He points to the long grass. “Your front yard needs mowing.”
That night, with the horse tethered in the front yard, Mrs. Molnar and Goldie set about making meals for Lale to take on his journey. He hates saying goodbye to them both so soon after arriving home, but they won’t hear of him staying.
“Don’t come back without Gita,” are the last words Goldie says as Lale climbs into the back of the cart and is nearly thrown out by the horse taking off. He looks back at the two women standing outside his family home, each with an arm around the other, smiling, waving.
* * *
FOR THREE DAYS AND NIGHTS, LALE AND HIS NEW COMPANION travel down broken roads and through bombed-out towns. They ford streams where bridges have been destroyed. They give rides to various people along the way. Lale eats sparingly from his rations. He feels profound grief for his scattered family. At the same time, he longs for Gita, and this gives him the sense of purpose he needs to carry on. He must find her. He has promised.
When he eventually arrives back in Bratislava, he goes immediately to the train station. “Is it true that survivors from the concentration camps have been coming home?” he asks. He is told it is, and is given the train schedule. With no idea where Gita might have ended up—not even which country—he decides the only thing to do is meet every train. He thinks about finding somewhere to stay, but a strange man with a horse is not an attractive proposition as a lodger, so he sleeps in his cart in whatever spot of vacant land he can find, for as long as it takes for the horse to eat the grass or for them to be moved along. He is often reminded of his friends in the Romany camp and the stories they told him about their way of life. It is nearing the end of summer. The rain is frequent but doesn’t deter him.
For two weeks, Lale loiters at the train station as each arrival pulls in. He walks up and down the platform, approaching every disembarking woman. “Were you in Birkenau?” On the few occasions he gets a yes, he asks, “Did you know Gita Furman? She was in Block 29.” No one knows her.
One day the stationmaster asks him if he has registered Gita with the Red Cross, who are taking the names of the missing and of those who have returned and are seeking loved ones. With nothing to lose, he heads into the city center to the address he has been given.
* * *
GITA IS WALKING DOWN THE MAIN STREET WITH TWO FRIENDS when she sees a funny-looking cart being drawn by a horse. A young man stands casually in the back.
She steps out onto the road.
Time stands still as the horse stops of its own volition in front of the young woman.
Lale climbs down from the cart.
Gita takes a step toward him. Still he doesn’t move. She takes another step.
“Hello,” she says.
Lale drops to his knees. Gita turns around to her two friends, who are looking on in astonishment.
“Is it him?” one of them calls out.
“Yes,” says Gita. “It is him.”
Clearly Lale is not going to move, or is incapable of moving, so Gita walks to him. Kneeling down in front of him, she says, “In case you didn’t hear me when we left Birkenau, I love you.”
“Will you marry me?” he says.
“Yes, I will.”
Lale sweeps Gita up into his arms and kisses her. One of Gita’s friends comes over and leads the horse away. Then, with Gita’s arms around Lale’s waist and her head resting on his shoulder, they walk away, merging into the crowded street, one young couple among many in a war-ravaged city.
Epilogue
LALE CHANGED HIS NAME TO SOKOLOV, THE RUSSIAN LAST name of his married sister—a name more readily accepted than Eisenberg in Soviet-controlled Slovakia. He and Gita were married in October 1945, and they set up home in Bratislava. Lale started importing fine fabrics—linen, silk, cotton—from throughout Europe and Asia. He sold these on to manufacturers desperate to rebuild and reclothe their country. With the Soviet Union having reunified Slovakia with the Czech Republic and creating Czechoslovakia under their influence, Lale’s business was, according to him, the only one not immediately nationalized by the communist rulers. He was, after all, providing the very materials the government hierarchy wanted for their personal use.
The business grew; he took on a partner, and profits increased. Once again, Lale began wearing stylish clothing. He and Gita dined at the best restaurants and vacationed at resorts around the Soviet Union. They were strong supporters of a movement to establish a Jewish state in Israel. Gita in particular worked quietly behind the scenes, obtaining money from wealthy locals and arranging for it to be smuggled out of the country.
