My Bridges of Hope

by Livia Bitton-Jackson

  “How could you? Especially you?”

  “I had no alternative.”

  Emil does not answer until we reach a line made up of only three people. “Here we are, miss,” he says in an official tone. “I wish you and your mother a successful journey.”

  I read Emil’s face and see that the farewell is genuine, and it is meant for me, the colleague with whom he shared long hours of harrowing work for over a year. It took charity and courage for Emil to say those words. No one knows better than I the gravity of the offense that I have committed. No one knows better than I the generosity of spirit Emil has just displayed in giving me, at the last moment, a gracious send-off.

  At the Border

  March 8,1949

  We must be approaching the border. The convoy has been on the road for over an hour, most of the time traversing long stretches of wooded terrain. The canvas flaps of the truck keep out the fierce wind, but the wind’s cold edge seems to filter through and chill me to the bone. I feel like a deflated balloon. I’m relieved, hurt, and frightened, all at the same time.

  Thank God we made it through screening without putting ourselves and the Briha in jeopardy. However, one of our suitcases was confiscated by customs. It contained our most valuable things: a crystal vase, tapestry wall hangings, bedspreads, a silver candelabra, embroidered and lace tablecloths. These items were especially dear to me: They were among the things we recovered from our Gentile neighbors after our return from the concentration camps. The customs inspectors claimed they were manufactured in Czechoslovakia and must not leave the country.

  My native land’s brutal gesture of farewell feels like the ultimate irony. First I was robbed by the Nazis. And now by their sworn adversaries—the Communists. How much injustice can you absorb before you lose your sense of self?

  A hair-raising hurdle still awaits us—the border, and beyond. God, save us. It was here that the last convoy, in January, was detected and sprayed with machinegun fire. God, help us reach Vienna and the American Zone.

  The trucks come to a halt, and we are told to disembark. In the forest clearing, an endless row of huge camouflaged trucks awaits us. The enormous vehicles strung with pine branches at odd angles, and guarded by armed drivers, present a scary, grotesque sight. I tighten my grip on my backpack. A sense of danger tightens the pit of my stomach. We are about to cross into the Russian Zone.

  There are so many trucks, I am unable to count them. The transfer proceeds in total silence at lighting speed. I am unable to guess at the numbers of people being transferred in the dark, thick forest. What an amazingly efficient operation! The expert Briha team, under the direction of a towering figure in a black pea jacket, is proceeding like clockwork.

  The Briha commander now turns sideways, and I recognize him. My God! It’s him … it’s Vilo.

  Vilo Grentze, a Briha commander? I must be hallucinating.

  “Mommy!” I whisper in her ear, and almost choke with excitement. “Can you see that tall man in the black jacket, giving orders? Now he’s facing the other way. Can you see him?” I grasp Mommy’s arm for support. “Do you know who that is? He’s the guy I told you about, at the road construction last winter… .”

  “Of course, I remember well.”

  “It’s him! The Communist whose mother was a Jew, and his father, a German. …”

  All at once Vilo turns around, facing us. In the next instant he stands before me. “Elli Friedmannova!” He places both hands on my shoulders. His beaming face is inches away from mine. “Elli Friedmannova. They told me you’re working with us. How have you been? How have you been?”

  “Thank you, fine. Thank God … I …” I lower my voice to a whisper. “I’m … in the transport… not on an assignment…”

  Vilo’s eyebrows shoot up, and he instantly checks himself. His next question stops in midair. I put my arm about Mommy’s shoulders. “Vilo, meet my mother.” I switch to Hungarian. “Mother and I are heading for Vienna.”

  Vilo shakes his head and whispers in Slovak, “I don’t speak Magyar.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “No need to apologize, Elli. Where to? America? Palestina?”

  “I don’t know … We’ll see what happens in Vienna. …”

  He takes my hands into his and speaks in a voice so low, I have to bring my ear near his lips to hear: “Good thing you got out of Bratislava. The transports will terminate very soon… . When?” He shrugs his shoulders. “No one knows for sure.”

  “And you, Vilo. Will you go to Palestina?”

  “Perhaps someday. Now the Party needs me. Someday I’ll get there. Našá svetá zem … Remember?” A mischievous smile lights up his brilliant eyes. Strange. Once I thought they were small and piercing. “Nazdar, Elli.” Vilo draws my face near and plants a kiss on my cheek. Oh, God, right in front of Mommy! Then he extends his hand to Mommy. “Zbohom, Pani Friedmannova.” Goodbye, Mrs. Friedmann. Then with a wink he adds, “Dovidenia!” See you again! And hurries back to his post.

