My Bridges of Hope (18 page)

“I know the building. And you live there? Is your dormitory in the same building?”

“Yes.”

“Where do you teach?”

“Palisadna. It's near the Nemocnica.” The hospital. I deliberately omit the word Židovska—the full name of the hospital is
Židovska Nemocnica, Jewish Hospital. Am I trying to hide my Jewish identity? Why? After all, he knows I must be Jewish if I'm a “teacher of Hebrew religion.”

Without a response, Vilo jumps on his motorcycle and is gone.

“Good. Very good.” Jiri Slezak is the first of my group to speak. He raises his rake, sending a whiff of wet sand into the air. “We are getting somewhere. When is he taking his first lesson in the Bible?”

Laughter rings on all sides. I return the salute with my hoe and flick bits of wet earth into my face: “Soon. During lunch break. By five o'clock I will make him into a full-fledged Jew.” Loud cheers and applause greet my announcement.

It is a rainy day, and we have been working in intermittent drizzle. To my surprise, at the start of the lunch break Vilo reappears. Collective eyebrows are raised.

“Sle
č
na,
where do you sit during lunch? Would you want to sit on that log under those trees? It's much drier there.”

“All right.” I follow him without a backward glance at my group. I can feel their
looks, their suppressed chuckles. I cannot take the chance of locking eyes with them and bursting out in laughter.

I try to take casual steps as we climb up the mountain. Awkwardness controls my every move. I wait for Vilo to sit down on the log, then I take my seat at a respectable distance from his long knees jutting high into the air.

I fiddle with my sandwich bag, waiting for Vilo to talk first. Why did he ask me to join him for lunch? I wait for Vilo to start eating first. However, he only stares ahead, his elbows resting on his knees, his jaw resting in enormous upturned palms.

“What's your name?” he asks finally.

“Elli Friedmannova. And yours?”

“My name is Villiam Grentze.
Sle
č
na,
may I call you Elli?”

“Of course. That's my name.”

“I am glad we meet again, Elli Friedmannova.”

“Again? Have we met before?”

“I saw you some time ago. It must have been over a year ago, or even more, I'm not sure. But I'm sure it was you. The Zionists
were dancing in front of the Redute, in Carlton Square. I saw you dancing among them?”

“Yes, I was there that night. It was the day the UNO voted on the Palestine Resolution.”

“Are you a Zionist?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I want to know. Are you?”

“Well, I want the Jews to have a state of their own. I was very happy that it happened. Does that make me a Zionist?”

“Do you want to go to Palestine?”

“Yes, I do.”

“That makes you a Zionist.”

I am seized by momentary panic. For a member of the Socialist Teachers Union, this may be a dangerous admission to make. I quickly add, “But I am a loyal member of my union. I do not see any contradiction. One can be a Socialist and a Zionist simultaneously. There are Socialist communes in Israel. The
kibbutzim.
They are based on Socialist principles. Some are even Marxist. Did you know that?”

“Yes, I've heard. Do you also want to join such a commune? What is it called?”

“Kibbutz.
Perhaps. I don't know yet. I want to continue my studies. I don't know if one
can continue to attend school in a
kibbutz”.

I want to know everything about Villiam Grentze—his profession, where he lives. But I dare not ask.

The whistle signals the end of lunch break. Vilo slaps his knees with visible annoyance. “Damn it. And you did not even eat your sandwich.”

“Neither did you.”

“I don't have any.”

“Do you want to share mine?”

Vilo nods, and I draw out two pieces of dark bread stuck together with jam and make a clumsy attempt to break them into two halves. The result is not very elegant. Vilo observes my predicament with an absent-minded smile, then takes one messy half and starts munching.

“Dakujem.”
Thank you. We walk silently down the wet slope. When we reach the bottom of the hill, Vilo mutters something under his breath, hops on his motorcycle, and takes off. I put my half of the sandwich back into the bag and join the others.

The group behaves delicately. No remarks. No questions. Not even amused looks.

“What's going on here?” I ask in surprise. “Don't you want to know?”

“It's entirely up to you.” Terri speaks up with admirable restraint. “Do you want to tell?”

