“You did not find them?” Iboya asked.
“No, I was too late. They left that morning. I should have left the same night I got the message. I might have found them.”
“But how could you?” Iboya interrupted. “You needed papers and the money.”
“I also wanted the medicine from Dr. Feher,” Mother added. “But what good was any of it? Manci is sick, and I left the money and the medicine in the hands of strangers. Who knows if they will even bother to look for Lilli. Well, they did put me up for the night and took me back to the train in the morning. They risked their lives just for that. So I guess they earned the money. And they did keep Lilli, Lajos, and that poor, unfortunate, innocent child. They surely took a big chance on that. They could have gotten themselves into plenty of trouble harboring deportees. At first they believed they were just political refugees. That alone was taking a chance, but even after they found that Lilli and Lajos were Jews, they still kept them another night. But Manci’s cough got worse and they were afraid that someone would hear her. I guess I can’t blame them. They live in constant fear. The pro-German Poles are everywhere and walk into houses unannounced. They said they admired my courage.”
Mother drew a deep breath and continued, “I slept with one eye open and my boots on. And then a friend of their son, in uniform, stopped in just before they took me to the train. They introduced me as a relative visiting from Slovakia. But the way he looked me over, I know he didn’t believe them. I was afraid to move, afraid that I would give myself away, like poor Lilli. I want you girls to listen to this so that you’ll remember it. They managed with some money that Lajos gave them to get a fresh egg for poor Manci. Lilli cracked the egg on the edge of the bowl and carefully pulled the shell apart to examine the yolk for blood spots. She poured it from one half shell to the other before scrambling it, never realizing that only a Jewish woman does that. And there they stood—that old Polish couple—watching her, and they realized that they were harboring a Jewish family. The man told them that they would have to leave immediately. Only Lajos’ pleading and Lilli’s emptying her pockets, no doubt, made the couple consent to their staying one extra night. I saw the garnet earrings in the woman’s ears when I arrived, that’s how I knew I was in the right house.” Mother glanced in my direction. So that was where my earrings had gone, I realized with a pang. “They promised to look for Lilli and Lajos after I left. The whole country is a caravan of soldiers and refugees.”
“How will they find Lilli?” I asked.
“I don’t know. If it were only Lilli and Lajos, I’d worry less. But with a sick child on their hands, God only knows!” Mother went on talking in the same rambling way until she fell asleep in her chair.
When I came home from school the next day, Mother was working in the kitchen and Mrs. Gerber was there, sitting and listening as Mother told her of her trip. I went over to the little ones who were playing quietly in their corner and, offering to read them a story from one of my books, took them into the bedroom. I couldn’t bear to hear again about Mother’s failure to find Lilli. Mrs. Gerber left at dusk; by then Iboya had come in, and we all went back into the kitchen to help with supper preparations. Just as we finished eating, someone knocked at the door. I opened it to admit a worried-looking Lujza. She came in quickly, saw that Mother was there, handed me her coat, and looking relieved, said to Mother, “Good. I hoped that you were home. And what happened? Did you find Lilli? Is Manci here?”
Mother began to clear the table. “Sit down,” she said to Lujza, “and I’ll make you some tea. I was going to send Piri over to the store this afternoon to tell you I was back, but Mrs. Gerber was here, and I forgot. I’m sorry. I know that you were worried. But the trip was a big failure.”
Lujza sat down and so did Mother as Iboya and I continued to clean up. Mother began again to tell the story of her trip, and Lujza sat silently during the recital, nodding from time to time. Finally, Mother stopped talking, but she was in tears.
“You did the best you could, Rise,” said Lujza softly. “And maybe the Polish couple did go to look for Lilli; they would know far better than you where to look.”
“I know, I know,” said Mother. “That is why I did not try to go any farther. After all, I have other children to think about, too.”
“Well,” Lujza repeated, “you did the best you could. We all did.”
