Transatlantic

October 1940

Manchester, England

America. 

   I’ve never been. I’ve never even left England, actually. And now...now I’m leaving. Now I’m crossing an ocean. I’m leaving. 

   Mum won’t tell me where I’m going. I think she knows, though. She’s been bustling around the kitchen more than usual lately, even though there’s no food to cook with; everything’s rationed. She won’t quite meet my eyes when I look at her, and her words have been fading day by day. Now, she barely speaks to me at all. 

   I want to ask her what’s going on. But I’m afraid of the answer.

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

A new sister. 

   That’s what my mother has started calling the girl who’s coming to stay with us. Really, she’s just a girl. Really, it’s just temporary. Really, I couldn’t care less. 

   But really, it does feel a little bit like getting a new sister. 

   Mom and I have always been the only two women in the house. I’ve been surrounded by my three brothers for my entire life; I’ve never had a girl to really connect with. I’ve always wanted a sister. I’d never say it out loud, though. My mother couldn’t have another. 

After she gave birth to my youngest brother, Daniel, who is a year older than I am, my mother learned she couldn’t have any more children. But she wanted a girl, so she adopted me. Apparently I was born in England. I don’t remember it at all. I was only six months old when I came to America. 

   Dad says the war’s real bad over in England. He says the people in London can’t sleep at night, because the Germans keep dropping bombs on them. The girl we’re getting is from Manchester, but Dad says the bombs could start falling there at any moment. She’ll be safe here, in America. 

   But I just wonder: how will she ever feel safe, an ocean away from home?

The Dock, London

Mum holds me and cries.

   Words that have been held in her mouth for weeks come spilling out. I love you. I don’t know what I will do without you. You are my life, Helen. I promise I will see you again one day. 

   I hold her, and tears stream down my face, but I don’t know what to say. 

   As my mother pulls away, she cups my face in her hands. I have to tell you something.

   What is it?

   Where you are going… Mum traces my cheek with her thumb. You have a sister.

   What?

   A sister. She holds my gaze firmly. I’ve arranged for you to live with them. You will be safe there. The girl is two years older than you are, and she is your sister. Barbara. 

My mother takes in a deep, shuddering breath. I can’t breathe. 

When I had her, I was too young. I didn’t know what to do with her. I had nothing; her life would have been nothing. So I sent her across the ocean, to a distant American family who wanted a girl. She knows that she was adopted, but she doesn’t know about you. 

Why… I swallow hard. My brain is rushing to keep up with Mum’s words. Why did you have me?

Your father and your sister’s father are the same man. He returned. I couldn’t say no to him. Mum sighs. That is a story for another day. Now, you need to get onboard. I love you, Helen. Don’t ever forget that. 

I watch her and wave from the railing of the ship until she is a tiny speck among many.

The Ocean

The journey can’t be more than a week, but it feels like forever. 

   The ship is crowded and stuffy. The evacuating children are crammed together in second class. I share a room with five other girls. 

We sleep in our clothes; we are told to be ready to abandon ship at a moment’s notice. The ship has to zigzag constantly to avoid German submarines. We could be torpedoed at any time, but I can’t even concentrate enough to be truly scared. I left Mum. I left England. I’m going to America. 

I have a sister.

The Dock, New York

We drove to New York. I’ve been there before, of course, but this time feels completely different. We’re going to pick up the girl. Her name is Helen. Helen Bramwell. 

The name strikes a strange chord in my mind.

   The docks are jam-packed with people. Dad holds tight to one of my arms; my second-oldest brother, Jim, grips the other. I’m a small person. I could easily be swept away in the tide. 

   The massive ocean liner—RMS Atwood—towers over us. Streams of people are leaving, and it’s clear which levels they were in: the pearls and furs and trimmed suits of first class; the trousers and simple skirts of second; and the worn coats and faded suitcases of third. 

   And the children. There are so many children. 

   They wear tags around their necks that mark them as evacuees. They are all ages, the oldest looking about my age—fourteen—and the youngest not more than two or three years old. I see tired eyes and sagging steps and tiny hands holding onto one another. They have just crossed an ocean. 

   We stand behind the gate for what feels like hours. Each child approaches the processing station and then is either matched with the person waiting for them, or sent to a different line, where my dad says they will be sent to a children’s boarding house of some kind. I watch them shuffle away, and my heart aches. 

   Finally. The attendant calls: Helen Bramwell!

   Dad pushes through the crowd to the gate. Jim and I follow, my hand clamped around his wrist. She’s with us, my dad says. Frank Tyson. 

   I look past him. Standing in front of the table is a small girl, and all the breath leaves my body. 

   She is me. 

The Road

My sister. I have a sister.

The kind American man—Frank—chatters on as we drive. He is balding and wears wire-framed glasses. His car is beautiful, dark blue and shining, a Cadillac. Mum and I would never be able to afford a car like this. 

In the passenger seat is a handsome boy with hair the color of the sand. He smiles at me, kind and friendly. I don’t have any words for him. I don’t have any words for any of them. 

Especially not Barbara. 

She is everything I am not. She is beautiful and American. She wears saddle shoes, a plaid blouse, and trousers. Trousers! Mum would faint. Her hair looks like a film star’s, a spotless Victory Roll that I’ve never been able to perfect. 

