Kindertransport Read Online Free PDF Page B

mountains, past towns and villages and church spires like spears poking holes in the gray sky. After some hours, the landscape became even flatter. Raindrops splashed against the windows and ran down in rivulets, making crazy patterns from top to bottom. The train slowed down. We were at the Dutch border.
    This time there was no Papa to take care of passports. I was one of about a hundred children, from about four years old to seventeen. We were supervised by a few adults from the Jewish Refugee Committee, who carried our papers. German officers came strutting through our compartments. They checked us off on their lists. In their black uniforms; red, white, and black swastika armbands; high-peaked caps; and especially tall, polished boots, they looked menacing. One or two stopped to ask some of the children a question. To me they sounded like snarling dogs. I slouched into my seat, hoping they wouldn’t notice
me. As they passed me, one man looked at me and was about to speak. But his comrade pushed him from behind, pointing at his watch. They kept going.
    With a shudder the train moved forward a few yards and stopped again. Some children had been standing. They tumbled over. Now it was the turn of the Dutch customs officials. These men had smiles on their faces, and although we couldn’t understand a word they said, we knew they were saying “Welcome to Holland.” We all relaxed. Even the little ones stopped crying. Every now and then my fingers touched Oma’s last-minute present, still stuffed into my pocket. Soon, I promised myself, I would open it.
    After a little while longer, we were allowed off the train. Down we spilled onto the platform, where the Dutch women were waiting for us. They gave us hot cocoa and cookies. They, too, had smiles on their faces.
    But all too soon we were herded into a large room to wait for the ship. The Dutch harbor, Hoek van Holland, lies on the English Channel, directly across from a town in England called Harwich. The sea in the Channel is famous for its stormy winds and swelling waves. This night was typical.
    With the cocoa and cookies swishing about in my stomach, I bravely boarded the ship. I was shown my cabin, which I was to share with another girl. She was older than I—maybe sixteen or seventeen. Up to now I
had kept my feelings bottled up inside. Being by nature a quiet child, I had said very little. But now, when I heard my cabin mate cry in her bed, I too began to feel a lump in my throat. I buried my head into my pillow, clenched my fists in fear and anger, and wept. To make matters worse, I began to feel seasick. Our little ship was tossed about on the fierce sea, heaving and yawing, and with it my stomach. Eventually, exhaustion forced us both into a few hours of restless sleep.
    By daybreak we steamed into the harbor of Harwich. All was calm. Most of the people of that small fishing town were still asleep. I wondered how many knew that a boatload of very young refugees from Hitler’s Germany had just arrived on their shores? But a few were there to greet us. They spoke yet another language, which we did not understand.
    I soon realized that my newly acquired phrase, “The dog is under the table,” would be of no use to me in this situation. By chance, my fingers touched something in my pocket. It was Oma’s present. I pulled out the little package and tore the paper off. Here were two tiny books, one blue, the other red. Each was so little, it could easily fit into the palm of my hand. These books were to prove my most valuable possessions in the next few months to come. They were dictionaries: one German to English, the other English to German.
    In the beginning, these little friends were with me
always. If I didn’t understand what was being said to me—which was most of the time—out would come my little red companion: English to German. I would simply hand it over to the speaker, who would show me the word. Then I would