by Shmuel David
Inge asked them to sing “My Yiddishe Mama,” and everyone was moved to tears. Inge was seized with loneliness and longing for her mother. I held her close to me and stroked her wet cheeks.
The prevailing language at Café Roma was Viennese German. Everyone talked at the tops of their voices about the transport, when we’d leave, if ever. Who was responsible for this farce, as the café gossips called it?
The noisiest table was Shesta’s; he was known as “the loafer,” because he spent most hours of the day there. Mother wondered how he got the money to sit there all day long. Mr. Gottesmann, “the hedonist,” spent a lot of time there. He had endless stories to tell about rich meals in Vienna, going out to the opera in fine, fashionable clothes, and so on. Even in the conditions of our transport, his elegant clothes stood out, his hair brushed sideways to hide his balding head. Mr. Gottesman always has insights about the course of the war. He believes we have to get out as soon as possible, that we are living on borrowed time. He thinks the Germans will be in Sabac within two or three months, and then God help us all.
And there was Rudi Lempel, also known as “the Führer” because of his leadership qualities; he’d sit there at his usual table, always knowing about secret events taking place behind the scenes, which were known only to his close friends. But he trusted his friends not to tell. A month after the last cancellation, I was sitting with Inge, not far from him, and his authoritative voice filled the space.
“And what do you think this story about the Darien is really about? You were told that Sime Spitzer is looking after us and taking care not to send us off in a storm, but have you thought about what’s really going on?” he asked, and of course nobody answered. “It has to do with the situation in Romania! Everyone knows that whenever there’s unrest, the police close off roads, put up roadblocks, and make arrests. And you believe these clowns?” Rudi laughed ironically. “Oh, God help us, we are such miserable wretches.” He suddenly lowered his voice as if telling a secret, “ The Darien wasn’t ever intended for us, I’m telling you.”
“What do you mean, ‘not intended for us’?” Shesta the loafer was roused from his apathy. “So who was she for?”
“They say she was brought to Sulina for refugees, but the real story is entirely different.”
“Well? So what’s the story?” asked Mr. Gottesmann.
“There was a secret agreement between the British and the Jewish Agency. The British wanted the ship to prevent supplies from reaching Germany via the Danube.”
When he heard this, Mr. Gottesmann was furious.
“Nonsense!” he said. “Firstly, the Darien isn’t built for sailing the Danube, and secondly, since when has the Jewish Agency collaborated with the British? Haven’t they made enough trouble for us, these British, not giving us immigration permits to enter Eretz Israel? And now they’re making deals with them? Are you mad?”
“I’m not forcing you to believe it, Mr. Gottesmann,” said Rudi peaceably. “On one hand, you could say I’m talking nonsense. Time will tell.”
“If what you say is true, we should get up and protest, do something! It’s intolerable that Spitzer is always coming here just to throw sand in our eyes.”
“Ach, you are all so naive!” said Mr. Rudi Lempel. “We should do something, not just sit here like idiots. Let’s give them an ultimatum.”
“Better to order a really good schnapps,” Shesta tried to bring them back to reality and called Miroshka.
But Café Roma wasn’t the be-all and end-all of the whole group. The general atmosphere was harsh. People were bitter and in despair. Most of the frustration was directed at Sime Spitzer and the Transport Administration. Nobody believed their promises, and some became depressed. The cold also contributed to the hardship. Not everyone could afford to sit at Café Roma. Most people sat in unheated places like the mill and the granary, or in wretched apartments in town. Food supplies were further limited. There were rumors that this was because of the situation on the Balkan front, which probably affected the regular supply of food to such a large number of people.
Once a week, I did kitchen duty at the mill. I felt a need to be part of the group. Mother also encouraged me in this, in case the Youth Aliyah program did take place. Clearly, it was important to maintain good relations with the group.
