Journey to America

by Sonia Levitin

  “Keep it,” she said, twisting her hair. “You shouldn’t have to work for me. I’m the oldest.”

  I held it out to her again and again, but Ruth wouldn’t budge. At last I ate every bit of the chocolate myself, but it tasted dull and almost sickening. The next time Frau Strom came to me with that forced little smile on her face, offering me candy if I would wash the floor, I shook my head. “I don’t like chocolate anymore,” I told her.

  She went off with a snort. “Stubborn little mule!”

  As the days dragged on I realized how right Emma had been, for we were like prisoners with nothing to do, nothing to plan or look forward to. We tried to make up games, and I read a great deal, but all I really thought about was leaving, going back to Mother. Yet, if we went to Zurich for a visit, how could we ever make ourselves return to the camp?

  When the rains were finally over, Ruth decided we should go to see Mother.

  “Can we?” I cried. “Will Frau Strom let us?”

  “She won’t care,” Ruth replied. “The woman at the agency said we could visit.”

  “But how do we get there?”

  “We’ll walk,” Ruth said. “Emma told me the way. She’s walked to Zurich several times. We just go straight through the woods—there’s a dirt road behind the campfire place. Past the woods there are some houses, then a paved road leads right into the city. It’s really a short cut,” she explained. “It should take us only an hour or so.”

  “I still think we should tell Frau Strom,” I insisted.

  “Tell her if you like,” Ruth said. “She won’t care.” Ruth was right.

  “Go ahead,” Frau Strom said, with a wave of her hand. “You’d better be back by dark, because nobody is going to come out looking for you.”

  I couldn’t stand to wait another moment. “Let’s go now,” I begged Ruth.

  “We’ll miss lunch,” Ruth reminded me.

  “I don’t care. It’s only porridge anyway. I can’t stand the sight of it anymore.”

  “All right,” Ruth agreed. But on the way she warned me again and again, “Don’t you say a word to Mother about being hungry, do you understand? Don’t you say a word about the oatmeal or the potatoes.”

  “I won’t,” I muttered, wanting only to enjoy the walk and the thought of seeing Mother, but still Ruth lectured.

  “Mother can’t afford to keep us with her, you know that. If she thinks we’re not getting enough to eat, she’ll feel that she ought to keep us in Zurich, and then she’ll worry, and then …”

  “Oh, stop it,” I snapped. “I won’t say anything.”

  We made our way through the woods, careful to keep to the narrow dirt path. I was afraid of getting lost out in the forest, and I think Ruth was too, for she kept chattering incessantly. The sudden, cackling call of a large bird made us jump, and then we laughed at our foolishness. Midway down the mountain we came upon a small log cabin, leaning downhill as if with the next big wind storm it would collapse completely. On the roof was a short chimney of stones, and the door had a hole where the latch had once been.

  Ruth and I gazed at each other, our feet still firmly on the path. “Just an old cabin,” she said, sounding very, very uninterested. “Some old woodsman probably used it.”

  “Yes,” I said. “We’d better go on. We still have a long walk ahead of us.”

  But still I looked at that dark cabin, wishing so very much for the courage to go inside, horrified at the things my imagination told me lay behind that door, ashamed of the dryness in my throat and of my terror.

  “I can’t go in,” I whispered to Ruth.

  “Who said you should? Come on. Don’t be silly.”

  Still I brooded, until we came upon the small cluster of houses that showed we were at the city’s edge. Then we ran the rest of the way down the hill, faster and faster, until at last the streets were familiar, the distant mountains, the lake, the shops exactly the same as before. I felt, suddenly, that we had been away for months. It had been less than three weeks.

  “Remember,” Ruth told me sternly when we approached the rooming house, “not a word.”

  Annie’s shouts and hugs and tears and Mother’s kisses made it seem that we had truly been gone a long time.

  “Oh, tell me about the camp,” Annie cried, climbing onto my lap. “Are there games? Are there stories? Do you get to swim?”

  “No,” I said. “No swimming.”

  Ruth spoke about the other girls and where they were from, and I told about the forest and the flowers and streams, but then there was nothing more to tell.

