A Delayed Life

by Dita Kraus

  And where does one find such money? I don’t remember exactly how we scraped together the ransom. We were granted a certain reduction, and there was some money Otto had saved. At last we got the affidavit, and the application for our permit was duly accepted.

  After a few months, we received our exit visa. Of course, this was not yet the final step. Every emigrant had to submit a detailed list of the items he intended to take with him. We were allowed to send a so-called “lift” to Israel by ship. This was a large wooden crate containing our belongings. The list had to include every item—the baby’s toys, diapers, our underwear, towels, sheets, pots and pans, spoons, forks, each book by title, every piece of furniture in detailed description. I have kept the list as a souvenir.

  Again a few weeks passed before we got the list approved. However, many things had been crossed out. Thus we were forbidden from taking our carpet; my golden necklace and cigarette lighter; Otto’s typewriter; not twelve cups and saucers but only six; not twelve forks and knives, only six; not eight bedsheets, only four. With the help of the Writer’s Union, which appointed Otto as correspondent of one of the Czech newspapers, to write articles about Israel, he was later granted a special permission to take his typewriter after all.

  But the story did not end there. Every item on the list had to be assessed by an official estimator. But since this was a time of mass emigration to Israel, the few licensed estimators were booked for weeks in advance. There was again a long wait until the day when a grim young man appeared and started examining all the items on our list. The procedure took hours; he handled each book, each handkerchief, slipper, and baby rattle, turning it over, spreading it out, and then writing down the price. Not the price of a used object, but the price it would cost in a shop. The sum was staggering. I never knew we had such wealth in our tiny flat.

  The ransom we had to pay the state for allowing us to take our possessions abroad was 10 percent of the total. We decided to sell everything we could, except the things we were taking with us. The sale was set for the coming Sunday, but Otto thought there would be no buyers. To our surprise, the owner of a nearby laundry showed up and bought everything. She would have taken even more if we had anything else to offer.

  Now there was money to pay the estimator and the state. The wooden crate, looking like a small ship container, was ordered from a carpenter, and we enrolled at the Jewish Community Office for the next transport. The Ministry of Interior at the time issued only a collective group passport to the emigrants. This ensured that nobody traveled anywhere else but to Israel. The Jewish Community was obliged to send a person with the documents to accompany the group up to the border.

  The date of our departure was set for the beginning of May 1949. That was a new problem. The crate had to be packed at the railway station in the presence of the customs officials, and the date we were assigned was after the date of our departure. Somebody had to be present at the customs control, not necessarily the owner. But who?

  The problem was resolved in the form of Stella Fischl, our friend Paťa’s sister-in-law. Paťa was leaving in the same transport as us, and since he didn’t have much luggage, we agreed to let him stow it in our crate. Stella promised to watch over the packing, and we were glad. We couldn’t have found a more dependable person.

  To take any money out of the Republic was not allowed. That didn’t bother us because we had no cash left anyway. Otto’s uncle from America had promised to lend us a certain amount for the beginning, which he would send directly to Israel. At the time we didn’t imagine how differently things would turn out.

  After paying for our obligatory shekel, the day came when we said goodbye to Grandmother; took our little Peter, aged just eighteen months, the suitcases, and the stroller; and hailed a taxi to the railway station.

  Grandmother must have known that she would never see us again, but I was too preoccupied with all the arrangements to give it a thought. Today, now that I am old myself, I realize what a unique person she was, to send us off unselfishly, without a hint of self-pity or complaint. From Israel I wrote her detailed letters, describing our life, and she always answered, worrying about our future. Poor Grandmother! She had not long left to live. In winter, she became ill with pneumonia, and the Formáneks took her to the hospital. She died there, only ten months after our departure. Aunt Olga sent me a letter describing the circumstances, with a photo of the cremation ceremony. It shows a hall with three rows of old people in black, all acquaintances, none of them family members except for Olga.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Journey to Israel

  At the railway station on the day of our departure, there was a great commotion. Our group consisted of about a hundred people, boarding with their luggage for the first leg of the journey to Italy. Among them were a number of our friends: Paťa Fischl; the couple Eva and Pavel Lukeš, with Eva’s mother, Mrs. Králová; Annetta Able with her husband and baby; Eva Weissová; Eva Schlachetová; and other acquaintances. Many were accompanied by family members or friends, saying goodbye, hugging, and wiping away tears.