Olga Chaliti, who owned our house, holds rehearsals in her studio adjoining our apartment. When she saw me staring at the dancers, she invited me to come in and watch, and even said she’d invite me to their performance on the Christian festival of Saint Sava. On this day, everyone wears traditional clothes, and at local schools, there are ceremonies and plays in honor of the saint. One day, I went to see Trudeh, the Viennese dancer who’d astonished us all with a dance at our first Hanukkah on board the Tzar Nikolai. Here she was, helping Olga prepare the girls for the performance; she was also surprised to see me. I told her that we were living there, next door. But on the day of the performance, I saw that Teddy had written me down for kitchen duty, and I was uncomfortable about asking to change it because of a Christian holiday.
It was so cold mid-January that the water froze my fingers, and I had a hard time peeling potatoes. Mr. Herman, a short, energetic man who was in charge of the kitchen, scolded me for my slowness.
“It’s because of the cold. My fingers are frozen.”
“Ach! You’re spoiled. It’s obvious you come from an aristocratic home in Belgrade,” he said half-jokingly.
“I forgot about that aristocratic home a long time ago,” I responded. “It feels as if years have gone by since then.”
“Luckily for you there’s not much to peel today, but unlucky for everyone else. There won’t be much to eat again today.”
“Why? What happened?”
“Supplies haven’t been coming in recently, and I see that it’s getting worse. We’ll work out something today too. It’s been two weeks since we got any oil, and I can’t fry a thing.”
He disappeared among the large pots, and I saw him and Avreymel working hard, one of Avreymel’s hands resting on his hip while the other slowly stirred a bubbling pot. He brought me the pot of soft potatoes, handed me a masher, and later called me to help with the meat balls.
“There’s very little meat. We’ll have to add more bread,” he said, and sent me to the bread cupboard. “Bring ten loaves of yesterday’s bread, please. It’s on the bottom shelf.”
I soaked the bread in water and crumbled it into a large bowl, the ground meat barely a quarter of the whole amount.
Before people came in to eat, Mr. Herman whispered to me, “Give sparingly…a spoon and a half of mashed potatoes and not many peas or carrots on each plate. No more, or there won’t be enough for everybody.”
When the time came to serve the food, I stood in an apron that fell to my knees. Those in line gave me beseeching looks for a little more of the tasteless mashed potatoes, another half a meatball, and I so wanted to give them more, but Herman’s warning words rang in my ears.
“No more, or there’ll be none left.”
And heavy-hearted, I put one and a half spoons of mashed potatoes and one meatball on each plate, no more. Shesta came up, wrapped in blankets and a hat that almost covered his eyes, and held out his plate. His twisted smile expressed despair.
“Hey, boy, give me more. That’s a helping for babies!” he said, continuing to stand there, holding out his plate.
“No vegetables have come in for two weeks now. There aren’t enough supplies,” I tried to explain, but he stayed there, plate in hand, as if rooted to the spot.
“Hey, what’s going on over there? What’s the holdup?” someone shouted from the end of the line, and others began rattling their plates in irritation.
I continued to refuse and suddenly felt something hot and sticky on my face. Shesta had smeared his mashed potatoes all over my face.
“There you are, inso
lent boy,” he said angrily and grabbed the spoon from my hand.
Someone else, I think it was Mr. Roff, known as “the clean-hand president,” an insult given him by the youngsters because of his exaggerated concern over cleanliness, shouted, “Bastard! Leave the pot alone, you parasite!”
But Shesta continued to scrape the bottom of the pot. Then Mr. Globerman, the man who’d slaughtered the calf in Kladovo, and who everyone feared, jumped in front of him.
“Get out of here at once, or I’ll beat you to a pulp.”
He came up close to Shesta; he was a head taller, although Shesta wasn’t exactly short. Shesta rocked slightly on his feet, then shook off his blanket and tried to stand up to Mr. Globerman. But all at once, he realized he didn’t stand a chance and left the place in shame.
