My Bridges of Hope (15 page)

Savage, heady mood. Glorious, heady hilarity. Carefree, playful voices, hoarse from hours of singing in the wet, cold wind. Young boys and girls who have but recently returned from the realm of death are now drunk with the joy of rebirth. Young dreamers intoxicated with a sense of history are now experiencing its great moment. We are in the midst of a cosmic adventure like at Genesis . . . darkness is exploding into myriad fragments, like on the day God created heaven and earth. Hands reach out, to touch, to hold ... to validate. Hands reach out to clasp other hands and shoulders, to caress cheeks, to unite in long embraces.

A last hug, a last clasp of hands, a last wave, and I am taking off at a run. I must hurry home, back to the dormitory. Back to a new beginning.

It is very late and very cold. I am all alone on my way home. Not one of the girls has caught up with me. What's happened to them? Something must have gone wrong. Our headmistress, Malkele, must have stopped them from going out. Why? Is it against the rules, dancing in public?

I can expect to face a stern rebuke. My stomach tightens, and I run faster as I contemplate the sobering thought. I brace myself for the consequences of what I have done. I am willing to pay the price.

A new epoch has dawned, and I was there to celebrate it.

Bratislava, November—December 1947

The lights are still on as I reach the dormitory. My roommates are preparing for bed. Malkele is nowhere to be seen, and I head for the shower room as unobtrusively as possible. Martha notices me and calls, “Elli, where have you been?”

“Shush. I'm going to the shower room. Talk to you later.”

Martha follows me alongside the corridor. “People were looking for you.”

“What people? Malkele?”

“No, Sori and Eva. They were anxious to know if you went to the square to watch the dancing. They, too, wanted to go, but Malkele stopped them and the others. She didn't let anyone go. No one knew where you'd disappeared to.”

Thank God. I am safe. Martha Frohlinger is a loyal friend. To her I can divulge my secret.

“I did go to the square.” I don't reveal what I did there. “It was ... it was . . . you should have been there. All the girls should have been there!”

“We all wanted to. But Malkele did not let anyone go ...”

“Martha, don't tell anyone I went, okay?”

“Okay, Elli. I won't breathe a word.”

When I tiptoe into the bedroom, my friend Ellike Sofer sits up, agitated: “Elli, is it you? Thank God you're home! Where did you go? You said nothing about going out. Eva and Sori and the others saw you in the other bedroom, and then, suddenly, after the radio report, you disappeared. WHERE DID YOU GO?” Ellike's whisper turns into a hiss.

“I'll tell you later,” I whisper. “After lights out.”

Our beds are adjacent, and it is possible to whisper secrets without anyone else hearing them. I can trust Ellike implicitly, so I tell her everything about my adventure in the square. Although Ellike is happy for me, she is bitterly disappointed to have missed the momentous happening.

You were dancing with the Mizrachi kids,
boys and girls?” She is incredulous. “Elli, were you holding hands with the boys? Who was there? Was Albert there?” Eva has a secret crush on Albert but never has an opportunity even to speak to him. We are not allowed to talk to the Mizrachi boys, or any boys at all, let alone dance with them! “Did you speak to any of the boys?”

“I did not speak to anyone in particular. We were caught up in the excitement of it all. We just sang at the top of our lungs and danced as if we were links in one unbroken chain.”

We talk late into the night. For Ellike, tonight's event has deep implications. She has been waiting over two years for her turn on a transport to Palestine. Her cousin Moshe has been anxiously awaiting her arrival. As we talk, Ellike can barely contain her excitement. Who knows? She may be reunited with her cousin Moshe in Tel Aviv, perhaps in a matter of weeks! “Can you imagine? I may be in Eretz Israel for Hanukkah!”

We talk and cry for hours. Finally fatigue overtakes our excitement, and we grow silent. But I cannot fall asleep. Even after Ellike's rhythmic breathing tells me that she is sleeping,
I cannot drain my mind of tonight's deep impressions.