“Of course, I want to tell. Everything. Except, there's nothing to tell. Nothing.
Nie nada.
He asked my name, what I did, and where I studied. Then I asked his name.”

“What is his name?”

“Grentze. It sounds like a German name.”

“It's German, all right,” Jiri Slezak pipes up. “Our hero has a skeleton in his closet. What else did he tell you?”

“Nothing of consequence. You want to know the real truth, the true source of his attraction? My sandwich. He's irresistibly attracted to plum jam.”

They all speculate about when Vilo will be back. Milo Hussar suggests taking bets. Terri sets the stakes: “Let's count to thirty-five. I say he'll be back before the count of thirty-five. Who wants to top my bet?” Lenka Nemec bets on forty; Janko Vilensky on forty-six. All the others call various numbers, and I grow very self-conscious about the whole thing.
Will he show up at all this afternoon? And when he does, will I be able to act naturally?

The count begins, and Vilo appears at twenty-two. I am at once embarrassed and pleased. Vilo no longer makes pretensions of acting in a supervisory capacity or issuing instructions to any of the others. He stops his motorcycle right next to me and announces unceremoniously, “Tomorrow I will bring a sandwich for you. What kind do you like?”

“I. . . please, don't. I eat only kosher. That's a special diet. Please, don't bother. I can bring two sandwiches tomorrow. Is plum jam okay?”

“Plum jam is very good.
Dakujem, Sle
č
na.”
Vilo touches his cap with his fingertips in a brief salute and rides off, as briskly and uncermoniously as he has come.

Vilo does not return all afternoon, and the bettors are puzzled. I wonder: Have I hurt his feelings by rejecting his offer of a sandwich?

On the homebound journey the discussion focuses on Vilo. Seventy academicians are puzzling over a Communist Party official who does not quite fit the mold. Who is he? What makes him tick? How will he act tomorrow?

I am deeply stirred by Vilo's disclosure
that he met me on that memorable evening, the night of fierce passions, the night the State of Israel was born. I am torn by doubt: Is he a member of the secret police? Or, is he a Zionist sympathizer?

Did the Vilo episode actually happen, or did I make it up?

Before going to bed I prepare two plum jam sandwiches. If Vilo does not show, I can always eat a second sandwich.

This morning, shortly after we begin leveling a small elevation in an isolated area of the work site, Vilo unexpectedly appears next to Terri and me. He playfully snatches the shovel from Terri's hands and issues a mocking challenge: “Why don't you take a little rest and let me do your quota for a while?”

Terri happily takes up the challenge. She climbs on the hillside to her favorite perch, where she has a spectacular view of the Danube. Vilo, on the other hand, launches into a vigorous shoveling activity. We work silently side by side for several minutes. Then Vilo begins to talk about himself.

To the accompaniment of his rhythmic
shoveling, Vilo divulges painful, personal details about his life with stunning urgency. He talks about the dual trauma of his mother's death in Auschwitz and his father's self-torment over her tragic fate. Although he refused to comply when all the Germans were ordered to divorce their Jewish wives, he blames himself for his failure to save her life.

“My father is a good man. And he loved my mother very much. I pity him but cannot help him. I cannot even talk to him,” Vilo concludes with a sigh.

“You
must
talk to him.”

“I cannot. I cannot help him.” Vilo works furiously. Then he asks, “How about you? I want to know everything about you.”

I tell Vilo about my incarceration in Auschwitz and other camps, about my father's death in Bergen-Belsen, about my mother and brother, and my dilemma about Israel.

With a strange earnestness, Vilo says that he understands my feelings about Israel. I can sense his empathy, yet I am reluctant to ask questions. I want to know how he got involved with Communism, and what accounts
for his high position in the Party. After some hesitation, I do ask one question.

“Vilo, on Carlton Square on November twenty-ninth, were you a spectator, or one of the dancers?”

At this moment trucks arrive with gravel and sand. Vilo takes a quick leave. He must hurry and supervise the unloading. Perhaps he did not hear my question over the din of the trucks' arrival. Or perhaps he has another reason for not answering my question.

During the next few days I find Vilo's company exciting and baffling all at once. As we get to know each other, I lose my awkwardness in his proximity. His friendship infuses me with a new self-awareness. I can sense dynamic strength and faith radiating from an inner source in Vilo.

