My Bridges of Hope

by Livia Bitton-Jackson

  Edita, a quiet, chubby eleven-year-old, has an older brother in the boys’ camp. The two children, who are cared for by an aunt “until Mommy comes home,” witnessed “Daddy choked to death in our garden by a group of rough men.” They were members of the “Hlinka Guards,” followers of Andrej Hlinka, the Slovak Nazi who looted Jewish homes and businesses and attacked Jews on sight. Edita’s face seems to reflect both the memory of her father’s violent death and the expectation of her mother’s homecoming. Anguish and hope in equal measures are etched in her childlike, vulnerable features.

  Herta, the slight, soft-spoken blonde with pale blue eyes and hair like cornsilk, never lets go of her brother’s hand. She is only eight but acts as mother and protector to six-year-old Milo. Although the two children have found a home with a distant relative, Herta believes Milo’s care and comfort is her sole responsibility. And the little boy responds in kind. He clings to his sister’s hand as to a lifeline. Although he cannot read or follow the Hebrew prayers, Milo sits docilely holding hands with Herta while his peers are at play in the bedroom.

  Herta and Milo are too young to remember their parents. Herta was only four and Milo two when the Hlinka gangs burst into their home during the night and dragged the parents out of their beds to an unknown fate. Neighbors found the frightened children in the morning and took them into hiding together with their own family. It was there that the two turned into extensions of one body, a Siamese-twins unit, and they continued that way even after the war, when the neighbors adopted them. “Until our Mommy and Daddy return.”

  Alice is twelve but looks older. She is tall for her age, and the light brown braids piled on top of her head make her look even taller. Her oval face is dominated by large hazel eyes that dart restlessly in every direction. Always in a state of perpetual motion, high-strung Alice is appealing and lovable in her bristling disquiet.

  Alice is the only camper who has a parent. Her mother survived the camps but suffers from tuberculosis and has been hospitalized ever since her reunion with Alice thirteen months ago. Passionately devoted to her ailing mother, Alice talks of her visits to “Mommy” in the TB sanatorium incessantly, her face alight with longing and pride. She, too, was hidden in a “bunker” in the Carpathian Mountains while her parents, two sisters, and a brother were in Polish concentration camps from which only “Mommy” returned.

  From the start the sisters, twelve-year-old Ester and ten-year-old Jutka, have sought out my company; they sit near me and walk alongside me whenever they can. The little striking brunettes are refugees from Hungary and have not yet learned to speak Slovak. I am their primary avenue of communication, as the other children know only a smattering of Hungarian. Both girls show early signs of great beauty. Lone survivors of a large family from Budapest, they were smuggled into Czechoslovakia en route to Eretz Israel by Briha, the illegal underground railroad Miki spoke about. They are sheltered in the Home until Youth Aliyah operatives arrive to smuggle them across the border to Vienna, and from there to the Italian coast. They have been waiting, together with many other children, for a Haganah boat to take them across the Mediterranean to a youth village in Eretz Israel.

  Alzhbeta, sitting next to Jutka, does not seem to follow the prayers. I suspect that she has not mastered the Hebrew characters and is only pretending to go along. During the war she was hidden in a convent and received no Jewish education. An angelic child with a pink bow on her head and dark blond curls reaching her shoulders, Alzhbeta moves about gingerly, like an exquisite china doll, unaware of her surroundings. A rose-colored bubble seems to envelop this fairylike creature who never mentions her parents and does not expect them to return. They were shot by a firing squad on the bank of the Danube while Alzhbeta was picking berries in the woods nearby. The little girl was found by the nuns, and the convent became her home till war’s end. Her father’s brother found her after the war and adopted her. It was he who brought her to the Home and enrolled her in the Beth Jacob School so that she could learn about her Jewish heritage. But Alzhbeta has been unaffected by her Jewish education and environment in the Home, just as she was untouched by Christian teaching at the convent. Now she is sitting and staring out the window while humming a soft tune. What is she looking at? What is she thinking about?

