by Lucy Lipiner
What kind of results were they looking for? Did they really expect these remnant survivors of the Holocaust to be in good health? Could the immigration officials even comprehend the survivors’ physical and mental scars?
We were scheduled for interrogation about our political affiliations as well. Based on rumors, we understood that the US immigration officials preferred if the prospective immigrants disliked the Communist ideology. But we had already experienced Communism firsthand. We lived under the Soviet totalitarian rule for six long years. And life was difficult under that system. Yet I recall Papa saying, “Don’t say anything good about the Soviet Union. We don’t want them to think we liked it there.”
I was terribly frightened of being interviewed by three uniformed men, whose language I hardly understood. Perhaps one of the men was an interpreter, and perhaps they asked simple questions. Is it not strange that I cannot recall what questions were asked or recall the answers I gave? I only remember being fearful of saying the wrong thing. For me, it was like a test. Would I pass? Was I worthy of having a home in America, the land that one could only dream of?
But being healthy was one of the most important criteria. I do not know how many among us were really healthy, how many were completely sane, and who among us cared much about politics. What we all hoped for was a real home— someplace safe.
For the first physical exam, we felt both fearful and encouraged. We got there early, but to our surprise, so did everyone else, and hundreds of people milled about outside the administration building before it even opened its doors. When it did open, the officials couldn’t keep the crowds back. People stormed the building—completely out of control. For people who had lived a normal life, it must have been difficult—if not impossible—to understand what it meant for us to be told, “Get there early.” It meant, “If you’re late, it won’t be there for you.”
Men and women were separated, and Mama, Frydzia, and I went with the other women into a huge room where a voice over a loudspeaker instructed us to undress completely and leave our clothes on the floor. I was unhappy about getting undressed in public, but I worried more about losing my clothes. I wondered if they would still be there after the exam; the worry of possibly not finding my clothes made me feel even more undressed.
Frydzia and Lusia, Traunstein, Germany
Then we were instructed to line up according to the first letter of our surnames. Chaos ensued, as many women did not understand the instructions. For many, the whole scene evoked the worst possible memories of deportations and selections. Fortunately, the medical personnel—doctors, nurses, assistants—were all American, and that was comforting. The fear of German doctors was deeply ingrained in people’s minds. We pushed our way to the M line, which moved slowly.
I began to feel cold. I noticed that some women held their arms firmly against their chests, as did I—partly out of the cold, partly because the strange thing about being naked is that you feel it most acutely when you have a sense of being observed. Many women around me were crying, clearly dealing with the terror this experience evoked. I did not fully understand their anxiety, but I had my own to deal with anyway. Besides, how do you understand such things when you’re in the middle of it all? In retrospect, a simple piece of cloth to cover ourselves with would have made a tremendous difference emotionally.
As the line moved slowly, I grew more upset. I asked my mother to switch places with me so that I could hide behind her.
My turn came. The doctor, wearing glasses and a white coat, was kindly looking. He spoke softly, but I didn’t understand; later, I realized that he spoke with a Southern drawl that put comprehension beyond the few English words I knew. I assumed he had asked my name, so I told him. But he just smiled and shook his head. For all I knew, he had said, “Hi, how are you?” or had asked if I had any ailments to report. What was clear was that he seemed to understand my anxiety; he seemed to have the capacity to appreciate the difficult circumstances we were in. He was careful not to look at me closely in a way that might embarrass me, and his examination was quick. I was grateful. He stamped some papers, which I assumed meant that I was healthy enough to go to America.
And then, it all almost unraveled. One of the processing requirements was a chest X-ray examining the lungs. No one with tuberculosis could enter the United States, so we all duly took the X-rays and waited for the results.
I will never forget the day they came. Mama, Papa, Frydzia were all okay—but not me. There was something wrong with my lungs. The bad news was entirely unexpected. I had been sick as a young child in Siberia with what we had always assumed was pneumonia. Could it possibly have been tuberculosis? In those days in Siberia, we never saw a doctor, and diagnoses were anybody’s guess. You recovered from whatever illness you contracted, or you didn’t. I had been very ill, but I recovered.