I have never met anyone like him. Are my feelings for him inspired by compassion, or by gratitude for his having invited me to share his pain? Do I admire him for his powerful public image, or for the strength he displays in coping on so many levels? Do I find him so fascinating because of an unexplained element in his makeup?

In a short time Vilo has become a personal friend, and yet he remains an enigma.

The road construction project of the Socialist Teachers Union comes to a close, but Vilo has worked out a plan for us to see each other.

“I will come to NeÅ¡porova seven with my motorcycle and pick you up after our work, every evening,” he suggests brightly. “I have a table at the Café Carlton. There we can continue our friendship.”

“It is not possible, Vilo. I'm strictly Orthodox. I cannot keep company with boys. Especially with boys who are not religious.”

“What if I become religious?” he asks in jest. “I can learn. I may even like it, especially if you taught me.”

Meeting Vilo is out of the question. I would not openly flaunt the rules of the Home, nor would I cheat and see him surreptitiously.

“There is no way out, Vilo. We must accept the inevitable. This is the last time we will see each other. I am grateful to God for having met you.”

Vilo vows he will find a way. He must see me, he declares firmly. “I have waited for over a year to see you again. God sent you to me. It
must have been ordained that we get together. It must be His will.”

No amount of explanation changes his determination to see me. I ask him to respect my wishes and not come to the dormitory—nor near the building. I ask him not to do anything that would place me in an embarrassing position.

Apart from my restrictions about dating, there is also the hazard of Vilo discovering my work for
Briha.
For me this reason is even more compelling.

At long last I succeed. Vilo promises to stay away, and I know I can trust him. We part with a firm, warm handshake.

With my teacher colleagues there are emotional embraces. Terri is inconsolable. “I know I will never see you again,” she sobs. She proves right. Although we vow to visit often, our lives away from the Bratislava-Devin highway are worlds apart, and the distance is unbridgeable. So it is with the others. Jiri Slezak, Milo Hussar, Janko Vilensky, and Lenka Nemec. We all pledge to keep in contact, but we know it will never happen.

Bratislava, October 1948-January 1949

The enchanting September days in the hills above the Danube are followed by strenuous work with the
Briha
during a particularly brutal winter. The transports from Poland are a thin but constant flow throughout a November plagued by heavy snowfall and bitter cold winds. We are called upon almost every night, sometimes for a small group of people, other times for only a single individual. These lone arrivals have to be quartered for longer periods until a sizable transport accumulates.

The Slovak authorities are growing less and less cooperative. Stalin's high hopes for the establishment of a Socialist regime in Israel, which would guarantee him a foothold in the Middle East, are dashed. In Israel a Democratic government has come into being, and the Red dictator does not conceal his displeasure.

Stalin's open hostility brings about a dramatic shift in the attitude of the entire Communist bloc, making the
Briha's
work extremely difficult. Bribes have to be increased to compensate for increased risks. There are serious delays, putting the entire operation in jeopardy. My task of keeping up the morale of the refugees and their hosts is more harrowing.

In December and January a new wave of refugees reaches our borders. Jews are now fleeing by the thousands from Hungary, where a radical Communist takeover has created havoc. Fearing that even the illegal escape routes would soon close, they leave behind all possessions and flee across the border into Czechoslovakia. Many Jewish refugees invariably find their way to
Briha
contacts and eventually wind up in Bratislava. How will
Briha
raise the enormous funds needed to accommodate the refugees during their stay in Bratislava? Sooner or later the underground railroad machinery will break down. What will happen to the refugees?

In January the Home receives orders from Zionist headquarters to prepare for a transport in ten days. Ten days! The excitement is indescribable.
The girls are aflutter with preparation, packing, and good-byes. Ellike rushes downtown to buy an accordion as a present for Moshe, and I accompany her. Who knows when we will see each other again? Sori and Eva and Adele are jubilant. They have family members in Israel who anxiously await them. Malcah has corresponded with a childhood friend who has since become a prospective sweetheart. Judy and Valerie look forward to reuniting with their fiancés who left with illegal transports over a year ago. The dormitory resembles a beehive.