My Bridges of Hope

by Livia Bitton-Jackson

  “Please go on,” we all urge him. “We want to know all the details.”

  “I believe it was a deliberate ’misunderstanding,’ in line with the latest Slovak attitudes.”

  “What became of the refugees?”

  “They were returned to Poland. Most were children who had been hidden in a Christian orphanage during the war. They were being transported under the auspices of the Youth Aliyah to Israel.”

  “Were any of the children hurt … or killed?”

  “I don’t know. We don’t know the identities of the casualties, or of the injured. The border police did not allow any of our men even to approach them. The situation is changing rapidly. Our hands are virtually tied.”

  “What about the next transport?” someone ventures.

  “It is uncertain when, and how. We will be in touch with you all. We’ll let you know.” Emil sounds ominous. I shudder at the thought of being caught. If the border police do not shoot me, Emil and the others will.

  Mommy returns to Šamorín to settle our affairs. She manages to sell both houses, Aunt Serena’s and ours, for ridiculously low prices. However, it’s fortunate that she succeeds in selling them at all. Private property transaction, or ownership, is a thing of the past. Everything has been nationalized. A local resident who secretly believes the Communist regime will eventually fall and he will end up a prosperous property owner has talked Mommy into the illicit sale. We need every penny we can raise. Our future is uncertain. Even if we make it to Vienna, we don’t know how long we will have to linger there before proceeding to the United States.

  Now that we have the cash, we have to devise a means of smuggling it out of the country. Dollars are your best bet, we are told.

  “I’ve heard that Donny D., Bubi’s former schoolmate, sells dollars on the black market. I’ll go to see him,” I tell Mommy.

  The next morning I arrive at Donny’s house carrying the large bundle of Czechoslovak bank notes, one hundred and ninety thousand crowns, in a briefcase.

  “This amounts to fifty-seven dollars,” Donny declares after extensive counting and calculation. “One five-and one ten-dollar bill, two twenty-dollar bills, and two single bills. Six bills altogether.”

  “That’s all? How is that possible? All this money is worth only fifty-seven dollars?” I am in shock. “The price of two houses?”

  “Look,” Donny explains, “the crown has a very low value. Converted to black-market dollars it does not amount to much. If you were to purchase the dollars in smaller denominations, I can give them to you at a much higher rate of exchange.”

  “How much higher?”

  “Let’s see. If you accept small denominations, let’s say one-dollar bills, I can give you sixty-six dollars.”

  Sixty-six, instead of fifty-seven, sounds like a good deal. And Donny assures me that the smaller denominations have the very same value in America as the larger bank notes. As a matter of fact, it is better to have smaller notes in America. They are easier to spend. Most places refuse to accept large notes.

  I am happy with my purchase. Now I am the proud possessor of sixty-six dollars. A fortune. My very first American money. There is only one thought that gives me pause: Why are small notes that much cheaper? There has to be a good reason.

  Almost two months pass, and no transport. The wait gives Mommy and me ample time to prepare, and take every precaution against a slipup. Every shred of evidence of Slovak identity has to be destroyed. All my notebooks, letters, poems, and books written in Slovak have to be eliminated. Every label and stamp identifying the manufacturer has to be removed.

  With a fine-tooth comb I sift through every item in our possession, and ink out signs of the most indirect association with local people. With trembling fingers I tear up every letter and note, some of profoundly sentimental value. With incisive pain I obliterate messages of affection from friends, pupils, and family members on the backs of photographs and on the title pages of books.

  A deliberate violation of the self. Annihilation of identity. Canceling out the past.

  This self-immolation by destroying personal papers is eerily reminiscent of the bonfire in which the Nazis burned our books, documents, pictures—paper of all kind—just before our deportation to Auschwitz. That bonfire was meant to destroy our past and our future. By burning every bit of paper, the Nazis attempted to destroy our soul. They meant to eliminate every trace of our having lived.

  They did not succeed.

  Once again we are pulling up our roots and obliterating our identity.

  This time, in order to live.

  How many more desperate acts of self-rape will we have to commit before we can reach a safe haven? Before we find a home where we can live free and be whole once again?

