Two Princes and a Queen

by Shmuel David

  “Back home, when my father was still alive, the Friday night Shabbat meal was truly magical.”

  “You haven’t told me anything about your father. I didn’t even know he’d died.”

  “It was a long time ago, and I don’t really feel like talking about it. But he was a very special man. He had a great voice, and when we sang Friday night Shabbat songs, like ‘Bo’i Kala,’ he always had tears in his eyes.”

  “In our house, there was nothing special about Friday night, other than a festive meal.”

  “That’s exactly your problem. You need to rediscover your roots. Wait a minute.”

  She got up, straightened her skirt, and went to the far end of the ferry, where Dr. Bezalel had instructed her to sleep. She came back two minutes later, holding a small volume that looked like a prayer book.

  “Have you ever seen this?” She handed me the book. “I carry it with me wherever I go. Tseno Ureno.11 It was especially written for daughters of Israel who want to understand Torah.”

  “No, I’m not familiar with it. I never saw my mother or sister reading it.”

  “I heard about your sister. Klarie, right?” she said sadly. “That was one of the first things your mother told me. She loved her very much. She simply can’t get over her death.”

  Inge took my hand between her palms. I felt heat passing from her body to mine. But then Dr. Bezalel came in and said he needed to examine a patient. He asked Inge to accompany him. Inge hastily dropped my hand and got up.

  On my way back to the Tzar Nikolai, I passed an empty bed in the floating isolation ward. Suddenly, I heard a woman groaning from one of the beds. I thought there might be a patient there, suffering from stomachaches, but when I looked, I couldn’t see anything. I just heard quiet moaning sounds coming from one of the beds that gradually increased. I carefully approached that bed and saw a huge pile of blankets moving up and down. I went even closer, and in the darkness, I saw a woman’s head, slightly tilted back. The head belonged to Anita, the woman everyone called “Romantic Anita.” There was a strange expression on her face. I wasn’t sure if it was pain or pleasure. Her eyes were closed, her mouth slightly open, and she was breathing hard.

  “Do you need the doctor?” I asked. I tried to pull down the blanket and, to my amazement, discovered the body of a large man lying on top of her. Both of them were completely naked. I recognized the bald head and broad white back of Shishko, the boat’s cook. To my great shame, I only then realized what was happening there. I threw the blanket back over them and fled.

  I returned to our corner. Father told me Mother was with Mimi, Fredl’s pregnant wife. A few days ago, Mother had told him that Mimi was weak and there was no one to guide her through the stages of pregnancy and birth.

  That night, I couldn’t fall asleep. I was haunted by the strange sight of Romantic Anita lying naked in bed in the floating isolation ward, with the cook’s large body on top of her. I thought of Inge and the way she adhered to the commandments of the book she always kept with her. Her piety seemed a little strange to me, but perhaps it suited her. After all, she wanted to become a nurse and take care of sick people, which was also a mitzvah, a good deed in the eyes of God. Then came thoughts of old Petrović, and I kept imagining torn nets and crossword puzzles. Then I remembered Anita’s smooth, naked body and her moaning. I wondered if Inge would also lie naked like that one day, sighing in pleasure.

  Just as I was on the verge of sleep, loud shouts came from the dining room. I tried to ignore them and go to sleep but saw Father getting dressed to go there. I dressed as well and followed him.

  Dozens of men and women were standing in the dining room. They were all screaming and cursing. At first, I couldn’t understand who they were screaming at, but then I saw their victim. Little Anita stood there, her hair disheveled, a humiliated and tortured expression on her face. Two large, strong women held her arms. I recognized one of them—the self-righteous Mrs. Zonshein, the only one who could afford to prepare fresh omelets for herself and her daughter every morning. A cardboard sign hung from Anita’s shoulders, with words in German saying “I’m a promiscuous whore.”

  The people standing next to her spat in her face, then moved back to make space for others who wanted to participate in that terrible, humiliating scene.

