Two Princes and a Queen

by Shmuel David

  The school was in a long-abandoned house not far from the mill that housed the movement youth. After two days of cleaning and fixing it up, new lintels and doors were installed, which is how Father found a job at the carpentry workshop. He went to talk to Mr. Merimovich, the owner of the workshop, about lintels and doors for the school next to the mill. He responded that he had no one to do the work, and Father himself volunteered to do it. When Mr. Merimovich saw how Father sketched, measured, and cut the wood, he offered him a job. Father also made each tenant at the mill a small locker to put next to their beds. The Federation of Jewish Communities paid the carpentry workshop for the lockers, so our coming to Sabac brought in a great deal of work for Mr. Merimovich.

  At the end of the school day, I went to the city library as usual. I asked Irina, the librarian, for something by Goethe, and she brought me The Sorrows of Young Werther. I was enthralled and read until she closed the library. When she saw the beseeching look in my eyes, she allowed me to borrow the book—until the next day. From the moment I discovered the library, it became my second home, and Irina learned to like me and even let me take out books that were not supposed to be lent out.

  When I left the library with the book under my arm, the sun was already setting. I went by the infirmary to see Inge. Dr. Bezalel makes sure to see patients only during reception hours, except for emergencies. After reception hours, she cleans and organizes the medication table. The infirmary was sparkling clean, every instrument in place.

  It’s hard to believe the previous use of this building. When we arrived in Sabac, it was used as a stable adjacent to the granary and the mill that housed most of the youth. Our apartment may be small, but it is near the granary and the mill where most of the activities take place, and where Inge is. To see her, I’d be willing to go to the other side of town. She called me in.

  “What are you reading today?”

  I heard a note of criticism in her voice, as if I was wasting my time on books while she was doing important work in the infirmary. I felt a bit uncomfortable about walking around with this book instead of reading it in secret in the library or at home, but I was attached to the fate of Werther and his sorrowful love, as if I were the young writer who’d had enough of his comfortable bourgeois life. Except that while young Werther had escaped that life, I’d been cruelly cast out. Nonetheless, I have my own Lotte. Here she is, with a white head covering and coat. She put out a hand to the book under my arm.

  “Are you afraid to show it to me?” she asked, lightly pulling at the book. “I see you have something to hide.”

  “No, no,” I said, embarrassed. “You probably know The Sorrows of Young Werther,” as if defending myself. “I was reading it in the library and got so involved that I couldn’t leave it, and Irina allowed me to borrow it, for one day only.”

  “I just remember it being a romantic sort of book. I think it’s Goethe’s first book, isn’t it?”

  “It’s the book that made him famous, and just about every German knows it.”

  “Strange you put it like that, as if a German is something good.”

  “I’m only saying it’s important to distinguish. The Germans of Goethe’s time were different, although Heine, for instance, predicted the events that particular nation would precipitate. And today they really are different. Ever since Hitler, they’ve become animals.”

  “True. Better you read this and not that book Kreis gave you.”

  “That book” was one Kreis gave me two weeks ago. It was written by A.D. Gordon, and from the very first moment, Inge had viewed it as an act of defiance.

  “Narrow-minded and very dogmatic,” she’d said decisively.

  “It’s a futile argument, Inge,” I tried to tell her. “You speak from belief, and for Gordon, it’s more a matter of philosophy. His confession is to himself, to the ‘self.’ But for that, we need a ‘self’ we respect.”

  “That’s exactly what I said. It is the Lord whom we respect, and He expects a lot from us,” she said immediately and triumphantly.

  “Let’s stop fighting about things like this, Inge. I’ve missed you and you’re quarreling with me. I’m sorry I came with a book at all.”

  “You’re right, Hanne. I’ll finish washing the sterile instruments, and we’ll go for a walk. Wait a few moments.”

  We walked hand in hand toward the bank of the Sava. The air was misty and chilly with an edge of fine rain. Through the mist, we saw a long line of wagons standing the length of Yanko Wieslinovich Street. The wagons were harnessed to bulls and loaded with firewood, and the smell of wood mingled with the fresh drops of rain.

