My Bridges of Hope

by Livia Bitton-Jackson

  There is no trace of the rioters here. The rioters belong to another planet. But who are they? And why are they after us?

  Only later do I find out that they are former partisans drunk from their celebration of Partisan Week in the village tavern. Shouting obscenities against Jews, they left the tavern and went for their axes and pitchforks to “kill the little Zhids up there in the hills.” In their drunken, murderous rage, the rioters meant business. Last year during the same week former partisans killed three Jews in Bratislava.

  Finally we reach the bottom of the hill and emerge into a clearing. Thank God. This is the clearing for our meeting with Sruli and the boys. We’ve made it.

  But where are they? Have we come too late? What time is it? The clock tower is faintly visible. Oh, God, it’s twenty minutes to four. We’ve missed them! They must have gone on to the train station. Mrs. Gold is whispering something, but I cannot hear. I cannot understand. We must follow Sruli and the boys to the train station. How far is it from here?

  Hurry, Mrs. Gold. Hurry, children. We must make the four o’clock train. We must meet Sruli and the boys at the station.

  The children’s noisy breathing betrays their valiant effort at crashing on and on. Not a whimper escapes their lips as they march, shivering, on tiny feet through cold, wet underbrush. Twenty minutes to go. Let’s move faster. Children, please, just a little faster.

  The path is steeper here. The little children cannot make it. We must take them in our arms. The trail suddenly narrows into a wedge among the tall thicket. Breathing with effort, we force our way through hostile, heavy growth. My jacket sleeve catches on a branch. As I jerk myself free, I step up onto a paved platform. The train station!

  Right before my eyes towers the gabled roof of the station house. Two rows of silvery tracks glisten in the moonlight. In the middle of the platform a white sign looms, and on it two words in black letters: VYŠNE RUŽBACHY. The clock tower is clearly visible from here. It’s eight minutes to four. The train is due to arrive in eight minutes.

  Children! Mrs. Gold! We have made it!

  The station is deserted. Not a living soul anywhere. Where are Sruli and the boys?

  “Let’s go into the station house,” suggests Mrs. Gold. “It must be warmer in there. And we can rest on the benches in the waiting room.”

  “The boys will never find us in the station house, Mrs. Gold. We must wait for them out here.”

  What if the rioters have discovered by now that we fled? What if they are following us and catch up with us here even before the train arrives? “Let’s go behind the tall hedge. Let’s wait there till the train comes. There we can rest on our luggage.”

  Like little rabbits we crawl through the narrow opening in the hedge and crouch on trunks and duffel bags. Bronia is sucking her thumb as she snuggles near me. Both Marko and Ruti crawl into my lap. Mrs. Gold and the older girls all take little children into their laps. From here we scan the platform, unobserved. There is no sign of the boys. Where are they? And where is the train? It must be four o’clock by now.

  Have I made a mistake? Perhaps Sruli did not say four o’clock. Perhaps he said five o’clock. Or three? What if there was a train at three A.M. and the boys left with that train. What will become of us? My dear God, what shall we do?

  All at once I hear a faint, distant rumbling. Does anyone else hear it? I’m afraid to ask.

  “I hear something!” Rivka whispers, her eyes wide with excitement. “A faraway sound. Like a train.”

  “I hear it, too!” Alice crawls out from behind the hedge and stares in the direction of the sound. “I see it! It is the train!”

  “I see it! I see it! It’s coming. Children, the train is coming!” Several children are asleep. “Quick, wake up. The train is here!” We grab the children and the luggage and crash through the opening in the hedge onto the platform.

  The train comes puffing into view, its headlights brashly piercing the faint glimmer of the dawn. Now it chugs to a slow halt, and in a flash the platform fills with a throng of passengers. Where did they all come from? The passengers virtually charge the train, and we join the onslaught. We carry the little children and force our way up the besieged rungs.

  Here is a new obstacle to overcome. The train is frightfully crowded. It is a formidable challenge just to get past the entrance with unwieldy luggage and exhausted little children. We frantically shove and push. God, let us get past the entrance before the doors close!