  All of a sudden I am conscious of my appearance. What am I wearing? Thank God. The olive-green coat and gray felt boots, the latest fashion. We could take only one change of clothing, so naturally we chose our best pieces to wear. What a relief! Vilo has seen me in my good coat.

  Vilo is directing the entire operation. He does not see me climb in the truck right behind Mommy. The interior of this truck is even icier than the first. The canvas covering has a long gash right near my seat, and the inexorable wind assaults every part of my body without restraint.

  I recognize Vilo’s voice nearby singing out, “Čislo devat. Odchod!” Number nine. Depart!

  That’s us. We are about to take off. As the engine revs, the canvas flaps open slightly at the front end and Vilo’s face appears in the gap: “Elli Friedmannova!”

  “Tu som!” Here I am! I call out from my corner seat in the back of the truck.

  Vilo waves an arm into the shadowy interior. “Lehitraot B’Tel Aviv. Lehitraot B’Eretz Yisrael.” See you again in Tel Aviv. See you in the Land of Israel. I cannot believe my ears. In Hebrew? Vilo, the Communist official. Vilo the Briha commander. And now, Vilo the Zionist?

  “Lehitraot” I shout as the truck begins to move and Vilo’s face is obliterated by canvas or by darkness. I am afraid Vilo has not heard me. My voice betrayed me at the crucial moment of parting from Vilo Grentze. My throat is dry, and I feel faint. Mommy touches my hand. “Don’t cry, Elli. Everything will work out fine. God will help us. One day you’ll meet him again.”

  Freedom at Last

  Vienna, March 8,1949

  Suddenly the trucks’ headlights are turned off, plunging the forest into darkness. Picking their way blindly among myriad trees and murky foliage, the vehicles inch along as unobtrusively as a herd of elephants.

  I huddle close to Mother. I cannot see her face, but her hands are as cold as ice. I keep shivering and dozing, and Mommy keeps urging me to eat. Minutes before leaving Mommy managed to pack food for our journey. My stomach protests. I find even breathing difficult.

  Silence envelops the dark forest like a lush blanket. All at once even the trucks’ engines are shut off, and the camouflaged vehicles float downhill like phantoms. Our drivers’ uncanny ability to navigate the woods from Bratislava through the Russian Zone to Vienna in total darkness is the key to this secret escape route.

  There is a sudden burst of machinegun fire in the distance. But we are beyond its range. The truck moves somewhat faster now. Minutes later the ignition and headlights turn on, and we burst into spontaneous applause.

  “Silence, comrades,” the driver warns. “We’re not out of danger yet.”

  But I can tell there is a smile in his voice. I begin to weep. Mother weeps, too, soundlessly; only her hands tremble. The vehicles drive fast now, and within minutes we are on the open road. A young comrade begins to sing, and we all join in: “Hevenu shalom aleikhem… We bring you greetings of peace.”

  I peek through the gash i
n the canvas next to my seat. It is quiet out there. No machinegun fire, no shouting. We have made it. Dark buildings materialize out of the fog. I see city lights! We are rolling on the streets of Vienna.

  Vienna of the “Blue Danube,” of Strauss’s waltzes, of whipped-cream cakes. Vienna, the port of refugee dreams. The island of freedom.

  We are heading for an abandoned Jewish hospital named after the Rothschilds. It is now a collection center for refugees. This old ramshackle building, jam-packed with countless refugees, is going to be our home.

  Which corner of the Rothschild Hospital will be allotted to Mommy and me? Will we have to fight for a bed, a blanket? Where will we put our belongings? How many refugees for one toilet? For a shower? I am very tired. I no longer want to struggle. An involuntary shudder passes through my body.

  Mommy says, “I hope you’re not coming down with a cold. Just when we are heading for an unknown destination! If only you’d eat properly.”

  The caravan rolls through an open gate and comes to a halt in the middle of a yard. The truck’s canvas covering flips open and unveils a drab, wet backyard cluttered with wooden crates and parked army trucks. Crowds of people emerge from the dark drizzle and approach the vehicles. Names are called, greetings are shouted in a medley of languages—Hungarian, Polish, Yiddish. There are people among us who are awaited by friends.

