Among the Reeds

by Tammy Bottner

  But Hermine and Regina couldn’t stay in Europe after all that had happened. They wanted to go to Palestine, to live in a new place where no-one would try to kill them for being Jews. So they joined Hashomer Hatza’ir.

  Shoshana sighed and snuggled closer into Nathan’s lean body.

  And you know the rest of the story.

  The two teenagers gazed into each other’s blue eyes. Was the fluke of having been born with blue eyes the reason they were now alive and not dead like so many others? Neither expressed this grim thought. They simply clung to each other, each knowing that they had found the person they would be with for the rest of their lives.

  Nathan’s Freedom

  Cyprus and Palestine, 1947–1949

  A few months into his imprisonment, Nathan managed to buy a small electric Philips radio during one of his trips outside the camp, and to smuggle it back when he returned to his barrack. The magnitude of this boon was unimaginable. The prisoners had no access to newspapers, and were completely cut off from what was happening in the world. Crucially, they were unaware of progress being made toward the creation of the State of Israel.

  There was a problem, however. The radio ran only on electricity, not on batteries. And there was no electricity in the barracks. Nathan recruited a couple of friends and the boys set themselves to the task of covertly bringing electricity in. First they snipped pieces of barbed wire from the perimeter fence that enclosed the camp. Next they soaked the wire in petrol for a few days. They carefully removed the barbs, and then spliced the lengths of wire together to form long cables. The process was slow but eventually they had enough wire to reach the infirmary, where there was a source of electric current. Somehow they managed to connect the wires. They created makeshift switches out of tin cans. Eventually they were able to connect the little radio to a source of current and to hear the news.

  With the radio functioning they could finally learn what was going on in the world. On November 29, 1947, Nathan listened to the live radio broadcast as the United Nations voted about partitioning Palestine to create a Jewish state. When the required two-thirds majority was finally gained, he raced out of the barrack and called out the miraculous news to the other young Jewish detainees. A spontaneous celebration broke out. The dream was becoming a reality. For the first time Jews would have their own country, where they would be free. No more anti-Semitic hatred, no more anti-Jewish legislature, no more pogroms, no more concentration camps, no more Nazi atrocities, no more genocide.

  The camp became a party, as elated young people joined hands and broke out into Hebrew songs. Around and around they danced, stamping feet, laughing, and throwing their arms around each other. They had survived, and now perhaps they would thrive.

  Despite this incredible victory, the imprisonment went on. The British were still in charge, and their immigration laws were still in place. Even after the young people listened to David Ben-Gurion declare the formation of the autonomous State of Israel on May 14, 1948, the detainees on Cyprus were not released. Fighting was going on 300 miles away between the Arabs, the Jews, and the withdrawing British. War was not yet over.

  The Jews of Palestine, eventually Israel, had not forgotten about the prisoners in Cyprus, however. Throughout the duration of the Cyprus prison camps, emissaries had come to visit, give hope, provide updates, and even train and recruit young people for the Haganah, the organization that would eventually become the Israeli army.

  The mood of the camp lifted. Cultural life blossomed, despite the abysmal living conditions. The Jewish prisoners organized choirs, and put on theatrical performances. Many of the young Jews affiliated themselves with kibbutzim, well before they ever stepped foot inside Israel, and spent many hours in meetings, organizing details of their intended communities.

  The kibbutz was an idea the Zionist groups had promulgated even back in the Diaspora. The idea was a socialist one: the formation of communities where members shared everything – housing, work, governance, costs, and profits. Most were agricultural communities. Some actual kibbutzim were already flourishing in the territory of the newly minted Israel, and had been for decades. Other kibbutzim were still in the planning stages. But members were organizing and getting ready for the time they could plant their first crop and build their first house. When they hit the ground in Israel they would be ready.

  The young Jewish Holocaust survivors embraced the ideal of the kibbutz. After the horrors of Europe, the concept of these idyllic communities of fellow Jews resonated strongly. Not all of them would actually live in kibbutzim when they finally got to Israel. But the philosophy of community-based living would influence them all.

