This morning, a trio of observant Jews, their curly earlocks wrapped conveniently around their ears, were volubly discussing the impropriety of the theory of evolution.
It was not until they had moved off that Avram noticed the scene that was taking place in one corner of the room. Its central figure was an old man, his magnificent soft white beard flowing down over his chest and onto his shoulders; a Hasidic rebbe, Avram thought from his manner as much as from his long black satin coat and broad-brimmed hat. A rebbe is a particularly warm, personal type of rabbi, one who always seems to be standing very close to his followers; involved with them; sharing their problems totally; never coldly aloof from anyone. The rebbe was standing, talking to a pitiful couple and a boy who could not have been more than six years old. The boy's father, though a little taller than the rebbe, was considerably younger, and stood half turned away from the old man as if unsure whether he could withstand a direct confrontation. Yet he had placed himself in front of his wife and son, so as to bear the brunt of the rebbc's argument. The old rebbe was speaking slowly, calmly, almost tenderly to the couple. The reading room was quiet; Avram could hear every word.
"You must listen to me," the rebbe was saying. "You must have faith in what I am telling you. It is not only you that have been singled out. None of us can stay here. What will happen in one month's time, two months' time? These Russians don't like Jews, Getzel. It is as simple as that. They won't have us. Already they have closed our schools. Already they have begun exiling our leaders. If we try to stay, do you think they will not ultimately do the same with all of us?"
The rebbe paused to let his rhetorical question make its impression. He had been presenting the same argument to individuals and small groups of people for the past six weeks: we must leave, we must seize this opportunity because another will not come; we must trust in God, and we must go.
"Stalin cannot accept the existence of the Jewish people," he went on quietly. "We do not fit into his new Utopia, and we never will. Ultimately, he will destroy us. It's not only for you I am telling you, it's for the boy. What will. . . ."
Avram now could hear only the sobs of the woman as he watched her bury her son in her ragged winter coat. By the time the mother had quietened, the rebbe had stopped talking but the father had begun speaking more forcefully than Avram would have expected from his stance.
". . . will kill us all anyway, rebbe, or exile us. And then what will happen to our son?"
The man sitting nearest Avram at the long library table was also aware of the conversation taking place across the room. "That's the Amshenover rebbe," he said to no one in particular.
Avram's ears perked up at the sound of the familiar name. He had heard that the Amshenover rebbe - his family name was Kalisch, though his followers, by tradition preferred to call him by the name of his birthplace - was a leader among the Hasidim. Not a genius - the Hasidim didn't particularly favor geniuses - but an open, humane man. He was a modern version of the good men of the old stories - the old tzadikkim who, if they somehow acquired two pfennigs, would immediately give away one, maybe both. Avram had never seen the man before, but he knew his story. In 1939, the Amshenover rebbe had made a valiant effort to talk the large Jewish population at Otwock, a health-spa town where he was living, into moving themselves out of the way of the advancing Nazis. In the end, he had failed. He, his wife and son, and a few other families had departed at the last moment for the safety of Vilna. But the rest were still in Otwock, now with little hope and less future.
The rebbe's hat glimmered in the sunlight as he shook his head, disagreeing with the father.
"No, I am not a prophet, but I do not believe what you are saying. If we stay, then yes, they will kill us. If we stay, then yes, they will take our children away from us. But we do not have to stay! Are we citizens of this country? We do not belong here, and we have valid, legal papers permitting us to go somewhere else. All we must do is have the courage to ask."
"But, rebbe," the man countered, "even though we are foreigners here, at least we know where we are. This other place. . . . Who knows where Japan is! Here there are other Jews. In Japan, there are no Jews. They aren't even white men!"
"Getzel, you speak without knowing what you are saying," the rebbe said gently. "If you look on a map, you will see Japan very clearly. It is a place, a country. It is not a jungle, with savages. The Japanese don't have tails to swing from the trees!"