  “Boys, look!” someone shouts. “Look who is here! The girl from Bratislava. Can you believe this? Here she is. Look!” I am blinded by a flashlight trained into my face. Hands reach for our suitcase. Hands lift me off the truck and place me gently on the wet ground. “Welcome! Welcome to Vienna, girl from Bratislava. Isn’t it wonderful? This way, boys. Here she is! Can you ever believe it?”

  What’s going on? Who are these boys? “Would you help my mother, please?” I call into the dark beyond the blinding light. “Mommy, this way …” They reach for Mommy and lift her off the truck. “Please … I cannot see. Your flashlight. Would you turn it off?” Mercifully, the flashlight is lowered, and out of the darkness I start to distinguish seven or eight young men. I recognize them now. “You were in Bratislava several weeks ago.”

  “Hey, boys! The girl from Bratislava remembers us.” A fellow with wavy blond hair, his face lit up with a brilliant grin, extends a hand: “Welcome to Vienna!” A tall, lanky young man declares with ceremony, “Welcome to freedom.” And then, one by one, each shakes my hand firmly and offers words of greeting with a beaming face.

  Now I remember them well. About two months ago they spent ten or eleven days in our transit camp. I was assigned to supply their immediate needs. Before their departure they vowed, “Whenever you arrive in Eretz Israel, we’ll carry you on a silver platter.” Who was to know that we would meet much, much sooner, in Vienna?

  The boys carry our suitcase and lead us like trophies of war in a procession through the crowded hallways of the hospital. We reach an enormous, brightly lit ward lined with beds and metal cabinets. Blankets in various colors and patterns are hung around the beds on strings that stretch from wall to wall. Luggage is piled high in the center of the room. The beds are flanked by narrow school benches, baby carriages, and ornate cradles. People of every age, shape, and color fill all available space. This must be the most crowded, the most colorful hospital ward on record.

  At one table a lively card game is going on. At another, a woman is feeding a baby and peeling potatoes at the same time. At the same table a man is absorbed in writing. At a third, there is a discussion going on, feverish, compelling. It is a dynamic, optimistic scene.

  My fear and fatigue are long gone. The boys’ friendly reception and this ward’s festive welcome has dispelled all doubt about our future in Vienna. And beyond.

  The boys lead us to two empty beds in the corner, then bring sheets and pillowcases and help make the beds. One whips the old blankets off the beds and drapes them over the string, magically transforming the corner into a private bedroom for Mommy and me. Then they all go scouting for new blankets and towels.

  “Here, ladies. The royal suite is ready.” The boys beam with delight, and I, indeed, feel like royalty in our new home.

  “It’s almost ten. At ten sharp the lights go out,” the boys warn.

  “Let me show you to the washrooms,” the tall, lanky one volunteers, and all the others join the expedition. Near the washroom entrance, they all take their leave. They must hurry to their room on the second floor before lights out.

  “Good night, girl from Bratislava. Tomorrow we’ll introduce you to Vienna.”

  Spring in Vienna

  March—September 1949

  “Good morning!” Mommy’s face is aglow with happiness. “How did you sleep?” Without waiting for an answer, Mommy goes on, almost breathlessly, “I slept like a log. And look, Elli. The boys brought all this!”

  The hospital ward is illuminated by brilliant morning sun. All blankets are drawn open, and I am hurled onto the live stage of an amazing planet in perpetual motion. At the foot of our bed is a school desk with two benches at either side. The desktop is covered with metal plates heaped with rolls and large chunks of butter. From two large metal mugs the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee wafts into the air.

  “And here’s some Austrian money, two hundred shillings. We can go out and buy anything we need. The boys say there are all kinds of fabulous shops in the vicinity.”

  “Mommy, this is Paradise. Would you have thought that it was going to turn out like this?”

  “These boys were sent by God. And they are so handsome, so full of life. So full of charm. What would we do without them?” Charm is a top rating in Mother’s vocabulary.

  “Mommy, I believe we are going to be happy here!”

  “You can’t be happy just lolling in bed. Get up quick, and let’s have our breakfast while the coffee is hot. Here’s a towel. The washroom is at the other end of the corridor.”

  Luckily I was too tired last night to unpack, and I slept in my house robe. Now all I have to do is hop out of bed and skip down the corridor to the bathroom. Life is simply marvelous. Last night’s fog and drizzle have dissipated, and even the hallway is bathed in light.

