Two Princes and a Queen

by Shmuel David

  “Two hundred and forty-four immigration permits have arrived, about two hundred with specific names and the rest we’ll fill in. Tonight, we will go over the registrations you filled in at Kladovo, and all those who have not yet turned eighteen will be added to the list,” announced the messenger from Zagreb, who was dressed in a smart suit that was quite unsuitable for the occasion. He waved the package of immigration permits. “I assume you all filled in the forms at the end of last summer, including medical examinations.”

  “And what if there aren’t enough immigration permits?” someone shouted.

  “According to the lists you submitted, there are enough for everybody. Nevertheless, the British are making difficulties, especially for those from Germany or Austria, because they are considered enemy countries. However, with the generous help of Mrs. Michaelis-Stern from the main London Youth Aliyah office, and Mrs. Henrietta Szold, we managed to overcome that obstacle.” The envoy cleared his throat and added, “Yes, I almost forgot Mr. Chaim Berlas, an envoy from the Istanbul Youth Aliyah office. It was he who brought the immigration permits to Zagreb. It wasn’t easy, because the London Youth Aliyah office wanted to give preference to Youth Aliyah groups under their jurisdiction from before the war.”

  “But we belonged to Youth Aliyah before the war,” called out Teddy, who was sitting with his group on benches at the front.

  “I’m sorry, but because of the many postponements and loss of time we’ve suffered here, they relate to our youth groups as a refugee group, and not as groups that were organized even before the war. But it doesn’t matter now, that’s all behind us.”

  When Yokel gave us details of the route that included Bulgaria, sounds of disappointment rose in the group. We knew that Bulgaria had allowed Germany a foothold in their country, and we were concerned that our train would be stopped.

  “There’s another small detail holding up our departure—transit visas for the Bulgarian border. But I hope this will be arranged by tomorrow. Otherwise, we’d have left tomorrow morning. We have to go through Bulgaria, because that’s the route of your train. From Bulgaria, you will travel to Greece, and from there to Turkey.” Bata paused, and then continued, “From Istanbul, we will go in small groups along the Syrian border, and from there to Lebanon and Eretz Israel.”

  “Why aren’t we traveling together?” someone asked.

  “Because of the limitations imposed by the Turkish regime,” answered the envoy. “We will send a group of about fifty boys and girls a day. You can walk around the city for a day or two, until the next group can set out. But on no account are you to walk about alone, only in groups.”

  Again he paused, as there was great excitement in the room. Exhilarated, Mother hugged me and Pauli again.

  “So, ladies and gentlemen, that’s it. I want you to finish packing by tomorrow evening, and the following day, at seven o’clock in the morning, everyone with an immigration permit must be at the Sabac train station.”

  “But we haven’t yet received an immigration permit,” someone called out, and an uproar ensued.

  “Calm down! Calm down!” called Bata Gedalja. “Everyone allotted an immigration permit will receive it by tomorrow afternoon. Tomorrow morning, we will go over all the youth registrations, and those who qualify in terms of age and who do not yet have an immigration permit will be given one tomorrow. You have nothing to worry about.”

  ***

  After the meeting, Inge took me aside and whispered, “I must make sure I’m on the list. Fortunately, all the questionnaires and medical tests are at the infirmary. Please, let’s go there now.”

  “And what will you do? How will you find out?”

  “I have to make sure that I filled in my age properly. I told you that I took a year off my age. Now he says that those born after 1923 will receive immigration permits, so first of all I have to find out how I’m registered. Then we’ll see.”

  “And what’s my role? Do you want me to come into the doctor’s office with you?” I asked, afraid she was giving me a role that would jeopardize me if we were caught.

  “No, no,” she reassured me. “You just stay outside and let me know if anyone comes. If you hear steps, knock twice on the door. I’ll pretend I just came in to check the sterile instruments.”

