by Evans, Mike
A few hours later, the train slowed and eased onto a siding. From outside I heard the bark of dogs and voices as men moved along the train cars. German soldiers, I thought. Inspecting the train. I sat motionless and waited while the door to the car opened. Almost immediately, someone gagged. Then I heard a dog whimpering. “Not even the dogs can get a scent in this,” someone groused. The door banged closed and there was the sound of shuffling feet as the men moved on. An hour later, the train started forward again, rolled out to the main line, and continued down the track.
My back ached from sitting all day and my feet tingled from lack of circulation. The odor was overwhelming and the tight fit made me want to scream. When I could take it no more I drew my feet up beneath my thighs and pushed against my back, forcing myself to stand. My head rose up, squeezing between the bales.
The gap where I’d been sitting ran down the center of the car. It was just wide enough for me to stand but not wide enough to walk. So I turned sideways and shuffled along. Moving my legs made them feel better, and the tingling in my feet soon stopped.
Near the middle of the car I felt a bale above me move. I lifted my hands over my head and pushed against it. After two or three tries it rolled from the stack. I looked up to see the top of the car and realized it wasn’t packed completely full.
With my back braced against a bale on one side of the gap, and my feet against a bale on the other side, I pushed my way up from the gap where I was standing and sat atop the bales near the center of the car, a few meters from the sliding doors on either side. It felt good to be free of the narrow space where I’d been traveling but now the cold air surrounded me. I reached over to the bale beside me and tugged at one of the hides. It didn’t come free but I moved the bale to my right, positioning it to block the air from that direction. I tried another bale, then another, and eventually found one that was loose enough to pull a hide free. I used it as a wrap and covered myself from shoulders to ankles. After a while, I lay back on the bales, still wrapped in the hide, and dozed off.
A few hours later, the train came to a stop. I peeked out through a crack in the wall and saw we were in a freight yard. Workmen uncoupled cars from the train, and a locomotive shuttled them onto adjacent tracks. I waited until the car I was in came to a stop, then climbed over to the door and found the lever. Using my legs, I was able to lift up the handle and slid open the door. Then I jumped to the ground and scurried away.
Across the yard I came to a railway station. A sign on the building identified it as St. Galen. My eyes grew moist and my heart beat faster. A smile spread across my face. I really was in Switzerland, a country whose neutrality Germany recognized. Now all I had to do was get to Zurich and find the Spanish Consulate. I wiped my eyes and continued past the station to the street out front, where I waited for an approaching truck. Instead of continuing past me, as I expected, it slowed to a stop at the curb in front of me and the driver leaned out the window. “Just come in on the train?”
“Yes,” I nodded suspiciously, unsure why he was asking. “Where you going?”
“Zurich.”
“Zurich?” he frowned. “Why didn’t you stay on the train? Take you right to it.”
“No money.”
“Oh,” he smiled. “Well, get in and I’ll give you a ride as far as Winterthur.” I was a little unsettled by his friendliness, but nothing could have been stranger than the life I had led to that point, so I walked around to the passenger side and got in. As we started forward, he glanced over at me and his eyes opened wider as he saw my condition. “You don’t look like you came on the train.”
“Not the passenger train.”
His jaw dropped. “You rode the freight?” “Yes,” I nodded.
“And nothing happened to you?” “Not at all.”
“You could get hurt doing that.” “Not much choice,” I shrugged.
“Well, it’s no wonder I smell you,” he chuckled. “Sorry,” I replied sheepishly.
“Don’t worry about it.” He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Had anything to eat?”
“Not much.”
A lunch box sat on the seat and he opened it. “Have a piece of cheese,” he handed me a small package. “Left over from my lunch. The wife always packs me too much.” I opened it and took a bite. It was the first real food I’d eaten in a long time.
After a moment he sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose. “What’s that smell, anyway? Smells like…dead animals.”
“Animal hides,” I said in a matter-of-fact tone.
He gestured with his right hand. “Lean a little that way, would you? The smell is really strong.” Then he looked at me and laughed. “You’re a real sight, you know.”