The little boy had extricated himself from his mother's grasp and was looking fixedly at the old man. But he didn't even begin to smile at the image of the Japanese not swinging from trees. His parents had been so worried, so nervous for so long now, he almost couldn't remember back to when things had been nice. Their fear had taken its toll of him: he hadn't laughed, had scarcely smiled, in the fifteen months since they had left Alexandrov.
"And there are," the rebbe continued, "Jews living in Japan. Not so many, but some; and they live there not by force but of their own accord. But what is Japan is not very important. Japan is not the destination: it is a place to change boats, a place to leave from for America."
"We have tried and tried," the woman said over her tears, "to go to America already. Do you really think we can get visas for America in Japan?"
In the light streaming through the high windows of the reading room, the old rebbe looked at the little boy. He stroked his thin, little anxious face, patted his hair and said mildly, "I don't know, Mrs. Syrkin. But I do know we cannot get them here - not you, not me, not any of us anymore. And the United States, I think, is our only chance of continuing to live as Jews. If the Almighty wants me to die as a Jew, I am quite willing to abide by His wishes. But on the off chance that it is not His wish that I die, but only the dream of Stalin, then I want to do everything I can to continue to live as a Jew, I too have a son. If I do not do everything in my power to keep him alive and keep him a Jew - even if it means taking chances with my own life and even with his life - then I am failing him and failing my people."
He put his arm around Getzel's shoulders. "Ka-asher avadeti, avadeti," he said softly.
Getzel nodded and nodded again and again until he seemed, almost in spite of himself, to be affirming something beyond the philosophic resignation of "if I die, I die."
"Then we should go there now," he said quietly but decisively, "to apply for the exit permits."
It was the rebbe's turn to nod, and the four of them walked past the long reading tables toward the front door.
Avram rocked slowly back and forth in his chair, in sympathy with the little shtetl family. It was a terrible decision to have to make. If you said: "yes, I will apply" and took your place in that silent line of Jews that stretched out from the Intourist travel office, the first step in the process that ultimately led to the NKVD, there was no changing your mind later on. Even before you reached the head of the line, (sometimes the wait was as long as twenty-six hours), you became a "renegade bourgeois" in the eyes of those whose job it was to keep track of these things. Thereafter, for as long as you remained in territory controlled by the Soviets, even if you had to live out the rest of your life there, you would never be able to get a job or go to school - from that moment on you were at best in limbo, at worst an enemy of the state.
Avram watched the library doors swing closed behind the Amshenover rebbe. Applying for an exit permit was very different from simply asking the Japanese consul in Kovno for a transit visa. There had been no risk in that. But this meant calling attention to yourself. It meant having to submit to an interview, in person, for clearance from the NKVD - a dreadful danger to contemplate: who did not have some slight indiscretion in his past which, if discovered, might instantly turn that interview into a trial for his very life? Who could know all the activities of one's friends, or the friends of one's friends? And who could guess when an NKVD question was a question or when it was a trick? Applying for an exit permit was the ultimate political statement: it was a signed confession that you were one who di
d not want to contribute to the glorious task of building another Communist-Socialist state. Even a country fellow like Syrkin would have heard of the Lemberg catastrophe. Where was the difference between Vilna and Lemberg? No wonder so few had yet had the temerity to apply for the permit. What of those who had? Did they ever get past Siberia? Avram had heard that there had been cables received from Japan saying that the trip was possible, that Japan was safe. But a cable was nothing. The Soviets fabricated cables as easily as they fabricated everything else.
Yet, as the Amshenover rebbe had been saying, and his words had been convincing more and more Jews as conditions grew worse, going east to Japan was their only hope of getting out. His overheard plea to the Syrkins had helped Avram reach his own decision. And like Getzel Syrkin, he, too, trembled that afternoon when he took his place in the line that led to the petition desk at Intourist.