  We settled in the six-seat compartment, three adults on each side, with our little Peter moving from Daddy’s to Mummy’s lap and back again. For the toddler we had prepared a sleeping arrangement. It was a hanging mat, which we fastened to the luggage rack above our heads and padded with a few folded blankets. In fact, Peter was the only one who could sleep during the entire journey. There was no way for any of us to sleep. We sat upright on the wooden benches during the two days and the night. No one was allowed to get off the train at the stations where the train stopped. Sometimes it stood for hours until it moved on.

  Food was no problem. Everybody had brought enough provisions and bottles of water to last the entire journey. But the trickle of water from the faucet in the dirty toilet was not sufficient to rinse one’s hands, let alone wash the baby’s soiled diapers. Disposable diapers were unknown then.

  We had an ingenious contraption that had been invented in the Terezín ghetto, for heating the toddler’s food. Peter was the only child in our carriage, and of course, he quickly became everyone’s pet.

  Soon we arrived at the border of Austria, and the excitement and tension rose. Our escort was a pretty, pert young woman, who entertained the customs people with drink, salami, and other goodies unavailable in the Republic. The purpose was to make them so happy that they wouldn’t be too thorough with the luggage control. Moreover, she had a few bottles hidden in her compartment. They contained quicksilver, which, as we learned, is more expensive than gold. It was in this way that the Jewish community abroad was able to smuggle financial contributions to the young State of Israel. The moment the train passed the border, the joy and relief from the tension made us all shout and sing and clap hands happily.

  One of our fellow passengers was Mrs. S, who had worked with Otto at the Jewish Community Office and actually assisted him with the burning of documents. Just before we reached the border, she asked Otto to keep a packet of cigarettes for her, explaining that she had more than she was permitted to take out of the Republic.

  When the control was over and the customs people had left, Otto said, “For the favor I did you, let me smoke one of your cigarettes.”

  “Oh no, no, you can’t,” she cried.

  In each of the cigarettes were rolled-up dollar bills. Otto stared at her, speechless. Had he been caught, the penalty would have not only meant prison but also that he would have never again been allowed to emigrate.

  Apart from being sorry that we could not see Vienna and the Italian cities we passed through, the journey was uneventful. Sleep was impossible in the crowded compartments, but some people went to stand at the windows in the corridor and then one of us could nap awhile on the wooden bench, with a coat for a pillow.

  On the second day I had my first glimpse of the sea. I had never seen it before, and my impression was of the enormous weight of this vast amount of water pressing the earth. Our destination was the displaced per
sons camp at Trani, a small seaside town in Italy. The camp had been established at the end of the war, and now it housed huge numbers of survivors from all over Europe, who were waiting for visas to America or Australia. Some of them had been there for three and four years and were very adept at trading currencies. Our accommodation was a huge shack with mattresses for dozens of people, without any privacy.

  Each of us Czech Jews, even our little Peter, owned two and a half English pounds, the only money we had been allowed to take out of the Republic. As we were eager to explore the town, Mr. Krull, one of the veterans in the camp, exchanged our English pounds for the Israeli currency, with a small profit for us in Italian lira. And so we walked in a group to the town, where we sat in an outdoor café in the square, drank a glass of the local wine, and felt very grand.

  Our ship was delayed, and we had to wait a few more days. Although the crowded and unhygienic conditions reminded us of the concentration camps, we were not upset by it, because now we were free. At last the Galila arrived, and we were taken to Bari, our embarkation port.

