Remember Us

by Vic Shayne

  In the late afternoon, I lay on my back and stared at the sky as the sun beat down on me. The quiet before the storm. I had come through hell to be here in Palestine, and on the eve of an impending, terrific battle, in my heart I was at peace in my homeland. The warmth of the sun bathed my face and body, baking me with therapeutic rays. I half-opened my eyes against the brightness when a faint sound grew in the distance. I sat up and looked around in all directions. Up in the water tower was a man scanning the skies with a pair of binoculars. He started to shout and wave his hands. Other people, too, were straining to see what was going on. The sound grew louder and louder. And then it appeared in the sky—a single fighter plane of the new Israeli air force ripped through the heavens in one pass. With every ounce of my being I was invigorated and electrified with the power of my own people and my history. I cannot explain this feeling—it was a sign from heaven. News began to spread throughout the kibbutz that our new Israeli air force was flying across Palestine to attack the airports of the neighboring Arab States that declared war against us. The lone plane in the sky disappeared somewhere to the north and all was quiet again. This did not last for long.

  From the southern desert grew a different sound—the rumbling of Egyptian army vehicles For hours I listened to them as they came streaming toward us in a metallic caravan. I walked along the sandy ridge watching dust clouds wind through the desert down below. With a rifle in my hand, I laid down on my belly among dozens of fellow Holocaust survivors as the sun set and the cool evening ushered in our visitors. We waited in our little outpost of a kibbutz, alone on the frontier, and the Egyptians finally arrived. It was now night.

  The darkness of the desert made it impossible for the Egyptians to tell exactly how many of us there were, so when their forces arrived, they nonchalantly settled down below us. They would stay the night and wait patiently for the light of dawn before launching an all-out attack. But we knew that if we waited for the morning to come, the Egyptians would roll right over us with their tanks, killing us all. We could not wait for the Egyptians to make the first move, so an emergency meeting was convened and a plan was devised. What could we do? We were facing tanks and heavy artillery. We were outnumbered ten to one.

  To our credit in Negba, we had two very gifted and experienced leaders in our kibbutz. They were expert organizers and had been trained to mount a defense. They spoke with great authority while the rest of us listened intently and received their orders. In the middle of the night, the entire kibbutz, down to every man and woman, was set into motion. I was among a team of people told to gather empty oil drums and quietly bring them to the ridge. We were told to fill the drums with rocks. “But,” one of our leaders whispered to us, “we cannot afford to make the slightest clang in the process. Does everybody understand this?” We all nodded our heads and went to work like a swarm of bees.

  It was dark and we could hardly see what we were doing. We slung our rifles over our shoulders and paired off to retrieve the oil drums. Quickly, but carefully, we laid one stone at a time down at the bottom of the drums without making a bit of noise. When we finished loading up one drum we moved on to the next and then the next. There were hundreds of these drums and each one was handled as if it were packed with dynamite. When the last steel container was filled a little more than halfway, we slowly carried the drums to the edge of the hillside facing the Egyptians. We were instructed to wait for a signal.

  Someone came running along the ridge whispering, “Quiet. Turn the drums on their sides facing the valley.” We did as we were told. It was a clear night but dark except for the fires burning down below where the Egyptian soldiers were settled in. Several guards marched back and forth in their compound and a number of men were sleeping in their vehicles. One brave soul stood at the top of our bullet-ridden water tower with a pair of binoculars. We relayed a minute-by-minute update to somebody down below.

  A couple of hours had passed since we filled the oil drums with rocks. Then the kibbutz leaders turned up the loud speakers to their maximum volume and we were ordered not to utter a word. I crawled on my stomach right to the edge of the ridge between two oil drums and looked out over the desert. I heard the static of the public announcement system as the volume was raised. This dead air, this static, was all you could hear. No human voices, no clicking of weapons, no milling around, and no talking. From time to time the wind whipped through the speakers.

