Two Princes and a Queen

by Shmuel David

  ***

  That evening, when Alan got home, he went to his room, but instead of preparing material for the meeting in Chicago, he sat down to listen to the recording. Part of it sounded familiar. At first, he didn’t understand why, and then he remembered the letters he’d found in his father’s house before his death. He hadn’t even had time to talk to him about what was in the large envelope with all those photographs and old documents. It was the letter Grandfather Emil had written from Belgrade to his sons in Eretz Israel. Alan looked feverishly in the drawer into which he’d thrust all the papers he’d brought back from his father’s house after his death. He found the large envelope. Here they were. Exactly as he’d found them three years previously, three pages of closely written words:23

  Belgrade

  14/5/1941

  Hello my dear children,

  On the third or fourth of April, we received a telegram from Mrs. Shteindler telling us you’d arrived in Eretz Israel. Praise the Lord.

  I was in Belgrade for two or three weeks because of our visas for Eretz Israel, although on Saturday the fifth of April, I was told to come on Monday for the visas. You probably also know what has happened in the meantime—on the first day of the bombing, I was at the Pops family’s house. Do you remember Mr. Pops? He’s the one Hanne was so afraid of when he was a child. Well, his house was in bad condition. We had to reinforce the cellar ceiling to prevent the building from collapsing, and that’s how we passed the first and worst day of bombing in Belgrade. I spent the night there too. We were lucky no bombs fell in our vicinity.

  The Topcider and Dedinje neighborhoods were left almost completely untouched. On Monday morning, a car went into town, and I took the opportunity to go and take a look around and see Belgrade after the bombing. The city looked terrible. Houses were destroyed and burned. There were cracks in the pavements, shards of glass everywhere, in the houses, cafés, and offices.

  The worst thing was the silence that hung over the city. It was completely dead; here and there, someone could be seen with a small suitcase, leaving the city—and I finally decided to return to Sabac, because Mother was probably worried about me.

  Trains and buses were no longer running, and a group of us decided to leave on foot through Valjevo in the direction of Avala, believing we’d find a ride to take us on to Sabac. I left with Olga Timotievich, Raiku Levy, Vladimir Pops’s wife, and some others. We were nine in all.

  In the meantime, the alarm and evacuation were so great it was impossible to find a car with any room, so we had no choice but to walk south, in the direction of Raila, forty kilometers from Belgrade. What saved us was a car stuck at the side of the road. The driver asked if one of us knew anything about engines. I know a little, so I looked inside and asked him to switch on the engine. I saw the gas pipe was blocked and helped him to fix it by an old method I knew. When the engine was finally working, I asked if he could give us a ride. He said he was going to Raila, so we got in the back and went with him. In Raila, we managed with difficulty to organize a cart that took us as far as Mladenovac. The following day, we got to Aranđelovac in the cart, where we had to wait two days to continue. We met many people we know there: Sime Spitzer, the Popses, and many others who’d escaped from Belgrade and waited there with us.

  The next day, we traveled to Valjevo, and from there, by the last bus to Sabac. Throughout the journey, we heard sirens because of the German planes. The last came as we arrived in Sabac. It was Saturday night, the Seder night, Passover night. You can imagine my joy at being reunited with your mother again. I wasn’t even sure I’d find her in Sabac, because we heard rumors about the division of the camp. With all the stories and tears of joy upon meeting, and also because Mother hadn’t had time to prepare anything for Passover, we decided just to have the second Passover night, but that too did not take place.

  On Saturday the twelfth, at six in the evening, the battle for Sabac began with a heavy bombardment. We had a feeling that something was brewing even before noon. There were frequent sirens and a lot of military traffic. Many Jews wanted to escape from Sabac, and Mother also wanted us to go, didn’t matter where, as long as we left. I was opposed to leaving the apartment, because I believed we were better off behind the front line. At seven o’clock that evening, our building got a direct hit. We were sitting in the kitchen with the Birnbaums and Kramer Miklos, who whined more than anyone. Even though the kitchen was hit by shrapnel from a bomb, no one was hurt!

