Leah's Journey (46 page)

Ten pairs of eyes, bright with fear and speculation, focused on her. The luminous, too-wise orbs, belonging to the ten children who squatted on the floor in the middle of the room, stared at her as though they would pierce her soul. The smallest child was perhaps four and the oldest eleven or twelve. They sat absolutely still, without a flicker of movement, a rustle of sound. They were all small masters of silence and immobility, their survival credentials earned in that underground tunnel where the slightest noise, the smallest motion of one, might have meant death for all.

“It’s all right. She is a friend,” Yehuda said softly to them in Yiddish and they breathed an almost uniform sign of relief, whispered to each other, and began to move about.

The oldest girl, whose dark hair was caught in chubby clumps at each side of her very round head, began to straighten the room like a flustered housewife surprised by an unexpected guest. As she picked up toys and clothing, she scolded two of the smaller girls who were pulling at the same book and picked up the smallest boy who had suddenly and inexplicably begun to cry. She spoke to him softly in a language Rebecca did not recognize and Yehuda translated a sentence which she spoke to Rebecca.

“Katia, that is the little mother of the group—she is already eleven years old—said to tell you that it is not that small Shlomo does not like you. He cries when he sees any stranger.”

“And why not?” Rebecca thought. Small Shlomo then would be the child born in Auschwitz, his mother’s pregnancy and his birth the precious secret of the women inmates who had delivered him and shielded him, a responsibility which the children had assumed when the last adults had left them, to fall beneath the showers of gas and be incinerated in the ovens that set the skies afire night and day. Rebecca turned to Signora Sarfadi, suddenly unable to meet the children’s eyes.

“It is wonderful that you have such a place for them to hide.”

“It is not an accident, Signorina. Jews have hidden themselves in this room for generations. This house was built by my husband’s ancestors in the days of the Inquisition. It was here the Jewish women came to light Sabbath candles and say their prayers. Here men performed secret circumcisions and bar mitzvahs and met in forbidden prayer quorums. We had almost forgotten this room when the agents of Bericha and the Mosad contacted us. Now we hide Jewish children here, so that the British will not know they are near the Mediterranean. Do you think that ever a time will come for our people when this room will have no use?”

The sad defeat in her tone revealed her answer. She clearly did not think so. She might dress in gold linen and fill her tall crystal vases with fresh flowers, but she was Jewish and she was vulnerable. In the heavy gold locket that she wore around her neck there was surely a picture of the dead dreamy-eyed young man whose portrait populated the many rooms of her lovely home. Rebecca was certain that he was dead. One did not keep so many pictures of the living in polished metal frames.

Signora Sarfadi bent to take Shlomo from Katia’s arms. The child fingered the locket until at last she loosed the chain and watched patiently as he stopped crying and searched for a way to open the gleaming oval.

A small girl, her blonde hair combed into a single braid down her back, approached Rebecca shyly. Her name was Mindell, Rebecca saw, from the small identity disk she and all the children wore about their necks.

“Shain. Pretty,” she said, pointing to Rebecca’s leather bag.

Rebecca held it out to her and the girl gently stroked the soft new leather. Watching her, Rebecca thought of all the things, the natural legacy of childhood that had been denied Mindell, whose small fingers hesitantly, lovingly fondled the magic newness of the bag—the tenderness of a mother’s touch, the right to run and laugh, the strong embrace of a father’s arms, the breathless excitement of ripping the wrapping off a present and holding something crinkling with newness, bought only for sweet pleasure. Was Mindell also to be denied, then, safe passage to the one place in the world where warmth and protection awaited her—the one place in the world which these children, so long homeless, could call home? Rebecca took the bag from Mindell and reached into it, extracting a small coin case of the same soft leather. She held it out to the child.

“A present. For you,” she said softly.

Mindell took the purse, caressed it with her hands, and held it to her cheek.

“Danke—thank you,” she said and tears like drops of liquid crystal stood in her blue eyes. She put her arms around Rebecca’s neck and shyly placed her mouth against Rebecca’s cheek—a hesitant, half-remembered gesture. Once, somewhere, in another life, where children played and parents laughed to see them, someone had kissed her and the memory fluttered slowly back. Confused, delighted, she darted away with her treasure to a corner of the room, where the other children clustered about her.

