“AMERICA, WILL YOU BE MY HOME?”
ŠAMORIN, AUTUMN 1945
It is a cloudless morning in autumn. The vibrancy of summer still shimmers in the air and paints splashes of sunshine across the rusty landscape.
I am back in school. I race down the street, inhaling all this beauty deep into my lungs with an intoxicating sense of freedom. Dare I run as fast as I please, and bask in this splendor without fear? Dare I enjoy the luxury of carrying notebooks under my arm, just like before? Sit in a classroom, among fellow students, just like before? Dare I feel like an adolescent—be silly, and restless, and indulgent, and critical, and boisterous, and sentimental, at will—just like my peers?
Dare I enjoy the luxury of being a girl? Having hair? Wearing a dress, and underwear? And regular shoes, girls’ shoes? Having a bar of soap, and a toothbrush? And being noticed by boys?
As I run, two Russian soldiers approach and cluck their tongues. One of them attempts to block my path, but I swerve around with practiced speed and cross the square at a trot.
A brilliant red star flutters above the entrance of the school building. No pupils are to be seen on the wide front stairs. Class must have started. I have no watch; no way of telling time. Whatever happened to the eight-o’clock church bells?
The floor in my classroom still smells of stale oil, and the blackboard is cracked in the same places. The squeaking of chalk against the freshly washed board gives me goosebumps just like before. And the sound of the bell at the end of each session gives me a sudden start, just like before.
But everything else is different. My own class graduated while I was away, and the kids in this class are total strangers. They are children of ethnic Slovaks “repatriated” by the government in a huge “population transfer” from Hungary, beyond the Danube. Our town and the entire region became part of Czechoslovakia once again, while I was away. Czech and Slovak teachers came in place of the Hungarian ones I knew and loved, and the language of instruction is Slovak. I do not see a single familiar face in school.
I had longed to see Mrs. Kertész, our homeroom teacher. In the camps, in my mind and sometimes in my dreams, I wrote long, elaborate letters to her, describing all that was happening to me. I had imagined returning to school one day and handing her all the letters, like chapters in a book. I had imagined her comments and corrections, her smile, her praise. But she is gone, and no one in class has even heard of her.
I am the only one in the class who was born here, in this very town. Yet, I am the only outsider. I do not belong to any group. The others have compatriots they know from “the old country.” They came in groups from their native towns. The kids I grew up with are no longer here. My Gentile schoolmates were transferred to Hungary with their families. And my Jewish schoolmates? Almost all of them did not return from Auschwitz.
Thirty-six of us have returned. Thirty-two girls and boys, and four adults, of Šamorin’s one hundred Jewish families. Thirty-six from over five hundred people—parents, siblings, grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins, friends, neighbors, storekeepers, and teachers, toddlers, and teenagers.
The thirty-six of us meet every day in the communal dining room we call Tattersall. Tattersall means racetrack in German. I don’t know who gave this curious name to the abandoned building the authorities allocated for our use. The peculiar name stuck, and it became a metaphor for our exclusivity. The Tattersall—a small yard, a large kitchen, and two empty rooms with coarse, unpainted tables and chairs—is our private cocoon. Here we eat together and carry on endless discussions. The past is too much with us, too raw. We do not speak about the past. Neither do we talk about the present: It simply does not exist. In the Tattersall, the future is the only reality. It is the only topic of discussion.
And the future lies far from our birthplace, the motherland that had brutally expelled us from its womb. Every one of us nurtures a fond dream of a distant land. For most, this land is Palestine, Eretz Yisrael. Most anticipate the day when their names on Jewish Agency lists will turn into permits for Palestine, and the transports will start. They live for the day, for the hour.
Others have relatives across the Atlantic—in America, Canada, or South America—and they live in anticipation of documents. They dream of documents, talk of documents—letters of invitation from relatives, visas from consulates, exit permits.
