I Have Lived a Thousand Years

by Livia Bitton-Jackson

  “Hear ye! Hear ye! As of 8 A.M. this Tuesday morning, the twenty-eighth day of the month of March, in the nineteen hundred and forty-fourth year of our Lord Jesus Christ, all the Jews must wear a yellow star on the left side of the chest. The star must be of canary-yellow fabric, of six equal points, eight centimeters in diameter. Any Jew—man, woman, or child—seen on the street without the star shall be arrested!

  “Likewise, a canary-yellow, six-pointed star of one meter in diameter shall be painted on the exterior wall to the left of the main entrance of every Jewish residence. As of 8 A.M. this Tuesday morning, the twenty-eighth day of the month of March, -in the nineteen hundred and forty-fourth year of our Lord Jesus Christ, the residents of any Jewish house not duly marked with the afore-indicated star shall be arrested!

  “This proclamation be duly …”

  I shut the window. My God, what next? A yellow star? In after-school Hebrew class I had heard evil tales of Jews having to wear humiliating markings on their clothes, long, long ago, in the Middle Ages. The Jew badge.

  This yellow star was a Jew badge!

  I refuse to leave the house. I was not going to appear with the Jew badge. I couldn’t be seen wearing that horrible, horrible thing. I would die if any of my schoolmates saw me.

  My brother makes a brave joke of the whole thing. He makes believe he has been awarded a medal. He cuts a star out of cardboard and covers it with glistening golden-yellow silk fabric. It really looks like a gold military medal. He pins it on his chest and marches about the streets with a smile of triumph.

  My brother’s “medal” becomes the envy of his friends. Soon other young boys begin wearing decorative yellow stars, pretending to be honored and not humiliated by the star. They, with my brother in the lead, see it as a mark of distinction.

  I could not understand them. When I saw my tall, handsome, seventeen-year-old brother wearing his “medal” with mock pride, his valiant attempt to turn humiliation into triumph made me want to cry. It was a bitter, bitter joke. My anger was laced with raw pain.

  I do not leave the house for nearly a week. Mother pleads, her voice gentle and sad, “Elli, let’s thank God for being alive. Let us thank God for being together, in our own house. What’s a yellow star on a jacket? It does not kill or condemn. It does not harm. It only says you’re a Jew. That’s nothing to be ashamed of. We’re not marked for being criminals. Only for being Jews. Aren’t you proud of being a Jew?”

  I don’t know if I am proud to be a Jew. I had never thought about it. But I know I do not want to be marked as a Jew or as anything else. I am hurt and outraged at being made to wear a glaring label, a thing intended to set me apart and humiliate me. A criminal, or Jew, what’s the difference in their intent? What’s the difference in my shame? I am no longer a human being. I am singled out at will, an object.

  Daddy seems oblivious to the star. Mommy has to remind him to put on his jacket with the star every time he goes outdoors. You cannot simply pin a star on whatever you are wearing. The law stipulates that a star has to be sewn onto every garment. With small stitches, to be exact. Mommy solves this problem by sewing stars to several of our outer garments, and we could choose to wear only these when going outdoors.

  The canary-yellow star does not detract from Daddy’s elegance. He was always impeccably dressed and had a proud bearing, and even with the badge of shame he continues to exude an air of quiet dignity. His lack of awareness of this degrading emblem puzzles me. How can he so totally ignore the star?

  The grating, high-pitched tones of the town crier’s chant carry a new message. End-of-the-year report cards are being distributed at all the local schools. As none of the nation’s schools will reopen, all schoolchildren, from first-graders to secondary school seniors, must appear in person at the respective schools to pick up their report cards, diplomas, certificates of graduation. Each graduate of the municipal secondary school must appear in person at the institute’s homeroom at ten o’clock this very morning to receive his or her diploma.

  That’s me! That’s us! Our diplomas will be handed out. The entire class will be there. It will be like a graduation, a class reunion! I am thrilled!

  Then I remember the star. My heart sinks. I go to my closet, and there, on my blue spring jacket, left of the zipper, is the horrible thing. When I put it on, it looks even larger.

  What if I meet the gang who had menaced me and shouted “Heil Hitler” into my face nine days ago, on the day the school abruptly closed?