  Instead of the sea liner that I had expected, a vessel more like a fishing boat than a passenger ship was anchored at the long, stone-paved quay. A wooden plank led up to the deck, and next to it there was a table where two people checked off the passengers from a list. A huge crowd of about fifteen hundred people with children, bundles, and suitcases jostled, squeezed, and pushed, without any semblance of order, to get on the ship. They screamed and gesticulated wildly, and we just stared at this uncivilized behavior. I was reminded of the scramble of the starved prisoners to the food barrels in the concentration camps.

  They were Jews from Morocco and Tunis and Algeria who, like us, were on their way to Israel. Our Czech group decided not to join the melee and to wait patiently for our turn on the quay. We knew we had no chance to embark before the crowd. Someone told us that women with children were assured of good accommodation, and we believed it.

  It was an exhausting wait. All day long a strong wind blew sand and grit into our faces, mouths, and hair. I wrapped the boy’s head in my scarf, and we tried to screen him from the wind. The hours passed, everybody grew irritated; there was nowhere to sit, and there were no toilets.

  Suddenly someone called our name: “Kraus? Is there a family Kraus?” It was a sailor from the Galila, and when he found us, he asked for a piece of our luggage, saying he would reserve places for us on the ship. We gave him our rolled-up bedding, without knowing who he was, hoping it was not a scam and thinking that we would perhaps never see our blankets again.

  It was almost dark when we finally boarded. They led us down a flight of stairs and then another, until we were in a large storage room below the waterline. There was pandemonium: shouting and shoving, men and women scrambling for free bunks. The air was stifling, and already there was the stench of too many people together. Our blankets were nowhere in sight, and I found only one empty bunk, and none for Peter.

  It was too much for me, and I started to cry uncontrollably. Where were our blankets? Where was the better accommodation for mothers with children? The bunk was so narrow that a slim person could hardly sleep on it, let alone with a child. How would we manage in such conditions for several days?

  Otto decided he would look for the sailor who had taken our bundle. He came back after a while, a big smile on his face.

  “Wipe away your tears, put on some lipstick, and come with me.”

  With Peter in my arms, I followed him up one flight, a second flight, and we were on the deck. Then higher still, to the upper deck. Here there were cabins, and one of them, in the middle of the ship, was ours. Our blankets were spread on three comfortable beds; there was a sink with faucets for cold and hot water, as well as a table and, on it, a bowl of fruit. Not just any old fruit, but oranges and bananas, delicacies we hadn’t seen since before the war. It was literally like coming out from the netherworld straight into heaven.

  After a while, the chief steward of the ship knocked on the door. He introduced himself, and it turned out he was related to the wife of Otto’s cousin Pepík. Pepík Kraus was the son of one of Otto’s father’s numerous brothers. Pepík managed to emigrate in time, before Hitler occupied Czechoslovakia. He had told his relative, the steward, to look out for us, and we now became his personal wards. We were invited to eat in the dining room for paying passengers, together with the captain and the officers. He told us we could use his private bathroom and gave me a cake of Palmolive soap, an unbelievable luxury!

  Our cabin became also the refuge of many of our friends. Annetta came several times a day to nurse her baby away from the crowds; others came to have a wash at the sink because the communal shower cubicles were permanently overcrowded. There were twelve hundred people on the ship, which had a maximum capacity of six hundred. Those in the lower hold just spent the days on the deck, and most of them also slept there. Passengers got food tickets and were called to meals in three shifts.

  But for me it was like a holiday. No cooking, no chores, just playing with my boy and getting a suntan. When we arrived at Haifa after three days, I actually didn’t want to leave the ship.

  Yet the three days on sea were the only good time of our entire Aliyah.

  Dawn was just beginning when the ship arrived at Haifa and we saw the morning sun illuminating the wonderful town climbing up the slope of Mount Carmel. The sight was breathtaking. We were in the Land of Israel!

