Two Princes and a Queen

by Shmuel David

  When the loud smashing sounds and curses gradually subsided and they thought it was over, Grandpa went outside and ran to his fur shop to see if his valuable merchandise was safe. On his way to the shop, thugs stopped him and beat him with sticks and clubs, breaking both his legs. This was how they found him in the morning, lying at the side of the road and weeping with pain.

  Mother put down the receiver with a shuddering sigh.

  “Grandpa is in the hospital. His entire lower body is in a cast. They burned down Jewish homes, smashed windows, even violently attacked people.”

  The door burst open and Father came in. He took off his coat and gloves and threw the morning edition of his Hungarian newspaper on the table.

  “This is disastrous,” he told Mother, unable to control his voice. He opened the newspaper and showed Mother a photo of smashed Jewish store windows in Berlin. Similar things happened during the night all over the Reich!

  Mother told him about the terrible phone call she’d received from Grandma.

  “That’s it, Emil. I’ve made up my mind! I don’t want to stay here anymore.”

  Klarie Goes to Budapest, June 1939

  We’ve been on our own for a week now with Sophie and Aunt Vera from Budapest. Mother and Father are with Klarie at Brody Adel Hospital in Budapest. The doctor says it’s pneumonia again, but more severe this time, and Klarie must go to a better hospital. Father remembered an old army friend of his who works at a hospital in Budapest, and his friend immediately made arrangements to admit Klarie.

  Pauli and I went with Father to visit her while she was still at Alexander Hospital in Belgrade, just before she was taken by ambulance to Budapest. Mother remained at her side all the time and was very worried.

  Klarie smiled weakly at us when we got there. We stood by the door with our hands in our pockets, not really knowing what to say.

  “Come on in, boys. I’m not going to bite you,” she said faintly.

  We went in and approached her bed. A mass of bright curls surrounded Klarie’s pale face on the large white pillow. Her smooth, freckled skin, which always looked fresh and healthy, now looked sickly pale, and her bright eyes were sad. I noticed she needed to make a real effort to straighten up and greet us, but a little spark returned to her eyes as we approached.

  Mother said it was a good thing her fever had dropped, because they’d be taking her to the hospital in Budapest the next day.

  The room had a strong smell of medicine and starched sheets. I hate the smell of hospitals. I’m afraid as I pass by the hospital rooms, hear the groans and cries, smell the medicine and disinfectants; I keep thinking that each of the people lying there in their hospital beds could die at any moment. But the saddest thing for me was seeing Klarie, normally so full of life and laughter, wearing a hospital gown, having to swallow medicine, and lying in bed beside a toothless old woman who was groaning and calling out in rural Croatian.

  Klarie is beautiful, even in a floral hospital gown. Doctors in white gowns, holding clipboards, came in and out and wrote all sorts of things on the medical chart on her bed.

  “Well, say something. How’s school?” Klarie tried to encourage us to break the silence.

  “Everything’s fine, Klarie. Yesterday, I was chosen outstanding student of 1939,” I told her with pride.

  “Wonderful,” she said. “I always knew you were a genius. You just don’t try hard enough. What about you, Pauli?” asked Klarie.

  “Nothing special. I want you to come home so we can play tennis again.”

  “Don’t you think I do too? As soon as I’m better and out of the hospital, we’ll have a big tournament.”

  A doctor entered the room and asked us to leave.

  Mother left with us. Just as she was wondering where Father was when she needed him, he showed up. Looking very upset, he said he’d just found out that Karl, Caroline’s husband, had been arrested in Vienna. Two months before, he’d been fired from the university, along with all the other Jewish faculty members.

  Mother sighed deeply and said she didn’t envy the Jews in Germany and Austria. Father took advantage of her momentary weakness and said we must start packing up to make Aliyah to Israel. I felt so confused at that moment. On one hand, I wanted to fulfill the dream of making Aliyah to the land of Israel, as Dr. Kaufman had taught us at Akiba, but on the other hand, I also felt very sad at the idea of leaving my school and friends. Mother again broached the idea of America. “Who said we have to emigrate to Israel, of all places?” she said. But Father insisted that as far as he was concerned, emigrating to America was out of the question.