  Those of us with weapons checked again to make sure they were loaded as we took positions on our stomachs, creating a long row of riflemen. We kept our eyes on the Egyptians down below. Those among them who were not asleep were shadows casually loafing about on guard duty in the dim moonlight. Here and there a cigarette was lit and a puff of smoke carried away in the breeze. The whole Egyptian division was extremely confident that they would take our kibbutz in the morning then drive further into Palestine to meet up with their other armies.

  When we were all in position and ready, a hand signal went up, followed by another and then another, and in less than a minute the action began. The entire kibbutz went from complete silence to a storm of deafening proportions. All of a sudden the still night was aflame with shouts, orders, and gunfire. Our leaders screamed out: “Now! Push!” One after another we shoved our oil drums full of rocks so that they rolled out of control down the hill on the other side of the kibbutz. Hundreds of oil drums tumbling and bouncing in the darkness and broadcast over our PA system. At the same time, without cessation, we fired our weapons and screamed at the tops of our lungs. The whole commotion was so deafening over the loud speakers that the Egyptians were convinced that a full-scale offensive was being launched at them. The rocks clattering in the drums and echoing in the night sounded like volleys of rifle fire and machine-gun reports coming from every direction. The Egyptians panicked, with only a fraction firing back at us. Their whole camp, now wide awake, was in a state of confusion and fear. They were running in every direction, looking for their weapons, trying to take cover, and fleeing from their vehicles. The element of surprise was on our side. Those of us on the ridge seemed like an insurmountable force. To the Egyptians it seemed like an entire army was raining down toward the valley floor. They fired back with rifles and canons but never mounted a serious counterattack. Some of our people were shot and killed and others were wounded. But the Egyptians, in their confusion, hastily retreated, leaving their tanks and all sorts of other weapons behind.

  Tanks. The abandoned tanks were all Matildas, the same kind that I studied while staying as a guest of Captain Onofre three years earlier in the Italian military compound in Modena. With the Egyptians in retreat, we overtook their position and I hopped in a tank and turned it around. I was ordered to fire into the air before moving to the next tank and doing the same. We wanted to keep the Egyptians on the run and the sound of shells exploding in the desert kept them in retreat.

  For several days we fired all the weapons in our possession and held the Egyptians at bay. But we knew we could not hold out forever. The Egyptians decided to hold their ground and prepared to launch a new assault. This time we had nothing left to give but our will. It seemed at last that the end had come for us and our kibbutz. We were nearly out of ammunition, and it was clear that the Egyptians planned to come at us again.

  Then fate dealt us another reprieve. From the north we saw clouds. The Palmach had at last arrived. Armed to the teeth and led by a general, a host of military officers, and soldiers, the Israeli army swept through Negba, assessed our damages then chased the Egyptians far into the desert.

  It wasn’t until much later that I learned that our outpost—our kibbutz in Negba—was instrumental in keeping the Egyptian army from pushing into the Israeli interior and creating a wedge that may have resulted in defeat. We had good cause for celebration when we learned of what we had done. Against all odds, in what I can only call a miracle, we had held back the mighty Egyptian army.

  At last, when the War for Independence was over, my mission in Palestin
e also came to an end. Now I was eager to move ahead with my life.

  Where’s My Visa?

  After Israel’s War of Independence, I said farewell to the kibbutz and all my friends and went back to Italy to check on the condition of my visa. Something deep within me was yearning for a connection to my past, and as much as I loved Israel, I knew it was time to move on. I was overcome with a strong urge to reunite with relatives; to reconnect and salvage what was left of my former life. I wanted to be with my Aunt Frieda, my mother’s sister, in New York. By being close to Aunt Frieda, in some small way I could find a part of my mother.

  But getting to America, as it turned out, wasn’t such an easy venture. For some reason, my visa was being held up. I couldn’t get to the bottom of it; I couldn’t wade through the bureaucracy. I spoke no English, so there was no way of pleading my case with the American embassy in Naples to see whether I’d ever be able to emigrate.

  Europe was still reeling from refuge problems. There had been no change in my status over the past three and a half years. I was all but forgotten in the Italian bureaucracy. I needed help if I was to ever get to New York.

