“Each shock is a minor death,” Andy describes the treatment as his intellectual powers return. “I find it quite unbearable … the thought of dying … voluntarily. Each time … in my mind I compose a last testament, I instruct my eyes to soak up the sights of this world, for the last time.” Andy speaks clearly, like a robot, in succinct, monotonous phrases.
“I detest the operating room … lying flat on my back … hands strapped to my side … the ritual of death,” he intones. “The convulsions … the sensation of strangling … it lasts an eternity.”
“I close my eyes,” the singsong recitation goes on, “and make believe … I’m in the gas chamber … together with my parents … my mother … my father … little Anika … suffocating … suffocating … slowly.” Andy’s eyes are riveted on mine as he speaks, and I shudder. “Now I … I know … how they died.”
Each day after we finish lunch, Andy repeats his incantation about the shock treatments. At first this is his only means of communication. With the passage of time, Andy becomes clinical in his description, less robotlike, and even able to evaluate the results.
My visits to the hospital become routine. Andy is allotted more and more freedom of movement. Eventually he waits for me near the entrance, and his face lights up like a bulb when he sees me. He is no longer in the triple-locked ward for the dangerously insane. He is in an open ward now—no locks, no attendants. I no longer have to feed him, but he still insists on eating only the food I bring him. We sit at a table until he finishes his lunch, then take long strolls in the yard, or sit under the ancient oak trees in the far corner of the garden.
During these beautiful summer afternoons I get to know Andy as I have never known him before. He is relaxed, and his discourse is less intense, less angry, more introspective. He displays a delightful sense of humor, even a sense of fun. We laugh at his quips, and my heart leaps with joy. He tells tales of his childhood without pathos or bitterness. I grow to like him. I like his proud bearing, his aristocratic features, his dark, wavy hair. Most of all, I like his magnificent dark eyes, which sparkle with obvious delight as he looks at me. And make me blush.
I must admit, I now look forward to the daily visits. Instead of trepidation, I approach the wrought-iron gates with suppressed excitement. Is it because of my share in Andy’s dramatic improvement? Or is it something else?
I wonder: Would I reject his marriage proposal now? Although he admits that he asked the boys to stay away during my visits, he never makes reference to that fateful afternoon.
Is it because the memory is still too painful? I wish he would bring it up. It would give me a second chance to explain, to heal the hurt I inflicted.
My share in nursing him to health has created a bond between us. I believe Andy’s attachment for me has deepened during these six weeks, and I am profoundly moved. I find myself thinking of him with great tenderness. Is this love?
On Sundays when all of us go to the hospital together, it’s like old times. All the fun we used to have on our outings is now telescoped in the hospital visit. We have picnics in the hospital garden, play games, and laugh at impromptu jokes, giving free vent to our newfound optimism. The dramatic improvement in Andy’s condition has released massive tensions.
Andy himself, although he is the reason for our good humor, barely joins in the frolicking. He is not the same Andy with the ever-brightening humor I meet every day when there are only the two of us. In the company of his closest comrades he is reserved and taciturn; he seems an outsider.
I am concerned by this change in Andy’s mood. Is it due to his possessive feelings toward me? I am concerned and flattered at the same time.
I cannot discuss my concern with Mommy. She had warned me “not to encourage Andy’s advances,” and I am sure now she would advise me to stop seeing him. How could I listen to Mommy? How could I turn my back on Andy when he needs me?
I turn to Peter for help. From our first meeting in Bratislava I felt there was a special kinship between us, and I believe, if not for Andy’s intense advances early on, Peter and I would have evolved a closer relationship. Although I do not disclose my inner turmoil, Peter senses my dilemma.
Evenings we go on long walks or sit in the park while Peter listens with great empathy and offers his unconditional support. Like a substitute brother, Peter’s understanding and support restores my equilibrium and helps sort out my feelings.
After a while our talks shift away from Andy to other matters. There is so much to talk about. In Israel the course of events continues to ebb and flow. Although the fighting seems to have quieted somewhat, the war with the Arab nations is not over. There is a cease-fire, but no true peace. Friends who left on previous transports are in the army. The threat of a full-scale renewal of hostilities hangs above us as if we lived in Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, or Haifa.
