I Have Lived a Thousand Years

by Livia Bitton-Jackson

  On my birthday, February 28, the snow starts to melt. Spring is in the air. Daddy has cheered up a little and it makes my heart sing with joy. I have turned thirteen and it promises to be a wonderful spring. I got a new coat with shoulder pads that make me look less thin and more mature. I look at least fifteen in that wonderful navy coat with high shoulders. Even Jancsi Novák, the heartthrob, smiled at me, and said, “Oh. Hello.”

  Many other wonderful things are happening this spring. I passed the examinations with high marks and Daddy gave his consent. Without wasting a moment, I wrote for application forms to the Jewish Preparatory School in Budapest. I also wrote a long letter to Bubi.

  How marvelous it is to see my dreams come into sharper focus with every passing day! How marvelous it is to contemplate living in Budapest, meeting Bubi after school! Going places with him! My brother knows everything about Budapest.

  That night my daydreams are not laced with painful longing. They are anticipatory and real, and I fall asleep in a glow of happy excitement.

  There is a sharp knock on the window near my bed. In the next room my parents are stirring.

  “They are here again,” my father says in hushed tones. “I wonder what they want this time?”

  “Please be polite to them,” Mommy whispers. “It’s always better to be courteous, even if they are rude. Please. We must avoid trouble.”

  I can hear Daddy unbolt the storefront door. Now there is pounding at the rear entrance of the house.

  I hear Daddy quickly rebolt the door and hurry to the back of the house. I hear Mother’s footsteps following him.

  The illuminated clock says 2:30 A.M.

  They always come unexpectedly in the middle of the night, the Hungarian military police. They always come pounding on windows and doors, five or six of them. High-heeled boots, guns perched on shoulders, tall cock feathers tucked in black helmets. They are the dread of the Jews in the occupied territories. They stage raids, razzias, in the middle of the night, looking for concealed weapons. They would turn the house upside down, rudely poke furniture with bayonets, and order Daddy around as if he were a criminal.

  “You Jews harbor enemy aliens! You collaborate with the enemy. You want to sell out Hungary to the enemy.”

  They would take whatever they liked—packets of coffee, tea, chocolate. They would open closets and drawers, and slip a watch, a fountain pen, a bracelet, or a silk scarf into their cases.

  I was never allowed to get out of bed. Mommy would order me to stay all covered up and pretend to be asleep. But I would always peek and see them menacing my father in rude tones, see my father biting his lips. My father is a tall man, but they would be taller in their feathered helmets. My father is slim and they are sturdy.

  They would usually find some violation. Once they officially “confiscated” my mother’s winter coat, saying it was made of English wool—enemy fabric. Another time they took a box of tea, claiming it was Russian tea—enemy import. Once they carted away cartons of soap and cases of cotton thread. It was French soap, American cotton. A severe charge: consorting with the enemy in secret. A summons for the violation was left on the dining room table, and my father had to appear at the police station the next morning, politely answer an endless row of absurd questions, and sign a “confession” to the crimes he committed—concealing English wool, French soap, American cotton, Russian tea under Hungarian labels. The fine was steep. Sometimes they detained my father for days. We lived in agony: Are they torturing him? Will they release him alive?

  There are voices in the kitchen. Why are they staying in the kitchen so long? Against my mother’s orders I tiptoe to the kitchen door and peer through the curtains. There, right in the middle of the kitchen stands my brother, face flushed, talking excitedly to my parents. No one else is in the kitchen. Where are the police?

  “Bubi!” My surprise and joy knows no bounds. I rush into the kitchen, barefoot, hugging him. “Bubi!”

  “Shsh. Let’s keep still.” My father is pale. “Let’s all sit down. Now Bubi, tell us, slowly, quietly, what happened.”

  The Germans invaded Budapest! On his way to school this morning Bubi saw German tanks roll down Andrassy Ut. He saw a huge flag with a swastika on the Parliament building. He saw a long column of armored vehicles with Nazi flags move through Budapest’s central thoroughfare.

  He immediately took a streetcar to the railway station, bought a ticket, and got on the next train heading for home. He had been traveling since the morning.

