, “Mr. and Mrs. Abercrombie Jones.”

He wrote some more. “Bit of a mouthful, isn’t it? Tell you what? You call me Uncle Geoffrey; and my wife, Aunt Vera. Go on, try it. I’ll write it down for you.”

His wife said something to him, and did not look pleased.

Marianne said, “Onkel Geoffrey,” sounding a soft
J
as in the German
Ja
. Then, “Aunt Wera.”

The newspaper went up over the Onkel’s face, and Marianne could see the paper shaking.
He’s laughing at me. What’s so funny?
Vati always said she had a good English accent.

Aunt Vera said, “Mary Anne, in English we say
V
; it is a hard sound, and Uncle Geoffrey’s name is pronounced with a G. Do you understand?”

Marianne nodded. She was so tired. “Please, Aunt Wera, I need stamp,” and she held out one of the big round pennies that
had been given to her for the ten marks each child had managed to exchange in Harwich.

Uncle Geoffrey waved the penny away, took out his wallet, and gave her a stamp.

“A present.”

“Sank you. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Mary Anne,” Aunt Vera said with a sigh.

The Onkel grunted something behind his paper.

Marianne closed the door and went upstairs. Back in her room, she undressed quickly and tried to get under the bed-clothes. The blanket and sheet were tucked in so tightly under the mattress that she could hardly pull them free.
How do people get into bed in this country?
The sheets were so cold they felt damp. She longed for her cosy feather bed.

Marianne got up again, put on her dressing gown and socks, and took her writing paper from her suitcase. Then she sat up on the bed and began her first letter home, carefully copying out her new address.

She wrote: “Dear Mutti and Vati,” and stopped. Even writing a letter presented problems.
Should I write to both my parents? What about my grandparents?
If the Nazis got hold of her letter, they’d find Mutti and shout: “Where is your husband?” She knew Opa would shout back: “Leave us alone,” and they’d all be dragged off to prison.

Marianne crossed out “Vati.” Now that Mutti was moving to Düsseldorf to live with Oma and Opa, they could share her letter and get in touch with her father when it was safe to do so.
If only
I’d had a chance to say good-bye to them all.
Marianne wondered how her father felt when he found out she’d left for England.
How could our lives have changed so fast? One minute we were all together and the next, I’m here, in this cold green room, in a house where people talk loudly at me and laugh at things I can’t understand.
The linoleum creaked outside her door.
Is someone coming in to say goodnight, to tuck me in?
No one did. Doors shut. The house was silent.

I’ll write my letter tomorrow.
Marianne got into bed, pulled the covers over her head, and held her poor skinny teddy bear tightly. She talked to him the way she used to when she was a little girl. “We’re on holiday abroad, that’s all. The reason you feel strange is because it’s only the second night away from home. You’ll soon get used to it.”

If she kept her eyes closed and concentrated on teddy’s familiar old fur smell, home didn’t seem so far away.

Marianne half whispered, half sang the words of the lullaby her mother used to sing to her:

Teddy’s thinning fur was wet with tears before the song was over.

They slept.

M
arianne woke up on her first Saturday in England and stared at the overhead lightbulb. It was on. She must have fallen asleep before she’d switched it off.

She was starving. When she went down to the kitchen, it was lovely and warm. A place had been set for Marianne at one end of the scrubbed table.

“Porridge,” said Gladys, as she placed a bowl of some kind of gray pudding in front of Marianne. “Here, I’ll show you.” She sprinkled sugar over the top and poured milk from a glass bottle, then swiftly cut triangles of toast and arranged them in a silver toast rack on a tray and left the room.

Marianne eagerly spooned up the porridge. It was lucky that Gladys wasn’t there just then because the first mouthful almost made Marianne gag. Quickly she scraped the food into the sink and turned on the tap, so that by the time Gladys came back, Marianne was sitting down again, the empty bowl in front of
her. She could almost smell the warm crusty rolls her mother always served for breakfast, with homemade black cherry jam. She wanted to be with her so much that she had to dig her nails into her palms to stop from crying.

Marianne tried to imagine what her mother was doing. She might be in Düsseldorf by now. After they’d got the notice from Mrs. Schwartz saying she wouldn’t allow Jewish tenants in the building anymore, Mutti had said she’d leave as soon as she’d packed up.

“I don’t think I can bear it,” Marianne said, and only Gladys’ stare of surprise and her “what did you say?” made her realize she’d spoken aloud, and in German.
I mustn’t do that again. Do the other kids from the transport feel this mixed up?

Mrs. Abercrombie Jones walked into the kitchen, her coat over her arm.

“Good morning, Mary Anne.”

“Good morning, Aunt.…” Marianne had forgotten how to pronounce the “aunt’s” name.

“Aunt Vera,” prompted her sponsor. “Gladys, we are leaving now.”

Leaving? Who is leaving? Leaving means going away. Am I being returned to Liverpool Street Station?

Marianne heard her name – she was supposed to do something.
What is it?
Marianne knew she had to pay more attention. She’d missed most of their conversation. She didn’t know why her thoughts kept drifting.