We didn’t hear anything about Lilli for several weeks. Then, one afternoon in late February, Mother received a written message telling her that Mrs. Kertes’ son Miklos was home on leave and wanted to see her. That evening after dinner, Mother left Iboya with the children and took me with her to the Kerteses’ house. Miklos’ wife, Mari, a tall, thin, cold-looking woman, answered our ring. She showed us into the salon and then left the room, returning a few minutes later with Miklos. He came over to Mother, who stood up, and he kissed her hand. Mother sat down again and Miklos remained standing, pacing up and back, as he spoke. He told Mother that he had seen Lilli at a train station in Poland a few days ago; he had been getting ready to board his train when he heard someone call his name, and he recognized Lilli’s voice. They had after all, as he said, grown up together. She broke out of the line she was in and started to run toward him, but was stopped by a guard and forced to go back.
“They were also waiting for transport,” Miklos said. “These trains don’t stop. Everybody is on the move. Night and day. They even load people into freight trains.”
“Was she alone?” Mother interrupted.
“No, there was a man with her. And she kept yelling to me, ‘Tell my mother you saw us, tell my mother you saw us.’”
“And the child. Was there a child with them?” Mother’s voice became tense.
“Yes.” Miklos nodded.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, the man was holding a child. I saw them again as our train moved past them. I did not see the man’s face, but he was standing next to Lilli, and he was holding a child, a girl.”
Mother tried to ask Miklos a question about what else he had seen in Poland, but Mari interrupted the conversation at that point to say that she felt Miklos had spoken enough.
“He has been traveling for days and is very tired. I think you’d better go now.”
We stood up, and Mother thanked Miklos for bringing her Lilli’s message. As Mari walked us to the door, she told Mother that Miklos had been on the Russian front and had seen some dreadful things.
“That is where my husband last wrote from,” Mother said.
“I hope you get him back home,” Mari replied, “and please don’t tell anyone that you have been here.”
On the walk back to our house Mother repeated to herself several times, “The child is alive; she is alive.” But words failed to affect her spirits. Her face remained ashen, her voice low and heavy with sadness.
14
IN APRIL 1942, after months of probing and letter writing, Mother and Mrs. Gerber received letters telling them that Father’s troop was in a Russian prison camp. However, no word came from either of the men. Mrs. Gerber and Mother spent more and more time trying to cheer each other up, using any excuse for a break in their worried existence.
Then we lost Ladybeard. One afternoon in May, a knock sounded at the kitchen door. Mother opened it to see two strange men standing on the threshold.
“Are you Mrs. Davidowitz?” one of them asked in a formal tone of voice.
Mother’s answer, a breathless “Yes, yes,” indicated to me that she hoped these men had come with news, either of Lilli or of Father.
“We are inspectors from the city housing bureau,” the taller of the two men said solemnly, “and we have come to investigate a complaint that you are keeping a goat on the premises. This is, as you know, a strictly residential neighborhood! No animals other than dogs and cats are allowed!”
“You don’t have to investigate,” said Mother, lingering a little over the last word. “I admit that I have a goat in my woodshed. But, gentlemen, thi
s goat is not bothering anybody, and she provides milk for my children. I’m sure you are reasonable men with children of your own. You can’t blame a war mother whose husband is in a Russian prison camp for trying to feed her young children, can you?”
“We are inspectors from the Housing Department, and we have nothing to do with conditions of war. Where is this goat?” the taller man demanded.
“I’ll take you there, and you can see for yourselves what a gentle and quiet animal she is. She could not disturb anyone.” Mother led the men off the porch into the yard and returned a few minutes later for the milking bucket. “I’m going to milk her at least; she is so full that she can hardly walk.”
“Don’t let them take her away,” Sandor pleaded.
“They won’t listen to me,” she answered him gently. Then she turned and left the kitchen, carrying the milk bucket. Sandor and Joli ran out after her. I grabbed our coats and followed them.
