Remember Me (8 page)

“Mary Anne, this is Miss Morland. She has come from the Children’s Refugee Committee to see how you’ve settled in with us.”

Marianne said, “How do you do.” She knew that no reply was expected.

Miss Morland said, “Well, Mary Anne, you
are
a lucky little girl to have found such a beautiful home. Mrs. Abercrombie Jones tells me your English is greatly improved. Is there anything you would like to ask me? No? Well, then, I really must go. I have one more visit to make today. The
Kindertransports
are arriving almost weekly now, Mrs. Abercrombie Jones. It’s hard to place so many children. We are so grateful to people like you.” Miss Morland stood up.

Marianne asked, “May I walk Miss Morland to the gate, Aunt Vera?”

Mrs. Abercrombie Jones hesitated, and then said too brightly, “Of course you may.”

Marianne opened the front door. Perhaps she could talk to Miss Morland properly now.

Miss Morland said, “You were one of the early arrivals, weren’t you? That must have been exciting.”

Marianne said, “Yes. I am wondering about the orphans in Harwich and … and did the other children go to Jewish homes, or -”

Miss Morland interrupted her, “You all seem to be settling down nicely. That’s what it’s all about. Fitting in, and learning to be English girls and boys. Now I really have to go. Good-bye, dear.”

Miss Morland shut the garden gate behind her, and walked briskly down the street.

Aunt Vera stood in the doorway.

“What were you and Miss Morland talking about, Mary Anne?”

“I asked her about something. It’s not important.”

Her chilblains started to itch. She’d changed into her almost-new shoes before going into the sitting room.

“Where did you get those shoes?” Aunt Vera uttered each word precisely.

“I bought them at the jumble sale,” said Marianne.

“You did
what?
” Aunt Vera’s voice went a notch higher. “Where did you get the money?”

“I had some left, and Mr. Neame lent me the rest. Aunt Vera, my shoes were too small.”

“Do you realize what you’ve done, Mary Anne? You have made a spectacle of yourself.
Again.
Shamed me in front of everyone. People will say I am not taking proper care of you. You are an ungrateful, thoughtless girl. Why didn’t you tell me? I will not tolerate this underhand behavior. Go to your room.”

“I am sorry, Aunt Wera … Vera. I did not mean to be ungrateful. Are you going to send me away?” asked Marianne. She picked at her thumb.

“That possibility has crossed my mind. However, I accept your apology. You people do not behave in the same way as we do, I suppose,” Aunt Vera said a little more calmly.

Marianne said again, “I am sorry to offend,” and went upstairs.

Back in her room, Marianne hugged her bear, and looked out at the sky for a long time. Here, in this room at night, all the loneliness that she pushed away during the day settled around her like the fog that was so much a part of London.

M
arianne usually passed the postman on her way to school. Today he had a letter for her. “Good news from foreign parts I hope, Miss,” he said.

Marianne tore off the corner of the envelope with the stamp on it and gave it to him for his little boy’s stamp collection.

She read the letter in the playground and was almost late for registration. She got a bad mark for dictation, which she was usually good at, because she’d missed out two sentences.

After school she and Bridget walked to Bridget’s house in silence. The girls sat in the kitchen, as they often did. Finally, Bridget spoke. “Why are you so upset?”

“What kind of mother sends letters like this?” Marianne said, spots of anger on her cheeks.

“Like what? Why don’t you translate it?” Bridget asked.

Marianne read:

(Bridget rolled her eyes.)

“Well, I can’t help it, you asked me to translate,” said Marianne.

“That’s nothing to get angry about,” Bridget interrupted.

“Wait – you’ll see,” Marianne said.

Bridget jumped up and began singing and dancing “The Lambeth Walk,” the dance that was sweeping England. She put her hand through Marianne’s arm and they twirled round the kitchen.

“If we could ‘do as we darn well pleasey,’ everything’d be alright. Stop it, Bridget. I haven’t finished yet.”

“Sorry.” Bridget sat down and nibbled a biscuit.

Marianne continued:

“Why must
I
be the one to understand?” said Marianne. “It’s about time someone remembered me. What’s she waiting for – a written invitation from the king?” Marianne stopped, too angry and upset to continue.

Bridget looked down at her plate. She crumbled her biscuit.

“I don’t believe she’s saying these things. She promised. And now she’s making all these excuses.” Marianne’s voice trembled.

Bridget looked up. “She can’t just pack a bag and hop on a train.”

“Why not? If she says yes, then she’ll get her visa, and come, and I’ll have a mother again, like everyone else.” Marianne was close to tears.

“Not everyone. There’s a girl in my class at school whose mother died last year,” said Bridget.

“Of natural causes, not on purpose. There’s going to be a war. Don’t you ever look at the news headlines? Even Uncle Geoffrey mumbles, ‘Bound to be a war.’ Everyone will be killed. My father in Prague, my mother and grandparents in Germany, my aunt and uncle and cousin in Holland. They’ll all die and I’ll be left alone.”

“You’re being melodramatic, Mary Anne. You know you’re exaggerating,” said Bridget.

“And you know
nothing
!” Marianne was almost shouting.

Dr. O’Malley came into the kitchen. “I’ve got ten minutes before my next patient. I was looking for your mother to make me a cup of tea.”

“Ma’s shopping. I’ll make it,” said Bridget.

“That’s my good girl,” said her father.

Marianne burst into tears.
It’s not fair – why don’t I have a father to make tea for?
“I’m sorry, I have to go,” said Marianne, pushing back her chair.

