by Shmuel David
“Let him speak now!” came another voice.
“I do not come bearing good tidings today,” Mr. Averbuch began. “I know this isn’t easy, after all the hopes you’ve nurtured over the past few weeks.”
“We’ve nurtured hopes? You’re the ones who keep giving us false hope!” someone else raged.
“No one has deliberately tried to give you false hope. All of us have the best intentions. If only you knew how hard people are working to help you reach Israel. And not just here in Yugoslavia, but also in Geneva, Istanbul, and Rome. Even in far-off New York,” he added with pathos. “People are working to solve problems that keep coming up. The situation is complex, as you probably all realize.”
“You’re useless, the lot of you! All you do is travel all over Europe without doing anything!” another shout was heard from the crowd and immediately silenced.
“I have come here straight from Geneva. I did everything in my power to raise the missing sum. It was agreed that even if I don’t get the entire amount, a ship would be given to us in return for a commitment to pay the remaining amount. But tonight, this agreement was withdrawn.”
Angry voices and boos came from the crowd; some even spat on the ground and cursed. Naftali raised his hands in the air to calm everyone, and then shouted, “Let the man finish!”
“Dear friends, with the utmost regret, I must tell you we have to be patient and see what happens. I promise you everything will turn out for the best in the end,” he said.
Boos sounded again, and Mr. Averbuch added, “One more important thing, if I may, please.” He sounded as though he was pleading with the crowd. “In order to ease your stay here in the meanwhile, and please don’t see this as the harbinger of a longer delay, I have managed to get a large Greek tugboat to join our three boats and ease the crowded conditions. Management will know how to distribute the passengers among the boats and the tugboat. It will arrive here in two or three days.”
Penelope was the name of the tugboat.
* * *
11Tseno Ureno (צאינה וראינה, Tze’nah u-Re’nah), also spelled Tsene-rene, was sometimes called the Women’s Bible. A Yiddish-language prose work of circa 1590s parallel to the weekly Torah portions of the Pentateuch and Haftorahs used in Jewish worship services.
12“Mi Y’malel” (or “Mi Yimalel”) (Hebrew: מי ימלל “Who can retell?”) is a very well-known Hebrew Hanukkah song. The opening line—which literally means “Who can retell the mighty feats of Israel?”—is a secular rewording of Psalms 106:2, which reads “Who can retell the mighty feats of God?”
13El Male Rachamim is a funeral prayer used by the Ashkenazi Jewish community that the chazzan recites for the ascension of the souls of the dead. It is recited during the funeral, when visiting the grave of the departed on memorial days, and on any other occasions commemorating the dead.
Kladovo, May 1940
It’s been two weeks now since we disembarked from the Tzar Nikolai and moved into temporary lodgings in Kladovo. Even though this meant our journey was again delayed, at least we could stretch our legs a bit and feel more comfortable in the fresh air and open expanses of the village after so many long months in terrible, crowded conditions on the boats.
Morning. It’s still cold and dark outside, and the smell of damp hay and pig manure pierces my nostrils. I put on the old boots given me by Mikhailo, the gypsy-like farmer in whose house we were staying. Every morning, Mikhailo goes out on the river with his fishing boat. His two sons, who once shared all the chores and duties with him, had been drafted into the army, and he needs help with the pigs, so I agreed to help him.
Mikhailo took me to the pigsty, where we were greeted by about twenty mainly small pigs running around the yard. When they noticed us, they hurried over to sniff our boots and rub their noses against them. Mikhailo said I had nothing to fear from them, not even from the larger ones that looked plump, slow, and heavy.
At dawn, the morning chill still lingering over the yards and houses, I open the pigsty and fill the wheelbarrow with vegetable waste mixed with grass that Mikhailo had mown the day before. At first, the smell bothered me a little, but after a few days, I got used to it.
Mikhailo and his gypsy wife, Militza, live in a dilapidated-looking house in the western part of the village.
“This place is barely fit for pigs to live in,” said Father when we saw the house for the first time.
Militza and Mikhailo live in the house in a small spare room.
“Don’t worry about them,” said Father, when he noticed my discomfort about the couple’s great generosity. “They get a generous rent from the Federation of Jewish Communities for the hovel they’re renting us.”
One morning, while I was in the yard, Mikhailo came back from fishing. He was wearing tall boots that went all the way up to his knees. As I’d already fed the pigs, I asked to help him mow grass for them. He taught me how to hold a scythe, and corrected me when I flung it too high above the tall grass.
“Hold it like this, right hand on the handle in the middle and left hand on the upper one. Like this, see?”
With steady hands, he raised the scythe high and swung it down at the bottom of the green stems that toppled with a whistle. Then he stood behind me and had me repeat the correct movements.
“Excellent,” he said. “You’ll make a fine farmer.”
I was happy to receive some encouragement for my farming dreams, especially after what old Petrović had said when we’d gone to say goodbye to him just before the last journey that never took place.
Father was happy to see me doing well at manual labor. When we sat down to eat the dinner Militza had prepared, he said it showed independence, and pretty soon, I’d be able to provide for myself.
