My Bridges of Hope

by Livia Bitton-Jackson

  As she was about to light the Sabbath candles, Jerry’s grandmother was startled by the sound of her telephone ringing. Her telephone had been silent for years. Since the death of Jerry’s mother, her only daughter, in Auschwitz, she had lived like a recluse. Bewildered, she answered the calls, all concerned inquiries and offers of help from neighbors who had heard the announcement over the radio. Then her doorbell began to ring, and neighbors began pouring in. Neighbors she had never seen before came to offer advice and solace. Once they discovered that little Jerry was safe and sound, they embraced the elderly lady with joy and relief. For the first time in years her home was filled with the warmth of human contact.

  In her confusion, Jerry’s grandmother rushed to the Heinos’s house, all the neighbors following. Did Mrs. Heino know anything about the mysterious announcement on the radio? It was then that Mother arrived with little Elka in her arms, and they all understood the story of the missing child. Then Sabbath commenced, and Mrs. Heino ushered them all into her home.

  They all welcome me like a heroine. Moshe Heino raises the heavy silver goblet brimming with red wine and recites the Sabbath blessing. The assembled guests chant, “Amen,” and the goblet passes from hand to hand. I also take a sip of wine. All of a sudden, the room with all the smiling faces revolves about me.

  When the guests leave, the grandmother’s arms enclose me in a warm embrace. “Thank you, my dear, thank you. You’ll never understand what you’ve done for me. What a great mitzvah you’ve done.”

  I feel dizzy. It is not only fatigue or the effect of the wine. It is happiness. My pain over my brother’s leaving has turned into exultation. Instead of grieving over a departure, we are celebrating a return.

  Dancing in the Square

  Bratislava, November 29, 1947

  At the end of May, classes at the teachers’ seminary end, and we are in the midst of feverish study for the examinations.

  The exams are a marathon affair, a true culmination of eight months of intensive, exhilarating study. For two days a panel of learned rabbis put oral questions to the sixteen of us in every subject on the course curriculum. We all pass with flying colors.

  The graduation ceremony is a grand event. The entire Jewish community of Bratislava attends—communal leaders, rabbis, and relatives of the fortunate few graduates who have them. I am more fortunate than most. Tragically, none of the others has a parent present. The parents of Judith and Agi, who survived in the Budapest ghetto, are trapped behind the Iron Curtain in Hungary. The parents of all the others perished in the gas chambers of Auschwitz.

  The day after graduation I am assigned to teach two classes in the Beth Jacob school on our premises and to conduct a study group on Saturday afternoons. At last I am a qualified teacher, officially certified and equipped with proper educational tools.

  To top off the marvelous heady feeling, at the end of my first month of teaching I am offered a salary! Isn’t life simply wonderful?

  In the fall my teaching load is increased to four classes, and my salary is doubled. Now, instead of studying for classes, I prepare for teaching classes, late into the night, every night. My work with Mrs. Gellert and my study of English also continues apace. World events rush by, and in my many abstractions I barely notice.

  One Saturday evening in November, after returning from the Heinos’s in Edlova, I find the atmosphere in my dorm room charged with excitement. The girls huddle about Annie’s shortwave radio.

  “Girls, what’s going on? What are you listening to?”

  “Shush.” Several heads turn. Pointer fingers are clamped on pursed lips like exclamation marks. “It’s the vote.”

  “What vote?” My voice drowns into a hiss. “What vote?”

  “Shush. The UNO vote. On Eretz Israel.”

  My God, I have completely forgotten. For weeks rumors have circulated that the big powers of the world would finally render a decision on Eretz Israel. At a meeting in New York they would vote to establish a Jewish State in Eretz Israel, turning our fervent dream into reality. And I, submerged in my million activities, had lost track at the critical moment.

  Ears are plastered onto the set. I can’t make out a word. All I hear is static. All of a sudden, there is a burst of noise, a distant implosion. What was that?

  “I don’t know,” Annie whispers. The proud owner of the sophisticated set, Annie knows English and is our link to the Western World. “I’m not sure. The vote seems to be over.”

  “The vote is over! What are the results?”

