The Children’s Train

It was the last day of August in 1939. Hans and Stephen rode a bus into the countryside outside the city. The sun was hot, and they opened the bus windows to let the breeze blow in. Hans clutched the piece of paper that Marla had given them, with the name and address of someone who might be able to help them bring Stephen’s parents to England.

They got off the bus at the town written on the paper, and walked along the road until they came to an imposing English estate.

“Is this the right place?” Stephen asked. Hans looked at the piece of paper in his hand and nodded.

“This is bigger than our school in Berlin,” Stephen said in amazement at the expansive estate.

“Let’s hope they don’t kick us out of here like they did at school,” Hans teased. “Are you ready?”

Stephen nodded.

The boys opened the huge metal gate, with its curlicues surrounding the letter K. They walked up the long, wide, bricked driveway to the mansion. “Look at this place!” Stephen said.

Hans took a deep breath and knocked on the door. A tall butler in a black suit with tails opened the door. “May I help you, young gentlemen?”

“Are you Mr. Barnaby?” Hans asked.

“No, I’m Alfred. One moment, please,” Alfred said. Then he shut the door.

Hans turned to Stephen. “One moment, please,” he mimicked in his fake English accent. “I’m Alfred.”

After a few moments, the door opened again. “Please, follow me,” Alfred said.

Stephen and Hans looked at each other and followed him down a long ornate hall. Stephen bumped a table, and a vase wobbled, toppling over. Hans grabbed it before it hit the ground. He glared at Stephen and quickly set it back on the table. Alfred turned around, and the boys both straightened, as if nothing had happened.

The butler opened a huge carved wooden door. “Gentlemen,” he said formally, and with a sweep of his hand, the boys were ushered into a library with floor-to-ceiling shelves full of books.

A gray-haired man in a tweed suit was seated at a table inside. He looked up from a pile of papers and smiled. “Yes, boys. What can I do for you?”

“You’re Mr. Barnaby?” Hans asked.

Barnaby nodded. “The one and only.”

“Marla sent us,” Hans said.

“You are some of her Kindertransport children?” Barnaby asked.

Stephen nodded. “Yes, sir, I’m Stephen. This is Hans. We’re from Germany.”

“Nice to meet you,” Barnaby said, extending his hand across his desk to shake theirs.

“My parents are hiding from the Nazis in their friends’ attic so they won’t be arrested. We’re trying to get working permits for them, so they can come to England before the Nazis get them,” Stephen said.

Barnaby cleared his throat, more from emotion than reluctance.

Hans stepped forward and bobbed his head. “Sir, my father owned a factory. He was killed in a concentration camp. My mother, brother, and grandmother were arrested. I don’t know where they are, but there’s still time to get Stephen’s parents out.”

“Indeed.” Barnaby tapped the desk in front of him. “What would they be willing to do?”

“My father is a doctor, but he can clean stables, and my mother can do anything,” Stephen said.

“A doctor willing to clean stables? Come see me, tomorrow.” Barnaby looked down at his papers, but not quickly enough to avoid them seeing the emotion in his eyes. “There are always jobs for that kind of determination.”

“Thank you, Mr. Barnaby. Thank you!” Stephen said.