  Mother, who stood next to me, tried to urge Father to do something to stop that shameful act. Then, she couldn’t contain her anger anymore and lunged forward toward the women who were holding Anita.

  “Shame on you! Animals, all of you! Leave the girl alone!”

  But the people in the crowd simply screamed at Mother not to interfere. Mother got closer to Anita and tried to take the sign off her neck, but the two large women pushed her away and cursed her, then held Anita even tighter.

  Father began moving toward Mother to try and help her when suddenly, a huge, bald-headed man burst into the screaming crowd. He quickly made his way toward the helpless Anita, pushing aside anyone who stood in his way. Once he reached Anita, he punched the surprised faces of the two women holding her. They were both hurled to the floor, screaming with pain. Shishko took advantage of the element of surprise, wrapped Anita in his big arms, lifted her up, and carried her outside, quickly disappearing from the eyes of the crowd.

  Before falling asleep, I kept thinking about Anita and Shishko, about how he’d saved her at such a difficult moment. I heard Mother telling Father, “She’s not such a poor soul. I’ll go on calling her ‘Romantic Anita.’ She really is a romantic soul and not a whore at all.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t do anything, Loui. By the time I arrived, they were already…”

  “At least you tried, Emil. I feel terrible about her. She followed her heart without fear.”

  “I know someone else who followed her heart…” Father said.

  I wondered what he meant. I felt my eyes closing.

  ***

  The sound of the engine turbines woke me early in the morning. They occasionally turn on the engines so the water won’t freeze in the pipes. When I looked up, I saw the outside rail coated by a layer of frozen snow. I could hear the snow crunching under the feet of the people walking on the deck above. Suddenly, I heard screaming.

  “Help! Help! Someone has fallen into the water! Help! Quickly!”

  I pulled on my shoes, grabbed my coat, and ran up on deck. Beneath the bridge stretching from the Tzar Nikolai to the Kraljica Marija, I saw a man with flailing arms shouting for help. It was Sender, a young Hungarian man. It looked as if he was about to drown. The bridge connecting the boats was made of narrow wooden boards and ropes covered with morning frost—a thin layer of slippery ice stretched to both ends. The bridge itself was also slippery with ice.

  The cries for help intensified. Sender was not only about to drown, he was also being swept toward the huge paddle wheel that was still slowly turning. I couldn’t understand why no one had stopped the wheel. While we all stood watching helplessly, a splashing sound was heard. Someone had jumped into the freezing water and was quickly swimming toward the hapless Sender. Something about the man’s swimming movements looked familiar. I remembered the broad shoulders and the long arm movements from our garden swimming pool. It was Father! How was he able to control his fear and swim in that freezing water toward the spinning paddle wheel? People on the bridge shouted, “Stop the wheel! Quickly! Somebody run and tell them!”

  Everyone was astonished by the sight of Father approaching the drowning Sender while the large wheel gradually slowed its rotation. Father was now very close to the now motionless paddle wheel. He grabbed Sender by the scruff of his neck and began to swim with him back to our boat.

  Someone threw him a rope from above. Father wrapped the rope around Sender’s arms and shoulders; he appeared exhausted. They pulled him up to the height of the bridge, but he was unable to hold on to the slippery planks and slid back down. A young man offered
him a hand and helped him hold onto the pole around which the rope was tied. Father managed to pull himself up with the rope.

  There was a lot of excitement on deck. Father almost fell when everyone patted him on the back and congratulated him on his daring rescue mission. They all complimented him on his bravery and swimming skills. Mother, who was extremely worried while Father was in the water, welcomed him back with a hug and a kiss.

  Life went back to normal, but that morning, people were afraid to stand on the bridge and draw washing water as they normally would. Many simply gave up on their regular morning bath. Even Pauli and I, who would normally bring three buckets each, brought only a single bucket for washing the dishes. Mother was very strict about washing and saw to it that we washed our faces and armpits every morning, in spite of the freezing temperatures, and insisted that we wash our entire bodies once every few days.