  We stare at each other. Annie turns the knobs. The static crackle grows louder. No one knows the results of the vote.

  All at once the door bursts open, and Eva appears in the doorway, her face agog: “Girls, the big square before the Redute movie house is full. People are dancing around the fountain, right in the middle of the square … blocking traffic. It’s wild! All the cars, buses, trucks are at a standstill. Hundreds are dancing. All the Mizrachi kids are there. I’m also going!”

  So it has finally happened! I follow Eva up the stairs at a run to get my coat. “Eva, wait for me!” In a feverish haste many girls grab sweaters, coats, scarves. It’s a nasty, wintry evening in late November. What day is it? The twenty-ninth. I race down the stairs, across the lobby, and down the front steps. Eva is nowhere.

  I am breathless with the weight of the moment as I run up the street toward Michalovska Street, crashing into a flow of human traffic. Nothing matters. My sweat mingles with cold drops of rain. My hair is matted. My temples throb to the drumbeat of one thought: Eretz Israel… Eretz Israel, našá svetá zem… our sacred land, our home.

  As I approach the Carlton Hotel, a powerful gust from the riverbank hurls the sound of singing toward me. A turn of the corner thrusts me face-to-face with a most incredible spectacle: The square is covered by a human carpet, a swinging, swirling, rhythmic carpet of thousands upon thousands—an enormous spinning wheel of dancers. The dancers are locked arm-in-arm, bopping up and down in the hora, the spirited dance of the Jewish pioneers in Palestine that has become a symbol of our movement. Triangular blue scarves with the Zionist emblem flutter in the wind.

  I approach the racing circle and place my hands on the linked arms of two young girls as they whiz past. They instantly separate and welcome me into the circle, and we dance on, without breaking the cadence. I can feel the rush of cold, moist air as I dance faster and faster. It penetrates my throat as I sing, louder and louder. My hair flies in the wet wind, my feet slam against the wet asphalt, but my head is in the clouds. A thousand cars honk, and a thousand throats sing. The chime of the church clock filters through it all, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. It’s eight o’clock. History is in the making. The Jewish State is born. The theme reverberates in the breeze: “Eretz Israel, našá svetá zem…” Land of Israel, our sacred homeland … homeland. Homeland. Homeland. The dark, wet wind carries the message to the lusterless sky.

  Eventually the magic circle slows to a halt, but it does not disperse. Not yet. Not yet. Faces glow with exhilaration as the singing starts up again, and arms remain locked. We want to hold on to the moment just a little longer.

  Eretz Israel has just become a reality. Now the British can no longer keep the Jews out of the Jewish homeland. They can no longer prevent the refugee ships carrying young Jewish pioneers from landing on the shores of our land. No longer can they put Jews into prison camps just for yearning to step on the sacred soil of Zion, OUR LAND!

  The gates of Eretz Israel will be wide open for us. The British “White Paper” is dead. No more restrictions. My God. My God! From now on we can go to Eretz Israel freely, whenever we want! All the refugees, from all countries. The Exile is over. “And all the exiles shall return to Zion …”

  “Shalom, havera. See you in Tel Aviv!” A young fellow dancing near me unties his blue neck scarf and ties it around my neck: “See you soon, in Tel Aviv!” “In Haifa,” his friend cheers. “In Haifa!” Others cheer and laugh. “In Jerusa
lem!” “In Beer Sheva!” “In the Galilee!” “At Lake Kinneret!” “On Mount Carmel!”

  Savage, heady mood. Glorious, heady hilarity. Carefree, playful voices, hoarse from hours of singing in the wet, cold wind. Young boys and girls who have but recently returned from the realm of death are now drunk with the joy of rebirth. Young dreamers intoxicated with a sense of history are now experiencing its great moment. We are in the midst of a cosmic adventure like at Genesis … darkness is exploding into myriad fragments, like on the day God created heaven and earth. Hands reach out, to touch, to hold … to validate. Hands reach out to clasp other hands and shoulders, to caress cheeks, to unite in long embraces.

  A last hug, a last clasp of hands, a last wave, and I am taking off at a run. I must hurry home, back to the dormitory. Back to a new beginning.