  I am on the verge of collapse. The whistle blows, the doors close, and the train is off.

  We have made it! We are all safely in the train behind doors shut tight. The train is picking up speed, and the murderous mob is far behind. We have escaped and are going home.

  Why Won’t They Believe Me?

  Bratislava and Šamorín, August 11, 1946

  We face a ten-hour ride home pressed like sardines. We can barely move. Where are Sruli and the boys? They must be somewhere on the train. They must’ve boarded another wagon. In the last-minute, wild crush we missed them.

  We must find a place somewhere for the little ones to sit. Shuffling around a bit, Mrs. Gold and I succeed in staking out a small sheltered area near a corner where we arrange the luggage to provide resting places for Marko, Elka, Ruti, Milo, and the other little ones. The older girls, Mrs. Gold, and I have standing room only. In time we, too, find ways to accommodate for the long journey. Some crouch on the floor, others drape themselves on armrests and on top of sleeping passengers. There are advantages to crowding. While the train rattles, shakes, and sways on curvy mountain passes, the tightly packed human mass keeps us propped up. I take hold of a pole, coil myself about it like a monkey on a tree trunk, and promptly fall asleep.

  Oppressive heat greets us in Bratislava. A nebulous haze hangs about the bustling Slovak capital. The shrill street sounds and the stifling atmosphere filter into my awareness through a veil of fatigue. Vaguely I remember the question that has plagued me all along: What became of Sruli and his boys?

  Like an army of zombies, the children, Mrs. Gold, and I trudge through traffic, dragging our bundles in search of some means of transportation. The smallest ones still cling to us, adding to the burden of baggage and exhaustion.

  On a street corner we manage to hail a transport cab. There is room only for Mrs. Gold and the littlest ones, together with some of the baggage. The older girls and I make our way to the nearest tram station and climb onto a crowded streetcar heading in our direction.

  At the Home our arrival causes surprise and consternation. What are you doing here? What has made you come back two weeks early?

  Upon hearing our story Mr. Weise, Mr. Block, Malka, and Judith agree we made a wise decision in bringing the children home. They remember that last year there were riots here in Bratislava, too, during Partisan Week. “But that was last year, immediately following the war,” Mr. Block reflects. “Another year has passed since then.”

  “Last year the country was still in the throes of war and violence, and things like riots still happened,” Mr. Weise remarks. “People are more settled now. Violence is a thing of the past. It must have been some sort of noisy merrymaking, nothing more,” he concludes. Then he adds in a sympathetic tone, “Still, it must have been frightening for you, whatever happened. You are still very young. Under the circumstances, your reaction is understandable.”

  My God. This is maddening. This is outright insane! Is there no one here who believes me? Where’s Mrs. Gold? Where are the older girls? I’m too tired to respond. I’m too tired to think. All I want is to lie down somewhere and sleep.

  People begin streaming into the Home to pick up the children. There are exclamations of surprise, tears, hugging. At first the little ones refuse to part from me. My promises to visit soon prompt them into joining their caretakers and returning to their former homes.

  Vaguely I continue worrying about Sruli and the boys. Emil, the director, reassures me: “Don’t worry, Miss Friedmann. Sruli knows what he�
��s doing. He probably decided to stay on, once things settled down. We’ll probably hear from him soon.”

  “But that’s impossible!” I practically shriek now. “Things couldn’t just have ‘settled down.’ We were attacked by a rampaging mob. A mob bent on murder. They weren’t going to ‘settle down.’ Sruli was there. He knew what was going on. He was the one who warned us to leave immediately.”

  “I understand. Believe me, Miss Friedmann, I do understand.” Emil is trying to calm me. “Still, you have no reason to worry. Sruli knows how to handle the situation.”

  Now Mrs. Gold appears and explains how frightening, how dangerous the situation was. In my fatigue I hear only Emil’s arguments. Is Emil right? Did I act impulsively in running home? Was my panic induced in part by my vivid imagination? My paranoia?

  No. No. No. I clearly remember: The escape was Sruli’s idea. Where is he? Why didn’t he join us, then? Why didn’t he catch up with us at the train station?