6
LEW ZIKMAN was a bewildered man. The wealthy Manchurian had watched in bewilderment as his proposal to resettle a few hundred Jewish refugees was expanded out of all proportion by the Japanese - and then, just as quickly, apparently abandoned altogether. Now, try as he might, he could not understand what the Japanese were up to. Five months ago, in July I940, the super-nationalist Tojo had been made minister of war. Three months ago, the government had signed a military alliance with Germany and Italy. Two months ago, Colonel Yasue - the best friend the Jews had in Manchuria - had been summarily dismissed from his army and intelligence post in Manchukuo. Clearly, it all pointed to bad times ahead.
Yet only last month, in November, Captain Inuzuka had made a long and well-publicized broadcast on the government-controlled radio station assuring Jews, and everyone else who would listen, that it was official Japanese policy to treat Jews favorably, and that this would be continued in the future. More recently, Yasue (apparently still a spokesman for the government in spite of having been dismissed) had called to spend several hours encouraging him not to close down his business in Manchukuo, not to liquidate his considerable financial assets there; Manchukuo, he was told, would continue to be a fine place for him - and, by extension, all Jews to do business in. Now, today, what should arrive but an invitation from the Japanese foreign minister, Yosuke Matsuoka himself, asking him to come for coffee at his home at 5:00 on December 3I!
Zikman had never been so astonished by an invitation. Surely this was not something left over from his suggested plan to settle two hundred leatherworkers in Manchukuo. Yet if not that . . .
Zikman was staying in Tokyo at the Imperial Hotel, and the Frank Lloyd Wright designed building was bustling with preparations for the New Year's holiday. From his window, Zikman could see workmen decorating the hotel garden with pine and bamboo, the traditional symbols of a long life. He stared at them absentmindcdly, pondering the details of Matsuoka's invitation. Even more extraordinary than the fact of the invitation at all, was the timing: five o'clock on December 31 ! New Year's Eve was strictly a family occasion in Japan. It was certainly not the moment a Japanese would arrange to chat with a foreigner. And in his home! The Japanese rarely invited even good friends to their homes. Zikman well remembered meeting Matsuoka before he had become foreign minister, when he was president of the South Manchurian Railway. They were acquaintances but by no means were they good friends. Japanese actions often seemed to make no sense, he thought; but this was more incomprehensible than most.
Zikman was, of course, exactly on time for the meeting. Matsuoka greeted him warmly at the door, led him past his home's Japanese rooms and into a Western-style parlor. Here Zikman could relax comfortably in a chair rather than having to sit back on his heels, Japanese style, on a soft tatami floor. The two men spent some time chatting pleasantly over tea and cakes. Gradually, the foreign minister swung the conversation around to the Tripartite Pact and began to speak in a serious tone:
"You should not be overly concerned about this. It is true that I concluded a treaty with Hitler. But I never promised him to be an anti-Semite." From the weight he was giving the words, it was obvious this was the point of the afternoon's get-together.
"I lived fifteen years in America and abroad," he continued, "and I know how unjust people arc to the Jews. This is not only my personal opinion, it has been a principle of the entire Japanese Empire since the days of her foundation that all people should be treated with sympathy and justice."
There was a brief pause. Matsuoka had finished.
"I am sure my fellow Jews in Manchuria and elsewhere would be heartened to know what you have just said," Zikman replied. "May I repeat these words of yours to them? And to other Jews abroad?" Clearly, this was the response that the foreign minister was seeking.
"By all means!" Matsuoka said with enthusiasm. "Yes, you can; of course you can!"
The goodbyes and wishes for a happy new year followed. The meeting was over.
"Why me? And why now?" Zikman thought as he rode through the darkness on his way back to the hotel. He finally concluded that it was him because he happened to be here, and because he did have some standing in the community. "But why now? What is special about December 31, 1940?" To that, he had no answer.