  It is very late and very cold. I am all alone on my way home. Not one of the girls has caught up with me. What’s happened to them? Something must have gone wrong. Our headmistress, Malkele, must have stopped them from going out. Why? Is it against the rules, dancing in public?

  I can expect to face a stern rebuke. My stomach tightens, and I run faster as I contemplate the sobering thought. I brace myself for the consequences of what I have done. I am willing to pay the price.

  A new epoch has dawned, and I was there to celebrate it.

  Gina’s Secret

  Bratislava, November—December 1947

  The lights are still on as I reach the dormitory. My roommates are preparing for bed. Malkele is nowhere to be seen, and I head for the shower room as unobtrusively as possible. Martha notices me and calls, “Elli, where have you been?”

  “Shush. I’m going to the shower room. Talk to you later.”

  Martha follows me alongside the corridor. “People were looking for you.”

  “What people? Malkele?”

  “No, Sori and Eva. They were anxious to know if you went to the square to watch the dancing. They, too, wanted to go, but Malkele stopped them and the others. She didn’t let anyone go. No one knew where you’d disappeared to.”

  Thank God. I am safe. Martha Frohlinger is a loyal friend. To her I can divulge my secret.

  “I did go to the square.” I don’t reveal what I did there. “It was … it was … you should have been there. All the girls should have been there!”

  “We all wanted to. But Malkele did not let anyone go …”

  “Martha, don’t tell anyone I went, okay?”

  “Okay, Elli. I won’t breathe a word.”

  When I tiptoe into the bedroom, my friend Ellike Sofer sits up, agitated: “Elli, is it you? Thank God you’re home! Where did you go? You said nothing about going out. Eva and Sori and the others saw you in the other bedroom, and then, suddenly, after the radio report, you disappeared. WHERE DID YOU GO?” Ellike’s whisper turns into a hiss.

  “I’ll tell you later,” I whisper. “After lights out.”

  Our beds are adjacent, and it is possible to whisper secrets without anyone else hearing them. I can trust Ellike implicitly, so I tell her everything about my adventure in the square. Although Ellike is happy for me, she is bitterly disappointed to have missed the momentous happening.

  You were dancing with the Mizrachi kids, boys and girls?” She is incredulous. “Elli, were you holding hands with the boys? Who was there? Was Albert there?” Eva has a secret crush on Albert but never has an opportunity even to speak to him. We are not allowed to talk to the Mizrachi boys, or any boys at all, let alone dance with them! “Did you speak to any of the boys?”

  “I did not speak to anyone in particular. We were caught up in the excitement of it all. We just sang at the top of our lungs and danced as if we were links in one unbroken chain.”

  We talk late into the night. For Ellike, tonight’s event has deep implications. She has been waiting over two years for her turn on a transport to Palestine. Her cousin Moshe has been anxiously awaiting her arrival. As we talk, Ellike can barely contain her excitement. Who knows? She may be reunited with her cousin Moshe in Tel Aviv, perhaps in a matter of weeks! “Can you imagine? I may be in Eretz Israel for Hanukkah!”

  We talk and cry for hours. Finally fatigue overtakes our excitement, and we grow silent. But I cannot fall asleep. Even after Ellike’s rhythmic breathing tells me that she is sleeping, I cannot drain my mind of tonight’s deep impressions.

  The next dawn brings news of disaster for the Jews of Palestine. The Arab states surrounding Palestine have called for a general strike, riots, looting. We learn the British have not changed their immigration policy. The precious entry permits continue to be limited. For months now, thousands of young Jews have been languishing restlessly in collection centers, expecting to go to Palestine. When will the Jewish State become a reality? Did we dance too soon?

  One evening Gina whispers a request. Would I join her in her bed after lights out? She wants to discuss something important.

  Gina’s news turns out to be very exciting. She reveals that the Haganah, the secret Jewish army in Palestine, has headquarters and a training camp in Moravia. Many young Jews have been registering to join there. Gina’s twenty-two-year-old cousin is being trained there, and when his training is finished he will be shipped to Palestine with Aliyah Bet, the illegal group circumventing the British embargo against Jewish immigrant ships. The young recruits are being trained for combat, Gina discloses, her voice so low, I’m not sure I’m hearing right. Girls are also trained for combat. But most are trained as nurses or field telephone operators.