  Medi, a serious girl with an ascetic, narrow face and long auburn braids, is absorbed in religious devotion. The thirteen-year-old is well informed about most aspects of Jewish custom and ritual, and is zealous in performing them. Together with three brothers, Medi is a resident in the Home on Svoradova Street in Bratislava.

  I see Bronia tiptoe down the stairs and slip quietly into her seat. She is the skinny little girl with the large head and enormous eyes who begged me for a story on the train and who puzzled me by knowing neither her name nor her age. Later I learned a little more about her background. When she first came to the Home, she could not speak. She gave no answers, asked no questions, did not cry, laugh, or complain. She was a silent little creature without a name, age, or history. She was part of a transport of children handed over to the Briha at a Polish border town. The Briha smuggled the children into Czechoslovakia and across the Carpathian Mountains all the way to Bratislava, looking out for the children’s safety. They had no time to find out about their histories.

  The young girls who cared for these children in the Home believed the tiny creature was deaf and dumb, or brain damaged. She recoiled from all human contact. When the girls attempted to remove her rags, bathe and dress her, she did not claw or kick or strike out, like many other children, she only huddled in a corner like a frightened animal, silent and withdrawn. Months went by and she did not respond to the name Bronia the girls gave her, or to the affection they lavished on her.

  Until one morning. The girl on duty entered the children’s room to help them dress, and to her astonishment Bronia greeted her by name. “Dobré ráno, Gitta!” Good morning, Gitta! “How are you this morning?” Bronia called cheerfully in perfect Slovak. Gitta almost fainted, but pretended to remain calm.

  Soon it became apparent that Bronia’s speech and mind were unimpaired. She knew her surroundings, the names of all the children and grown-ups in the Home. But her own name she did not know. Neither did she know her age or where she came from. She knew not a word of Polish, nor did she have any recollection of other people outside the Home. So she has remained Bronia, the quiet, withdrawn little girl who has been sometimes stubborn but never violent or hostile. Bronia has been the favorite in the Home, pampered by all yet unspoiled by all the pampering.

  As Bronia sits down she makes a slight scraping sound with the chair. Rivka glances in her direction, and the semblance of a smile crosses her intent face. A pretty girl with light brown hair, blue eyes, peachy complexion, and dimples when she smiles, Rivka is chanting the last paragraph of the prayer, and all the girls join in. Rivka commands her peers’ attention with natural ease. And this competence extends into the realm of personal relationships, where her easy charm softens the sense of authority. If only her mother, her father, and her siblings were alive to see her now, so lovely, with so much promise.

  I am suddenly overwhelmed with pain as Rivka concludes the prayers, and all the others chant amen. So many tragedies. So many young, promising, ravished souls. What does the future hold for them?

  Preparing for the Climbing Expedition

  The Tatras, August 4—10, 1946

  It is the first full week of August, and no counselor has arrived as replacement for Frieda.

  We have settled into a comfortable routine. The older campers happily carry on with their practice of conducting prayers by themselves, and take turns preparing study sessions on subjects they learned at the Beth Jacob School during the past term. I love these sessions. They give me an opportunity to learn, and give them an opportunity to teach. I believe there is no better way to learn than by teaching, and there is also no better way to gain self-assurance. And what we teenagers need more than anything is self-assurance. We need it ev
en more than love. Our egos are continually starved for nourishment. Will we ever be free, secure adults?

  Since I cannot contribute to my campers’ knowledge of Judaism, I proposed to conduct classes in subjects I learned during the past school year—physics, chemistry, math, health, geography, nature, and Russian. My proposal was greeted with enthusiasm. I set about devising games, quizzes, and competitions as framework so that even the little campers can participate in these sessions, mostly held in the shade of the pine forest encircling the villa. It has given me great pleasure to see the little ones just as attentive and as eager to learn as their older peers.

  In two weeks our vacation will be over. All summer I watched the mysterious distant hills with yearning and have dreamed of climbing one of them. Finally my fervent wish has come true. Next Sunday we are going on a mountain-climbing expedition to the highest peak in the area!

