My Bridges of Hope

by Livia Bitton-Jackson

  The ride from Poprad to the High Tatras stretches the limits of my capacity for absorbing sheer natural beauty. The suddenness of vertical cliffs reaching to infinite heights not more than an arm’s length from my train window assaults my senses with unexpected force. Waterfalls cascading from tips of hills are inches below the sky, and giant trees swaying in menacing altitude on razor-sharp, snowcapped ridges are unmistakable messages of immortality. Divine secrets tangibly, ungrudgingly communicated.

  It is a puzzling message. How can such unstinting beauty share the planet with Auschwitz? How can it coexist with the specter of the Holocaust?

  Suddenly, I remember: This is the route our boxcar traveled to Auschwitz. Two years ago, these very tracks carried the train from our hometown eastward toward its destination in the death camp. Just like then, the train snaked ever upward on fabulous mountain passes.

  I need answers. I need to understand. I need to understand.

  It is late at night when we arrive at Vyšne Ružbachy. At the dark, deserted station a row of open carriages wait to take us into the hills. The horses battle a cold wind as they plow ever higher, ever closer to the brilliant starry sky. On the peak of what must be the tallest mountain, the carriages halt. We are on top of a dark, blustery world under a shimmering sky. The sheer expanse of star-studded sky above and the infinite depth of darkness below us are overwhelming. We have arrived at our destination.

  The Certificate

  The Tatras, July 7, 1946

  Brilliant sunshine and the chirping of a thousand birds wake me. What time is it? I hop out of bed and run to the next room. The beds are empty. I run down the corridor and find every room empty. Where is everybody? On my first morning I have overslept!

  Alarmed, I run downstairs and follow the sound of soft chanting. In the large hall, the girls are in the midst of morning prayers. One girl serves as leader, or pre-cantor, and the others chant the verses in response. I have never seen anything like it … adolescent girls conducting communal prayers in Hebrew.

  Watching the scene, I feel like an outsider. Silently I withdraw and continue my search for the little children.

  As I pass the dining room I see Mrs. Gold busily setting long tables for breakfast, in the company of my little charges, still in their pajamas.

  “Good morning! How long have you all been down here?”

  “Oh, the bright light woke us all early.” Mrs. Gold smiles. “The little ones have been helping me set the tables.”

  I herd all six of them to their rooms to wash and dress; and then down again for breakfast in less than half an hour. At the breakfast table Frieda leads the children in reciting the blessings for the food, then explains the meaning of each blessing. I am familiar with the various blessings for food, one for bread, another for cakes and cookies, a different one for milk and other drinks, and one for fruit and vegetables. This morning, however, I learn that there is also a blessing, brakhah in Hebrew, to be recited when encountering natural phenomena like thunder and lightning, or when seeing the ocean for the first time.

  How fascinating … this impromptu affirmation of a phenomenon when experiencing it. As a child, I remember the terrifying impact of a sudden thunderclap. By reciting the brakhah, “blessed be you, our God, king of the universe, whose power and might fill the universe,” you sublimate your fear into a dialogue with God.

  Here in these fabulous mountains I encounter a new spiritual dimension. I realize that Judaism is in essence an ongoing dialogue with God. As a matter of fact, all human experience is an ongoing dialogue with God.

  I am infatuated with the mountains, the green forest, the radiant sky, and with knowledge. I learn to love Frieda, my intermediary to all the new things I am learning. There is a magic circle about her. During meals, during formal class periods, and on long walks in the hills, she dispenses knowledge—lessons in the Bible, Jewish ethics, history, and rituals. She also teaches us modern Israeli dances and songs.

  My responsibility is to care for the two little boys and four little girls. During the older campers’ formal class periods, I play catch and tell stories. During rest periods, I practically devour the books in Frieda’s personal library.

  After dinner the boys’ camp joins us, and the two counselors, Frieda and Sruli, conduct shared study sessions. At these times I am one of the pupils, listening and learning with unquenchable thirst.

  The Sabbath crowns the week with a perfect combination of the worldly and the spiritual. In the morning Sruli leads the prayers and delivers a lecture in the open, under the unfathomable sky. The afternoon is taken up by discussion groups and singing. We hold hands and dance in a circle to lively tunes, or lock arms and sway to the melancholy melodies until the shadows grow long and it is time for dinner in the dining room.

