Free Good-bye Marianne by Irene N.Watts Page B

time. She threw her arms round her mother’s neck.
    “I’ve so longed to have a copy of
Emil and the Detectives
of my own. I won’t even peek at it until I’m in England. I’ll save it, something from home to look forward to. Thank you a thousand times.”
    Mother and daughter went into the kitchen with their arms around each other.

N ext morning at ten minutes to six, Marianne stood in the hall, dressed and ready to go, with the luggage label fastened around her neck. Her mother was in the kitchen, making a big lunch for Marianne to take on the train.
    There was a knock on the door. Marianne opened it.
    Ernest, dressed in the outfit he had worn on that first day when he arrived in Berlin from Freiburg, stood there. He was holding a small package. “I’m going back today,” said Ernest hesitantly. “Home to Freiburg.”
    “I’m leaving too, in a few minutes,” said Marianne. “I’m going to England.”
    “I bet it’s a long way on the train,” said Ernest. “Watch out for men in bowler hats.”
    They both started laughing, remembering their first meeting. Ernest said, “Well, I just came to say good-bye. I brought yousomething.” He handed Marianne an oddly-shaped package, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. “You can open it when I’m gone.”
    A harsh voice called from downstairs, “Ernest, I forbade you to go upstairs again. Come down this minute.” Ernest straightened up, his arm flew out and, for a dreadful moment, Marianne thought he was going to say,
“Heil Hitler.”
    Ernest stuck out his hand; Marianne took it. They shook hands.
    “Good luck, Marianne. Perhaps you’ll come back to Berlin someday.”
    “Good-bye. Thanks Ernest,” said Marianne.
    Ernest ran downstairs, two steps at a time. The door of Number One closed behind him. Marianne went back inside her apartment and shut the door. She ripped open the parcel. Inside was Ernest’s most precious possession – the motor-horn. On the back of a postcard with a view of Unter den Linden, Ernest had written:

    Marianne put the motor-horn in her coat pocket, and the postcard in her purse. Mr. Altmann had been right. Ernest was one of the brave voices.
    “Who was that?” asked her mother.
    “A friend,” said Marianne. “He came to say good-bye.”

I n the subway all the way to the railway station, standing wedged tightly against her mother, Marianne was aware of Ernest’s present in her coat pocket. She repeated the words on the card silently to herself:

    They comforted her a little.
    Now and again, Mrs. Kohn smiled gently at Marianne. It was wiser not to speak in the compartment crowded with early-morning workers. Someone might be listening and cause problems.
    It was a relief to get out at last into the frosty December air. Marianne looked at her watch: 7:15 A.M. precisely. There was still almost three-quarters of an hour left. She needn’t say good-bye yet.
    “Please let me carry my suitcase, Mutti. I have to get used to being on my own.” Mrs. Kohn didn’t argue, she just squeezed Marianne’s fingers and then handed her the case. They walked through the vast pillared doorway of the Berlin railway station. Immediately they were assaulted by sights and sounds of such confusion, noise, and terror that Marianne’s questions were left unspoken.
    The glass and steel roof of the huge terminal was high and cavernous. The daylight, which entered through the tall windows, seemed pale in comparison to the blaze of electric light that lit up every sad face. There were seemingly endless railway tracks, which Marianne knew sent trains all over Europe. SS guards stood every few paces. Some had powerfully muscled watchdogs beside them. Marianne was afraid to look at the dogs. She thought, ‘If one jumps up at me, it could tear out my throat.’ Their leather collars gleamed as brightly as their masters’ glossy boots.
    Once they’d passed through the barrier, Marianne and her mother found the platform crammed with children of