My Bridges of Hope

by Livia Bitton-Jackson

  “What is his name?”

  “Grentze. It sounds like a German name.”

  “It’s German, all right,” Jiri Slezak pipes up. “Our hero has a skeleton in his closet. What else did he tell you?”

  “Nothing of consequence. You want to know the real truth, the true source of his attraction? My sandwich. He’s irresistibly attracted to plum jam.”

  They all speculate about when Vilo will be back. Milo Hussar suggests taking bets. Terri sets the stakes: “Let’s count to thirty-five. I say he’ll be back before the count of thirty-five. Who wants to top my bet?” Lenka Nemec bets on forty; Janko Vilensky on forty-six. All the others call various numbers, and I grow very self-conscious about the whole thing. Will he show up at all this afternoon? And when he does, will I be able to act naturally?

  The count begins, and Vilo appears at twenty-two. I am at once embarrassed and pleased. Vilo no longer makes pretensions of acting in a supervisory capacity or issuing instructions to any of the others. He stops his motorcycle right next to me and announces unceremoniously, “Tomorrow I will bring a sandwich for you. What kind do you like?”

  “I… please, don’t. I eat only kosher. That’s a special diet. Please, don’t bother. I can bring two sandwiches tomorrow. Is plum jam okay?”

  “Plum jam is very good. Dakujem, Slečna.” Vilo touches his cap with his fingertips in a brief salute and rides off, as briskly and uncermoniously as he has come.

  Vilo does not return all afternoon, and the bettors are puzzled. I wonder: Have I hurt his feelings by rejecting his offer of a sandwich?

  On the homebound journey the discussion focuses on Vilo. Seventy academicians are puzzling over a Communist Party official who does not quite fit the mold. Who is he? What makes him tick? How will he act tomorrow?

  I am deeply stirred by Vilo’s disclosure that he met me on that memorable evening, the night of fierce passions, the night the State of Israel was born. I am torn by doubt: Is he a member of the secret police? Or, is he a Zionist sympathizer?

  Did the Vilo episode actually happen, or did I make it up?

  Before going to bed I prepare two plum jam sandwiches. If Vilo does not show, I can always eat a second sandwich.

  This morning, shortly after we begin leveling a small elevation in an isolated area of the work site, Vilo unexpectedly appears next to Terri and me. He playfully snatches the shovel from Terri’s hands and issues a mocking challenge: “Why don’t you take a little rest and let me do your quota for a while?”

  Terri happily takes up the challenge. She climbs on the hillside to her favorite perch, where she has a spectacular view of the Danube. Vilo, on the other hand, launches into a vigorous shoveling activity. We work silently side by side for several minutes. Then Vilo begins to talk about himself.

  To the accompaniment of his rhythmic shoveling, Vilo divulges painful, personal details about his life with stunning urgency. He talks about the dual trauma of his mother’s death in Auschwitz and his father’s self-torment over her tragic fate. Although he refused to comply when all the Germans were ordered to divorce their Jewish wives, he blames himself for his failure to save her life.

  “My father is a good man. And he loved my mother very much. I pity him but cannot help him. I cannot even talk to him,” Vilo concludes with a sigh.

  “You must talk to him.”

  “I cannot. I cannot help him.” Vilo works furiously. Then he asks, “How about you? I want to know everything about you.”

  I tell Vilo about my incarceration in Auschwitz and other camps, about my father’s death in Bergen-Belsen, about my mother and brother, and my dilemma about Israel.

  With a strange earnestness, Vilo says that he understands my feelings about Israel. I can sense his empathy, yet I am reluctant to ask questions. I want to know how he got involved with Communism, and what accounts for his high position in the Party. After some hesitation, I do ask one question.

  “Vilo, on Carlton Square on November twenty-ninth, were you a spectator, or one of the dancers?”

  At this moment trucks arrive with gravel and sand. Vilo takes a quick leave. He must hurry and supervise the unloading. Perhaps he did not hear my question over the din of the trucks’ arrival. Or perhaps he has another reason for not answering my question.