Peter is not a fervent idealist like Andy, and therefore he is a better listener. He’s more tolerant of differences of opinion. Peter and I talk, while Andy and I carried on ideological debates.
It is easier to relax in Peter’s company. Peter observes and pokes fun, sometimes with refreshing wit, at other times with clever sarcasm. I enjoy the vastly different world according to Peter. It is a pragmatic world of the here and now, devoid of analyses. It is delightful, this lack of probing into painful areas of the psyche, and of the agonies of our past. A touch of Peter’s cynicism, tidbits of gossip, mild ridicule of mutual friends—I find my summer evenings in Peter’s company delightful.
Later in the summer Peter reveals that he has begun pondering the possibility of emigrating to America. He has contacted his relatives in New York for an affidavit.
“Peter, why have you decided to go to America?” I ask, stunned. “I thought you always wanted to go to Israel. I remember you telling me ages ago, in Bratislava, that you had made up your mind to go to Palestine, and now that it is our country, Israel, nothing can stop you from going there. What made you change your mind?”
Peter does not reply. My question seems to cause him discomfort. His face is like a beetroot when he finally answers: “Things changed … since then.”
“What do you mean? How did things change? Has it become easier to get to America, to get a job in America? What about your plans to open a furniture plant in Israel? You expected a profitable future in furniture manufacturing, with the enormous influx of immigrants. Have you changed your mind about becoming a furniture tycoon?”
“No. Not really.”
“Then what happened? As far as I can see, things have changed for the better in Israel. It is a Jewish State. The British are out for good. The road is open. The threat of Cyprus doesn’t exist. Even the war with the Arabs has cooled somewhat.”
All of a sudden, I remember Alex. Is Peter’s change of plans related to Little Alex’s fate? Now I think I understand Peter’s reluctance to explain.
Little Alex was the gang’s favorite. He was not the smallest in stature—on the contrary, Alex was rather tall. The appellation “Little” had to do with the fact that he was the youngest member, and they all doted on him. I do not remember meeting Alex, although the boys insist he was one of my charges and that I ran a number of errands for him in Bratislava. Alex left for Israel before I arrived in Vienna. Shortly after the gang reached the Rothschild Hospital, there was a transport, and Alex promptly signed up. The others opted for a brief rest in the American Zone before embarking on the arduous journey. Little Alex refused to “tarry in the Diaspora” and wait for his comrades. He could not be dissuaded from trying to reach the Land of Israel with the first opportunity that presented itself.
I do not remember meeting Alex, but I know him. He is with us at every outing, at every party, at every opera performance. His anecdotes are retold, his wit is emulated, and his best-known charades are reenacted. Little Alex’s snapshots and almost daily letters have been copied and carried in the pocket of every gang member, to be passed around at a moment’s notice. I have grown addicted to his personality almos
t as hopelessly as the others are.
About two weeks ago the letters stopped coming. And then bad news reached us. Little Alex is missing in action. During a “skirmish” he disappeared, and his body has not been found.
“There is faint hope,” Little Alex’s cousin wrote in a brief note from the army, “that Alex has been taken prisoner. It is, however, a bitter hope,” the note concluded. “The Arabs torture and mutilate Jewish prisoners.”
I am reluctant to ask Peter whether Little Alex’s disappearance has had an impact on his change of plans. Peter is quiet as we walk back to our camp. We pause at the entrance to our room in awkward silence. Then Peter grips my arm with sudden fervor. “Elli, you don’t understand me at all,” he says with uncharacteristic passion.
I am taken aback, but when I search his face for an explanation, Peter averts his gaze and hurries toward the stairs. When he turns, his farewell is enigmatic, and his tone is sharper than usual: “Good night, Girl from Bratislava. See you tomorrow.”
Mystified, I walk slowly to our room. What’s the meaning of Peter’s strange behavior? Why did he say that I don’t understand him? Why did he call me “Girl from Bratislava” instead of Elli or “Little Sister”—the name all the gang members have adopted?