  Togetherness. Harmony of spirit. Beauty of nature. Learning. This day is closest to my idea of perfect bliss.

  On Sunday morning, a lone bicyclist appears on the front path of the villa. As he comes nearer, I recognize him. It is the mailman from the town. Mail on Sunday? He waves a piece of paper in the air. It is a telegram addressed to Slečna Gelberova. Frieda opens the blue envelope with trembling fingers. One glance at the message, and Frieda’s face is flushed. She closes her eyes as she clutches the paper to her chest and just stands there, motionless. “My certificate!” she cries. “It has come! Can you believe it? Can you believe it?”

  The CERTIFICATE. The British immigration permit to Palestine. The passport to happiness. She is one of the lucky few to receive this coveted document. She applied over a year ago. Since then she has hoped and prayed, and then despaired of ever receiving it. And now, this morning, the miracle has happened. The certificate has reached her, here in the remote mountains.

  All the children begin to sing and dance around Frieda. Happiness overflows into the hills beyond the villa, into the trees, the clouds.

  We are due to return to Bratislava on August 25. “How wonderful,” I say. “You’ll reach the Land of Israel by Rosh Hashanah. And in the meantime, you’ll have plenty of time to get ready for the great journey. Mentally. Even physically.”

  Frieda does not hear me. “I know there’s an overnight train for Bratislava. It leaves here early in the morning. There are transports on Tuesday. I can make it for the Tuesday transport.”

  Tuesday? Which Tuesday? I must have heard wrong. I search Frieda’s face. But her face is averted.

  “I must pack immediately. It takes time to get down to the village to buy a ticket.”

  “Frieda, what do you mean, ’get down to the village to buy a ticket’? To leave when?”

  “Tonight. I must leave tonight.”

  With mounting panic I shout, “But you can’t! You can’t leave just like that! What’ll happen to the children? Who will lead them? Who will teach them? Who will take care of everything?”

  It is only at this moment that she takes notice of my distress. “Don’t worry, Elli. I’ll send someone in my place. I’ll see to it that another counselor is sent here immediately. By tomorrow evening another counselor will leave with the six P.M. train. She’ll arrive Tuesday morning. You’ll be okay for one day, won’t you? Don’t worry, you’ll manage for one day. Elli, you’ll manage better than you think.”

  Frieda turns and, with hurried footsteps, goes to her room to pack.

  Frieda’s news reverberates through the little camp like an electric charge. The little ones cling to her, even the older girls cry unabashedly. Seeing the children’s reaction adds panic to my anguish. Yet I have to cope with my angst and alarm without any outward sign.

  After the horse-drawn carriage departs with Frieda, the abandoned camp resembles a wake. I am unable to console the children. I cannot make any promises. I know I cannot fill Frieda’s shoes, not even as a second-rate substitute, even if I had resources of strength and knowledge. And I am fully aware that I have neither.

  “Tuesday morning we are getting a substitute,” is the only promise I can make. “She’ll arrive
bright and early on Tuesday. Until then, we will all have to be brave.”

  This promise is also my only consolation.

  I Will Make It After All

  The Tatras, July 8, 1946

  I have asked Mrs. Gold to wake me at dawn. I can never wake up on my own, and rising at dawn is anathema. Yet I have to make an early start. I must participate in the morning prayers with the older campers, and then help the little ones wash and dress. My God, how will I accomplish all this?

  The teens refuse to get up. “There is no point in getting out of bed,” they argue. “There is nothing to do.”

  “We will work out a program,” I promise with an artificially cheerful tone. “We will work it out together.”

  “Frieda is gone,” they counter. “Nothing matters.”

  “Well,” I suggest, “perhaps we can discover things that matter. I will listen to your suggestions. We will work out a program that will make everyone happy.”

  “We will never ever again be happy,” they reassure me, “now that Frieda is gone. We do not care to be happy.”

  No matter what I propose, no matter how much I reason and cajole, it is all met with a stone wall of resistance. Finally I lose my temper.