  I sat outside the doctor’s room, and every passing second seemed like eternity. I imagined I heard approaching steps, but it was the storm making the shutters creak and groan. A loud rolling sound made my heart jump even after I understood it was only thunder. Finally, I realized that no one was likely to appear in such a storm or be out in such cold.

  When Inge finally came out, the smile on her face said it all.

  “All’s well, Hanne.” She embraced me and kissed my cheek. “In terms of age, everything’s all right. I wrote March 1923, a bit borderline, perhaps. Let’s hope there are enough immigration permits for all the youth, otherwise they might give one to someone younger than me by a few days. I saw Esther’s name. She’s very close to me in age.”

  “Who’s Esther?”

  “The girl who was here in isolation for a few days. She had a high fever and suspected jaundice.”

  “But what will happen if there are fewer immigration permits than eligible youth?” I asked with concern.

  “It will be very bad for me, but the envoy from Zagreb said there are enough for all the youth.”

  “Let’s hope so. I don’t know what will happen if there aren’t,” I said, as if it were impossible that only one of us would go.

  “I know, Hanne. It would be very hard, but we would get through it. Worst-case scenario, two or three weeks later, immigration permits will come for the remaining youth and even, finally, for everyone.”

  “You’re optimistic,” I told her. “Look how long it took to get two hundred and forty immigration permits, and you’re talking about a couple of weeks?”

  “Well, do you think worrying does any good?” she responded. “If I only saw the half-empty glass, I’d have gone mad a long time ago.”

  “I am worried. You forget that I’m leaving aging parents here.”

  “And what about Yost?” she asked. “Did you know his parents don’t want him to go at all?”

  “Yes. His mother’s afraid to send him alone, although he does have an aunt in Palestine who could take care of him.”

  “I’m not judging them. I don’t know what I’d do if I were a mother who had to send her child to an unknown future. Don’t forget he’s only a boy of thirteen.”

  I accompanied her back to the mill. The storm raged unabated with periodic bursts of rain that washed the street. We stood under a store entrance, waiting for the rain to ease up a bit. In the beam of light from the street lamp, the rain seemed to be diminishing to a drizzle. The pavement stones shone, and puddles formed in the road.

  “When I think about our conditions here, we seemed to have gotten used to this refugee situation, as it’s called,” I said reflectively. “After all, we have a home, even a school, and I have you and my parents. So what’s wrong with that?”

  “What’s wrong with it?” she protested. “Do you call this a life? Life here is temporary. I won’t even mention the danger. But a human being should be affiliated with a home and a place where he can join his fate to that of his people. That’s what I had in Germany and you in Belgrade, until all this horror began. A human being also has to fulfill himself. Work, study, get a profession…”

  “That was a joke, Inge. I didn’t really mean it,” I remonstrated. “It’s obvious that we have no home and almost no identity. I was just teasing, darling. But I see you aren’t in the mood for jokes right now… It’s hard for me to accept that Yost’s parents have decided to keep him here with them…he wants to go so badly.”

  The rain had stopped, and we walked the rest of way at a fast pace, parting at the entrance to the mill, confident that the next
day we’d know for certain that both of us were going.

  When I got home, I found Mother sitting at the kitchen table, straining her eyes to darn a sock.

  “Why so late, Hanne?” she asked, without raising her eyes from the torn sock. “There’s a lot to do. You have to pack.”

  “Some of us stayed on after the envoy from Zagreb finished his explanations. We wanted to hear everyone’s ideas about how to manage there. They’re talking about a place called Atlit. Have you heard of it? Apparently, we’ll be living there in tents at first.”

  “Yes, I heard them talking about it. The British don’t want you there at all. Atlit is temporary; they’ll probably send you to a kibbutz at some point.”

  “Mother, I don’t know anything about kibbutz. I hope they prepare us for it.”

  “On the kibbutz, everything is shared. Everyone works together, and the income is also shared. They eat in a common dining room; they’ve prepared you for that anyway! Are you nervous?”

