by Roger Herst
Jack Merken worked his pen from the body of his questionnaire to the margin, but, judging nothing to be noteworthy, stopped in mid-sentence and let the pen trail down the page.
The interview ended when it was clear that Gabby had nothing revealing to provide. That was not unusual because most of the people Jack Merken interviewed disclosed little information of significance. Still, the government was obliged to ask the question even if it knew the answer. He left Gabby a business card for the Nuclear Regulatory Commission on Rockville Pike in Rockville, Maryland, then sidled past the secretarial station to the corridor. Gabby had a premonition there was more involved in this security check than met the eye. It seemed coincidental that within a few days both the FBI and the NRC had interviewed her.
That afternoon, she placed a call to New Frontiers Industries. Gideon Ganeden's administrative assistant immediately recognized her name and was extremely cordial. No, Dr. Ganeden, was not available, but she pledged to alert him at the first opportunity and took Ohav Shalom's phone number.
At 4:30 that afternoon Gabby dutifully posted to the synagogue web page episode four of her Chanukah story:
The Second Night of Chanukah (CANDLE TWO)
THE ODYSSEY OF MORDECAI YOELSON
You can imagine how my days in Paris were spent. My first concern was to re-build my physical strength, and that required food and medical attention. My eyes that had been weak from my earliest memories of our village cheder. The street soup kitchens provided hot soups and bread, much of which I refrained from eating because the cooks had certainly not paid attention to the laws of kashrut. I reasoned that once my life was no longer in danger, I could no longer justify eating traif, non-kosher foods. I ate bread and cabbage, but only after I inquired about how they were prepared to avoid eating food cooked in utensils also used for heating pork. Toward the end of the summer, in 1945, I remember eating my first tomato since the Nazi invasion of the Ukraine.
The Joint Distribution Committee fitted me with spectacles, none of which were exactly right for my eyes, but they were a great improvement over the spectacles from the brick factory. This made reading Torah easier for me. Throughout the ordeal in Germany, I feared forgetting much of what I had learned before the war. The Nazis had stolen my family, my youth, and my health, but I was delighted to learn that they had not taken my memory. The moment I had a new text before me, memories flooded back. These were happy times, but they were cut off after only three short weeks.
Allied troops were everywhere in Paris – victorious Frenchmen, Englishmen, and many Americans. I had a chance to practice with them the French and English from the vocabulary I had learned reading the bibles in the brick factory. One morning, I was headed toward the JOINT office on Rue St. Jacques when I was stopped by a troop of American GIs who asked to inspect my papers. Of course, I had none. Over my protests, they hauled me into a truck at gunpoint with other stateless refugees and drove us to a concentration center, two days journey from Paris, where I feared once again for my life. The refugees were paraded into a hut and questioned. Where is your home country? When did you leave it? Have you ever been in the Soviet Union? Do you speak Polish? Where is your family now? Do you know how to shoot a rifle? Have you ever been in military service?
We were taken into clean dormitories, allowed to shower in hot water and given bunks with blankets and pillows. Food was plentiful. One day, American GIs handed out military uniforms. A sergeant with the insignia of the Polish Army on his uniform marched us into a compound. A brigadier speaking in Polish ordered us to stand at ease while a non-commissioned officer fumbled with a microphone. The brigadier said that we refugees were fortunate because we had been chosen to cross the River Elbe and liberate Poland from Communist control. In a few days, members of the Polish Government exiled in London would come to our camp and talk with us. In the meantime, we would train for military operations. Within a year, we would free our homeland from the tyranny of the Soviets.
What homeland? I was from the Ukraine! My only attachment to Poland was that I spoke Polish. When I tried to explain my predicament, no one wanted to listen. The truth was that once having been inducted into this secret Polish Army in exile, the authorities were not going to release me just because an error had been made during the roundup.