  Even worse, what if I meet Jancsi Novák? What would he say to me? Would he be embarrassed at the now obvious difference between us?

  I hang the jacket back into my closet.

  “Coward.”

  It is my brother.

  “I am not. I am not a coward.”

  “Then what are you? Why haven’t you left the house for nearly a week? And now, your report card. Even your diploma. I know what they mean to you. But you’re afraid to wear the star. Isn’t that cowardice?”

  No one is going to call me a coward. I snatch the jacket and run out of the house without saying goodbye to my brother.

  Once I am outside, brilliant sunshine splashes into my face. The acacia tree in front of our house is the brightest green I have ever seen. But my enjoyment of the outdoors is ruined by the sight of the glaring yellow star near the front entrance. The huge painted shape is larger and more grotesque than I had visualized.

  I break into a run. I remove my jacket as soon as I reach the school building and carry it folded inside out, hiding the star. The corridors are empty. Report card distribution is already in progress in every classroom.

  In my homeroom, Mrs. Kertész is addressing the class. She is saying farewell. With tears in her eyes she wishes us all success and tells us of her plan to retire early and return to her native town in Upper Slovakia. We drink in her words with the thirst of those who know that this is the last few drops of their water supply.

  Mrs. Kertész starts distributing the report cards together with the diplomas—alphabetically.

  My name is called and I approach her desk. Mrs. Kertész pauses. “Class,” she says, “Elvira Friedmann received …” My heart gives a jolt and begins to pound in a wild rhythm. My temples throb. I do not hear her words. But I know. A moment later I am clutching the coveted honor scroll. It had been an unattainable dream. Words precipitate from the fog. “Congratulations. We are happy for you, Elvira.”

  In a state of delirium I walk to my seat, past a multitude of glances of shared happiness and hands protruding into the aisle, squeezing, touching, slapping, embracing. I have a heady feeling of joy. Of gratitude. Bliss. Is this really happening?

  Then it is all over. Final goodbyes. Final embraces. Promises. Tears.

  I head for home, still in a glow of unreality. A cold breeze greets me at the school’s exit, and I absently put on my jacket.

  “Congratulations.” I am startled by a deep voice behind me. I turn sharply, and stare into the smiling face of Jancsi Novák. “You received the class honor scroll. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you. How did you know? The scroll, I mean. I mean, that I got the honor scroll.” Suddenly, I remember the star on my jacket, and blush. It is too late. He must have seen it already. But in his facial expression there is no hint that he noticed the star. Not a flicker.

  “I saw the list. Your name was posted on the honor roll,” he said, still smiling warmly.

  “Honor roll? Where?”

  “In the central corridor, on the wall. Under the picture of Horthy and the flag. I spotted your name in the girls’ column.”

  I blush again. “I didn’t know about the honor roll. They had never posted the names before.”

  “This year it’s different. This year there won’t be any yearbook. Posting takes the place of the yearbook.” He pauses. He is no longer smiling. “This year everything is different. No yearbook. No graduation. Nothing.” Then a cheerful thought lights up his handsome, masculine features. “Well, not
quite nothing. We received the honor scroll, didn’t we?”

  “You, too? Congratulations!” He is pleased with my enthusiasm. And I walk on air.

  We reach the front entrance of our house. We did not meet anyone. Nothing mars the perfect moments. Jancsi stretches out his hand. “Good luck. Will I see you again? I will be coming to Somorja every Thursday. To the library. In the afternoon. Perhaps I could see you there?” As he shakes my hand, his glance falls on the yellow star. All at once, his eyes hold unfathomable sadness. It astounds me. Then he averts his gaze from the star. I promise to meet him at the library next Thursday afternoon. But the glow is gone. Suddenly, I feel unbearably bruised. His sadness is too much to bear.

  FAREWELL, OLD MR. STERN

  SOMORJA, APRIL 5-APRIL 18, 1944

  I never saw Jancsi Novák again. On Wednesday morning the town crier announced that “Jews are forbidden under penalty of immediate arrest to have intercourse of any kind with Christians. Jews are forbidden under penalty of immediate arrest to greet, acknowledge greeting from, speak to, correspond with, deliver to, or receive objects from Christians. Christians are enjoined to observe the same. Jews are forbidden under penalty of immediate arrest to enter public places—theaters, cinemas, restaurants, cafes, schools, parks, the post office, city hall, or library. Christians are enjoined to inform on any Jew seen entering the aforementioned places.”