  “No more arguments!” I shout. “All of you, get out of bed. This very instant! Wash and dress, and get downstairs to prayers in twelve minutes! Not a second less.”

  I rush into the bathroom and lock the door. What have I done? Why do I always lose my cool? Involuntary tears begin to flow down my cheeks. I am supposed to be a grown-up, and I behaved like a baby.

  What shall I do now? I will ignore the teens altogether. Let them do as they please. Let them fend for themselves. I will take care of the little ones only. But what happens if the little ones also refuse to cooperate?

  I wash my face and wait a few minutes. I cannot appear in front of them with red eyes. Regaining my composure, I emerge from the bathroom and with dignified footsteps make my way to the little children’s rooms. As I pass the two adjacent bedrooms of the teens, I see they are empty. The beds are made, and the bedclothes are neatly folded on the shelves. When I reach the downstairs hall, I find the girls sitting quietly, with prayer books in hand, waiting. They are waiting for me.

  “Fine,” I acknowledge in a firm tone. “Let’s start. Who was the pre-cantor yesterday?”

  “Rivka!” Alice is always the first to speak. “All last week Rivka was the leader. But Frieda said from now on we’ll take turns.”

  “Did she appoint someone for today?”

  “No, she didn’t. May I be the leader today?” Alice’s eagerness prompts her to hop up and down like a yo-yo.

  “That’s not fair,” Minka, a sturdy, freckle-faced girl interjects. “I’m older than you. I should be the leader.”

  “I’m the oldest here. I’m fifteen and a half.” Miri, a tall, skinny brunette raises her arm. “I should lead the prayers.” I, too, am fifteen and a half. How fortunate none of the girls is aware of this.

  “What’s the difference? I’ll be fifteen next month!” Minka volunteers, her voice rising.

  I have to stop this bickering before it gets out of hand.

  “Okay, let’s draw up a chart according to birthdays. Whose birthday comes first?”

  The idea works like a charm. Within seconds the girls are deeply involved in making up a birthday list, and the day is saved. The prayers get off to a lively start with Miri as pre-cantor for the day, and I hurry upstairs to help the little ones get ready for breakfast.

  Marko is sitting in bed, crying. “I don’t feel well. I don’t want to get up.”

  Marko’s face is flushed. I touch his head—it feels hot. What do you do when a child has fever? I remember that Mrs. Gold had children before the war. She would know what to do. I must run to the kitchen and ask Mrs. Gold to come examine Marko.

  “Children, I’ll be right back. In the meantime go to the bathroom and brush your teeth.” Little Ruti also begins to cry: “I’m not supposed to leave my brother. I have to stay with him. I have to take care of him!”

  I know it is useless to reason with Ruti. “Okay, stay with your brother. I’ll be right back.” As I am leaving the room, Elka, the youngest, starts sobbing.

  “What’s the matter, Elka? Why are you crying?”

  By now I am desperate.

  “I’m sick. I’m not feeling well.”

  “What hurts you?”

  Elka shakes her tear-stained face. Nothing hurts her. She is just not feeling well. She cannot get up.

  “Ruti, please take care of Elka, too. I’ll be just a few minutes.”

  Mrs. Gold helpfully interrupts her chores in the kitchen and follows me upstairs to serve as medical consultant. She examines Marko by touching his forehead with her lips and feeling his neck with her fingertips. Her diagnosis: Marko has fever and swollen glands. Elka’s checkup yields good news: She is not sick. No fever. No swollen glands. Yet she sobs uncontrollably as I dress her and she refuses to stand on her feet. I have no choice but to carry her in my arms to the dining room. Once I seat her next to the table, she resumes her loud wails.

  The teens have finished breakfast. On the spur of the moment, I decide to hand out “work assignments” to them. The two oldest are sent on an “important mission” to the boys’ camp to fetch Mr. Goldstein. One is appointed the task of taking breakfast upstairs to little Ruti. Others, of straightening up the little campers’ rooms. A number of girls serve as my “assistants,” helping me to feed the little ones at breakfast.

  Elka continues crying and refuses to eat, despite all my assistants’ coaxing. Finally, I draw her into my lap. Instantly she stops crying. Tentatively I bring a spoonful of cereal to her lips. She begins to eat with a hearty appetite. The problem seems solved. As long as she remains in my lap, Elka keeps eating cheerfully, eventually finishing her breakfast.