When I got to the woodshed, I saw Joli had thrown her arms around Ladybeard’s neck. “She is mine,” she screamed at the two men who towered over her. “She is mine!” I saw them exchange glances. Mother pulled up the milking stool and proceeded to milk Ladybeard while I struggled with Joli to leave Ladybeard long enough for me to be able to put on her coat. Sandor stood at the woodshed entrance and looked at all the somber faces without giving a hint of what he felt. I had always been struck by the way Sandor, even as a small child, could hide his feelings. Was this, I wondered, what was meant by the expression being a man. I looked at the two inspectors’ faces. “Stone,” I said silently to myself. Mother and Joli had enough expression for all of us; both of them were crying uncontrollably. But the only sound we could hear in the woodshed was that of the squirts of milk rhythmically swishing into the bucket. When Mother finished, she picked up the bucket and started to walk off, not saying another word to the men.
“Do you have a piece of rope?” the shorter man asked her.
“In the kitchen.”
All of us followed Mother into the kitchen. She put the bucket down on the kitchen table and tried again to persuade them not to take Ladybeard. “Couldn’t you just forget that you saw her?”
“We have to do our job, lady,” the shorter man snapped at her. “Just give us the piece of rope, and we’ll be on our way.”
Mother started toward the drawer where she kept string. Joli grabbed at her skirt; Mother picked her up, opened the drawer with her free hand, took out a long, frayed piece of rope, and held out her hand. As the shorter man walked over to take the rope, he passed the opening into the salon, glanced through it, and saw the radio.
“Didn’t you know that you were supposed to turn those in last January?” The other man walked into the salon and unplugged the radio. He wrapped the cord around it and put it under his arm. Then he joined his companion, who was standing on the threshold, holding the piece of rope. Without saying another word, they walked off.
Mother put Joli down, closed the door after them, and stood facing us with her back against it. After a few minutes she walked out of the house, went down to the gate and bolted it, came back into the kitchen, and picked up Joli, who was still crying.
“What will they do with Ladybeard?” I asked.
“Send her into the wilderness with their sins, I suppose.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said as she went into the bedroom.
* * *
In the fall, a few days before school was to open, we heard that Jewish children would no longer be permitted to attend the public schools. Mrs. Gerber decided to give Iboya, Judi, and me lessons in Hungarian, German, and history. Iboya and I went to their house every morning, coming home at lunchtime. We had to walk past the schoolhouse on our way home, at the time that the other children were in the yard on recess, and it felt strange looking in from the outside to see them practicing gymnastics.
By October, the Jewish teachers, who had been barred from teaching in the public schools, opened a makeshift school in the Sunday-school room of the big synagogue on Main Street. The students in the room Iboya and I were assigned to ranged from fifth to tenth grade. The teachers at first attempted to teach all the school subjects, but soon gave up in despair and decided instead to concentrate on math, reading in Hebrew and Hungarian, and Jewish history.
It was here that I discovered Gari Weiss, who was almost three years older than I. His family was one of the wealthiest in town, and owned the big house in back of the brick factory. I sat and watched him in class as much as I could, and decided that I liked him best on the occasions when he wore a white shirt, which made his dark complexion look very manly and set off his sleekly combed back hair. Instead of doing my lessons, I would write notes to Gari, asking him to meet me in various places, and then tear them up. He walked home from school through the same streets that I did, but Robi Berg was always with him. He also played tennis with Robi on the tennis court in back of the Weisses’ mansion. Judi and I often watched them play tennis, scheming unsuccessfully to attract Gari’s attention. Iboya teased me about my crush on Gari, but Judi understood because she, too, had a crush on a clerk in the bookstore. Hari was sixteen, and she talked to him about books.
“Doesn’t your mother mind?” I asked Judi the day she told me that Hari had eaten supper at her house. “He is so much older than you are, and he isn’t Jewish.”
“Those things don’t bother my mother. She is modern,” Judi answered very emphatically.
