My Bridges of Hope

by Livia Bitton-Jackson

  By the end of the year, emigration to Israel is moving apace. As the number of residents dwindles and the number of vacant bungalows grows, the camp starts to resemble a ghost town. Rumors begin to circulate that Camp Feldafing will be liquidated. Where will they move us?

  The rumors materialize sooner than we expect. Even before the first snowfall, we, the small remnant of the once abundant camp, are transferred to Camp Geretsried, a small encampment in the heart of a pine forest near the Bavarian village of the same name.

  Camp Feldafing is a thing of the past.

  Camp Geretsried

  October 1950—February 1951

  The van drives through spectacular mountain passes on its approach to Geretsried and it pulls up at the gate of a dense pine forest. The gate opens, and the van rolls into a clearing at the center of the wood. Only moments later do bungalows become partially visible among the trees.

  “What do you know! This must be our camp.”

  Mommy’s enthusiasm is quickly ignited. “Children, I believe Elli is right. This must be the camp. Look at the bungalows hidden under the trees.”

  For Mommy, Jeno, Ily, Ida, and Gyuszi, all in their twenties, are like her children. They have been anticipating the move from Feldafing with trepidation, and the inexplicable journey into a forest has not allayed their anxiety. But now their spirits begin to rise. This place is enchanting. It looks like a scenic summer camping site.

  My knowledge of German, Yiddish, Hungarian, Slovak, a smattering of Russian, and my typing skill land me a job in the office of the camp administration. Slovak is especially helpful as a key to a number of Slavic languages. In a short time I serve as the emigration officer, filling out applications for those who register for emigration. Through my job I come in contact with every resident of Camp Geretsried, and our circle of friends becomes enormous. Mommy once again turns her sewing skills to dressmaking, and our bungalow turns into a popular meeting place.

  A new, painful reality confronts us during the winter. All at once the emigration of refugees to the U.S.A. slows to a trickle. The anti-Communist campaign of Senator Joseph McCarthy influences American policy. Everyone from “behind the Iron Curtain” has become suspect, and the number of those allowed to enter the country is drastically reduced. We are hurt and confused—we cannot understand why the Americans have attached the stigma of Communism to us. No one in America, not even Senator McCarthy, detests Communism as much as the refugees who have escaped from the fangs of Communist regimes. Why don’t the Americans realize this?

  One day, unexpectedly, a U.S. military commission called the Criminal Investigation Division (CID) arrives to investigate every refugee who registered for the U.S.A. Because of the commission’s unconcealed bias, the majority of the applications end up stamped with UNFIT FOR U.S. EMIGRATION. As emigration officer, it is my unwelcome duty to notify the applicants.

  The CID becomes a permanent fixture. Every week two CID officers arrive to interrogate each applicant, and I serve as interpreter. During the interviews two CID officers sit facing the applicant and his family and shoot a barrage of questions at them in rapid English. I have to be extremely careful to make sure I understand the questions perfectly and translate them correctly. A mistake may prove very grave for the applicant’s future. The questions take us by surprise with their accusatory tone and content:

  “Why do you want to go to America?”

  “Were you a member of the Communist Party?”

  “Were you a member of a subversive organization?”

  “No? Where is your proof?”

  “Where are your documents?”

  “Where were you from 1946 to 1950?”

  “Where is your proof? Where are your documents to prove that you did not live in a Communist country in those years?”

  “You escaped from Poland? Where is your proof?”

  “You escaped from Czechoslovakia? Where is your proof?”

  “You escaped from Hungary? Where is your proof?”

  “Why don’t you have proof? Perhaps you are lying. We can’t take your word alone for it. We need written proof.”

  “Witnesses? What good are witnesses? Why should we trust your witnesses? We need written proof. Written proof. Only written proof.”

  Do the Americans not understand the catastrophic conditions that forced tens of thousands to flee for their lives, without documents, without recorded words? Are the Americans unaware of these realities?

  I translate the answers and explanations, the pleas. The refugees who have no written evidence to substantiate their accounts, their life stories, are turned away from the shores of America, the land of their dreams.