The truck driver never told me his name, but I learned as we talked that he made that drive in his truck every day. He found it boring work but the pay was steady, so he didn’t want to quit. To make the drive more bearable, he picked up passengers along the way to keep him company. I was his rider that afternoon. He never asked who I was or what had happened. Instead, we talked about nothing of substance the entire drive and kept each other entertained. Many survivors from the camps have gone through hours of therapy in an attempt to recover. In my darkest days I longed not for the therapist’s couch or the rabbi’s office, but just for one more ride with that man in the cab of his truck through the Swiss Alps.
When we reached Winterthur, he stopped at a café and went inside. His route took him north, toward Kemmental, but he wanted to help me so he went inside to ask around. In a little while he returned with a driver going to Zurich. I rode with that second driver to a warehouse on the north side of the city. It was dark by the time we arrived there, and with nowhere else to go I found a church and went inside. The building was warmer than sleeping on the street and much safer. I used a hymnal for a pillow and stretched out on a pew. I slept unbothered until morning when the priest found me. He gave me breakfast of pastries and coffee. I ate lightly, knowing that with the sparse diet I’d had, sweets would easily make me sick. After we ate, he paid for a taxi to drive me to the embassy and sent me out with a blessing.
* * *
The embassy of Spain was located on Riedtlistrasse. A guard at the door didn’t like my appearance, but when I showed him my papers he stepped aside and let me pass. Not far inside I located a restroom and there I washed my hands, face, and feet for the first time in weeks. Then, with my hair straightened and a pleasant look on my face, I walked to the desk. A woman looked up at me as I approached.
“May I help you?”
“I am Sarah Batsheva. A citizen of Spain. And I need help getting to Cordova.”
She peered at me over the rim of her glasses. “You have papers?” “Yes,” I handed her the documents.
She glanced at them and pointed to a row of chairs. “Have a seat,” she said dryly. “Someone will be with you shortly.”
Thirty minutes later I was escorted to the office of a man named Victor Aranoa. He was a little older than I, but not that much. Slender, with dark hair and dark eyes. He stood when I entered the room and nervously straightened his jacket. I liked the kindness in his eyes.
After once more checking my papers, he listened to my story and nodded attentively while I told him all that had happened to us, from the time we lived in Linz until then. When I was finished, he smiled and said, “Now that you are here, what do you wish to do?”
“I would like to travel to Cordova.” “You have the means to do that?”
“No,” I shook my head. “I have nothing.”
“Well,” he shrugged, “that might be a problem. But if you reached
Cordova, where would you stay?”
“My cousin lives there. I could stay with him.” “And what is this cousin’s name?”
“Oscar Murillo.” I said the name without thought. He was my cousin. I was simply answering the question. But when I said it, I saw something flicker in Victor’s eyes. He sat up in the chair and scooted closer to the de
sk. His eyes darted over the papers on his desk, then he glanced up at me. “You will excuse me. I have to speak with someone.”
In a little while Victor returned, accompanied by Joaquin Valdivia, an older man who was tall with broad shoulders and graying hair. He wore a tan suit that fit perfectly across the shoulders, and his brown shoes were polished to a brilliant shine. Standing straight and walking at a brisk gait, he carried himself as a man accustomed to having his orders obeyed. He crossed the room to the desk, greeted me with a pleasant smile, and got straight to the point. “They tell me you are related to Oscar Murillo from Cordova.”
“Yes.” I was concerned that Oscar’s political involvement had finally gotten him into trouble. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” he replied softly. “Not at all. I just need a little more information.”
“What would you like to know?”
Valdivia folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the desk. “Tell me, how are you related to Oscar?”
“Like I said, he is my cousin. His mother, Haya, was my aunt.” He arched an eyebrow. “Haya Murillo is your aunt?”
“Yes. She’s deceased now, but she and my mother were sisters.” “And you knew Haya’s husband?”
“Uncle Carlos. Yes. He was my uncle.” My concern turned to curiosity. “Do you know of them?”
