Two Princes and a Queen

by Shmuel David

  The following day, fears were dispelled when all youth were instructed to register. Whoever had not already been registered was asked to go to Naftali Bata’s office, provide details, and fill in questionnaires, including youth from family frameworks. There was an exhilarated atmosphere in the camp, and smiles were seen everywhere. It was clear to everyone that we’d be getting out of there within a few days. People started daring to hope that the promised immigration permits for the Aliyah youth were the first sign of their imminent immigration to Israel. There was particular joy when Yehuda Wolff and Yaakov Landberg arrived at the camp. They were two young men from the group near the river, and they announced that two boats with hundreds of Jewish Ma’apilim were sailing down the Danube, apparently on course for Sulina and the Bulgarian-Romanian border.

  Yaakov was especially excited. His twin brother Shimon hadn’t managed to join our transport but remained in Berlin with their parents. In the long months of waiting, they had written to each other, and in the last letter, Shimon had told him he was joining another transport on the Danube, just before the gates were closed, and he was apparently on one of these boats.

  When Inge and I heard about the two boats, we dropped everything and ran down to the river, even managing to see the two boats with hundreds of Ma’apilim on their decks. They passed so close that we could even read their names. One was called Pacific, and the other, Atlantic. Those standing on deck waved to us, and we, standing enraptured on the river bank, waved back to them. Some of our group shouted greetings to Eretz Israel, among them Yaakov, who, waving energetically, shouted again and again, “Shimon, Shimon!”

  Many years later, when he came to Eretz Israel, Shimon Landberg learned that the people waving to them from the banks of the Danube that cold and rainy September were indeed from the group, among them his twin brother Yaakov, who never made it to Israel.

  But the joyousness of that afternoon was mingled with grief when that very evening, Mr. Bata called us to our usual meeting place for an announcement. We were all certain that this was a happy announcement about the approaching voyage, that we, too, could expect a similar destiny to that of the Ma’apilim we’d seen on Pacific and Atlantic, the two German boats on the river, making their way to Sulina. What could be more promising than what we’d seen with our very own eyes, two boats on their way to freedom? But that evening, our anticipation was to be as great as our astonishment and disappointment.

  At seven o’clock that evening, Fredl stood with his trumpet at the entrance to the Hashomer Hatzair camp, which was as clean and tidy as it had been on the very first day. The petunias in the planters on each side of the path bloomed in purple, white, and crimson. Young people streamed from the tents and huts and filled the paths. People were also coming from the road leading to the village, adults with small children at their sides, or on their shoulders. Everyone was coming to hear the news from Mr. Naftali Bata Gedalja. Instead of telling us when we’d be boarding the boats for Eretz Israel, he began talking about the problematic friction with the Volksdeutsche population, how dangerous it was for us here in the camp, and what dangers the future held as a result of this intolerable proximity. Because the situation was getting worse, the Yugoslavian authorities were taking responsibility and had decided to move our camp further inside the country. He mentioned Sabac, a town we didn’t know, which was located a few dozen kilometers from Belgrade.

  Naturally, a wave of protest began to swell among the people. Faint voices very quickly grew louder, turning into yelling and turmoil.

  An older man near me shouted at Naftali Bata, “Shame on you. Devils, all of you!”

  Naftali Bata stood there, shamed and deeply distressed.

  “Just today we saw the German riverboats sailing to Sulina, so please don’t tell us stories!” someone else shouted, shaking his fists.

  Bata shrank, as if wanting to disappear. He clearly felt the pain of every member of the group, but things were beyond his control, he was only the messenger.

  “No. You are not going to take us in the opposite direction. After almost a year of waiting in cold and snow, heat and hunger, you want to take us back? Better you abandon this disgrace! Abandon this foolish, lame transport!” one woman shouted, and everyone clapped at her trenchant comments about the administrators.

  Within the chaos, some adults tried to get close enough to Bata to threaten him, but three young men standing beside him protected him from the crowd. The commotion died down. The angry crowd began to disperse, angrily and bitterly going their separate ways.