  The story of David, one of my pupils at the ORT School, is a heart-wrenching example of the many tragedies. After the war David found out that his brother was alive in Denver, Colorado. Although he dreamed of going to Palestine, David registered for emigration to America in the summer of 1946. Sadly, he watched his closest friends leave for the Jewish land, but because his yearning to be reunited with his brother in America was more compelling, David stayed in the D.P. Camp, waiting patiently for his turn.

  Now it is the early winter of 1951, and finally David’s turn has come. This time I am not concerned about the CID officer’s stern questioning. David has an ID card from the International Refugee Organization (IRO), dated 1946, stating that he has been a resident of the D. P. Camp since then. David is the rare refugee who has written proof that he never lived behind the Iron Curtain. He is guaranteed clear sailing.

  “Will you be a loyal citizen of the United States?” the CID officer inquires after the standard questions have been answered satisfactorily.

  “Of course I will be a loyal citizen,” David says in Yiddish, and I translate.

  “If drafted, will you join the armed forces of the United States? In case of war, are you ready to fight for the United States of America?”

  “Yes. As a United States citizen, it’s only natural that I—”

  “I have another question,” the American officer interrupts. “Suppose the United States of America goes to war with Israel and you as a United States citizen are drafted into the army. Will you unhesitatingly bear arms against Israel? Will you unhesitatingly shoot at Israeli soldiers?”

  My voice trembles as I translate. David turns as white as a ghost. I want to whisper, “Say yes.” But I know he wouldn’t. I know David. He won’t lie even though his future depends on it. As I have expected, David is silent.

  “I demand an answer. Are you prepared to fight for your country the United States against Israel?”

  David raises his eyes and looks straight into those of the American. “I will not shoot a fellow Jew.”

  My voice shakes as I translate.

  The interview is over. The CID officer hands me David’s application. Stamped across the face of the top sheet, in large red letters, are the words: UNFIT FOR U.S. EMIGRATION.

  The next morning David’s body is found dangling from the roof beam of his bungalow.

  The names of the fortunate ones are posted in the hallway outside the offices of the IRO in Gauting. Jeno is in the habit of taking the train to Gauting every morning to check the list. From my office window I watch him return to the camp gate every noon. I can tell from his gait and the slump of his shoulders that his name is still missing from the list. As the day wears on his posture straightens, and by the evening he even jokes around among friends in our bungalow. Jeno’s day consists of this cycle: Gauting, gloom, recovery.

  One morning Jeno comes through the camp gate with an erect posture. He smiles mysteriously as he walks through the door of my office. I expect him to blurt out the good news. But Jeno tarries.

  “So? Speak, for God’s sake.”

  All at once, a cloud passes over his countenance. The smile is gone.

  “Ida, Gyuszi, Ily, and myself. Our names are on the list. Aunt Laura and you … yours are not.”

  I swallow hard. “Jeno, congratulations. I’m happy
for you.”

  We have become a family, the six of us, and I feel truly happy that they have made it. Especially Jeno. He has been deeply concerned about the CID investigations.

  “Elli”—Jeno reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze—“you’ll see, you and Aunt Laura will come next. Very soon.”

  “I believe you. I believe it’s a matter of days for us, too.”

  “You know what I think? I think your permit is delayed because they need you here. Who would be able to take your place? Especially as interpreter. Who can translate from German, Hungarian, Slovak, and the other Slavic languages? I am convinced that’s the reason.”

  “That’s nonsense. But thanks, anyway, Jeno. Your good luck gives me new hope.”

  I watch with mixed emotions the four friends who have become brothers and sisters prepare for the big journey. I am saddened by the thought of their departure, yet caught up in the excitement of their momentous happening. Mommy and I go shopping in Munich for parting gifts—a fountain pen for each. In addition, Mommy sews a new dress for each of the two young women.

  At the end of February, when crocuses appear on the brown patches in the snow, the four of them take their farewell.

  Once again my life becomes an empty platform for departing trains. The sound of goodbyes rings in my ears, lingers in my soul. My God, how much longer?

