by Shmuel David
Two Princes and a Queen / Shmuel David
All rights reserved; No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information retrieval system, without the permission, in writing, of the author.
Copyright © 2017 Shmuel David
Translation from the Hebrew: Noel Canin
Contact: [email protected]
Dedicated to my father, the late Shlomo David, who continued to be troubled by the Kladovo-Sabac affair until his last days.
This book was inspired by his vision and his insistence on not allowing this obscure affair to be forgotten.
This book is also dedicated to all the heroes of the group, members of Youth Movements and families, who knew pain and disappointment and never lost hope.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to Professor Dalia Ofer, from the Institute of Contemporary Jewry at the Hebrew University, authority on the Kladovo-Sabac Affair, whose research on the subject and helpful comments guided me during the writing of this book.
Anat Shen, literary editor, who counseled wisely and went through the final writing stage with me.
Noël Canin, for her wonderful translation, professionalism, devotion to the project, and emotional involvement throughout all stages of the work.
Mara Juvanovic, for her incredible witness journal – “We are Packing, We are Unpacking”, translated into Hebrew from Serbo-Croatian, by my father, Shlomo David.
My father, the late Shomo David, whose stories of the journey, excerpts from his diary and, above all, his determination to immortalize their story, inspired this book.
Nina Rimon Davis, writer, editor and translator. Although not involved directly, her good advice and deep insights hovered above this book all the way.
My mother, Varda David (Lotte) who, in her quiet way, and without knowing it, inspired the writing of this novel.
And thank you to all the survivors, heroes of the Kladovo-Sabac Affair, who still wish to share the memories they hold in their hearts. And to the second generation, who continue to honor and preserve old cardboard folders of letters and journals from that period, which shed light on the Kladovo-Sabac Affair.
─ Part I ─
New York, November 1998
The picture had been ingrained in his memory since childhood. A stately, beautiful woman leaning against the wooden banister of a staircase in the foyer of a mansion, a small smile on her lips as she gazes at some distant point. She is elegantly dressed, as if about to go arm in arm with her husband to see La Traviata at the Grand Opera House. Draped over her shoulders is a fur shawl, and her dress falls almost to the floor.
She was the grandmother he’d never met. The gilt-framed picture hung in his parents’ home on a moshav in the Galilee next to a bronze statue—the head of a stern man with kind, intelligent eyes and a jutting chin—his grandfather, Emil David, a renowned Belgrade architect in the 1930s.
He got to thinking about the picture that morning on the bus to work when a photograph in the fashion section of the New York Times caught his eye. It was titled “Women on Váci Utca—How Women Dressed in Budapest During the Twenties.” Even the geographical location was right, and for a moment, he thought the woman in the photograph could be his grandmother.
The passengers on the bus were quiet and subdued, some absorbed in their morning newspaper. A whiff of fresh newsprint ink drifted on the air. Others stared out the window, wrapped in remnants of a dream reluctant to make way for reality. In recent years, since moving to the neighborhood Rachel had yearned for, he no longer remembered his dreams. Life had become more pressured ever since the option of returning to Israel had been dismissed. Through the bus window, he noticed the pale light from windows of early risers, the lawns around their houses dipped in morning mist.
Two years previously, they’d considered moving to another neighborhood but worried that the transition to a new school might upset the girls. This was when Alan began to deeply miss Israel, summer especially, the smell of fresh earth after plowing, and the sound of the Hebrew language. In Queens, you could still hear Hebrew here and there, or go into a local pizzeria to eat falafel.
The yearning had kept him awake nights, and when he finally fell asleep, his dreams were swamped with nightmares and anxiety. Once or twice, Rachel shook him awake when he screamed in the depths of a bad dream. She suggested he see a therapist.
“Everyone goes to a therapist these days,” she told him. “Only Israelis with their dumb sense of pride think they don’t need one.”
Alan, of course, refused, but these reflections tortured him for months.
Rachel was adamant in her refusal. Born and raised in New York and a staunch supporter of Israel, she nonetheless wanted to go on supporting the country from a distance, from the comfort of her beautiful home in the luxurious neighborhood she’d dreamed of.
After getting off the bus on Thirty-Fourth Street, he was sucked into a bustling swarm of humanity. Men in coats, briefcases in hand, morning paper tucked under their arms, were swallowed up into the tall buildings like target-guided robots. Salvation Army bells were heard from every corner, and the earthy smell of burning chestnuts filled the air. Alan pushed his way through the throng descending into Penn Station.
In the commotion of the subway, he suddenly worried that the presentation he’d prepared for today’s meeting wasn’t clear enough. He was supposed to present Charles, Vice President of Computer Resources at the investment bank he worked for, with a project progress report and his plan for making up the schedule delays.
He’d been working hard lately and hadn’t spent enough time with his daughters. When he’d arrived home the day before, the girls were ready for bed, and the eldest, eight-year-old Nina, asked him to read her a bedtime story. He read her The Giving Tree, and toward the end of the story, a tear rolled unashamedly down his cheek. Nina noticed it and asked if he also liked climbing trees.