  “You’re probably tired from the long walk,” Mother said. She looked at us intently, and all through the afternoon it seemed that she was about to ask a question, but then she would only sigh and shake her head and press my hand or Ruth’s. Finally she went to the little kitchen and asked cheerfully, “Are you hungry?”

  “No,” Ruth said quickly in a loud voice.

  “Did you have lunch?”

  “Oh, yes,” I said.

  “I went to the market this morning and bought a nice German sausage,” Mother said. “I was going to fix some anyway, with eggs. Won’t you try a little?”

  The smell of that sausage frying was overpowering. We sat down at the table.

  “Come on, Ruth,” Mother coaxed, “eat.”

  “Well, just a little,” Ruth said softly, flushing.

  “Just a little for me, too,” I added. I was, I thought in disgust, becoming a glutton, thinking of nothing but food.

  When we had finished, Mother took me aside, and I was afraid for a moment that she would ask a question that I would not be able to answer without telling a direct lie. But she only handed me an envelope, saying, “This letter from Rosemarie came for you a few days ago.”

  I looked for a long moment at Rosemarie’s handwriting, the letters so round and neat. Then I went to sit by the window and opened it.

  My dearest Lisa,

  I was so happy to get your letter. How pretty Zurich must be from your description. I can really picture it all, the lake, the hills, the houses. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we were there together? Can you send me some postcards?

  I glanced up and saw that Mother and Ruth busied themselves in the tiny kitchen, leaving me alone with my precious letter. How would I explain to Rosemarie that I had no money to buy picture postcards?

  The summer seems very long without you. Mother says I keep to myself too much, and I have tried going places with some of the other girls, but it just isn’t the same. So I read a lot, and I have been painting again.

  I hear that Hanna and her parents have left the city. I don’t know where they went. My parents speak of taking a trip someday, maybe to Palestine. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to see Jerusalem? But for now Father is so busy with his patients that he can’t even think of it.

  I knew how it was for Rosemarie, that her parents would sit up late into the night puzzling over what to do, whether to leave, whether to stay, as my parents had sat up talking and wondering.

  For myself I’d be happy never to see or hear our “offkey chimpanzees” again.

  It was our private name for those brown-shirted students who went through the streets singing their hateful songs. They seemed to us like apes, and Rosemarie and I used to scorn them in private, “They swing their arms like chimpanzees, and they sing off key!”

  I was in the park roller skating one day last week, and a group of the apes came along, shouting and calling insults to an old man. You must know what names they called him. They told him to get down on his hands and knees and pick up the papers there in the park—that old, old man. And when he just stood there, shaking and confused, they started reaching into the trash can and they threw the garbage at him, but still the old man couldn’t move. They closed in on him, and I knew they were going to beat him. Lisa, what could I do? I felt so sick inside. How could I help that man?

  I saw what they were doing to him, but the old man didn’t even cry out. What good wo
uld it have done? A group of little kids came running up, and they stood there watching, as if it were an entertainment. I couldn’t stand it, and I ran home. I must have been pretty hysterical. For the first time in my life I was sick to my stomach. I shouted at my mother to call the police. Then I realized that there are no policemen that we can call.

  I read over this letter and I realize how dismal I must sound, but you know I’m never sad for long. I’m sure everything will be fine. Fifi says to tell you, ‘Go out and play!’

  I smiled to myself, remembering Fifi, her parrot, who always, at any time of the day or night, shouted in that peculiar voice, “Go out and play!” and for some inexplicable reason added, “Dirty dishes! Dirty dishes!”

  I showed Mother the letter, and she read it, her lips pressed tightly together. “Rosemarie should be careful of what she writes,” Mother said softly. “If only they would decide to …” but she left the thought unfinished and asked me instead, “When do you have to be back?”

  “Before dark,” I told her, remembering Frau Strom’s warning.

  “Then we have time,” Mother said, “to take that ride up the Uetliberg. Annie’s been waiting so eagerly.”