  My father puts his hand on Bubi’s shoulder. “Son, there must have been some mistake. How could the Germans have invaded Budapest and the whole country know nothing about it? Not a word on the radio. Not a word in the newspapers. How can it be?”

  Mommy’s voice is tense. “We will see in the morning. The morning papers will surely headline the news. Then we’ll know what to do. Let’s go to bed quietly.”

  In the morning there is no news of the invasion.

  “Bubi, I didn’t tell anyone you came home last night. By now I’m sure it was a false alarm. I’m absolutely sure. I don’t blame you for being frightened. I don’t blame you for coming home. These are frightening times,” Father says softly.

  Bubi’s eyes catch a strange flame. He says nothing.

  “But there’s no reason for you to stay home and miss your classes. I think its best for you to go right back. There’s an express for Budapest at 1 P.M.”

  “But, Dad, I saw them—the tanks, the flags with swastikas. Everywhere. And the crowds, I heard them shout, ‘Heil Hider!’”

  “It must’ve been a demonstration. Some kind of Nazi rally…. If you leave on the 1-P.M. express, you can be on time for classes tomorrow morning. You shall have missed only one day of classes.”

  Bubi averts his eyes. Father is to be obeyed. Mother concurs and packs a food parcel for my brother.

  I kiss my brother goodbye, and a savage stab of pain slashes my insides.

  We do not walk him to the station, so as not to arouse suspicion. People would ask questions. And we have no answers.

  Bubi leaves for Budapest on the 1 -P.M. express.

  At 1:20 Mr. Kardos, the lawyer down the block whose son also studies in Budapest, comes running to our house. He received a telegram from his son: THE GERMANS INVADED BUDAPEST! He wants to know if we heard anything from Bubi.

  Father turns white. “At this moment my son is on his way back to Budapest.”

  “What? He was here? And you knew? You knew and didn’t say anything?”

  “I did not believe him. No one had heard anything. There was nothing in the papers. On the radio. What shall we do now?”

  “I’m going to Budapest at once. To bring home my son.”

  For the first time in my life I see my mother cry. She is a strong woman, always cheerful and full of hope. But today she walks about with eyes brimming and red.

  My father’s face is ashen, and his hands tremble as he lights one cigarette after another.

  I want to scream and scream.

  The next morning headlines roar: WE ARE LIBERATED! HITLER’S GLORIOUS ARMY IS IN BUDAPEST!

  All day long the radio blares “Deutschland über alles,” and the country is agog with the news. Two days late. Two days late.

  News reaches us of Jews having been arrested in Budapest on the streets, on streetcars, at their workplaces, at railroad stations, and herded into freight trains. And the trains are chained shut. Where were they shipped? No one knows.

  Father stops pacing the floor. “I cannot stand it any longer. There’s a train at 8 P.M. I’m going to Budapest to bring Bubi home.”

  “It’s too late. They’ll arrest you, too. You won’t be able to help him. Stay here with us. God will be with us, and save him.”

  Mother’s voice has a strange tremor. I hug her and she begins to cry openly. Father’s tall, erect frame crumbles like a dry biscuit. God, if only Bubi were here!

  During the night Bubi arrives from Budapest.

  Mr
. Kardos does not return. Neither does his son, Gyuri. They are shipped off in freight trains. They become our first casualties of the Holocaust, together with all the boys and girls of our town who studied in Budapest. They were all taken away from the beautiful Hungarian capital, in trains chained shut, to an unknown destination.

  Budapest, the city of my dreams, has become the anteroom of Auschwitz.

  “HEY, JEW GIRL, JEW GIRL …”

  SOMORJA, MARCH 25, 1944

  Almost inaudibly, Mrs. Kertész added, “Goodbye, class. Goodbye, children. You can all go home now.”

  Mrs. Kertész, our homeroom teacher, had just made the shocking announcement: “Class, the Royal Hungarian Ministry of Education … to safeguard our best interests … has terminated instruction in all the nation’s schools. Effective immediately.” Her voice broke. She swallowed hard. “Our school is closed, as of now.”

  It is Saturday, March 25th, 1944. Six days have passed since the Germans invaded Budapest. What about graduation, only three months away? What about our report cards?

