Two Princes and a Queen

by Shmuel David

  “But do not give up hope,” he said with pathos. “The most important thing is that we are safe here. I swear I will make every effort to get you all out of here.”

  There were no interruptions. Everyone sat quietly and let him speak.

  “If not tomorrow then in a week, or a month,” he said before leaving the stage. “Just don’t lose hope, my friends. You will get to Eretz Israel.”

  After Spitzer left, people stayed behind in groups, sharing their concerns.

  “It all sounds like a bunch of lies and excuses to cover up incompetency,” said Mr. Weinberg. The veins in his forehead looked as if they were about to burst. He’d been so sure that this time he’d finally be on his way to Eretz Israel.

  “I’ve already told our son, Kurt, in Palestine, that we’ll be there in about two weeks. What will happen now? They’ll probably be so worried,” said his wife Marta, wringing her hands in anxiety.

  Inge didn’t want to come and hear him. Ever since the announcement, she’d tried to cover up the pain of disappointment by working long hours in the infirmary. I wanted to sit with her and comfort her, but she didn’t even want to see me during the few hours at the mill. After a few days, she was back to herself and tried with all her heart to forget what had happened, as she said later, “Forget that foolish idea of trying to sail the Black Sea in a passenger boat.”

  Others meant to set out on that transport tried to get back into routine. The youth went back to playing football on the Matchva field that belonged to the local group. Others visited the local library, leaving with books under their arms.

  ***

  A few days later, on the twelfth of December, a new rumor started: a ship called the Dorian Gray or the Darien, something like that, a huge luxury ship, was waiting at the Port of Sulina. We were told there’d be an important announcement in the Hotel Paris hall that evening. Again, excitement gripped the group of illegal immigrants. They were impatient to hear the representative of the committee make a formal statement about the plan.

  Two groups had now formed: the group of illegal immigrants, more than seven hundred mainly young pioneers, and the group remaining behind in Sabac, who were waiting for immigration permits for legal immigration. They weren’t interested in the story about the Darien or the Dorian.21

  We were among the group that was staying. When Mother heard I was going to listen to what the administration had to say about the new arrangement, she was outraged.

  “Don’t go! Better to read something good than to listen to their drivel all over again.”

  “I’m just interested in their plans,” I responded. “And in any case, Inge is in that group, and I’m going with her.”

  “Oh, I thought she’d given up this time,” said Mother. “I heard her talking about it when everything was canceled.”

  “Yes. She was in despair. She said she didn’t want any more disappointments and that she was staying here.”

  “So what happened?”

  “You know, excitement’s catching. Everyone has travel fever again.”

  The hall was completely full, and some of those present were even smiling. Mr. Haimbach went up on stage to speak. Yokel stood beside him, holding a list of names. Quiet prevailed.

  “Friends, we are happy to announce that at long last, with the help of donations from American Jews, and the welcome initiative of the Aliyah Bet Institute in Istanbul, we’ve managed to organize a Turkish boat, the Darien. Not the Dorian, and not the Dorian Gray, as I’ve heard people saying.

  “It was by no means easy and required a great deal of work by all parties involved. Darien is large enough for all those who registered and more. According to our count, there are about sixty more places, and anyone who is still interested can register afterward with Yokel. On the other hand, I will not hide the fact that the sea is still dangerous, and whoever does not want to immigrate in this way can remain here until legal papers are organized.”

  A wave of whisperings and arguments went through the audience. People were deliberating whether to immigrate now, or to wait.

  “I give you my word that everyone will get there in the end. Whoever doesn’t board the Darien will arrive legally, at a later date. But I have to tell you that there are risks involved. Even if everything goes as planned, the British will stop the boat near Israel’s shores and will attempt to send you back to Cyprus or to one of the temporary internment camps. Whoever wants to join and has not yet registered can see Yokel now. He has the necessary papers.”