Now, the chest X-ray had discovered scar tissue in my lungs, and the US medical personnel were suspicious. Suddenly, it looked like we were not going to America after all.
My family was devastated. Mama appeared stunned; she always internalized everything without expressing her feelings. That is who she was, so different from Papa. Frydzia could not stop sobbing. There was such sadness all around. Beyond sadness, there was despair. It was in the air, palpable; you could almost touch it. I felt such guilt for having brought this on my family. All these years since the beginning of war, life had been filled with deprivation and lost dreams. To lose this final dream was unbearable. But my father would not be defeated.
That morning, Papa left our little room without saying anything. I learned later that there was a list with people’s names posted on a bulletin board, on the exterior wall of the medical building. It was a list of names with suspicious X-ray results. Papa found my name prominently listed in alphabetical order for everyone to see. He couldn’t bear to see my name listed among others not deserving a home in America! With anger in his heart and a pencil in his hand, Papa quickly crossed my name out, obliterating its very existence. But truth be told, at this time in our lives, he didn’t much care if he was actually doing something that was prohibited or even against the law; he was angry and didn’t want my name on the dreaded list.
When he got back, he found a terribly depressive atmosphere in our room. He looked at Frydzia and pressed his forefinger against his lips. “Shh,” he said. “No more crying, do you hear me?” My sister looked up at him and stopped crying immediately. We were young, teenage girls, and Papa had a way of treating us as if we were still children. But that was okay. We knew how much he loved us.
Then he turned to me and pointed to the chair next to his. “Sorele, come sit here by me, and I will tell you a story.” I sat. “You know the young man Yechiel, the son of the Great Rabbi?” I nodded my head; I thought I knew Yechiel.
“Well,” said my father, “the Great Rabbi was killed in the Horbin, the Holocaust, may his soul rest in peace, but his son survived, and he is very smart, just like his father. Yechiel and I had a very interesting conversation this morning, and he gave me some very good advice. He said we should try to persuade the American medical people to let you take another chest X-ray. You know, when you stand in front of the big machine. And next time, nothing will show up in your lungs. Do you hear me?”
I nodded my head again.
Papa stood up and announced that he and I were taking a walk. I had no idea where we were going, but it didn’t matter. I loved getting out of the camp. We walked out the gate, and before long, we stood in front of a PX store set up by the armed forces exclusively for the US servicemen and their families. The US military personnel issued a special currency, called scrip, with which the servicemen could purchase nice things brought over from America. It was prohibited to sell or buy this currency, but Papa believed that some rules were made to be broken. He found a way to buy the forbidden currency. My guess is that it came from the black market.
I couldn’t believe my eyes when we stepped inside the PX. I had never in my entire life
seen such luxuries—counters and shelves full of candies, chocolates in gold and silver wrappings, boxes and baskets filled with candied fruit under colorful cellophane wrapping paper. There were toiletries, beautiful silk scarves, perfumes, and cigarettes. All this, I thought, for the servicemen and their families.
The man behind the counter seemed surprised to see us. After all, people like Papa in his shabby sport coat and a shy, young girl trailing behind were not his usual customers.
Papa approached the counter in his most dignified manner. He did not speak English at all, but someone had taught him to say the words he needed for this task. “Mister, mister, if you please,”—and Papa pointed at me—“fur mine daughter I vant buy Hershey shokolat.”
Papa opened his hand, and there in his palm was the forbidden scrip. The man behind the counter looked at the scrip, looked at us, reached quickly behind the counter, and handed me a real Hershey chocolate bar. He took the scrip and gave us some change.
Without another word Papa turned around and, with his head held high, stepped out of the store, without a good-bye or a thank-you. I followed him out meekly. Papa had wanted to make me happy, but instead, I was embarrassed. I wanted desperately to make a good impression on the American who was kind to us. I guess I was too young to understand that what really mattered most was for Papa to retain some dignity. Maybe for that reason he didn’t say another word. He was a proud man, but the war had forced him to beg when he needed to beg.