Whenever Judi told me how modern the Gerbers were, she made me feel uncomfortable—as if they were better than we were. I couldn’t help wondering what she would think if she ever met Babi. Or what Babi would think of her. When I had first told Judi about Komjaty, her comment was, “Someday I’d like to see that sleeping village.”
“Those people are not sleeping,” I had protested. “They work very hard.”
“They are sleeping in history,” she had insisted. “They’ve let progress pass them by. They think and work the same way their ancestors did. They don’t read the newspapers. They don’t even know what goes on outside their village.”
“My Babi reads the newspapers and she knows all about Hitler.”
“Then she should have listened to your mother and gotten out of there.”
“But she can’t leave her land and all her animals.”
“She is holding on to her land in false hope. I heard my mother talk about her. My mother said that your grandmother thinks that by holding land in Hungary, she is part of Hungary. No Jew is a part of the land he lives on and even owns unless that land is Palestine.”
“But you and your mother think that you are Hungarians.”
“Not really.”
Judi had a way of confusing me, and sometimes it seemed to me that she enjoyed doing just that. “My Babi is very smart,” I continued on that occasion. “She reads Hebrew, Yiddish, Ukrainian, and Hungarian. Even the rabbis in Komjaty respect her and ask for her opinions on things.”
“Rabbis,” Judi had interrupted sharply, “are not modern thinkers.”
It was impossible to win an argument with Judi. When we tried to discuss a book we had both read, we realized how different our points of view were. And Judi would invariably comment, “You didn’t read it with an open mind.”
I did get ahead of Judi in one thing, though. I began to menstruate before she did. I felt it start one day while I was sitting in class at our makeshift school, and at recess I ran to find Judi and tell her. In spite of our having discussed menstruation many times, I was quite scared and shocked by it.
“Would you go and tell Miss Solomon that I went home with a stomach ache?” I asked Judi.
“No, I won’t,” she answered. “We must both go to her and tell the truth.” She took my hand and led me over to the corner where the teachers sat at a table drinking their tea. I tried to pull free, but she held on so insistently that I felt embarrassed to run away.
“Miss Solomon,” Judi asked as we c
ame up to the table, “could Piri and I see you for a moment? It’s urgent.”
Miss Solomon left her place at the table and walked down the corridor with us. Then she stopped and waited for one of us to speak. Judi waited a moment for me to speak up, but I was too shy.
“Piri wants to be excused for the day,” she said finally. “She just started to menstruate.”
Miss Solomon’s mouth opened in surprise. Then, looking from Judi to me, she said, “Piri, you are excused, and you don’t have to come back until you feel fit.”
“May I walk home with her?” Judi asked.
“Yes, Judi, you may. Be careful, both of you,” and having said that, she turned away from us and went back to the teachers’ table. We got our books and left.
On the way home, Judi asked a dozen different questions about what it felt like to be grown-up and to menstruate. I was grateful when we reached home and Mother, in her silent and efficient manner, took over.
15
IBOYA DID NOT find the makeshift school agreeable. She could not concentrate in the unruly and noisy classroom and developed frequent headaches. Because of them, she had lengthy discussions with Mother about the possibility of her quitting school and finding work. But Mother insisted that she had to stay in school at least until she was sixteen. Mother also pointed out that it would be next to impossible for a Jewish girl to find work. One Friday afternoon in early spring, as Mother and I were cleaning the fish which Mr. Schwartz had just brought, and Mr. Schwartz sat at the table sipping hot broth, Iboya came in from school, her face white and her eyes narrowed in pain.
“Another headache?” Mother asked.
“Yes,” she answered, setting her books down, and asking Mother for some aspirin.
Mother handed her the aspirin bottle from the cupboard, and then exclaimed, “I know you are restless and that school isn’t fun. But you are too young to quit!”
“I don’t see why,” Iboya began again, repeating an argument I heard her use several times. “We don’t learn anything there, anyway. Nobody is interested in learning about wars their grandfathers fought in, when there is a war right outside our doors.”
Upon the Head of the Goat Page 9