  On Sunday, Militza invited me and Stella Mayer, our neighbor, to go with her to the church square for the last time before we left. I’d gone with Militza several times on a Sunday to watch the gypsies dancing in their traditional clothes. There were magicians and jugglers, too, which added to the happiness there. Inge refused to go to the church square, because Jews were not supposed to attend non-Jewish ceremonies. She refused although it was just dancing and not a religious ceremony. But yesterday, she accompanied me on a last visit to Petrović, whom we hadn’t seen for a long time.

  The last time we came to part from him, it was just after the melting of the snow. We were sure we’d be sailing the next day, and he just looked at us with his wise eyes, as if he knew in his heart that it would not be happening. Things seemed different now. He seemed to know that this time we really were finally going to leave Kladovo. At our last meeting, three weeks previously, just after he’d heard about Inge’s and my encounter with the Volksdeutsche, he said, “Better you go, all of you. Better you move somewhere else. I sense trouble ahead.” Before we left, he called me aside confidentially. “Don’t let her get away. Take care of her, Hanne.”

  Heads of groups prepared people for the move. Mother did one last laundry in the river, hanging everything up to dry on a rope stretched between the door post and the enormous plane tree in the yard, and again took out the suitcases from under the beds and started packing. Inside the open suitcase on the bed, I saw the tiny, pale blue wooden box with gold corners in which she kept Klarie’s golden curl.

  That evening, Mr. Haimbach from the Transport Administration came to tell us that the following morning, we’d all board the huge tug sent by the Yugoslavian Boat Company. Predictably, a commotion broke out again and people exploded in anger.

  “We will not board the tug!” shouted Yechiel, a large man who was always the first to start a commotion.

  He was followed by two older women, who shouted, “Isn’t it enough we’re being sent back, and yet you have the nerve to force us to travel jam-packed together on a tug?”

  Everyone joined in the ruckus, taking out their anger on Mr. Haimbach and the other administrators, who tried to defend themselves from the agitated crowd. Movement youth took no part in the tumult. When Yokel saw Yechiel actually punching Mr. Haimbach, he jumped in between them. Teddy joined Yokel, and they caught him by the arms, twisting them behind his back until he calmed down. That evening, we were told the journey had been postponed for two days.

  The atmosphere in the camp was very tense. The tents remained in place because no final leaving date had been received, and they might need to sleep there one more night. Our suitcases were packed, and Father was sitting outside under the tree as usual when Mr. Goldman came to visit. I thought he’d come to complain again about the Transport Administration and the Party in Israel that wasn’t doing enough for the group he’d organized, but this time, he came to tell us that a spacious passenger boat was on its way that would take only the elderly and the sick. All the young people would sail on the tug. He said that an accurate list of the people who would board the passenger boat was in preparation.

  “I’ve already registered my wife Rivka. You know she isn’t in the best of health.”

  Father picked up a small branch, pulled off its leaves, and after a long pause, said, “I’ll see to it that Louisa also sails on it. I won’t permit her to bo
ard a crowded tug.”

  “You’re right, Mr. David. She also deserves to sail in comfort. You should go and talk to Naftali Bata about it at once, before he leaves. He has a sympathetic heart; it’s a pity he’s returning to Belgrade and isn’t coming with us.”

  “And where is Sime? Traveling back and forth again, I suppose. Always traveling and doing nothing,” fumed Father.

  “I keep hearing about someone else who’s received a permit, and I haven’t even received a letter in response!” said Mr. Goldman angrily. “It’s a pity I didn’t act independently. For myself and Rivka. I’d have gotten the immigration permits a long time ago. Mr. David, Sabac, this town they’re talking about, do you know where it is?”

  “It’s on the banks of the Sava River, about seventy kilometers south of Belgrade,” said Father, adding, “It’s a large town with tens of thousands of residents. But with all due respect, I cannot understand why we’re traveling back upstream, instead of advancing downstream.”