Mrs. Abercrombie Jones left the kitchen.

Gladys put a duster in Marianne’s hand. “You dust downstairs. Come on, I’ll show you.”

Marianne was afraid she might break something, or put things back in the wrong place, and only dusted around objects, not daring to move anything. At last she was done and could go upstairs, make her bed, and settle down to write home.

Marianne didn’t want to upset her mother. She was determined to hide her homesickness and how much she wished she’d never come. Instead, she tried to write cheerfully.

The scene in the train compartment, when the Gestapo emptied the contents of the suitcases on the floor, flashed in front of Marianne. She’d never forget the greedy eyes of the man who’d stolen Werner’s stamp album. Funny how she could remember the names of every one of the children she’d traveled with, yet found it so hard to recall Aunt Vera’s.

Marianne tried not to think about the way the Gestapo officer had hit her bear across his knee, the way he’d wrenched off the head of Sophie’s doll. She relived the moment when she’d edged her foot forward to cover the letter from her mother that had slipped out of its hiding place in the sleeve of Marianne’s party dress.

Marianne got out of bed and ran across the cold floor to get her mother’s letter from its hiding place in the lining in her suitcase. She smoothed the page carefully and read her mother’s words:

She folded up the letter carefully and put it back in her suitcase. She knew she would never own anything more precious than this. Marianne had to wipe her eyes before she could continue writing her own letter.

“I’m fine.”
Will Mutti know this is a lie? I’m not fine. I’m afraid.
Not afraid of being beaten up in the streets by gangs of Hitler Youth, nor the kind of fear she’d felt when she saw the body of the man tumbling down from the window of his house in the square. This was a kind of fear she’d never experienced before – wanting to cry all the time because she didn’t know what to do, or what was expected of her; not knowing how long it would be
before Mutti could come for her; afraid because she did not belong anywhere and was trying not to show how strange she felt in this English house.

“Please give my love to
everyone
.” Marianne underlined the word twice. “Don’t worry about me. I know you’ll try to come here soon.

When Marianne asked Gladys where to post her letter, Gladys said, “Turn right at the end of the street. The pillar-box is around the corner; it’s red.” Marianne found the way easily.

She’d be brave, walk on and explore a bit. There was nothing else for her to do. She hadn’t seen any books or games when she was dusting.

Marianne walked along the High Street. The shops were crowded, and so were the pavements. Some windows already had Christmas decorations in them. Marianne looked for a bookshop, and found one. It was much bigger than the one her father used to work in. She looked eagerly at the display. At the top of a pyramid of books was a familiar red cover –
Mein Kampf
by Adolf Hitler. The black swastika looked huge. It stared at her.

Suddenly Marianne began to run, pushing through the shoppers as if Hitler himself were after her. She did not stop until she had a pain in her side, and her lungs hurt. She leaned against some park railings to catch her breath. She must stop being so silly. Her father always talked about “freedom to choose.” This
was a free country, so bookshops could sell anything they wanted to. But why choose that book?

Marianne went inside the park. It didn’t look like a place to be afraid of. A river wound in curves through the green lawns. Fat ducks swam among reeds, or sheltered under overhanging trees. Unexpected fountains, small ornate bridges, and paving stones in intricate patterns surprised her. A small girl bowling a red hoop just avoided crashing into her. “Be careful,” called the girl’s mother. Marianne knew what the words meant from the woman’s gesture. She thought longingly of the times she’d groaned when Mutti told her to be careful. She’d give anything to hear it now.

An old lady was feeding pigeons. She made room on the bench for Marianne to sit down, then carefully poured some bird seed from a paper bag into Marianne’s hand. A pigeon alighted on Marianne’s wrist. A small boy with a red kite ran around making bird noises and the pigeons scattered. The old lady said, “Goodbye, dear,” and left.

It was getting cold; other people were leaving. This was the first time Marianne could remember sitting on a bench that wasn’t marked
FOR ARYANS ONLY
– the first time she’d been in a park where Jews could sit anywhere they liked, not only on yellow benches. It was late; the afternoon was over.

When she found her way out of the gates, she didn’t know which way to go. She must have come out through a different entrance. It was almost dark.
I’m lost.
An English policeman walked past her.
Is it safe to speak to him?

“Please,” Marianne sobbed.

He turned and walked back and looked at her. “Now then,” he said, “no need to cry. Did someone hurt you?”

Marianne hadn’t realized she was crying. She shook her head, wiped her eyes, and fumbled for the piece of paper with her address on it. The policeman took it. He spoke too fast for Marianne to understand more than a few “lefts” and “rights.”

“Please, I don’t understand,” she said.

“Follow me,” said the policeman, and walked her all the way home to her gate.

Aunt Vera’s horrified face, when Gladys opened the front door and said, “Here she is, Madam,” told Marianne that she must have seen the policeman. “Where have you been? What will the neighbors think?” She sounded very angry. Not worried – angry – embarrassed angry.

“Sorry,” said Marianne. “I lose the way.”

Aunt Vera talked loudly at her for a long time before sending her into the kitchen for tea. Marianne was in disgrace.