  When will the day come when I will wave goodbye to the empty platform from the window of a departing train?

  “So It Has Come to Pass…”

  March 19—30, 1951

  The emigration office is quiet these days. All transports to Israel are gone. Most camp residents who were registered for the United States have switched to other destinations—Canada, Cuba, South America—and their emigration permits have come through. They, too, are long gone. All our friends are gone.

  A dismally cold, wet winter drags on and on. Is it merely a reflection of the winter in my soul? Passover is in four weeks. One more Passover in Germany. How many more Passovers? How many more years? Will we ever reach America?

  Mommy and I were interrogated by the CID over two weeks ago. Why don’t they let us know the results? Even a dismissal would be easier to bear than this maddening uncertainty.

  I must be having Monday blues. It is indeed a bleak Monday morning. I have a sinking feeling of abandonment. I miss the friends with whom I shared so much of my daily trials and joys. They have all gone to distant parts. Hershu, Laci, Irene, Bronia, Arnold; the Ganzfried, Braun, Grunstein, and Markusz families—where are they now? Ily, Sanyi, Ida, and Gyuszi are fond, aching memories. Jeno’s absence is a gaping wound.

  The picture postcard I received from Jeno is propped up on my typewriter. As I glance at it, I cannot conceive of ever spanning the distance between us. From my window I can survey the deserted square of the camp and the surrounding bungalows, all vacant. Someone just entered the gate and is approaching across the square. It’s Otto, who always hangs around the office, eager for small talk. He is always bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the morning. I’m not ready to cope with good cheer and small talk this morning. I hope he is not on his way here.

  There is a knock on the door, and Otto enters, his face aglow. “Good morning, Elli. I have good news for you.”

  “Really?” I ask, annoyed. “What is your good news this morning?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Now Otto pokes his smiling face between me and the typewriter, ostentatiously concealing a sheet of paper behind his back. The last thing I need this morning is teasing from a fellow I wish hadn’t dropped in.

  “Okay, Otto. Pray tell.”

  Otto annoyingly waves the paper before my eyes. “Here it is! The emigration list, with the names Elli Friedmann and Laura Friedmann right on top. You are instructed to leave immediately for the transit camp in Munich.”

  “What?! Let me see that paper. Otto, let me see the paper!”

  Otto ceremoniously spreads the sheet on the desk, and there are our names, right on top of twenty or thirty others who received permits to emigrate to the United States.

  “How did you get this?”

  “I went to Gauting this morning, to check the list. And there it was!”

  “But you are not going to America. Why did you go to Gauting?”

  “I went for you. I wanted to be the one to tell you if there was good news.”

  “Otto, you’re an angel!” I wrap my arms about his long neck. “Thank you. Thank you.” Otto’s happiness matches my own. He takes my hands into his, and we begin to dance the hora. “Hevenu Shalom aleichem …” We bring you peace.

  “Otto, would you mind the office for a few minutes? I must run and tell Mommy. Oh, God, how wonderful!”

  Without waiting for Otto’s answer I dash off toward our bungalow. Mommy’s eyes open wide with surprise when I show her the list. “So it has come to pass … finally!” I lock her in my arms. “Mommy. Yes. Yes. Yes. It has come to pass. At last. At long last.” I hold her tight in my arms. “Can you believe it, Mommy? It’s come to pass!”

  Then I remember. “Oh, Mommy, we have to start packing immediately. On Thursday morning we have to report to the Funk Kaserne, the transit camp in Munich. We have to be packed by then.”

  “Okay. I’ll start right away.”

  I plant a kiss on Mommy’s cheek and gallop back to the office.

  “Gauting has just called,” Otto announces proudly. “To notify you of the permit and tell you to be ready for a Thursday morning departure. I did not tell them you already knew,” he adds, justifiably pleased with himself.

  In a year and a half the volume of our belongings has increased considerably, but Mommy manages to fit everything into two suitcases. The night before our departure turns into a string of leave-taking from neighbors and even casual acquaintances. Why is it still so painful? We are not leaving close friends behind. And yet … every parting is a minor death.

