Two Princes and a Queen

by Shmuel David

  When Mother told him that not everyone had paid, he was even angrier and said that it was an outrage that some groups were privileged, and, all in all, something corrupt seemed to be going on there. Mother mentioned that Mr. Goldman was waiting for a letter from his son in Israel, who promised to act on his behalf in the context of their being emigrating relatives, and she suggested that Father write to Uncle Simon, who had connections in high places. Father flatly refused, saying he’d be ashamed to send such a letter, that it would make him look like an irresponsible fool.

  “I don’t want him to know what a bad situation I’m in,” he said.

  Mother again spoke of how worried she was that we’d stopped studying. She was mainly worried about me.

  “I hardly see him. God knows where he’s off to all day long.”

  “I’ll tell you where,” said Father, a slight tone of contempt in his voice. “He’s always with that Inge girl. She’s completely unsuitable for him. Do you think that at their age they’re already…?”

  “I don’t know what they’re doing. I think they’re together a lot because they’re in love. Unlike you, I really like her. She’s a little older than him, but that’s not bad. She’s a delightful girl.”

  I must have fallen asleep, because in the morning, when I got up to feed the pigs, it was the only sentence I remembered.

  In the late afternoon, the sun still high up in the sky, its rays warming the dense air, I took Inge to the creek, a small stream of water flowing from the river bank in among the tall trees, and creating a quiet hidden spot where we could even swim, far from the group’s watchful eyes.

  On our way there, I picked some small, beautiful white flowers, wisteria flowers, we were told in a nature class, and gathered them into a bunch. When we got to the grass next to the water, Inge cried out in joy and wonder.

  “Oh, Hanne, what a Garden of Eden! Why haven’t you told me about this wonderful place before?”

  We sat down next to a tree to take off our shoes. Kneeling beside her, I tucked two flowers in her hair, one on either side of her head. Then we ran barefoot across the grass, enjoying the fresh feel of it on the soles of our feet. Inge teased me into catching her, and when I came close, she quickly evaded me, running toward the water, where she stopped, panting and pink-faced with exertion and excitement. Finally, I caught her in my arms, covering her neck with kisses, slowly approaching her mouth. Then we lay back on the grass and looked upward at the tall treetops. Softly, she sang a song in German. We lay there enjoying the birdsong, when suddenly Inge heard odd sounds.

  “Do you hear that? It’s coming from over there, the direction we came from.”

  The approaching voices came from among the trees. We had no trouble identifying the language. German.

  “Listen,” she said urgently. “Those are not our people. And they aren’t locals.”

  I also got up in alarm.

  “Come on, let’s go. Maybe we’ll manage to avoid them.”

  We didn’t know in which direction to go. We didn’t want to go back, but if we went forward, we’d probably meet them. We walked swiftly. I thought we’d try and go around them, and with a bit of luck, we’d miss them. But I quickly realized my mistake. The voices materialized into two adults and a child before us.

  “Who are you?” asked the woman, who was quite old.

  I was about to tell the truth, that we were from the Ma’apilim at the camp in Kladovo, but Inge tugged at my hand and answered first.

  “I’m visiting with his family here in Kladovo. We wanted to fish in the river.”

  “What, can you fish here?” asked the man with interest. “I didn’t know you could fish here.” He turned to his wife, “Do you hear that, Paulina? Tomorrow, I’ll come back and do some fishing.”

  “And who are you?” asked Inge without turning a hair.

  “We’re here with a group from Bukovina. We’re on our way back to our homeland, Germany,” responded the woman.

  The man added, “Our family is originally from Germany, but they escaped into Bessarabia and Bukovina during the Great War. Now that Russia has occupied the area, we’re returning to our homeland.” He ended by standing sharply to attention. “Heil Hitler!” he uttered, raising one straight arm in the air.

  Inge told them we were in a hurry to get home, and we parted from them. Horrified and afraid, we made our way back. On the way, Inge told me she’d once heard the term Volksdeutsche, explaining that these were Germans who had left the land of Germany before the Great War and were now living in Romania and Bessarabia.

  “It didn’t occur to me that just as we are running away from the Nazis, we would come face-to-face with their representatives, here of all places. They even salute like those animals in Germany.”

  When we reached the camp, we went our separate ways. I hurried home, not wanting to worry my parents after almost a whole day’s absence. I arrived in the middle of a stormy argument on a subject Pauli raised daily with our parents: the Akiba summer camp. Now that he’d heard the camp was to start in two days’ time at a lake not far from Kladovo, he felt he just had to join them.

  “You will remain here with us, is that clear?” Although we were there for an indeterminate period, Father nonetheless tried to maintain an authoritative tone.

  Pauli, who felt mature and sure of himself, retorted angrily, “But nothing is happening. What is there to do here except listen to all the adults grumbling and getting angry?”

  Father and Mother couldn’t take his pressure, and he managed to talk them into letting him go to camp for a week. He tried to persuade me to join him, but I refused. Firstly, I wouldn’t leave Inge for even one day, and secondly, I was entranced by Hebrew language studies. I’d begun studying Hebrew with the young Mr. Bachi from Budapest, who’d been on the Kraljica Marija with the Hashomer Hatzair people. He taught a less archaic Hebrew than Mr. Goldman, and I was excited about the wonders of this language. In addition, I didn’t want to give up Kreis’s Judaism and Jewish history lessons.