  We are virtually under house arrest. I dread meeting neighbors on the street. I walk stiffly, averting my gaze from every face in fear of breaking the law. What if I forget and say hello? Or respond to a friend’s hello? And what if … we don’t forget? What then? Would we pass each other like strangers? But that’s not possible.

  It is. Our neighbors and friends pass us unacknowledged, unrecognized, unseen. The awkwardness I have feared never arose. Our Christian friends and neighbors seem to have no conflict in observing the restrictions. My sense of isolation is overwhelming.

  My God, have we been reduced to lifeless ghosts?

  Eight days later another drumbeat, another announcement. The one we have dreaded most.

  All Jews of Somorja are to be removed from the town and concentrated in a ghetto in another town—Nagymagyar, fourteen kilometers from here. In five days every Jewish family in Somorja must stand ready for deportation to the ghetto. Every Jewish family may take along to the ghetto personal possessions and one room of furniture. Everything else must be left behind, exactly as is. Keys must be delivered at police headquarters prior to departure.

  GHETTO! I had read about the ghetto, a horrible, horrible place. Jews lived in ghettos during the Dark Ages. My God, are we descending into the Dark Ages?

  Five more days. The weather has turned from late spring to early summer and the fragrance of violets fills the air. Five days of feverish packing. What to take? What to leave behind?

  The cock-feathered military police arrive and our belongings are laden on peasant carts under their surveillance. Foodstuffs, pieces of furniture, clothing, firewood. Mother supervises the operation. She organizes the proper packing of each cart, talks to the police, calms my father. Tension has converted him into a statue of stone. I am doubled up with an excruciating stomachache. Mommy’s sister, Aunt Serena, who lives at the other end of town, moves about in a daze. My brother Bubi is the only help Mommy has. He is like Mommy, practical and efficient. We have to hurry. By 1 P.M. Somorja must be Judenrein, free of Jews.

  It is eleven o’clock. All carts are laden. Father is sitting on the furniture cart. Aunt Serena is on the cart with the clothing and food. Bubi also hops onto that cart. The coachmen snap their whips and the carts are off. Mommy and I wave goodbye to them, and my heart sinks.

  Mommy and I will follow them on the cart with the firewood. Mommy wants to go to the cemetery first, to take leave of her parents’ tombs. She has received permission from the police.

  Mommy’s parents died before I was born and are buried in the old Jewish cemetery, near the next village, a forty-minute walk. My grandfather was a revered Hebrew scholar and a tzaddik. My grandmother was known for her beauty and for her friendly, cheerful personality. I have always regretted not having known them. I only know their graves. I used to accompany Mommy to the cemetery whenever she visited their graves. And now I am to accompany her again, perhaps for the last time.

  The cart with the firewood stands in front of our house, waiting until we return.

  “Your keys.” The grim cock-feather policeman extends his hand. “Hand over the keys.”

  “Ah, yes. The keys.” Mommy’s embarrassment is painful. I avert my eyes. “You want them now? Can it wait until we get back from the cemetery? We won’t be long. We will be back before the deadline. Before one o’clock. Can I give you the keys then?”

  “Now.”

  Mommy hands the keys to the stern figure. And in her eyes there is a veiled look of humiliation and terror.

  Mommy and I hurry along the length of our town, past wide open gates through which men and women, driven by fear, hastily carry a hodgepodge of belongings and load them onto the carts. They do not take time to cast a glance in our direction.

  We, too, hurry on. We pass the synagogue at the end of the town. Old Mr. Stern stands facing the western wall of the synagogue, deep in prayer. Mommy motions to me, and we stand still, waiting for him to finish his prayer. Mr. Stern closes his prayer book in slow motion, and bends to the wall, kissing it. Tears flow down his white beard.

  For several moments Mommy and I watch the old man stand there with eyes closed, clinging to the wall of the synagogue. The old man and the wall are one.