  That’s when Uncle Harry arrived like a hero from an American Western movie. Uncle Harry Berman, the biggest little man I ever met, was an in-law relative of my Aunt Frieda. She called him and asked him if he would travel to Italy and find out why my visa wouldn’t be issued. After all, the Italians were paid the necessary fees, all the paperwork was filled out years ago, yet nobody was being responsive. Sensitive to the plight of the Jews of Europe, Uncle Harry readily took the challenge and promised Aunt Frieda he would get to the bottom of it. And when Uncle Harry was on a case, he was like a pit bull. He wouldn’t let go until he got what he came for. He was a brilliant businessman with a track record for taking charge.

  Harry Berman was an accountant—not just any accountant, but a very intelligent, powerful, and wealthy one whose list of clients included the top movie stars, directors, and producers in Hollywood. He commanded as much respect as any producer at MGM. Everyone in the motion picture business called Uncle Harry “HB.” Harry Berman was a no-nonsense guy who immigrated to America in the late 1800s, grew up in poverty in the Jewish district of New York, went to college, and then became a self-made millionaire. He was the embodiment of the American dream and thought everyone should have the same opportunity. When a great deal of his employees left his office to fight overseas, Harry supported their wives by supplying them with a weekly paycheck until their husbands came home from war. If the men did not return, Harry Berman continued to pay the widows until he retired and closed his business many years later.

  The fact that I, a member of his family, was being held back from a future in America didn’t sit well with Uncle Harry. By the time he came to see me in Italy, he had his mind set on getting me passage to America. He was a big shot and would let everyone know who he was and that to say no to Harry Berman was to invite more trouble than you bargained for. So it would be a showdown between HB and the entire Italian state department.

  I first met Uncle Harry in 1949. When I returned to Cinecittá, following my stay in Israel, the old movie studio was being resurrected. The United Nations organization told us all that the DP camp was to be closed to make way for a new era of Italian cinema production. We were all to be moved to new quarters. I, along with hundreds of others, was moved to Ostia, a little seaside town bordering Ostia Antica, an ancient Roman city. Ostia was a resort town a short train ride away from Rome where people came during the summer to escape the heat. During the day the beaches were crammed with sun worshippers and swimmers and loungers, and at night there was always something going on in the restaurants and bars. It was a good place for a young single man, like myself, to live.

  When I first came to Ostia, I found the address of the apartment house I was supposed to move into. There were about twenty families or so living on five floors and I, a young single guy, wasn’t sure I wanted to be crammed in with a bunch of families. So I looked around, trying to find some place in the building that might suit me. I visited floor after floor and made my way to the penthouse. Some penthouse! The entire top floor had been used as a live chicken coop for years. I stared at it for a while, looking at cages, chicken wire, beat-up old boards, and punctured walls. Then I got an idea. Over the next month I cleaned out the whole place and built myself a perfect flat. I put up walls, a bedroom, and a bathroom. I scrubbed, sanded, and painted day and night. When I had finished, the old chicken coop was a thing of the past, and I had a custom-made penthouse apartment that became the envy of my friends. Now I had all kinds of room and had a bird’s-eye view of the ocean and the street below.

  I had everything I could want—except a family and a sense of permanence. And this was eating away at me. The only way I could keep from falling into a state of despair was to stay busy. Fortunately, the beach was always full of lively, chattering people and the roads were streaming with tourists. I met a lot of friends and stayed out all day and night until I had to drag myself home to bed.

  One summer night I did as I had so often done—I went with a friend to the beach. We put on our bathing suits in the early evening, took a dip in the water, and then came out to dry ourselves on the sand. I was lying on the beach, just down the road near my house, watching the waves roll in and the girls walk by. It was fairly dark outside and, unless your eyes were adjusted, you couldn’t see twenty feet in front of you. Between the black sand and the overcast sky, looking out to sea was like staring at the bottom of a well. The streets weren’t very well lit, so whenever a car came along, which was a rare event, all the buildings would light up from the headlights. And in the ocean you could see flickering lights from little fishing boats anchored offshore.