  The bombardment went on all night. Bombs were exploding on all sides. By morning, the Germans were in Sabac. All the Jews who remained in Sabac were alive and healthy. About a hundred and fifty Jews had tried to escape, eight of whom were killed, among them Fritz Zimmermann, two young men from the Hechalutz youth, and five more whom I don’t know. They were buried in Sabac.

  I must end now.

  Many kisses,

  Father

  They were having a difficult time with Nina. She decided to stop her dance lessons after studying for more than five years.

  “I will never be a dancer,” she said with tears in her eyes. “Better to donate the money for my lessons to some charity, or Keren Kayemeth LeIsrael,” she added, and reminded Alan of his promise to consider a trip to Israel. “Two of my friends are going to visit family in Israel during the summer, so why can’t we?”

  Alan was overwhelmed with guilt. Maybe Nina was right. Was he just being stubborn and trying to avoid dealing with the decision to return to Israel? After all, he’d already privately decided it was time to deal with going back. It wasn’t the right time for him, but maybe he could still send Nina to a good school in Israel so she could get the same Israeli education he had. Then he rejected the idea, telling himself that it wasn’t the right time, he was busy at work, and now there was Erica in the nursing home. He felt himself drawn as if by magic to her memories of the war. He may not be able to restore Inge to his father, but some riddle was unravelling, and he hadn’t been aware of his internal hunger for this information.

  Erica was in a cheerful mood.

  “My daughter is finally coming to visit tomorrow. I haven’t seen her since Thanksgiving.”

  “Why so long?” he asked. “Is she that busy?”

  “It’s a long story. She’s getting divorced now, for the second time. I don’t think she really knows how to run her life. But I don’t interfere. She must make her own choices.”

  “Does she have any children?” asked Alan.

  “Yes, a daughter Nina’s age and a son of seventeen.”

  “Don’t they want to visit their grandmother?”

  “They have their own lives to lead. They were here for Thanksgiving and stayed with her husband’s parents.”

  Alan told her about his problems with Nina.

  “Oh, Nina’s another story altogether,” she said. “That child is so sensitive to the suffering of others. She reminds me of Mara. I told you about her attitude to the looters who went past the train station, taking whatever they could, remember?”

  Alan sat back in his chair and switched on the recorder.

  “That’s the last thing you told me last time.”

  “I didn’t see her for many days after that. I consoled myself with the thought that her family might have returned to her uncle in the village. But I was also uneasy that maybe something bad happened to her, and I was afraid she’d never return.”

  * * *

  23 The letter is an original document (slightly adapted for the story) translated by Hanne (Shlomo) David from Serbo-Croatian to Hebrew, before the Kladovo survivors’ gathering at Kibbutz Gan Shmuel in 1977.

  Yellow Patch

  Two weeks went by, and life went back to normal. The Germans imposed military law on the city, appointing Branko Petrovich, the bank clerk, no less, as mayor. Ever since they’d invaded Sabac, he’d become their lackey.

  The atmosphere was un
pleasant. A German soldier stood next to his motorbike at every street corner, and we had to move according to his orders. One of the young men tried to get smart. The German officer shot him with his revolver, and he was taken unconscious to the infirmary. Inge resuscitated him with great difficulty. A German officer who came into the infirmary noticed her devotion and ordered her to report the following day to an improvised hospital established at the Stana Milotovich Boarding School.

  The next day brought me a pleasant surprise. Mara came home with her family and immediately came to see me, Friedl, and Inge, who’d just returned from the hospital. We were excited and shared our experiences. Mara told us that her father was very worried about her and her brother and didn’t want them to leave the village. “There won’t be any school,” he said. “So why not stay with your uncle until the danger is past?” But Mara wasn’t afraid and preferred to be closer to us, her friends, and to help if she could, rather than stay there and do nothing.

