Kindertransport by Olga Levy Drucker Read Free Book Online

scratching.

    From the first I noticed Lydia scratching her head all the time. I thought it was a habit she had. But soon my own scalp began to itch. After a while I was scratching just as she was. In the mornings, when I woke up, in what little light there was, I could see tiny blood stains on my pillow. What awful disease had I caught from this girl?
    Mrs. Liebman made me sit down every Saturday to answer my parents’ letters, which came regularly once a week. They were always short and cheerful and didn’t tell
me anything that I really wanted to know. If everything was so fine, I wondered, then why was I here in England? I kept my masterpieces short, too. After all, I thought, why upset my parents? To make the letters look longer, I filled empty spaces with little drawings. Thus parrots and cats marched across the printed lines, as did clever portraits of me with the family Liebman. I did not enjoy writing letters, so I filled up the pages as quickly as possible with whatever came to mind. One particular letter must have mentioned the fact that my head was itching. Mama must have received this information with some dismay. She went into action immediately, for not long after, I had a visitor.
    â€œSomeone to see you, love,” announced Mrs. Liebman. I was in the kitchen, trying to teach Polly the parrot some German.
    â€œMe?” Who would come to see me? Who even knew I existed? I scratched my head and rushed to the front room, where all visitors were received.
    My guest sat stiffly on the edge of one of the overstuffed chairs, from which the sheets had been removed. Her hat was of the very latest style. It partly covered her face. I judged her to be about thirty-five or forty. She smelled wonderfully of health and cleanliness, with just a touch of some heavenly perfume. Her blond hair was neatly combed back and caught in a bun at the nape of her neck. Even my untrained eyes could see that the suit
she wore was well-tailored and no doubt very expensive. She wore silk stockings, with seams straight up the middle of her legs, and high-heeled shoes that matched her suit. She looked vaguely familiar.
    Before I plopped myself in the chair across from hers, she held out a gloved hand to me.
    â€œMy name is Mrs. Gordon. My husband and I came to visit your parents in Stuttgart last year, on business. You may not remember.”
    So that’s where I had seen her before!
    â€œHow do you do?” I said in my budding English.
    She smiled.
    â€œVery well, thank you. I have a little girl at home, just about your age. How would you like to come and stay with us?”
    I thought it over.
    â€œYou mean for the weekend sometime?” I asked.
    â€œNo, I mean live with us.” She coughed into her gloved hand. “Until a more permanent place can be found for you.”
    I hadn’t the slightest idea what “permanent” meant. All I heard was “live with us.”
    â€œBut what about Mrs. Liebman?” I asked, not knowing what else to say.
    â€œDon’t worry. I’ve already spoken to her. She will have you ready by Monday morning.”
    So everything had already been arranged. Asking me
was only a formality. Though, truthfully, after four weeks of Lydia I was more than willing to leave. Besides, in only two more weeks the six weeks would be up. Mama and Papa would be here then!
    How could I have known that Mrs. Gordon’s little girl was to prove a far worse headache than Lydia had ever been?

7
    JILL
    T hat weekend I spent with my head in the kitchen sink, while Mrs. Liebman scrubbed my scalp as if her life depended upon it. I feared that I would have no skin left on my head, let alone hair. The soap she used reeked. I wanted to throw up. I protested loudly. But the more I screamed, the harder she scrubbed.
    Lydia was noticeably absent.
    â€œNever mind Lydia. Her turn is coming. She can’t get away with it this time,” her mother snarled. I lifted my head to rub