“I was an assistant at the Interior Ministry when Carlos was the minister.”
“Oh.” I nodded politely, but this was the first I had heard of Uncle Carlos being Minister of Interior. “He was a wonderful man,” I added. “Yes. And a good friend.” Valdivia placed his hands at his side. “Your family, did they escape with you?”
“No,” I replied with sadness. “So far as I know, they are all gone. They tell me Mama was transported to a camp at Auschwitz, in Poland, where she was killed. My father and brother were sent to a camp near Mauthausen, Austria.”
“Surely you have other family members.”
“Mama and Haya had a brother, Alois. But I do not think he lived. Everyone we knew in Linz, where we lived in Austria, was sent to the ghetto in Vienna, then on to one of the camps.”
Valdivia had a troubled look. “You are certain Alois is dead?”
“Not certain, but I think so.” I noticed the frown on his forehead, so I pressed the point. “Did you know Uncle Alois? Alois Raveh?”
“Yes,” he nodded. “I knew him well. Alois was my friend and the most honorable man I’ve ever known.” He stood up straight, said something to Victor, then glanced back at me. “It will take a few days to arrange things. Victor will take care of you.” He clasped his hands together and bowed. “I am sorry for your loss, but I am glad that you are alive.” Then he turned away and walked from the room.
That afternoon, Victor drove me to a hotel not far from the embassy. I waited while he checked me in at the lobby desk, then we rode together in the elevator up to the room and he helped me get settled. There wasn’t much to do. All I had was the dress and jacket that I wore.
“I’ll bring you some more clothes. My sister is about your size. She lives here. I’m sure she won’t mind giving you a few things.”
“I hate to trouble you,” I replied politely, but I needed something different to wear.
“It’s no trouble at all.” Then he looked at me, and his countenance clouded. “But there is one slight problem.”
As a Jew living in Europe, I had grown up expecting there to always be “one more thing.” What Americans call “the catch”—when a thing is too good to be true and just when you believe this time it really is true, they hit you with something they want in return that ruins the whole thing. I had been waiting for this moment, hoping it would never arrive. Now, it seemed, it was here. I did my best to give no hint of displeasure. “What is that?” I asked calmly.
“Our arrangement with the hotel provides breakfast and dinner. Lunch is not on the plan.”
Inside I wanted to laugh. I had survived by eating rats in the ghetto and from garbage cans on the street. Having only two hot meals each day might have been a problem for some, but for me it was heaven. “That will be fine,” I smiled.
“I can come get you tomorrow,” he offered quickly, “and we could eat together.”
“That’s not necessary,” I said, flattered by his eagerness to care for me. “I don’t need much to eat right now and you have been more than generous.”
“Okay,” he sighed. “But if you are hungry later, call me and I will come over to help.”
“Okay,” I nodded. “I’ll remember that.”
“And one more thing,” he added. “The Swiss government is officially neutral, which means they will not assist anyone contravening German policy. The people here are very kind, but the government has proved quite intransigent in its position. So you should probably stay in the hotel unless you are with one of us.”
“Right,” I nodded. It was yet one more reminder of the second-class status of Jews, but in light of where I had been it was an indignity I could endure for the moment.
“We have made your case a priority and are working diligently to return you to Cordova.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Okay,” he said again as he backed toward the door, “if you don’t need anything else, I will leave and let you relax.”
“I appreciate your help.”
He reached back to open the door. “I think there’s a robe in the bathroom that you can use. And housekeeping will launder your clothes if you like.”
“Thank you.”
He pulled open the door to leave, then stopped and turned to face me. His shoulders relaxed and he said calmly, “Would you mind if I joined you for dinner?”
Romance was the last thing I wanted, but his attention made me feel alive once more and I was glad to see his interest. I smiled at him coyly. “I would like that very much.”
“Good,” he grinned. “Seven?” “That will be good.”
Then he stepped out to the hall and was gone.