  Inge told us that Louisa and Emil had gone with Mr. Birnbaum to Belgrade to get their immigration permits to Eretz Israel that were waiting at the Ministry of the Interior. I was surprised that they’d gone together to organize their papers, particularly as it was so dangerous to be in the streets. Just to get to Článek, they’d have to take a cart, then change; and there were bombings on the way and thieves, too, now. After all, he’d only just returned at Passover. Louisa told me they’d be back in two or three days because they’d left all their things in the apartment. But I sensed something else as well; it wasn’t just about their immigration permits.

  That afternoon, Friedl and I were on laundry duty. She was beginning to regret staying. Although she’d received an immigration permit and could have gone with the young people, she was afraid to leave her aging parents behind. Friedl and I always did laundry duty together at magazine 1, one of two long buildings beside the mill that had once served as granaries.

  Hechalutz and Hashomer Hatzair youth stayed at the mill, and the others were divided into groups in two magazines, except for families and older people who rented rooms with Sabac residents. Two girls from each group were responsible for laundry duty—the whole process of sorting, washing in large tubs, hanging up the wet laundry to dry, and then resorting and folding.

  I hummed quietly to myself, while Friedl probably wondered again, regretfully, why she hadn’t boarded the train instead of being stuck there with her aging parents. She told me her boyfriend was waiting for her on a kibbutz in Eretz Israel. Suddenly, we heard the sound of rough steps in the corridor. Those were not the steps of one of our fellows, but hard boots on the concrete floor. We didn’t have long to wonder, because we then heard loud shouts in German—orders urging all those still in the building to come out into the yard and stand in straight rows. We stopped folding laundry and ran outside.

  An armed German soldier with a helmet on his head was hurrying us, yelling “schnell, schnell.”

  Friedl became hysterical, stumbled as she ran, and fell to the ground. The soldier stood over her, shouting at her to get up. I saw her holding her knee in pain. I tried to explain to the soldier that she needed help getting up, and he raised his voice even louder, waving the baton in his hand. When we got there, we all stood in straight rows. The officer ordered the soldier to check the rooms, and once again, blood-curdling shouts were heard as the soldier ordered those still inside to get out fast. A few minutes later, the soldier appeared with old Pinchas Cohen, who was deaf. The soldier hurried him along, hitting him on the back with his baton.

  “You,” yelled the German officer at Pinchas Cohen. “Open the parcel and show everyone what’s inside.” He continued yelling and handed the parcel to Pinchas, who was trembling from head to foot and didn’t understand what the officer wanted from him.

  Ancel, a sensitive soul who never feared to express his opinion, strode up to the officer and asked him to take pity on Pinchas. He pleaded in perfect German. “He’s deaf,” he said, pointing at Pinchas. The officer, taken aback by the young man’s temerity, took the parcel and handed it to Ancel.

  “Open it!” he ordered.

  Ancel opened the parcel and was terrified by the sight of its contents.

  “Take one out and show it to everyone,” the officer commanded.

  Ancel took out a yellow patch with a black Star of David and the word “Jude” printed on it. Although we’d heard about the decrees in Germany, Poland, and Austria, we didn’t believe that this status would be imposed on us as well.

  The officer gave a stack of yellow badges to the first person in each line and ordered him to pass them along to the line behind. Heads bowed, the young men gave a yellow patch to each of us.

  The officer wanted to demonstrate on Ancel’s arm how and where the patch had to be. But Ancel, standing there with obvious reluctance, refused to present his arm to the officer, who began screaming at him, then grabbed him by the arm and threw him into the air as if he were an atonement rooster.

  “Now stand there quietly and don’t get in my way!” he screamed at him.

  Drooping, Ancel stood still as another soldier pinned the patch to his sleeve and sent him back to the line.

  “Pay attention everyone,” shouted the officer. “From now on, that patch will be your sign of identity. You must wear it on your sleeve at all times, and everywhere you go.” He waved a threatening finger, his face red with effort. “Any Jew found without a patch will be severely punished.”

  He went on to detail the rest of the restrictions.