  “Yes, I am. Mainly about what’s waiting for me there, and about the fact that you and Father aren’t coming with us.”

  “You have nothing to worry about, Hanne. We’ll probably get there in two or three weeks, maybe a month. Everyone says you’re our pioneers, and we will all probably get our immigration permits soon.”

  “And if you don’t?” I insisted.

  “Don’t be such a pessimist. Why wouldn’t we get them if the first group has?”

  “But we waited so long for those two hundred and forty immigration permits to arrive! Who knows what will happen with the remaining eight hundred?”

  “Enough, Hanne, that’s enough. Stop filling your head with such dark thoughts,” she said. “Better to see the positive in everything. I think you’ve been reading too much philosophy lately.”

  “Tomorrow, I’ll get up early and go and say goodbye to Farmer Radoyevich. He also owes me last week’s pay.”

  “Then go to bed and stop thinking so much,” she said, getting up to kiss me. “Good night. Sweet dreams.”

  I tossed and turned, unable to fall asleep. In my mind, I saw a hot country where the sun burned, winter and summer. No lakes or forests, only barren hills. I saw myself sitting with Pauli and six friends in a hot tent in Atlit, no one caring about us or telling us what to do. Inge left behind with my parents and the other adults. Before we left, she’d comforted me—everything would be all right, and she’d be joining me in two weeks’ time. The taste of her parting kiss was still on my lips, and her last words would be, “look after yourself, Hanne, and get things ready for us there.”

  Finally, I was tired of lying there fantasizing in my bed and got up to write. It was still dark outside when I put on my work clothes and coat with the fur hat to protect my ears from the cold. The street was quiet. Not even the neighborhood dogs barked at me as I went past the fence adjacent to our house. But as I passed the bakery, I could smell the rising dough and baking bread. I knocked on the window where fresh rolls would be sold later on, and Illyich, the baker, opened it with a welcoming face.

  “Good morning, Hanne. The usual?” he asked.

  “This is the last time, Illyich,” I made a leaving sign with my hand. “We leave tomorrow.”

  “So this is it. You’re leaving!” he said sadly. “I’m sorry.” But he pulled himself together and said, “I’m sorry for us here in Sabac. You fit in so well here. I can’t imagine you not being here.”

  “Tomorrow only the youth are leaving. The adults will remain here for another few weeks or a month, depending on when their immigration permits arrive.”

  “Then two rolls today. On the house,” he said, taking a paper bag from the top shelf.

  “Thank you very much! We’ve also felt good with all of you. Thank you for making us feel welcome here.”

  “The minute you got here, we realized you were humane and cultured people. Good luck to you!” he said, giving me the bag of rolls.

  I did my usual chores for Radoyevich, and only when he appeared with a jug of boiling coffee did I tell him that I’d come to say goodbye to him. He was so moved that he spilt some coffee while pouring, and his hands shook.

  “I knew this day would come,” he said emotionally. “But I’m glad for you and your whole group that things are finally working out.”

  “Not everyone leaves tomorrow. Just us in the meantime, the young people. We received our immigration permits.”

  “I suppose the others will get theirs soon. A pity, we will miss you here.”

  I took a fresh roll from the bag and offered it to him.

  “It’s from Anji’s bakery. They gave me two this morning, on the house.”

  He shook his head when he realized that this was my last day and worriedly felt about in his pocket.

  “If I’d known, I’d have brought you your money now. Wait a moment. I’ll go home and get it,” he said. A few minutes later, he returned and gave me the notes, adding one.

  “There you are; a little extra for the journey.”

  We parted with a firm handshake, and I saw him turn his head to wipe away a tear.

  When I got back to the mill, there was already news of another postponement. Another one? I thought. Just don’t let this be a repeat of the usual nightmare we’ve gotten used to.

  “This time it’s because of the Bulgarians,” said the know-it-all Mr. Gottesmann. “They still haven’t sent the transit visas for the border crossing,” he stated. “And the train must go through Bulgaria. There’s no other way.”