  During the next few days I find Vilo’s company exciting and baffling all at once. As we get to know each other, I lose my awkwardness in his proximity. His friendship infuses me with a new self-awareness. I can sense dynamic strength and faith radiating from an inner source in Vilo.

  I have never met anyone like him. Are my feelings for him inspired by compassion, or by gratitude for his having invited me to share his pain? Do I admire him for his powerful public image, or for the strength he displays in coping on so many levels? Do I find him so fascinating because of an unexplained element in his makeup?

  In a short time Vilo has become a personal friend, and yet he remains an enigma.

  The road construction project of the Socialist Teachers Union comes to a close, but Vilo has worked out a plan for us to see each other.

  “I will come to Nešporova seven with my motorcycle and pick you up after our work, every evening,” he suggests brightly. “I have a table at the Café Carlton. There we can continue our friendship.”

  “It is not possible, Vilo. I’m strictly Orthodox. I cannot keep company with boys. Especially with boys who are not religious.”

  “What if I become religious?” he asks in jest. “I can learn. I may even like it, especially if you taught me.”

  Meeting Vilo is out of the question. I would not openly flaunt the rules of the Home, nor would I cheat and see him surreptitiously.

  “There is no way out, Vilo. We must accept the inevitable. This is the last time we will see each other. I am grateful to God for having met you.”

  Vilo vows he will find a way. He must see me, he declares firmly. “I have waited for over a year to see you again. God sent you to me. It must have been ordained that we get together. It must be His will.”

  No amount of explanation changes his determination to see me. I ask him to respect my wishes and not come to the dormitory—nor near the building. I ask him not to do anything that would place me in an embarrassing position.

  Apart from my restrictions about dating, there is also the hazard of Vilo discovering my work for Briha. For me this reason is even more compelling.

  At long last I succeed. Vilo promises to stay away, and I know I can trust him. We part with a firm, warm handshake.

  With my teacher colleagues there are emotional embraces. Terri is inconsolable. “I know I will never see you again,” she sobs. She proves right. Although we vow to visit often, our lives away from the Bratislava-Devin highway are worlds apart, and the distance is unbridgeable. So it is with the others. Jiri Slezak, Milo Hussar, Janko Vilensky, and Lenka Nemec. We all pledge to keep in contact, but we know it will never happen.

  Our Last Chance

  Bratislava, October 1948-January 1949

  The enchanting September days in the hills above the Danube are followed by strenuous work with the Briha during a particularly brutal winter. The transports from Poland are a thin but constant flow throughout a November plagued by heavy snowfall and bitter cold winds. We are called upon almost every night, sometimes for a small group of people, other times for only a single individual. These lone arrivals have to be quartered for longer periods until a sizable transport accumulates.

  The Slovak authorities are growing less and less cooperative. Stalin’s high hopes for the establishment of a Socialist regime in Israel, which would guarantee him a foothold in the Middle East, are dashed. In Israel a Democratic government has come into being, and the Red dictator does not conceal his displeasure.

  Stalin’s open hostility brings about a dramatic shift in the attitude of the entire Communist bloc, making the Briha’s work extremely difficult. Bribes have to be increased to compensate for increased risks. There are serious delays, puttin
g the entire operation in jeopardy. My task of keeping up the morale of the refugees and their hosts is more harrowing.

  In December and January a new wave of refugees reaches our borders. Jews are now fleeing by the thousands from Hungary, where a radical Communist takeover has created havoc. Fearing that even the illegal escape routes would soon close, they leave behind all possessions and flee across the border into Czechoslovakia. Many Jewish refugees invariably find their way to Briha contacts and eventually wind up in Bratislava. How will Briha raise the enormous funds needed to accommodate the refugees during their stay in Bratislava? Sooner or later the underground railroad machinery will break down. What will happen to the refugees?