  “Who’s all that wood for?” I asked one of the drivers in Serbo-Croatian.

  “We brought it from the Drazih Forest for the Jews at the mill,” answered the driver.

  “All these wagons of wood are for the mill?” I asked, astonished. “How much firewood do they need there?”

  “Yes, that’s what the man with spectacles said, too,” answered the driver. He must have meant Yokel, who was in charge of mill business.

  Two people suddenly came running up. Speedy Misha, who was always in the right place at the right time, and the “noble” Mr. Komo. They lived with four other youths at Farmer Ivanowich’s farm. When they heard about the wagons of firewood, they rushed over to buy some before everything went to the mill.

  “Pity I don’t have any money. I’d also buy a wagonload, or at least half a load.”

  I went over to one of the peasants, a tall, red-faced fellow with a thick upturned mustache. He introduced himself as Serajan Radoyevich. I asked him the price of one wagonload. After all, I’d just cleaned the stove, and it was ready for use.

  “Three dinars per wagon,” he said. “Including transport to the house.”

  The thought of further freezing nights made me want to buy the wood in any way possible. I tried to think of a way to get the sum, which seemed fantastic to me. I decided to suggest working for him to cover the debt. Unhesitatingly, I asked him if he needed help on his farm.

  “What can you do?” he asked.

  “Feed the animals, harvest vegetables,” I mentioned everything I’d learned from Mikhailo.

  “Are you willing to come at six every morning for one dinar a day?”

  “No problem,” I answered, calculating the number of days I’d have to work for him. “If you’re willing to sell me a wagonload of wood, I’ll work to cover the cost.”

  That evening, we didn’t freeze in our little home. The popping sound of wood in the stove, the pleasant warmth spreading through the apartment, which Mother had carefully cultivated into the semblance of a home, made a pleasant atmosphere. I was uneasy about my parents’ reaction, but they complimented me on my initiative and independence. I went back to a routine that was similar to what I had at Mikhailo’s place. The days grew shorter and the mornings colder. The last days of October were behind us, and the first cold of November indicated the threshold of a tough winter.

  It was hard for me to get up and go out into the cold that morning after a long talk with Inge. It was still hard for her to see me engrossed in Gordon’s writings instead of the Torah and weekly parashah. The sun would only rise in two hours’ time, and the street was still drowsy, apart from Anji’s bakery. The fragrance of fresh morning rolls in the air reminds me of bygone days at home on the Dedinje Hill and the morning rolls that Sabina baked; Mother had never managed to replicate their intoxicating crispiness.

  Anji was Moosa’s mother, a girl who came every two days to the infirmary so that Inge could change the bandage on a sore on her leg. Yesterday, as I was waiting for Inge outside the infirmary, Anji was talking to a girl in Serbo-Croatian. She seemed about my age. Anji didn’t stop praising Dr. Bezalel for his devoted treatment of her daughter and the clean and polished infirmary the Austrian Jews had established in a building that used to be a stable. I introduced
myself and told them that not all the Jews in the group came from Austria; there was also a family from Belgrade. They were glad to hear it, and the girl introduced herself as Mara; she was the daughter of the Sabac school principal. Anji particularly marveled at Dr. Bezalel taking no money for the treatment.

  Mara was very friendly and invited me to join her and her friends sometime. One of them was the gypsy musician I’d seen playing occasionally at Café Roma. I said that if she invited me, I’d bring my girlfriend who works at the infirmary, and we parted company.

  I remembered this encounter as I passed the bakery with its tantalizing smell of rolls. I hurried toward Radoyevich’s farm so as not to be late for work. On the way, I met Speedy Misha, who was hurrying to the bakery to buy fresh rolls for his group at the farm near the one I was off to. Despite how hard it was to get up in the cold mornings, I was happy that I, too, had my tasks; that Inge would see me as an equal, although her dedicated work with Dr. Bezalel every day was far more important than mine. Before then, I’d felt bad at spending my time reading and studying and not much more.

