Two Princes and a Queen

by Shmuel David

  Efraim immediately said, “But how could I know who isn’t here if they aren’t here?”

  Everyone burst out laughing, then started talking among themselves. They all wanted to ask questions and understand when, where, and how we’d reach the ships. They also wanted to know if we could already send letters to families waiting in Israel. Teddy raised a hand to silence everyone and added, “We’ll board the ship they send us as a single group. The larger groups, those from Hechalutz and Netzah, will be divided into two groups.”

  “What about us, the families?” I asked. “Do you already know where we’re supposed to board?”

  “I still don’t have answers to such questions,” said Teddy. “We only received the message this morning. Within two days, everything should be settled at a meeting in Budapest between the representatives of the Joint and Sime Spitzer.”

  “Can I let my aunt in Hadera know we’ll be leaving soon?” someone asked.

  “It’s better not to write before the meeting is over and we receive final and definite approval,” Teddy answered. “But in the meantime, it’s important that we get ready. There’ll be another meeting tomorrow, and it’s important that everyone attend. I need to prepare a list of names to send to the Federation of Jewish Communities as early as tomorrow.”

  There was great joy. Everyone hugged. I took Inge in my arms and lifted her into the air. We heard the Austrians from the Netzah group singing hora as loud as they could, probably erupting into wild dancing.

  But I was suddenly consumed with fear. What if we need to leave before my parents come back? That fear made it difficult for me to join in the general jubilation. They’d written that they’d be back on Monday, but if I’ve learned anything, it’s that you can never rely on promises.

  The next day, when I came back from harvesting clover and finished feeding the pigs, I saw a group of people gathering at our house with the evening paper in their hands. As they often did, they asked me to translate the news from Serbo-Croatian to German. I realized that this time, something important must have happened. Since the invasion of Belgium the week before, everyone was very tense, wanting to be updated about what was happening at the Franco-Belgian front. Three days ago, I’d read them some encouraging news from the front; the breach created by the German army at the northwestern border of France was almost sealed. I’d also read them further updates from the front about French tanks in action, and all the optimistic forecasts about the French Ardennes, which were steep and therefore considered impassable for armored vehicles.

  Today’s headlines screamed “The Miracle of Dunkirk”18 and the photo showed a boatful of armed soldiers with more soldiers boarding, expressions of urgency on their faces. The caption read, “British boat rescues expeditionary forces from France.” And below, “Evacuation of hundreds of thousands of French and British soldiers from the beaches of Dunkirk now complete.”

  I read the news and sensed that my listeners were finding it hard to accept.

  I continued, “Over nine hundred boats participated in the rescue of hundreds of thousands of British soldiers and a hundred thousand French soldiers from the expeditionary force. The operation, begun on May 26, was completed today, June 4.”

  An outburst of shocked and fearful cries rose from the listeners, as they realized the Germans had managed to invade France and that the British expeditionary force was about to be defeated as well.

  The next day, Dvoriansky came to me at the end of the lesson and thanked me.

  “It’s not only the translation. Anyone could do that,” he said. “You have the ability to sort out the most important facts and relay crucial information. I think you will be a great teacher one day.”

  Then he shared his own love of teaching with me. In Vienna, he’d studied history and dreamed of becoming a historian. But when war broke out, he decided his life’s mission was to teach the lessons of the past, as this could help shape the minds of youth and so influence the future.

  He asked me what I was planning to do when the war ended. I told him of my longing to become a farmer in the land of Israel, to help make the desert bloom and build the country.

  “You’re right,” he said. “A man needs to follow his heart.” He added, “But making the desert bloom is an expression that may hide other meanings.” And he pointed at himself, “Many people foretold a great academic future for me; they wanted me to get university degrees and become a lecturer and researcher, but my heart yearned for other things. The ideals were more important to me, and you can see what I’ve accomplished. But not everyone is cut out for it. Perhaps the university would be a more suitable environment for you. Although, now that the cannons are roaring, the academic halls are as silent as the muses.”

  Tomorrow, Mother and Father are supposed to return from Belgrade. I waited for them impatiently, despite my busy schedule. Today, Mikhailo took me out in his fishing boat to improve my fishing skills. On the way, he explained to me about the stiuca fish—very common in the river here—and, of course, about trout. We left very early in the morning. Efraim did all my morning chores with the pigs instead of me. He came to sleep over at our place so he could get up early in the morning and tend to them. Fishing in Mikhailo’s boat was pretty boring, even though we did manage to catch a few large stiuca fish. Most of the time, we just sat and stared at the unmoving water. Mikhailo can sit for hours without saying a word. We returned at ten that morning, and Mikhailo rode off to the market on his tricycle cart, carrying a sack of fish.

  ***

  The following day, toward evening, Pauli, Inge, and I waited for the ferry from Prahovo to arrive at Kladovo harbor. We saw the ferry approaching and could already see Mother from where we stood, leaning feebly against Father’s shoulder. They came down the gangplank, and Pauli and I ran to her and hugged her.

  “Everything is all right, my precious ones,” she soothed us. “I’m a little weak, but I’ll regain my strength here in time for the coming trip.”