I’d mashed up the remaining potatoes in the meantime and washed my face in the bowl of water Mr. Herman handed me. Despite the searing insult, I did not give up and continued to serve the food, in an attempt to ignore the indignity, feeling a burning desire to take revenge on Shesta. That bastard does nothing all day, every day, and then he comes for food; instead of saying thank you and sitting down quietly, he insults the people who prepared the food.
“I wouldn’t have believed it; that lazy good-for-nothing who does nothing for anyone, but has the nerve to open his mouth,” said Mother furiously, when she heard about the incident. “Emil, this cannot be ignored.”
“But what’s to be done? Do you want Hanne to call him out?” asked Father.
My parents continued to bicker sarcastically for a while without reaching any practical solution. Father ended the argument in good spirits and invited Mother to the theater that evening.
“We deserve a laugh, don’t we?”
“Yes. We haven’t been to a Fenit performance for a long time,” said Mother. “We should go and see them again. I’ve heard they keep getting better and better.”
“I’m also going today,” I interrupted their conversation.
***
The dining hall of Hotel Paris was lit up and people were coming in from all over the city, among them German-speakers who were residents of Sabac and willing to pay the price of a ticket for a healthy laugh. Several city notables were also invited. When the mayor entered, he received a standing ovation.
The performance began with the tune “We’re packing, we’re unpacking,” which had become the group signature tune. Freddie conducted the orchestra, and the choir joined in later on. When Richart and Yossi came on stage, the audience went wild. The skit dealt once again with the group’s daily life and the anticipation of something good finally happening.
When the curtains open, the two actors are lying down with blankets up to their chins. Richart half sits up, leaning on his elbow, and looks over at Yossi, who is asleep.
Richart: “Yossi, Yossi, nu, are you already asleep?”
Yossi, still lying down, answers sleepily: “Leave me alone, Richart. I just fell asleep.”
Richart sits up, his blanket over his knees: “And I’ve just woken up to the smell of roast duck and gravy. It’s just come up from the warehouse dining room, and what’s more, they’re serving chicken soup there; it just slides down your throat, and there’s compote and apple strudel for dessert. A really rich meal. Haven’t eaten anything like it for over a year. And to end off the meal, a glass of hot mocha.”
Yossi also gets up now: “What a pity. I didn’t smell or taste it, not the soup or the roast.”
Laughter comes from the audience.
Richart makes a dismissive gesture: “Never mind. Don’t get too excited. It was only a dream. And now I want to go back to sleep.”
Yossi is angry: “So go back to sleep. Who’s bothering you?”
Both are quiet. Try to get some sleep.
Richart sits up again, leans on his elbow: “Yossi, Yossi, are you asleep yet?”
Loud laughter again, and someone shouts out, “Let him sleep, idiot.”
Yossi, still lying down, is annoyed: “Leave me alone, Richart.”
Richart: “The train whistle woke me up. It’s a special train, just waiting for us, been at the platform for over an hour now. No one knew about it, no one heard. What do you know, Yossi? What do you know? A direct train to Prahovo. And everyone says there’s a real big ship over there, just waiting to take us to Palestine. And I strolled around Tel Aviv in the summer sun in a smart hat and didn’t even know it was a dream, and it’s February today.”
Yossi is alarmed: “Oh, God help me! I missed that transport too!”
The audience roars with laughter. Someone yells out, “Yossi, don’t believe him!”
Richart again makes a dismissive gesture: “Don’t worry, Yossi. It was just a dream.”
Both of them lie quietly for a moment.
Yossi turns restlessly under the blanket: “Come on, let me sleep.”
Richart again sits up, leaning on his elbow: “Are you asleep?”
Yossi, irritated: “What now?”
The sporadic laughter from the audience now becomes a rhythmic roar.
Richart describes peacefully: “I was in the Garden of Eden, and it wasn’t a dream. Everything there is allowed, everything. You can enjoy yourself till dawn for only twenty dinars. And if that isn’t enough, everyone gets gambling coupons too.”
Yossi shouts: “Stop!”