  But Mrs. Kertész leaves the classroom before we have a chance to ask questions. She leaves without a word of reference to the German occupation. Without indication of what is to happen next.

  We sit in stunned silence, staring at each other. And then slowly, ever so slowly, my classmates stand up one by one and file out of the classroom.

  I, too, rise to my feet and look around. The worn, wood benches bolted to the dark, oil-stained floor. The whitewashed walls with their threadbare maps and faded pictures. It is all so familiar, so reassuring. Even the dark green crucifix above the door spells security.

  For nearly four years I have struggled, sweated, and sometimes triumphed within these walls. In front of this blackboard. For nearly four years I have breathed the smell of the oiled floor mingled with chalk dust, apprehension, and excitement.

  Will I ever again sit behind this narrow desk furrowed by a thousand pencil marks? Will I ever again share secrets and moments of hilarity with my classmates?

  Perhaps the schools will reopen soon. Perhaps the country will settle down under German occupation and everything will be just as before. I just know that soon everything will be just as before. Lessons will resume and our class will be together again. And we will graduate as planned. I’m quite certain of that.

  I decide to leave by the main entrance. The boys use the main entrance. Maybe Jancsi Novák will be leaving just now, too. I want to see him for the last time.

  As I turn into the hallway leading to the main entrance, an arm reaches out and blocks my way. I look up, astonished. It is not Novák. A stocky, pimply-faced boy with dark, slicked-back hair stands in my way, grinning. He raises his arm in the Nazi salute and says: “Heil Hitler!” A group of boys lining both sides of the stairs echo, “Heil Hitler!” Grinning.

  I pass through them as I go down the stairs, holding my head high, looking straight ahead. They begin to chant, louder and louder, “Heil Hitler! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!”

  I run down the stairs. The stocky boy shouts, “Down with the Jews! Down with the Jews!” And the others echo, louder and louder, “Down with the Jews! Down with the Jews!”

  I fly down the stairs and out to the street. I run and run. Other sounds reach me. I recognize these sounds. My schoolmates are singing the vulgar army marching song: “Hej, zsidó lány, zsidó lány …” Hey, Jew girl, Jew girl … I am far down the block now and I still hear them singing the repulsive popular tune.

  The sounds follow me home. Mocking, taunting, devastating. Sounds that penetrate. Sounds that bruise. Sounds that can kill. As I run, one of my braids comes undone. Tears choke my throat. Sweat runs down my back. My temples throb.

  No one is home. It is Sabbath morning and my parents are still at the synagogue. I fish the house key from under the mat and slam the great heavy oak door behind me. I run to my room and bury my face in my pillow. My stomach trembles with every convulsive sob.

  I weep and weep. I weep for my classroom, which is no longer my classroom. For the school that will never be my school again. I weep for my life, which will never be the same.

  THE TALE OF THE YELLOW BICYCLE

  SOMORJA, MARCH 27 1944

  The dreaded moment has come: There is no escape. We are in the hands of the SS. The process of our “liquidation” has begun.

  We are lost and helpless. Like lifeless matter we are carried along on a powerful conveyor belt toward an unknown fate. The smooth operation of the process is strangely reassuring.

  It is easiest to give up. The struggle is over. Perhaps it is God’s will. No, not perhaps. Surely it is God’s will.

  On a Monday morning in March, all Jews are ordered to appear at the town hall to be registered. We have to line up to be counted, and we are supplied with tags. Like children leaving for summer camp. Or pets leaving the pet shop.

  We are ordered to deliver all our valuables—jewelry, radios, and vehicles.

  I have to part with my new Schwinn bicycle.

  My bike is my only real possession. It had been a birthday present from my parents. For years I had hoped and prayed for a bike, and my new Schwinn is more wonderful than anything I had imagined. More grand.

  It is bright yellow, with red-and-yellow webbing on the back wheel. It has a dark-yellow leather seat and the shiny chrome handlebars are tucked into handles that match the seat. It is beautiful.

  At first I think I will not be able to give up my bicycle. How can they tell me to take it to the town hall and just leave it there, my most precious possession? Without a sound of protest. Without even demanding an explanation. I thought such things could not happen.