Every morning and evening, we ate Militza’s corn bread sitting around the small kitchen table, covered with a checkered tablecloth Mother had bought at the local market.
“When I was your age, I was already working for my father in the winery,” Father told me. “During the summers, I’d work harvesting grapes, and then help with repairs around the winery. A winery is like a factory. Every so often, a pipe needs to be replaced here; a leaky faucet needs to be fixed there. Father saw that I had good hands and told Mother, ‘he simply must study engineering.’ That was how they decided to send me to Budapest Polytechnich University. That’s the story of how I became an architect.”
I didn’t say anything. I wanted to tell him about my plan to be a farmer and work the land in the Jezreel Valley, but I knew he had great things in store for me and thought I should continue my studies.
“What hurts me the most is the fact you and Pauli have had to stop going to school. I had a pretty clear picture of your future. I’m sure after graduating from high school, you two would have continued to study at the Polytechnich University, just like me, and learn a profession.”
The pigs pounced on me, squealing joyously as I upturned the contents of the wheelbarrow, scattering the food with gentle kicks, so they wouldn’t need to crowd and fight for the food. I like the touch of their snouts on my tall boots. Once I’m finished, I carefully wash the boots so as not to bring the smell into the house.
Mother looks much better now since we left the boat. She is busy arranging the two small rooms and the kitchen, cleaning and polishing everything as if we were going to spend many more days here. She managed to get some fabric remnants at the market and sewed pillows and a blue drape for the room I share with Pauli. Father, on the other hand, walked sulking and idle between the people on Penelope and our small house. Now and then, he wrote letters to the authorities in an effort to obtain immigration permits for us.
***
Going ashore had left Father very worried about the immigration certificates. It was another blow after Mr. Averbuch’s announcement that the money he’d tried to raise in Geneva would not,
after all, be forthcoming. Father had taken that announcement very badly and told us that, from now on, he would try and take care of us himself, without any favors from such an amateurish organization.
Everything seemed to be working against us. Even Penelope, which was supposed to join us, had been stranded about fifteen hundred feet away from us. Its steam engine died with several long sighs, emitted a final cough, and that was that. All efforts to repair it were in vain. An announcement was issued over the Kraljica Marija’s radio that someone with knowledge of steam engines was required. The rumor spread throughout the three boats, but no one with such knowledge was to be found.
“You’re an engineer, aren’t you?” Mr. Goldman asked Father.
“Not exactly. I’m an architect. I plan buildings, offices, and residential houses. But you know what? I don’t mind trying. We have nothing to lose either way.”
After the Penelope crew had been alerted that someone had been found, they radioed him to take one of the fishermen’s boats and come immediately. Everything was done with the utmost speed.
Mother couldn’t understand why Father volunteered to help fix a ship engine. But when Father decides on something, nothing in the world can stop him. He took a fishing boat that set out from the harbor in the direction of the stranded tugboat. Tension among the people of the group was high. Everyone was waiting for Penelope to ease crowded conditions on the boats.
We were twice as nervous, hoping both for the rescue of Penelope and for Father’s mood to improve, as he’d seemed like someone whose whole world had fallen apart in the past few days. From Mother’s worried looks, I realized just how much she wanted him to succeed.
After two hours of nervous anticipation, a cloud of smoke began to rise from Penelope, and the happy announcement was heard on the radio.
“The engine has been fixed! We’ll be arriving in just a few minutes.”
Mother’s happiness knew no bounds. The tears in her eyes proved just how nervous she’d been. People standing on the decks reacted to the news with an outburst of happiness and applause, as if they’d heard we were actually about to set sail. Father returned on the deck of Penelope and was welcomed with applause, just like the day he’d rescued Sender, who had almost drowned about two months before. Now, too, everyone surrounded him, asking eagerly, “How did you manage to do it? What exactly did you do?”
Father spoke in his usual deep, slow voice, trying to play down his accomplishment. To those who insisted on details, he explained that the engine was choked because the coal burner’s air vent had clogged and needed cleaning.
“That’s the whole story,” said Father. “Just like any combustion process, you need air. It’s not so complicated.”
It was Father’s day, and nothing in the world could ruin it, not even worrying about our immigration certificates.
Penelope joined the three boats and helped ease conditions, but with the arrival of spring, trees turning green and gray fields in the west transforming into green and inviting meadows, the Yugoslav shipping companies demanded the return of the three boats. A group of about five hundred youths remained on board Penelope, and the rest of the passengers were lodged with local Kladovo villagers, after an agreement of generous rental fees was reached with the Federation of Jewish Communities.
***
One morning, the fragments of dreams still lingering in my mind and the first sunbeams peering through the morning mists, I was pushing the wheelbarrow full of vegetable leftovers and grass for the pigs when, suddenly, I heard the noise of feet hurriedly shuffling down the road leading to the river. I raised my head and noticed a few of our people, among them Mr. Globerman with Gaetzer, the swindler, in his eternal cap, the long-bearded Mr. Schneider, and Malik the shohet,14 who was dragging a large calf with a sack over its head and a rope around its neck. I realized this was intended to be the calf’s last journey. Leaving the wheelbarrow, I quickly ran outside and tried to catch up with them, intending to rescue the poor calf. What sin had that poor animal committed to be led like that, head covered, to the slaughter? If the people on board Penelope were hungry, let them eat canned food, it’s not so bad. It wasn’t any different from Militza’s corn bread that I was forced to eat each morning.
