The ship cut a frothy trail through the black sea under the watchful eye of the crescent moon. The night was not foggy, but the wind was strong, and the children had briefly entertained themselves by running onto the deck and feeling the force of the gale, clutching the railings and shrieking as they were nearly blown away. However, before long the chill reached their bones and they retired back into the ship, Lavi heroically stealing a plate of food from the restaurant, which they devoured hungrily, hidden behind a plant pot in the passenger lounge. This was immediately regretted as the rocking of the ship created the realisation that not one of the children had their so-called sea legs, and they curled up on the uncomfortable chairs clutching their stomachs and groaning with sea sickness, before falling into light sleep.
She dreamed of her family at the station, with her mother in the periwinkle blue dress and the shiny Star of David necklace, and her father with the smart shoes and Oscar with his combed hair. She dreamed about the roar of the train and the smirking German who burnt the photo and saw herself clutching her suitcase and trying to stay afloat in the vast abyss of the sea.
‘Sofia? Sofia Goldhirsch?’ Sofia opened her eyes to see a smiling young woman, plain, but friendly looking, crouched down by Sofia’s chair. Modestly dressed and warm, the woman stroked Sofia’s hair and pulled her into a sitting position. ‘You’re here, Sofia, you’re in England. Follow me.’ Sofia did not understand what the Quaker woman was saying, but she understood the outstretched hand and kind gaze. She held the woman’s hand and was led through the ship, out onto a slippery wooden ramp which glistened in the early morning sun. Her guide was bathed in such a beautiful pinkish glow from the rising sun, and the sounds of the waves lapping the dock were so gentle, it was easy for Sofia to believe that she had slipped into death on her journey and was now being helped to shore by an angel.
The air was cold and salty; the sky was filled with the noises of seagulls and the resonating bellow of the ship’s horn, and painted with glorious hues of orange and pink and pale blue. She could see Lavi and Nova standing on the dock, shivering and clutching their suitcases, and she could hear the excited whispers of Solomon and Hirshel behind her. A group of Quakers stood on the dock, clutching bibles and crucifixes, and they embraced the children and said, ‘Welcome to England, you’re safe now.’ They tutted at the garish yellow stars stitched onto their clothes and said ‘You don’t need these anymore,’ while taking scissors and breaking the stitching so they fell to the slimy dock floor. The children laughed at their new freedom, and stamped the offending cloth labels into the salty, muddy puddles of the dock.
They were herded onto a rumbling bus which made them bounce and slide and grip each other in delighted fear as they travelled over a flat countryside with hay bales and wide open fields, quaint little villages and, towards the end of their journey, proud women in smart uniforms waving at the bus as they worked in the fields. The Quakers sang a cheerful song, which they couldn’t understand, but they hummed and made up nonsense lyrics along to the tune.
‘Shine Jesus shine! Fill this land with the Father’s Glory!’
They came to a stop outside a large, colourful gate. Sofia tilted her head and could just make out the word ‘Butlins’ in bright red playful writing. The Quakers helped them off the bus and they stood in a little huddle, staring at the gate and listening to shrieks of laughter inside. A young man came rushing out, and with joy Sofia saw a navy blue kippah atop his dark curls.
‘More?’ he said to one of the Quaker women. ‘I thought the Kindertransport had been stopped from bringing more children? We still haven’t found places for some of them.’
Kindertransport... the word seemed familiar to Sofia, though it was certainly German. Child transport... she seemed to remember one of her Muggle friends mentioning it; they had said that their mother was trying to find money for a Kindertransport ticket. She didn’t understand anything else that the man said however, and his stressed tone set her at unease.
‘I don’t know,’ said the woman. ‘We were just told to meet them at Harwich, it was all very last minute. They do have the correct tickets, authorised by the English, German and Polish authorities, and we were told there are families who have confirmed they’ll take them.’
The man spluttered. ‘We have children here who have been waiting for months! They’ll have to wait in the queue like all the others!’
‘These children are special,’ replied the woman in an unconvincing tone. ‘They must be, to be rescued so late. Jesus has chosen them to save them.’
The man rolled his eyes. ‘You forget who you’re talking to. Go and pray to Jesus, I’ll take the children. Don’t worry, I’ll be nice,’ he said pointedly as she frowned at him.
‘Jesus will save you too.’
‘I’m sure. I’ll see you at lunchtime.’ He turned to the children and looked them up and down. ‘Shalom,’ he said, his tone kinder now.
