My Bridges of Hope

by Livia Bitton-Jackson

  During my visits home, my mother pleads: “Elli, look into the mirror once in a while. Fuss with your appearance, just a little. Your eyebrows, for instance. They are so light, they are practically invisible. Can’t you find out if there is anything, some dark dye, to color them?”

  My brother has other complaints. “Why don’t you stand still when I come to visit you? Must you always be so preoccupied?”

  Bubi is attending the university now. He passed the gymnasium course for young people who missed out on learning because of the war. And then he passed the university entrance exams with flying colors. I am terribly proud of him.

  He drops in to see me every day whenever there is a gap in his schedule. I am invariably in the midst of studying or doing chores. Although I am thrilled to see him, I am bristling with impatience to get back to my work.

  For Mommy, my studies at the Seminary are of secondary importance. First and foremost she wants me to become a fine dressmaker, in preparation for America. Through some of Mommy’s friendly contacts I have become apprenticed to Mrs. Magda Gellert, a dressmaker with a first-class professional reputation. Mrs. Gellert has graciously consented to accommodate my apprenticeship after my classes.

  Although I like Mrs. Gellert, I am not happy at her workshop. I know manual skills are not my forte. Mother insists that sewing is not merely a manual skill: Fashion is the product of the mind, not just the hands, she maintains. She claims that thought and creative talent go into making a beautiful dress, that the lovely color and texture of the fabric enhance its style and elegance. But to me, fashion is nothing but meaningless frivolity, and dressmaking does not excite my sense of accomplishment. Mrs. Gellert, although an accomplished professional, is not an inspiring teacher. I find her sewing class sheer drudgery.

  There is also the issue of my fellow apprentices’ resentment. Because I had already learned the rudiments of dressmaking from my mother, Mrs. Gellert immediately skipped me to more advanced tasks and appointed me “senior apprentice.” To add insult to injury, Mrs. Gellert insists on chatting to me in Hungarian during work, even though my fellow apprentices speak only Slovak, putting me in a painfully awkward position.

  A tall, slim blonde with large, wide-set eyes, Magda Gellert could pass as a model. During long conversations while stitching, basting, and hemming, I find out that her maternal grandfather was a Hungarian count who converted to Judaism and became a disciple, then son-in-law of the Kalever rebbe, one of Hungary’s leading Hasidic masters. The fabulous tale of her ancestry unfortunately culminated in the gas chambers of Auschwitz. After hearing her story, I understand the enigma of Magda Gellert’s looks, the combination of very fair coloration, Gentile features, and deep dark eyes that hold indomitable sadness.

  Twice a week I attend the Folk Academy for Languages to study English. At this academy, native speakers teach the languages through the audio-lingual method. My teacher, Mr. Bock, who lived in England for years, would tell a simple, often humorous anecdote in English and then ask us to repeat it verbatim. The power of repetition is astounding. It enables me to acquire proper diction, vocabulary, and grammatical skill. To my great delight, within a few weeks I am able to carry on conversations in English and to write simple poetry.

  My days are filled to the brim. Between the teacher’s seminary, the dressmaker shop, and the English class, I find myself rushing from one activity to the next.

  No wonder my brother is annoyed with me for not being able to stand still even for a few minutes.

  A Painful Parting

  Bratislava, March 20,1947

  Three months have passed, and we have not received a response from the American Embassy in Prague about our position on the quota. In December news reaches us about a new U.S. emigration law under which young students and members of specific professions requisite for the United States economy would be granted “exceptional visas” to the United States.

  Uncle Abish sends us a letter containing two student certificates. One for Bubi, from Yeshiva University, and one for me, from the Esther Schonfeld High School for Girls. These certificates, actually letters confirming our enrollment at the schools, qualify the two of us for “exceptional visas” to the United States. But what about Mommy? The list of “indispensable” professions does not include any that would qualify Mommy for a visa.

  After a lengthy discussion, the three of us decide that Bubi should take advantage of the student quota and apply for the exceptional visa, and I should stay with Mommy and wait for our turn on the regular emigration quota. Once in America, Bubi would do his utmost to help expedite our case.

