Remember Me Read online

  “It’s a brilliant idea – of course I will,” said Bridget.

  “Sank you,” said Marianne.

  “Th, put your tongue between your teeth like this, thank you,” said Bridget.

  “Thank you,” said Marianne. “Is better?”

  “Much,” said Bridget. “We can put the advertisements under doors, even if no one’s home.”

  “Hurry, Bridget, I can’t wait longer,” said Marianne.

  “Let’s look what they say in the Times under DOMESTIC SITUATIONS REQUIRED. You read it, Mary Anne. It’s good practice for you.”

  Marianne said, “This one’s from a girl in Berlin! From Turinerstrasse. Listen: ‘I am a girl of eighteen who likes dressmaking and is fond of children.’ We can write like this for my mother?” She almost shouted.

  “Easy. Just change the words a bit. I’ll write it down for now, and type it up on Pa’s typewriter later. I’m a bit slow, but I’m accurate. We’ll go together. Two’s much better than one, and if there are watch dogs, I have a great affinity with animals,” Bridget declared.

  Marianne and Bridget jumped up and down in excitement.

  Gladys came hurrying up the stairs. “Mrs. Abercrombie Jones wants to know if you are deliberately trying to give her a headache?”

  “I’m very sorry, Gladys, please tell Aunt Wera.”

  Gladys closed the door behind her.

  “Listen,” said Bridget. “Gifted Jewish dressmaker …” she started to write.

  “Say good cook, no, wery good cook,” said Marianne. “Love the children.”

  Bridget interpreted this as: “Gifted Jewish dressmaker, excellent cook, fond of children, wishes to come to England as a domestic.”

  “Now, what about your father – what can he do in the house?” asked Bridget.

  “Nothing. Vati cannot boil water for coffee. He only likes to read.” Marianne smiled, thinking of her father.

  “No problem,” said Bridget. “We’ll say ‘Husband works as a gardener / handyman.’ That means he cleans shoes, and cuts grass, rakes leaves, that kind of thing.… Now give me the address, and I’ll say ‘Please write immediately to.…’ ”

  Marianne printed her mother’s name and address. “Thank you, Bridget.”

  “I’ll start right away. How many do we need?” Bridget asked.

  “More than one hundred?” Marianne asked hopefully.

  “Tell you what – I’ll begin with twenty-five, and we’ll see how many replies we get.”

  They ran downstairs.

  “Good-bye, Mrs. Abercrombie Jones. I’ve finished Mary Anne’s English lesson. I have to go now,” said Bridget.

  “Thank you, Bridget. Please give my regards to your parents.”

  “I will,” said Bridget. “And Mother sends her regards to you, too.”

  “You would never know that child comes from Irish stock. She has beautiful manners. You may go and help Gladys bring in the tea things.”

  “Yes, Aunt Wera … Vera.”

  Marianne heard Mrs. Abercrombie Jones say, “Do you think she does it on purpose, Geoffrey?”

  • 9 •

  Miriam

  On Saturday after lunch, Marianne and Bridget set off to deliver the first batch of DOMESTIC SITUATIONS REQUIRED.

  “We’ll start at the top of Avenue Road – those big houses looking over the park. We’d better go to the back, where it says TRADESMEN’S ENTRANCE,” Bridget said.

  “You think we look like tradesmen?” Marianne giggled to cover up her nerves.

  “Mary Anne, we’re not doing anything wrong. It’s not like we’re asking for money.”

  Bridget had this knack of knowing what Marianne was really thinking. “I’ll do the first one,” she said.

  “No, I must do it. Look, this house is number five, my lucky number,” said Marianne. “Even when I was small, I used to make bargains with myself. I would make a kind of promise. Walk to the corner, keep head up. If men in uniform come, if I keep walking, if I’m brave, something good will happen.”

  “I do that all the time too. Alright, you ring this bell; I’ll do the next one.”

  There was no reply, though they heard the wireless playing though the kitchen window. Marianne pushed the note under the door. The next two houses were closed up, the milk crates sitting empty on the back step.

  Then they got three answers one after the other. In one house a very grand butler wearing a striped green waistcoat said, “I will make sure this gets delivered, young ladies.”