  He paused briefly; someone handed him a glass of water; he took a hurried sip and continued, “And now to the plan itself. On the nineteenth of the month, you will travel by train to Prahovo. You already know the place; it’s not far from Kladovo. From Prahovo, a Romanian tug will take you to Sulina where you will board the Darien. Since there are a lot of people, one train won’t be enough. You will leave on several trains leaving between the eighteenth and the twentieth. The Romanian tug, I’ve forgotten its name, will wait for you at the Port of Prahovo. You will be met at the train station by one of our contacts, who will be waiting for you there and who will lead you on foot to the port. Board the tug quietly, and wait there until your departure on the twentieth of the month at eight o’clock in the evening, once the six-thirty train arrives in Prahovo.”

  He took another sip of water before continuing.

  “Whoever wants to send packages or large suitcases before that date, instead of hauling them onto the train, can bring them to a small tug meant only for packages and suitcases. It will leave Sabac dock tomorrow, and the luggage will be waiting for you at the Port of Prahovo.”

  I’d arranged with Inge to take her suitcase to the tug. I ran to the infirmary, but Inge and the doctor were busy with a local woman’s baby who’d almost choked on a bead. I waited outside with the mother, who was wringing her hands and pulling her hair in despair. When I opened the door a crack, I saw Inge sitting with the baby in her lap. She gestured to me to stay out. The doctor, who was standing next to her, lightly tapped the baby on its back, and the bead shot out of his mouth like a bullet from a rifle, and he immediately began to scream. I closed the door. The mother, still wringing her hands and pulling her hair, heard her baby’s screams and burst into the room. A joyous smile I hadn’t seen since the cancellation of the transport spread over Inge’s face. She met the agitated mother with the crying baby on her shoulder, lightly patting his back, and said to me, “Hanne, tell her in Serbo-Croatian that everything is all right now. Her baby is safe. Tell her that he will cough and cry for a while but that she has nothing to worry about now.”

  Once the mother and baby had left, she called me to see her enormous green suitcase in the corner of the treatment room.

  “Look how big it is. I can’t drag that thing onto the train.”

  “No problem,” I responded, though I still didn’t see how I was going to pick up the suitcase by myself.

  “And that’s nothing compared to what’s waiting for me in the warehouse in Trieste.” She sighed helplessly.

  “My parents sent our big things to Haifa,” I said. “They’ll be waiting for us there. When do you want to transfer it? Now?” I asked, as if there wasn’t a problem.

  I tried to pick up the suitcase and immediately put it down again. I realized that taking it on foot to the port would be problematic, but I wasn’t going to give up. And then I had an idea. I remembered that my father used a small cart on two wheels at the carpentry workshop whenever he had to lift heavy planks.

  I suggested to Inge that we postpone the transfer of the suitcase till the next day, and I would bring the cart. That evening, I asked my father to find out if I could borrow the cart the next day.

  So, the following evening, I loaded the huge suitcase onto the cart and took it almost effortlessly to the tug. The people we met on the way were in a good mood and laughed. Many of them liked the idea of a ca
rt and called to us, “What a great idea!” Or, “Pity we didn’t think of it.” On the way, we met the Weinberg couple. Mr. Weinberg was my father’s age and could barely manage their large suitcase. He asked us where we’d gotten the cart.

  “Do you think we could use it?” Mrs. Weinberg asked politely, while her husband sat on the suitcase, wiping large beads of sweat from his forehead. Although I’d promised to return the cart to the carpentry workshop immediately, I had to help this old couple. I told them to wait there and I’d be back to fetch the suitcase.

  The days swiftly passed, and the date set to board the train was approaching. On the first night of Hanukkah, candles were lit in the great hall of the mill. Many came wrapped in wool blankets or heavy coats. Some crowded together outside in the cold where the temperature was twelve degrees.

  The food shortage was felt in the minimal number of latkes prepared in the makeshift kitchen. There were only a few potatoes and very little oil. Complaints were heard about the warehouse administration, and it seemed to me that some were directed at my mother.