‘Shalom!’ replied Nova gleefully.
He laughed and ruffled her hair. ‘You’re a queer one! This way; follow me.’ They followed him through the gate and along a wide path, with a well cut lawn either side. They could hear children laughing and shouting, and as they walked the man began to teach them English. ‘Shalom... Hello...’ he said. He repeated this until they began to recite it after, and he showed them praise through clapping and laughing and jumping. They all laughed at this wonderfully energetic man, and before long they were skipping and dancing around him as they walked up the path, shouting ‘Shalom! Hello! Hallo! Hello! Shalom!’
‘I imagine you’re all somewhat hungry, yes?’ he said as he opened the door to a long barrack.
It was then Sofia was completely sure she had died on her journey. The overpowering scent of cooked food, even better, cooked breakfast, and the wonderful sound of lively and happy chatter was surely a sign of heaven. The moment a plate was handed to her she became aware of how hungry she was, and it was with a wide smile that she received two slices of toast and a large spoonful of scrambled eggs.
***
It was night time. Sofia had enjoyed the most wonderful day since she’d been forced into the ghetto. After breakfast there had been painting and sewing, and then she had been allowed to sit on a sunny lawn talking to a rather dashing Czech boy while the younger children played on swings and slides and a roundabout. She had followed this particular boy, who seemed to be called Ludvik, all day, including at lunch, where they had vegetable soup, and during the English class, and even shyly during swimming (in her underwear, she dreaded to imagine what her mother would think) in the afternoon in the holiday park’s own pool.
But now in the darkness, on an uncomfortable bed, she tossed and turned, caught between fretful sleep where she dreamt of her mother’s blue dress and Star of David, and her father’s shiny shoes and Oscar’s neat hair, and moments of complete alertness, where she was driven mad by the sounds of dozens of children sniffing, coughing, whispering the Shema and crying. It didn’t matter what a wonderful day she’d had, how many attractive young men she’d lightly flirted with, how many new friends she’d made, the moment the moon rose into the foreign sky she was acutely aware of how alone she was, and she could not help but bitterly wish that her father had let her mother drag her off the train. No doubt, by the sounds of the quietly crying children around her, this feeling of abandonment and loneliness were not by any means unusual, but it offered her little comfort. She too, like others, tried to whisper the Shema, but it only reminded her of her mother saying it with her.
She became overwhelmed with home sickness and full of dread for the future. Perhaps she would have another glorious day tomorrow. Maybe if she did, the same thing would happen the day after, and the day after that, and for ever more. She could easily imagine the swimming pool and the playground becoming boring, and the endless nights of hearing scores of children with sniffs and sneezes and raspy coughs was not particularly inviting. She had no idea what was going to happen to her; Mother had told her that there would be an English family waiting to look after her until the rest of the family made it to England. But this was no family, this was a huge refugee camp hastily made in a holiday park, with unorganised young religious volunteers desperately trying to make themselves understood and trying too soothe the hordes of confused and frightened children. Sofia had seen children as young as three and as old as seventeen, and all the ages in between, but she had not met one person who knew what was going on. Ludvik had told her, in his best Yiddish that every now and again a child or small groups of children would leave with an English family, but they had not been seen again. This frightened her, and reminded her of the stories of her neighbours and friends who had been told to go to the East for work, but had stopped replying to letters. She asked him if he thought it was good to go and live with a family. He shrugged.
She tried to ask a Jewish volunteer girl, but Sofia’s Hebrew was bad and the girl’s Hebrew was only marginally better; evidently her parents had been correct when they had lectured her over the importance of learning it. Sofia tried Yiddish, but again, the girl understood nothing. In the end, the volunteer gave up and gave Sofia a sweet before wandering off.
She had been given second hand, but clean, clothes and had been allowed to wash and brush her teeth. She had been fed and she had been hugged and she had laughed with companions. She had been given a bed, even if it was a little uncomfortable and she was safe within four walls. What more could she ask for? At that moment she hated herself for her ungratefulness and fear as she imagined Oskar trying to sleep on his pile of blankets to the sounds of machine gunfire and screaming and cruel laughter. She hated herself for feeling lonely as she imagined the little orphaned seven-year-old who used to walk through the ghetto trying to sell stolen items. She hated herself for dreading the future as she remembered her cousin Helen who was trying to hide outside of the ghetto, or her own parents who were trying to find a work permit for their ten-year-old son.