  Before breakfast is over, Sruli appears in the dining room, with the familiar patronizing smile on his face. “Slečna Friedmannova. Problems? What can I do for you?” There is more than a touch of mockery in his tone.

  “We need a doctor, Pan Goldstein. Or some medicine. One of the little boys is sick. He’s upstairs in bed.”

  “May I see him?”

  “Of course. This way to the bedrooms.”

  Sruli’s facial expression turns serious after visiting the feverish Marko. He offers to send two boys to the village for aspirin and to call a doctor if Marko gets worse. In the meantime, he volunteers to take the older girls to join his study group and to bring them back for lunch. I sigh with relief and gratitude. Thank God. I will manage the little ones, somehow, by myself.

  After the older girls have gone with Sruli, I gather the little children in a circle on the carpet in the vicinity of Marko’s room. I begin to tell a story, loud enough for Marko and Ruti to hear. Soon my little audience is deeply absorbed in the story, and Marko’s rhythmic breathing reveals that he has fallen asleep. When the story is finished, I succeed in coaxing Ruti to join us, and we all go down to the garden to play.

  The children are quickly caught up in the game. Their cheerful laughter dissipates my heavy burden. Suddenly I feel as if I could fly. Mrs. Gold agrees to watch Marko, and I take my little group on an expedition into the nearest wood.

  When the children clamor for a story once again, I hit on the idea of teaching them a lesson in physics. “The Secret of the Rain Cloud,” is the title of my story. How does rain happen? In the course of the tale, the children marvel at the discovery that water can evaporate and clouds are made of vapor that rose to the sky from lakes and rivers. They are fascinated with the notion that cold air causes clouds to compress and precipitate rain, and the cycle begins anew. They laugh out loud when I point out that the clouds hovering above were once rivers and lakes, and even the ocean. When the children beg for more, I continue with the story of snow, hail, and fog, and they plead that I repeat the tale over and over.

  I do not notice that Sruli and the older campers have been tra
iling right behind us, listening intently to my tales. All at once, a rustling sound makes me turn. A loud cheer rings out, followed by a burst of applause.

  “Bravo! Bravo!” They all shout with faces beaming. Sruli cheers loudest: “Go on! Go on! Please don’t stop. We all want to hear. Very interesting lecture.” Is he mocking me again?

  “Please, go on. We want to hear more,” the teens join in.

  I continue, describing the water’s composition of different elements, explaining what distilled water is and how it is made, pointing out the difference between rainwater and well water. And how a rainbow comes about.

  By the time we reach the villa, it is time for lunch. I have to promise them all that I will continue my stories after lunch.

  When we sit down to lunch I know my battle has been won. A sense of contentment permeates the atmosphere. The little ones cluster about me, vying with each other for a seat near me. The pain over Frieda’s absence is somewhat slackened.

  Perhaps I will make it after all. At least until Frieda’s replacement arrives.

  “Until Mommy and Daddy Return”

  The Tatras, End of July 1946

  In these past three weeks I have come to know the older campers and their life stories. We have grown together, and I feel deep personal affection for each. This morning Rivka is the pre-cantor, and the prayers take on a special, animated quality. I believe it is Rivka’s dynamic personality that resonates in the group. I love to watch them during morning services. As I watch them individually, I watch as many separate worlds. Separate tragedies.

  Miri, a tall, slim girl with a long neck and slightly buck teeth, is a retiring day-dreamer. Her clear white skin, brown eyes, and fine features are accentuated by dark brown hair parted in the middle and tucked behind her ears. Miri has no relatives at all. Her parents and little brother were arrested by the Gestapo when their hiding place in a mountain cavern was discovered. At the time, Miri was away playing with children of friends hiding out in an adjacent cave. She is now living with this family “until her parents return.” Nothing has been heard of them since their arrest three years ago. But the prospect of their return is a constant, unhesitating allusion. This is an element of post-Auschwitz mentality. Everyone about whom there is no specific news is expected to return. Over a year has passed since the end of the war. Many, many have not been heard from. Yet, they are expected to return. No news is good news.