  It will be an all-day hike for the older campers, boys and girls. When I proposed it, Sruli thought a mountain-climbing expedition was a marvelous idea, and he helped me work out all the details.

  Mrs. Gold has agreed to care for the little ones when the two camps, together with a professional guide familiar with all the trails, set out at the crack of dawn for the mountains. It was Sruli’s idea to hire the friendly guide from the village, Shmuel, who offered his services within the first week of our arrival.

  Yesterday I took the girls to the village to buy good climbing shoes, extra shoelaces, and fruit.

  We are agog with excitement. All day Friday we prepare sandwiches and pack knapsacks.

  Sabbath is a glorious day. In the morning we conduct joint prayer services with the boys’ camp, in the open air. In the afternoon all the boys and girls sit in a large circle on the hillside overlooking the valley while Sruli delivers his weekly Sabbath discourse. The haze of July is gone; August glitters with diamondlike brilliance, revealing an endless row of peaks stretching to the horizon. Tomorrow we shall climb the highest among them!

  Sruli and the boys leave for their camp at sunset. Long shadows swallow up their silhouettes, one by one, as they begin their downward path. Sruli’s silhouette is last. Just before vanishing, he turns to wave. Or does he? I cannot be sure. The night is closing in rapidly.

  It is bedtime. We must retire early and rise before dawn, to be ready for meeting Sruli, the guide, and the boys at the gate precisely at five A.M.

  After putting all my campers to bed, Mrs. Gold and I check on the provisions. Food parcels, drinking vessels, first-aid kits—everything is in order, carefully packed in individual knapsacks.

  Mrs. Gold gives me a warm hug. “Much luck tomorrow, young lady!” she calls heartily. “And don’t worry about the little ones.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Gold,” I reply, and hug the kind, generous lady in return. “Good night.”

  As I lie in my bed, the crisp night air ruffles the satin curtains. Anticipation of the climb, the excitement of the challenge, the sense of responsibility—and the thought of spending the day in Sruli’s company—fill me to the brim. And keep me awake for a long time.

  Oh, God, am I entitled to such happiness?

  A Rude Awakening

  The Tatras, August 11, 1946

  It must be past midnight when I finally fall asleep.

  Heavy pounding downstairs shakes me out of a deep trance. What time is it? It is still dark. Who keeps pounding on the front gate at this hour?

  In a daze I crawl out of bed. Now I hear hurried footsteps, whispered voices.

  “Don’t open the light, Mrs. Gold. Hurry, and call Miss Friedmann. I must speak to her at once. Please hurry.” It’s Sruli’s clipped voice. Urgency reverberates in the dead of night.

  My God, what’s going on? Groping in the dark, I make my way toward the hallway, where Mrs. Gold’s slim, robe-clad figure suddenly appears.

  “What time is it, Mrs. Gold? Why has Sruli come?”

  There’s a quiver in Mrs. Gold’s voice: “It’s two-thirty A.M. I don’t know, my child. Hurry downstairs. He wants to speak to you.”

  By the time I get downstairs, my eyes are adjusted to the dark, and I can see Sruli’s tall silhouette against the front entrance.

  “Miss Friedmann, listen carefully. We are in grave danger. The guide we hired for the climbing expedition came to our villa to alert me. Drunken partisans from the village are on their way here. We have to get out before they get here and harm the children. You have to get them out of here in the next ten, fifteen minutes.”

  “What do you mean, ‘out of here’? Where to?”

  “To the train station. We must leave here. To escape the partisans. They want to kill the children.”

  “You mean the climbing expedition is off?”

  “Everything is off. Wake the children and get them ready. You must leave the villa by the rear exit. The boys and I can meet you in the clearing at the bottom of the hill in twenty, twenty-five minutes. The guide says there’s a train for Bratislava at four A.M. That’s our only hope of escape. If we hurry, we can make it. Can you do it?”

  “I … I think so. How do we get to the train station?”

  “On foot. I know a shortcut through the hills. Do you know the villa’s rear exit?”

