Free The Children of Willesden Lane: Beyond The Kindertransport: A Memoir of Music, Love, and Survival by Mona Golabek, Lee Cohen Page A

could enjoy it; it seemed like the most delicious bun on earth.
    Following the careful directions of helpful pedestrians, Lisa walked the weary miles to Bloomsbury House.

8
    T HE BLOOMSBURY HOUSE was still a madhouse of volunteers, arriving children, and file boxes. Lisa walked down the hall in guilty trepidation and gave her name to one of the secretaries.
    “Have a seat, dearie, he’ll be with you soon as he’s able. Care for some tea?”
    She accepted gratefully and watched as boxes of donations were sorted and stacked. Britain had responded to the arrival of the Kindertransports with an outpouring of cutlery, linens, rocking horses, and dolls; all manner of whatnots seemed to have landed in the hallway in front of her. The offices were full; the overflow of prospective foster parents spilled into corners and onto stairwells.
    “I know you said you could only take two, but it would be terrible to break up the family,” a volunteer implored into a telephone. “They’re so lovely, and very well behaved, too.” The worker glanced at the three children next to her who were holding tight to one another’s hands. Her eyes were sparkling in encouragement, and her chin nodded up and down.
    Lisa wondered how she’d be described—not well behaved certainly, more like a troublemaker. No matter, she’d made her decision. She wouldn’t go back. Anything, she told herself, was better than the terrible loneliness of the last six months.
    The volunteers continued their phone calling and their cajoling, fielding offers of buildings to be converted to orphanages and giving advice on bedwetting and tantrums. Lisa accepted more and more cookies.
    “Lisa Jura? Mr. Hardesty will see you now.” She walked into his office and half imagined that Mr. Hardesty groaned when he saw the dark red hair approach.
    “Aha, it’s you!” he said as recognition dawned. “We were worried—the captain told us you’d gone missing.” But instead of the brash young bundle of energy he remembered, before him stood an exhausted girl with un-combed hair and wrinkled clothes. Lisa was too tired to think of anything to say.
    Mr. Hardesty picked up a file with Lisa’s picture on the front and several papers clipped to the back.
    “Were they treating you badly?”
    Lisa reddened in embarrassment. “No, sir.”
    “Were you getting enough to eat?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Mr. Hardesty let out a large breath, exhaling weeks and months of fatigue and frustration. He loosened his collar. He was sweltering in the airless August afternoon.
    Lisa forced herself to begin the speech she had rehearsed over and over in her head. “I want to make something of myself. I don’t want to be a servant. I want to learn something. Please, let me stay in London.”
    Mr. Hardesty studied this outspoken young woman and let out another long breath. “I’m afraid that’s very difficult. So many people are leaving London, and I don’t know if I could find a family here to take you. The hostels are full up.”
    “People are leaving?” Lisa said, her eyes filled with fear.
    Mr. Hardesty softened his expression. “Didn’t you get any news down there? Most people are expecting a war— and I’m afraid I am, too. Looks like Warsaw will be next. Chamberlain is over there now pleading, but it won’t come to anything, if you want my opinion.”
    He looked at her proud but vulnerable expression and added, “We’d prefer to send as many of you to the countryside as we can. Most people expect we’ll be bombed.”
    “Please, don’t send me back. I can work in a factory! I need to make some money to send to my parents to bring Sonia over.”
    “Sonia?” Mr. Hardesty asked.
    “My sister, Sonia. I’m hoping she will come soon on the Kindertransport.”
    “What’s her name, again?”
    “Sonia Jura, from Vienna.”
    “He fumbled for a long time through a file box and finally located a typed card. “Sonia Jura, aha. Yes, but we don’t have a sponsor for her yet. If