  They’d promised to send the visas today; the day was over, and they hadn’t arrived. Everyone was on edge. We were packed and emotionally ready to leave, to board the train, and the waiting was excruciating.

  Pauli and I sat at the kitchen table with our parents, talking about the coming journey.

  “When you get to the kibbutz, you’ll probably be able to send postcards. I beg you not to be lazy about it,” said Mother, looking at Pauli. “Pauli, you tend not to relate to things like that,” she said, a hint of reproof in her tone. “But know that it is really important now. This isn’t summer camp in the mountains, when you didn’t write at all,” she said, looking at me too. “This is different. You’re going to a new and unfamiliar place. It’s not Slovenia; it’s different weather, different people, another language…”

  “But most of all, boys, be responsible and look after yourselves. You don’t know anything about the place. Or what to be careful of…” Father started to say.

  There was a sudden knock at the door. Mr. Goldman’s face appeared in the opening.

  “That’s it. It’s final,” he said excitedly. “There’s a list of those going on the mill notice board. Pauli and Hanne are on it. I checked.”

  “What about Inge? Is she also on the list?” I asked anxiously.

  “Don’t know,” he answered. “Didn’t notice.”

  I sensed he was hiding something.

  “I’m going to see Inge,” I said and left.

  I ran all the way to the granary next to the mill. I’d probably see Inge there. Mr. Goldman’s evasive answer worried me. My heart was beating frantically as I ran the length of Pop Luca Street that led to the mill. It was unthinkable that Mr. Goldman hadn’t noticed. And what if she wasn’t on the list? What if she was staying here alone? For how long would she stay? Who knew when the immigration permits would arrive? We’d waited so long. And what about Mother and Father? I’d forgotten about them altogether. After all, they’d also be staying here. As I approached, my breathing became heavier, and despite the cold, beads of sweat dripped down my back.

  I threw open the door of the granary and ran to the northern area where Inge slept. Her bed was empty. Raisel and Esther were sitting on a nearby bed. There was an open suitcase on the floor, clothes and objects strewn about all over it. Esther folded a dress and laid it on the suitcase.

&n
bsp; “Are you looking for Inge?” she asked composedly, without raising her head.

  “Yes,” I responded. “Do you know where she is? I see her suitcase is ready.”

  “Don’t ask, Hanne,” said Raisel. “She left here in a state after opening her suitcase and throwing everything on the floor.”

  And Esther added, “It’s not like her. I’ve never seen her behave like that.”

  I didn’t wait to hear the rest but ran in the direction of the infirmary, hoping to find her there. I had a bad premonition. It was clear to me that she’d had bad news, two words she herself used frequently. Her reaction worried me. I arrived panting at the infirmary and tried to open the door, but it was locked. I beat on it with my fist, but there was no answer. I tried to open it by force but to no avail. She was apparently not there. I started to walk about like a caged lion. Where could she be? I had a sudden thought—maybe she’d gone to talk to someone in charge of the transport. Sime Spitzer, perhaps, who’d come himself, especially for the event of the Youth Aliyah journey.

  I went over there, and as I approached the closed door, I thought I heard her voice. I opened the door a crack and saw the committee representative sitting in his chair, Inge beside him. She was tense and upright, her foot anxiously tapping the floor and her fingers clasped anxiously together.

  She noticed me and said, “You can’t come in; you can see we’re in the middle of a conversation.”

  “Excuse me,” I gently closed the door.

  I sat down on the stairs outside to wait for her. There was nothing I could do to help in there anyway. Tension mounted, and I bit my nails nervously, a habit I thought I’d overcome but that had recently returned. The door opened after a long time, and the elegant envoy came out with Inge, his arm around her trembling shoulders with a gentle fatherliness.

  “It will be all right. These are just the first tidings of spring,” he said, in an attempt to calm her. “And by the time spring arrives, everyone will get their immigration permits, and we will all finally be able to forget this nightmare.”