When the marriage of Lale’s business partner ended, his ex-wife reported Lale and Gita’s activities to the authorities. On April 20, 1948, Lale was arrested and charged with “exporting jewelry and other valuables from Czechoslovakia.” The arrest warrant continued: “As a result, Czechoslovakia would have suffered untold economic losses and Sokolov would have obtained for his unlawful and marauding action significant values in money or possessions.” While Lale had been exporting jewelry and money, there was nothing financial in it for him. He had been giving money away.
Two days later, his business was nationalized and he was sentenced to two years in Ilava Prison, a place that had become famous for holding political prisoners and German prisoners after the war. Lale and Gita had been smart enough to stash some of their wealth. With contacts in the local government and judiciary, Gita was able to bribe officials to help. One day, Lale received a visit in prison from a Catholic priest. After a while the priest asked the prison officials to leave the room so he could hear Lale’s confession, which was sacrosanct and for his ears only. Alone, he told Lale to start acting as though he were going mad. If he did a good enough job, the officials would have to get a psychiatrist to see him. Before too long, Lale found himself in front of a psychiatrist, who told him he was going to arrange for him to be given leave to go home for a few days before he “went over the edge and couldn’t be brought back.”
A week later, he was driven to the apartment where he and Gita lived. He was told he would be picked up in two days to complete his sentence. That night, with the help of friends, they slipped out the back of their apartment building with a suitcase each of possessions and a painting that Gita refused to leave behind. The painting is of a Romany woman. They also took a large amount of money to give to a contact in Vienna who was destined for Israel. Then they hid behind a false wall in a truck taking produce from Bratislava into Austria.
At a given time on a given day, they walked along a platform at the Vienna train station looking for a contact they had never met. Lale described it as like something out of a le Carré novel. They muttered a password to several single gentlemen until finally one gave the appropriate response. Lale slipped a small briefcase of money to him, and then he disappeared.
From Vienna they traveled to Paris, where they rented an apartment and for several months enjoyed the cafés and bars of the city returning to its prewar self. Seeing Josephine Baker, the brilliant black American singer and dancer, perform at a cabaret was a memory Lale would always carry with him. He described her as having “legs up to here,” indicating his waist.
With no work available for non-French citizens, Lale and Gita decided to leave France. They wanted to go as far away from Europe as possible. So they bought fraudulent passports and set sail for Sydney, where they landed on July 29, 1949.
On the ship over, they befriended a couple who told them about their family in Melbourne, with whom they intended to live. That was enough to persuade Lale and Gita to settle in Melbourne, too. Once again, Lale entered the textile trade. He bought a small warehouse and set about sourcing fabrics locally and abroad to sell on. Gita decided she wanted to be part of the business, too, and enrolled in a dress-design course. She subsequently started designing women’s clothing, which added another dimension to their business.
Their greatest desire was to have a child, but it simply would not happ
en for them. Eventually, they gave up hope. Then, to their great surprise and delight, Gita got pregnant. Their son, Gary, was born in 1961, when Gita was thirty-six and Lale was forty-four. Their lives were full, with a child, friends, a successful business, and holidays on the Gold Coast, all supported by a love that no hardship had been able to break.
The painting of the Romany woman Gita brought with them from Slovakia still hangs in Gary’s house.
Afterword by Gary Sokolov
WHEN I WAS ASKED TO WRITE AN AFTERWORD FOR THE BOOK, it was a very daunting request. Memories at so many different levels kept flooding my mind, and I was unable to get started. Do I talk about food, which was a primary focus for both my parents but especially my mother, who took pride in a fridge filled with chicken schnitzels, cold cuts, and myriad cakes and fruit? I remember her devastation when at the age of eleven I went on a major diet. On Friday night she served me my traditional three schnitzels, and I’ll never forget the look on her face when I placed two of them back in the tray. “What’s wrong? Is my cooking no good anymore?” she asked. It was very hard for her to register that I could no longer eat the quantity I used to. To compensate for this, when my friend came over he said hello to me and went straight to the fridge. This made her very happy. Our home was always inviting and accepting of everyone. Both Mum and Dad were very supportive of any and all hobbies and activities that I wanted to try, and keen to introduce me to everything—skiing, travel, horse riding, parasailing, and more. They felt they were robbed of their own youth and did not want me to miss out on anything.