  “Let’s do one more,” said Bridget, and then walk over to Gloucester Place. “We don’t want to put all our eggs in one basket.”

  “Sometimes,” Marianne said, “English drives me mad. Where is the basket with the eggs?”

  Bridget’s face went red and she laughed so hard the tears streamed down her face. “It means we’ll have a better chance of success if we don’t concentrate on only one street,” Bridget said, when she could speak again! “It’s a figure of speech – understand?”

  Marianne groaned. “Thank you,” she said, exaggerating the th sound.

  She took the last note for Avenue Road, rang the bell, waited a moment, then pushed her paper under the door. It opened suddenly and she almost fell over the threshold.

  “Little girls, vot you doink here?”

  Marianne straightened up to face a plump young woman with dark hair tucked under a maid’s cap. She wore a pinafore over her striped uniform. Their advertisement was in her hand.

  “Come inside, it is cold. My name is Miriam Levy. I vork here.”

  Bridget hesitated, but Marianne pulled her arm. “It’s alright. Trust me.” To the woman in uniform, she said, “I’m Marianne Kohn from Charlottenburg, Berlin. I’m trying to bring my parents to England. Do you speak German?” Then she put out her hand and the woman shook it, nodding her head. Marianne saw that she was only a few years older than they were.

  Miriam replied in German, “I’m so glad to meet you. I came to England at the end of last October. I’m trying to bring my mother over too. My father was arrested after I left. My brother is in Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp. He is only seventeen.” She pressed her hand against her lips to stop their trembling.

  “My father was there for a while. I don’t know where he is now,” Marianne said.

  Bridget coughed several times to remind them of her presence.

  “Oh, Bridget, I’m so sorry. It was rude of us not to speak English, but Miriam’s a refugee too. Miriam, this is my best friend, Bridget O’Malley. She’s helping me.”

  “I am wery pleased to meet you. Come sit. I just now was making the coffee. Madam is shopping. I pour you a cup, or you like better tea?”

  “Tea, thank you, Miriam,” Bridget replied.

  “Coffee, please,” Marianne said gratefully. The smell instantly brought back memories of home: poppy seed rolls on the blue and white plate; Mutti and she drinking coffee (hers mostly milk); Mutti’s look of mixed horror and amusement as Marianne confessed to walking down Kurfürstendamm, watching the elegant ladies perched outside on little gold painted chairs at the pavement Konditorei tables; imitating the waiter’s voice as he offered them whipped cream on huge portions of apple cake – “Mit Schlag Gnädige, Frau?”; the chestnut trees in blossom in spring, rows and rows of them; the lights that never went out in the city; the words of the language she was born with that she didn’t have to struggle with every minute. Marianne looked at Miriam. Does she feel this kind of homesickness, too? For what we’ve lost, for what we’ve never had because we aren’t Aryans?

  Miriam offered them biscuits from a tin.

  “You go ahead, speak German. I don’t mind,” said Bridget.

  Miriam said, “No, I never vant, but perhaps some words – if I don’t know how to say.”

  Marianne asked her, “How did you manage to come over?”

  Unconsciously, Miriam replied in her native tongue, “I met Mrs. Smedley in Berlin in 1936. She was on holiday with her husband, for the Olympic G
ames. I was eighteen. She asked me for directions to her hotel. I walked with her, then she invited me in. I explained it was not allowed because I was Jewish. She took my arm and said, ‘I am an English tourist; no one will stop me.’ So brave! We had coffee in her suite. She told me if I ever wanted to go to England, if things got worse, to write to her. When my father’s business was taken away, and I lost my job as his bookkeeper, my mother told me I should write to Mrs. Smedley. It was an opportunity. I did, and she sponsored me. She is very kind. I make mistakes, but she makes allowances for me. My friend Hannah lives in London too, but she lives in one little room. When she wants a bath, she must pay sixpence for the hot water.” Miriam poured more coffee. “She works in a house-hold where they are mean to her. I think she is often hungry.”

  “Why don’t the Jews in England do more to help?” Marianne burst out in German. “Sorry, Bridget, just this one question.”