Mommy is not at home. Tommy is sitting at the school desk reading a letter from his sister Annie. Annie and her husband were unsuccessful in reaching Vienna at the beginning of June but later managed to get to Italy, and from there to Israel.
Tommy has resumed his visits during Andy’s stay in the hospital.
“It is kind of Tommy to keep you company in his brother’s place,” Mommy has observed. I believe Mommy is right. I welcome Tommy’s friendship, especially since for some time Tommy had grown somewhat distant. I’m happy that for the sake of his brother Tommy has overcome his reserve. He has even begun buying little gifts, little tokens of thoughtfulness, just like his brother. I have told him how much I appreciate his kindness, but Tommy modestly dismisses my expressions of gratitude.
“You seem quiet,” Tommy notes. “Something’s the matter?”
I am thinking about Peter, trying to figure out his remarks. Luckily, without waiting for an answer, Tommy blurts out, “My sister Annie’s pregnant. I’m going to be an uncle before the year’s out.”
“Great news, Tommy! Congratulations.”
“Let me go tell Leslie and the others. They don’t know yet. The letter has just arrived.”
“A great homecoming present for Andy,” I remind Tommy as he picks his way toward the exit.
Andy is being discharged from the hospital tomorrow. I am anticipating his return with great excitement. Once out of the hospital, I believe Andy will be more relaxed in the company of the gang, and things will be just as wonderful as before.
Goodbye, Vienna
Vienna, End of August 1949
“Where have you been?”
Mommy seems upset. “I’ve kept lunch waiting. You were out all afternoon, and no one knew where you were. You said you were going for a walk with one of the boys, but that was hours ago. What happened?”
“Mommy, the transport is leaving tomorrow!” I burst into tears. “All the boys are going.”
Mother is flabbergasted. “Tomorrow? So soon?” She looks into my eyes, and I can see deep regret in her brilliant blue gaze. I know she likes the boys. But the regret is for my sake. “So they’re leaving … I didn’t expect it would happen so soon.” Mommy arranges soup bowls, glasses, and cutlery on the narrow school desk that serves as our dining room table. “The food is getting cold,” she says finally. “Let’s eat.”
We maneuver our bodies in between the low desk and the narrow benches attached to it. Mommy ladles the soup into the bowls.
“Don’t cry, Elli. Eat your soup,” Mother says, and once again locks her penetrating blue stare into my soul. “What’s the matter? If you want to go to Israel so badly, we’ll talk about it. There will be other transports. We’ll find a way.”
“That’s not it, Mommy.” I swallow hard. “Something happened this afternoon.” I must tell Mommy. I still taste it in my mouth. My stomach is churning.
How did it all happen?
Mommy was out, and I was reading Gandhi’s autobiography, which someone lent me. I drew the blanket to shut out the neighborhood and enjoy the book in total privacy.
All at once I thought I recognized Andy’s approaching footsteps, and I closed the book.
“May I come in?” It was Tommy’s voice.
“Of course.” I opened the blanket curtain. “Take a seat.” But Tommy declined my offer. “Can we go for a walk?” he said with unexpected strain in his voice. “I must speak to you privately.”
“Look. I can draw the curtain. It’s perfect privacy.”
Tommy shook his head. “I must talk to you. Not here. Can we go to the park?”
“Can it wait? Andy’s supposed to come any minute.”
“This is urgent. It won’t take long.”
I left word for Andy and Mommy with our neighbor Mr. Scheingold, who, as always, was deep in his correspondence. Tommy and I made our way between beds, chairs, desks, blankets, baby carriages, and bookcases out of the room, down the hallway, out of the building. I kept wondering, what’s Tommy’s urgency? Why doesn’t he start speaking if it’s so urgent?
In the park Tommy refused to take the first bench. Instead, we kept wandering through endless paths until, finally, Tommy found a sufficiently secluded spot. As soon as we sat down, Tommy leaned over and planted his lips on mine with such force that I was unable to breathe. His lips felt like wet steel clamps. Tommy’s breath smelled of stale cigarette smoke, and I could feel my stomach churn. Finally, I managed to push his face away and extricate myself from his embrace. I started to run.