  Then they began to whisper, and I realized they were talking about Klarie. I pretended I wasn’t listening, while trying to hear every word. Father spoke again about Budapest and his army friend, Professor Otto. Professor Otto was the Director of Brody Adel Hospital and was expecting Klarie the next day.

  When Mother tried to object, Father told her in a low voice that they didn’t have the means to treat Klarie properly in this hospital, and Mother was convinced.

  The door opened and the doctor called Mother and Father. They disappeared to the end of the corridor, and we returned to sit at Klarie’s bedside.

  “Enough with the long faces. Say something happy,” Klarie whispered.

  Pauli put a hand in his jacket pocket and took out a folded piece of paper. Ceremoniously, he presented it to Klarie, humming a melodramatic Mickey Mouse cartoon tune. He unfolded the page and showed her a charcoal portrait he’d drawn of her, curly-headed and smiling.

  “It’s the spitting image of me,” she said in admiration.

  “I used a photo Father took of you. It looks just like you, doesn’t it?”

  Klarie thanked him with a tired little smile and said he had really improved.

  “It’s for you,” said Pauli. “I wanted to frame it, but there wasn’t time.”

  I was mad at him for not telling me he had a gift for Klarie. If he’d told me, I’d have brought her something as well. I can’t draw as well as he does. He draws Walt Disney cartoon characters all the time. Father even framed and hung a few of them in our room. I felt so bad. He’d thought of her and brought her a gift, and I hadn’t done anything. He probably didn’t tell me on purpose. He’s always doing that to me. I stood there, ashamed, my hands in my pockets.

  Mother and Father returned, and Mother said it was time for us to go. We couldn’t stay at the hospital any longer.

  That night, I couldn’t fall asleep. I tossed and turned in bed, thinking about Klarie, how the next morning, accompanied by a nurse, she’d leave for Budapest by train; she’d travel by a special ambulance carriage together with Mother, Father, and her husband, Lazar. In Budapest, an ambulance will be waiting to take her straight to the hospital. Again, I had bad thoughts, remembering how wretched I must have looked next to Pauli, coming to visit her empty-handed. What if the doctors in Budapest couldn’t cure her either?

  Early in the morning, I woke to the sound of slamming doors. Father had arranged for the ambulance from the hospital to take them to the station, and he’d ordered a special carriage for them.

  “Don’t worry,” he told Mother. “Everything has been arranged. We’ll have a local ambulance waiting for us in Budapest to take us all to the hospital in the city center.”

  “Do you want something to eat?” Mother asked him. “Poor man. You’ve been running around all morning.”

  She was afraid we’d be late for school and sent me to wake Pauli.

  Because Mother was so busy that morning, I’d made us both cheese sandwiches just the way we like them, wrapping them in paper like Mother does. I put two in my schoolbag and two in Pauli’s. He always gets up late, even on a critical day like this, as if he didn’t care.

  I went to say goodbye to my parents with my schoolbag on my back. Mother hugged me close and started crying.

&n
bsp; “I don’t know what will become of us,” she said tearfully. “I feel as if everything is suddenly falling apart.”

  “It’s all going to be fine, Mother,” I said confidently. “We’re not little children anymore. We’ll be here with Vera. There’s no need to worry.”

  Father came over to me and hugged me man-to-man.

  “I’m counting on you, Hanne. We’ll send you postcards from Budapest.”

  “Goodbye,” we waved to them from the doorway. “Bring Klarie home healthy and well again.”

  Then we were on our own with Vera. That very first day I began to hate her. She treated us as if we were little children and not almost fifteen. She kept following me around and gave me no peace.

  Three days later, a postcard came from Budapest.