They run off stage to the sound of applause and requests for an encore, coming back on stage to take a bow.
After the performance, the cold outside sent everyone home. I accompanied Inge to the infirmary. She preferred to sleep there when on duty rather than at the cold, noisy mill. When we got there, we found Dr. Bezalel, who was still reading Death in Venice by Thomas Mann.
“Read it?” he asked, closing the book.
“Yes,” I responded. “I particularly like Thomas Mann.”
“Nu, so what do you have to say about it?” he asked with curiosity.
“The resemblance to Mahler is so striking, it’s impossible to ignore. My mother was a great admirer of Mahler, and thanks to her, I read that book.”
“Yes, I didn’t think of that, but now that you mention it… He wasn’t called Gustav for nothing.”
“There’s a lot there that’s taken from Mahler’s biography.”
“I find it curious that a young fellow like you would read a book about an aged hero, whose thoughts revolve around death.”
“I was actually captivated by the description of his thoughts on life. The beautiful young body of that young boy, I’ve forgotten his name.”
“Tadzio, the Polish boy,” said Dr. Bezalel. “The yearning for youth, for beauty, the desire to turn back time. When all is said and done, the body has laws of its own.”
“See, you read that book as an adult from a doctor’s point of view.”
“True. One can’t escape one’s profession. Particularly that of a doctor.”
“Ahem…” Inge cleared her throat to remind us of her presence. “You’re off again,” she said plaintively.
“Well, I’ll leave you here,” said the doctor, turning to Inge. “Ah, that woman from Sabac with the crying baby came again today. It turns out he’s teething. I calmed her down and she went home. Good night!” said Dr. Bezalel and left.
“He talks and talks as if I didn’t exist,” complained Inge.
“But he started talking to me!” I tried to defend myself.
“You could have apologized and said you were with me now.”
“I’m sorry, Inge,” I said, drawing closer to her, but I felt her stiffen.
“Lately, you’ve been distant. You don’t behave the way you did when we first met.”
“But I love you,” I said, trying to get her to look at me. “I always have, ever since we first met.”
“So why don’t you say so? You used to tell me
you loved me every day. Every time we met, I’d feel how much you wanted to be with me.”
“Maybe it’s the tension here. This constant packing and unpacking, it can drive you mad.”
“I’m afraid, Hanne, I’m afraid,” she said.
“What are you afraid of, Inge? I’m here with you. We’ll survive everything together, you’ll see. We’ll get to Palestine in the end, we’ll have sweet children, and we will always love one another. Until death do us part.”
“I’m afraid that when we get there, you’ll leave me. You’ll look for someone who is educated, someone you can talk to about Mahler and Thomas Mann. I’m too simple for you.”
“No, Inge, never think that. You are the beauty in my life. Without you, I’d be miserable here, really miserable.”
“So tell me again. I want to hear it again,” she said, in tears.
I put my hands on her waist and drew her closer. Trembling, she rested her head on my shoulder.
Inge told me that Yost was admitted to the infirmary last Thursday with a severe infection of the digestive system, and that the doctor had imposed a strict diet. I hadn’t spoken with Yost for a long time; in fact, I’d only visited him twice in all the time we’d been in Sabac. Once when he and his family still lived crowded together with other youngsters in the granary next to the mill, and again in the small, well-kept house they’d been given on the outskirts of Sabac. Max, his father, was very busy, as he’d been made responsible for professional changes at the group school. Consequently, Yost spent most of his time with his mother in a house far away from the center and with friends. When Inge told me he’d been hospitalized, I wanted to visit him.
I found him in good spirits, and sat down next to him on the bed, taking care not to get too close so I wouldn’t be infected. Yost told me he’d missed a great many group activities because they lived so far from the center, but that it also had its advantages. Their home was close to the agricultural area, and he’d made friends with the neighboring farmer’s son. He helped him feed the chickens, collect eggs, and he’d even ridden their donkey, which was fun.