We, too, Mother, brother, and I, live on the emotional verge of departure. A few weeks ago a letter arrived from Daddy’s younger brother in America, and it changed our lives. The letter was addressed to Daddy. “Dear Brother,” it read. “I saw your name on a list of survivors published in one of New York’s Jewish newspapers, and I hasten to write, to communicate my great joy at the happy news. Please write to me as soon as you receive this letter, and let me know about the rest of the family. I want to help you to come to America. As soon as I receive your letter, I will start all the necessary procedures. Your loving brother.”
It was Mother’s sad duty to inform my uncle about the New York newspaper’s tragic error. By return mail Daddy’s brother offered to help us to get to America and find a new home in New York where he had made his home.
How ironic. Father’s impossible dream would become our reality. He used to point at the tallest skyscraper on postcards from his brother: “See?” he would say, “over a hundred stories high. Can you ever imagine a building over a hundred stories high? This is Broadway,” he would point out. “When we get to New York,” he promised with a smile, “I will buy you the prettiest dress on Broadway.”
Oh, Daddy. I still see your tall, slim silhouette disappearing into the dawn. Will I ever stand at the foot of that skyscraper? Will I ever walk on Broadway, and buy a beautiful dress like you promised? Will your promise materialize in the future while you yourself have vanished forever in the haze of the past?
Daddy, we found the small pouch with our jewelry in the dark, musty earth of the cellar where you buried it. We dug twenty-five centimeters deep, just as you said, and there it was, the small, moldy, cotton pouch. The jewelry is here, Daddy, but you are not.
Mommy sold some pieces of jewelry to the Russian soldiers to pay for Bubi’s board in Bratislava. Since the beginning of the school year, Bubi has been living in the Slovakian capital, some twenty kilometers away, where he is enrolled in a preparatory course for graduation. It is a course designed for students who missed out on education because of the war. Bubi has gained some weight, and his leg wound healed, and Mommy induced him to return to school. He cannot return to his former school in Budapest: The Hungarian capital is now beyond reach on the other side of a rather unfriendly border.
Mommy is busy sewing dresses for the Russian soldier girls, in exchange for eggs, flour, live chickens, even light-bulbs. Most of the shops are closed, and those that are open are empty. Even if there were merchandise, we could not buy it, as we have no money. It’s a blessing that Mommy knows how to make dresses. How else would we live?
The Russian army personnel have everything. The young soldier girls bring pieces of fabulous fabrics and they are thrilled with the frilly blouses, colorful skirts, and fanciful dresses Mommy makes for them. Our house is always full of barishnas, and tovarishes, their male companions; five soldiers to every soldier girl. The tovarishes bring along their harmonicas and balalaikas, their good voices and their good humor. In conversation with them I practice the Russian I learn in school, and they love it. I’m Mommy’s interpreter when taking orders for a new dress or bartering for the price. It’s fun.
I love the Russians. They fought the Germans and helped to save our lives. That’s why I love their language. Our neighbors, Slovaks and Hungarians alike, despise the Russians. They see them as the enemy. They see them as crude and primitive occupiers. But to me they are heroes.
Three weeks ago Bubi and I, while helping to clean the synagogue, found Hebrew and English textbooks in the rubble. So I began teaching myself Hebrew and English. I find English very easy because of its similarity to German. Hebr
ew is more difficult because of the different script. The printed Hebrew characters are familiar from the siddur, the prayer book, but the written script is new to me. And the language itself, the vocabulary and the grammar, is totally different from the other languages I know.
I think of my poems often. Sometimes I long to see them again, to read them again. Is Pista Szivos, the young Hungarian guard from the ghetto, still keeping my notebook and awaiting my return as he had vowed? His little village in Hungary is not very far from here. It’s not more than sixty kilometers from the other side of the river. At times I dream of crossing my beloved Danube by boat, and retrieving the notebook that holds the secrets of my innermost self. But I have no right to such self-indulgence. My friends, my family, all those achingly dear to me, my entire world, rose up in smoke, vanished. How dare I retain such passion for my possession? Such urge for self-gratification? How dare I violate the agony of Auschwitz?