  “From now on, you are forbidden to be out in the streets after six in the evening and before seven in the morning. You may not shop at the market during the morning but only from eleven o’clock onward. Any Jew found in the market during fresh produce hours will be severely punished. The fresh produce is only for locals.”

  The officer finished and strode out into the street with his soldier.

  As soon as the officer and his soldier had disappeared around the corner of the street, Ancel, still noticeably shocked by his humiliation, tore the patch from his arm and threw it to the ground. With tears of rage in his eyes, he stamped on it, shouting in anger, “Do the same, all of you. We aren’t animals, and we aren’t second-rate citizens.”

  That very evening, Friedl and I sewed the yellow patches with the word “Jude” onto our sleeves, and we helped some of the young men who had trouble doing it for themselves. Everyone took the decree very hard, and some reacted like Ancel and swore they wouldn’t degrade themselves with the patch. I suggested to Ancel and Inge that we escape together to the forests and fight instead of sitting around lamenting. Ancel refused. He wasn’t built for that kind of resistance. But Inge reacted differently. She felt compelled to resist. Everything she’d revered in German culture, the poetry and philosophy, was meaningless in the face of these inhuman decrees. My own determination to join the Resistance fighters was greatly reinforced. If any Resistance fighters had been there at that moment, I’d have left everything to join them.

  ***

  That evening, while Alan was sitting listening to Erica’s recording, he heard taps at his door.

  “Alan? Why are you sitting in here with the door closed?” Rachel peeped around the door, surprised to see Alan’s headphones.

  “Is that what you’ve been doing for hours in your room?” she asked, surprised.

  Alan let her listen to the recording for a few minutes, and told her he was recording the old woman Nina visited at the nursing home on Amsterdam Avenue.

  As he listened to the story about the distribution of yellow badges in the mill yard, he remembered the second letter in which Grandfather Emil wrote about the distribution of yellow badges in Belgrade during his second visit after Passover. He opened the letter, and they read it together.

  10/5/1941

  My dear children,

  We’ve decided to come to Belgrade together with Moshe Birnba
um and his wife. Moshe came to collect their papers, because they’d already received a visa to Eretz Israel and Syria, and we came to be at the center of things and see how life is here.

  We left on the eighteenth of April in a cart going to Článek, and from there, in another cart to Ruma. From Ruma, we continued by train to Zemun, where we took a boat to Belgrade. We had a terrible night in Článek and again on the train to Zemun.

  In Zemun, we heard about the April 19 decrees, requiring every Jew to report to the nearest police station to register, receive a yellow patch, and labor assignments. Anyone who doesn’t report will be shot, according to the proclamation. Naturally, we reported at once to the police station in Zemun to get a yellow patch. The doctor and I were exempt from work for health reasons. Mother was also exempt. Women only work until the age of forty.

  After a difficult journey, we arrived in Belgrade on the twentieth of April. It is fortunate that you two are already in Eretz Israel. In bombed Belgrade, we saw friends of yours who’d remained at school: Alphonso, Samito de Mayo, and Isaac as well, Hanne’s good friend from Hashomer Hatzair. We even saw Pepi (Yosef Peretz) and Omer (Bihali). They clean the streets or work on demolished houses, loading bricks and taking out bodies. I met Michel and Alkalay, who do the same work, and they said it’s emotionally very hard to deal with the bodies and the smell.

  The Dorćol neighborhood was hit worst in the bombing of Belgrade. During the first days, there was no electricity, water, or sewage. The electricity is back on now almost everywhere, but water has to be fetched from faucets in the street or carts that allocate water. No home toilets can be used. There are mobile and field toilets in various places. What has happened to Jews in other countries is happening here too. They will have to emigrate. You’ll find some of the details interesting: The Second Gymnasium for Boys, Hanne’s school, was burned to the ground, only bare walls remain. But the Reali School is still standing. The Serbian King Hotel opposite was completely destroyed. The lovely bridges were also destroyed. In Croatia, they’ve already introduced the Nuremberg Laws. Here and in Zagreb, Jews and Serbs can only be out in the streets until six in the evening.