  Miriam said, “They help all they can, but there are so many of us trying to get out of Europe. Mrs. Smedley says in England less than one percent of the population is Jewish. A few are rich, but most are like us – poor, or immigrants, trying to bring their relatives to England. I’ll keep this paper, Marianne. I might hear of a place for your mother.”

  The front doorbell rang.

  “That will be Mrs. Smedley. I must go.” This time she spoke English.

  “Good-bye. Thank you,” the girls said, and went out the back way.

  On the way home, Bridget said, “You looked funny in there.”

  “That’s not very polite.” Marianne was offended.

  “I didn’t mean funny ‘funny,’ only different. I haven’t heard your name said like that before. Marianne, it sounds nice. Look at the time – Pa has fits if I’m home after dark.”

  “Thanks for coming with me, Bridget.”

  “Think nothing of it,” said Bridget grandly.

  They went all the way back without stepping on the cracks of the pavement even once. It couldn’t hurt, and it might help bring Marianne’s parents over to England more quickly.

  • 10 •

  “So far away”

  Two weeks later, Marianne heard from Ruth.

  107 Leidsegracht, Apt. 5,

  Amsterdam,

  Holland

  6 February, 1939

  Dear Marianne,

  It was wonderful to hear from you at last. I’m quite jealous. It must be so much more romantic emigrating across water, instead of to a country where you can just walk across the border. Not that anyone can do that anymore.

  When we found out that your train had actually stopped for a couple of hours in Holland, Mother got in a state, and cried. She went on and on about her little niece and no one to meet you, and if she’d known, she could have brought you food parcels. Why is it that mothers think we’re going to die of starvation the moment we leave home? Incidentally, the rumor is that English cooking is terrible. I hope that’s not true – you’re quite skinny enough.

  Seriously, Marianne, I think you are very brave to go so far away by yourself, away from us all. Papa says the farther the better. He doesn’t think we can ever be far enough away from Hitler. But parents are difficult. When I talk about my plans, I’m told I don’t know anything. Poor you being told off by everyone.

  I joined a Youth Aliyah. The idea is to train us to go to Palestine one day. We should have a country of our own, then no one could hurt us anymore. I know it would be a hard life, living communally on a kibbutz and sharing everything, and working on the land, but it’s worthwhile, don’t you think? At our meetings we learn songs and dances and have a lot of fun. In September we are going on a three-day camping expedition. Mother says I’ll “grow out of it,” that I’m too spoilt for such a hard life. Papa wants me to be apprenticed to a furrier. He says, “Coats you always need.” Not my idea of a fulfilling life. I’m determined to get to Palestine somehow.

  I like the sound of your new friend. Perhaps we’ll all meet one day. Meanwhile, Mother says you are all in our prayers. We talk about you often.

  Keep in touch, please.

  Your loving cousin,

  Ruth

  One week later Marianne received a postcard from Czechoslovakia. The pictures were of the gleaming spires, medieval roofs and turrets of Prague – Vati had always told her it was one of the most beautiful capitals in Europe. She didn’t know anyone there. The card was printed, and undated. It said:

  Hello Marianne,

  This traveler has found a beautiful city, and hopes to stay awhile. There are cafés, galleries, and bookshops. Some still sell our favorite books. I often think of that fine supper I shared with you and your dear mother.

  Love and greetings to you both, D.

  D for David. It’s from Vati. He’s safe! Why has he disguised his identity? Isn’t Prague free? She was glad, though, that he was being so cautious. There were spies everywhere. Now, he’d surely come to England. How clever of him to give the Nazis the slip.

  Marianne wished she could ask him how he crossed the frontier. It was like a miracle. She twirled around the room in stocking feet. Linoleum was wonderful for sliding. And she had to keep warm somehow. No heat reached the bedroom at all.

  Marianne huddled back down on her bed and read Vati’s card again. She thought of the last time she’d seen him. She could smell the onions frying, see her mother’s flushed cheeks, feel her own cheek pressed against the rough texture of Vati’s jacket as he hugged her good-bye after supper.