  On March 6, Bubi’s visa arrives. He is booked on a Swedish boat departing from Malmö on March 23. In order to reach Malmö by then, Bubi has to leave Bratislava by March 20 at the latest.

  That’s in two weeks! My God, why so soon? I ride a roller coaster of trepidation and thrill. Mommy plunges into stoic preparations. Bubi has serious doubts.

  “How can I leave the two of you behind in Czechoslovakia? Apart from the anti-Semitic incidents last summer, political turmoil is brewing in Czechoslovakia,” he says with a voice as heavy as lead. “And who knows what’s going on with your place on the quota?”

  Mommy reassures him. “Don’t worry about us, Bubi. Just prepare for your journey with a peaceful heart. We’ll be okay. Once there, you’ll be able to help us. What can you do for us here?”

  Bubi packs in slow motion. I cannot imagine my day without seeing his bright face at the bottom of the stairs. Without the radiance. Yes, that’s it. Bubi is the light in my life. He’s fun, ideas, humor, action. He is my source of information, insight, help, encouragement. I have a need to prove myself for his sake. I crave his approval, his validation.

  I watch as he slowly, deliberately places his belongings into his luggage, each piece like a pledge of farewell. Every item is a part of me being locked in that suitcase. In the days that follow I fluctuate between resignation and deep despair. There are days when I go about the routine of living with composed determination. And there are days when I cannot bear the weight of his departure. I drag myself about on limbs of lead. I dread the moment of parting, but I preplay the scene over and over. Bubi’s last embrace. Bubi vanishing behind the closing doors of the bus. The vehicle receding into the distance. The chasm between us filled with exhaust fumes.

  March 20 is a Thursday. With a shudder, I remember another March 20 not so long ago. Three years ago Bubi came home from Budapest unexpectedly, in the middle of the night, because he saw the invading German troops, he saw the Nazi swastika on their tanks as they rolled down Budapest’s main avenue. An eternity ago he came home to warn us of the approaching doom. And now, on this day, Bubi is leaving home. Is it an omen?

  Mommy comes in from Šamorín to see Bubi off. The three of us speak little on our way to the bus station. Is the oppressive silence due to their remembering this date? Or is it due to reliving past partings that governed life and death?

  The bus stands near the designated platform, doors open. As passengers begin to file onto the bus, Bubi’s face takes on a masklike hardness. He makes a gesture, as if ready to embark, and Mommy puts her hand on his shoulder. Her voice quivers slightly as she says, barely above a whisper, “Bubi, remember to remain a Jew, a good Jew. You must do this for Daddy. He would have asked you …”

  A shock of embarrassment sweeps over me. I cannot believe my ears. How can Mommy doubt even for a moment? “Mommy,” I cry, “why are you saying a thing like this? How can you … ?”

  But Bubi is silent. His eyes fill with tears as he throws his arms around me. “Take care, little sister.” Slowly he walks up the steps onto the bus and hands his ticket to the conductor. Silently, I plead: Turn around, just once more, please. The conductor punches his ticket. Bubi turns around and flashes a brilliant smile, a last gift.

  The doors close, and the bus begins to roll out of the station. Mommy says, “Let’s go.”

  “No, Mommy. Not yet. Let’s wait a little longer
.” For the same reason that I desperately want to wait until the bus disappears from view, Mother desperately wants not to. She is heading for the exit, and I have no choice but to follow her.

  It is a chilly evening. Mommy and I dread returning home to Šamorín and facing the house, where every item is a reminder of my brother’s absence. The Heino family, who are both distant relatives and close friends, have invited us to spend the weekend with them here in Bratislava. The invitation now seems like a godsend. So, instead of putting Mommy on the familiar faded green bus for our small town, I accompany her on a bright yellow streetcar to the Heino home on Edlova Street.

  In the streetcar we hold hands, silently comforting each other. Tomorrow is Friday, and I have classes only until 10 A.M. I will spend the rest of the morning with Mommy, perhaps shopping downtown for small items unobtainable in our little rural town. To fill our gnawing inner vacuum with trivia. At the entrance of the building I say a quick good night. I must hurry and make it back to the dormitory before ten. As Mommy’s solitary silhouette approaches the front stairs, I am filled with an ache. I run back to her for one more hug: “Good night, Mommy. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Mommy holds me a moment longer and presses her cold cheek against mine: “Good night, little girl.”

