Two Princes and a Queen

by Shmuel David

  I must end now.

  Hope you are both well.

  Many kisses,

  Father

  ***

  Alan switched on the recorder again and listened to the rest of Erica’s story.

  ***

  In the days that followed, meal portions became smaller at the mill. There were constantly new food shortages because of the prohibition to go to the market before eleven o’clock in the morning. Fresh vegetables and bread had been unavailable for a long time. One day, I saw Max Tanenbaum, who was responsible for kitchen purchases, returning with his two helpers; he threw the empty bags on the ground and screamed from the bottom of his heart.

  “This is unbearable. Today, there were no products left at that hour, and the little there was there wasn’t worth buying.” He hammered on the table with his fist, crying out, “Damn the Germans!”

  As the days went by, the meal portions served at the mill shrank even further, and more and more people, who usually didn’t complain, began to talk of possibly circumventing the decrees. Someone suggested going to market without the patch and dressed as a local to buy the necessary products. They also spoke about an organized uprising, and one day, when meeting with our Sabac friends, Mara suggested to Ancel that some of the young men should join the Partisans to fight the Germans.

  A few days ago, an envoy had arrived in secret from a Partisan brigade in the nearby forests. He talked to the Sabac youth, and some were willing to join.

  When Mara told me and Ancel, we saw this as a good idea at first, but later doubts arose. Ever since the humiliating incident that day at the mill, Ancel refused to wear the yellow patch on his arm and barely left the mill. Mara failed to persuade him.

  “Look,” she said. “Our young men are going to the forests where each one will get a rifle and lessons in how to shoot. It’s very simple, so I’ve heard. If it wasn’t for my mother, who is constantly anxious, I’d join too.”

  Ancel, guilty at being afraid, finally said, “Impossible. If they discover that someone is missing, they’ll kill us all.”

  Mara asked, “But how will they know if someone is missing? Do they have name lists?”

  “Of course they do. The committee gave them all the names of the group and they—”

  “That’s terrible,” said Musha, who’d been spending a lot of time with Mara lately. “Why did the committee agree to do that?”

  “The German officer threatened the head of the committee.” Ancel sighed.

  The decrees were increasing. Dr. Bezalel and another doctor who worked with him at the local infirmary in town were forced to stop their work and return to the mill. Dr. Bezalel was immediately taken to help at the German military hospital, where Inge was already working.

  Yosef the carpenter, who made a good living working at the big carpentry shop not far from the mill, had to give up his work. In addition to his carpentry work, he made his famous wooden clogs at home, which quickly became a commercial success. Everyone wanted to wear Yosef the carpenter’s wooden clogs, mainly because of their soft tread, which made no sound on the cobble stones. With the coming of summer, Yosef’s special clogs could be seen almost everywhere in town. Even German soldiers bought them, emptying the stores to send them to their wives in Germany. One day, I saw two soldiers arguing over the last pair of clogs in one of the stores. It almost turned into a fight.

  A few days after the evening curfew decree, a food rationing decree was announced, which further aggravated the hunger. Hunger wormed its way into people, causing uncharacteristic behavior. For instance, Vera, once a wealthy property owner in Vienna, put up her expensive fur coat for sale at the mill gate. She hoped to sell the fur to local wealthy people and buy food for herself and her ailing husband. But in the prevailing situation of distress and scarcity, Madame Vera was left holding her fur coat.

  An Attempt to Escape, June 1941

  Alan sat in front of his computer screen and continued listening to Erica’s voice on the recording machine. In his hand, he held his grandfather’s last letter, which he’d copied into the computer file for Erica’s story. He pressed Start on the recorder in order to continue typing up the story.

  ***

  The evening curfew hour was particularly tough for young people. In the month of June, six in the evening seemed more like late afternoon, and by that time we already had to be inside our houses. We used to be able to walk around the town streets, but now they, too, were empty, though we could still smell the fragrance of flowers in the air. By evening, their perfume had faded and our hearts grew heavy.

  Milka appeared that evening. Until then, she’d always been cheerful no matter what the situation; she’d find some light in every new decree and was always hopeful that things would get better. This was the first time I’d seen her incandescent with rage. With tears in her eyes, she told us how that morning all the gypsies had been summoned to City Hall and presented with yellow patches.

  “Just like the Jews,” she said, her gypsy eyes glaring with anger, adding, “Just without the word ‘Jude.’ We are also forbidden to go out after six in the evening.” She spat on the floor and cursed coarsely. “Now we must sit inside like you and think about what’s to be done.”

  Imposing a curfew on the gypsies created a sense of common misery between us. Every day, we’d meet at the mill or the infirmary to talk. Two days after the curfew was expanded to include the gypsies, they were forbidden to play in restaurants and cafés.

  Trying to encourage us, Musha said, “You’re not missing anything by not going out in the evening. Without the gypsy music, the cafés are almost deserted anyway. Take Café Roma, it was always so busy, and now it’s almost empty in the evening.” Three days later, we were sitting as usual in the infirmary, Inge, Friedl, and myself, when we were joined by Musha, Nicola, and Mara.