  The children’s choir conducted by Martha sang Hanukkah songs, and Freddie played festive tunes on his clarinet. It was a farewell party for the group of pioneers leaving the next day for Prahovo and the anticipated voyage, but the atmosphere was sad and heavy. Mr. Goldman made a parting speech in the name of those staying behind. He mentioned the setbacks we’d had together and prayed for the success of this dangerous journey. He also spoke about the bravery of the travelers, and the hope of those remaining that legal immigration permits would arrive soon so they could all be united in Israel. He concluded that though no Hanukkah miracle had as yet occurred on this journey, they were, this Hanukkah, finally beginning to see the light.

  But no light materialized. The following day, just as the first group was making final preparations before walking together to the train station, they again received bitter news. The voyage was postponed indefinitely.

  * * *

  21 The Darien 2 was a commercial boat acquired for the Ma’apilim in May 1940, at Port Piraeus, by Shmarya Tsameret, a Mossad man with American citizenship. It was a ship that went through many transformations. At the time of the acquisition, she was flying the flag of Panama and bore the name of a ridge of mountains in that country. Shmarya bought her as an American citizen to avoid involving the Mossad in the acquisition. He handed her over to David Hacohen and Yechiel Arzi for the purpose of collaborating with the British, which was unsuccessful. Ultimately, she was returned in November 1940 in favor of the Ma’apilim, as narrated here. The Darien primarily symbolizes the “packing-unpacking” process endured by the Ma’apilim.

  January 1941

  The cold hurts my cheeks and ear lobes as if they were about to break off. Father says its years since they had such a cold January. I was on my way as usual to Mr. Radoyevich’s farm, wrapped up in a coat and hat I’d recently bought at the Sabac market. Despite the cold and hard work, I was content, for it brought us relief many others did not have. The people who were having a really hard time now were those who’d lived with the stress of packing and unpacking for over a month and who, ultimately, suffered a bitter disappointment as well as being left without their belongings. Some suffered from enormous anxiety about the future.

  We who intended to remain in Sabac managed to use the time to prepare for a long, cold winter.

  We were even able to heat our apartments with coal stoves. There were those who no longer believed that the transport would leave any time soon and requested that some of their belongings be sent back from the warehouses in Trieste. This is what Zvi and his wife did, and now, on cold nights, she wears her expensive fur coat that was returned from the warehouse with the rest of their belongings.

  I was deep in thought that morning. Playing and replaying the details of a brief love interlude with Inge the previous night, which was abruptly cut short.

  We were on our way back from a performance by the Fenit22 theater. We’d laughed so much, in a way we hadn’t for a long time. I accompanied Inge to the mill where she slept in a dormitory with twenty other girls. In one of the alleys on the way, I felt a warmth in my loins that spread to the rest of my body. I stopped, drew her to me, and embraced her passionately. After so many times of stopping myself, this time I allowed myself the freedom to let go. My hand touched the outline of her body through her long skirt. In the dim lamplight, I felt her giving in to her passion, although I was afraid something would stop her. I opened her thick coat, caressed her breasts under her blouse, and they rose and fell with her quickening breath as she whispered, “Hanne, oh Hanne.”

  For a moment, she seemed to relax her vigilance, but then she suddenly shook herself free, saying decisively, “Stop! No touching, Hanne!”

  Everything stood still. I felt as if the sky had suddenly fallen.

  ***

  That morning, when I got to the farm, Serajan Radoyevich was impatiently waiting for me at the gate. He called to me to hurry over to the large cow barn. I hastily changed my clothes, putting on high boots, my work overalls, and an old sheepskin coat he’d given me. I followed him between the high walls of hay. At the end of the path lay the red cow. She was motionless, her tail was brushed aside, and two tiny legs peeped out from under it. They were covered in blood and placental fluid.

  “We have to help her,” he said tensely. “Or it’ll die.”

  Radoyevich was apparently very skilled in the ways of calving.