Now Mommy knows the secret of my notebook, and she reassures me, “You’ll see. One day the young Hungarian soldier will appear on our doorstep and return your poems.” But I resolved to relinquish my poems. And I resolved not to think about finding Pista Szivos in his small Hungarian village across the Danube. Neither did Pista Szivos ever try to find me. I wonder: Has he returned from the war? Or has he also become one of its casualties?
My relationship with Mommy has undergone a transformation. The unavoidable reversal of our roles in the camps after her accident changed Mommy’s attitude toward me. Although once again she became the strong, no-nonsense yet sympathetic, guiding hand, there is a striking difference. She treats me with respect, and frequently lavishes excessive praise on me. I am happy yet uncomfortable with Mommy’s lavish praise.
Just now I desperately need Mommy’s understanding and respect. Yesterday, when one of the boys told me of secret transports to Palestine, I was gripped by an overwhelming desire to join them. Suddenly I knew with unmistakable clarity that I did not want to go to America.
How can I tell Mommy, and my brother, that I do not want to go to America? The two people I love so, how can I tell them that my choice lies elsewhere? How can I tell them that since yesterday I have lost my yearning for America?
Mommy has just sat down at the kitchen table to write a letter to our uncle in America, and I know this is my chance to break my silence.
“Mommy, I must speak to you.”
Mother raises her head but her mind still lingers on the letter’s opening sentence. “You wanted to say something?”
“Not just say something, Mommy. I must speak to you.”
“Now? Right now? I’ve just started this letter.”
“Yes.”
She puts down the pen, and I look straight into her eyes. “Mommy, I’m not going to America.”
Mother’s eyes widen, and her mouth opens a little. “I want to go to Palestine.”
“Palestine … ? Why Palestine?”
“Palestine, Eretz Yisrael, is part of us. That’s where we belong. Mommy, can’t you see? Can’t you?”
Mother forgets to close her mouth. Her eyes grow bluer than ever. I search them for hurt or anger but there is neither. There is only bafflement.
“Mommy, Eretz Yisrael is our only home. New York will not be home. We can make it in New York but it will never be home. Never. We will be foreigners forever. …”
Mother looks at me as if she sees me for the first time. She picks up the sheet of paper and lets it slide through the narrow slit of the slightly open table drawer. “Let’s have some potato soup.”
She rises to her feet and puts the pot on the stove. I place a few sticks of kindling wood in the stove and light a crumpled piece of newspaper under the wood. The crackling sound of fire mingles with the scraping of the spoon as Mother stirs the soup. Silently she ladles the steaming liquid into two white, enamel bowls.
The warm soup stills my anguish. Neither of us speaks but we know a truce has been reached. We also know that the terms are open to negotiation. Except one, a basic, non-negotiable principle: The three of us shall never be separated again. And so, we would wait for Bubi’s return for the weekend and the three of us decide together. It is one future for the three of us.
When Bubi comes home for the weekend, the three of us talk. And talk. I present my case with renewed passion. Sober voices prevail. Practical voices prevail. The majority wins. And by the end of the weekend the decision to go to America is final.
America, will you be my home?
THE STATUE OF LIBERTY
NEW YORK, APRIL 7, 1951
At dawn on April 7, 1951, Mother and I stand on the deck of the General Stewart as it approaches New York harbor. On the horizon the hazy outline of a statue precipitates out of the fog.
“Look, Mommy, it’s the Statue of Liberty!”
I grip Mother’s arm and point, wild with excitement. “There. There! Can you see it, Mommy?”
“I can. Very well,” Mother says, and her voice falters. She points in the direction of the statue as it continues to emerge from the morning mist. “There it is …“
I swallow hard. A cheer rings out from the other refugees along the rails.
“Can someone sing the American anthem?” I cry out. “Who knows the American anthem?”
No one seems to know the anthem of our new homeland. The words of the Israeli anthem reverberate in my mind, and I begin to sing, in Hebrew: “Od lo avda tikvatenu … Our hope is not lost, To be a free nation in our land, The land of Zion and Jerusalem.”