  On my way back from the bathroom, I meet the twins near the entrance to our room. All the boys had introduced themselves last night, and I took note of all their names. The twins are Andy and Tommy. The sturdy fellow with the wavy dark blond hair is Hayim. The tall, lanky one with hazel eyes is Peter. The other tall young man, with wide shoulders and shiny black hair, is Leslie. And then there are Julius, a slim, wiry boy with light blond curls, and Stephan, a bespectacled charmer with a dimpled chin and brilliant dark eyes.

  They are a close-knit group, friends since their kindergarten days in a small Hungarian village. Peter and Leslie are twenty-six years old; all the others are twenty-four. Together they survived forced labor camps in Hungary while their families perished in Auschwitz.

  Andy is carrying a blue enamel pitcher of steaming milk.

  “For your first breakfast in Vienna,” he says.

  “What a charming milk maid! Thank you. Where does the milk come from?”

  “I get special privileges in the community kitchen. The cook likes me. She’s a Pollack, and like all Pollacks, hates Hungarians. But she says I’m different. I’m not like a Hungarian. So here it is, a token of her love.”

  “So that’s how the luscious rolls and butter and mugs of fresh-brewed coffee got here! Long live your charms, Andy!”

  “What rolls and coffee?”

  Tommy winks at me conspiratorially behind his brother’s back. I remember the twins’ ongoing rivalry from Bratislava and hasten to do damage control by quickly changing the subject. “Andy, thank you so much for the milk. It’s so kind of you …”

  But Mommy, who knows neither the twins nor anything about their relationship, politely explains, pointing at Tommy. “This young man here brought the splendid rolls and butter, and the coffee. For years I’ve not tasted butter and rolls like these. And the a
roma of that coffee! It’s the lap of luxury to have such breakfast. What a marvelous welcome to Vienna. We are truly grateful for your kindness. …”

  As Mommy speaks, Andy turns scarlet and Tommy’s face is a study in glee. His eyes dance with mischief as he announces, feigning modesty, “Peter got the butter. We must give him credit for that. I managed only the coffee and the rolls.”

  Formally tipping his hat, Andy takes an abrupt leave. “Bon appétit, ladies,” he says to Mommy and me, then turns to his brother: “Let’s go.” He is three hours older than Tommy but has assumed the role of eider brother as if the difference were in years not hours.

  Tommy obediently follows him. Near the exit he turns and gives us a wink with a grin as wide as the brim of his fedora.

  After breakfast the entire gang appears to take us for a walk and show us the shops, the post office, and the nearest streetcar stop. Our camp is in the heart of a lively, bustling metropolis. As if the war had been a thousand years ago, Vienna is brimming with carefree vitality.

  Actually, this is true only of the American Zone. At war’s end the victorious powers—the Americans, the Russians, the British, and the French—divided Vienna into four zones, each occupying one. The British and French Zones are noticeably duller. These comprise the more outlying districts, and that may also account for their lack of luster and exuberance. The Russian Zone, although the largest district of the inner city, is dead. It reminds me of Bratislava after the Communist coup. Going from the American Zone to the Russian Zone is like watching a spirited young woman suddenly turn into a corpse. You feel as though you have walked backward through time and suddenly have entered a war zone. The ruins lie untouched. You walk past empty buildings, abandoned stores, piles of broken bricks and masonry heaped high at intersections. An atmosphere of gloom has wrapped itself around the neighborhood like a leaden shroud. And when you return to the American Zone, your pulse quickens again with the sheer joy of being alive.

  Vienna is my oyster in the spring of 1949. I am eighteen, and six boys wait on my every whim. Leslie, the oldest, is engaged to be married. He does not join in our junkets. But the others—handsome, humorous, and bright—vie for my attention, each in his own inimical, fun-loving fashion. We rent bicycles, and six boys compete for a place by my side on our ride into the fabulous Viennese hills. One of the boys sketches the landscape and presents the sketch to me as a loving souvenir. Another writes poetry, poignant little love declarations. One plays the accordion, another one the flute, and the third, the harmonica—and I am serenaded day after day. We ride on the Riesenrad in the Prater, and when we reach the top, the exhilarating high point of the giant wheel, six boys want to hold my hand. When we descend, six boys buy me little trinkets, little mementos of the adventure. We take boat rides on the Danube Canal, and six boys take turns rowing while we sing Strauss’s “Blue Danube” waltz. We take pony rides in the gardens of the Schönbrunn Palace, and the six boys serve as my retinue. We go to the famous Vienna Opera and Burgtheater, and six furtively fix their gazes on me instead of the stage. I pretend not to notice, but from the corner of my eye I see it well. And I grow giddy with delight.