  We were just saying that six weeks had gone by without our hearing from Louisa and Emil, when Miklos suddenly rushed in.

  “I got back from Belgrade today. What a nightmare. I barely made it. I was told to report to the police station. So I went. At the station, I met Louisa,” he breathed heavily. “She looked terrible. She’s living with Sophie now, her maid, the one who worked for her when they still had their big house. She said she’d come to the police station to try and get Emil released. He’s been in prison since their attempt to escape.”

  “What attempt to escape?” we asked. No one here had heard they’d tried to escape. We only knew they’d gone by cart to Belgrade right after Passover.

  “Something terrible happened to them, really bad luck,” said Miklos and clapped his hands. “I’ve brought a letter,” he said, breaking the silence, and took an envelope out of his pocket. “It’s for you, Inge. Louisa made me swear to give it to you.”

  Inge read in silence, occasionally wiping away a tear from the corners of her eyes. When she finished, she agreed to read it to us.24

  22/5/1941

  Dearest Inge,

  My Inge, you have no idea of what we’ve been through since leaving Sabac by cart that day after Passover. It’s a never-ending nightmare. I’m here alone now, trying to get Emil released from prison. The day we left with the Birnbaums, I told you we were going to Belgrade City Hall to find out what had happened to our immigration permits, but the story was a little different, and I didn’t want it to get out before we left.

  The last time Emil was in Belgrade, before Passover, he met Olga Timotievich and told her about our troubles in Kladovo and then in Sabac. Olga asked him why we’d waited so long to try and escape, and Emil told her about our problem with the immigration permits and how they’d strung us along with promises they didn’t keep.

  In short, she told Emil about a group that was organizing to escape to Hungary, as the Germans hadn’t entered yet. Emil immediately remembered his two aunts in Budapest and thought it would be a good idea to go there. The problem i
s, though, that the Germans are everywhere, on the roads and side roads as well as in outlying villages, so this sort of plan was very risky.

  Olga told him about a Serbian contact called Yanko who was willing to provide forged documents at a high price—eighty thousand dinars per person—in order to cross the border. The price included a ride to the border crossing in a truck that took calves for slaughter in a Hungarian village not far from the Yugoslavian border.

  We went to visit this Yanko. Right from the beginning, he seemed a slimy character to me, someone interested only in money, not in people. You probably know what I mean. He came to meet us at the Sabac market with a carter’s hat on his head, chewing tobacco and speaking coarsely. He didn’t make a good impression on me from the start, and I said so to Emil. But Emil said that people who undertake things like that are naturally not people with whom you drink evening tea. That’s what he said.

  Yanko came to an agreement with Emil regarding eighty thousand dinars per person, and Emil went to his relative with whom he’d left the remaining money from the sale of our house on the hill. I once told you about her. She’s a very wealthy woman. Her husband isn’t Jewish and has a high government position. I’m trying to get her to help get Emil released.

  After Emil gave Yanko the money, they agreed to meet the following day. He was to pick us up early in the morning from Sophie’s house. She was my maid in the house on Dedinje Hill and has fond memories of the time she worked for me. She’s such a good-hearted woman.

  We left early in the morning, together with three other people we didn’t know. It turned out that one of them knew Emil through a common friend who’d worked with him, and they reminisced together. We were relaxed and in a good mood, sure that money had bought our freedom and within two hours we’d cross the northern border near Schatzka, and at long last, we’d be in a safe country. We traveled for an hour and a half in the back of the truck, which was covered in canvas so we wouldn’t be stopped on the way. We couldn’t see a thing, could only guess where we were. The driver warned us it would be about a two-and-a-half-hour journey. As time passed, so our tension grew and we spoke less. We sat quietly, hoping that at the border they’d only look at the documents and let us pass. Part of the money we’d given Yanko was for his partner at the border crossing, so he’d look the other way. It didn’t enter our minds that he’d want all the money for himself. Apparently, this is what happened. The villain took it all for himself and betrayed us.

  It happened long before we got to the border. The truck slowed suddenly and went off the road. We heard voices in German and understood that the worst had happened. Even as we sat there in the back, silent and trembling with fear, the canvas was thrown up. In the blinding sunlight, we saw the satisfied face of a German soldier who aimed his gun at us. He burst out laughing when he saw us sitting there in shock and called out, “Smart little Jews, surprised again, huh?” He ordered us to get down.

  We were imprisoned. I was released after two weeks because of dysentery. They were apparently afraid I’d infect the rest of the prisoners. Emil is still in prison, and I’m doing all I can to get him released.

  I don’t think this nightmare will ever end. I hope that things aren’t worse for you all in Sabac.

  With love,

  Louisa

  P.S. I wrote this letter three weeks ago and hope to find a way to send it to Sabac.

