Hearing Israel talk this way made me very glad. He needed such encouragement. And now, as he had brought with him all the necessary papers, we went to arrange for the marriage ceremony.
April 30, 1946, was our wedding day. Even my dear mother could not have dreamt of a bigger reception—but the marriage ceremony was without parents on either side, without guests or music, only the necessary witnesses. My witnesses were Bluma and her own new husband, Willy.
After our marriage we had two homes—I kept my room at Bluma’s house, and my husband still had the apartment in Bietigheim where his friend lived; it was a large, comfortable apartment, with maid service. Without losing time, I wrote to my cousins in Palestine about my marriage. I also informed Dr. Lewenter in the United States—who was arranging for the affidavit of support—to have him change the name on the document, and told him that if I went to America it would be with my husband. After a while I began receiving replies from everyone, all expressing surprise—because I had not hinted at getting married before this; not even a hint that I was engaged. The next step was for us to return to the Joint Office and register as man and wife; thus it would no longer be Sheva Weiler, but Sheva Lederman, who would go to America.
This time Miss Levine said nothing about my husband’s illness, nor his having been in the sanatorium. On the contrary, she was very affable and wished us happiness in our married life. And, as a matter of fact, she had been the catalyst that had brought on our unexpected marriage by her questions at my first interview. She told us now that the first transport to the United States would leave in May, but we would not be able to go then; most likely we would leave with the second transport, and we should start making preparations.
We left the office feeling quite satisfied with everything. It also comforted us to believe that Miss Levine must have obtained information concerning Israel’s health, and she must have been convinced that he was cured and well enough to leave for America. It still puzzled us, however, that a specialist in respiratory diseases could have made such a wrong diagnosis. This would remain an unsolved mystery for us. We said no more about it and decided it was best to forget the whole incident.
We lived in hope of leaving Germany soon, and we seemed to have a myriad of things to do meanwhile. I informed the Krupkas that most likely we would go to the United States and gave them an address where they would be able to communicate with us in New York, as they also had plans to go to America. They promised to come to Stuttgart to see us before we left, and we eagerly waited for their visit. I introduced my husband to Sister Marta, and she could only marvel at how everything had happened so quickly.
At last we were advised that our departure was set for June 17 from Bremerhaven on the steamship Marine Perch. A few days before sailing we were to go to Bremerhaven. We wound up our preparations, packed the last things, and started saying our goodbyes, writing letters to friends at a distance whom we could not contact personally.
We became so impatient and tense the last days before departure that we could hardly remain at home. Almost every day we went somewhere. We said goodbye to the sisters at the hospital—starting, of course, with the Superior, then Sister Marta and the others. I thanked Sister Marta especially for all her kindness to me, and she expressed her sorrow that she would never see me again. I shed a few tears at bidding the sisters farewell, but most of all when it came to Sister Marta.
In Bremerhaven, upon our arrival, there was a crowd of people gathered into a large hall in a barracks-like building. There were rows of double bunk beds; the women were to sleep in the lower berths, the men in the upper. In this hall there were about thirty people, and there were several such halls. That one night seemed like an eon; our impatience grew along with our discomfort. In such a crowd there was bound to be some coughing, snoring, and some groups of friends who found the day too short for celebrating and continued their loud conversations well into the night. But we could take it with a smile, remembering that tomorrow we would be on our way.
And so, on June 17, 1946, we formed into lines and started to board the ship. It was a warm and beautiful day, the sky and the water the same shade of blue—a bright omen for our trip. Five years previously—also on a beautiful summer day, but under a pall of black war clouds—five years previously the Germans had entered Rohatyn. Five years of fear, wandering, living under strain—years of loneliness; sometimes hoping, sometimes resigned. Five years that I had lost out of my life—out of what should have been my happy youthful years.
As I set foot on the deck of the ship, together with my husband who had lost no less and suffered as much as I—as had everyone here—I thought; Now we shall see what the future will bring. We were happy that we were going to a free country. I was leaving behind all my past, save that which I had recorded on paper—my chronicle, my documents with the name of Hanka Buczek; these I guarded and took with me with the intention of completing the story.
And lost in our thoughts, we heard the engines start up. At that moment, I recalled my home and my dear ones. Will anyone ever commemorate them with a stone monument? I did not even know where my loved ones rested. But, in my heart, I promised them that I would put up a memorial stone for them in a cemetery when I arrived in the United States.
Almost everyone stood on the deck, watching the activity on the shore. And when the ship started to move away from the pier—and the last farewells were said—tears fell into the sea, perhaps to be carried out by the tide into the vastness and depths of the great unknown that our beloved families had not been lucky enough to reach. Everything was like a dream. It was so difficult to believe that it was actually true. I don’t think that I was alone in having such thoughts, for when I looked around I could see the same sentiments reflected in the faces of those near me. “Yes, now we are going to America!” I could hear the whisper going around from lips to lips, accompanied by sighs.
Our sea voyage passed slowly. Finally, in one thrilling moment, we saw the famed Statue of Liberty. All of us stood once again on the deck, with tears in our eyes, all looking in the direction of the statue. Freedom was greeting us. And while looking at this symbol of approaching freedom, the thought in my mind was, why couldn’t it have happened a few years sooner? Why couldn’t the Marine Perch have come for us and taken us away to a haven of peace before all the terrible things happened? This was a wonderful moment for us, yes—only it came a few years too late . . . Those who had perished were with us only in memories.