  Pauli left in a horse-drawn wagon early the next morning. Father refused to part properly from him, but Mother hugged him and wished him a good time after all the suffering he’d endured. But she didn’t really think of herself as suffering in the camp after she’d left her entire life behind, her city and the cultural environment she’d fostered.

  To our surprise, Pauli returned after only four nights. At first, he didn’t want to explain why. He was enthusiastic about the camp, the open atmosphere there, how the world outside continued as if there wasn’t a war in Europe; he told us about the Jewish youth from Belgrade who always show up for the summer activities. But in the end, he also told us about the controversy that broke out with the arrival of Nahum—a young counselor from Israel who fascinated all the youngsters.

  Nahum came to the camp to explain how crucial it was to emigrate to Israel; how important it was to persuade their parents to pack up and leave before it was too late.

  “I felt I was already fulfilling what he was telling us to do. But when I tried to tell him that we were on our way but have been stuck here in Kladovo for almost a year, he didn’t know what to say. I was frustrated.”

  “You should have invited him here to see what’s happening, to talk to Naftali Bata, who is doing all he can with the Federation of Jewish Communities to enable us to survive here despite the difficulties,” said Father.

  “In the end, he started quarreling with the counselors too,” continued Pauli. At first, he talked about the kibbutz as if it were a sort of Garden of Eden, but when he got into politics, we realized that there’s a huge controversy among the kibbutzim in Israel. It turns out that there are various movements, each one pulling in a different direction.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that there are already differences of opinion and quarrels,” said Mother.

  “The counselors tried to shut him up, told him
not to slander Israel, but it didn’t help. A split then formed. Quite a few youngsters followed him and left the camp,” said Pauli. “I stayed with our counselors, but the atmosphere wasn’t as nice anymore. Then a few more youngsters left, and I decided to come back here.”

  ***

  A few days after the strange meeting Inge and I had with the Germans, the driver of our supply truck encountered a group of people who were living in tents at the roadside. They asked him for the supplies in the truck, and when he refused, they attacked him and tried to take them by force.

  “I noticed one of them climbing up onto the back of the truck; I hooted and put my foot on the accelerator. I didn’t even look back to see what happened to them,” he agitatedly told Naftali Bata and the people who gathered around to hear him.

  Fritz Felks, Lucy’s father from the Hechalutz group, was injured in a similar incident. Lucy also studies with Bachi, and yesterday, in the middle of class, Inge came to call her to the infirmary because her father had been injured.

  The story of Fritz’s injury spread around the camp like wildfire, and everyone had his own version of events. That evening, Inge told me that Erica, Lucy’s mother, had arrived breathless and upset, calling for the doctor to help her husband who’d been injured. She was too upset to explain what had happened, able to gasp out only a few words, like “hooligans” and “Germans.” Inge called two young men from the group, Hanoch and Erwin, to bring a stretcher and join the doctor who had gone to take care of Fritz. They found him groaning in pain, bleeding, with bruises on his arms and legs. The doctor found that his left arm was broken. They carefully put him on the stretcher, and the doctor set his arm, placing it alongside his body. Erica finally calmed down sufficiently to tell them what had happened. She and Fritz had gone for a walk along a path behind the camp. They often went walking there, although this time, they’d gone further than usual. They were suddenly stopped by a group of German thugs, Volksdeutsche apparently, who forbade them to continue, claiming that the area belonged to their camp. Fritz responded that they always walked there and asked to go past and return to camp.

  “They started asking us questions about our camp and what we were doing there,” said Erica. “When they heard it was a Jewish camp, they cursed us and very quickly started hitting and punching us. Fritz tried to protect himself, but they were stronger. When he fell, I escaped and ran to call for help.”

  The last attack was the talk of all Ma’apilim in the tents and huts. Fritz, who’d begun to heal, again took walks along the camp pathways. His injured arm was supported by a sling tied around his neck. At the time, rumors went around that we were leaving Kladovo. At first, we heard we’d be sailing, as long expected, along the Danube toward the Black Sea. But it very quickly turned out to be a move from Kladovo to another transit camp, as groups of German Volksdeutsche were getting closer to us and the incidents with them were increasing.

  One day, Bata Gedalja called us together to clarify the new situation. He told us the administrators were looking for a safer place, because the proximity to the Volksdeutsche community, who supported the Nazi Party, was creating undesirable tension in our midst.

  Father continued his independent efforts to obtain immigration permits. Every day, he went to the local post office to see if there was a letter from our uncle in Belgrade, but none came.

  On these hot days toward the end of summer, Mr. Goldman was a constant visitor. He’d sit talking with Father at the entrance to the house, in the shade of the plane tree whose leaves were white with road dust. Mr. Goldman was organizing a political group of General Zionists who could act as one group to obtain immigration permits. This happened once he realized that whoever belonged to an organized movement would receive preferential treatment.