  “They say it’s because of the Volksdeutsche, but apparently, the administration wants us to be closer to Belgrade so they can run things more efficiently,” said Goldman, despair in his voice too.

  “You’d think they had something to run,” said Father angrily. “I’m going to talk to Bata.”

  That evening, the passenger boat arrived all lit up with colored lights. Father managed to get Mother a place on the boat, while he himself would sail with us on the tug. He told us that many people wanted a place on the boat, but Naftali Bata managed the list with a firm hand, and if it hadn’t been for the Belgrade brotherhood, he wouldn’t even have made a place for her.

  That evening, counselors went from tent to tent, telling everyone that at dawn the following day the tents had to be packed up and stored in the hold of the tug. We were sailing to Sabac.

  * * *

  19The term negiah (Hebrew: העיגנ), literally “touch,” is the concept in Jewish law (halacha) that forbids or restricts physical contact with a member of the opposite sex (except for one’s spouse, children, siblings, grandchildren, parents, and grandparents). A person who abides by this halacha is colloquially described as a shomer negiah (observer of negiah).

  20Drag.

  Sabac, September 1940

  The wagon jolted along the cobbled road leading from the dock to the town. Father, Pauli, and I walked alongside the wagon piled high with suitcases tied with ropes; blankets and pillows were wrapped in colorful winter coats, and there were a number of other bundles. Stella Mayer and her sister were perched on top of the pile, their father holding Stella’s arm to prevent her from falling off the jolting wagon.

  The driver urged on the horse that could barely pull the wagon. Before us was a long line of wagons, and our people, young and old, walked alongside. The older people’s hunched backs and faltering steps revealed the hardship of the journey, particularly the feeling of despair and failure.

  Townspeople, who looked like Serbs or Slovenians, lined the road. They gathered at the fences, women with scarves on their heads and men in peaked caps, gazing at us with curiosity. Barefooted children ran after the wagons, while the adults looked on in wonder. Someone called out to the driver in Serbo-Croatian, “Where are you taking them?”

  He called back, “To Draga Toshkowich’s granaries,” adding, “At the end of Pop Luca Street.”

  Going up the road, we passed beautiful buildings and saw signs for a café with home-baked cakes, a bank, and a women’s clothing store, before entering a broad street. Someone pointed out a tall building in the distance, and shouted, “Der mühle” (the mill). A few moments later, one after another, the wagons came to a stop. Someone called out, “Those getting off at the mill, take your things.”

  It was rumored that the mill would take as many people from the group that could fit in. Everyone else would go to the granaries at the end of Pop Luca Street.

  “What about us?” I asked Father. “Are we also going to the mill?”

  “No,” said Father impatiently. “Spitzer said we’d be in the granaries. The mill is for the youth, single people, and couples without children.”

  The convoy remained until all the mill people had removed their possessions from the wagons and carried them into the yard. Our wagon stood waiting next to the mill.

  “Don’t get off,” called the wagon driver. “You’re going to the granaries!”

  All the young people will be here. It’ll be fun here, like the tents in Kladovo, and again I was envious. I’m sure Inge will be here. We’ll be apart from each other again. Who knows how far away they’ll house us.

  The mill house is a long, three-story building that looks abandoned and neglected. Summer weeds grow out of the stone walls. The iron windows are rusty and dangling. The roof is also rusty and collapsing, and if we have to spend the winter here, the situation will be a grave one. The building is in a yard surrounded by a low stone wall, which also seems abandoned and full of dry thistles. A large iron gate leads to a square where a crowd of youngsters have gathered.

  Yokel stood in his usual shorts and suspenders at the entrance to the mill. He directed everyone to the right floor, assigned beds, and top or bottom bunk. Yokel and the other counselors were thoroughly prepared, and people knew exactly where to put their things.

  We stood out in the strong, late-afternoon sun for a long time, waiting for the last of the youths to take their belongings off the wagons in front of us. We continued, entering Pop Luca Street with its small, well-tended houses and gardens and planters full of flowers. At the end of the street, we saw two long, low buildings with large iron windows.

