Mommy thanks Mrs. Kemény for her kind sentiments and urges her to try to remember who might, after all, have Aunt Serena’s winter coat. It’s a bitterly cold winter, and the coat is badly needed. Mrs. Kemény is sympathetic. She is in deep thought, but cannot remember a thing.
While the two women talk, my gaze wanders restlessly about Mrs. Kemény’s overstuffed parlor. Suddenly, the magnificent mahogany bureau against the wall catches my eye. I know this bureau. There is no mistake about it: It’s Aunt Serena’s!
I touch Mommy’s shoulder.
“Mommy.” There is a sudden silence, and both women stare at me in surprise. My voice bristles with a sense of urgency: I grasp Mommy’s hand and draw her in front of the familiar piece of furniture.
“Mommy, look at this bureau! Do you recognize it?”
Mommy stares in disbelief at the bureau facing her. She extends her hand slowly, tentatively to touch it. Then, gently, almost reverently, Mommy begins to caress the polished surface, and tears trickle down her cheeks.
Mrs. Kemény freezes as if struck by a thunderbolt.
I stare at Mommy’s vacated chair and recognize Aunt Serena’s dining room chair, part of the mahogany dining room set.
“And this, Mommy.” As if in a trance, Mommy turns slowly and returns to the chair on which she had sat for almost an hour. She looks long and deep into the Gentile woman’s face. Mommy’s voice is very, very tired as she speaks: “Madam Kemény, how’s this possible? How did you get my sister’s things?”
Mrs. Kemény is silent.
“Tell me, please, Madam Kemény, do you have any other things that belonged to my sister? I’m not going to ask how you got them. All I’m asking is please return to us anything else you might have. We have no furniture. We have no warm clothes. Do you, Madam Kemény, happen to have my sister’s winter coat?”
Mrs. Kemény is trembling visibly: “Madam Friedmann, will you denounce me to the authorities?”
“I have no interest in denouncing you,” Mother says quietly. “All I want are my sister’s things. Return everything, and it will not be held against you. We will never breathe a word to anyone.”
That very evening, Mr. Kemény’s horse-drawn cart delivers to our house the bureau, four mahogany dining room chairs, and Aunt Serena’s kitchen table. And a large trunk full of Aunt Serena’s clothes: dresses, skirts, blouses, underwear. And her fur-lined winter coat.
After unloading, Mr. Kemény hands Mommy a list of names. They are the names of Gentile neighbors who hold Aunt Serena’s other belongings.
Mommy puts on Aunt Serena’s winter coat, and once again tears well up in her eyes. I bury my face in the fur collar of my favorite aunt, who suffocated in the gas chamber in Auschwitz, and the two of us howl with unendurable anguish.
The next day Mommy and I make the rounds of Aunt Serena’s neighbors on Mr. Kemény’s list, and we find among Aunt Serena’s belongings two of Daddy’s suits and several pieces of furniture that belonged to us.
In one of the bundles we find cotton thread, needles, and a pair of scissors. These things are unobtainable even if we had money. Mommy is overjoyed. She cuts up a fine thick army blanket we received from the Americans after liberation and sews winter coats for Bubi and me.
Bubi is unable to wear Daddy’s suits. Although he is tall, Daddy’s jackets hang pitifully on his shoulders, and the trousers overhang his feet. Daddy was forty-five years old and had a wide-shouldered, athletic build. Bubi is only seventeen and has very thin, narrow shoulders.
My brother the fashion plate refuses to wear the delightfully warm coat Mommy made for him. He prefers to shiver in the tattered old sweater one of his classmates in Bratislava gave him.
Tonight I walk home alone and, as I pass the shuttered storefronts a short distance from my school building, a tall figure emerges from the shadows. Just like Daddy, he has an erect posture and walks with rapid, athletic grace. I increase my speed in order to draw closer. Just about two steps behind him, I can see the man is not like Daddy at all. He is shorter, sturdier. And yet, the similarity is breathtaking. In a sudden flash, I realize why. It’s the man’s coat, a short gray town coat with a high, opossum collar. I know it’s a fur-lined coat. I even remember the name of the fur—nutria. I loved to cuddle up to the soft, silky lining of Daddy’s town coat.