The next dawn brings news of disaster for the Jews of Palestine. The Arab states surrounding Palestine have called for a general strike, riots, looting. We learn the British have not changed their immigration policy. The precious entry permits continue to be limited. For months now, thousands of young Jews have been languishing restlessly in collection centers, expecting to go to Palestine. When will the Jewish State become a reality? Did we dance too soon?

One evening Gina whispers a request. Would I join her in her bed after lights out? She wants to discuss something important.

Gina's news turns out to be very exciting. She reveals that the Haganah, the secret Jewish army in Palestine, has headquarters and a training camp in Moravia. Many young Jews have been registering to join there. Gina's twenty-two-year-old cousin is being trained there, and when his training is finished he will be shipped to Palestine with Aliyah Bet, the illegal group circumventing the British embargo against Jewish immigrant
ships. The young recruits are being trained for combat, Gina discloses, her voice so low, I'm not sure I'm hearing right. Girls are also trained for combat. But most are trained as nurses or field telephone operators.

“I don't intend to wait endlessly for the world powers to make decisions for me,” Gina whispers. “I don't intend to wait while the Arabs are massacring my sisters and brothers in Eretz Israel. I've made preparations to join the Haganah, train for combat, and go to Eretz Israel with one of the illegal units.”

Gina turns silent, waiting for my response. But I do not utter a sound. I cannot even breathe.

“They need us,” Gina continues after a while. “My cousin Beni says there will be all-out war. Sometime next year the British are going to leave Palestine, and six Arab nations are poised to attack on several fronts. They need young people to defend the Jewish settlements. I'm going to undergo weapons training. I want to know how to fight.” Gina's voice trails into virtual soundlessness. Chubby, soft-spoken, easygoing Gina. How can she say these things with such matter-of-factness?
How can she even think of holding a gun?

Gina's enthusiasm is contagious. With every passing day, my resistance to the idea of handling a weapon wears thinner. Finally Gina convinces me that hers is the only route to go. The answer to our people's survival lies in our fighting for the Jewish State. The UNO vote was only the beginning, a diplomatic formality. It is up to us to create a home for the Jews the world over, a safe haven from persecution. It is up to us to ensure a source and center of Jewish pride.

In a week Gina expects to be called to the training camp for processing. As soon as she reaches the camp she will speak to her cousin Beni about me. Beni has become a member of the staff, and Gina is certain he will make immediate arrangements so that I, too, can join soon.

No one at the Home must know about these plans, of course. The Haganah operations are secret, and the leadership at the Home would not approve of a girl joining a military outfit of any kind. I promise Gina to be extremely careful.

Bratislava, December 1947—March 1948

Miriam is shaking my shoulder: “Elli, wake up. I heard knocking at the main entrance. Please wake up.”

Groggily I crawl out of bed. Miriam and I are sleeping downstairs in the children's dormitory. This week it is our turn to spend the nights with the group of small boys and girls recently brought to the Home from Hungary.

“Who do you think it is?” I ask with a yawn.

“I don't know.” Miriam seems agitated. “Who on earth would come at one
A.M
.?”

I follow Miriam's tall, thin silhouette along the dark corridor. The entire building is wrapped in silence. No one, except Miriam, wiry and high-strung, has been awakened by the noise. We approach the front entrance. Carefully I place my ear on the door to pick up any sounds from the other side. All is
quiet. Miriam must have had a nightmare. She has only recently arrived here with her mother, fleeing from Yugoslavia across a hazardous border. It's no wonder Miriam hears menacing noises in her sleep.

“It seems no one's knocking, Miri,” I say soothingly. “Let's go back to sleep.”

“But I'm sure I heard knocking,” Miriam says apologetically as we cross the dark hallway and head for the nursery. “It was a light knocking. But it went on for a long time.”

As we pass the pantry door, faint knocking is discernible from the back of the building.

“It's the back door,” Miriam and I whisper in unison. As I approach the back entrance through the pantry, Miriam quickly slips behind the huge metal cupboard. She cannot take chances. She is an illegal alien in Czechoslovakia.

“Who is it?” I ask in an undertone.