I was issued an M-1 rifle and instructed how to shoot it. Polish officers from London conducted propaganda lessons about the future of the new Poland. It was no surprise that in the entire camp there was only one other Jew besides me. When we found each other, we fell into one another's arms and quickly concluded that what these Poles planned to do about the Soviets in their homeland had nothing to do with us. We had survived the war to fight for a nation that abandoned its Jewish population to the gas chambers. The two of us planned to sneak out of camp, discard our uniforms, and head back to Paris, this time being more careful about walking the streets. Implementing our plans proved more difficult than we thought because the Polish officers posted armed guards around the camp. No one, especially the press, was allowed to enter. And no one was allowed to leave. Those who planned the re-conquest of Poland had no intention of providing their Soviet enemy with advanced warning.
To this day, I have never read about this army of refugees trained to deliver Poland from the Soviets. For reasons that are obscure to me, the liberation of Poland never occurred. Instead, the Allies were content to fortify Western Europe, leaving Poland and the Ukraine behind the Iron Curtain. It made little practical difference to me since the nations that were overrun by Soviets seemed perfectly happy to have Hitler's Gaultleiters clear Jews from their countries.
On the fifth evening of Chanukah, I plan to tell you how I left France, impoverished by occupation and war, to take up a new life in South America.
***
The following morning, Gideon Ganeden responded to Gabby's call. When Chuck announced him through the phone speaker, she was preparing her Sabbath sermon and whipped off her reading glasses, as if prepared to do physical battle.
Before he could say hello, she said, "Gideon, yesterday Jack Merken from the Nuclear Regulatory Commission came to see me. He claimed to be doing a routine background check on you as the CEO of New Frontiers."
"They do it every few years. It's routine. I'm sorry that I forgot to tell you that I gave them your name as a reference."
Gabby switched to Hebrew thinking someone nearby him might overhear. "Megia z'man l'deber, echot l'shenie, It's time for us to have a private talk."
Her intuition proved to be correct for he responded in Hebrew, "Lo ackshav. Ani mezuman, not right this moment because I'm swamped. Efshar l'hepagash b'shuvah haba, b'Maadon Sycamore Island, Can we meet next week at the Sycamore Island Club?"
"Lo. No, I'll be in California with Kye next week. We can't put this off, Gideon. It's important and I want to talk with you soon. How about Friday at lunchtime? I guess we could meet at the Island. I'll pick up sandwiches at a deli on the way."
"B'seder ga-moor, Okay. Yom sheshe, Friday, At the ferry at noon."
Gabby found herself angry with Gideon for having put her in a compromising position with the Nuclear Regulatory Commission, though he was not expected to know she knew about his philandering. How she would deal with privileged information from Melanie she didn't know, but she was certain she didn't want to prevaricate more should the NRC return with additional questions.
Later that morning, Gabby placed a call to Norma Sylerman at Suburban Hospital and found that her physicians had sent her home. She immediately dialed the Sylerman home, but found the line busy on four successive attempts. Chuck took over on her behalf and finally made contact.
Norma's voice was unpredictably clear and upbeat. "How nice to hear from you, Rabbi. They released me this morning and I couldn't get home fast enough. Carey called last night to let me know she's flying in this evening and I didn't want her to see me in the hospital. The last time I was there, she was at the University of Connecticut. I can't wait to see her."
&n
bsp; "That's, indeed, good news, Norma," Gabby replied, trying to sound more surprised than she was.
Norma continued, "When Roland finally made contact with her in Brooklyn, she was hostile and made it very clear she had no intention of coming home. But something must have changed her mind, and whatever it was, I'm grateful she's coming. Roland and I have talked a lot about what to say, and we've concluded it would be best to hold our tongues about her life decisions. That is a good idea, isn't it, Rabbi?"
"That's sounds wise to me," Gabby said.
"Carey didn't even ask us to pay for her airline ticket. Sh'erit ha-Pletah must have underwritten her expenses. It's a good sign that they have some compassion, don't you think?"
Gabby was torn whether she should admit to paying for Carey's ticket, but quoted to herself a maxim from Maimonides in which he decreed that the highest form of charity was that which was given anonymously. She abhorred the practice of honoring philanthropists with public acclaim and found reasons to decline the innumerable communal dinners to steep public praise upon those who contributed to good causes. Remaining silent about the ticket, she said to Norma, "I'd love to drop by and say hello to my Bat Mizvah girl. Is there a time when that might work for you guys?"
