Children in exile

Helen Harris Perlman, MS, D. Lift., is Samuel Deutsch Distinguished Pro fessor Emeritus, School of Social Service Administration, University of Chicago. Nobody talks now about the Vietparents had rightly been forewarned, namese children. I mean the ones who I just happened to fall into those came alone, who were shuttled out by few hours with these three children, boat and plane—the orphans or halfI was taking the night train from New orphans or non-orphans, whatever— York to Chicago, and my friend, a so the ones who were scooped up and cial worker from one of the com bustled away for their physical safety mittees for refugees, asked if I could or for parent substitutes or for any of shepherd them overnight, just to make the other forms of well-being that things easier for them. I would see America promises. Officials and the that Werner got off at Buffalo early in media are silent about them. One asthe morning and get the two girls onto sumes that responsible persons and their California-bound train from Chi agencies are busy checking out their cago. Erika and Liselotte were steady, status and that of the parents or relaself-sufficient youngsters, my friend tives they left, perhaps assessing their said. No trouble at all. Werner was an adoptability (or adaptability?), and upset child, she thought. He had seen that plans will follow for each child's his father shot a few days before he best welfare. Meantime, what are the left Vienna. It had something to do children doing or feeling? What is with his older brother's escape into likely to become of them? What is Yugoslavia. When the police came to their best welfare to be, I wonder. check on his whereabouts they said the My mind races back to those brief father was responsible. But Werner hours almost 40 years ago when I took was all bottled up—so he would be three refugee children from New York no trouble either. City to Buffalo and Chicago. I never hear of children who, for whatever They politely acknowledge my reasons, good or bad, are taken from friend's introduction of them, the three, their familiar places and people but and they board the train with me, si that Werner and Erika and Liselotte lently. Each clutches a bulging brief present themselves before me. Where case that holds nightshirts and a few are they now, I wonder. How are they clothes, passports, and (later I see) now, and what? Grown middle-aged, snapshots, writing paper, and the pa with children of their own, perhaps? perbouhd books and games and choc Beautiful or plain? Sleek with satisfacolate bars that my friend has stuffed tion or pinched with misery? Fulfilled in for their journey. Werner is going to or empty and searching? Did they ever a real uncle, an older brother of his find and see their parents again? Have father; the girls to "some people." they come to feel at home? Erika is the oldest, 12 or so, long blond The last boat out of Italy had braids, long black-stockinged legs, face brought them to America. They had flushed, eyes too bright. Liselotte, ten, been hurried out of Berlin and Vienna, sturdy in her prepubertal plumpness, is like hundreds of other Jewish children, stuffed into a red velveteen dress, and sent off in their parents' final desperate a cocky plaid Scotch bonnet sits in decision that they must be saved. The congruously atop her solemn face, intensive work of refugee agencies had Werner, except for his dark dilated yielded affidavits for them, guaranteed eyes, is the ghost of an eight-year-old, good homes where so-called uncles and his face paper thin and white, his aunts would take them in as if they chin hunched into his woolen scarf, were their own. They would care for The sleeping-car berths are already them and educate them and nurture made up, and I show the children the them with love too. But the latter was washrooms and tell them in my awk a delicate and complex business, it was ward German how things work. Erika made clear, and care must be taken beasks for the upper berth. Before I can cause children carry their absent parring for the ladder she has swung up, ents alive within them, and they may briefcase and all. "It's nothing," she fiercely fight or stonily resist being says proudly. "I am an athlete." Then loved too much too soon by strangers, she pulls her curtains shut and goes Of this the prospective eager foster to sleep. Liselotte undresses slowly,