  “You know, Emil, the situation will only get worse. Now all the Hechalutz and Hashomer Hatzair activists, as well as other movements, are really only taking care of themselves. Whereas we families and single people are left out. You have to understand that.”

  Father tried to explain that any political organization repelled him, but Mr. Goldman went on regardless.

  “Look, as an individual, your power is limited when confronting institutions. You need power, and power is found in an organized group of many people.”

  “I am not interested in a group,” said Father stubbornly. “And do you know why?” He lowered his voice, as if afraid of being overheard, “Sime told me that the administration of this transport does not approve of such organizations; he even hinted that they would do everything in their power to thwart such things.”

  “But it has nothing to do with the administration; we would be confronting institutions. Confronting the Eretz Israel office in Zagreb,” protested Mr. Goldman.

  Father told him that Lucy Felks received an immigration permit two days ago, and it didn’t come from the group but through her fiancé in Israel.

  “I heard that the immigration permits come blank, without names. The organizers give them to whom they please. Maybe they’re even selling them,” fumed Father. “Absolute foile-shtick.”

  “Selling them? Don’t you worry, Emil. I will see to it that we get personal immigration permits. Almost a hundred and fifty have already signed up with me, and any additional person will only strengthen us. Think about what I’ve said, but I need an answer. I am preparing a letter to Oscar Greenbaum. He works for the General Zionist Aliyah Institution in Israel. I will describe our situation and request his help in the name of a large group of Zionists who have worked in various ways for the settlement of Israel.”

  “If I change my mind, I’ll let you know,” Father ended the conversation.

  I couldn’t understand why Father was so against Goldman’s suggestion. I was afraid that his group would all get immigration permits, and we’d be left without.

  When I went to see Inge at the infirmary that evening, we were surprised to learn from Lucy Felks that she’d decided to decline her immigration permit so that she wouldn’t have to leave her aging parents behind, particularly her father, who was still recovering from the Volksdeutsche attack.

  I found it hard to understand Lucy’s choice, though if I’d been in her place, I didn’t know what I’d have done. Let’s say that Pauli and I and the rest of the youngsters get immigration permits, but Inge doesn’t. Would I leave her? Would I leave my parents? On the other hand, they’d probably get immigration permits a month or two later. Would it be right to give up the opportunity for freedom, no matter the price? After all, this has been our heart’s desire for almost a year now. Inge said she’d do exactly as Lucy had done. To this day, she’s tormented by having left her mother in Berlin to join the transport.

  There were days I thought of running away and even suggested to Inge that we run away together. Today, I see this as stupid and irresponsible. After all, we’d be checked for papers everywhere we went, which is why there is such a panic about these vital immigration permits.

  I’d always believed we were traveling to Palestine as a family, Father and Mother, me and Pauli. But lately, there’ve been rumors that youth between the ages of twelve and sixteen will be sent to Israel under the auspices of Youth Aliyah, so Pauli and I might leave with them, and Father and Mother would remain here until their immigration permits arrive. Parting from my parents, and arriving alone in a new country and having to cope with another language and customs, seemed strange to me. Even if it’s temporary, as everyone assures me, and my parents come a month or two later.

  That evening, we heard two new reports. The first was that we’d be leaving the village soon, and the second—Lucy’s immigration permit was the first of many more immigration permits about to arrive for the youth. Yokel and Shechter went from one Hechalutz youth to another, measuring each one from top to toe and filling out special forms with all the details. They noted name, height, shoulder width, and date and country of birth.

  I anxiously fol
lowed the registration process, and as it progressed, I began to understand that they had no intention of including me and Pauli in the list. Maybe because we came with our parents and so we belonged to the family list and not to the youth list. And no one actually approached us with the list until evening. Father was annoyed and said he’d go and talk to Sime the next day; it was unthinkable that we’d be left out.

  Night. I tried to fall asleep, but was constantly preoccupied with the questionnaires Teddy had filled out that day for each of the girls and boys in the Mizrahi group, with the exception of me and Pauli. When Father saw Teddy passing by and starting to fill out forms for our neighbors, the Mayer family, he almost snatched the forms from his hand. Their daughter, Stella, had been born in Austria and was almost four years younger than us. From the other room, I heard Father and Mother conferring.

  “They’ve already registered all the Mizrahi youth, whether they’re over the age limit or not,” said Mother. “Inge’s on the list, and she’s already over eighteen.”

  “A lot of things to do with the immigration permits aren’t clear,” said Father. “Mr. Goldman set up the General Zionist group so we’d get papers more easily, and what happened? Three weeks have gone by, and apart from some vague excuse that the subject is under advisement, he hasn’t achieved a single thing.”

  “They say that the British are delaying the immigration permits of anyone born in an enemy country or who is a citizen there,” said Mother. “Which means that natives of Germany and Austria will certainly not be getting immigration permits in the near future.”

  “We don’t come from an enemy country, so why aren’t Pauli and Hanne on the list?” asked Father.

  “That has nothing to do with it,” said Mother. “It isn’t about Youth Aliyah. They’re only delaying immigration permits for adults from Germany and Austria.”