My Bridges of Hope

by Livia Bitton-Jackson

  Only I am losing weight in my anguish.

  “I Cannot Bear the Sun!”

  Šamorín, April 1946

  I have grown very thin, and Mommy is worried about my health. She is convinced that I am harboring some dread disease, tuberculosis perhaps, a widespread legacy of the camps. After weeks of Mommy’s nagging, I agree to see Dr. Tomašov, the local physician.

  At the end of his examination Dr. Tomašov ceremoniously declares: “If you don’t gain at least ten kilograms, you’ll be dead before your sixteenth birthday.”

  Now Mommy’s panic is justified. She launches a feeding campaign. Large bowls of bean or potato soup with chipkelech, bits of boiled dough; mounds of noodles topped with fried cabbage; enormous slices of bread smeared with chicken schmaltz, are daily obstacle courses I must tackle. I lack the appetite even to start the meal, let alone “finish every last bit on the plate,” as Mommy warns.

  Ever since last fall the girls and boys of the Tattersall family have started to marry, one by one, and set up their own homes. Most have married within the family and stayed in Šamorín. Others have married survivors from nearby towns and villages and left. In some cases new members are added to the Tattersall family through marriage.

  Several members have found employment. Money has come back into style. And so has rivalry for material possessions. For bigger and better material possessions. The dark shadow of the past has not been converted into a guiding light for the future. What has happened to the lessons of the past?

  The trauma of the Miki-Barishna episode has become a dark filter through which I perceive my world. Life flows from basic instinct, from urges demanding instant gratification. It moves in compulsive spurts, defying direction and meaning. There are no questions asked, and no answers given. There is only movement, mindless, haphazard. Life goes on simply because it is the immutable law of nature.

  I am deeply troubled. Although Mommy’s communication with me has been reduced to “eat,” “eat,” “eat,” I have actually grown thinner since Dr. Tomašov’s dire oracle. In her despair, Mommy summons Bubi from Bratislava for a family consultation.

  Bubi and I go for a long walk in the nearby woods, and I pour out my anguish about life’s lack of meaning. About my fellow survivors’ great betrayal: “They laugh and grow fat. They marry, and make money, and buy things. All they care about is new leather boots and leather jackets. All they dream about is a motorcycle. They are either owners of motorcycles or hope to be. They are either proud of what they own or envious of what the others own. They fall in love and care only about each other, forgetting about everyone else. Everything else. I do not understand. I cannot make sense of anything… .

  “We have just lived through a thousand deaths. The deaths of little children, babies, beautiful cuddly babies … suffocating in gas … burned alive in open pits… . Our brothers and sisters … our friends, people we loved so, frozen to death on roadsides. Starved to death. Our darling aunt Serena gasping for air in the gas chamber … her gold teeth yanked out. Her skin pulled off to make lamp shades. Her meager fat made into soap. Her delicate bones made into fertilizer …”

  I go on, and Bubi does not attempt to stop me.

  “And we grow fat on potato soup and noodles. And make vulgar jokes and laugh. Dance at every wedding all night through. At every silly wedding we dance and sing and shriek with laughter. This hysterical merry-go-round of flirtation and courting and laughter … it’s maddening. Maddening.

  “We never talk about what has happened to us. Never. We keep staring into the sun and don’t see the shadow. Frantically we keep turning our faces to the sun… .

  “I cannot bear the sun! It’s cruel. It’s a hoax. Sunlight is mockery. So is music. I cannot bear the sound of music, loud and brash. It’s deafening. I cannot bear all the food we are gulping down as if in a contest. It’s nauseating. It’s insanity. I cannot bear any of this… .”

  I begin to weep, and Bubi walks by my side in silence. His voice is soft and somewhat hoarse when he speaks: “I understand your feelings, Elli. It’s an understandable reaction to what has happened to us. I am very sorry you suffer so. You are very young. I believe you suffer so keenly because of your youth. You see, this thing you call ‘merry-go-round’ is a good thing. The search for marriage and money and the sun, this is life. They are lonely, these young survivors without parents, families. They need to find new relationships, reaffirm life. They must do this in order to keep from going insane, from being destroyed by memories. They must eat and dance and laugh in order to keep from crying. When one laughs hysterically, it is because one needs to cry hysterically.