  Ever so slowly, 750 people per month, the prisoners were released from the prison camps and shipped out of Cyprus into Israel. The rule was “first in, first out.” But the reality was that young men of fighting age were the last to be freed. The British knew these youth, once released, would surely be recruited by the Israeli Haganah and would soon be involved in the civil war that was raging all over the tiny country. So they detained the young people in Cyprus as long as possible. Nathan, who had entered the camps in early 1947, languished there until January 1949.

  There were additional roadblocks. In 1947 the refugee ship Exodus was detained by the British as she approached Haifa. A violent skirmish broke out, with many dead and wounded. This time, instead of sending the refugees to Cyprus as usual, the irate British decided to return the Holocaust survivors to Europe. The incident garnered a lot of international press and well-deserved outrage. The Exodus eventually went all the way back to Germany with her load of traumatized people, depositing them back in the country that had vowed to annihilate them from the earth.

  After that event, Golda Meir, then acting head of the Jewish Agency’s Political Department, came to Cyprus to speak to the Jewish detainees. Her mission was twofold. She asked the prisoners in Cyprus to allow some of the precious entry visas to be used for the people who would otherwise be returned to Europe, such as the Exodus’s passengers. She also begged for babies who were sick with typhus inside the Cyprus camps to be allowed to jump the queue so they could be transported immediately to Palestine, where Jewish hospitals waited to care for them. Essentially she was asking Holocaust survivors from Europe who had already been imprisoned for months in Cyprus to accept a further delay in their release on altruistic grounds. It was a tough sell.

  But the prisoners agreed. They preferred to stay in prison for a few more months than to see Jewish babies die of disease. They had seen enough children die. The next shipment of freed prisoners was called the “baby transport.” It consisted of sick infants and their parents, allowed to jump the queue and get to Palestine right away.

  But eventually Nathan’s turn came. On January 25, 1949, he boarded the ship Galilah, leaving Cyprus behind him forever, setting his gaze toward Haifa, Israel. Beside him was the beautiful girl he had met back in Belgium and with whom he had bonded during their years of captivity in Cyprus. Her name was now Shoshana. Nathan had twin goals: to reunite with his family, and to marry Shoshana as soon as possible.

  He managed both. His mother and sisters had managed to get to Israel before him, and all were overjoyed to have their boy Nathan free and finally in Israel. Theirs was a joyous reunion. And only three weeks later, on February 12, 1949, Nathan and Shoshana were married.

  Melly

  Brussels and Palestine, 1945–1949

  After the war the children and Genek and I lived in our little flat at 32 Rue des Ménapiens in Brussels. It was way too small for a family of four. We only had one bedroom, for one thing. The children slept in cots in our room.

  In the back we had a balcony that ran the length of the apartment. To my chagrin Genek insisted on keeping chickens there. He wanted the children to eat fresh eggs. I was horrified. Chickens on my balcony! My husband had no class, honestly. He was a country bumpkin. This was Brussels, not a Polish shtetl. But I couldn’t stop him, despite my complaining. He got a chicken c
oop and a couple of hens, and every day I had to see the mess and the feathers.

  What’s next, Genek, I said to him, a horse? A cow? But he didn’t care what I said. He did what he wanted.

  The tiny apartment had running water – a small miracle – but there was no hot water, no private toilet, and no bath. We had to heat water on the stovetop to wash. Once a week Genek took Bobby and they went to the public baths to have a full immersion. I washed Irene in a tin washtub. The toilet was located downstairs from us. We shared this ancient water closet with the family that lived below. We were used to it by now, but sometimes I thought about the splendor in which I had grown up in Chemnitz and I was appalled.