  ***

  On the subway train, on his way to the nursing home on Amsterdam Avenue, Alan was preoccupied with thoughts regarding his superficial connection with Israel and his rare visits there. Why should Nina suffer because he’d kept his distance from his country? Maybe the time had come to renew the connection, at least for his daughter’s sake, since she’d suddenly developed an interest in it. Maybe he really should organize a family visit. Even if she wouldn’t be able to see her grandfather. She’d only met him twice, when he’d come for a visit. The first time was when she was born, and the second was when she went into first grade. She was too small to understand where he’d come from. He felt a pang at not having taken her before to see his home on the moshav where he’d grown up. She should at least know where her father came from. For her family roots project, she’d been satisfied with stories and the many photographs he had. But it wasn’t enough. The child had asked him. Maybe the whole family should go to Israel for the summer.

  ***

  When he got to Erica that evening, he found her once again in a melancholy mood.

  “I’m waiting for the demon to take me as well,” she said brokenly.

  “Has something happened?” he asked in concern. “Who did the demon take?”

  “The only friend I had left in this institution died yesterday,” she said, crushed.

  “The one I saw laughing here with you one evening over a bottle of schnapps?”

  “Yes. Her name was Klara. She was also from Austria. She liked to drink and always kept a bottle in her room, hidden away from the keen eyes of the doctors. Especially after the cancer returned. In Sabac, that’s what kept us going—the friendships between the transport group and the locals of our age—Mara, Musha, and the gypsies.”

  * * *

  24Hanne (Shlomo) David received this letter about a year after he arrived in Eretz Israel. Inge was able to send it with one of the group who managed to escape from Sabac to Switzerland, right before the July uprising, after which all exits were blocked.

  A Sad Parting, July 1941

  They were about to send us away from the town to a camp near the river. Although it wasn’t far away, we knew we wouldn’t be able to meet as usual. We sat there in the infirmary that evening, the three of us—Friedl, Inge, and myself. The evening hours were the hardest in terms of the curfew and not being able to go out or have people visit us. We sat talking about the move to the camp and agreed that the hardest part of the move would be the loss of local friends in Sabac. Despite the worsening situation of hunger and hardship, we’d found new friends here, and we’d miss them.

  Inge told them that after she’d parted from Hanne four months previously, she’d found in Mara a true and supportive friend. Mara had invited her home on several occasions to meet her parents, who’d received her with generous warmth, as if she were one of the family.

  I told Friedl and Inge about the get-together Musha and Mara were organizing for them the next day. A kind of farewell party. We’ll meet at seven at the entrance to Mara’s house, Musha told me, and asked us to bring Ancel, Rudi, and Yanko. All their friends will be there. Nicola will bring his violin, and Milka will sing songs for us to remember. Maybe Laza will bring his clarinet.

  Inge, who always obeyed laws and regulations, immediately resisted.

  “And what if the Germans come? We’ll be breaking the curfew. They’ll catch us all,” she said in alarm.

  I was also a bit uneasy at being caught, but I calmed everyone. “There’s nothing to worry about. If the evil Germans come, we’ll run into the yards.” Only Ancel might be a problem, I thought to myself. He hadn’t left the mill since he’d refused to wear the yellow patch on his sleeve.

  But no tears, Mara made me promise, then ran back to help her mother in Mignon, the clothing store near Café Roma.

  Everyone agreed to be there by seven o’clock, even Ancel. He was very fond of Nicola and carried away by his music. It was a pleasant summer evening, the smell of honeysuckle on the air from the fence near Mara’s house. We all arrived at seven and sat on the bench. Or, rather, the girls sat down and the boys gathered firewood to make a fire. Nicola took out his violin and with trembling hands played the song “There, Faraway,” which we all loved, and Milka sang the words in French. Then Laza took out the clarinet. Since the restrictions on gypsies, she, like Nicola and Milka, no longer appeared in the town cafés. Softly, she played “Sail on, French Ship,” and Friedl and Inge sang along with her. Later, we sang “Hava Nagila, with a Glass of
Wine,” regretting that we didn’t really have a glass of wine. Despite the hovering sadness of parting, we were happy and elated just to be sitting and singing together. When the fire died down and only the crackling of embers was heard, Mara asked to speak and read out a moving piece she’d written about us, the transport, who’d arrived in their forgotten, dusty, and culture-less town, bringing with us a refreshing spark of culture.

  “Tomorrow, when you leave, the town will be suddenly empty. You’ll go with bowed heads, but I know that each and every one of you are heroes in your own way,” she said, the words catching in her throat. “Yosef, the carpenter, who goes on making furniture as if nothing was happening around him. Ancel, the student, serious before his time, and always hungry for knowledge. Inge, the wonderful nurse, who does sacred work even among our patients and wounded, and now the Germans need her help. With everything she’s been through—and I’ve been with her at difficult moments, after her parting from her beloved—she’s stayed optimistic and smiling. Just like hard-working Rudi, who always shows us what true happiness is, how we can be happy even under tough daily conditions and maintain a romantic spirit.” She looked mischievously at him and said, “I understand that cupid works hard here. One morning, I saw a drawing of a heart on the mill wall, with an arrow, with the name Rudi and another name I can’t remember. I thought to myself at that moment, how victorious love is, even in a place like this with all its terrible suffering.”