I quicken my pace in order to pass the man. Faster, faster. I must see his face. I must meet him face-to-face. I start to run, and pass him. When I reach a considerable stretch beyond the man, I swing around and walk toward him. I cannot make out the man’s features in detail, but I see he has a square face under a wide-brimmed gray fedora.
“Hello, sir.” I know I am being impetuous. I know I am taking a reckless chance. The man stops in his tracks. He seems startled. “Forgive me.” Suddenly, I feel as if an invisible hand were strangling me. I can’t breathe. It takes great effort to produce words: “I do not wish to be impertinent, but … I believe the coat you’re wearing used to belong to my father.”
God, what’s going to happen next? What is the man going to do? Will he shout at me and order me to leave him alone, to get out of his sight? Will he become belligerent, threaten to call the police? Will he assault me?
The stranger stares at me, his face shielded by shadows. “Where is your father, slečna young miss?”
“He is … he was killed. In a German death camp.”
We stare at each other, and the silence seems interminable. “Yes. This coat could well have belonged to your father. I bought it about a month ago, not here, in another town. It’s a fine coat.” The man runs his right hand over his left sleeve. “A very fine coat.”
A tremor passes down from my head and lodges in my calf muscles. My legs shake as the man continues to stare into my face. “How about the hat? Do you recognize the hat? I bought it at the same time. In the same store. Do you think it, too, belonged to your father?”
“I don’t recognize the hat. But the coat… My father loved this coat.”
We stand still, facing each other. Time stands still. People hurry past. Cold wind laps at my feet. The church bells begin to chime. It must be eight o’clock.
“Sir, I miss my father very much. …” My voice drowns in tears. “Please. May I have his coat?”
“Let’s see. I live not far from here. If you come with me, I can put on another coat and give you this one right away. How about the hat, do you want the hat?”
“I don’t know about the hat.”
We walk rapidly against a fierce wind. The man halts in front of a two-story building. “Wait here, young lady,” he says in a strangely cheerful tone. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
The man vanishes in the darkness of the courtyard. Will he indeed return with the coat? Will I hold Daddy’s overcoat with the opossum collar and the soft nutria lining in my arms this very evening? Is this a dream?
A gate opens, and the stranger, now wearing another overcoat, emerges from the windy courtyard carrying Daddy’s coat and the gray fedora. “Here, slečna, take it. It’s yours.”
“I’m not sure about the hat.”
“Take the hat. It’s my way of saying, forgive me. Forgive us, miss. For everything.”
I clutch the coat tightly and close my eyes. Daddy. Daddy.
The stranger playfully pops the fedora on my head. “Here. It suits you better than me.”
“Thank you. Sir, may I know your name?”
He shakes his head. “This is your father’s coat, slečna. I am one of the nameless thousands who benefited from your loss.”
He tips his hat and vanishes in the dark courtyard.
Miki
Šamorín, December 1945
One evening, when I am ready to go home from the Tattersall, I pause at the open door of Miki’s office.
“Ah, Elli. You are leaving?”
“Yes, I have to get home.”
“Wait. Let me close up.”
Miki rises to his feet. After shuffling some papers on his desk, he tu
rns the key in each desk drawer and slips each key into his pocket. Before turning off the light, he reaches for the large key ring on the wall.
He invariably fumbles with the keys, trying to decide which would accomplish the feat of closing the office door. I find it enchanting, his absentmindedness in never knowing which is the right key for which door.
We walk silently for the first few minutes. Then Miki begins to talk. He tells me that the British are refusing to allow Jewish refugees to enter Palestine—thousands of young Jews just like ourselves, survivors of ghettos and concentration camps, now languish in internment camps in Cyprus, and in refugee camps in the Allied Zones of Austria and Germany.
“But why? Why are they in prison camps now, after liberation?” I ask in shock. “The war is over. Germany was defeated. Aren’t the British our friends? Weren’t the Allies our liberators? Why would they keep survivors of German camps in their prisons?” My voice rises in indignation.
