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    While Papa was still in Dachau, Mama decided that it would be best that I go to England for a while. She had heard about something called Kindertransport, Children’s Transport. This was a system planned by the Jewish Refugee Committee to transport Jewish children to England, away from the growing danger in Germany. In England they would live in safety with English families. Already, trains filled with children were leaving every day. Mama had my name put on the list, and now we were waiting for my turn to come up. It could happen any day. In the meantime, Mama started packing things. Other preparations for my leaving began, that made me realize the seriousness of it all.
    In January 1939, a man started coming to the house to teach me English. His name was Mr. Cooperson. Mr. Cooperson was bony and had greasy hair. I hated him. But I learned to say “The dog is under the table” in English. I didn’t learn much else, and I certainly did not want to go to England. Why couldn’t I stay in Stuttgart with Mama and Papa? I remembered summer camp. I had fallen sick there, but I had come home. This would not be the same at all. What if I never came back from England?

    At school we learned about Purim, the next Jewish holiday to come up. Teacher told us about the wicked Haman. Haman, prime minister of Persia thousands of years ago, had planned to kill all the Jews in his country. But Queen Esther heard about it and told her husband, King Ahasuerus, and Haman was hanged.
    That evening, when Mama kissed me good night, I said: “I think the wicked Haman was just like the wicked Hitler.” Mama turned pale and told me not to say such things. “The walls have ears,” she said. I imagined little ears all over the blue walls of my room and giggled. Still, I thought, I’d better not say such things anymore. I knew what she meant. You never knew who might be listening!
    Soon after Purim, a letter came from the Refugee Committee, saying that I was to leave on March 3. That was a month away. A week later, I got sick. My head hurt. I threw up my breakfast. Mama took my temperature and said I had a fever. She called Dr. Oppenheimer. He came over, walked into my room, took one look at me and said: “Measles.” I secretly hoped this would postpone my departure.
    Even while I was ill, our seamstress came to the house to sew new clothes for me. I liked the school uniforms she was making for me. Mrs. Liebman, the lady the committee said I was to stay with, had sent us a drawing of one. All the school girls in England wore them, she wrote. I thought I looked quite good in mine, except that my legs were too skinny.

    Mama was busy packing all my stuff in crates and suitcases. An S.A. man in brown Nazi uniform came and stood around, watching her. I didn’t know why he was there, because all he did was get in Mama’s way. When it came to my cello, he asked if this was something valuable. Mama knew I would not be allowed to take anything of value along. So she laughed and said: “This old thing?” Luckily, he didn’t know that, sometimes, the older a musical instrument is, the more valuable it becomes. The cello came with me, but, as it turned out, I didn’t see it again for a long time. Mama even packed Peter, my favorite doll, although I told her I didn’t think I would have much use for him in England. Did she want everybody to think I was a baby? She packed the doll anyway.
    Another letter came from the Liebmans in England. There was a color-tinted photograph in it of the family. Their daughter seemed to be about my age. The pastel colors made them look funny, and their lips were too red. I asked Mama, what if they don’t like me? “Of course they will like you,” she said.
    Even if they do, I thought, I won’t like them.

    March 3, 1939. Before I knew it, the fateful day arrived. There was no stopping it. I still had a few spots