  Back in our hut, I volunteered to make tea for everyone. Mrs. Mayer from the neighboring apartment had come in, and everyone sat down to hear about what had happened to my parents, how the outside world looked, and, of course, to hear more about the operation. Mother said the doctors had treated her so kindly that she’d started to have doubts again; doubts about leaving everything in the first place. After all, we weren’t in any immediate danger, like the Jews of Austria and Germany.

  “Inge, do you remember asking me why we were in such a hurry to leave everything behind? Well, now I don’t know if the answer I gave you was true. After seeing life going on there as if nothing had happened, I asked myself why we’d interrupted Hanne’s and Pauli’s studies. We could at least have waited for them to finish high school and get their diplomas.”

  Father placed his cup of tea on the table and said firmly, “You can’t look at the situation like that. Just look at what happened in France just a week ago, for example. Who would have imagined the French and English allowing the Germans to invade?”

  Instead of making us feel better, his words simply fueled our tension and fear. He tried to soften the effect of his words.

  “All signs show that we’ll get instructions to leave Kladovo any day now. That’s what I understood from Sime when I met with him in Belgrade. He told me about a very important meeting in Budapest and sounded very optimistic,” said Father soothingly. “We just need a little more patience.”

  Inge rose and said she had to go back to the infirmary. I offered to walk her back, because it was already dark. When we arrived, we saw people crowding around, looking at a special edition of the evening paper.

  “Oh, here comes Hanne, just when we need him,” someone called and shoved the paper into my hands. A large photo showed a multitude of people standing in a main square while someone wearing a fez hat was standing on a balcony and giving a speech.

  “Translation, translation! Ger
man, please,” everyone asked me.

  I started reading and translating. “Italy Joins the War!” I read the main headline that took up almost a quarter of a page. Underneath, in smaller print, “Mussolini sends his army against the weak French front.” I continued to translate the caption beneath the photo. “From the balcony of the Palazzo di Venezia, Mussolini announces: Italy is joining the war.”

  There were mingled cries of incredulous anger. No one could believe it. A mixture of cries and insults against the fascist tyrant rose in the air. Just a few days ago, Mussolini had announced that Italy had no interest in joining the war. Now he was claiming Italy had done everything humanly possible to avoid war, but to no avail. At the bottom of the same front page, I read, “French government forced to leave Paris. Relocates to Bordeaux.”

  The first thought that passed through my mind was that Father had been right when, just fifteen minutes ago, he’d said, “Just look at what happened in France only a week ago.” The world could turn upside down in a second. My listeners wouldn’t let go and clamored for me to keep reading. Shechter, who enjoyed spreading rumors and dark prophecies, shouted, “Now we’re really stuck here. The Italians will close the sea to us and we won’t be able to set sail.”

  ***

  Three days had passed since Italy entered the war and still no new announcements. Everyone was hoping there’d be no change of plans and that we’d still be leaving in a few days.

  We were all encouraged by the meeting that was supposed to take place in Budapest, the meeting Father had told us about so happily and optimistically, following his conversation with Sime Spitzer in Belgrade.

  At noon the following day, on the fifteenth of June, Fredl’s trumpet call summoned us to the pier again. It was said that Sime Spitzer himself would be arriving to give us the message. There was a great commotion. People huddled in little groups and spoke excitedly about the news Spitzer would bring us regarding our imminent departure.

  After waiting for over an hour, just as voices predicting the postponement of the meeting were beginning to be heard, the sound of an engine came from the road to the pier. Usually, vehicles coming from the main road had something to do with voyage management: trucks carrying equipment, or vans bringing food supplies. Not everything came via the river from Prahovo.

  Mr. Spitzer got out of the car. He was wearing casual clothes this time. His head was uncovered, without his trademark hat. Hesitantly and heavily, he walked toward the center of the gathering, as if carrying a heavy burden on his shoulders. There was great tension in the air. He clearly couldn’t bring himself to open his mouth and speak. He placed a hand on his mouth and cleared his throat a few times.

  “Friends,” he said, somehow regaining his confidence. “It is no easy task to be speaking before you today.”

  A wave of anger, shock, and protest rose from the crowd.

  “Yes, I have no good news for you today.”

  The angry screams grew louder. Sime cleared his throat again.

  “As you all know, four days ago, Italy joined the war. And now, our worst fears have been realized,” he coughed nervously again. “Today, we found out that Italy won’t allow any naval movement in the waters of the Mediterranean.”

  Someone in the crowd started to curse angrily, but stopped himself at the last minute, and Sime tried to continue with his explanations.

  “This means that we will no longer be able to try and reach Israel through illegal immigration by sea. The only way forward now is by legal immigration.”

  The wave of angry protests now turned into an outburst of loud and desperate cries. An elderly man standing beside me said that Sime and the voyage management should be held accountable.

  “You can’t just keep us here. We’ve been stuck in this rotten place for six months!” he yelled.

  Others shouted, “Liars! You’re all liars! First, it was the ice on the Danube. Now, it’s Italy. Why in hell’s name did you wait so long? What have you been waiting for? For Italy to enter the war?”