  I am very, very tired. I find an unoccupied bed in one of the bedrooms and lie down. Nothing really matters anymore. I am too tired to think… .

  I hear someone calling my name. In a daze I make my way downstairs to find my brother waiting for me in the front hall. His face lights up in a broad smile, and he holds me in a tight embrace.

  “You look great, little sister. What a deep tan!”

  Instead of turning red and rising with blisters as in past summers, my skin tanned in the Tatras. For the first time in my life. “What’s happened to your hair? I must say, it’s striking blond!” Bubi eyes me with obvious approval. “And you gained some weight.”

  Sitting down in the dining room, I tell Bubi the story of the attack in the dead of the night and our narrow escape. “I’m very happy you came home,” Bubi remarks. “I heard there were serious disturbances in the eastern part of the country, especially in the mountains. It seems the partisans rioted in many places and broke into Jewish homes.”

  Suddenly, I burst into tears. I cannot control my sobs. Repressed bitterness and a sense of relief have all surged up like a volcano. I needed someone to tell me I was right, that I had done the right thing. I keep wiping my tears away and smudging my face with hands still grimy from the long journey.

  Bubi hands me his handkerchief. “Here, sis. Clean your face. Why don’t you ever have a handkerchief?”

  “I have no pockets,” I snuffle. It is wonderful to blow my nose in my brother’s large, clean handkerchief.

  As we speak, there is a commotion in the entrance hall. A group of bedraggled boys are lugging heavy duffel bags through the hall toward the staircase.

  The boys! Sruli’s boys! They have arrived!

  My drowsiness gone, I rush to the hallway. “Elli! Slečna Friedmannova. You’re here. Thank God.” Sruli, deathly pale, his tall frame slumped with exhaustion, joins Bubi and me in the dining room. Emil and the others emerge from their offices to greet Sruli and listen to his incredible tale.

  “Last night, on my way back to our camp after leaving you, I heard rowdy shouts rising from the eastern side of the mountain and realized they were approaching our villa. I ran and managed to get Shmuel and the boys out into the woods just before they got there. We hid in the woods while they ransacked the villa, calling for ‘the cowardly Jews’ to come out of their hiding places. With axes and pitchforks they smashed everything—the rampage was going on for over an hour. Then they burst out of the building and headed in the direction of your camp… .

  “I hoped and prayed that you had left the villa by then.” His voice now very hoarse, Sruli goes on. “I hoped you were on your way to the train station, a safe distance down the hill. We could not follow—they were blocking the path to the station.”

  When the inebriated partisans left, Sruli, Shmuel, and the boys went into their villa and hastily packed their belongings. “The interior of the villa was beyond recognition,” Sruli relates. “The Slovak patriots turned it into a wreck.”

  “We reached the train station just as the four A.M. train pulled out. We had no choice but to hide in a dense forest on the nearby hill. There we waited until ten A.M. for the next train.” Sruli gave a deep sigh. “In the meantime, luckily, the drunken pogromists must have returned to their homes to sleep off their strenuous adventures.” And so when Sruli and his company of tired, cold, and hungry young Jewish boys boarded the train in broad daylight, no one was around to hurt them. Thank God.

  My fatigue is gone. An unspeakable sense of jubilation fills my being.

  “Thank the Almighty that you were no longer at the villa when they got there. They behaved like savages, ready for a massacre.”

  Sruli finishes his tale in a tired, hoarse voice. Like an old, old man he rises slowly from his chair and, without turning, walks out of the dining room. Emil and the others follow him. Are they going to thank Sruli for his superhuman rescue effort? Are they going to apologize for doubting me?

  “I want to go home,” I say to Bubi. “I’ll go get my things.”

  “I’ll cut my evening classes and go with you to Šamorín,” Bubi declares. I want to leap into his arms and hold him tight. Instead, I only smile my thanks.

  It is late evening when we reach Šamorín. Mommy is in shock. Her mouth agape, she stares for a moment, then shrieks, “Elli! What are you doing home?” She embraces me, then pushes me away to hold me at arm’s length: “Look at you! I barely recognized you. You became a grown-up. A grown young woman!”