  Otto’s cousin Pepík was waiting for us at the port. When he spotted us on the deck, he waved enthusiastically. Yet it was late afternoon when we disembarked, mainly because I was in no hurry and the food in the dining room was so delicious. There was another queue to register the newcomers and the customs, and not even Pepík, who had acquaintances among the port personnel, could help. Besides, he was a taxi driver and had to get back to work. And yes, we were also dusted with the insecticide DDT, to kill any typhus-carrying lice on our persons. (The newcomers from the North African lands were deeply offended. They claimed that only they were disinfected with DDT, while new olim—immigrants on Aliyah to Israel—from Europe or America didn’t have to undergo such demeaning treatment.

  Once we were processed, a truck drove us to the tent city called Shaar Aliyah, just at the foot of Mount Carmel. It was May 16, my grandfather’s birthday. What would my grandfather, the ardent social democrat, have thought of his granddaughter going to live in the Zionist Jewish State?

  Our tent contained ten beds, and we shared it with Pavel, Eva, her mother, Paťa, Manka, and two other friends. Apart from the hundreds of tents, there were a few wooden shacks in the camp, a kitchen, an office, a makeshift clinic, a few toilets, and a washroom. In addition, there was a long trough with faucets in the open, but the water was tepid. The compound was enclosed by a wire fence, and people were not allowed to leave. Free food was distributed three times a day, but many of the items were strange to us. We got pita bread and tahini, olives, and something called halva, which we guessed was made of crystallized honey and tasted a bit like caramel. If you had several containers, you had to keep the sweet halva away from the olives and sardines; if not, it would all run together in one bowl. The problem was not the lack of dishes but of hands to carry the vessels.

  The first night it was very hot; it was the hamsin, the Israeli version of the sirocco. In the middle of the night, a sudden gust of wind blew off the top of the tent, and rain started pouring in. We moved our beds as far away from the hole as possible, but nobody could sleep anyway.

  Every day following our arrival, Otto stood at the gate, expecting my uncle Ernst-Benjamin. He was my father’s younger brother, who had managed to immigrate to Palestine at the last moment before the Nazi occupation. He knew we were due to arrive; we had sent him a telegram before our departure and another immediately upon our arrival. What we did not know was that he had become a policeman and could not get leave. There was no way to communicate with us, no phone, no mail address. In the meantime, all our friends had been fetched
by their Israeli relatives. Our only daily relief was when cousin Pepík visited us in the late afternoons and gave us some coins from his earnings of the day and a bottle or two of fruit juice. After ten days of waiting, Otto decided to take things into his own hands and start acting.

  We had expected, perhaps naively, that either Pepík or my uncle would advise us where to settle and where to look for work. Pepík was very enthusiastic and sympathetic, happy to have a relative nearby, after being for many years the only member of the Kraus family in Israel. He called Otto “blood of my blood,” which became his sobriquet to our friends, when they spoke about him. But Blood of My Blood had no answers to our questions.

  Then Otto got information about a better camp near Netanya. Next morning we climbed on the open truck with little Peter, our luggage, and a few other new olim and traveled to Pardessia.

  Pardessia was similar to the tent camp we had left. There was also a fence and the same trough with faucets; however, there was a hole in the fence, and people left and entered through it without difficulty. There was a nearby bus stop, and Otto squeezed onto the bus, along with the shouting and shoving mob, and traveled to Tel Aviv, or rather Jaffa, to see my uncle at long last.

  Uncle Ernst-Benjamin and Aunt Hadassa were glad to meet him, but no practical help could be expected from them. They had recently left Kibbutz Ashdot Yaakov, where they had met and started their family, and they were still in the process of settling down. Despite Uncle being a lawyer, trained to become a judge back in Prague, here he’d had to accept a post at the police and could barely make ends meet. Their dwelling was half of a flat in an unfinished Arab house in Jaffa; the other half was occupied by a large Bulgarian family of olim. There was only one shower room. Since the kitchen was taken over by the Bulgarians, the shower room became Aunt’s kitchen, where she cooked on two petroleum cookers, which stood on wooden stools. Every Friday she removed everything from her “kitchen” to allow both families to take a shower. It was clear now that we could not expect solutions from either of our relatives.