We sat on a bench, and I just stared at the chocolate bar in my hand. I felt the most awful conflict I had ever experienced. I wanted to taste the chocolate so badly, yet I felt that I needed to keep it for later, maybe share it with the rest of the family. Finally, I gave in to the temptation. I took one bite and then another. I was reluctant to chew it for fear that it would not last, so I let the chocolate melt in my mouth.
“Sorele, it’s good?” Papa asked. I nodded my head and offered to share it with him. He just shook his head. “No, I don’t really like chocolate that much,” he said. Of course, he loved chocolate; I knew that. I finished the entire bar and then folded the wrapper and put it in my pocket for safekeeping and for good memories. I looked up at Papa’s face. I think I was hoping for some approval for having eaten the entire chocolate all by myself. What I heard next truly amazed me. “Come,” he said, “we will go back to the PX to get more chocolate.”
This time as we entered the store, the man behind the counter actually smiled at us. Papa stretched out his hand again, and again, he said, “Mister, mister, if you please, Hershey shokolat, please.” The man scooped up the scrip—I thought we shortchanged him—smiled, and with great flair, handed me another Hershey bar. This time, I did not eat the entire chocolate bar.
As we walked back to the camp, Papa and I had a very interesting conversation. Mostly, he spoke, and I listened. He elaborated on the benefits derived from eating chocolate. Trying to look very serious with his brows drawn together, he said that he knew from very reliable sources that the chocolate I just ate would actually “cover up and conceal those silly little scratches” in my lungs, and next time, the X-ray machine would find nothing “bad.”
“Nothing at all, do you hear me?” he said. Even I couldn’t believe such a silly story. I laughed so hard.
“Sorele, we are going to America, I promise you. Do you believe me?” he asked. I believed him, but not entirely.
The following week, Papa and I approached the American medical team with the assistance of a German–English translation service. I was so happy to see that it was the interpreter who was pleading on our behalf. I did not want Papa to have to beg again. The Americans looked at me, and they relented. I guess they took pity on us. The second chest X-ray showed the same scar tissue, but the doctors who reviewed the results very carefully determined that I did not suffer from any contagious disease. The scar tissue had been in my lungs a very long time.
Finally, we were told I would be allowed to go to America. I didn’t know much about American people, but I was so moved by their kindness. I really believed that from that day on, I would love every American person I would ever meet.
We boarded a passenger train in the Munich rail station that was to take us to the North Sea port of Bremerhaven. From there, we would make the long voyage across the Atlantic on the General C. H. Muir, a troop transport vessel that would deposit us on the American shores, past the Statue of Liberty in New York harbor, on August 23, 1949.
On the train were hundreds of people like us, Holocaust survivors all going to America with a promise of a home. My family and I sat quietly in a small compartment with a window between two rows of seats. There was hardly any talk. We had long ago forsaken what seemed like superfluous chatter. There was no room for it in our lives, as if we had adopted a thrifty economy in everything in our lives, even the luxury of speech. We were going to America. This was such a major event in our lives, it seemed almost sacrilegious to discuss it.
Mama and Papa seemed absorbed in their own thoughts. Mama especially wore a vacant, chilled look in her eyes. She sat by the window, her arms tightly wrapped around herself. I scrutinized their facial expressions, searching for signs of hope, something encouraging. It wasn’t there. The hardships of almost ten years and the personal losses in their lives had aged them tremendously.
I thought I understood the ruination of our lives. Still, I dared to hope for something good in our future. We were going to our new home. Why did they always have to be so unhappy? I was determined not to become like that, not to let this depression happen. Pain had become part of our lives, that which I wanted to discard more than anything. Yes, I had been scarred, but I knew I would recover. I was certain I would find a better life in America.