"Anytime would work, Rabbi. I know Carey will want to see a few of her old friends, but if you call before you come, we'll arrange something. I'm sure she'd love to talk with you. Only, I wouldn't recommend mentioning Sh'erit ha-Pletah or Rabbi Olam v'Ed and engaging her in an argument."
"I'll watch my tongue, Norma. Carey and I have many things to talk about other than Sh'erit ha-Pletah.
CHAPTER FOUR
Soon after Chuck Browner left Ohav Shalom for the evening, Gabby called Norma Sylerman to ask if would be convenient for her to drop by and see Carey for a few minutes on her way home.
"Of course," Norma replied, the ring in her voice still vibrant and strong. "We'd all love to see you, Rabbi."
"It's no secret that I usually do some exercise before dinner. I hope you won't be offended if I change into my running clothes here at the synagogue. I won't look much like a rabbi, but nobody will accuse me of being a marathon runner either."
"No problem," Norma sounded very genuine. "Just bring yourself. Carey is upstairs now and I'll let her know. She'll be thrilled to see you."
Once she had hung up the phone, Gabby eased against her spring back desk chair, cocked her head back to gaze at the overhead fluorescent fixtures. Tucked into the recesses of her mind was a hunch that she might entice Carey to revert to her high school and college love of sports and join her in a short jog. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
She bounced forward on her chair, suddenly remembering that she had one last chore to do before leaving Ohav Shalom. Episode Five of her Chanukah story was finished, but not yet posted to the Internet. She brought up the synagogue's web site and clicked a series of boxes, then dispatched it into cyberspace.
The Third Night of Chanukah (CANDLE THREE)
THE ODYSSEY OF MORDECAI YOELSON
You will remember that in the Polish training camp, I met another Jew who felt as I, that having survived the war, he would not return to help liberate Poland from the Soviets. We had both seen enough barbed wire to convince us that we could not escape from the camp through it. This forced upon us a plan to sneak from the camp through the compound's main entrance. We noticed that, from time to time, Polish officers would leave camp after 10 p.m, dressed in civilian clothes. Since most of our fellow recruits originally arrived in civilian clothing, we were able to "borrow" shirts and pants stored in our barracks to look like officers on leave for an evening of drink in a local village.
For five nights, we waited for an opportunity, hidden near the main gate dressed in our non-military clothing. On the fifth night, an empty lorry paused inside the compound while the driver dashed back to his barracks to retrieve something left behind. My companion and I clambered into the open bed of the lorry and waited, as though we were officers expecting to be driven to a neighboring pub. The driver, in a desperate hurry, returned to the wheel of his vehicle without acknowledging us and drove through the main gate.
My companion and I determined it was best not to tempt fate and jumped off the lorry when it slowed on a horseshoe curve. The night was pitch dark and we had no flashlight. We walked along the road until the headlights of an approaching vehicle forced us to seek shelter in the forest. Since we could hardly see, we decided to sleep in the trees until sunrise, then travel northwest in the direction of Paris.
When I awoke to the morning crowing of a farm rooster, my companion was gone. At first I thought he had ventured into the forest to relieve himself, but when he didn't return, I knew he had chosen to travel alone. The war had produced many functional friendships that dissolved the moment need ceased. I was neither hurt nor disappointed. I had survived the war alone and knew I could make it to Paris employing my own resources.
It took three days to make the journey of approximately 80 kilometers. Fearing Allied patrols, I shunned public transport likely to be used by military personnel, but utilized my French to persuade farmers to carry me short distances on farm vehicles.
At the JOINT headquarters in Paris, there was a message for me from the Yoelson relatives in Bogotá, Colombia along with a guarantee of funds for my passage from Europe. By now, JOINT possessed long lists of families from Ukrainian cities who had perished in the death camps or elsewhere. There was a short list from Otinaya, which I knew was incomplete. My parent's names were not on it. But as the list grew weekly, it became clear that the Nazis had fulfilled their pledge to make all Europe Judenrein. "Why," I asked myself, "should I wait for the bad news?"