  We approach him quietly. Mommy touches him lightly on the shoulder. “Mr. Stern. Farewell. God be with you.”

  The old man is motionless.

  “Mr. Stern. The prayer. We, too, want to pray,” Mommy says softly. “What shall we pray?”

  His head turns, but his eyes remain locked in a realm far beyond us, beyond the desolation of the synagogue yard. “We are going far, far away. On a very long road. Perhaps it will never end.” Mr. Stern’s sobs become audible. “We must pray. The prayer for the road. The road is ahead of us … It’s very, very long.” His voice is drowned in convulsive sobs. Mommy takes him by the arm and leads him into his house right behind the synagogue.

  As we approach the cemetery I can see the tombstones glistening white in the brilliant sunshine. I lie down in the grass among the graves, pressing my aching belly against the moist ground. The murmur of Mommy’s prayer dulls the pain in my stomach. It’s 12:30 P.M. We must hurry back.

  On the main street all carts are gone. The gates of the Jewish houses are wide open. I can see scattered furniture, pots, and pans, lying about in the yards, doorways, and even on the sidewalk. But no living soul. Where are the Gentile neighbors? Their windows and doors are shut. Shades are drawn in every window.

  There is only one solitary cluster of life in town. The lonely horse cart in front of our house laden with firewood, the horse impatiently flicking its tail, the driver frozen in his seat, and the cock-feathered policemen menacingly pacing the sidewalk. It’s five minutes to one. Two Jewish females are still on the loose in otherwise pure “Aryan” Somorja.

  Without a word Mother gets on the cart next to the driver. I climb onto the small seat fixed at the back facing the pile of firewood. The peasant cracks his whip, “Gyutteee!” and the horse and wagon roll onto the open road. A sharp stab of pain slashes my stomach. From the bend in the road I can see the yellow star on our house recede into the distance.

  I cannot see the road ahead. I am facing the past as it slips into oblivion. The steel-spiked cart wheels churn up a cloud of dust sprinkled with tiny pebbles. My birthplace is disappearing rapidly. Will I ever see it again?

  THE GHETTO

  NAGYMAGYAR, APRIL 18-MAY 21, 1944

  Finally the narrow dirt road widens into the main street of Nagymagyar. The cart comes to a halt in front of the synagogue yard, a small enclave for twenty families enclosed by a tall wire
fence. This is the ghetto.

  Over five hundred families are crowded into the yard. Every family brought the allocated amount of furniture, food, clothing, and personal effects. There is no room for any of it. Nor is there room for the people herded in here from fifteen communities of the region. People are helplessly standing and milling about—mothers and infants, elderly men and women, small children.

  Father, Aunt Serena, and Bubi, who arrived before us, are there, surrounded by heaps of furniture, bundles of clothes, pots and pans, mattresses, baby carriages, sacks of flour, and metal stoves.

  “That’s the sofa from our salon!” A girl about my age is pointing to a deep scarlet satin corner protruding from the heap. Where are my favorite dining room chairs with the Gobelin seats? They must be somewhere in this mountain of furniture.

  By nightfall the yard clears of people. Every available spot is utilized. People crowd into toolsheds, storage rooms, attics, basements, cellars, stairwells, and into the synagogue itself. Only the mountain of precious belongings remains in the middle of the yard.

  Our family has been assigned to share two tiny rooms and a tiny kitchen in a small house with a family named the Blumenfelds. We manage to fit a cot in the kitchen for my brother to sleep on. Father, Mother, Aunt Serena, and I sleep in one room, the Blumenfelds in the other. Mommy and I share the bed, Aunt Serena sleeps on a narrow sofa, and Father on an even narrower cot.

  We are lucky. In other houses six, seven, or eight families are squeezed in together. To make room, bathtubs, stoves, and washbasins are removed and put out in the yard; kitchens and bathrooms, even toilets serve as living quarters. Beds and cots are everywhere. Simply everywhere. It’s hilarious.

  There are beds even in the synagogue entrance hall. Those who sleep in the synagogue itself have to rise before the morning prayers, and wait until after the evening prayers before they can retire for the night. I think this is rather convenient. You simply have to poke your nose from under the covers, and you are in the synagogue for morning prayers!