  “I know it seems abnormal, this rush into relationships, marriages. This constant reaching out for merriment. But can we be normal? Will we ever be normal?”

  A wave of gratitude sweeps over me. My brother is so wise. He understands. Why haven’t I seen all this? Although my anguish does not dissipate, Bubi’s answer liberates me from the burden of my indictments, and I am grateful.

  But what about him? He does not brood like me, and neither does he go into hysterical excesses like them. He lives a temperate life, is involved in studies, passes his exams, and enjoys the company of intelligent friends. His leg wound has almost completely healed, the scar on his forehead from his bullet wound has turned from red to pink, and the boils on his arms have disappeared without a trace. Have his emotional scars also healed?

  Bubi stays in Šamorín for the night. Mommy cooks a festive meal—cheese blintzes—and enjoys watching his hearty appetite. Bubi’s appetite was born in the camps. He used to be a poor eater. He used to be a thin, gangly boy. Now he is well built, tall, and striking, with wavy, dark blond hair. Before the war, like all yeshiva students, he had close-cropped hair, and earlocks tugged behind his ears.

  “I think Elli should go away on summer vacation,” Bubi says after dinner. “Children’s camps are being organized, mostly in the Tatras. The mountain air would do her good. She would have appetite, gain weight. I’ll see what can be arranged.”

  Mommy is delighted and presses Bubi to make inquiries about the summer camp immediately upon his return to Bratislava.

  My First Job

  Šamorín, May 1—4,1946

  On Wednesday morning Bubi unexpectedly appears, his face beaming triumphantly. I know that smile: It means good news.

  “I’ve found the perfect vacation for you, Elli. A summer in the High Tatras,” he announces in lieu of greeting as he walks through the kitchen door. “The fresh mountain air will do wonders for your health. It will improve your appetite, and you’ll surely gain weight….”

  “Just a moment!” I rush up to him and put my arms about him. “Just a tiny moment, Mr. Magician. Please explain the magic trick… .”

  “An organization in Bratislava is looking for an assistant counselor in a summer camp for homeless children in Vyšne Ružbachy. And I proposed you as a candidate for the job.”

  “You proposed me? But I have no qualifications.”

  “Let’s say I stuck my neck out. I have some friends there, and they agreed to give you an interview. They’re holding the interviews tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?!”

  “Yes, all day, at their headquarters at the Svoradova Street Seminary. I came to take you back with me this afternoon. You can spend the night at my place and be the first applicant to be interviewed, bright and early in the morning.”

  “But … what qualifications does a counselor have to have?”

  “Don’t ask so many questions. Pack your things. We have to catch the one P.M. train so I can make my evening class.”

  Mommy helps me pack, agog with excitement. She also packs sandwiches and a bag of pogácsa, her very special, firm butter pastries. She accompanies us to the train and, as the train pulls out of the station, she waves to me, her face lit up by a brilliant, sunny smile I have not seen for a long time.

  The trip to Bratislava is an unexpected treat. The thrill of going to the city in the c
ompany of my big brother compensates for my initial panic at the thought of the interview. And for a feeling of guilt about missing school tomorrow.

  Thursday morning Bubi walks with me to the corner of Svoradova, where he takes a tram to his school. “Hazak Ve’Ematz!” he shouts as he hops onto the streetcar. “Be strong and of good courage,” the Zionist greeting in Hebrew, does little for my spirits. I climb the hilly slope of Svoradova Street with trepidation. I have no experience. I have never been a children’s counselor before, or a baby-sitter. I know nothing about children. I have had no younger brothers or sisters. Not even younger cousins. And I had never played with my friends’ younger siblings.

  Svoradova 7, a girls’ seminary, is a rambling three-story building with a flight of stairs leading to a side entrance. In the entrance hall flocks of girls seemingly my age pass me, busily chatting and ignoring my attempts to inquire about the director’s office. Finally one of them pauses long enough to point to the stairwell leading to the second floor.