  Genek’s atelier was upstairs from our living quarters, and he worked there making simple fur garments which we then sold to make a living. Every Shabbos Genek made a big to-do out of going into downtown Brussels to buy his fur scraps. He insisted that Bobby accompany him. He wanted to show off his son. I would watch from the window facing the street as he trundled off with his cart, Bobby seated on the back. This was one of those old-world carts, you know? With the long handles, like you would attach an ox to. But there was no ox. Just Genek, schlepping my child in the cart and walking all the way into downtown Brussels to meet the other old Jewish men and do business.

  When they got back, the cart would be full of fur pieces Genek had bought in town. Oh, he loved that weekly errand. It didn’t bother him to look like a peasant from the old country. What am I saying? – he was a peasant from the old country. He looked forward to meeting up with the other kakers, all of them survivors, comparing stories, speaking Yiddish in the accents of their native countries. Poles, Germans, Czechs, Hungarians – all of them gathered in a little square downtown, with their wares laid out on tables in the street, bargaining and arguing. Nothing made them happier. And poor Bobby had to go along, so that Genek could tell everyone he was his son, his tachschit, his jewel. I’m sure the child was bored to tears. But Genek was ecstatic.

  I helped Genek in the atelier, and Inge did too, until she left for Palestine. Genek cut the furs and made the patterns, and Inge and I sewed. Inge was a skilled seamstress, and she liked the work. And Genek liked having her around, I could tell. My sister was a gentle soul, not a sharp-tongued shrew like me. I think my husband was sweet on her. He always lit up when she arrived, and constantly looked for excuses to come over and chat with her. I chuckled to myself. I wished I was free, or married to a sophisticated man, like the one I had dreamed of as a teenager. I wished sometimes that Genek had married Inge. No doubt he wished that too. But there we were.

  I was still very young. In 1945 I was only twenty-four years old. I wanted to live a bit after the years of deprivation during the war. So most nights after we put the kids to bed Genek and I went out – to movies, to cafes, to meet friends, to listen to music, sometimes just to walk the streets of the city. We had been cooped up and in hiding for so long. It was just wonderful to go out freely, without worrying about discovery, arrest, and deportation. We were giddy with freedom.

  So we left the children in bed and we went out. It seemed natural. But now that I reflect back I realize how very young they were to be left alone. Bobby was only five, and Irene was just two, when we got them back. And each of them had been traumatized during the war. I didn’t think about it then. I assumed they were fine. Of course, later I found out that the children were frightened.

  Irene was always a fretful child. It was a relief to me when I could finally put her to bed at the end of the day. I didn’t even bother to kiss her goodnight, I am ashamed to say. Bobby, yes, Bobby I adored. I remember one time Bobby asked me, Mama, why don’t you kiss Irene goodnight too? But I just couldn’t summon the love for the girl. She still rejected me, and I couldn’t get over it.

  Irene woke up frequently and for comfort she climbed into Bobby’s bed. And I know my little boy had bad dreams. I heard him crying in his sleep. I realize now how traumatized he must have been after being separated from us for over two years. Waking up scared and alone while we were out must have been terrible for the children. If they had to use the toilet they had to leave the apartment and climb down a dark cold stairway to the W.C. I know they were so scared at night that they always went to the bathroom together if they had to go. We should have been there to soothe the children when they awoke frightened. But we were selfish.

  And of course when we came home there was no privacy. The children slept only a few feet from our bed. I pray they slept soundly.

  We tried to live normally. I enrolled Bobby in school. He didn’t speak French, but he learned. His first-grade teacher had a soft spot for him. She kept him with her during recess and helped him learn the language. He did fine. Eventually he started playing football and that was an easy way for him to relate to other boys. Bobby always loved sports. I guess he got that from Genek. And you didn’t need to be fluent in a language to communicate on the athletic field. Irene was too young to go to school so she stayed home, and either I or Inge or my mother looked after her. Both my sister and mother adored my children. Sometimes Irene played in the atelier while we worked.