  11/06/1939

  Dear Children,

  We’ve arrived safely at Brody Adel Hospital in Budapest. Everything here is bigger and more modern. The doctor who is treating Klarie is very nice and sounds optimistic. Klarie is feeling better this morning. She even smiled for the first time in ages. We were very happy.

  I immediately sat down and wrote them a postcard.

  Dear Mother and Father,

  Everything is fine with us. Vera keeps too close an eye on us all the time. Yesterday, we all went to town to buy swimsuits and pants for summer camp.

  We love you,

  Pauli and Hanne.

  P.S. Yesterday, a man came to the house and introduced himself as Sime Spitzer. He asked about Father.

  Two days later, another postcard came.

  13/06/1939

  Hello Dear Children,

  The skies outside are gray, and a spring rain is falling. Even the skies are weeping with us for Klarie. We are at her bedside all the time, and our mood is as dreary as the weather outside. We don’t have any good news. Her fever went up again yesterday and isn’t coming down. She has no appetite. The doctors took some blood this morning and said we need to wait.

  No more postcards came. The fear that something was wrong began to rise from my stomach to my throat. I was mad at the whole world. At the lying doctors, at my parents who simply accepted everything the doctors told them. I thought about studying medicine when I grew up, or maybe I’d be a researcher and discover cures for diseases. That way I could save people.

  At the Akiba ken, we are busy rehearsing a play we will perform on the coming Saturday evening. I’ve been going to rehearsals every day. We’re putting on Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night. I’m playing the role of Sebastian, Viola’s twin brother. Branka Garai is playing Viola, and Pauli plays the duke who woos her. While my real sister is fighting for her life in Budapest, it’s difficult for me to play one of the twins whose ship sank at sea; though they were saved, each was convinced the other had drowned. Luckily, Viola swears not to marry any of her suitors, because she is grieving for her brother. That way, I wasn’t jealous of Duke Orsino, played by Pauli, and whose advances Viola rejects.

  I was hoping Mother, Father, and Klarie would be back in time to see the play, but as time passed, I realized this would not happen.

  On that ill-fated Saturday, while we were on stage, dressed in the costumes of Sebastian and the duke, waiting for intermission and the applause, Alice, the director, suddenly came over and asked us to come with her to the office.

  Vera was waiting for us there; her face was sad. “Your father called this morning. He said the situation is very grave. Klarie hasn’t woken up in two days.”

  I didn’t know what to do. My heart went out to Klarie, who was fighting for her life, while here, the show wasn’t over yet. Pauli angrily took off his duke costume and threw the cloak on the floor. I saw he was holding back his tears, unable to decide whether he should go on with the show. I sat in a chair and prayed with all my heart that a miracle would bring Klarie back to us. I imagined her playfully tossing back her curly hair and saying with a typical smile, “Hey, little one. What are you so upset about? I just wanted to see how sad you’d be if I’m not around.” Suddenly, all the tears I’d been trying to hold back burst out.

  “You don’t have to continue if you don’t want to, Hanne,” Alice said and placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. “We’ll let everyone know we’ve had to stop the play for personal reasons.”

  Her voice shook, and her eyes, too, were bright with tears. She knew Klarie well. They’d gone to the same school.

  The show must go on, I reminded myself again and again. I got up and straightened my clothes.

  “Come, Pauli,” I tugged his hand. “We can’t disappoint everyone.”

  Pauli reluctantly picked up the duke’s cloak, placed it on his shoulders, and followed me back on stage.

  After the play ended, each of the actors took a bow before the audience. Alice later explained to me why I had received the loudest ovation. “Your face showed real distress, which completely fit the part. That’s what it’s like when real life meets acting on stage.”

  At home, we realized we should expect the worst. We were right. On Tuesday evening, June 20, 1939, Father called and asked to speak first with Pauli and then with me.

  “Be strong, my beloved son. The situation here is very bad. Vera will bring you to Budapest on the night train.”