  The Zukerman family did not give up their morning washing ritual. The father had brought a bucket into the corridor, and the two girls, ten-year-old Rivka’le and her sister, Haya, who was two years older, stood half-naked beside the bucket, and he scrubbed their bodies with a hard bath brush. Their father had tied a blanket to the rail of the boat and held the other end to hide his daughters’ nakedness. When I passed by on my way to get another bucket for the kitchen, the blanket slid down for a brief moment. For a single second, the sisters’ white bodies were exposed. A deafening scream made all heads turn toward them. Their embarrassed father hurried to raise the blanket and hide them once more.

  That morning, rumors started flying about Sender’s personal life and the reason for his fall. Sender, married to Hilda, who was about his age, had apparently not joined the transport for ideological reasons. Both he and his wife did not belong to any of the movements. I heard Father telling Mother that there were rumors of Sender having a lover on the Kraljica Marija, and that he was hurrying back to his wife from a night with her when he slipped into the water.

  “I just cannot believe the sort of people there are here on this voyage,” said Mother. “Tell me, Emil, what kind of a man is he? I feel sorry for his poor wife.”

  Father had become the hero of the day and was surrounded by people who wanted to get close and talk to him. Perhaps now they’ll stop thinking his Serbo-Croatian had paved his way to the officers’ dining room.

  Mother bore her suffering silently and rarely complained aloud. But at night, I would hear her moaning and tossing from side to side. At one point, she simply accepted the harsh conditions of our journey. She realized we would have to spend the harsh winter there, but hoped the future held better things for us. This is why she quietly bore the stale food, the gray, tasteless porridge we received for breakfast, and settled for a slice of bread spread with jam and a cup of lukewarm coffee. She’d also gotten used to the freezing temperatures and cold water, washing our clothes in the water we brought in the bucket. I was in charge of drying them on the hot steam pipe on the engine deck. Mother, who had been so spoiled in Belgrade, always surrounded by maids and servants and who never had to work for her living, suddenly became very active and involved here on the boat. She asked to be allowed to help in the dining room and the storage room; she was willing to do any job. One day, when Inge told her she needed someone to help her in the room where food and clothes from the Federation of Jewish Communities were stored, Mother offered to help without hesitation. Since then, she’s there every day from morning till noon, mending and patching torn clothes, distributing clothes, and she also took over the receiving and arranging of food products.

  Most people on the boat settled for what little supplies were received from the Federation of Jewish Communities. Even those who had sold their property and joined the voyage with enough money in their pockets weren’t eager to flaunt their wealth—apart for a few, like Mrs. Zonshein and her daughter, Rosie. Mrs. Zonshein didn’t settle for the meager kitchen meals like the rest of us. The daily ceremony in which she prepared a two-egg omelet for her daughter and herself enraged many members of the group. Teddy, our guide, was especially sensitive about the subject. He talked to us a lot about things like sharing a destiny and mutual responsibility. This morning, when he saw Mrs. Zonshein breaking two eggs into a frying pan resting on an oven, he could no longer contain himself and said to her, “Mrs. Zonshein, you are preparing a feast fit for a king…”

  “You are more than welcome to join us,” answered Mrs. Zonshein.

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Zonshein. I eat the same meals as my group members, and we all receive our rations from the Federation of Jewish Communities.”

  Teddy, whose full name was Theodor, was a twenty-three-year-old Viennese, with a highly developed sense of responsibility. He saw us teenagers as his protégés. When I was sick and hospitalized in the floating isolation ward, he visited me at least once a day, brought me tea, and sat there talking to me. At the Hanukkah party, over a month ago, he took all the party preparations upon himself and assigned roles to everyone. I really wanted the role of Judas Maccabeus, but as usual, Pauli ended up getting that part, and everyone burst out laughing when he went on stage and recited the lines from Handel’s oratorio. It was funny to see a child with such a European face performing the part of a hero in the ancient land of Israel. Teddy hosted the entire event. He also wrote new and contemporary lyrics to the song “Mi Y’malel.”12 Martha, who had been a singing teacher in Vienna, conducted the children’s choir she’d cultivated on board the boat. Mr. Fredl accompanied the singing with his accordion, and for a short time, we all forgot about our troubles and rejoiced with some genuine Hanukkah potato latkes.

