Free My Family for the War by Anne C. Voorhoeve Page B

very short time my fingers were frozen solid to the railing, but my legs became functional again and I got my footing. Walter stayed right behind me, just to be on the safe side, a strange but not unpleasant feeling.
    “Do you have an address over there?” Walter had to yell to be heard above the wind, waves, and the humming of the engine.
    “Yes, and you?” I yelled back, totally thrilled that an older boy was talking with me.
    “I’m going to join my father. He’s been in London for a year already.”
    “And your mother?”
    “She died two years ago.” Before I could be dismayed, he smiled again. He had cheerful eyes and brown curls and leaned toward being plump. “What’s your name, anyway?” he wanted to know.
    “Ziska Mangold. And I’m going to bring my parents over too!”
    “Good luck! There’s a coffeehouse in Tottenham Court Road, the Café Vienna. They might be able to help you there.”
    Café Vienna, I repeated in my thoughts and could hardly believe it. I hadn’t even reached England yet, and I’d already found out about a place I could go to get help for my parents!
    An especially high wave struck the ship with a loud noise, pressed the bow up, and then it came down so steeply thatwater sloshed onto the deck. The winter storm on the sea seemed so perfectly fitting, almost comforting, as if God himself were responding powerfully to the turmoil in our lives. When the next wave came, I opened my mouth wide and screamed at it at the top of my lungs.
    Soon! Mamu and Papa would come join me soon! In the unfettered wind of freedom that blew from the English coast, everything seemed so wonderfully simple.
    Ever since we had received their address, I had been thinking about the Winterbottoms, awaiting my arrival. They were willing to guarantee, with a considerable sum of money, that I wouldn’t become a burden to the English government. Who were they? Why were they doing so much for a completely unknown child? Could it be that they were expecting something from me in return—and if so, what?
    The closer our first meeting drew, the more nervous I became. After the ferry docked in Harwich, while we waited for hours for the medical examinations and another round of passport and customs controls, the Winterbottoms occupied every cell in my brain. Had they received the letter Mamu and I had written in time, or did they know as little about me as I did about them?
    I furtively rubbed the small crucifix at my throat.
Jesus, if you can hear me now, please make sure the Winterbottoms like me. If it’s not too late, please let them be wonderful people, like the ones Bekka talked about.
    I had a bit of a bad conscience, because I only prayed when I wanted something from Jesus. I couldn’t even be a hundred percent certain that he was responsible for me atall. When I was still allowed to be a Protestant, I was told, “Jesus is always with you and loves you just the way you are.” But was that automatically revoked when I was kicked out of religion class? If he really had been by my side up to that point, wouldn’t Jesus know better than anyone that I wasn’t really Jewish?
    Of course! If anyone knew, it was Jesus! That meant he was definitely still looking out for me, even now as our train pulled into an enormous, light-filled, columned hall: Liverpool Street Station, London. In orderly groups of four we walked through the small triumphal archway into the main hall of the station and found ourselves in a kind of warehouse that had been divided in half with rope and tarp. Friendly looking, elegantly dressed women from the local committee for the aid of Jewish refugees were already seated at tables, ready to sign us in and hand us over to the right people. We were directed to the rows of benches that took up one whole side of the hall. On the other side, a haphazardly assembled, colorful crowd of people had gathered.
    A wave of expectant murmuring broke out as we entered.
    Our foster parents! Most craned