I hated the gloom around me. I wanted to sit by myself, so I took a seat near a window, steps from the rest of the family. I felt peaceful watching the beautiful scenery spreading out in front of me. Things were moving, always changing, always appearing and disappearing like the very nature of our lives. The America I looked forward to was not the country famous for everything being the biggest, the tallest, and the grandest. Actually, what I kept thinking about was American people having a bathroom of their own inside their very own homes. It seemed unreal. There were so many things I had not yet experienced.
Going to America was the most wonderful event in our lives, and it was happening at last. Yet I felt sadness when I thought about the friends I had left behind. I felt particularly sad about a boy—actually a young man. Millek was going away to a medical school in Innsbruck, Austria. He was a distant relative of Tante Bronia and Uncle Beno. He also survived the war by being deported to Siberia.
After the war, he and our family lived in the same DP camp. He used to visit sometimes. I was fifteen and very shy. I don’t believe I ever said two words in his presence. It was devastating to learn that he was going away. Sadly, this was the pattern of our lives. People were always going away.
But this was different. I knew that I had fallen in love for the first time in my life. In saying good-bye to him, I had my first kiss.
I stayed at the window for hours. Frydzia and Mama came by from time to time, just to check on me. I watched a lovely sunset. Then it grew dark. Suddenly, I heard a voice asking, “Would you like some coffee?” I looked up and saw a smiling face, a tall young man, maybe nineteen or twenty years old. He was holding a metal pot in one hand and two or three tin cups in the other.
Edward, Germany, 1949
Almost immediately, I felt drawn to him, to his tallness, the blond of his hair, the blue of his eyes. At first glance, he looked like the Aryan Germans, but instead of being afraid, I was fascinated by his looks.
I never drank coffee, but I thought if I said yes, he would stay a little longer. “Yes, I would like some coffee,” I said, trying hard to sound mature and well mannered. I watched his slender, graceful fingers as he handed me a cup of coffee. I took one sip and almost choked on it. That brew was bitter. That is when the yo
ung man’s charming smile became a resounding laugh. I liked that. God knows I needed a little laughter in my life. The young man sat down and introduced himself.
“My name is Edward, but most people call me Edek,” he said.
“And I am called Lusia, but sometimes my father calls me Sorele, my Hebrew name,” I replied.
Then, without a word, Edward excused himself. He was back a moment later, this time without the coffeepot. He sat down, which pleased me, and we started talking. Actually, he did most of the talking, while I mostly stared. I couldn’t help feeling fascinated by his demeanor, the warmth in his eyes, and his smiling face. I didn’t know it then, but this was exactly what I needed most—a young, smiling face. This vital young man couldn’t possibly be a part of the bedraggled, seemingly lifeless people on the train. Who was he, and where did he come from? He was so different; there was energy and excitement about him. He spoke of America with such delight, and he was full of knowledge about the country he didn’t know, the country that was to become his home as well.
Soon, he made himself comfortable in a seat across from me and began telling interesting, funny, fantastic adventure stories. He never took his eyes off me, and all the time, he insisted that the adventures had really happened and that the stories were really true. But, of course, he had never experienced any of them; he had only read about them. I didn’t care if they were true or not. For a brief moment, I felt so happy.
It was very late. But it didn’t matter, for this was an all-night train ride to the harbor. Edward and I stood near the door of the compartment, in full view of the other passengers and my family. Mama and Papa looked puzzled. Frydzia seemed intrigued—What is my sister discussing with this total stranger, and why is she laughing so much? I did not much care what anyone thought. I thought that I had met someone amusing and interesting and so handsome—someone who could become my friend.
My parents signaled to me to join them in their compartment. They clearly were not happy that I was speaking with a total stranger, someone I had not been introduced to. After all those years of upheaval, the long and difficult years of war that had upended our lives, they still held on to the old-world views. They believed very strongly that a young lady did not speak with strangers. But most of all, they wished that I would behave in a dignified manner. That was their wish for both Frydzia and me.