  I give a little chuckle at the familiar, loving epithet and run against the wind all the way uphill in order to reach the dormitory before lights out.

  A Lost Child

  Bratislava, March 21, 1947

  I am too late. Lights go out at ten sharp, and now it’s five after ten. Groping in the dark, I manage to fish my toothbrush and toothpaste out of the cupboard and make my way down the corridor to the bathroom, and then back again, to bed. As I slide under my blanket, I muffle a scream. There’s a body in my bed! Mortified, I leap out. How could I have made such a foolish error and picked the wrong bed? Let me reorient myself. I peer at the face of the sleeping girl. Which of my neighbors is she? It is much too dark to make out her features. Let me find the empty bed. I tiptoe around several beds—each is occupied. Luckily, the streetlight illuminates the adjacent bed enough for me to make out the face on the pillow: It is Ellike Sofer, my best friend and my neighbor on the right. Then this is my bed! But who is the person sleeping in it?

  What should I do now? There is no spare bed so I have no alternative but to share this one. Carefully I crawl back in and ease myself onto the narrow strip of space the intruder has left free.

  Sleep eludes me. A notoriously restless sleeper, I toss and turn and lie in various positions during the night. Cramped by a bed-mate, I cannot sleep. Who is this stranger who sleeps so soundly all night?

  With the first glimmer of dawn I peer at the sleeping face but I do not recognize it. It is daylight when, overcome with fatigue, I fall asleep, only to awaken when someone’s alarm goes off with a shrill clatter. It is seven A.M. My guest does not stir. Have I been sleeping with a corpse?

  Groggily I get out of bed and make my way to the shower room. Somewhat refreshed by the cold shower, I begin to dress. The door of the metal cupboard creaks, and the corpse sits up in alarm. “Who are you?” she shouts indignantly.

  “I was going to ask you the same question. How did you get into my bed?”

  “Is it your bed?” she asks, somewhat mollified, and slips back under the covers. “I like it. It’s a very good bed. And where did you sleep?”

  “Where do you think? There are no empty beds. I slept with you. At least, I attempted to.”

  “You couldn’t have! I didn’t notice a thing.”

  “Of course not. You slept like a log. You took up all the room, and I teetered sleep-lessly at the edge.”

  Now the large brown eyes stare in disbelief. “I’m a light sleeper. I would have noticed if someone got in bed with me. You couldn’t have slept in this bed!”

  I have no time to argue. “My name is Elli. Do you have a name?”

  “My name is Rachel. I really liked your bed. Thank you.”

  “I’m happy to help out. Perhaps I’ll see you later and find out how our little night romance came about. Now I must hurry to class.”

  But after class I have no time to return to the dormitory. I must hurry to Edlova to meet Mother for the shopping trip. In the evening Rachel is no longer there. Days later I find out that she, a former resident, had dropped in for a visit and decided to stay over. My neighbors had assured her I would be spending the night in Šamorín. The incident eventually forges a bond between Rachel and myself, a friendship that has endured for years.

  By the time Mommy and I meet, however, my night adventure is forgotten, and the gnawing ache over Bubi’s absence returns. But the anguish of this day is soon eclipsed by something that happens a few hours later.

  The Heinos’s charming four-year-old, Elka, talks us into taking her along on our shopping trip, together with her little playmate Jerry from next door. So we set out for the famous Manderla Building, the Slovak capital’s eleven-story skyscraper, with two happy children on shiny red scooters.

  The outing begins on a high note. Mother and I deftly squire the children and their scooters in bustling downtown traffic. They cheerfully follow us in and out of various shops, marveling at colorful displays.

  By noon we purchase most of our necessities. “It’s time to take the children home for lunch,” Mommy reminds me, and I call to the children, whom I have just seen playing in front of a toy display. Elka scoots toward us and puts her little hand in mine.

  “Where is Jerry?” I ask the little girl. Elka shakes her head, and her blond banana curls fly about. She does not know where Jerry is.