  I had never been on a funicular. We stood at the little station house and looked up, straight up, it seemed to where the cable climbed the mountainside to the top and out of sight. It seemed unbelievable that the little car would actually be pulled up that mountain clear to the top.

  People piled in, the four of us sitting close together, and when the climb began we looked down, clutching at each other, laughing and gasping, for never in this world was there a mountain so steep or a car so rickety making its way upward like a determined alpine goat. The houses and people below shrank smaller and smaller, and I kept my eyes fastened on them, determined not to miss the thrill, though my stomach felt as if I were riding an elevator clear up to the sky.

  The car creaked to a stop, and we all rushed out into the cold air, giggling with excitement. How clear it was! All of Zurich lay at our feet, the boats on the lake were tiny white dots, the houses like mere wooden blocks of different colors, and the people—they were not to be seen at all. “We’re the only people in the world!” I exclaimed, laughing. “It’s wonderful.”

  “I can see clear to America!” Annie shouted. “Papa!” she called, as if she were inside a cave. “Hello-oo.”

  The ride down seemed shorter, but no less exciting, and when we arrived I felt that we had been up in a balloon and back again.

  Too soon it was time to go back, and Mother and Annie walked with us to the houses where the real climb began. Then Annie hugged us and called, “Come back. Come back soon.” Mother kissed us solemnly, and I wondered that she did not say, as usually she did, “Be good. Remember all you’ve been taught.”

  Three days later I knew why. Frau Strom came into the dormitory and said in a rigid voice, “Pack your things, Lisa. Your mother is here.”

  “Why?” I exclaimed. “What’s the matter?”

  “Pack your things. You’re leaving.”

  Erica

  A TAXI WAITED outside. In a moment our bags were put into the trunk, the car turned around and we barely had time to wave to the boys and girls who stood curiously at the windows.

  “What is it!” I exclaimed, feeling caught up in confusion. Mother had barely spoken to Frau Strom, but rushed us into the taxi and away. “Are we leaving Switzerland? Did Papa send for us?”

  “No, darling. I couldn’t leave you at that place.”

  “What do you mean?” Ruth stammered. “We didn’t—we didn’t say anything.”

  “You didn’t have to,” Mother replied. “A mother knows. Don’t you think I could see that you weren’t getting enough to eat? No routine, no care at all—like little lost souls, all those children looking out of the windows!” She took up her handkerchief and wiped her eyes, hard, as if some speck of dust irritated them.

  I felt numb from the abruptness of our departure.

  “Where’s Annie?” I asked, wanting her, somehow, to make it seem real.

  “When I went to the agency and told them that I was taking you away from the camp,” Mother said, “they gave me the names of several families who have offered to take children to live with them for a while. I went to see one of the families this morning. They want Annie to stay with them.”

  “Tell me about them,” I said, trying to conceal my disappointment.

  “I had to send her, Lisa,” Mother said seriously. “Don’t think I wanted to let her go. But I haven’t been feeling very strong lately, and Annie needs playmates too.” She sighed.

  “Do they have children?” I could imagine Annie playing and laughing, and I wanted her with me.

  “There are children Annie’s age next door to the Zeilers,” Mother told me. “They have a baby boy. Actually, Frau Zeiler wanted an older child; but when she saw Annie and talked to her, she couldn’t bear to let her go. And Annie was happy to stay.”

  “What about us?” Ruth asked, biting her lip.

  “I have found homes for you,” Mother said. “It won’t be for long, I hope. Papa has saved almost enough money to buy our tickets. You’ll be staying with families right here in Zurich. You’ll be able to visit me as much as you like.”

  All that afternoon and late into the evening we sat in the little room talking, and this time Ruth and I told everything. Mother listened, shaking her head, now and then reaching for her handkerchief, murmuring, “Oh, why didn’t you tell me? What if I hadn’t suspected?”

  Now I began to think of Emma and Werner and all the others who had no place to go, nobody who would come for them.

  “I keep thinking about the others,” I said hesitantly, “that we should do something.”