Growing up, it was a very loving family life. The devotion my parents had to each other was total and uncompromising. When many in their circle of friends started getting divorced, I went to my mother and asked her how she and my father had managed to stay together for so many years. Her response was very simple: “Nobody is perfect. Your father has always taken care of me since the first day we met in Birkenau. I know he is not perfect, but I also know he will always put me first.” The house was always full of love and affection, especially for me, and after fifty years of marriage to see them both cuddling, holding hands, and kissing—I believe this has allowed me to be a very outwardly loving and caring husband and father.
Both my parents were determined that I should know what they went through. When the TV series The World at War started, I was thirteen, and they made me watch it by myself every week. They were unable to watch it with me. I remember when they were showing live footage of the camps I looked to see if I could spot my parents. That footage is stuck in my mind even now. My father was comfortable with talking about his adventures in the camp, but only on the Jewish festivals when he and the men would sit around the table and chat about their experiences—all of which were fascinating. Mum, however, said nothing of the details except on one occasion when she told me that in the camp when she was very sick her mother had come to her in a vision and told her, “You will get better. Move to a faraway land and have a son.”
I’ll try to give you some insight into how those years affected them both. When my father was forced to close his business when I was sixteen, I came home from school just as our car was being towed away and an auction sign going up outside our home. Inside, my mum was packing up all our belongings. She was singing. Wow, I thought to myself, they have just lost everything and Mum is singing? She sat me down to tell me what was going on and I asked her, “How can you just pack and sing?” With a big smile on her face she said that when you spend years not knowing if in five minutes’ time you will be dead, there is not much that you can’t deal with. She said, “As long as we are alive and healthy, everything will work out for the best.”
Certain things stuck with them. We would be walking along the street and Mum would bend down and pluck a four- or five-leaf clover from the ground, because when she was in the camp if you found one and gave it to the German soldiers, who believed they were lucky, you received an extra portion of soup and bread. With Dad, it was the lack of emotion and heightened survival instinct that remained with him, to the point even when his sister passed away he did not shed a tear. When I asked him about this, he said that after seeing death on such a grand scale for so many years, and after losing his parents and brother, he found he was unable to weep—that is, until Mum passed away. It was the first time I had ever seen him cry. Most of all, I remember the warmth at home, always filled with love, smiles, affection, food, and my father’s sharp dry wit. It was truly an amazing environment to grow up in, and I will always be grateful to my parents for showing me this way of life.
Acknowledgments
FOR TWELVE YEARS LALE’S STORY EXISTED AS A SCREENPLAY. My vision always played out on a screen—big or small. It didn’t matter. It now exists as a novel, and I get to thank and acknowledge the importance of all those who stepped on and off the journey with me, and those who stayed the distance.
Gary Sokolov—you have my gratitude and love always for allowing me into your father’s life and supporting me 100 percent in the telling of your parents’ incredible story. You never wavered in your confidence that I would get to this point.
Glenda Bawden—my boss of twenty-one years who turned a blind eye to my sneaking out to meet with Lale and others who were helping me develop the script. And my colleagues, past and present in the Social Work Department at Monash Medical Centre.
David Redman, Shana Levine, Dean Murphy, and Ralph Moser at Instinct Entertainment to whom I was doing most of the “sneaking out.” Thank you for your passion and commitment to this project over many years.
Lisa Savage and Fabian Delussu for their brilliant investigative skills in researching the “facts” to ensure history and memory waltzed perfectly in step. Thank you so much.
Thanks to Film Victoria for their financial support with the research undertaken for the original film script version of Lale’s story.
Lotte Weiss—survivor—thank you for your support and sharing your memories of Lale and Gita with me.