  In January the Home receives orders from Zionist headquarters to prepare for a transport in ten days. Ten days! The excitement is indescribable. The girls are aflutter with preparation, packing, and goodbyes. Ellike rushes downtown to buy an accordion as a present for Moshe, and I accompany her. Who knows when we will see each other again? Sori and Eva and Adele are jubilant. They have family members in Israel who anxiously await them. Malcah has corresponded with a childhood friend who has since become a prospective sweetheart. Judy and Valerie look forward to reuniting with their fiancés who left with illegal transports over a year ago. The dormitory resembles a beehive.

  What will happen to Mother and me? Can we join the transport? I contact the Zionist headquarters, and they put me in touch with Mr. Kafka, one of the organizers.

  With “deep regret” Mr. Kafka declines to register Mommy. “This transport is to include only young people,” Mr. Kafka explains. “If you wish to join, we’ll be happy to put your name on the list.”

  “What about my mother?”

  “Your mother will have to join a later transport.”

  “When will there be a transport for her?”

  “Some time later.”

  I cannot leave Mommy behind. Together we will wait for a transport that will include her.

  Longingly I watch the girls as they make ready for the journey. Sheindi is packing prayer books and small volumes of the Bible to distribute to the fighters. Both Deena and Gitta have received news that they are being adopted by relatives in Tel Aviv. The two young girls have become inseparable during the last few months and now discover that their adoptive families live in the same Tel Aviv neighborhood. They are delirious with joy: Their future togetherness is ensured. Rachel, Zippora, Zivia, Pesi, Edit, Celia, Feigi, Libby, Layu, Chava, Zeesi, and Leah, and many others, have no relatives in Israel or anywhere else in the world. They have had nothing and no one. Now they will have a country to call their own. A land they have never seen awaits them.

  The train to Vienna pulls up alongside the platform. A last embrace, a last word of farewell, and the train—its windows filled with frantically waving, cheering girls—moves out of the terminal with ever-increasing speed. Will I ever see them again?

  I remain alone on the platform. Why is parting so painful? Why does my world collapse every time I say goodbye to people I love?

  I think about my brother, separated from me not only by thousands of miles of ocean, but by an impenetrable Iron Curtain. I think about Mommy, now alone in Šamorín. What am I going to do now? The Beth Jacob School is finally closed. The last of my pupils, together with my closest friends, are on the train that is disappearing into the distant haze. The teachers’ seminary, the English course at the Academy, Mrs. Gellert’s dressmaker shop—are all things of the past.

  The dormitory, Svoradova 7, is nearly deserted. Eight people instead of seventy occupy three spacious floors. Mrs. Meisels, the cook, was excluded from this transport because of her age. She occupies her previous private room downstairs near the kitchen. Miriam and her mother have moved into Malkele’s room near the office on the second floor. Five girls live upstairs, in the two large dormitory rooms. Martha is waiting for the arrival of adoption papers from her uncle in America. “How will you get to America? There is no American embassy in this country to grant you a visa.”

  “My uncle will find a way to get me out,” she says with absurd confidence. Emma, who recently received news that her father was alive in a Russian prison camp, has stayed behind to find ways of contacting him. Bozsi is determined to find a way to reach her brother in a Displaced Persons Camp in Germany. Lilli returned from a TB sanatorium in the Tatras too late to join the transport. Her cousins in Liberec have invited her to come there and share their plans for the future.

  And then there is me.

  I, unlike the others, have no clear-cut strategy. I am here by default. And I feel hopelessly trapped.

  What will happen to us, Mommy and me? A disturbing conviction grows in my mind: I must engineer our escape before it is too late.

  Mommy is now spending every Sabbath, and often a number of weekdays, with me in the Home to avoid exposure to the bitter cold in Šamorín. Our fuel supply has run out.

  One particularly bitter night, when I return to the dormitory after escorting a group of Hungarian refugees to their quarters, I notice a narrow streak of light under Mommy’s door. At that moment I make a drastic decision: I must reveal my plan to Mommy.

  Mommy is startled to see me. “You’re still awake? Why is your nose so red? Were you outdoors? At this hour?”