  The “Screening”

  Bratislava, March 7 and 8,1949

  The streets are enveloped in deep shadows, even though it is not yet five o’clock. As I turn onto Palisadna Street after my religion classes at the public school, a relentless wind slaps needle-sharp bits of frost into my face.

  Life in Bratislava is dismal and dreary nowadays. The oppressive measures of the regime have taken a heavy toll on the atmosphere of this lovely city. People walk on the street with heads hanging, barely greeting each other.

  From Briha headquarters there is no news about a transport. How much longer will we linger here in this prison? Every passing day jeopardizes our chances of escape.

  At the entrance of the Home I meet Miriam bundled up in her mother’s black coat with the fox collar.

  “Someone’s waiting for you in the lobby,” she says with a wink. “He is not bad.

  It’s Shlomo, one of the Briha operatives.

  “You are asked to report to headquarters immediately,” Shlomo says under his breath.

  “Is something wrong?”

  Shlomo is noncommittal. “You’re expected to accompany me. Can you come now?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  We walk in swirling snowflakes. The electric streetcar makes too much of a detour; it is quicker to walk. The savage wind seems intent on penetrating my very soul. I shiver incessantly as I keep pace with Shlomo’s rapid gait.

  Pan Bloch and all the others are crowded in the tiny Briha office. Tension is tangible in the air. A transport is in the works, to be dispatched tomorrow night. The largest transport ever. The screening must start early tomorrow morning to prepare for the transport’s takeoff by nightfall. The full cooperation of every member of the task force is required.

  Pan Bloch turns to me: “Slečna Friedmannova. Your presence is essential.” He stresses every word. “The transport is comprised mostly of Hungarians. We need you. I expect you to be there.”

  I feel my heart beat in my throat. This is our chance. I am going to be there—with Mommy. God forgive me. This time I’m going not to work for the Briha but to let the Briha work for me. I know I am committing betrayal on a grand scale. I know I’m putting my colleagues at risk. But I also know I have no alternative.

  I gallop through the dark streets. Mommy has to be told immediately—it’s tomorrow morning! We must pack at once. We must devise a way to sneak unnoticed into the school building.

  When she gets the news, Mommy is seized by doubt.

  “Are we doing the right thing? It’s a rash decision, Elli, and much too risky. We may be discovered right at the start. And what a disaster that would be! Don’t you think it’s an altogether … irresponsible step?”

  “Yes, I agree.” I’m trying to keep self-recrimination, unendurable tension, and sheer panic out of my voice. “I agree with all you say, Mommy. But we have no alternative. This may be the last transport. It probably will be.”

  Can Mommy see the desperate appeal in my look? “Mommy, we have no choice. We have no money to bribe our way out of here privately. We are stuck. We may never see Bubi again.”

  Mommy is silent and very sad, and I know that she is going to pack as quickly and efficiently as no other human. She is the mo
st competent person on earth.

  “Mommy, I must run. I must alert my refugee groups and escort them to the gathering point in the school basement. They must spend the night there in preparation for early screening. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  With a heart full of pain and apprehension, I accomplish my Briha assignment for the last time. When I return, Mommy is ready, just as I thought. Two neatly packed suitcases and backpacks are waiting near Mommy’s bed in the little room. They contain all our worldly possessions. Mommy sewed two money belts out of ripped-up pillowcases to hold the dollar bills I have purchased. We divide the dollar notes evenly between the two of us and start stuffing them into the belt pockets. The sheer bulk of the bills makes the task nearly impossible. Now, belatedly, I understand why the single dollar bills were so much cheaper.

  “There is simply no room in the money belt for all these bills!” Mommy is exasperated.

  “Just try, Mommy, please. We must.” When we finally accomplish the Herculean chore and strap the belts around our waists under our clothes, we look eight months pregnant.

  “But this is impossible! We can’t walk around like this!” By now Mommy is desperate. “Elli, I wish for once you’d spared us from one of your bargains!”

  “Our coats will conceal the bulge. We’ll keep our coats on.”