  “Why? Can’t it come out naturally by itself?” I asked, revealing my ignorance.

  “It’s the wrong way around, can’t you see that?” he barked at me, as if I should have known the answer, known it should have been out by now but that she wasn’t pushing enough.

  I stood there, afraid to look at the cow as she weakly lowed every now and then in her suffering.

  “Run to the storeroom and fetch two or three ropes. If you can’t find any, cut some off from one of the bales of hay. And bring a pole or a stout stick.”

  I was glad to leave the scene, glad not to see the suffering of the red cow, or the two damp, bloody legs peeping from under her tail. I ran to the storeroom but couldn’t find the rope. I took out my penknife and, cutting off rope from a bale of hay with two strong strokes, I ran back so as not to waste time. When I returned, Radoyevich was angry because I’d forgotten to bring a stick. I’d never seen him so stressed. I came back with the handle from a hoe.

  “Do you know how to make a good knot? The knot must be tight so it won’t come loose, but it mustn’t press either.”

  I remembered our field lessons with Zeev, the “eternal boy scout,” and the special knot he’d taught us.

  “No problem, I’ll tie it,” I said confidently.

  I made the knot and tied it securely, but was concerned it was too tight around the fragile legs of the calf and loosened it slightly. In the meantime, Radoyevich was preparing loops for the stick so that we’d have something to hold onto when pulling.

  Our pulling was of no use. The calf didn’t move. Radoyevich instructed me to continue pulling all the time, like the Kladovo tournament on sports day.

  “Either we aren’t pulling hard enough, or something is blocking the passage,” he said. “Tugs like that should have gotten him out long ago.”

  Despite the cold, sweat poured down his face.

  “This isn’t going to work,” he said finally.

  “Let’s not give up,” I said. “Maybe call the vet?”

  “No, it’s not our turn today,” he said in despair.

  “So let’s call a neighbor then.”

  To my surprise, the man who came was none other than Speedy Misha, as he was called. He rubbed his hands together as if getting ready for action.

  “What’s the problem, Hanne? Here, give that to me.”

  He kneeled down beside me and held the stick firmly. We pulled hard, and sud
denly, I saw a damp pink nose peeping out, each tug revealing more of his head. By the third tug, his neck was out. With the last tug, all resistance disappeared as if it had never existed. On the hay lay a dead calf.

  Radoyevich tried to resuscitate it, but its chest was still and it wasn’t breathing.

  “That’s it.” Radoyevich stamped his foot. “The calf’s finished. Dead.”

  I felt a burden of guilt settle on my narrow shoulders.

  There’s not much work at the carpentry workshop at the moment, and Father only works there twice a week. On other days, he sits in the kitchen, the largest space in our small apartment, and plays cards with his usual group of friends. On Tuesdays, they sit playing at Café Roma, on the corner of Dushana and Kralitza Alexandra, a broad street not far from Hotel Paris; there, they drink and discuss the situation. Everyone talks about the situation at Café Roma, but they mainly come in to shelter from the piercing cold outside. The cold sends them scurrying back to the houses, the mill, or any other protected place.

  The mill is an open space and impossible to heat. The youngsters tried to get the stove working, but the chimney was blocked by dry mud and they couldn’t open it up. The most pleasant place to meet was Café Roma. It was owned by Mrs. Chalkeiwich, whom everyone calls Miroshka, a broad, large-bosomed woman. Her black apron was designed to hide her size but actually emphasized it even more. Her generous laughter was full of kindness and love for people as she made her way among the tables, asking if they needed anything. Although she employed a young waitress, Miroshka worked both in the kitchen and as a waitress. Her manners were cheerful and brisk. The aroma of coffee and fresh pastries from Anji’s bakery filled the café.

  I went there twice with Inge. Mara praised her friend Nicola, a musician who plays all kinds of tunes on the accordion and the harmonica, mainly gypsy songs, which he sings with Milka, his beautiful friend.