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arranged them in a silver toast rack on a tray and left the room.
    Marianne eagerly spooned up the porridge. It was lucky that Gladys wasn’t there just then because the first mouthful almost made Marianne gag. Quickly she scraped the food into the sink and turned on the tap, so that by the time Gladys came back, Marianne was sitting down again, the empty bowl in front ofher. She could almost smell the warm crusty rolls her mother always served for breakfast, with homemade black cherry jam. She wanted to be with her so much that she had to dig her nails into her palms to stop from crying.
    Marianne tried to imagine what her mother was doing. She might be in Düsseldorf by now. After they’d got the notice from Mrs. Schwartz saying she wouldn’t allow Jewish tenants in the building anymore, Mutti had said she’d leave as soon as she’d packed up.
    “I don’t think I can bear it,” Marianne said, and only Gladys’ stare of surprise and her “what did you say?” made her realize she’d spoken aloud, and in German.
I mustn’t do that again. Do the other kids from the transport feel this mixed up?
    Mrs. Abercrombie Jones walked into the kitchen, her coat over her arm.
    “Good morning, Mary Anne.”
    “Good morning, Aunt.…” Marianne had forgotten how to pronounce the “aunt’s” name.
    “Aunt Vera,” prompted her sponsor. “Gladys, we are leaving now.”
    Leaving? Who is leaving? Leaving means going away. Am I being returned to Liverpool Street Station?
    Marianne heard her name – she was supposed to do something.
What is it?
Marianne knew she had to pay more attention. She’d missed most of their conversation. She didn’t know why her thoughts kept drifting.
    Mrs. Abercrombie Jones left the kitchen.
    Gladys put a duster in Marianne’s hand. “You dust downstairs. Come on, I’ll show you.”
    Marianne was afraid she might break something, or put things back in the wrong place, and only dusted around objects, not daring to move anything. At last she was done and could go upstairs, make her bed, and settle down to write home.
    Marianne didn’t want to upset her mother. She was determined to hide her homesickness and how much she wished she’d never come. Instead, she tried to write cheerfully.
    12 Circus Road,
    St. John’s Wood,
    London, NW8
    England
    3 December, 1938
    Dear Mutti,
    I arrived safely. I liked the boat. I have my own room at the top of the house. There is a garden. I have plenty to eat and can understand a lot of English words. Mrs. Abercrombie Jones, the lady who took me in, says I can start school on Monday.
    I was so happy when I found your letter. I’ll remember what you wrote about looking at the same sky even though we are living in different countries.
    The scene in the train compartment, when the Gestapo emptied the contents of the suitcases on the floor, flashed in front of Marianne. She’d never forget the greedy eyes of the man who’d stolen Werner’s stamp album. Funny how she could remember the names of every one of the children she’d traveled with, yet found it so hard to recall Aunt Vera’s.
    Marianne tried not to think about the way the Gestapo officer had hit her bear across his knee, the way he’d wrenched off the head of Sophie’s doll. She relived the moment when she’d edged her foot forward to cover the letter from her mother that had slipped out of its hiding place in the sleeve of Marianne’s party dress.
    Marianne got out of bed and ran across the cold floor to get her mother’s letter from its hiding place in the lining in her suitcase. She smoothed the page carefully and read her mother’s words:
    My dearest daughter,
    You will be far away from me when you read this letter. It is so hard to let you go. I watched you sleeping last night as though you were still a small baby. I wished I could change my mind and keep you here, but that would be too selfish.
    You are going to a better, safer life. Here, there might be no life at all. One day you will