  Before retiring, Mommy and I take a casual leave from the dormitory residents. They understand we are preparing to spend a few days in Šamorín.

  On the spur of the moment I confide in Miriam, and she gives me a quick, fierce, wordless embrace.

  Next dawn Mommy and I walk with feigned calm to the school building where the screening is in progress. I assume my practiced stance, pretending to escort a refugee. I lead Mommy through the entrance to the first checkpoint in the corridor, which only refugees who passed the first screening can reach. Here the stern-faced Slovak officer in charge blocks our advance. But I hand him two slips of paper I have prepared in advance with our names in red. I hold my breath. The officer casts a curt glance at the slips of paper and, without looking either at Mommy or myself, directs us up the stairs to the main hall. Thank God. I resume breathing. Once upstairs it will be easier to dissolve in the crowd. Please God, let us not be apprehended. Help us, for our sake, and for the sake of the others. Let us all reach our destination without mishap, please.

  The main hall is buzzing with a throng of humanity. It is an enormous transport. Just as I lead Mommy into the thick of the crowd, I notice Mr. Weise, Mr. Block, Emil, Eric, and Shlomo. I knew all the members would be here tonight. If any one of them sees me now, he is going to assume I am here to work, and without a second thought will address me in Slovak. That would give me away instantly. It would be the end. How can I avoid being spotted?

  The toilet! I must hide in the toilet. All my fellow workers are men—they are not going to enter the women’s toilet.

  “Mommy,” I whisper in Hungarian, “I will hide in the ladies’ room. Call for me there when our turn comes.”

  Over two hours pass. Finally I hear a knock on the door, our prearranged signal. This is it. God, help us. Let the screening officer ask questions we can answer. I slip out of the toilet and join Mommy. Together we hurry down the corridor to the last door on the left.

  It is a large, bare room with two large butcher-block tables. Behind one of them sit two dour civilians and a policeman with a somewhat friendlier face. The two civilians seem outright hostile. Mommy and I have decided to assume the identities of Hungarian relatives who perished in the Holocaust. Mommy is Aunt Perl, and I am her daughter Chavi. Now, while we face these stern-faced interrogators, we must concentrate hard on our new vital statistics.

  The interrogators seem to assume that we are guilty: Our every reply is greeted with a skeptical retort. I must try to ignore the belligerent line of questioning and doggedly, calmly stick to my story. I wish I could tell Mommy to do the same. How I wish I could give her a signal of encouragement. She looks panic-stricken. And very pale. Her voice has risen to an unnaturally high pitch. I hear her interrogator repeat his question.

  “You say you were born in Sátoraljaújhely. Where did you live after your marriage?”

  “In Sátoraljaújhely. I told you, I’ve always lived in Sátoraljaújhely.”

  “Always?” His eyebrows shoot up. “Always? You said you were in concentration camps. Were these camps also in Sátoraljaújhely?”

  “No, of course not. They were in Poland and in Germany.”

  “Ah, so you did not always live in Sátoraljaújhely. You also lived in Poland and Germany.”

  “No! I never lived in Poland and Germany!” Mommy shouts indignantly. Mommy is getting angry. That’s dangerous. In her anger I hope she’s not going to say anything that will give us away. God, help us. “I was in the camps there. That was not living. That was barely existing.”

  “Is that so?” The civilian’s voice is dripping with venom. “Ah, and in Sátoraljaújhely, how long did you live there, excluding the time you ’existed’ in Poland and Germany?”

  “All my life. Up to three weeks ago.”

  “All your life? And how long has that been?”

  “I told you, fifty. I’m fifty years old. But I have told you that already!”

  “Ah, is that so? Now … let’s see. If you’re fifty years old, you lived in Sátoraljaújhely for only forty-nine years. Isn’t that so?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah, so why do you say fifty, eh?” If looks could kill, Mommy would fall lifeless to the floor from the look the interrogator now shoots at her. “Let’s proceed, and see if you can give me accurate answers. If you lived in Sátoraljaújhely for forty-nine years, you’d say you know the town well, wouldn’t you?”