Shaun Miller—my lawyer, you know how to do a deal. Thanks.
My Kickstarter backers: Thank you so much for being the first to get behind the telling of this story as a novel. Your support is greatly appreciated. You are:
Keith Tweeddale, Stephanie Chen, Bella Zefira, Thomas Rice, Liz Attrill, Bruce Williamson, Evan Hammond, David Codron, Natalie Wester, Angela Meyer, Suzie Squire, George Vlamakis, Ahren Morris, Ilana Hornung, Michelle Tweeddale, Lydia Regan, Daniel Vanderlinde, Azure-Dea Hammond, Snowgum Films, Kathie Fong Yoneda, Rene Barten, Jared Morris, Gloria Winstone, Simon Altman, Greg Deacon, Steve Morris, Suzie Eisfelder, Tristan Nieto, Yvonne Durbridge, Aaron K., Lizzie Huxley-Jones, Kerry Hughes, Marcy Downes, Jen Sumner, Channy Klein, and Chris Key.
My heartfelt thanks and gratitude to Sara Nelson at HarperCollins U.S. for your passion and drive in telling this story in the United States and Canada. I have found another soul mate who embraced Lale and Gita’s story and delights in its telling.
To the talented HarperCollins team in the United States responsible for the “production” of my novel: Katherine Beitner, Mary Gaule, Amy Baker, Mary Sasso, Megan Looney, Dori Carlson, Stacey Fischkelta, and Jimmy Locabelli, Thank you so much for your dedication on behalf of myself, Lale, and Gita.
This book and all that flows from it would not exist without the amazing, the wonderful, the talented Angela Meyer, the commissioning editor at Bonnier Publishing Australia. I will be forever in your debt, and like Lale. I feel you, too, are under my skin for all time. You embraced this story with a passion and desire to match my own. You have wept and laughed with me as the story unfolded. I saw in you someone who found herself walking in Lale and Gita’s shoes. You felt their pain and their love, and you inspired me to write to the best of my ability. Thank you does not seem enough, but thank you I do.
To the London team at Bonnier Zaffre headed by Mark Smith, Kate Parkin, and Julian Shaw. You believed in this story from the beginning and are responsible for the amazing reach into other te
rritories. Thank you so much.
To my brother Ian Williamson and sister-in-law Peggi Shea who gave me their house in Big Bear, California, in the middle of their winter for a month to write the first draft. Thanks to you and your fine accommodation, to paraphrase Sir Edmund Hillary, “I knocked the bugger off.”
A special thank-you to my son-in-law Evan and sister-in-law Peggi for the small but not insignificant part you each played in my making the decision to adapt my screenplay into a novel. You know what you did!
Thanks to my brothers, John, Ian, Bruce, and Stuart, who have supported me unreservedly and remind me Mum and Dad would’ve been so proud.
My dear friends Kathie Fong-Yoneda and Pamela Wallace, whose love and support over the years to get this story told no matter what format, I appreciate beyond words.
To my friend Harry Blutstein, whose interest and writing tips over the years I hope I have taken on board and do you proud.
The Holocaust Museum in Melbourne where Lale took me on several occasions, acting as my “living” tour guide. You opened my eyes to the world Lale and Gita survived.
My sons, Ahren and Jared, who opened their hearts and minds to Lale and let him into our family life with love and reverence.
My daughter, Azure-Dea. Lale met you when you were eighteen, the same age Gita was when he met her. He told me he fell a little bit in love with you on that first day. For the next three years every time I saw him his opening line was “How are you, and how is your beautiful daughter?” Thank you for letting him flirt with you a little and the smile you put on his face.
To my children’s partners—thank you, Bronwyn, Rebecca, and Evan.
Steve, my darling husband of forty-something years. I recall a time you asked me if you should be jealous of Lale as I was spending so much time with him. Yes and no. You were there for me when I would come home sullen and depressed at having taken on board the horror Lale shared with me. You opened our home to him and let him into our family with honor and respect. I know you will continue this journey by my side.
The Tattooist of Auschwitz Page 19