  Bobby was so fond of my mother that he sometimes took the streetcar across the city to go visit her. By himself. He loved spending time over there, and was spoiled and adored by his grandmother, as well as by Nathan and Inge.

  All around us Jewish survivors were talking about emigrating to Palestine. It was a topic of endless conversation. Despite the British blockade, scores of ships were leaving European harbors and steaming toward Palestine. Once Inge had met Hans she immediately started making plans. Surprisingly, my mild-mannered sister became the first in our family to make the journey. My mother and her new husband were talking of emigrating too. And of course Nathan was very eager to go.

  It was a real blow when we heard that Nathan’s ship had been detained and that he was being interned in Cyprus. We were terribly worried about him. But there was no way to communicate.

  Genek, of course, was still trying to find out what had happened to his family back in Lvov. He never did find out exactly how his parents and two brothers died. Nor for that matter what happened to his many cousins and aunts and uncles and friends. We heard about what had happened in Poland, in Galicia. We assumed everyone there was dead. The last communication we had had with them was that telegram when Bobby was born, in April 1940. Genek had cabled his mother the good news, and we had received a reply saying, “congratulations cordiales de bonheur,” signed Berta Bottner. So that meant they were alive at that time. But after that, nothing.

  It turned out that the entire family had been forced into the Lvov ghetto, where they were issued work cards. Presumably they were eventually sent to one of the death camps from there – likely Belzec. But there were no transport records; no files were ever found. Genek never knew when or where they had perished.

  But one day he did find his brother Moshe’s name on a Red Cross list. Mundek, his youngest brother, had survived. Genek found out that Mundek was in a D.P. camp. He immediately set off to find him.

  A week or so later Genek returned, and with him was Mundek, as well as his Romanian wife Yetta (Tutsa) and their baby daughter Golda. Mundek had survived the war by fighting in the Russian army. And now he had a family. And so three additional people moved into my postage-stamp-sized apartment. All three of them stayed in the living room. And they lived with us for several months until they were finally able to find an apartment of their own.

  Living in these overcrowded conditions was intolerable to me. I resented the newcomers terribly. Yetta with her odd eyes, and the baby crying all the time, and just no privacy and no room to breathe. The apartment had been small when it was just me and Genek living in it. But now we had a total of seven people – four adults and three children. And it was too much. I am not proud that I felt this way. I wish I had been different. But this is a true story I’m telling, not a fairy tale. I was happy when they moved out.

  And this is very sad to
o. Genek and Mundek, the only two survivors of their entire family, didn’t really get along. I’m sure I contributed to the problem. I was cold and unwelcoming to the young couple. The very last thing in the world I wanted was another Galiciana man living with me; one was more than enough, believe me. And I didn’t have anything in common with Tutsa. Bobby adored baby Golda. He played with her and kept her occupied; he was always wonderful with little children. But over the months that we lived together in such proximity, more and more distance developed between our family and Mundek’s. A terrible thing. A big regret. Another big regret.

  We lived in that apartment in Brussels until late in the winter of 1948. As soon as the first warmth of spring coaxed the daffodils out, we left. That is when we started our journey toward Palestine. The land of Israel was still not established, but we went anyway. We had heard about how austerely the Jews lived in Palestine. So we packed up everything we thought we would want – furniture, a refrigerator, bicycles, dishes, clothes – into a huge wooden crate, and shipped it to Haifa so we would have some creature comforts when we arrived.

  My Tante Sarah Gildengoren, my mother’s sister, lived in Lyon, France. So Genek, Bobby, Irene, and I left Brussels by train and headed to Lyon. We stayed with Tante Sarah and her family for a week or so. The Gildengorens were also thinking of emigrating to Palestine, and we talked hopefully about the time when we would all reunite, we would be together in what would, God willing, be the land of Israel.

  While in Lyon I had the idea that we would want to have a piano in Israel. I was desperate to bring some European culture with me. The piano was a big expense. But I had to have it. So we bought a piano, and made plans to ship it from Lyon to Haifa.