  “What can I possibly do?” Mother asked wearily. “I can report this to the agency, and there will be an investigation, I suppose, but such things take time. And probably at the end they’ll say, ‘Well, it’s not a perfect place for children, but it’s the best we can do right now.’” Mother sighed deeply. “There are too many needs, too few people who know and want to help. Well, I’ll make the report, girls. We’ll see if something comes of it.”

  But we all knew that we were completely helpless to bring any real change.

  To sleep that night in the spacious double bed beside Ruth was like a special gift. I had never been so happy before simply to go to bed and stretch out, and to turn without bumping my head or my elbows. I said to Ruth, “How wonderful to sleep in a real bed!” Mother heard, and for some reason this, more than anything we had told her, made her break down and weep.

  “I’m so sorry, so sorry,” she said again and again. “I shouldn’t have sent you. I didn’t know. You don’t deserve this, really, such good children.”

  I made my voice light. “Oh, so what. It didn’t hurt me. Actually, it was funny. Imagine me in a crib, at my age!” I made my monkey faces, and mother began to smile faintly, and then she kissed us goodnight.

  We did not even unpack our clothes the next morning, for we were to go to the agency that afternoon, to meet the families that would be taking care of us. After breakfast Mother asked us to go to the grocery store for her.

  “I’ve made out the shopping list,” she said, “but I think I’d rather stay here and rest a little. I feel so tired,” she added apologetically.

  “It’s all right,” Ruth and I said. “We like to shop.”

  We got our coats and the money, but just as we reached the door Mother called out in a strange, trembling voice,

  “Oh, don’t go, girls! I need you. I feel so—so …” We rushed toward her, for Mother was moving unsteadily toward the bed, and then her body seemed to crumple, and she lay on the floor, motionless.

  Ruth crouched beside her calling, “Mother! Mother! Mother!” and I raced down the stairs, shouting for Frau Feldin. My heart made loud thumps in my ears, and I heard my own voice as a strange, dull sound as I pounded on Frau Feldin’s door. “A doctor! Get a doctor! My mo
ther has fainted.”

  I had never seen anybody faint, but I knew, and somehow I knew what to do. Something inside moved me without my willing it or thinking of it. I stood beside Frau Feldin while she screeched her message into the telephone. Then I went upstairs. Somehow Mother had gotten onto the bed, conscious now, her hand reaching out slowly toward Ruth, who knelt beside the bed looking completely dazed.

  “I’ll be all right, Ruth,” I heard Mother whisper.

  I threw open the window to let in some fresh air. I took off Mother’s shoes and she sighed faintly. Then I began, mechanically, to put the kettle on for some tea, and I gave Mother a cold cloth for her head.

  “Thank you, Lisa,” she whispered, reaching again toward Ruth who still had not moved from the spot.

  I was feeding Mother spoonfuls of hot tea when we heard voices coming from the stairs, Frau Feldin’s highpitched, distracted chatter, and the strong, calm voice of the doctor.

  When he stepped into the room, I suddenly felt that I had always known him, and that he knew us, knew exactly what we felt and needed. He filled the room completely, moving about as if all this were most natural and familiar. He was not a tall man, but broad-shouldered and solidly built. His face was deeply creased, and his eyes were keen with life, his hair and eyebrows thick and shaggy. I wanted to go to him, but I waited.

  He felt Mother’s pulse, then took her temperature and asked to wash his hands. I ran to get a clean towel, and he smiled and put his arm briefly around my shoulder.

  “I’m Doctor Gross,” he said.

  “I’m Lisa Platt,” I told him, “and my sister Ruth.” I waved toward Ruth, and he went to her, touching her face gently. “Go and sit down on the sofa now, Ruth,” he said softly. “I must have room to tend to your mother. Go, child. I’ll take care of your mother. You needn’t be afraid.”

  Ruth moved to the sofa, and we sat there together, watching Dr. Gross.

  “When did you eat last?” he asked Mother.

  “Breakfast,” Mother murmured. “I had a cup of tea.”

  “No more,” he stated, shaking his head. “I’m afraid you have a touch of pneumonia, Frau Platt. It probably began with an ordinary cold and you must have been under considerable strain.”