  Little Jerry is not in the toy store. I race down the busy street, zigzagging among passersby, retracing our steps, all the time on the lookout for a little boy with a red scooter. I dash into every store we have visited. Have you seen a little blond boy with a red scooter? No one has. I rush around every corner we have turned; return to every shop window the children admired. He is nowhere. I race back to the spot where I left Mommy and Elka, hoping desperately to find him there. No luck. We question people on the street. No one remembers seeing a blond, blue-eyed, three-year-old little boy with a blue cap and a red scooter.

  All afternoon we search for little Jerry, to no avail. Our anxiety turns to panic. What has happened to the child? He is from Budapest, a stranger in this city, speaking a strange language. How would he be understood? How would he find his way?

  Has he been run over by a car? Has he been kidnapped?

  Little Elka is hungry and tired, and inconsolable. Mother takes the sobbing little girl on her arm, and she soon cries herself to sleep on Mother’s shoulder. She should be taken home for lunch and her afternoon nap. But I refuse to give up. “We must find Jerry. We cannot go home until we find him.” Mother agrees, and we take turns carrying the sleeping child and her scooter as we frantically continue to comb the sidewalks and stores of downtown Bratislava. We ask policemen on their beat, the conductor of every streetcar that passes. Finally, a young policeman joins our search. He stops all pedestrians and instructs them to keep an eye open for a Hungarian-speaking three-year-old little boy.

  It is getting late. Sabbath eve is rapidly approaching.

  “Elka has to be taken home,” Mother advises, her voice hoarse with tension. “I’ll take her on the next streetcar, and you stay here to continue the search.”

  The young policeman finally advises me to report the missing child and have it announced on the radio. He directs me to the main police station on the riverbank. As dusk precipitates, I battle a bitter cold wind on my way toward the Danube, and by the time I reach the police station, I am near collapse. A stony-faced police sergeant takes the report and gruffly orders me to sign it. Then he issues a warning: “You, Slečna, bear full responsibility for the child,” he announces sternly. “If the child is not found soon, or if he is found dead, you shall be arrested and put on trial for murder.”

  I burst into tears. The police officer is mercile
ss: “It’s too late for remorse now. Much too late.”

  I race out of the police building and across the wide-open square toward the radio station. Sobbing, I blurt out my message to the receptionist. He takes down the particulars of the case and passes the note to the broadcast room. The radio announcer emerges from his cubicle to reassure me that he is putting the item instantly on the air.

  “Don’t worry, young lady.” The tall, thin, balding man has compassion in his voice. “The little boy will turn up. Someone hearing the announcement will surely come forward with information. You’ll see.”

  “Oh, thank you,” I say with a sob. “Thank you.”

  I walk out of the radio station into a dark, cold mist. It must be Sabbath by now; no longer can I ride on the streetcar. I take off for the dormitory at a run to change clothes for the holy day.

  Nearing Svoradova 7 I can see candles flickering on the dining room table, and the girls assembled for prayer. I race past the open door of the dining room, past the kitchen, up the stairs to my room. I have no time to take a shower. I wash my hands and face in the bedroom sink, put on my Sabbath clothes, and quickly dash downstairs. In a flash I am on the street once again.

  My heart pounds as I knock on the door of the Heinos’s apartment. Mrs. Heino’s face is glowing with delight as she opens the door: “Ah, Elli, it’s you! Come in, come in. We have been waiting for you.”

  Sabbath candles are radiant in the silver candelabra. The salon is alive with people. Who are they? I recognize little Jerry’s grandmother among them. She is smiling. Mother is beaming as she hurries toward me.

  “Mommy, what’s going on?”

  Mother can barely control her excitement. “Don’t you know yet? Little Jerry is here! He was home all afternoon. While we, panic-stricken, rushed about searching for him, he was home playing.”

  Soon I find out that the two children had had a quarrel, and little Jerry had lagged behind, sulking. A passerby, believing the child was lost, asked him where he lived, and when Jerry gave his grandmother’s address as the well-known “Edlova” Building, the stranger took him to the building’s lobby and left. When Jerry walked into the apartment, his grandmother assumed we all had returned from our shopping expedition.