  Three women and a man turn their faces to the door as I enter. They nod in unison when I introduce myself. Then all four glance at their watches in surprise when I apologize for being late. I blush—I am not late at all. It is simply force of habit. Or is it nerves?

  First the interviewers take turns in describing my duties. I find out that the girls’ camp consists of twenty girls ranging in ages from four to sixteen. A counselor is expected to serve as mother, caretaker, and teacher to these children, most of whom do not even remember their parents. The counselor has to provide love, security, education, and discipline.

  After the general introduction of the counselor’s duties, a member of the panel hands me the outline of studies for the summer. The assistant counselor’s task is to conduct classes for the younger children and supervise the homework activities of the older ones.

  “These youngsters lost years of schooling,” she explains. “And it is the objective of our organization to provide them with the basics of Jewish education.”

  I look at the study outline, and a wave of dizziness washes over me. I cannot even read the headings of the daily program, which are in Hebrew script. My own Jewish education has been practically nonexistent. I can recognize only the printed letters of the Hebrew alphabet. I have been taught to read printed Hebrew characters in order to recite the prayers in the prayer book. I have done this all my life without understanding the words I am reciting.

  I know neither ancient nor modern Jewish history. I am familiar neither with biblical nor with modern Hebrew literature. I have been taught to observe Jewish law without knowing the reasons underlying the various rituals.

  I have no choice but to admit the truth about my lack of Jewish educational background. I also reveal to the panel that I have had no experience with children of any age.

  “I apologize for having wasted the committee’s time,” I say in conclusion to my list of confessions. The panel accepts my apology, nodding in unison once again. The chairperson, a short, slim woman of about thirty with straight, shiny black hair, promises to notify my brother of the panel’s decision.

  For me, the polite, formal handshakes at the end of the interview suffice as notification—I know I have lost the job. I am disappointed about missing the summer vacation, yet, strangely, instead of sadness I am filled with a sense of elation. I have come across something wonderful on the baffling pages of the study outline. I have discovered a new world I did not know existed. I have found a niche of relevance. I have found myself; I know I belong to that niche.

  It is this sense of elation that carries me downhill on Svoradova Street toward the Carlton Hotel, where I am to meet my brother. I have made a decision. I am going to enroll in the Seminary to study Judaism. As if I had broken through a wall of isolation, all of a sudden I feel free. I feel free to reach out for life. And life, magically, assumes meaning. Breathless with anticipation, I hurry to meet my brother.

  Bubi is sitting on a bench on Carlton Square facing the Danube. As I approach him, his face takes on a look of happy surprise: “How did it go? What job have they assigned to you?”

  “I didn’t get the job. But I don’t mind. I know I don’t qualify. Bubi, I’ve just discovered I don’t know a thing. Zero.”

  Bubi is startled. “Is that what makes you so happy?”

  “You don’t understand. The study guidelines the committee gave me—Bubi, I’ve never seen anything like them. Bible, Jewish ethics, history, Hebrew language, literature. Everything. Bubi, I never knew how ignorant I was! It’s absolutely appalling. I couldn’t even read the headings of the study guideline. Bubi, I want to enroll in the Seminary. I want to learn everything. Will you help me get in? I want to enroll for this fall.”

  “Okay. But what about the job? What makes you think you didn’t get it? Did they tell you?”

  “I told you, I don’t know a thing. I simply don’t qualify. They will have classes in Jewish studies every morning, and the assistant counselor is supposed to teach the younger children. How can I teach if I don’t know a thing? In the afternoon the counselors are supposed to lead the children in group games. I don’t know any group games. I’ve never belonged to a group that played games. They also said the counselors have to be substitute mothers. I don’t know how to be a substitute mother. I’ve never had anything to do with little children. I am simply not cut out for this job.”

  Suddenly a heavy blanket of clouds conceals the sun, and a cold wind ruffles my thin, plaid skirt. The metal park bench feels like a sheet of ice.

  “It’s getting cold. Come, I will take you to the station.”