“Sle
č
na Friedmannova, is that you?” It's the voice of Emil, one of the administrators of the Home. His whisper betrays urgency. “Please open the door.”

I quickly remove the bolt and unlock the door. Emil pushes the door in slightly, and
through the narrow slit about ten people slip in, one by one, followed by Emil himself. Swiftly and soundlessly I lock the door and reinsert the bar. Emil leads the group through the pantry into the kitchen and quickly lowers the heavy window shades. Only then does he switch on the kitchen light. The sudden harsh light blinds me. Dazed with sleep, I gape at the unanticipated arrivals—a man, three young women, and six children. Clutching their meager belongings, their faces deathly pale and drawn with fear and fatigue, the little group forms an island of irrelevance in the middle of the kitchen.

“These people will sleep here in the children's dormitory tonight,
Sle
č
na”
Emil informs me. “There are extra folding beds in the pantry. Would you help me prepare them?”

Miriam emerges from her hiding place and helps us unfold the beds and make them up with blankets and pillows. After saying a few rapid words to the man, Emil turns to me again:
“Sle
č
na,
I will be back here tomorrow morning. In the meantime, if the police or anyone else asks questions, you know nothing.”

“How about Miss Seidel and Miss Goldstein?” I ask, referring to our teachers.

“They know,” Emil says with a nod. He pats the children on the back, tips his hat, and heads for the back entrance. “I'll see you all first thing in the morning.” He quickly lets himself out the door, and I bolt and lock it for the night.

I attempt to say some words of welcome to the newcomers in Slovak, then Miriam does the same in Slovenian, her language. The newcomers do not respond at first. But when Miriam and I bring glasses of milk for the children, one of the women thanks us in Polish.

We show them where the toilets are and bid them all good night.

“They must've come straight from the Polish border,” Miriam whispers when we retire to our beds. “They must've crossed over recently.”

“They are refugees from Poland,” Emil explains in the morning. “On their way to Eretz Israel. The girls were hidden in the woods, and the children are from a convent. Hopefully they will move on tonight. But it
may take a few days. Please make sure they do not go near windows.” Emil opens his wallet and hands me a hundred-crown note. “Please get them whatever they need. Ask the other girls in the dormitory to find storybooks and read to the children. They must be kept quiet by all means. These kids have been on the road for days.”

The refugees from Poland stay for a week. All the girls are involved in making them feel welcome in our midst. By the time the escape route to Vienna is cleared and it is time for them to leave, we part as if we're family. We have all learned the hair-raising details of each life—the girls' narrow escape from the Germans and then their flight from the Russians; the children's lives in the shelter of a Polish convent; the young man's adventures in a Polish partisan unit. Their effusive gratitude for small favors and the children's hunger for affection have endeared them to us.

This encounter with Jewish refugees from Poland gives me new insight into happenings beyond our borders. For the first time I become aware of the conditions that confronted Polish Jews after their liberation from
the Germans. I learn that hundreds were arrested by the Russians and put into labor camps, or sent to Siberian exile. Many of those who succeeded in escaping made their way to their former homes in small towns and villages, only to be met with hostile reception from their Polish neighbors. Pogroms swept some areas. Physically and emotionally devastated men, women, and children returning from prison camps and death marches had to flee for their lives once again. Their tales remind me of my excruciating experience in the Tatras last summer, and I feel obligated to help.

The contact with the four adults and six children from Poland is my direct initiation into the secrets of
Briha.
I had learned from Miki in Šamorín that
Briha
means “the flight” in Hebrew and that the
Briha
organization has established an underground network of escape routes from Eastern Europe to the West, and from there to Palestine. Because East European countries have sealed borders, and leaving without permission is a capital crime, these rescue operations are a dangerous undertaking.

Czechoslovakia is centrally located between East and West, and so most routes go through it, primarily through our city. Bratislava serves as a border crossing point to Austria, a way station to freedom. After crossing the Czechoslovak-Austrian border, and then an arduous land strip occupied by hostile Soviet troops, the refugees can reach the American Zone in Vienna—and freedom.