By eight o’clock in the morning, Alan feels as if half the day has already gone by. This routine of commuting to work was beginning to get to him. Each morning at five thirty, groping about in the darkness, he dresses quietly and leaves, collects the newspaper from the mailbox, and buys a cup of coffee next to the bus station. Same old faces, same old stories every morning.
He’s been absent from the gym for too long now and it definitely showed. Various aches and pains bother him now. He used to play basketball with friends on Tuesdays and Saturdays. But getting home at eight in the evening meant he had to give it up. A coworker urged Alan to join him at a nearby gym during their lunch breaks.
“You catch two birds with one stone.” He smiled. “Skipping a meal you don’t really need and getting rid of your paunch at the same time.”
“And why not?” he muses. He needs to take himself in hand.
The doors opened. People squeezed in. Alan was so self-absorbed he didn’t notice he’d reached Rector Street. Leaping out just before the doors closed, he hurried along the platform toward the exit. The platforms shook as a train going in the other direction roared into the station. Exiting the station, he was greeted by the cold November air with its aroma of coffee and fresh pastries coming from the stands on the sidewalk.
The skies seen from the office window were deep blue, giving no hint of the bitter cold outside. As he hung up his heavy wool coat, he recalled the newspaper photograph. How could he be certain it wasn’t Grandmother Louisa?
He remembered the strange telephone call he’d received one evening a year ago, in the middle of family dinner. The phone rang and he heard a
Hebrew accent in the energetic, authoritative voice on the line.
“My name is Efraim Lahav. I’m a journalist for the Jerusalem Post. I’d like to schedule a meeting with you to discuss a highly important matter.”
Alan was surprised and intrigued. They scheduled a lunch meeting at Alan’s favorite Italian restaurant, next to the downtown Trinity Church. Efraim Lahav told him he was about to publish an article about the Kladovo group’s failed emigration from Europe during the 1940s.
“Your father and I were in the same group, even on the same boat—one of the three boats there. ‘The two princes and a queen,’ we used to call them. Eventually, both of us were lucky enough to get to Israel, but most of the people in the group didn’t make it.”
“Yes, I know the story. Father told us several times about the boats and the Danube River that froze during the winter. He used to get very emotional, talking with real nostalgic longing. Which was a little strange, considering the fact they were stuck there without basic living conditions and unable to move for a very long time. Hundreds of people died in the end, including his parents.”
“The article I’m writing will make waves,” said Efraim. “It will finally expose what really happened back then and remove the veil of silence and secrecy that has surrounded this entire affair for dozens of years. The piece will point a finger at those responsible for that failure. Unfortunately, when I spoke with your father, I got the impression he wasn’t really interested.”
“As far as I know, he thinks it’s pointless to expose the responsible parties because it isn’t going to help anyone at this point. It certainly won’t bring the dead back to life, just more grief and sorrow.”
“I know your father. He’s afraid. But something must be done. He says ‘failure is an orphan,’ but one can and should find the fathers of that failure. Your father is a member of the Kladovo-Sabac commemoration and research committee, and as such, I’d like his support in exposing the responsible parties. I only need the support of a few people.”
Alan had promised to see if he could convince his father to support Efraim’s initiative but didn’t commit to any period of time. He recalled the telephone conversation with his father right after that meeting with Ephraim and his subsequent letter a few weeks later.
All these thoughts passed through Alan’s head as he aimlessly stared at his presentation. The meeting was scheduled for ten, so he still had over an hour. A few final touches wouldn’t hurt…
But on second thought, why make last-minute changes? He still had to prepare answers regarding the late schedule and had already begun putting them together. Absorbed and focused, he was startled by the ringing of the telephone. He had specifically asked Sarah, his secretary, not to put through any calls.
Sarah apologized for the interruption. “It’s from Israel. They said it’s urgent.”
What could be so urgent? he asked himself, calculating the time difference. Maybe it had something to do with his father. He hadn’t spoken with him in two months. The last time they’d talked, his father mentioned coming for another visit, which had aroused mixed feelings in Alan because of the inconvenience involved in such a visit.
“Should I put the call through?” asked Sarah, bringing him back to reality.
The troubled voice of his sister, Bracha, was heard on the other line.
“Alan, Father’s in the hospital. He’s had a stroke.”
Five years ago, his father had undergone cardiac catheterization. Back then, he was told it was a simple procedure. He hadn’t gone to Israel to visit him then because of his work. But when it came to his father, things almost always got complicated. A year later, bypass surgery was required as well. That time, he’d visited his father at Haifa Rambam Hospital in Israel.
Now what?
He’d always preferred to keep his distance from his father because he saw him as a defeated man. Even when he’d been healthy and active, fighting a quixotic war against management corruption on their moshav.