  Klarie was buried on Wednesday afternoon, June 21, 1939, at the Jewish cemetery in Budapest.

  ***

  Alan stood next to his father, who was sitting in a wheelchair on the large balcony of Fliman Geriatric Hospital in Haifa. His father had been transferred there three weeks before. Other patients sat in wheelchairs on the spacious porch overlooking the view. Haifa Bay was visible to the north, and even the Bay of Acre could be seen on the horizon. However, due to their medical condition, most patients were indifferent to the beautiful view.

  “I’m going back to New York tomorrow,” Alan said.

  He waited for some sort of reaction—approval, protest, anger. All he got was silence.

  “I have work to do, and my wife and the girls are waiting for me, you know…”

  “Your wife, yes. What’s her name again? My memory is going…”

  “Rachel. She’s fine.”

  “Do you love her?”

  After a long, embarrassing silence, his father added, “Look, I’ve already lost Inge. But you, don’t you give up on love.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” asked Alan.

  “When I visited you in New York and met Rachel for the first time, I realized a few things, but was reluctant to say anything.”

  “We’ve been to counseling since then. Everything is fine now.”

  “I’ve often wondered what happened to Inge. But I’ve never had the time or the means to find out. She might even be living somewhere else. New York, maybe, or London. Have you started looking for her?”

  “I have. So far, I’ve only found your Belgrade childhood diary, the one you translated.”

  “I met Inge later, on board the Tzar Nikolai.”

  “Why are you talking about Inge now? You’ve never mentioned her before.”

  “I’ve never been close to death before,” said his father.

  Another silence fell between them.

  “I wrote about the Tzar Nikolai. I wrote about her as well.”

  “Are there more diaries I haven’t seen?” asked Alan.

  “Not diaries, a memoir I wrote a few years ago.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “I planned to tell you about it once I’d finished, but then I got ill. Not even your mother knew. I used to write at the library. She thought I was studying Arabic.”

  “So where are the memoirs?”

  “Under the tractor seat. The cover says something like ‘Saul Czernichowski.’ No one will find it there.”

  “But why did you keep it a secret?”

  “Because I haven�
�t finished writing. I wanted to publish it one day—the story of my life and the story of that wretched attempt to emigrate.

  ***

  That very same day, Alan went to the tractor shed. He lifted the tractor seat, and beneath a gray blanket smelling of grease, he found a notebook with the words “Selected Poems of Saul Czernichowski” written on its cover.

  With the memoir in his hand, Alan again wondered why it had been so important to his father to hide the story.

  He opened the notebook and began to read.

  I have recently decided to write my memoirs. I’ve come to the realization that it is my duty to write our story, the story of the Kladovo group, for the sake of future generations. After what happened to Shmarya, I realized that my life could also be cut short and the story left untold. Two years ago, I met a man and sat talking to him about farming. He spoke of growing olive trees and improving them, and I told him about the orchard I had to uproot because of the expenses involved in its maintenance. That evening, he had no idea that I was one of the passengers on the Kladovo boats who was waiting for a ship to take us to the Black Sea, and I had no idea he was Shmarya Tsameret, the mysterious Mossad agent who had bought the ship the Darien from a Greek in Piraeus, and paid for it with money he’d got from the Joint. The Darien was supposed to wait for us at the port nearest the Danube outlet to the Black Sea and sail with us through the Black Sea to the Mediterranean and Israel.

  Shmarya was killed in a terrible work accident at the olive grove he loved so much. About two years after our meeting, and after he’d passed away, I discovered that the very man who’d sat talking with me over coffee and cake at Kibbutz Beit Hashita was actually Shmarya Tsameret. He never said a word about his exemplary past in the Mossad L’Aliyah Bet. After his death, his wife published his memoirs in a book called Eternal Morning. When I read the book, I realized that unless I wrote about what happened in Kladovo, the story would die with me, untold.