I stole a sidelong glance at my husband. He was also sobbing, and many others around us could not restrain their tears. Whoever has not lived through a hell such as ours will probably never understand the depth of our feeling at this solemn moment.
As we neared the pier, we could see the automobiles on the streets in the area. The passengers began to make nervous preparations to disembark, looking anxiously to see if their relatives were waiting for them on the pier—almost afraid of their own emotions at the first sight of a brother, sister, or some other close relative. Israel and I did not speak, following the others step by step in a long file toward the gangplank. Perhaps someone among those friends who had written us might be waiting, perhaps not. The main thing was that we were at last at our goal.
We could see many people on the pier, waving excitedly from a distance, crying. Those who had already landed were embracing their kin. We could hear their exclamations of joy mingled with loud sobs. Now it was our turn. At the foot of the gangplank sat a representative of the Joint Distribution Committee and HIAS. They asked each one of us whether we had any family here, and whether we had a place to stay. Everything was wonderfully well organized. The Joint Committee and HIAS extended their services with praiseworthy efficiency.
When asked whether we had family in the States, my husband answered promptly and truthfully, “No.” So we were sent to another table where we were issued paper slips and—what a surprise!—the address of a hotel where we were to be taken by taxi. As I turned toward the exit, I saw Dr. Lewente
r running toward me. He looked hot and was perspiring; that June 24 was one of the hottest days on record, as I learned later. I started to run towards him, embraced him, and burst into loud weeping. The doctor also had to choke back his tears. His first words to me were: “Thank God, you are here at last! The ship was late by four hours and I’ve been waiting for you. Where is your husband?”
My husband was still attending to some formalities, but as soon as he turned around I caught hold of his hand and introduced him to the doctor. Dr. Lewenter said, “Now don’t worry about anything. You will be taken care of. The main thing is that you survived.” He wanted to take us to his home, but my husband said that as long as we were given lodging in a hotel thanks to the Joint Distribution Committee, and a taxi would take us there, it would be better to avail ourselves of this. The doctor looked at the address on the slip of paper and said, “Aha, the Barclay Hotel near Broadway—that isn’t far. Go then in good health, and when you have rested a bit I will come by.”
We got into the taxi. On the way to the hotel we did not say much, for we were very hot—perhaps all the more so because of the excitement of our being there. The change was too great; there were too many new impressions crowding in on our minds. We arrived at the Barclay, registered, and were taken to our room. The few words of English that I had learned in Germany suddenly became very useful. At least I could make myself understood at the hotel. Our room was large and faced the street. We were delighted that it also had a balcony. We sat in our room until it was time to have dinner. We had received a meal coupon from the Joint Distribution Committee, which we could use in a nearby restaurant.
After dinner, we walked along Broadway, looking at the window displays until we were tired enough to return to the hotel. After seven days of travel—and almost seven wakeful nights—we needed a rest badly.
A little later, after his office hours, Dr. Lewenter came to see us. He came alone because his wife had gone out of town for a few days. We sat and talked. What else could we talk about, if not about our families and the people who did not exist anymore, and about Rohatyn—the town that had become one mass grave filled with Jewish victims! And when I mentioned that the only thing that remained for me to do was to erect a stone memorial in a cemetery here in the United States, Dr. Lewenter said that such a group memorial was being planned already; that the Rohatyners were going to put up a monument in Mount Hebron Cemetery in Flushing, Long Island, and that I should give the names of my loved ones. Sobbing, I gave them to the Doctor: Gitel and Rose Weiler. Also, I took the liberty of including the names of Bluma’s parents—for this, later, she was very thankful. (This monument was erected in a short time in the cemetery and was unveiled in the presence of the survivors of the families it commemorated, or the families which were in the United States during the war.)
It was already late and the room was stiflingly hot. After Dr. Lewenter left, my husband and I prepared to go to bed. We were still under strain of all the happenings of that day, and sleep was long in coming to us. I don’t know how long I had been sleeping, but when I woke up past midnight I noticed my husband was not at my side. I raised myself up on one elbow, looked around the room, but not seeing him anywhere I got up and went out on the balcony. There he was, sitting in a chair, looking out at the big city. When he heard my steps he seemed to arouse himself from a dream, and he said, “It is too wonderful and too beautiful—it is a pity to sleep. What a beautiful sight out there—the lights, the humming streets, skyscrapers, automobiles—so much life here! The world is so beautiful and free—and all this was forbidden us. We lost so many years of life without reason. All the things that the thousands and millions died without ever knowing . . . They never lived to experience this freedom. The world is so large, there are so many nations—there’s room enough for everyone on this big globe to live in peace and amity. Yet for us there was no place. For us Jews there was only death.”
I stood there and listened, watching the tears roll down my husband’s face. My tears joined his, and the whole suffering and past stood before my eyes. I recalled my last farewell to my loved ones . . . Even though my husband’s and my thoughts traveled back to different towns in Poland, our thoughts were essentially the same. And the echo of my mother’s words I could hear clearly; my mother’s last words to me: “Sheva, do not forget. If you ever survive, do not forget what happened to us and to our people.”
Will anyone ever be able to forget? Never, Mamma, never!
Sheva's Promise Page 29