  The last time she’d seen him was when he was on the run from the Gestapo. The pit of her stomach felt as empty as it had then, that awful moment after he left again to go into the cold night to hide goodness-knows-where. Oh, Vati, I hope you’re warm and happy now. I hope you know how much I love you.

  “Mary Anne, where are you? Gladys needs help with the silver,” Aunt Vera called.

  Marianne went down into the kitchen and attacked each piece of cutlery as if she could make all the bad people in the world disappear by polishing them away.

  Gladys said, “If all refugees work like you, there won’t be any jobs left for us.” She smiled, but Marianne was hurt. It seemed if you were a refugee, whatever you did was wrong.

  That evening Aunt Vera said, “I see someone sent you a card from Prague. Do you have friends there?”

  “My father.”

  “Oh, I see. Is he on holiday?”

  “Beautiful place,” said Uncle Geoffrey. “Medieval city, cobbled streets, and all that. That glass decanter set was made in Czechoslovakia.”

  Marianne looked at them. Holiday? Don’t they realize what is happening?

  “Mary Anne, are you listening? Answer the question.”

  “Sorry,” said Marianne. “No, not holiday. He’s running from Hitler, like me.”

  “Well, that’s hardly the same thing. Have you finished your homework?”

  “I have ten more words to learn for the spell test.”

  “Spelling. Run along then, goodnight.”

  Three weeks later the newspaper headlines declared: NAZI TROOPS MARCH INTO PRAGUE.

  Uncle Geoffrey said, “They just let them walk in. What do you expect? Foreigners – no backbone.” He made the word “foreigners” sound like a disease.

  Marianne borrowed books about Czechoslovakia from the library. There was one with a street map of Prague. She wanted to imagine the places where her father might hide. There were castles and cottages in the countryside. Someone might help him. First Austria, now Czechoslovakia – where will the Nazis go next?

  That night Marianne woke up and found herself at the top of the stairs. She didn’t know how she got there. The next night Gladys found her wandering again, and helped her back to bed. Afterward, she didn’t remember anything about it. Gladys told Mrs. Abercrombie Jones next morning.

  “What’s all this nonsense I hear about you walking about the house in the middle of the night, Mary Anne? Are you ill?”

  “No, Aunt Vera, I’m quite fine,” said Marianne, re
alizing that for once Aunt Vera was not angry.

  “Too much tea, Gladys. From now on, Mary Anne is to drink nothing at all after six o’clock.”

  That night Marianne put books in front of her bed, so that she’d fall and wake herself up. But it didn’t work. She told Bridget about walking in her sleep.

  “We’ll just have to try harder to get a visa for your mother. Look, I’ve typed up ten more copies of our advertisement,” she said.

  Marianne replied, “Thanks, Bridget, but you see it’s no good looking for a job for a couple anymore. The Nazis have taken over in Czechoslovakia; it’d be hard to escape.”

  “If he can get out of Berlin, he can do anything,” Bridget said comfortingly, but the next day she changed the words on the advertisement, so that there was no longer any mention of “gardener / handyman.”

  • 11 •

  “Where did you get those shoes?”

  Every evening after tea, Marianne spread a double sheet of newspaper on the scullery floor and cleaned the household’s shoes. Sometimes yesterday’s paper was so interesting that she’d still be there an hour later. Last week there was a story about a famous film star, and Aunt Vera had come in and stopped her reading “such rubbish.”

  “No wonder you walk in your sleep. I forbid you to read the paper from now on. Finish the shoes and go to bed.”

  Shoes were a constant problem for Marianne. She wore her Wellingtons most of the time. In school she changed into brown plimsolls, like the other girls.

  The Wellingtons were made of black rubber and came to her knees. The boots reminded her of the Gestapo. All the children wore them. In spite of wearing two pairs of socks, her feet were still always freezing.

  Marianne rubbed her feet together to stop them itching. She had developed big red bumps on her heels and toes. Chilblains, Gladys called them. They were a fact of life in England, like porridge for breakfast. When her feet warmed up, they got hot and itchy and swollen. Her fingers were red and cracked, too. Gladys told her to leave the dishes for a few days to give her hands a chance to heal.