“Sit down, Mary Anne,” said Dr. O’Malley, “you’ll ruin my reputation. People will say, ‘That Dr. O’Malley must be an awful bad doctor. Did you see that pretty little girl with the light brown hair leave the surgery crying?’ Pour us all a cup of tea, Bridget, my love.”

So they all had cups of tea and ate ginger biscuits.

“Good gracious, look at the time. Mrs. Briggs will be waiting, and complaining. ‘I haven’t got all day, Doctor dear,’ she’ll say.” Dr. O’Malley tweaked Bridget’s curls, smiled at Marianne, and was gone.

“Sorry, Bridget,” Marianne mumbled, ashamed.

“It’s that loudmouthed Hitler who should be sorry, messing up people’s lives. I heard Pa say that the world hasn’t got a chance till we get rid of the fascist swine.”

“Bridget O’Malley, don’t let your mother hear you use words like that,” said Marianne.

“I’m only quoting what my father said. Listen, Mary Anne, can I tell you something?”

“You’re going to anyway,” said Marianne.

“I think your mum is right to try and talk to your father. I mean, she can’t just disappear. My mother doesn’t even buy a hat without asking Pa’s advice,” Bridget said.

“But she doesn’t know where he is. And with the Nazis in Prague, how can she talk to him?” Marianne tried to keep her voice steady.

“They’re bound to have friends who can smuggle messages. Well, it’s only polite to discuss something big like going to England. And then there’s your grandparents. I expect she needs a bit of time to prepare them, or something. You know what old people are like,” said Bridget.

“I never even got a chance to say good-bye to Opa and Oma,” said Marianne.

Bridget replied, “That’s the way it is. We’re children. No one asks us what we want to do. Don’t you feel proud that your idea worked? You’re eleven years old and you got your mother a job! Cheer up – let’s have a game of cards. What about Old Maid?”

“Better not. I can’t be late for tea. I never thought I’d be at Aunt Vera’s this long. I really thought Mutti would come over in a couple of weeks.”

“Stay a bit longer,” coaxed Bridget.

“I can’t. I’ve got to copy out my composition for the headmistress. Wonder why she wants to see it?”

“Probably wants to show off the brilliance of her star German pupil to the school inspector,” said Bridget.

“One, I’m the only so-called German pupil in the school, and two, don’t call me that. I don’t call you Irish.”

Bridget opened the front door for Marianne, and suddenly hugged her. “Now its only because I’m Irish I’m doing that. Those cold fishes, the English, would shake hands and they’re not too keen on doing that, either. Good-bye, Miss Marianne Kohn,” Bridget said, pronouncing her name the German way. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Sure you will,” said Marianne in her best imitation of an Irish brogue.

On the way home, every time she avoided stepping on a line on the pavement, she said, “Mother’s coming.” By the time she reached her corner, it had turned into a refrain: “Mother’s coming, Mother’s coming, Mother’s coming.”

A
fter tea, Marianne copied out her composition, careful to correct every word that she’d misspelt. There weren’t many red sp. signs in the margin. “Silence” was a tricky one; she’d always thought it was spelled with two s’s. That was the trouble with English – there were so many rules and just when you thought you’d learnt them all, there’d be an exception. Like receive – i before e except after c. It’d be so much easier to write “recieve.”

Miss Martin hadn’t given them a choice of topic as she usually did. She’d said, “Sometimes people have to write about a subject, even if it’s difficult.” But everyone liked doing this one.

When Miss Martin handed Marianne’s composition back to her, she’d given her an
A
-, and told her to copy it neatly, and hand it in to the office next day.

It was late before she’d finished. She read it over carefully one more time:

HOME
by Marianne Kohn

The dictionary says home is the place where you live. I disagree. Home is the place where your parents are.

England is a nice country, but it is not my home.

My name, my face, my clothes, my speech are all from somewhere else. They make me different.

For three and one-half months, I’ve lived in this house. I eat good food, sleep in a bed in a room only for me.

Still I do not fit. I am a stranger.

Everything is cold. Winter is cold, I know – this cold is the cold I feel without my parents.

A home is where people want you to stay, not from duty. Where they like you, also if you make mistakes.

In a home someone tells you, “Goodnight, sleep well.”

Here no one sees when I am sad. I am not family, not a poor relation.

I am “our little refugee.”

I will never forget the first days. The words I cannot understand. The long silence when no one speaks to me.

I think it is a bad dream. Tomorrow I will wake up in my own bed.

I remember I feel hungry, and when food comes, I cannot eat because the pain in my heart is so big.

Home is where people love you, and where you love them too.

The end.

Marianne’s last thought before going to sleep was of her parents. Ten minutes was all the time Mutti had given her to decide whether she’d go to England. Even then she’d known she’d have to leave. It wasn’t a real choice. She hoped Mutti would remember that and realize that
she
didn’t have one either.

Next morning, before Assembly, Marianne handed in her composition. Two days later, a prefect knocked at the classroom door, and said, “The headmistress says will you please excuse Mary Anne Kohn. She wants to see her right away in her study.”

“Thank you, Millie. Run along, Mary Anne.”

Marianne walked down the corridor, smoothing her hair before she knocked on the door marked
HEADMISTRESS
.

“Come in, Mary Anne, and pull up that chair. That’s right.”

Opposite the headmistress, sitting in the visitor’s chair, was Aunt Vera.

Whatever have I done? Am I in trouble?
She couldn’t think of anything serious enough for Aunt Vera to be summoned to see the headmistress.
Has something happened to my parents?