Read Online The Children of Willesden Lane: Beyond The Kindertransport: A Memoir of Music, Love, and Survival by Mona Golabek, Lee Cohen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mona Golabek, Lee Cohen
Tags: BIO004000
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want to buy the bicycle,” she said, trying as hard as she could to pronounce the “w” the way the English people did. She saw the curious expression of the shopkeeper and knew her accent was still dreadfully foreign.
“So, you must be that refugee we’ve heard about. My wife told me we had one of you nearby.”
“Yes,” Lisa said, feeling self-conscious.
“And you’re looking for a bicycle?”
“Yes . . . I have money.”
The man walked up to the bike that Lisa was pointing to and looked at the tag. “Four pound two shillings. Hmm, seems a bit pricey for what it is. How does two pound sound?” he asked with a wink.
Lisa fished in her envelope and handed two large coins to the man. She fought back a feeling of guilt; this was the money for Sonia! But she’d make more money soon, she promised herself.
“Can you keep it here until I come to get it?” “Whenever you need it, it’ll be here.”
7
L ISA WAITED until the day after she was paid her small wages, then arose before dawn and packed her things. The sun was coming up when she tiptoed into the kitchen and opened the cupboard. She cut a wedge of cheese from under the damp towel in the larder and took bite after bite, fearful of the hunger that had so often gnawed at her during the last months in Vienna. She cut a portion of dried meat, wrapped it in newspaper, and stuffed it in her coat pocket.
The cold damp of dawn greeted her as she opened the back door. She stood on the threshold for a long moment, then came back into the warmth of the kitchen, drawn by the kindness she had felt in this house. Using the pencil Gladys kept for the grocery list, she wrote carefully: “Thank you. I’m sorry, Lisa Jura.”
She walked the two miles to the village. When the secondhand shop opened, she collected her red bike, tied her small suitcase to the back, and was off. The sun was just breaking through the morning fog as she left the village. The sign read: “Brighton—45 miles.”
The rhythm of the pedals reminded her of a toccata and fugue by Bach, which she began to hum as she flew through the countryside, passing cows in the fields and birds on the telephone wires. She tapped out its staccato beat with her feet and began to sing at full volume. She was happy; she was free! She was going to London. She would go to Bloomsbury House and make them find a place for her in the big city.
As the day wore on and the miles got longer, she was hit by a wave of indecision. Was it terrible to have left a house with caring people who fed and sheltered her? The captain’s wife must hate her now; Gladys and Monty must think the worst of refugees. Would she even make it to London?
But she kept pedaling and began to chant aloud: “I will go to London. I will go to London.” With sheer force of will, and with every yard of distance between her and the castle, she left her indecision behind.
She waited to eat as long as she could, then pulled over to the side of the road, leaned her bike against a hedge, and pulled out the precious piece of meat she’d taken from the pantry. She nibbled carefully, determined to keep some for later. The countryside was quiet, and the bees were at work in the hayfields. The tall grass soothed her aching legs. In no time she was asleep, dreaming of Franzenbrückestrasse. People were running down the streets, and her mother was yelling, “Find Papa, find Papa!” She was running through piles and piles of broken glass, looking for her father. The piles of glass got deeper and deeper and felt sharper under her feet.
She jerked awake and was frightened to see a figure hunched over her—a face right next to hers, a cold hand on her thigh. She screamed and scrambled to her feet, throwing the man to the side.
“Wait a second, good-looking; don’t run off so fast!” The man was middle-aged and ill shaven and looked as if he’d been working in the fields. He moved to Lisa’s bike and put both hands on the handlebars
“So, you must be that refugee we’ve heard about. My wife told me we had one of you nearby.”
“Yes,” Lisa said, feeling self-conscious.
“And you’re looking for a bicycle?”
“Yes . . . I have money.”
The man walked up to the bike that Lisa was pointing to and looked at the tag. “Four pound two shillings. Hmm, seems a bit pricey for what it is. How does two pound sound?” he asked with a wink.
Lisa fished in her envelope and handed two large coins to the man. She fought back a feeling of guilt; this was the money for Sonia! But she’d make more money soon, she promised herself.
“Can you keep it here until I come to get it?” “Whenever you need it, it’ll be here.”
7
L ISA WAITED until the day after she was paid her small wages, then arose before dawn and packed her things. The sun was coming up when she tiptoed into the kitchen and opened the cupboard. She cut a wedge of cheese from under the damp towel in the larder and took bite after bite, fearful of the hunger that had so often gnawed at her during the last months in Vienna. She cut a portion of dried meat, wrapped it in newspaper, and stuffed it in her coat pocket.
The cold damp of dawn greeted her as she opened the back door. She stood on the threshold for a long moment, then came back into the warmth of the kitchen, drawn by the kindness she had felt in this house. Using the pencil Gladys kept for the grocery list, she wrote carefully: “Thank you. I’m sorry, Lisa Jura.”
She walked the two miles to the village. When the secondhand shop opened, she collected her red bike, tied her small suitcase to the back, and was off. The sun was just breaking through the morning fog as she left the village. The sign read: “Brighton—45 miles.”
The rhythm of the pedals reminded her of a toccata and fugue by Bach, which she began to hum as she flew through the countryside, passing cows in the fields and birds on the telephone wires. She tapped out its staccato beat with her feet and began to sing at full volume. She was happy; she was free! She was going to London. She would go to Bloomsbury House and make them find a place for her in the big city.
As the day wore on and the miles got longer, she was hit by a wave of indecision. Was it terrible to have left a house with caring people who fed and sheltered her? The captain’s wife must hate her now; Gladys and Monty must think the worst of refugees. Would she even make it to London?
But she kept pedaling and began to chant aloud: “I will go to London. I will go to London.” With sheer force of will, and with every yard of distance between her and the castle, she left her indecision behind.
She waited to eat as long as she could, then pulled over to the side of the road, leaned her bike against a hedge, and pulled out the precious piece of meat she’d taken from the pantry. She nibbled carefully, determined to keep some for later. The countryside was quiet, and the bees were at work in the hayfields. The tall grass soothed her aching legs. In no time she was asleep, dreaming of Franzenbrückestrasse. People were running down the streets, and her mother was yelling, “Find Papa, find Papa!” She was running through piles and piles of broken glass, looking for her father. The piles of glass got deeper and deeper and felt sharper under her feet.
She jerked awake and was frightened to see a figure hunched over her—a face right next to hers, a cold hand on her thigh. She screamed and scrambled to her feet, throwing the man to the side.
“Wait a second, good-looking; don’t run off so fast!” The man was middle-aged and ill shaven and looked as if he’d been working in the fields. He moved to Lisa’s bike and put both hands on the handlebars
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