  “Crook, swindler. Haven’t you filled your pockets with enough of our money?”

  “He’s been living the good life at our expense. Let’s show him we’re not the cowards he thinks we are.”

  It just went on and on; they didn’t even let Spitzer try and explain what would happen next. He continued to try and pacify the crowd.

  “Patience, friends. We mustn’t lose hope!”

  But the outraged crowd would not let him speak, and he was forced to retreat to his car and leave the place in shame, chased off by raging voices and raised, angry fists.

  * * *

  14A person certified by a rabbi or Jewish court of law to slaughter animals for food in the manner prescribed by Jewish law.

  15Gordonia (Hebrew: הינודרוג) was a Zionist youth movement. The movement’s doctrines were based on the beliefs of Aaron David Gordon; i.e., the salvation of Eretz Israel and the Jewish people through manual labor, and the revival of the Hebrew language.

  16The book was published in Germany in November 1933 and immediately became an international success. It helped raise worldwide awareness of the persecution of the Armenian community and predicted the way the Germans would treat the Jews.

  17The Ship’s Review.

  18The Miracle of Dunkirk refers to the evacuation of Allied soldiers from the beaches and harbor of Dunkirk, France, between May 26 and June 4, 1940.

  July 1940

  One evening, when we gathered in the square in front of the infirmary, a round, yellow moon above our heads, Bata told us that Penelope would have to be evacuated soon, because the Yugoslavs wanted it back. We’d barely had time to recover from Mr. Spitzer’s message that we were doomed to wait indefinitely for legal immigration permits. Now, another terrible decree had been handed down. Everyone had to go ashore and settle there permanently. Our departure seemed to be drifting further and further away from us.

  “But there’s nothing to worry about,” Bata added. “Tomorrow, small tents will be delivered as a temporary solution for all the Netzah, Mizrahi, and Hashomer Hatzair youths. Later on, we’ll get larger tents for permanent accommodation.”

  At least I have something to keep me busy, I thought, raising a hammer above the small pegs of another tent. Dozens of tents had been erected in three rows for the Mizrahi and Hashomer Hatzair youths. They were all busy setting up camp on the hill overlooking Kladovo harbor with a wonderful view of the river. We erected low, small tents, two youths in each, with separate areas for boys and girls. We padded them with mats and small rugs, and then built a fence around the camp.

  Our crowning achievement was a timber entrance with the Star of David and the words “Youth Aliyah Community.”

  When I came to visit Inge at the camp on the hill, I saw many young people strolling along pathways or sitting and talking under the trees or next to the tents. I couldn’t help but feel jealous, even though Mother was making a real effort to make the little place we shared with Mikhailo and Militza cozy. From the outside, our hut looked dilapidated, but inside, there was a warm comfortable atmosphere thanks to curtains, rugs, and a decorative tablecloth. Since there wasn’t much food, the only thing missing was the smell of home cooking. Still, I envied those teenagers.

  During that time, I’d grown closer to Yost, who must have been four years younger than me, but I’d come to like him. I used to visit the small, cultivated house he lived in with his parents, and we’d play his favorite game—chess.

  Despite our age difference, we were evenly matched.

  Yost was always neat, tidy, and as carefully combed as if he were going to a garden party with his classmates in his German hometown. He reminded me a bit of myself, the way I used to be in Belgrade, when Father would call me “softy” and “Mummy’s boy.”

  Yost’s mother, Ellie, was constantly busy cleaning or s
ewing in the little kitchen that was always full of pleasant cooking smells. In her spare time, she’d draw. After they’d settled into the small house, she received an easel, a palette, and charcoal pencils. Her paintings and drawings filled the walls of their small house and were also proudly hung on the walls of other houses.

  One day, Yost told me about his brother, Grad, and sister, Erna, who were already in Israel. They’d managed to get immigration certificates while still in Germany. Erna got to Israel first, Grad just a year ago, and he was living on a kibbutz. His parents constantly worried about him and kept sending him letters. In his last letter, he told them he was riding horses and working in the fields. Yost said he’d really wanted to go with Grad, but his parents wouldn’t let him because he was too young and there was no one to take care of him there. Soon, they’d all be together on the kibbutz in Israel. He also told me that Grad and friends of his parents in Jerusalem were working hard to arrange immigration certificates for him and his parents.

  Yost had a deep craving for chocolate and sweetmeats. He told me about the big chocolate store in his hometown in Germany. They lived there with his grandma Johanna, Elisheva’s mother, on a bustling street where the sound of trams would rattle the walls of the house. So when Yost first heard the halva vendor calling out his wares as he cycled to Kladovo harbor, he simply couldn’t help himself.

  “Nuts and chocolate-flavored halva, just one dinar a packet!” the vendor called at the top of his voice, and Yost, who loved halva, told me how much it reminded him of the home he’d left behind in Germany.

  One afternoon, when I came to Yost’s house to play chess, I found him in a happier mood than usual.

  “Mother said I can go down to the harbor to buy halva. She’s given me a dinar,” he said with a smile. “Do you want to come with me to buy it?”