  My father’s face was frozen into a mask of defiance when he brought the news to us on Sunday afternoon. I began to scream. I was not going to do it! Let them kill me, I was not going to let them take my new bike! I had not even ridden it yet. I had been waiting for spring to try it out. Spring was just beginning. The snow had just begun to melt, and as soon as the mud cleared I was going to take my brand new shiny Schwinn on the street. I could not part from it now!

  In my panic and rage I felt helpless, exposed. Violated.

  Father spoke to me in a low tone, almost a whisper. His voice was choked with anger and pain. “As soon as this is over, all this madness, I will buy you another Schwinn. Never mind this one, Elli. Never mind. You will have the most beautiful bike money can buy. A full-size bike. Bigger than this one and even more beautiful.”

  “I don’t want another bike. I have not even tried this one out. What right do they have to take it from me? You gave it to me. It was my birthday present. It’s mine. How can they just take it?”

  Daddy’s soft hands on my cheeks soothed my sobbing. He repeated, over and over, “Never mind, Ellike. Never mind.”

  On Monday morning, as I walk, tall and erect, with my Schwinn, between my father and my brother, each leading his own bicycle, I feel no more rage or panic. Only pain, and humiliation. But when I see my bright, shiny bike lined up against the wall among the many battered, lackluster old bicycles, I feel the ground slip under me.

  In a daze I follow Daddy and my brother to the courtyard of the town hall. Jewelry, silverware, radios, and cameras are piled high on long tables. Mommy waits in line to place some of her best silver cutlery and her antique silver candelabra on top of the pile. I do not look at her face. But I see the other faces as they turn from the table after depositing their precious objects. Degradation and shame flickers in every eye.

  That night Father takes me down into the cellar. In the far corner of the dank, dark underground room the flashlight reveals a rough spot on the earthen floor.

  “Look, Elli. Here on this spot I buried our most precious pieces of jewelry, about twenty-five centimeters deep. Mommy and Bubi also know the spot. Each one of us should know where the jewels are buried. We don’t know which one of us will return. Will you remember?”

  I refuse to look. “I don’t want to know! I don’t want to
remember!”

  Daddy put his arm about my shoulders. “Elli … Ellike …” he repeats softly. Then, slowly, with weighty footsteps, he leads me up the stairs.

  In the kitchen Mommy turns from the stove and asks Daddy in a matter-of-fact tone, “Have you showed her?”

  With a silent nod Daddy intends to forestall any further discussion on the subject. But I burst out crying. “Why should Daddy show me the spot? Why? Why should I know about the jewels? Why? Tell me, why? Tell me! I don’t want to know the spot! I don’t want to be the one to survive! I don’t want to survive alone! Alone, I don’t want to live. Oh, God, I don’t want to live if you don’t! I don’t want to know about anything! I don’t want to know!”

  Dead silence follows my outburst. My sobs are the only sounds in the kitchen. In utter misery I go to my room. I pull the blanket over my head to muffle my convulsive screams.

  Oh, God. Why? Why? Why?

  THE TALE OF THE YELLOW STAR

  SOMORJA, MARCH 28, 1944

  The sound of the town crier wakes me. Before, my fascination with the town crier’s performance had been voracious. I would always be in front of the townsfolk who gathered on the small hill near our house upon hearing his drumbeat. I stood close to the stocky man in his green uniform and cap so that I could watch his distinctive ritual. At the conclusion of the drumbeat he would, in one motion, thrust the drumsticks into the wide leather strap on his shoulder and then yank out a document, while contorting his face into a vocal instrument. His mouth turned to one side and opened round like a trumpet so that he could blast the proclamation. The syllables erupted like bullets from a pistol. At the conclusion of the recital the audience would quickly disperse, but I could not stop gaping as the town crier reversed the process, turning his trumpet mouth back into a puffy, round visage, while tucking the sheet of paper under his shoulder strap, yanking out the drumsticks and striking his drum with the barrage of a rapid-fire march. It was only then that I would reluctantly walk back home.

  This time I do not go to the square. Lately the town crier’s proclamations bring bad news for us. News that humiliates me in front of the other listeners. I open my window and let the words filter in through the muslin curtains.