Miki attempts to calm me with the light touch of his hand on my shoulder. “Elli, please. You must lower your voice. Britain has been restricting Jewish immigration to Eretz Israel for years. They don’t want any more Arab riots against Jewish settlements. Instead of controlling the rioters, the British gave in to their demands and limited the influx of Jewish pioneers.”
The implications of what the British had done by closing the borders of Palestine at a time when the Jews of Europe needed a haven are unbearable for me. I had heard of ships filled with Jews trying in vain to reach Eretz Israel—they were turned back to Europe, where the passengers met their deaths. I never understood why. Now, with dread, I understand.
I am overwhelmed with what I have just learned. But Miki goes on, and my heart fills with wonder.
In tones so low that I have to strain my ears to catch every word, Miki tells me of a secret organization he is working for. It smuggles Jews across Europe, and then across the Mediterranean Sea on illegal ships, to Palestine.
Who founded this secret organization? I want to know. Miki tells me about an army of young Jews who fought against the Germans during the war. Members of this army, called the Jewish Brigade, now help refugees get to Palestine.
“Recently the organization had a secret meeting in Bratislava,” Miki whispers. “Plans were formed to smuggle Jews out of Poland, Romania, and Hungary, into Czechoslovakia. The operation has begun. We’ve brought in large numbers. Members of the organization shelter them here until they can be slipped across the Austrian border.”
“Here? They are here?” I ask, and Miki silences me with a touch on my arm.
“Careful. You must speak in low tones. Not here in Šamorin, of course. They are in Bratislava. Hidden in various places, until we smuggle them to Vienna.”
“And from Vienna? Where do they go from there?”
“From Vienna the groups are led mostly on foot through the Austrian forests and across the mountains into either Italy or Yugoslavia, depending on which trails are open. In Italy, they board the illegal vessels under cover of darkness. …”
I cannot believe my ears. “Does the Tattersall gang know about any of this?”
“Not really. Some of the boys are involved. Information is passed on to them regularly, but they are not allowed to divulge it, even to sisters or brothers. It would be dangerous for the others to know. When the time comes for us to organize a transport here, we’ll let them know.”
“Thank you,” I say, my throat tightening, “for trusting me.”
Miki coughs in embarrassment. “I want you to know about the transports so that you can plan ahead,” he says flatly, then falls silent. I look up into his face, but I can’t read it. The street has turned completely dark.
“You can tell your mother,” Miki continues after a long pause. “I know her. She can be trusted.”
There is a long, awkward silence between us. I am finding it difficult to breathe. We reach the heavy oak gate in the back of our house. My hand trembles on the massive wrought-iron door handle.
“I’ll let you know further details as they come in,” Miki whispers and prepares to leave.
I don’t want him to leave. Not yet. Not yet. There’s so much I need to know.
“Does the organization have a name?”
Miki hesitates. “It’s called Briha, the Flight, in Hebrew,” he answers haltingly, his voice barely audible. He stands there, tall and slim against a pale half-moon, his blond hair like a wild halo about his head. Suddenly I think, perhaps all of this is Miki’s wild imagination. Tomorrow morning in the Tattersall I’ll meet the real Miki again, the careful, fumbling bureaucrat, the shy, silent introvert with the casual slump. Tomorrow morning all this will have dissipated like a mad dream.
“I’ll let you know as soon as I get details of a new transport. My old friend Levi, a shaliah, an emissary from Palestine, is in charge of the office in Bratislava.”
I must know more. I must prolong this moment of madness. “How is the operation carried out? I mean the crossing of the borders. That must be extremely difficult, and dangerous.”
“Yes. There are Briha meeting points near the Polish border. The Polish border guards at these points are heavily bribed to look the other way when small groups of young people walk across and disappear into the forest. Sometimes the police in the border town have to be bribed as well. You see, transports are directed to the meeting points, but crossing is not always possible. Sometimes there are delays, and the transport has to lie low in the border town for days, even weeks. That’s risky.” He pauses for a moment, then continues.