  It was impossible to go walking here, unlike Kladovo next to the Danube, because the Sava landscape was less forested and mostly consisted of monotonous agricultural fields. I also missed the presence of old Petrović, the net mender at Kladovo, and our intimate talks.

  Not far from Radoyevich’s farm, on a hill near the road leading into the town of Waranska, is a large farm belonging to Farmer Ivanowich, which housed seven members of our group. I see the lights twinkling in the morning darkness every day on my way to work. Luckily, it isn’t raining yet, and I can get to the farm on foot, but what about stormy days? I’d committed to coming every morning. I might have to sleep over at the farm. As I opened the gate, Dingo ran over to me. He was a large, hairy dog who was now used to my presence and happy to see me.

  Farmer Radoyevich, dressed in blue work clothes and high boots, asked if I could stay longer today. He wanted us to bring the bundles of hay under cover and arrange them so that they’d be sheltered from the rain. We heaped the rest of the bundles outside under large plastic sheets. My pay doubled that morning. I didn’t go to school, and on my way back, I passed the mill. The smell of cooking wafted out, and I decided to go in and see the kitchen they’d set up where the machine room used to be. Where once flywheels and rusty engine parts covered in spiderwebs stood silent, now everything was bright and clean. The engines had been replaced by a gas cooker. Mr. Mayer, Stella’s father, was hard at work among the pots, supervising the work. At the large chopping table, I found several Mizrahi Movement friends busy peeling potatoes and carrots.

  “Join us for a meal,” said Efraim, washing mud off sweet potatoes.

  “We’ll see,” I answered. “I’ve had a long morning at the farm, only just finished.” I sat down beside him on the bench.

  “Have you heard the latest news?” he asked with a smile.

  “No. What now? Another empty promise?”

  “Wait, wait a minute,” he said, as if about to drop a bomb. “It’s fresh from this morning, and it’s no rumor this time. It’s the truth.”

  “How do you know? We’ve been sure so often before.”

  “But they’ve never told us to hurry and fill out forms. This morning, a messenger came from the Federation of Jewish Communities with forms.”

  “Nu! Tell me what happened,” I urged him.

  “The messenger who came this morning said there’s a chance that about seven hundred people could immigrate through Aliyah Bet, and quite soon, too.”

  “That does sound serious. So, can anyone immigrate, or will they select people?” I asked.

  “Anyone willing to sign a form declaring that they’re aware of the risks on the way. Here…” Efraim turned to a pile of forms next to Zeev, our observer, and took one out. “Here, take it. See for yourself.”

  I read with interest. It was a sort of contract. At the top of the form were all the usual personal details, followed by a brief description of the journey, which included sailing along the Sava and the Danube to Sulina on the Black Sea on a tug like the one that brought us to Sabac. And from there, on the Black Sea by boat through the Straits and into the Mediterranean. At the bottom of the page was a declaration whereby the passenger declared he was willing to take the risk of sailing the Black Sea, and that he would not blame anyone from the administration if it failed.

  “It does sound serious this time,” I responded, handing the form back to him.

  “We’ll see what happens. Will you stay? Help me peel these.”

  I took two carrots out of the pot.

  What an uproar that evening! Everyone gathered in the mill square to hear all the details. The proposal changed the mood in a flash. From a situation of waiting for immigration permits, a window of possibility suddenly opened up in the form of illegal immigration. Within the great excitement that prevailed, Mr. Goldman’s voice was suddenly heard.

  “They’re misleading us again. Irresponsible so-and-sos!” He meant the journey administration, and he even attacked Spitzer.

  Someone shouted out, “We don’t want monkey business. We want legal immigration.”

  Everyone clapped, calling out, “He’s right, he’s right.”

  Amid all the voices, it was difficult to grasp what everyone wanted. Mrs. Weinberg, who was standing beside me, tried to persuade Hanna Weinstock to join.