Rebecca’s own eyes burned with unshed tears. She looked up to see Yehuda standing near her.

“She needs more than a small purse,” he said dryly and she grew hot with a sudden swift rage. Who was he to judge and condemn her? He had no right, just as he had had no right to confront her with this challenge, with this absurd charge. But why assume that she would turn away from that which he undertook? She would surprise him, abrogate his arrogance. She needed no persuasive arguments from him, no idealistic injunctions, no resurrection of latent guilt. Her decision had been made when the child’s lips had touched her cheek.

She looked coldly at him, copying the distant removed stare that was Leah’s shield against a world that had so often demanded too much of her. She felt, at that moment, her mother’s blood pulsing in her veins, her father’s tenacious spirit surging through her. Quietly, firmly, in a voice that echoed the voices of her childhood, she spoke.

“We must make our plans. The ship leaves in three days; there is not much time. I will accompany the children, of course.”

“Of course,” said Signora Sarfadi, and her hand rested briefly on Rebecca’s shoulder.

Three days later, Rebecca waited with the children for the boarding call of the San Giovanni, which would stop at ports of call on Rhodes, Cyprus, and Haifa. She wore a plain white blouse, dark blazer, pleated gray skirt, and oxfords. Her luxuriant dark hair was twisted into a severe bun and her eyes were protected by gold-rimmed glasses which Signora Sarfadi had produced with a knowing smile.

“If they look too closely at your eyes, they will never believe you to be a schoolmistress,” she had said.

The children, neatly outfitted in their uniforms—the girls in gray serge dresses with starched white collars and the boys in suits of the same durable cheerless fabric, all bearing the insignia of the Mission of Saint Paul—stood quietly in an orderly line. Katia had combed everyone’s hair and helped Rebecca to tuck shirts in and pull socks up. The port dispatcher, who had for days seen Rebecca in her sandals and bright skirts and blouses, raised his eyes in amusement at her sudden transformation but said nothing, an eloquent wink telegraphing his sympathy and complicity. The two British agents were also at the dock and as the line moved forward, one of them called after her with harsh urgency.

“Signorina. One moment please!”

Her heart stopped and she clutched her hands to conceal their trembling. But when she turned to him, her glance displayed only annoyance and condescension. She was a busy woman with ten children in her charge. Why was she being distracted?

“Excuse me, but you dropped your gloves.”

“How very kind of you,” she said with indifferent courtesy. She took the white gloves from him and they moved on through passport control, where her passport and the children’s travel documents were duly examined and stamped. She felt nervous although Yehuda had assured her that at this point there was no need for apprehension.

“No one gives a damn if Jews leave a country. They just don’t want them to enter,” he had said in that dry bitter tone she had come to dread.

And then at last they were aboard the ship, watching the sunbeams skip across the waves as the children began the final lap of their very long voyage.

When the children were asleep that night, she came on deck, feeling the need to sit alone. The sea wind licked her face while she stared up at the star-filled night. She loosened her hair and put the glasses on her lap. She realized then, as she watched the moon weave its way in and out of a gossamer net of clouds, that she had not thought once of Joe Stevenson since the moment she first saw the children in their basement fortress.

“Are you enjoying the crossing?” a familiar voice asked and she looked up, startled and confused.

Yehuda Arnon stood in front of her, a lit cigarette in his mouth, his eyes on the dark fierce waves.

“I didn’t know you were going to be on board,” she said.

“You didn’t think I would let you sail alone, did you?” he retorted but did not wait for her answer. As suddenly as he had appeared, he turned and walked down the deck. She watched until the ember of his cigarette faded into the darkness and wondered whether he had sailed with them because he was not certain he could rely on her or whether his presence was meant to reassure her. Either way, she was annoyed: annoyed that he was on board, and equally annoyed that he had walked off and left her to look at the stars alone.

She was very busy the next day, caught between comforting small Shlomo, who suffered from a bout of seasickness, and entertaining the children during the brief stop at Rhodes. She sat on deck with them playing the games she had long ago taught her brother Michael, using motions in place of words because Katia was the only child who understood even rudimentary English. She began also to teach them the first lines of a song which long ago Lisa Frawley had taught her, laughing and encouraging them as they struggled to sing in a language not their own. Again and again they stumbled over the words.