I hid behind the nearby fence. I have to stop them, I thought. But they’re stronger than me and would probably make fun of me. “You’re a wimpy, stupid kid,” they’d say. “You need to grow up. Would you rather our people starved?” They’d hurl angry accusations at me and say to Mother and Father, “What kind of a son have you raised?” I heard Gaetzer and Globerman chatting about some other matter, completely ignoring what was about to happen. I could almost hear the heartbeats of the calf. Gaetzer smiled at Globerman. He wasn’t at all concerned that the calf was about to lose its life. I wanted to scream at them to leave the poor animal alone. They stopped by a water faucet. Mr. Schneider turned on the faucet and filled the pitcher he was holding, and Globerman removed the sack from the calf’s head, probably to give it water. Schneider tilted the calf’s head up a little and forced water down its throat. The calf shook its head as if to resist, and water poured from the sides of its mouth.
Meanwhile, Mr. Globerman began to release the rope that was rolled in his hands and tie the calf’s legs at the hooves. I wanted to leave my hiding place and scream in protest at this impending disaster, but instead, I covered my eyes with my hands and was unable to overcome my weakness. I heard the sounds of a struggle, of something dragged on the ground, then the sound of thudding. It must have been Globerman beating the body of the beast. But I remained glued to my spot, as helpless as that bound calf.
When I opened my eyes a crack, I saw the calf had already been pinned to the ground, and Malik the butcher had taken a large knife from his bag while muttering a prayer. I rose from my hiding place and ran as far as my feet could carry me away from that terrible place and didn’t look back.
At breakfast, I couldn’t touch a thing. Mother asked if I had a stomachache, and I shook my head.
“Perhaps we should go to Dr. Bezalel? You look pale.”
All that day, my heart tormented me for being weak and not standing up and resisting the terrible act taking place before my eyes.
That evening, I heard Mother and Father talking. Mother expressed concern that Pauli and I weren’t in school, and Father tried to calm her down.
“It won’t hurt them to learn about life, about surviving difficult situations. That’s just as important.”
But Mother just wouldn’t calm down.
“How can they learn about surviving if they don’t have enough food to survive? Hanne hasn’t eaten anything all day. Did you see how skinny they both are?”
“I heard they were handing out meat on Penelope today. We haven’t seen any of it, though,” said Father.
“My heart contracts,” said Mother. “When I see the local children going to school as usual, while our children just wander about aimlessly. Sometimes I think we should go back to Belgrade until the children finish school. At least they studied a little while we were on the boats. Why did they stop teaching them? Just because we’re on shore now? Is it because some of us are spread out in different houses?” Mother wondered.
“Perhaps we can establish a school for them right here and run it just like a real school…” Father came up with an idea.
Father’s idea quickly came to fruition. Goldman and Dvoriansky were thrilled about it. Max Pomeranz, Yost’s father, also liked the idea and said he was willing to be in charge of vocational studies. Father volunteered to design the school building and started to draft plans. A few days later, a pickup truck arrived, with timber for building the shed that would be our school. Benches and tables were built from the same timber. Joseph the carpenter became very busy and was assisted by four men from Gordonia15 and two from Hashomer Hatzair. Pauli and I also helped with the construction. We carried the beams and handed
them to the men who were building the walls and the roof. Father supervised construction, making sure everything was built exactly according to his plans.
It’s been a week since I last saw Inge. It all started with a heated argument we had on board the Tzar Dusan after one of Mr. Goldman’s lessons dealing with the weekly parashah.
“Sometimes it seems so ridiculous,” I said.
“What’s ridiculous?” she asked naively, and I, not yet realizing just how sensitive she was about the Torah, said, “Well, you know, all the commentaries and interpretations for each verse in the Torah.”
“What’s so ridiculous about that?” she asked again, her tone now scolding. “Maybe you’re the one who’s ridiculous?”
“Don’t you understand? Anyone can interpret the Torah any way he wants to—even make what’s written to fit his own agenda.”
“It shows that you’ve never received a proper Jewish education at home,” she answered defiantly.
“True. My education was intended to make me a better person, a citizen of the world first of all, and only then a member of the Jewish community.”
“So…” she stamped her foot, as she often did when she was angry. “Now you’re finally admitting that you don’t think the commandments of Judaism are important.”
“In Akiba, they taught us differently, to listen to the words of the prophets. Amos, Hosea, and Isaiah spoke of morality and justice, not of ritual and commandments.” I could see that she was deeply offended. Perhaps she thought my words were directed at her.
“Hanne, but everything is written. Who are we to decide what’s true and what isn’t?”
“So what if it’s written?” I tried to rebuke her. “For example, the parashah we talked about today, Emor. ‘And if a man cause a blemish in his neighbor; as he hath done, so shall it be done to him.’ You really think the Torah commands us, a tooth for a tooth?”
I was surprised I’d managed to remember the verse we’d learned that morning.