  “Yes.” On the day of our arrival I roamed the villa, my enchanted castle, and came upon the narrow, bolted door in the cellar. I unbolted it and followed the narrow trail as it wound its way to a clearing in the valley. From there the steeple of the church was visible and puffs of smoke from the passing locomotive reached me among the trees. That must be the shortcut to the train station.

  “Miss Friedmann, hurry. Meet you in the clearing.” Sruli shuts the front door soundlessly, and I dash up the stairs to the children’s bedrooms. The next ten, fifteen minutes is all a blur. Mrs. Gold is already dressing some groggy little children, and I rapidly pull dresses, shirts, and sweaters over slumping heads. There is no time to explain. The older girls are bewildered as I goad them out of their warm beds and prod them to dress quickly, very quickly, in the dark. We are stuffing belongings in every available container—trunk, bag, basket, even laundry sack. Mrs. Gold dumps the sandwiches that were ready for the climbing expedition into pillowcases.

  Without asking questions the unkempt children follow as we descend one flight of stairs. On the upper landing the grandfather clock shows five minutes to three. God, in five minutes we must be at the bottom of the hill! This is insane. In the moonlight the minute hand is like an eerie, elongated warning finger stretching to who knows where.

  There is a sudden crashing sound. Huge pieces of glass hit the lowest stairs before we reach them. Another ear-shattering crash, and the grandfather clock tumbles and dissolves into a myriad of sparkling fragments seconds after the last child leaves the landing.

  The little ones begin to shriek in fright. I take Marko on my arm and place my other hand over little Jutka’s mouth. Mrs. Gold reaches out to calm the others. We virtually drag the children down the steep cellar stairs as more rocks crash through the villa’s large windows. Luckily, the steady thunderclaps of the stone barrage drown out the children’s hysterical shrieks.

  They have reached the front gate and I can hear ear-shattering blows against the thick wood. Any moment now they will break through. God, save us.

  We reach the entrance to the cellar. Marko’s arms feel like a stranglehold about my neck as I bend down to force open the cellar door. Bronia is clinging to my right thigh. Several little hands are clutching at me from all sides. I am a cluster of clinging bodies as we make our steep, precarious descent. Mrs. Gold and the older girls are hauling the baggage on the spiraling cellar steps. Torchlights zigzag above as we reach the bottom of the stairs. They’ve broken through! They are in the hall, right above us!

  “Mrs. Gold, shut the cellar door!” The cellar door creaks shut, and we are plunged into the depths of darkness, and deadly silence. As if by magic, the violent sounds cease, and even the children instantly fall quiet.

  But we have no time t
o lose. Any minute the attackers will discover the cellar door. I must find the exit fast. I place Marko on the ground and with my free hand reach in the interminable darkness. Oh, God, help me.

  Like in a recurring nightmare, strange yet familiar, I grope in the dark for an escape hatch. The wall is rough here, and a sharp metal object juts out. I bruise my wrist and feel it turn moist. Will our pursuers catch us by following the trail of my blood? God, let it be the door hinge! It’s the hinge of the bolt. I grip it with all my might. God, help me! Help me!

  The bar slides down with a creak, and the door swings slowly open.

  Cold air rushes in through the open door. Moonlight falls on stunned faces. A collective gasp like a muffled shriek escapes from terrified lips. In panic, I whisper, “Children, please, not a sound.”

  We file out into the open, one by one. After the pitch-blackness of the cellar, the light of the pale moon strikes us like broad daylight.

  Thank God, the trail is perfectly lit, and we begin our descent with relative ease. The children shiver violently in the bitter cold. The silence of the night is shattered only by the chattering of little teeth and the swishing of cold, wet foliage underfoot.

  I pray under my breath as we advance steadily through the silent domain of the moon, the valley, and the forest. I pray that the children will keep walking, that we will reach the clearing in time. That we will reach Sruli and be safe. I pray that the next clump of dark shrubbery will not turn out to be an ambush, that from behind that thick grove ahead no rioters will suddenly pounce upon us.