Several men whip off their caps and begin to sing. Women and children join in. Different anthems. In different languages. A cacophony of voices ripple the foggy dawn.
My heart is brimming. I look around. The deck of the refugee boat is full now. A mass of faces, full of awe and anticipation, focused on the Statue of Liberty as the boat chugs past it. The grande dame of our dreams now rises resplendent against the first rays of the sun.
Mother turns to me and says, “Let’s go, Elli, and gather our things. We shouldn’t be among the last ones to step ashore.”
I nod. “Let’s be among the first.”
APPENDIX A
Our Family During the Holocaust: Chronicle of Events
SEPTEMBER 1938 Hungarian troops occupy Šamorin, my hometown in Czechoslovakia, and rename it Somorja
NOVEMBER 1938 Hungarian authorities order our business closed
MAY 1940 Hungarian authorities confiscate the merchandise from our business
AUGUST 1943 My brother leaves home to attend the Jewish Teachers’ Seminary in Budapest
OCTOBER 1943-May 1944 The Hungarian military police stage “raids” on our home. My father is arrested and subjected to torture called “interrogation”
MARCH 19, 1944 German troops invade Budapest, the capital of Hungary. The rest of the country is unaware of this development. My brother comes home but my parents advise him to return to Budapest
MARCH 21, 1944 The country is agog with the news of the German invasion. Jews are arrested on the streets of Budapest and put on trains to concentration camps in Germany. My brother reaches home for the second time
MARCH 25, 1944 All schools are closed. Our homeroom teacher dismisses us without explanation
MARCH 27, 1944 The Jewish residents are ordered to deliver all jewelry, radios, and vehicles to the Hungarian authorities. I have to part with my brand new bike. My father takes me down to the cellar and points out the spot where he has buried our jewelry
MARCH 28, 1944 The Jewish residents are ordered to wear a yellow star and paint a yellow star on their homes
APRIL 3, 1944 Report cards are distributed in the schools. I receive the class honor scroll
APRIL 5, 1944 Jews are forbidden to communicate with their Gentile neighbors
APRIL 18, 1944 The Jews of Somorja are deported to a ghetto in Nagymagyar
MAY 14, 1944 My father is taken away to a Hungarian Forced Labor Camp
MAY 17, 1944 All books, documents, holy scrolls are burned. I s
ave the notebook with my poems
MAY 18, 1944 Beards are shaved off
MAY 21, 1944 Ghetto Nagymagyar is liquidated. We are taken to Ghetto Dunaszerdahely. I give the notebook with my poems to a young Hungarian soldier for safekeeping
MAY 27, 1944 Ghetto Dunaszerdahely is liquidated. We are put in cattle cars
MAY 31, 1944 We arrive in Auschwitz. I am separated from my brother and my Aunt Serena. Aunt Serena is killed in the gas chamber
JUNE 10, 1944 We are taken to Camp Plaszow
AUGUST 5, 1944 Camp Plaszow is evacuated. We are put on trains to Auschwitz
AUGUST 8, 1944 We arrive in Auschwitz. A number is tattooed on our left arms. My mother is injured, and becomes an invalid
AUGUST 9, 1944 My mother is taken to the infirmary
AUGUST 30, 1944 With the help of friends I smuggle my mother out of the infirmary
SEPTEMBER 1, 1944 We stand for selection. I am put in the transport for the gas chamber. I escape and join my mother on the transport for Augsburg
SEPTEMBER 3, 1944 Mother and I arrive in Augsburg in a transport of five hundred women
APRIL 3-4, 1945 We are taken to Mühldorf, then Mother and I are transferred to Waldlager. In Waldlager we meet my brother across the barbwire fence
APRIL 24, 1945 Mühldorf/Waldlager is evacuated. We are put on trains
APRIL 27, 1945 We are mistakenly released from the prison cars, then recaptured. Mother and I meet my brother among the train tracks. We are driven back into the train. The three of us remain together
APRIL 28, 1945 The train of prisoners is attacked by the U.S. Air Force near Poking
I Have Lived a Thousand Years Page 17