Jesus loves me, this I know,

Because the Bible tells me so.

“Zo,” they all pronounced it and struggled to attain the sibilant s.

Yehuda, strolling past them, glanced quizzically at her but she ignored him and began a clapping game.

A total exhaustion overcame her that night when she relaxed at last on her deck chair, comfortable in the knowledge that the children were all asleep at last in their berths. She did not look up at the star-encrusted skies but closed her eyes and surrendered to the rocking of the rhythmic waves.

She sensed his presence even before he spoke, and opened her eyes.

“A difficult day.” He leaned against the rail, the cigarette unlit between his lips. Such narrow lips, she noted, set above a strong square chin.

“Yes.” She knew that he could not approach her during the course of the day. One British agent was a passenger and doubtless members of the crew were in the pay of the British. Here he was probably known as a Palestinian Jew and a Bericha agent. He could not jeopardize the children by approaching them and she knew it was irrational to resent him for that diligently maintained distance.

“You were very good with little Shlomo.”

“I have a young brother who went through a difficult time during the war when our older brother was missing in action in North Africa. Shlomo reminds me of Michael.”

She knew with shame but without regret why she had offered this information to Yehuda Arnon. He saw her, she knew, as a spoiled American girl who had neither suffered nor endured any difficulty. She was telling him that the war had affected her too—she too had spent sleepless nights worrying over the fate of someone she loved, she too had known fear and uncertainty. And loss. She shivered suddenly and wished, in her weariness, for Joe Stevenson’s arms to embrace her, for Joshua Ellenberg to envelop her within a blanket. But they were gone and far away, absorbed in their own worlds, their own lives. She had only herself to rely on. She closed her eyes and heard Yehuda’s steps retreat down the deck. Minutes later a warm rough blanket was draped over her shoulders and she felt strong hands tuck it firmly about her body.

“That’s better,” Yehuda said. “That is the way. My daughter also likes to be snuggled this way.”

His daughter, He was married then. What was the wife of such an arrogant, contemptuous man like? She wondered too how old his daughter was, and if he had other children. She fell into a light sleep then and when she awoke he was gone. Yet she knew he had watched over her as she slept because of the small hill of cigarette ash where he had stood, leaning against the rail.

There was foul weather the next two days, as the ocean became a glasslike expanse of white water, shattered into angry dark-blue fissures by a violent westbound wind. The children wept and she was relieved to see them at last surrender into childish misery, almost glad when Katia clung to her for comfort and Mindell, her secret favorite, perched on her lap to play with her purse. She did not go on deck that night or the next and she wondered if Yehuda had waited for her. She imagined him leaning against the rail, sending small sad wisps of cigarette smoke out across the waves.

Early on the fourth morning they docked at Haifa and she felt a rush of excitement as she stood on board and stared out at the busy port. There were signs everywhere, screaming their dock-side messages in Hebrew, English, and Arabic. Dark-skinned dock workers shifted cargo and British soldiers in khaki shorts and shirts patrolled the port. Trucks with Hebrew lettering on them were lined up and sunburned young men in shorts and sweat-stained undershirts heaved enormous sacks of produce, here and there sending onions or tomatoes skittling into the dirt. She looked northward, where the city of shops and villas climbed the graceful slopes of Mount Carmel. This then was Palestine.

Behind her the children, her Auschwitz infants, dressed in their uniforms, their hair combed and faces very clean, stood quietly. For them, this was only another test to be endured, another border to be crossed. They knew the rules and stood so still, so quiet, that she feared their unchildlike quiescence itself would betray them. Just ahead of them, moving swiftly toward passport control, she saw the British agent. He stopped at the desk, showed his identity card to the official, and bent forward, speaking rapidly, gesturing toward them. Rebecca’s palms grew damp and her heart ricocheted in urgent irregular beat. They would not, after all, be admitted. She could not brazen it through. She looked at the children and saw that mute anguished plea in their eyes, the plea that had pierced her heart in Signora Sarfadi’s basement. She could not fail them. On deck Yehuda looked down at them. He lifted his hand slightly, an almost imperceptible gesture, a sign of trust. A new strength came to her and she turned confidently to the children.