  We are lucky. Our stay at the transit camp in Munich lasts only three days. On Sunday morning the transport van begins the journey toward Bremerhaven, the northern German port from which the refugee ships sail for America.

  Then we are quartered at the U.S. military compound near Bremerhaven for an indefinite waiting period. Every morning rumors leap from barrack to barrack like wildfire.

  “The boat is here! The boat is in the harbor. We are leaving today!”

  Later in the day the rumor changes to: “The boat is here, but we’re not leaving today. We are leaving tomorrow morning.”

  Somewhat later the rumor is totally revised: “The boat in the harbor is not for us. It is for transport of U.S. military personnel. No one knows when our boat will arrive.” And despair sets in.

  Rumor mongers spread hope, doubt, disappointment, and uncertainty as a daily diet. The constant apprehension is debilitating. Will our ship ever sail?

  Finally, on Thursday an official announcement is made. We are to set sail on Saturday afternoon. Boarding the ship will commence early Saturday morning.

  Excitement ripples through the ranks of the refugees.

  Mommy and I, however, receive the announcement with alarm. Jewish law, called halakhah, prohibits travel on the Sabbath. In the case of an ocean voyage, one is permitted to spend the Sabbath aboard a ship that has sailed before the commencement of the Sabbath. But boarding a ship on the Sabbath is forbidden.

  What should we do? Our strict observance of Jewish law dictates that we wait for the next sailing. Will the authorities allow us to stay here until the next refugee boat? When will that be? Perhaps we will be stranded here until after Passover. How can we properly observe the dietary laws of Passover in this camp without cooking facilities?

  Mommy and I spend the night agonizing over the terrible dilemma. Before dawn, an idea fills me with ecstasy. “Mommy, I’ve found a solution! According to halakhah, we are permitted to sail on the Sabbath provided we board the ship the day before. I am going to volunteer for work on the ship as interpreter, or anything else, and request permissi
on for the two of us to board on Friday.”

  “It sounds like a wonderful idea,” Mommy responds thoughtfully. “But … will they go along?”

  “I’m sure. I’ll explain our problem, and I’m sure they’ll cooperate.”

  I am lucky to find Mr. Nemec, the IRO representative, in his office early in the morning. He listens to my offer with interest. “It’s up to the Americans. I’ll put you in touch with Captain McGregor. He’s in charge of assignments.”

  After a few brief words Mr. Nemec replaces the receiver: “He wants to see you at once. Do you know how to get to Captain McGregor’s staff room?” Then, instead of giving me directions, he rises from his desk. “You know what?” he says cheerfully. “I’ll take you over there. Come.” Mr. Nemec leads me to an army jeep behind the barrack and holds the door open on the passenger’s side.

  I remember a ride in another jeep, to the Haganah camp in the Moravian hills. How long ago was that? My God, how very long ago.

  Captain McGregor is pleased with my offer. “Your English is great!” the tall man in a trim uniform exclaims with enthusiasm. “Fine. Great. You’ll be my interpreter. God only knows I need an interpreter. Even for my own crew I need an interpreter! So it’s settled. You come see me tomorrow morning, bright and early, and I’ll give you your assignment.”

  “But … there’s something else. You see, my mother and I, we would like to board the ship today. Perhaps you can give me my assignment today.”

  “Today? But why?”

  “You see, my mother and I, we are Jewish, and it’s forbidden for us to sail on the Sabbath … that is, to board the ship on the Sabbath. As long as we board the ship before the commencement of the Sabbath, like on Friday, it’s okay. I know it’s hard to understand.”

  “I understand. No problem. The crew is boarding today. You and your mother can board together with the crew. That’s fine with me. Bring your things to my office, and I’ll take you aboard. Then we can start working together right away. It’s a fine idea!”

  “Thank you, Captain. You’re an angel.”

  “Don’t let my crew hear that!” Captain McGregor explodes. The furrows on his dark-complexioned face multiply as his melodious chuckle swells into a boisterous belly laugh. “An angel? Not bad. Not bad!”