  I am delirious. Such a compliment from Mommy is unheard of. But the most important verdict has not yet been pronounced.

  “Have I gained weight?”

  “I’m not sure. Perhaps. Yes, I do think you put on some weight. You look healthy. And tan! I have never seen you with a tan. How did you manage to get so dark? And your hair. What’s happened to your hair? It is lighter than ever. Amazing how light your hair has become!”

  This must be quite a disappointment. Mommy hates my being blond. She always wanted a daughter who was brunette. She always tried to darken my hair with a brew of chestnut hulks, but my hair remained stubbornly blond despite all of Mommy’s efforts. Now the intense sun of the High Tatras has bleached my hair to an even lighter shade. Poor Mommy.

  Mommy listens with horror to my tale of the partisan assault and our lucky escape.

  “My God. Is Hitler not finished yet? Is the war not over?”

  “We must leave this country as soon as possible,” Bubi says during supper.

  “We have not heard from the Foreign Office in Prague,” Mommy replies. “It’s been over three months now since we submitted our applications for a passport. And we haven’t heard from the American Embassy.”

  “We must do something. We can’t just sit idly by and wait indefinitely while things like this are going on. I’ll ask around. I heard about other ways to get to America. Or Canada, maybe. There are always some new openings. We must not stay here.”

  Days filled to the Brim

  Bratislava, Winter 1946/1947

  Next Monday an exciting new chapter in my life opens as a Seminary student in Bratislava. From now on I will live in the big city, in a dormitory among my peers, and visit Mommy in Šamorín only on an occasional weekend on a “free Sabbath,” as it is called at the Seminary, when no specific program of activities is scheduled.

  The girls’ dormitory is a home for young girls from all over Czechoslovakia, Romania, Yugoslavia, and Hungary, some of whom were left without a single family member. The dormitory, comprised of two large rooms, a large shower hall, and five toilets, occupies the entire top floor. The large kitchen and dining hall are one floor down, and the study hall, auditorium, offices, and some of the workshops are on the main floor. In the basement are additional workshops where some girls learn trades and others work to earn some pocket money.

  In the shower hall at least ten girls can shower simultaneously. There are only two showerheads, and sometimes, in a crunch, twelve or thirteen crowd under at the same time, competing for every bar of s
oap, even for every drop of water. We soap each other’s back and shampoo each other’s hair. It is marvelous to be part of such a large family. To have so many sisters. To share, share, and share. To be young, and to be together.

  A new world of companionship opens before me, a world of intimate friendships, ideological debates, and learning. In the workshops, girls learn to make bed linens, men’s shirts, silk ties, corsets, or dresses. Others learn leather work—making handbags, wallets, and belts. But the core of the dormitory is comprised of the Beth Jacob Teachers Seminary students.

  I am one of sixteen young women who participate in the course. From eight in the morning to noon, and then from one to seven P.M., the sixteen of us share a long table where we listen to lectures and take copious notes on the Bible, Jewish history, the Hebrew language, general philosophy, and psychology.

  It is an intensive course of study. In order to keep up with the pace, I must study late into the night, every night. I am the only student without any background in Hebrew or Jewish studies.

  The Talmud teaches that there are four kinds of students: the sponge, the funnel, the sieve, and the strainer. The sponge is not selective; it absorbs everything, from essentials to useless trivia. The funnel does not retain anything: whatever it draws in at one end, it pours out at the other. The strainer lets the good wine escape but retains the slush! The sieve, on the other hand, lets the flour dust pass through and retains the fine flour. I am a sponge. I keep absorbing, without pausing to select. To me, every available bit of learning seems worthy of retention.

  Feverish imbibing becomes my raison d’être. Once again I lose sight of important matters like clothes, makeup, and hair. My new, caring friends surround me with motherly interest and gently goad me: Why don’t you do something with your hair? It’s much too straight. Why don’t you put a curl in it? Why don’t you ever buy a new scarf? A pair of pumps instead of flats? A new belt? Why don’t you use a touch of lipstick?