After Victor left the room, I drew a tub of warm water and spent an hour soaking. Then I washed my hair and put on the robe that was hanging on a rack near the sink. As I ran my fingers through my hair I looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were sunken, with dark circles beneath them. Cheekbones protruded beneath them. When I moved my jaw from side to side, I could see the bone pressed tightly against my skin, producing the faint outline of my lower teeth. I stretched out my arm and pulled back the sleeve of the robe to see the bones of my wrist were like knots and the bones of my fingers were visible beneath the skin. I had lost far more weight than I first imagined. “It was brutal,” I whispered. “More brutal than I have allowed myself to acknowledge.”
After a moment before the mirror, I returned to the bedroom, threw back the covers from the bed, and lay down. The mattress was soft, the sheets clean and fresh. I pulled the cover over me, rested my head on the pillow, and went to sleep. While I slept I returned to our street in Linz. I saw myself walking up the sidewalk past the house where the Eichmanns lived. Weeds grew around the foundation and litter covered the lawn. The windows were missing and the door hung by a single hinge. As I moved past, a man appeared in the doorway. He was tall and fat and he wore an army uniform that was tattered and dirty. His eyes bore in on me and I looked away, but as I continued up the street I could feel them following me. Three houses later I came to the walkway that led to our front steps. I looked up expecting to see the porch but there was nothing, only an empty lot swept clean and bare. Then I heard the roar of laughter from behind me and a voice shouting, “You stupid Jew!” I awakened with a start and glanced around, for a moment unsure where I was or how I came to be there. Then I remembered the train ride in the freight car, the truck driver, and meeting Victor at the embassy. The room was darker than before and from the bed I glanced toward the window. Outside the sun was setting. Soon it would be dark. My stomach rumbled and I felt again the pangs of hunger.
Victor returned that evening with
four dresses and a coat from his sister’s closet. They hung loosely from my shoulders but I wore one of them anyway, and we went to the dining room for dinner. I enjoyed the time, but it was very surreal to be eating in a restaurant in Zurich when only a few days before I was crawling through a sewer in Vienna. When they brought our food I wanted to dive headfirst into my plate, but I disciplined myself not to eat too much. In spite of how I appeared in the mirror, I could feel myself getting stronger, just from the small amounts of food I received from the truck driver and the priest, but I did not want to rush and make myself ill.
* * *
For the following two weeks I lived in the hotel. Each morning, I rose for breakfast and returned to my room for a nap. In midafternoon I walked through the hotel and sat in the lobby, just to get out and relax. Most evenings, Victor joined me for dinner. Afterward, we strolled around the hotel and twice we went for a ride to see the city. It was a simple life, which I enjoyed physically, gaining weight and energy with each day, but it proved mentally and emotionally taxing.
During the day, everything I saw brought back images of the horrors I had endured. At night when I slept I relived each episode again and again in my dreams and often awakened feeling frightened and upset. As time wore on, I struggled with depression. Seeing Victor helped draw me out of the darkness in my mind, but it only lasted as long as he was around, and being with him brought its own problems. From the way he looked at me and from his doting acts of kindness, I was certain Victor wanted more between us than mere friendship. I had nothing more to give right then. Aside from being emotionally drained, I could not remain in Zurich and I was already seeing a vision of my life that took me far beyond my stated destination of Cordova.
In those first days after escaping from Mauthausen, I had concentrated solely on getting to Vienna, finding the documents, and traveling to Spain. As that journey unfolded, my thoughts turned to Palestine. Mama had wanted to go there, thinking we would be safe, but she didn’t have the courage for it when we could have done so and by the time she was ready to act, the opportunity had passed. Now, knowing only what I learned from reading while at Aunt Haya’s house, Palestine seemed the best option for my future. Life in the Middle East would be difficult, but at least I would be free to live openly as a Jew, without fear of Germans lurking in the shadows waiting to shoot me on sight. The journey from Zurich to Palestine seemed as impossible as the one I’d just completed. Having completed one arduous trek, however, gave me confidence that I could achieve the next as well, and that became my goal. Palestine.