In those days, it was not easy to book passage to South America, even if one had the money, which, thanks to my relatives in Bogotá, I did. Shipping companies demanded astronomical fares and travel agents were unscrupulous. The war had produced new armies of profiteers and confidence-men determined to exploit the desperation of refugee lives and regain what they honestly felt the war had stolen from them.
Le Tesoro Rico was a pre-war freighter that had plied the South Atlantic and had escaped being torpedoed by flying Argentine colors. For all but a single day, the ocean bellowed its anger and rain pounded the deck. I had no sailing experience and was sick for most of the voyage.
The passengers, many German speaking, were obviously Nazi military personnel fleeing Europe before being arrested and perhaps tried by Allied courts. They were an arrogant, contemptuous bunch that acted as if they had won rather than lost the war. How the Allies would let them escape without punishment perplexed me. For days, I concocted plans to corner one on an isolated deck, club him into unconsciousness with the leg of a chair, and dump him overboard into the dark ocean. On one occasion, I came close to taking personal revenge for the cruelty perpetrated upon my family and me. But in the end, I hesitated, partly for fear of being caught and partly because I understood there was no reasonable revenge for what my people had suffered. I argued to myself, the European calamity was God's work, not mine. Let the Almighty exert His eternal justice. To this day, I question that decision.
The Le Tesoro Rico sailed to the Panama Canal. At Colon on the Atlantic's eastern seaboard, I transferred to a small coal-burning steamer that stopped at ports along South America's northern coast. The Nazis from the Le Tesoro Rico were headed for Argentina and took the same ship, providing me with new opportunities to take personal revenge. I was tormented by indecision until the steamer arrived at Cartagena, on Colombia's Caribbean coast. In the end, I was happy to have the despicable German out of my sight. My appetite returned as soon as I stood, once again, on dry land.
Tomorrow, on the fourth night of Chanukah, I will tell you of my unpleasant sojourn in Bogotá.
***
At the Sylerman home, it only took Gabby a moment to see that Carey's homecoming had been stressful. She conjectured that mother and daughter had greeted each other with frigid formality, made efforts to b
e civil, but could not resist the destructive arguments that had earlier severed the family. Both Norma and Carey had the social skills to camouflage their friction, but Gabby noticed how neither spoke directly to each other. Carey tactfully said nothing about the electronic airline ticket.
"It's nice to see you in Washington again," Gabby said, purposely avoiding mention that the nation's capital was Carey's home. "When you're a mother, you'll know how good parents feel when their children return to spend a few hours with them. Since our visit in Brooklyn, I've got a host of questions about Sh'erit ha-Pletah, but they can wait. Once again, I'm sorry for the discomfort I caused at your shul. I'm not very good when women don't get what they deserve." Knowing that further discussion on the subject would drive them into a new debate over the practice of Orthodoxy, Gabby diverted into a new subject, "How long can you stay, Carey?"
"I must be back before Shabbos, so that means I must be on a plane to LaGuardia Friday morning.
Norma invited them to enter the kitchen, where a stack of paper plates and plastic eating utensils were prominently displayed on the black marble countertop. Gabby noted how Norma had done her homework and had provided a means for her daughter to eat without violating a rabbinic ruling about using non-kosher plates.
"I'm reading your stories about Mordecai Yoelson, Rabbi," Carey said. "Just before you came, I finished the fourth episode and also relayed them to Rabbi Olam V'ed with a note why I thought he might be interested. He must have read them because he replied that they excited him and was looking forward to reading the upcoming episodes."
"I'm flattered. What was of interest to him?"
"He doesn't speak directly with me. But Baruch, who attends his weekly shi-ur, lesson, reported that the rabbi spoke about how the Torah operates as a cerebral template. The rabbi mentioned Mordecai Yoelson by name to illustrate a living example of this Torah imprinting. Baruch told me that this imprint is burned into every scholar's subconscious, but I'm not so certain."