“In these hiding places—we call them ’stores’—every group is given a slip of paper with a code number on it. And when the group moves to the crossing point, they must present it to the Briha leader awaiting them there. Only after the Briha man recognizes the number does he activate the chain of operations for the border crossing.” Miki’s voice takes on a strange quality of excitement. He speaks rapidly now.
“Once the transport is within the borders of Czechoslovakia, it’s easier. Here we have a tacit understanding with the government not to interfere with our movements. The Czechoslovak government even helps us financially, together with UNRRA, the United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration. They provide transportation and even some food supplies. Most of the food comes from the JDC, the Joint Distribution Committee, an American Jewish organization.”
Miki draws closer. He bends down and continues in a slow, hesitant whisper: “We just received news about one of our ships… . It arrived in Eretz Israel last week. Although it arrived far offshore, on a moonless night, the British police found out about it … they must have been tipped off. They were waiting on the shore, a large military police convoy, and as the refugees waded ashore, they arrested them and took them to a detention camp near Atlit. In Eretz Israel…” His voice trails off into silence. I hold my breath until he speaks again.
“After all they went through … to end up in a British prison. …”
“Is there no way to get them out?”
“We plan … something will be worked out.”
What madness. “I still can’t believe all this about the British. They fought the Nazis. They fought very bravely and liberated us from the concentration camps … they were my heroes, together with the Americans and the Russians.”
“There are political reasons,” Miki says simply, with finality.
I fall silent. Why is “political reasons” an acceptable answer?
“It’s late, Elli. Good night.” Miki reaches out and brushes my right cheek with his hand. His touch is like the moonbeam, fleeting, ethereal.
“Good night, Miki.” As he disappears into the night, an overwhelming sense of the surreal envelops me. Quietly I tiptoe into the house, but Mommy is still awake. I cannot tell her about the transports, not yet. I have to think about the things Miki told me, somehow sort them out. Perhaps tomorrow. Or, perhaps during the weekend, when Bubi will be home. I hope it will be all right for Bubi to know. I
must check with Miki tomorrow.
Tomorrow. Will Miki admit to all he’s said to me tonight? Will I meet tomorrow the Miki of tonight?
A Letter from America
Šamorín, December 1945
When the war ended Daddy’s younger brother, who had emigrated to America years ago, saw Daddy’s name on a list of survivors in one of New York’s Jewish newspapers, and he hastened to contact him by mail. And so, in one of life’s bitter ironies, it came about that Uncle Abish’s letter from America rejoicing over Daddy’s survival arrived shortly after we received news of Daddy’s tragic death. In his letter Daddy’s brother expressed concern about our fate. “What has happened to your wife? And to your children? If, God forbid, you remain all alone, I invite you to come live with me and my family in New York.”
The painful task of having to inform Daddy’s brother about the newspaper’s error fell to Mommy, and she did so as gently as possible.
Yesterday Uncle Abish’s reply came. His shock and grief, on top of his offer to take us into his New York home, deepened the pain of our mourning. In vain Daddy had planned for years to join his younger brother in America. In vain he waited for our turn on the U.S. emigration quota. Throughout the years of waiting he developed a poignant attachment to New York. With uncharacteristic pride he used to point at the staggering skyscrapers on postcards he received from his brother. “See?” he would say. “Over a hundred stories high. Can you imagine, a building over a hundred stories high? One day you’ll stand at the foot of this skyscraper and experience the thrill of staring up to the very top, where it touches the clouds.”
Oh, Daddy. Without you I don’t want your impossible dream to become our reality. Without you I don’t want to experience the thrill of standing at the foot of the skyscraper. Without you New York would forever be tinged with pain.
“Send me your vital statistics,” Uncle Abish urged in his letter, “so that I may apply for an affidavit immediately.”
Uncle Abish’s letter energizes Mommy. “Elli, you will take a course in dress design in Bratislava while we await our turn on the American quota,” she cries enthusiastically. “In New York you and I will open a dress salon. You will design the dresses, and I will sew them!”
My Bridges of Hope Page 3