  Until now, whenever she stayed in the Home, I would kiss Mommy good night and then pretend to go to my room. Then I would slip out of the building to run my errands for the Briha.

  It’s almost three A.M. Mommy is a poor sleeper, but I never realized she stays awake this late. “And you, Mommy? What are you doing up at this hour?”

  “I was thinking about Bubi,” she explains. “In March it will be two years since he left, and there is still no prospect for our departure. No prospect at all. In his last letter he wrote that he contacted several U.S. congressmen, and next he will contact a senator, but he does not sound hopeful. I’m afraid he knows more about the gravity of our situation here than we do. His letter is very gloomy.”

  “That’s the reason I’ve come to talk to you, Mommy. We know here, too, that the situation is worsening. The borders are getting tighter. More and more escape operations have to be devised for refugees from Poland and Hungary, and they are breaking down with increasing frequency. Last week a transport was intercepted, two women were shot and wounded. The entire transport was shipped back to Hungary. You can imagine what fate awaits them there.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Mommy, I have been working with the Briha” Mommy’s eyes open wide with alarm, and I go on before she can make a response. “I’m telling you all this because I have a plan. I’ve thought about this for a long time. We cannot wait any longer. We must join the next transport, you and I, to Vienna. And from there we’ll make our way to America, somehow. The first priority is to get out of Czechoslovakia before it’s too late.

  “It has to be kept secret, even from our closest friends. You see, the Briha operates only for foreign refugees in transit. Under no circumstances are Czechoslovak citizens to join the transport. If they discover us among the refugees, my own colleagues would hand us over to the authorities, in order to save the operation. We must masquerade as Hungarians. We must invent Hungarian identities—names, places of birth, and a foolproof story of escape through the Hungarian border. I can invent such identities for both of us. I’ve heard enough tales working as interpreter for the investigating authorities. We both speak Hungarian like natives and know some Hungarian towns well enough to give a credible description of a birthplace or places of transit.

  “No one must be aware of our plan. The people I work with must not realize we are there as refugees. They must think I brought you along to help out. God knows the Briha needs extra help. If they discover us among the refugees just before the transport is ready to leave, I don’t suppose they would betray us. At that point, rather than jeopardize the transport, they would let us slip through. God forbid that we should be discovered.”

  Mommy is very
thoughtful. “God forbid,” she echoes. After a long pause, she says in a whisper, “My daughter, I’m afraid your plan is too daring. Too risky.”

  “I’m afraid we have no choice.”

  “We must think about it. We must think this out very carefully. I wish we could discuss it with someone.”

  “Mommy, there’s no time to think. And there is no one we can trust to discuss it with. The next transport may be the last.”

  “When is the next transport?”

  “I don’t know. It may leave in a few days. It may also leave tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? When? What time?”

  “The screening is being done during the night. Slovak military police interrogate every refugee, one by one, then hand him or her a pass. With these passes the refugees are loaded on trucks. As the trucks fill, they take off for the border. If a transport leaves tomorrow, I will be notified early in the evening. Then we will sneak into the old Jewish school building where the screening takes place. This is my normal routine. I escort refugees from their hideouts to the screening places.”

  “Tomorrow? That’s impossible.”

  “Mommy, there’s no time. I am afraid this is our last chance. If we miss this opportunity, we may never get out.”

  The Transport Is in Jeopardy

  Bratislava, January-March 1949

  Today frightening news reaches the Briha headquarters. Emil’s face is grim as he begins his report: “I regret to inform you of a critical development.”

  “What’s happened?” several volunteers ask at once.

  “After crossing the Austrian border and reaching the Russian zone, border policemen came upon the convoy of vehicles and sprayed them with bullets before asking questions. Two refugees were killed, and several were wounded.”

  “Weren’t the police paid to look the other way?”

  “No one knows how it happened. There might have been a slipup, an unexpected change of guards at the last minute. The authorities claim it was a …” Emil falls silent.