  “Pretty well, yes. I know Sátoraljaújhely pretty well.”

  “Then you’d know the name of the river that runs through the city, would you not? The river that cuts the city in half, what is it called?”

  My God, is there a river in Sátoraljaújhely? I’ve never heard of it. I’m sure Mommy hasn’t, either. What will she say?

  “It’s not a river.” Mommy is lying. “It’s only a stream.”

  “Is that so? In that case, what’s the name of the stream?”

  “It has no real name. We just call it ‘The Stream.’ In Sárospatak, that’s a town nearby, they call it ‘Muddy Stream,’ Sáros Patak. That’s how the town derived its name. But we just called it ‘The Stream.’” I’m dying. I know this is the end. Mommy’s little performance about the nonexistent stream with the nonexistent name is to be our epitaph. And of the entire transport. I’m about to close my eyes, ready for the end, when suddenly the nasty civilian turns to me, speaking Slovak.

  “Slečna, why should we bother talking Hungarian? State your full name, please.”

  I stare as if I am deaf. Now he addresses me in a friendlier tone: “Miss, what’s your name, please?”

  I pretend to look puzzled. “Excuse me, sir. Are you talking to me?”

  He looks down at his notes on the table and repeats the question, now in Hungarian. Silently I sigh a secret sigh of relief. Now both men proceed shooting questions at me in rapid succession about my age, birthplace, schooling, then snap their folders shut. The policeman hands us two slips of paper, and with these we are to proceed to the customs checkup. The screening is over.

  My eyelids and legs feel like lead … and I am walking submerged in a murky whirlpool. I have difficulty finding my way out of the room and down the crowded corridor. Mommy is holding on to my arm, and it feels as if I am dragging her like ballast against the current.

  Now we wait on line for our names to be called for customs inspection. Suddenly, overwhelmingly, it penetrates my consciousness: We’ve made it! Thank God, we’ve made it!

  Almost.

  All of a sudden, I hear a familiar voice right behind me.

  “Slečna Friedmannova. Here you are. I was looking all over for you.” It is Shlomo’s voice. Instantly I realize I must not
respond. Not to anyone addressing me in Slovak. I stifle an impulse to turn my head, and remain motionless, staring ahead. How I have prayed and hoped against hope that something like this should not transpire.

  Shlomo comes around to face me: “Elli, what are you doing here? Emil needs you at the screening. We need a Hungarian interpreter urgently.”

  I cannot avoid Shlomo’s gaze. Without moving a facial muscle I stare into his eyes and say slowly, deliberately, in Hungarian: “Sir, there must be a mistake. I do not speak Slovak.”

  Shlomo’s eyes open wide with shock. His mouth is agape but does not utter a sound. At that very instant, our names are called, and Mommy reaches for her suitcase. Without removing his gaze from my face, Shlomo reaches for Mommy’s suitcase.

  “May I help you, madam?” I feel blood rush into my face as I follow Mommy and Shlomo with the rest of the luggage into the auditorium to join the long lines for the luggage to be inspected. Mortified, I avert my eyes while Shlomo abruptly vanishes in the crowd. After arranging the luggage, I make my way to join Mommy on line. The next instant, I find myself face-to-face with Emil!

  Emil’s face brightens: “Elli, you’re here?” he asks, somewhat puzzled. As a volunteer I am not supposed to be in this auditorium. My task is in the hall where the screening takes place. Yet, he is obviously glad to have found me. “Great. I need you badly,” he says with a preoccupied smile. When he notices my lack of response, Emil looks searchingly into my face. I return his gaze with a blank expression, and in a flash he realizes. His eyes scan my face with a mixture of shock and embarrassment, and his complexion turns scarlet.

  Then he addresses me in halting Hungarian with a thick Slovak accent: “I’m sorry, miss. I mistook you for someone else. This way.” He picks up the two largest pieces of luggage. “Come, there are much shorter lines over there.”

  Mommy and I follow Emil through the noisy crowd. Suddenly he turns and bends close to my ear. I can barely make out his words above the din.

  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “We passed screening. Everything is okay.”