  My friend, whose name I have long forgotten, lit up his cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke that was carried away by the ocean breeze. Staring up into the sky, we started talking about politics or some such thing, when out of nowhere a couple of guys came trudging over the sand calling out my name, “Michele! Michele!”

  I answered, “Here! I’m over here!”

  Out of breath, a young man, about my age, said, “There’s a man looking for you. He says he’s your uncle and he’s looking for you. Come on!”

  My uncle? What uncle? I walked to the side of the road and saw a huge, black, highly polished late-model car parked in the street. There was a gathering crowd of people who had come to look at the unusual sight of a limousine parked in the middle of the road in Ostia. Maybe they expected a movie star to jump out. Instead, out of the driver’s side stepped an Italian chauffeur well over six feet tall. He adjusted his tie and his hat and scanned the crowd. He cleared his throat. A group of twenty or so people was now hovering around the limousine, with more than half of them pushing one another to get a better view. The chauffeur started to call out to the crowd, “Motek Shmulewicz! Motek Shmulewicz! I’m looking for Motek Shmulewicz!”

  It had been a while since I had heard my own name. It sounded strange coming from the Italian chauffeur. In Italy I was known as Michele. So who was this calling me by my real name? I stepped forward and answered, “That’s me.” The chauffeur motioned me to approach, and the crowd parted like the Red Sea. Curiously, I walked over to the car and around to the passenger door.

  The window was rolled down and the man inside leaned toward me and asked in Yiddish, “Du redst Iddish?” (Do you speak Yiddish?) I nodded yes.

  Then the man asked, “Du bist Motel?”

  Again, I answered yes. “I am Motel.”

  The man asked, “Where do you live?”

  I pointed to a five-story building down the block and said, “Over there, just up the block.”

  “Let’s go to where you live,” he said. “Hop in the car.”

  “Who are you, anyway?” I asked.

  The man held out his hand and said, “I’m Harry Berman. Your Aunt Frieda sent me to help you.”

  We shook hands and Uncle Harry invited me, bathi
ng suit and all, to climb into the back seat as the chauffeur drove slowly up the road with an entourage trailing behind. The high beams shone on every building and pedestrian like a searchlight. It took all of a minute to get to my building. Uncle Harry got out, and for the first time I saw that he was only about five feet tall. He was immaculately dressed in a made-to-order brown woolen suit and a well-starched white dress shirt and striped necktie. His fingernails were manicured and his hair neatly combed back away from his high forehead. Uncle Harry was a stout man but looked strong and hardy. He didn’t smile much; he had a rather serious demeanor but somehow I felt a great deal of warmth from him, like he was taking me under his wing. Maybe it was the way he told me that he was sent to bring me to my Aunt Frieda. After years of trying to get out of Italy, I was now starting to feel that it was possible. An important man like Harry Berman doesn’t travel across the ocean on a mission unless he’s confident he’ll be successful. I felt good about him.

  “Well?” Uncle Harry said, jutting his chin toward the building. “Lead the way.”

  “I don’t mind showing you where I live,” I told him, “but I’m sorry to say that we have to climb up five flights of stairs.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. And he followed me all the way up to my apartment.

  I told Uncle Harry that I had to take a shower. I was still sandy from the beach.

  “You do what you have to do,” he said. He took a handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped his brow. “I’ll be right here when you get back.”

  I realized later that while I was in the shower, Uncle Harry was taking the liberty of going through my things. It was nothing malicious or nosy; he just wanted to see how I lived and what I had—which was practically nothing. When I came out of the shower and got dressed, Uncle Harry took a few minutes to find out who I was. Maybe he was concerned about bringing a greenhorn to America. Maybe he was worried that I would be a burden to the family. He had to check me out. He heard Aunt Frieda’s description of her nephew, but now it was my turn to speak for myself. Little did he know that I had already experienced two lifetimes’ worth of hardships, trials, and tribulation.