  “Those really are granaries. You can tell from the style of building that they were built even before the Great War,” said Father knowledgeably. “The side windows were designed to enable the grain to dry quickly.”

  We settled into a corner at the end of the short building near the road. Mother’s face showed her dissatisfaction. Again, we found ourselves sharing a large space with other families, as we had on board the boat.

  “I can’t do this again, Emil. I don’t have the strength,” said Mother, despair and anger in her voice. “Please see if there is any possibility we could have a place of our own. I can’t live here like this.”

  “Sime has misled me again. He said he would house old people and families in a storage granary,” said Father. “And I didn’t understand that it was one granary for a hundred families.”

  “Emil, see what you can do. I thought they were moving us somewhere better than Kladovo,” her voice broke. “How much longer will they keep us here like refugees? I’m sick of this life. I’ve had enough! I’m afraid I’ll break down.”

  “At least you have something to keep you busy… All I’ve done for the past year is play cards and feel bitter. If only we had a bit of slivovitz to raise morale.”

  “You’ll probably be able to find work in a big city like this. It’ll be good for you. Keep you busy, and two or three extra dinars a week will come in handy.”

  “The only problem with that is we could move at any moment. Finding work isn’t easy in a situation like that. Anyway, first I’ll find us somewhere normal to live. Then I’ll find work. Most of the group work for the organization and are paid by the Federation of Jewish Communities.”

  “Just as well we have something to put on the table for lunch,” grumbled Mother. As in the past, Father took this personally.

  “For heaven’s sake, Louie, I’ve had enough of your righteousness. You have nothing to worry about. I’ll be fine.”

  As if regretting her rebuke, Mother tried to soothe Father.

  ***

  Within two days, our living arrangements were settled. We rented a small apartment that suited our needs from Mrs. Olga Chaliti on Pop Luca Street, and Mother immediately had a fit of cleaning and arranging. The apartment seemed to have been vacant for some
time. Spiderwebs hung above the kitchen counter and in the dim opening of the rusty wood stove. Inge offered to help, and the two of them scrubbed the floors with soap and water until they shone. Pauli and I cleaned the windows, and by evening, the entire apartment was bright and clean. Our landlady was an energetic and attractive woman, as befits a dance teacher. She lived alone in an upstairs apartment, and downstairs, next to the apartment we rented from her, she had a dance studio for girls from eight to ten years of age, as well as older girls. I would watch them through a glass window in the door. Long-legged, in tights and muslin skirts, they floated to the sounds of Tchaikovsky, stretching long legs on a wooden barre fixed to the wall. Olga, who had left the studio for a moment, saw me watching and said, “It’s not nice to peep like that. If you ask me nicely, I’ll let you come in and watch.”

  Pauli and I shared a room next door to our parents’ room. He drew a picture of two gunmen against the background of a cowboy town and hung it above his bed. He also drew caricatures of Mr. Goldman, several of our school teachers in Kladovo, as well as Mr. Spitzer’s apple-like face and cheeks against the background of the Tzar Nikolai’s chimney. Father couldn’t stop laughing when he saw the drawing, and forbade us to hang it up.

  The days are growing longer now, and the sun sinks early behind the treetops along the Sava River. End-of-October coolness is in the air and smoke rises from the Sabac house chimneys. The pleasant aroma of burning logs fills the air.

  I envied residents who could heat their apartments. Our wood stove stood unused. At night, we covered ourselves with three wool blankets Mother got from the supply warehouse, but every morning, I’d wake with frozen feet. I didn’t understand why; Father was already working and earning, but we still didn’t buy firewood. That morning, after Mother went off to work at the supply warehouse and Father went to work at Mr. Merimovich’s carpentry workshop, where he’d been working for three weeks now, I decided to clean the stove and get it ready for use. For this purpose, I missed Mr. Goldman’s first lesson. I wasn’t worried. I’m good at ancient Greek history.