He could recall few moments during his childhood when he’d actually felt proud of his father. It was mainly when he beat all the youngsters on the moshav at table tennis, landing killer smashes in each corner, to the enthralled whistles of his friends. Not everyone had a tennis champion for a father. During his childhood in Belgrade, his father had participated in table-tennis tournaments.
His father had spent several years in various hospitals, but in recent years, his condition had improved. And now, of all times, a stroke. Out of nowhere. Alan wasn’t ready for it. He needed to speak to him. They still had so much to discuss. Maybe that’s why he’d emigrated to America. He’d always believed there’d be time to talk about the things they’d never quite managed to address. That he would find a convenient time, go to Israel for a long vacation, sit comfortably with his father under the mulberry tree in the garden, and talk about everything.
So why did things have to get so complicated? Why now of all times, when he was under such stress at work?
When Bracha, his sister, told him he’d better book his flight as soon as possible, he realized his schedule was about to change.
***
The monotonous sound of the jet engines, and perhaps the Bloody Mary he’d drunk, dimmed his uneasy thoughts, replacing them with a drowsy sensation of comfort. He placed the sleeping mask over his eyes and tried to fall asleep. It was going to be a long flight. But every time he was about to drift into sleep, troubling thoughts resurfaced in his mind.
For years he’d worked hard, taken risks, advancing from one position to another, from one office to the next. That telephone call had come at a decisive moment, a possible springboard to the great career he’d always dreamed about.
The seatbelt light came on and the captain announced that the plane had hit an air pocket. The guy in the next seat ignored the announcement and burst out laughing. His screen showed Mr. Bean dropping numerous cereal boxes on the floor. His neighbor’s cheerful laughter reminded Alan how long it had been since he himself had enjoyed a hearty laugh. Not that he’d ever been one to laugh easily.
The jolts and bumps of the airplane gradually intensified, as if to remind the passengers it could all end in catastrophe, but his neighbor just kept on laughing. Alan continued to feel sorry for himself and think about the work opportunity he was about to lose. But what could he possibly do? Charles would never wait for him. He’d made that perfectly clear during their last conversation.
Alan had gone to his office before the trip, expecting a “Don’t worry, we’ll wait for you,” declaration from him, but that just didn’t happen. Charles grimaced and spoke of the project’s importance, and in the same breath said there were more important things in life.
“A man must make his own decisions.” He used the same worn-out expression Alan himself occasionally used.
The air pockets subsided, and the flight became less bumpy. Most of the people around him had already sunk into sleep. Once more, he recalled the letter his father had written him following his conversation with the journalist. For the first time, he heard his father openly speaking of the affair he’d so rarely referred to over the years. Efraim Lahav and his efforts to find the culprits had aroused his father’s anger.
And this was what he wrote:
Efraim told me about his interview with Ruth Klüger.1 This is nothing less than slander. She can’t possibly recall all the details of a conversation with Spitzer twenty years later. Making Spitzer out to be a lunatic? Spitzer dedicated his life to aiding and trying to save the group. True, there were difficulties, numerous difficulties, and you had to be an acrobat not to come crashing to the ground. He did everything in his power. My father knew him well. He served as chairman of the Yugoslavia Federation of Jewish Communities and lived not far from us in Belgrade. They were friends. It’s true that he was the one who suggested my father join the group, but who could have predicted what would happen?
And who could have known that the Germans would take over Yugoslavia so quickly? It’s easy to be wise after the event. But foresight is a rare quality few are blessed with.
Not even the Darien, the ship the Mossad2 bought in Piraeus in a complicated, convoluted operation, could possibly accommodate the entire group. Only eight hundred people could board it. But then we received word about the disaster that struck Salvador in the Sea of Marmara at the beginning of December 1940, just as Spitzer was deliberating whether or not to have us board the Darien.
I repeat, I will have nothing to do with Efraim’s foul accusations against Spitzer.
Even the stories Ephraim has been spreading about youngsters having no bread to eat, and how he and a few of his friends had to steal bread from the wealthy people in the group, are complete fiction. I was right there with him, and I have no memory of any shortage. Spitzer kept us supplied with food even after the river froze over. When he couldn’t make it, Naftali Bata or Elli Haimbach were there to connect us with the outside world. They’d pass over the money to buy provisions, post letters, and later on, they were emissaries for the National Israeli Office in Zagreb. I can testify to the fact that we never went without food. Not the youngsters. We lacked for nothing.
Alan was curious and wanted to hear more about the affair. He thought he’d try to get additional details from his father but wasn’t sure he’d be able to talk. Fragmented memories flooded his mind. He and his father had never seen eye to eye. There was always such an air of seriousness about his father, lightheartedness and laughter not a part of him. Alan always seemed to make him angry.
As he grew up, the atmosphere between them gradually changed. He remembered how happy his father was to hear that Alan planned to continue his studies and get a master’s degree. For the first time in his adult life, his father had actually hugged and warmly praised him.