“Elli… Elli, please. Wait. I must speak to you… .”
With a few bounding strides Tommy caught up. “Elli, forgive me. Elli, I love you, I’m madly in love with you. Forgive me. I made a terrible mistake. Please, wait … can you forgive me? Can we talk?”
I paused, out of breath. “Okay. Talk. But… just talk.”
“Please, let’s sit down. I can’t talk standing …”
“Sorry, you’ll just have to. I’m not sitting down. I’m going back to camp. You can talk while we walk.”
“Please, forgive me. I won’t act crazy. Just … listen to me.” Tommy sounded as if he was going to cry. I slowed down and leaned against a tree trunk. I could still taste his breath in my mouth and was fighting an urge to vomit. I took a deep breath.
“Okay. Speak. I’m listening.”
For the next two hours Tommy held me prisoner of his anguished confessions. His voice trembling, he recounted the tale of his obsession with me, his abject misery as his twin brother preempted the “stage” and ordered him to keep his distance from his “fatal passion.”
“The transport is leaving tomorrow. You must come with me and be my wife,” Tommy shouted like a madman.
“Tomorrow? Since when have you known this?”
“I saw the notice as it was being posted and came to tell you immediately. The others don’t know yet … Elli, if you don’t marry me, I’ll kill myself. I won’t leave without you. Promise you’ll come with me, or else I’ll kill myself tonight.”
“Tommy, for God’s sake, don’t say a thing like that!” Suddenly, I could not control my tears. Tommy also began to weep, and the two of us walked back to camp on paths covered with a carpet of fallen leaves. The summer was gone, and I felt my heart was going to break.
In the hallway we wiped each other’s tears. Tommy climbed the stairs with slow, deliberate footsteps, and I approached our room, where Andy might be waiting. Instead, I found Mommy all agog with worry over my long absence.
“Eat your soup, Elli, while it’s warm. You’ll feel better,” Mommy coaxes when I come to the end of my tale.
“Mommy, but what if he kills himself? I’ll be responsible.”
“Did you ask him how he�
��ll do it?”
“Of course not. Oh, Mommy, what a question!”
“Don’t worry, he won’t kill himself.” Mommy reassures me. “I hope you won’t be offended if tomorrow you’ll see him safe and sound, fully alive, aboard the transport van.” I look at Mommy’s amused face, the mischievous smile in her eyes, and despite my tears, I burst out laughing.
“Remember,” Mommy warns, now smiling openly. “Next time a boyfriend threatens to kill himself, ask him how will he do it. It will kill his ardor.”
I pray Mommy is right and Tommy will not do anything foolish tonight.
The next day the transport gathers in the hospital yard. One by one, my adopted brothers take their leave. Hayim presses his fountain pen into my palm. I had borrowed the precious writing tool, a rare item in the camp, several times. “It’s yours,” he whispers. “Write beautiful poems with it, and send me copies.”
Stephan hands me a bouquet of lilies: “Your favorite.” His handshake is firm. “Hazak,” he says in Hebrew. “Hazak v’a-matz. Be strong and of good courage.”
“Hazak v’amatz,” I mumble in response, and swallow hard.
Julius is holding his book of poetry in his hands. Is he going to read Ady, his Hungarian idol, on the truck across the Austrian and Italian hills, or aboard the refugee vessel to Haifa port? He hands me the book with an embarrassed smile. “I want you to keep this for me and bring it along when you come to Eretz Israel.”
Peter and Andy—each has a parting gift, parting words. “As you see, it is Israel for me after all.” Peter leans over and plants a kiss on my cheek and whispers, “You may not be aware, but I got my answer from you the other night. Without having to pop the question. I was luckier than Andy.” Oh, God, Peter. How could I have known?
Andy puts his arms about me and gives me a brief, firm embrace. Then, for a fleeting moment, he places his cheek against mine. There are tears in his eyes, and I begin to weep.
My Bridges of Hope Page 18