  “I don’t intend to wait endlessly for the world powers to make decisions for me,” Gina whispers. “I don’t intend to wait while the Arabs are massacring my sisters and brothers in Eretz Israel. I’ve made preparations to join the Haganah, train for combat, and go to Eretz Israel with one of the illegal units.”

  Gina turns silent, waiting for my response. But I do not utter a sound. I cannot even breathe.

  “They need us,” Gina continues after a while. “My cousin Beni says there will be all-out war. Sometime next year the British are going to leave Palestine, and six Arab nations are poised to attack on several fronts. They need young people to defend the Jewish settlements. I’m going to undergo weapons training. I want to know how to fight.” Gina’s voice trails into virtual soundlessness. Chubby, soft-spoken, easygoing Gina. How can she say these things with such matter-of-factness? How can she even think of holding a gun?

  Gina’s enthusiasm is contagious. With every passing day, my resistance to the idea of handling a weapon wears thinner. Finally Gina convinces me that hers is the only route to go. The answer to our people’s survival lies in our fighting for the Jewish State. The UNO vote was only the beginning, a diplomatic formality. It is up to us to create a home for the Jews the world over, a safe haven from persecution. It is up to us to ensure a source and center of Jewish pride.

  In a week Gina expects to be called to the training camp for processing. As soon as she reaches the camp she will speak to her cousin Beni about me. Beni has become a member of the staff, and Gina is certain he will make immediate arrangements so that I, too, can join soon.

  No one at the Home must know about these plans, of course. The Haganah operations are secret, and the leadership at the Home would not approve of a girl joining a military outfit of any kind. I promise Gina to be extremely careful.

  Briha

  Bratislava, December 1947—March 1948

  Miriam is shaking my shoulder: “Elli, wake up. I heard knocking at the main entrance. Please wake up.”

  Groggily I crawl out of bed. Miriam and I are sleeping downstairs in the children’s dormitory. This week it is our turn to spend the nights with the group of small boys and girls recently brought to the Home from Hungary.

  “Who do you think it is?” I ask with a yawn.

  “I don’t know.” Miriam seems agitated. “Who on earth would come at one A.M.?”

  I follow Miriam’s tall, thin silhouette along the dark corridor. The entire building
is wrapped in silence. No one, except Miriam, wiry and high-strung, has been awakened by the noise. We approach the front entrance. Carefully I place my ear on the door to pick up any sounds from the other side. All is quiet. Miriam must have had a nightmare. She has only recently arrived here with her mother, fleeing from Yugoslavia across a hazardous border. It’s no wonder Miriam hears menacing noises in her sleep.

  “It seems no one’s knocking, Miri,” I say soothingly. “Let’s go back to sleep.”

  “But I’m sure I heard knocking,” Miriam says apologetically as we cross the dark hallway and head for the nursery. “It was a light knocking. But it went on for a long time.”

  As we pass the pantry door, faint knocking is discernible from the back of the building.

  “It’s the back door,” Miriam and I whisper in unison. As I approach the back entrance through the pantry, Miriam quickly slips behind the huge metal cupboard. She cannot take chances. She is an illegal alien in Czechoslovakia.

  “Who is it?” I ask in an undertone.

  “Slečna Friedmannova, is that you?” It’s the voice of Emil, one of the administrators of the Home. His whisper betrays urgency. “Please open the door.”

  I quickly remove the bolt and unlock the door. Emil pushes the door in slightly, and through the narrow slit about ten people slip in, one by one, followed by Emil himself. Swiftly and soundlessly I lock the door and reinsert the bar. Emil leads the group through the pantry into the kitchen and quickly lowers the heavy window shades. Only then does he switch on the kitchen light. The sudden harsh light blinds me. Dazed with sleep, I gape at the unanticipated arrivals—a man, three young women, and six children. Clutching their meager belongings, their faces deathly pale and drawn with fear and fatigue, the little group forms an island of irrelevance in the middle of the kitchen.