Across the world, Chesno, the Syrkins, the Amshenover rebbe, the Katznelson children, the five Orlianskys, the three hundred members of the Mir Yeshiva and several hundred other Polish Jews knew nothing of Matsuoka, Inuzuka, Yasue, Zikman or even Tojo. If they had heard of the Tripartite Pact at all - and not many had, it was either too complicated to understand or was just one more element of insecurity in an already untenable situation. What the Japanese were up to they would worry about later, or maybe never. The immediate reality was the Soviet government and its continuing silence on the question of exit permits.
By the end of December 1940, nearly a thousand Jews had applied to Intourist for formal permission to leave Lithuania. One by one they would be called into the NKVD for the necessary police clearance. Sitting in a bare cell of an office, pinned down by the cold piercing stare of a hostile interrogator, a would-be emigrant had to cope with a hundred questions, even the most innocent of which could be a deathtrap. Questions of family, of religion, of recent or long-past personal experiences; questions of education, of job skills, of politics, of money. When to tell the truth? When to bend the facts a little? When to be sincere? When to case around a point and glide quickly on to the next? How much did they know already? And how much could they read in your eyes? Finally the moment came when there were no more questions. Then the interview was finished and you left. Whether you passed or failed, you had no idea. That you would learn only from Intourist. And Intourist continued to say nothing.
The Soviet grip on Lithuania grew rougher and tighter. Jews, and Christians too, continued to be dragged from their beds at midnight, for reasons no one knew and to fates no one dared imagine. Deportations of "undesirables" continued - undesirable religious leaders, undesirable political figures, undesirable Zionists or capitalists or Trotskyites, or simply those who were not sufficiently enthusiastic in their willingness to build a glorious Soviet state. The refugee community grew quieter than ever. These were days of pessimism and prayer. In the synagogues, men chanted psalms, and prayers and meditated on the ways of their God and the possibilities of their deaths. There was nothing else they could do. Moishe Katznelson did not run, he flew through the snowy streets to where Intourist had finally posted the lists of who could leave. It was a beautiful day - dry air, sun glistening on the white January snow. But Moishe was already late. By the time he arrived at the notice wall, the throng in front of it was solidly packed. Moishe squirmed and pushed and tried to worm his way forward, but at fourteen, he was too old to attract sympathy and too small to back up his determination with force. It was almost an hour before he got close enough to see. It was worth the wait! When his eyes lit on his own name, his heart threatened to fly away completely. He could leave! But wait! Where was Sophie's name? They had applied together, but they were two people; they needed two permits. Moishe's eyes raced
up and down the columns. There were hundreds of names. But not hers. Over and over, he studied the list until those waiting behind shoved him away from the board. His anxiety mounting he began fighting to regain his place. But he soon gave it up. What was the point? Her name was not there and it would not appear magically just by his looking for it. Sophie could not leave, and without her, he could not leave. So long he had waited, so hard he had tried. With a groan, he collapsed on the sidewalk, sobbing, his whole body shuddering in inconsolable anguish, his head buried deep in his arms.
Heedless of him before, the crowd now broke around him, women kneeling on the cold sidewalk trying to comfort him, men reaching down to lift him up. But they soon yielded to a short old man with a long white beard. Though he had been immediately informed by one of his followers that his name and those of his wife and son were on the list, even the Amshenover rebbe was not immune to the excitement of confirming it for himself.
"It is not yet time to give up," the rebbe said loud enough to be heard over the boy's sobbing. "Come now, if one thing has failed, we will try something else."
Moishe was too upset to stop crying, but he recognized the familiar voice. He had heard it before, urging him and the others in the group he was staying with, to apply for the permits. His sobbing grew quieter.
The rebbe waited a moment, then said: "I am an old man, you know. It would be much easier if you would stand up so I wouldn't have to bend over."
Moishe raised his head and half a dozen hands instantly reached down to lift him to his feet.
"Now, what is it?" the rebbe said.
"My sister isn't on the list," he replied, too ashamed of his tears to look directly at the old man. "I am. But she isn't."
"Your parents are not there?"
The Fugu Plan Page 11