  “In spite of all the risks, my husband and I have decided to take Kurt and board the ship. We have nothing to lose.”

  “Nothing to lose? Oho! Have you read what’s written on the form? God help us, such risks! Would I put my Chaimkeh in danger? I’m not crazy yet,” answered Mrs. Weinstock.

  “It’s better to do something. I don’t believe we’ll ever get out of here. If we don’t try this, well, I don’t know…”

  That night, I heard my parents arguing. They were also agitated by the news.

  “You are not going to sign, Emil. Please, I’m begging you,” I heard Mother pleading.

  “What do we have to lose?” Father said. “Is this the Garden of Eden?”

  “At least we’re safe here. And when the immigration permits arrive…”

  “This quiet is coming to an end, Louie. You heard as well as I did that the Yugoslavian authorities have decided to pass laws against the Jews.”

  “I can’t believe it could happen here. This isn’t Austria, thank God.”

  “What are you talking about? I heard they’ve closed the border and are refusing to take in Jewish refugees.”

  “I’m not willing to risk our lives on that boat. They say this is a stormy season on the Danube.”

  “I don’t understand you, Louie. It’s more dangerous to remain here,” he tried to end the argument. “And I’m returning signed documents tomorrow.”

  “Not mine or the children’s,” she responded decisively. “If you want to take the risk, do it alone. Not with us.”

  “I’ve already filled them in. We have until two thirty tomorrow to return them.”

  “I’ve talked with others as well. Mrs. Weinstock thinks as I do. She won’t put her Chaimkeh at risk.”

  “Remember my words,” Father raised his voice. “It will end badly here too.”

  “Keep your voice down. You’ll wake everyone up.”

  “You’re being unreasonable.”

  Despite all the excitement, I had to go to the farm early the next morning and needed some sleep. Finally, I dozed off.

  This morning, when I returned from the farm, there was no school because everyone was either busy preparing for the voyage or arguing about whether to go or not. In the mill yard, a table had been set up for Mrs. Stern. Ever since Naftali Bata’s departure, she’d served as secretary and was in charge of registration. She sat there, a stack of forms and files before her, making notes in a large notebook. Beside her stood a group of
people arguing at the tops of their voices.

  Mother suddenly appeared, ran up to the table, and demanded to see the forms. I’ve never seen her so upset. Mrs. Stern tried to hang onto the forms and spoke forcefully to Mother.

  “Mrs. David, you cannot take them! Leave the forms alone, please!”

  Mother snatched the forms from her, screaming, “Don’t tell me what to do! I have to see if he signed! I must know! I also have a say here.”

  I was so ashamed, I didn’t know where to put myself. Something was wrong with her. This wasn’t the woman I knew. I was deliberating whether to approach and try to calm her down, or get as far away as I could so she wouldn’t know I’d witnessed the scene, when Father appeared in his blue work clothes. He tried to stop her and held her firmly by the arm.

  “Calm down, Louie, calm down. What are you doing, for God’s sake?”

  “You will not make decisions behind my back! I also have rights! I will not join this insane transport! Over my dead body!” She screamed furiously.

  “Not now, Louie. We’ll discuss it at home, darling. Please, calm down. I’ll take care of it. Come, come with me.” He put his large arms around her. She hid her head in his shoulder, and her body shook with sobs. “Enough, enough,” he whispered in her ear. “Let’s go home.” They walked toward the exit from the mill, Father tall and erect in his work clothes, Mother held in his embrace, hiding her face from the staring eyes of people who stood aside to let them pass.

  Ever since the first meeting about the voyage, steps had been taken to facilitate it. At Father’s carpentry workshop, they were working hard on bunks for the tug. But five days later, people were already talking about a passenger boat and not a tug.

  Two days after this, on the seventeenth of November, I was in the library as usual, when Yokel and Teddy approached me with the local paper. They asked me to translate an item of news in Serbo-Croatian underneath the photograph of a passenger boat.