  Bubi carries my canvas bag as we walk down Michalovska Street to the Manderla Building, where we will catch a streetcar to the train station.

  “About the job—they have no way of knowing about your lack of background. Or your lack of experience with children. Did you tell them your age?”

  “They did not ask my age. By the way, some of the children are sixteen, that’s older than me. But I had to tell them about the lack of my Jewish education. My ignorance is obvious. And how could I not admit my lack of experience with little children?

  “According to Dr. Tomašov, it’s imperative that you gain weight. The Tatras are ideal for that. They have sanatoriums in the Tatras for people like you. You must get to the Tatras somehow. I think you can tackle the job. I know Frieda Gelber, the counselor. She will teach you. And you’ll learn fast. You’ll see.”

  There is no point in arguing with Bubi. I don’t mind being rejected. I do not want to undertake a job I know I am not qualified for.

  Mommy is bitterly disappointed by the news. And worried. She is also convinced my health depends on this vacation in the Tatras.

  Bubi comes home for the Sabbath, his face beaming once again. He turns to Mommy, for additional effect.

  “Elli got the job as assistant counselor! They’ll train her. In about two weeks she’ll have to return to the Seminary, for a day or two, to be trained for the job.”

  “Bubi! How did you do it?”

  “The committee said they appreciated your honesty,” Bubi declares with mock solemnity. “And they felt you were mature enough to handle the task. And intelligent enough to learn. Mature! And intelligent!” My big brother emphasizes the adjectives with a chuckle. “I listened politely and, for the sake of your health, I let wisdom prevail and withheld my views on the subject.”

  Mommy is delighted. “You’ll need a warm sweater. I found rolls of wool thread in the rubbish in the attic, a nice rich brown color. I will start knitting right away so that it is ready before you leave.” She turns to Bubi: “When does the camp begin?”

  “The first week in July,” Bubi answers. “She’ll also need warm pajamas. Nights are very cold high up there. It’s a ten-hour journey by train to Vyšne Ružbachy, and from there another two hours by carriage to the villas that will serve as summer camp. One villa for the girls’ and the other for the boys’ camp.”

  I can barely contain my ex
citement. A ten-hour train ride, and then a long carriage ride into the mountains! The fabulous mountains I have heard so much about but never dreamed I’d see.

  Will I live up to everyone’s expectations? Am I mature enough?

  I Am Going on Vacation

  On the Train to Bratislava, June 30, 1946

  Mommy accompanies me to the train station and helps me lug the canvas bag containing my wardrobe. I own a beautiful silk dress that came in a CARE package from America. When it arrived Mommy at first admired the lovely dress, but then she spotted a large cigarette burn on the skirt. “Look!” Mommy exclaimed. “What a shame! Right up front, in the most noticeable spot!”

  “What luck,” I retorted. “Without that cigarette burn the owner never would have put this dress in a CARE package. Thanks to that cigarette burn, I have a lovely silk dress.”

  Mommy laughed and immediately set about concealing the hole in a neat fold.

  My canvas bag also contains a pink outfit made from bed linen that arrived in the same CARE package. Pink sheets and pillowcases! All our neighbors were agog with amazement when it arrived. No one had ever seen bed linen other than white. What will the Americans think of next? Mommy turned the sheet into a full peasant skirt, and the pillowcase into a matching bolero jacket, the fashion rage of the time.

  I am wearing a red-and-white-print jumper and a white blouse Bubi found in an abandoned villa in Seeshaupt several weeks after our liberation in that Bavarian town. The outfit must have belonged to a large woman: Both the jumper and the blouse were enormous, but Mommy adjusted them to fit my figure. I look elegant and cheerful in the outfit; the billowing puffed sleeves of the blouse make me look grown up.

  Mommy’s creative mastery with leftover fabrics is stupefying. The barishnas often bring much more material than Mommy needs to make their dresses, and then refuse to take away the leftover pieces of fabric. From these Mommy has produced an entire wardrobe for me and for herself. She has even sewn trousers for Bubi from gabardine left over from pleated skirts, a great favorite of the barishnas.