And she looks like me. She looks so much like me. We have the same caramel-colored eyes, the same heart-shaped face, the same rosy cheeks. Her hair is the color of the coffee my mother was able to scrounge up occasionally. But everything of mine is so much more beautiful on her. 

She barely looks at me. She doesn’t say a word for the entire drive.

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Home, sweet home. 

   The car has barely stopped moving before I’m out the door. Dad calls for me to help Helen with her suitcase, but I don’t look back. Tears are already pooling at the corners of my eyes. If I turn around and see her one more time, I know I’m going to start crying for real.

   Mom looks up from her cooking when I bang through the kitchen door. As soon as she sees my face, she goes pale. Barb. Barbara. I can explain—

   I push past her and run upstairs. Into the room that I’m supposed to share with this girl who is me and isn’t me and why didn’t anyone ever tell me that I had a sister?

My New Home

Dinner is strange. 

The meal is amazing. Things aren’t as heavily rationed here, so there is plenty of food. But the unspoken words hanging over the table eat their way into my chest, giving every bite a sour taste.

I wonder about Mum. I wonder what she is eating. I wonder if she misses me. 

The American family is very kind. They have three boys: Daniel, Jim, and Mark. Daniel is fifteen, Jim is sixteen, and Mark is almost eighteen. Barbara is younger than all of them, at fourteen. Even though I am only a little more than a year younger than her, it feels like she is so much older. 

She still won’t look at me. 

After dinner, one of the boys goes out, the other two cluster around the radio (yet another spectacular device Mum and I could never afford) and Barbara disappears upstairs. Frank and Carol bring me into the living room.

Helen, we are so very glad you are here with us, Frank begins, but you have to be patient with Barb. We realize now that we should have told her about you before you arrived.

Barb always knew she was adopted, but this is a huge shock for her, Carol adds. She’s always wanted a sister, I think. She’ll never admit it. But she will be very glad to have you around. Just you wait. 

Okay, I murmured. Thank you again for taking me in.

The Americans smile kindly at me. It’s the least we can do for family. 

The Bedroom

Helen climbs into bed. Goodnight, Barbara.

   Did you know about me?

   I haven’t said a word to her since she arrived. That’s the first thing that comes out.

   Helen rolls over and fixes me with that brown-eyed stare that is so much like that mine it terrifies me. Not until right before I left, she says. Mum told me right before I boarded the Atwood. I couldn’t stop thinking about it during the journey. She smiles to herself. It kept me from being too scared. I knew I had to get to America to meet my sister.

   I can’t speak. Helen seemed so quiet at first.

   Finally, I ask, Is the war awful in England?

   Helen closes her eyes briefly, then opens them. Yes. Our boys are dying. Everything is rationed. We have to black out the town every night. We were bombed in August. My best friend, Lucy, lost her home and her mother in that raid. Her father is at war, so she and her brother were sent off to the country. I don’t know that I’ll ever see her again. 

   Gosh, I murmured. They said it was bad, but that’s awful.

   It’s frightening, Helen says. But we have no choice but to get through it. 

   Maybe she’s right. 

Change is frightening. Secrets are frightening. But we have no choice but to get through them. 

Helen?

Yes?

Welcome to the family. 

She smiles sleepily and murmurs, barely audibly, I have a sister.

   I smile to myself.

December 1940

Philadelphia

Christmas in America. It’s a thing from a dream.

   Snow falls gently outside, cheerful music piping from the radio. Carol is finishing up the family’s traditional Christmas Eve pie. I don’t remember the last time I had pie. 

   Barb knits in front of the fire. I’m writing a letter to Mum. I’m telling her about Christmas in Pennsylvania. The lights, the decorations, the department stores, the caroling...I love everything about it. I wish she were here to see it, too.

   Do you miss your mother?

   I look up at Barb. She looks back with my eyes. Yes. Christmas doesn’t feel quite right without her.

   Barb nods. Tell her I miss her, too.

   I smile.

Ssh! Everybody listen!

   Daniel is huddled in front of the radio. He looks stricken. My heart speeds up.

   ...interrupt this broadcast to bring you an urgent bulletin. Manchester, England, is under heavy bombing from the German forces, similar to that of the bombardment of London. It’s a Christmas Blitz. Casualties are unknown but sure to be high…

   The pen drops from my fingers. Ink sprays across the carpet. 

   Barb has a hand pressed to her mouth. Carol is crying. Frank puts an arm around her shoulders. Daniel stares at the radio. I can’t breathe. 

   Manchester. Bombing. Germans. Bombing. Blitz. Casualties unknown. 

   Mum. No, Mum. 

Manchester, 1946

I step out of the taxi and thank the driver. Barb climbs out of the back. 

   Here we are, I say. 

   It has been six years. 

   My house looks almost the same. The western wall was taken out by a bomb; I can tell because it looks newer than the rest of the house. It was rebuilt.

Mum, please be here. Please be alive.

   I take a long, deep breath and glance over at Barb. She looks back, and nods. Ready. 

   Together, we walk up the steps. Into our past. Into our future.