  After his confrontation with Mrs. Zonshein, Teddy came to us very upset.

  “She has some nerve. And in front of everyone, no less. If there is an equal ration per person, everyone should share equally.” Then he turned to me, “Hanne, I want you to be in charge of telling all the youth on board that there will be a talk with Zeev Dvoriansky this morning. At ten o’clock on board the Tzar Dusan, all right?” Then he added, half-jokingly, hinting at this morning’s incident, “Just be careful while crossing the bridge.”

  I had to finish washing the dishes first. Pauli and I were on duty that day. My hands were red from the cold water and mounting piles of soaped dishes next to me. They hadn’t prepared us for such duties at summer camp in the mountains. Just a year ago, we were at the forest camp in Slovenia, sleeping in our pajamas in wooden huts in the forest. No one there had ever thought of anything like preparing food or washing dishes, especially in the cold February temperatures. The kitchen staff had been in charge of such duties, and our job was to have fun. The food was great, there were tennis and volleyball courts, and the lake with its pleasant turquoise waters invited us in for a dip.

  Pauli brought me another pile of dishes. He looked like a ragged, homeless refugee. Only a year ago, he was crowned as the summer camp’s tennis champion, towering above everyone else, with his winning smile and green eyes that attracted all the girls.

  I remembered an event that had taken place in a forest in Ljubljana, at which Pauli had been awarded a medal for beating the Croatian champion. He wore his white tennis clothes, and his golden forelock was carefully combed to the right. He held the tennis racket Father had bought him the year before for the annual tournament, the new medal dangling from his neck.

  We used to go out on field activities. We thought of ourselves as very mature, and our instructors taught us how to survive in the wild, but no one back then had any idea of what real survival meant—survival as taught here by that eternal boy scout Zeev Dvoriansky. After seven motionless weeks on the Danube, he’d managed to infect us all with his enthusiasm for history, and no one would dream of missing one of his classes. Zeev first taught on board the Tzar Dusan, and then moved to the floating school, where the isolation ward used to be.

  While I was busy washing the soap from the plates, Inge suddenly came up behind me, a broad smile on her face
.

  “You’ll only be done tonight at that pace,” she said. “Let me help you.”

  “No need, you have enough work with your group as it is.”

  “I also wanted to tell you we probably shouldn’t meet this evening,” she said in a low voice.

  “Why not?”

  “I heard some people talking about us this morning.”

  “What could they possibly say about us?” I asked. “We meet on the bridge in the evening, take a stroll outside, or visit the net-storage shed. What’s wrong with that?”

  “No, Hanne, you don’t understand where this is coming from…”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “With us, the Mizrahi Movement people, chastity is a way of life. I don’t want people to talk about me as if I’m…”

  “You shouldn’t worry about what people say. We feel good together, don’t we?”

  “Yes, Hanne. But you know what? Your father, he’s… He’s not really…”

  “What about my father?” I was surprised.

  “I see the way he looks at me, the way he ignores me, as if he were angry…”

  “My father? Angry?” I placed the semi-washed plate beside the pile and wiped my hands on my wet pants. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “Hanne, come on. I’ve already told you this before. In a different way, perhaps…”

  “I don’t remember you ever telling me something like that about my father. He’s a wonderful man.”

  “Yes, wonderful. A hero as well. We all saw how he jumped into the cold water this morning to save Sender,” she said, fixing the kerchief on her head. “Maybe he doesn’t like me because I’m too religious for his taste. He probably thinks I’m not a suitable match for his son.”

  “No way! My father’s a very liberal man.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed just how liberal he is,” she said angrily. “You should have heard the contempt in his voice when he answered friends from my group who invited him to pray the Shacharit morning prayer with them. I’m not even talking about his not putting on tefillin in the morning, but why does he look down on anything to do with religion?”