Yet it didn’t matter how many times she reminded herself of others suffering, it didn’t seem to make her own night any lighter.
***
Sofia, Lavi, Nova, Solomon and Hirshel had been woken earlier than the other children, and had been instructed, in fragmented and incorrect Polish by a nervous volunteer who read from a phrase book, to dress in the best clothes they had quickly and meet by the gate with their suitcases. Yawning and muttering, they did so obediently, and walked together, Hirshel clutching Sofia’s hand and talking animatedly to Solomon, through the holiday park to the gate.
Standing there was the energetic young Jewish man who had welcomed them the day before, who was sneaking curious stares at the vibrant and extravagantly dressed auburn haired, bearded man next to him, who was smiling at them.
‘Hello. My name is Professor Dumbledore, I'm the Assistant Headmaster at Hogwarts. I’m pleased that you’ll be attending my school. Term starts in September, so until then we’ve found some suitable families who understand your talents to look after you.’ The Jewish man translated into Hebrew for them, and Lavi, the only one fluent in said language, then translated into Polish. The young man looked confused, but the children immediately recognised the reference to Hogwarts and glanced at each other with a mixture of nerves and excitement.
There was a loud crack nearby. The children and Jewish volunteer started and looked round, but the ever-odd looking Professor just gave a small smile and waited patiently. He stared at Sofia, and she found herself fixated on his blue eyes, frozen in place. She felt as though he were listening to her thoughts.
A woman walked through the gate, and the Jewish volunteer frowned, confused. ‘I didn’t see you come in,’ he said. ‘How did you get here?’ Dumbledore smiled and dismissed him, and he left, looking completely bewildered.
The woman herself looked proud and somewhat haughty. She had voluptuous curves squeezed into a forest green dress and red earrings with a matching necklace glistened about her face, painted carefully with make-up. Sofia decided she would perhaps look like a movie-star, if she were a little younger and her hair was all black, rather than decorated with lines of grey.
‘Ah, Mrs Brigham,’ said Dumbledore politely.
‘Albus,’ she said in a dignified manner nodding her head. ‘I said I’d take in a child, Albus, but I have been doing some thinking and I only want a girl.’ She looked at Nova and smiled. ‘She’s a pretty little thing, I’m happy to take her.’
‘Certainly, but the young man standing next to her is her brother, and we think it best not to separate them.’
‘Hmm. I don’t want a boy. We have an evacuee from London and he’s simply horrid. Good luck with him when he arrives at the school in three years.’ She surveyed the children, who stood awkwardly, unable to understand but feeling distinctly like they were being sold. ‘Do none of them speak any English?’
‘Unfortunately not,’ said Dumbledore. ‘But I trust you and your family would be able to educate them admirably before September.’
‘Teach a child a language in two months? Are you mad, Albus?’
‘Possibly, but I have little other choice.’
‘Hmmph.’ The woman walked over and stood in front of Sofia, who suddenly found it very hard to look at anything but the woman’s highly polished shoes. Father had polished his shoes. ‘What’s this one’s name?’ barked Mrs Brigham.
‘I believe this is Sofia Goldhirsch,’ said Dumbledore cheerfully. ‘She’s sixteen.’
Mrs Brigham held Sofia’s chin and pushed it up so Sofia looked directly into her face. ‘She’s awfully sickly looking and thin to be sixteen. I suppose I’ve no other choice. I don’t want a boy.’
Sofia was shaking and nearly in tears. She didn’t know what the woman was saying or what was happening, but she felt like an object and the woman seemed unfriendly. Dumbledore, however, seemed amused.
‘My dear Mrs Brigham, you’re terrifying the poor child. You don’t need to keep up such a silly display of sternness in front of me. I have more families coming for the other children and I doubt any of them will look as dignified and responsible as you,’ he said slyly, with twinkling eyes.
‘Oh do be quiet, Albus.’ She grabbed Sofia’s hand. ‘Well come on then, girl. I’m in quite a hurry and your clothes are hideous. They must be changed.’ With that, Sofia saw one last glance of her friends, and she vanished with a deafening crack.
Bicie Serca by BlueJoker
Chapter Endnotes: As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts. For those of you who are interested in the context of this chapter, I encourage you to Google 'Kindertransport'. It's an inspiring and moving tale about the rescue of over 10,000 children, most of them Jewish from Eastern Europe and Germany. From henceforth, this story gets a lot less angsty, but please be aware that this will never be a fluffy fic. Thank you for reading xxx