My Bridges of Hope (22 page)

“Mommy, I believe we are going to be happy here!”

“You can't be happy just lolling in bed. Get up quick, and let's have our breakfast while the coffee is hot. Here's a towel. The washroom is at the other end of the corridor.”

Luckily I was too tired last night to unpack, and I slept in my house robe. Now all I have to do is hop out of bed and skip down the corridor to the bathroom. Life is simply marvelous. Last night's fog and drizzle have dissipated, and even the hallway is bathed in light.

On my way back from the bathroom, I meet the twins near the entrance to our room. All the boys had introduced themselves last night, and I took note of all their names. The twins are Andy and Tommy. The sturdy fellow with the wavy dark blond hair is Hayim.
The tall, lanky one with hazel eyes is Peter. The other tall young man, with wide shoulders and shiny black hair, is Leslie. And then there are Julius, a slim, wiry boy with light blond curls, and Stephan, a bespectacled charmer with a dimpled chin and brilliant dark eyes.

They are a close-knit group, friends since their kindergarten days in a small Hungarian village. Peter and Leslie are twenty-six years old; all the others are twenty-four. Together they survived forced labor camps in Hungary while their families perished in Auschwitz.

Andy is carrying a blue enamel pitcher of steaming milk.

“For your first breakfast in Vienna,” he says.

“What a charming milk maid! Thank you. Where does the milk come from?”

“I get special privileges in the community kitchen. The cook likes me. She's a Pollack, and like all Pollacks, hates Hungarians. But she says I'm different. I'm not like a Hungarian. So here it is, a token of her love.”

“So that's how the luscious rolls and butter and mugs of fresh-brewed coffee got here! Long live your charms, Andy!”

“What rolls and coffee?”

Tommy winks at me conspiratorially behind his brother's back. I remember the twins' ongoing rivalry from Bratislava and hasten to do damage control by quickly changing the subject. “Andy, thank you so much for the milk. It's so kind of you ...”

But Mommy, who knows neither the twins nor anything about their relationship, politely explains, pointing at Tommy. “This young man here brought the splendid rolls and butter, and the coffee. For years I've not tasted butter and rolls like these. And the aroma of that coffee! It's the lap of luxury to have such breakfast. What a marvelous welcome to Vienna. We are truly grateful for your kindness. ...”

As Mommy speaks, Andy turns scarlet and Tommy's face is a study in glee. His eyes dance with mischief as he announces, feigning modesty, “Peter got the butter. We must give him credit for that. I managed only the coffee and the rolls.”

Formally tipping his hat, Andy takes an abrupt leave.
“Bon appétit,
ladies,” he says to Mommy and me, then turns to his brother:
“Let's go.” He is three hours older than Tommy but has assumed the role of eider brother as if the difference were in years not hours.

Tommy obediently follows him. Near the exit he turns and gives us a wink with a grin as wide as the brim of his fedora.

After breakfast the entire gang appears to take us for a walk and show us the shops, the post office, and the nearest streetcar stop. Our camp is in the heart of a lively, bustling metropolis. As if the war had been a thousand years ago, Vienna is brimming with carefree vitality.

Actually, this is true only of the American Zone. At war's end the victorious powers—the Americans, the Russians, the British, and the French—divided Vienna into four zones, each occupying one. The British and French Zones are noticeably duller. These comprise the more outlying districts, and that may also account for their lack of luster and exuberance. The Russian Zone, although the largest district of the inner city, is dead. It reminds me of Bratislava after the Communist coup. Going from the American Zone to the Russian Zone is like watching a spirited
young woman suddenly turn into a corpse. You feel as though you have walked backward through time and suddenly have entered a war zone. The ruins lie untouched. You walk past empty buildings, abandoned stores, piles of broken bricks and masonry heaped high at intersections. An atmosphere of gloom has wrapped itself around the neighborhood like a leaden shroud. And when you return to the American Zone, your pulse quickens again with the sheer joy of being alive.

Vienna is my oyster in the spring of 1949. I am eighteen, and six boys wait on my every whim. Leslie, the oldest, is engaged to be married. He does not join in our junkets. But the others—handsome, humorous, and bright—vie for my attention, each in his own inimical, fun-loving fashion. We rent bicycles, and six boys compete for a place by my side on our ride into the fabulous Viennese hills. One of the boys sketches the landscape and presents the sketch to me as a loving souvenir. Another writes poetry, poignant little love declarations. One plays the accordion, another one the flute, and the third, the harmonica—and I am serenaded day after day.
We ride on the Riesenrad in the Prater, and when we reach the top, the exhilarating high point of the giant wheel, six boys want to hold my hand. When we descend, six boys buy me little trinkets, little mementos of the adventure. We take boat rides on the Danube Canal, and six boys take turns rowing while we sing Strauss's “Blue Danube” waltz. We take pony rides in the gardens of the Schönbrunn Palace, and the six boys serve as my retinue. We go to the famous Vienna Opera and Burgtheater, and six furtively fix their gazes on me instead of the stage. I pretend not to notice, but from the corner of my eye I see it well. And I grow giddy with delight.

I love all six of them. There are no clouds on the horizon; Vienna remains eternally dazzling. The spring ripens into summer, but for me Vienna remains forever spring. The only carefree, joyful spring I have known.

The parks of the city, the banks of the Danube Canal, the forests on the outskirts, and the hills above are my playground. The fabulous Ring, and the Prater. The Burg. The museums. The Schönbrunn Palace. Vienna,
elegant and grand, vivacious and charming, city of the Hapsburgs, of the Strausses and Liszt, your music and bewitching landscape, your freedom, has restored my soul.

And yet, you are the city that embraced Hitler with open arms—I shut my eyes and refuse to remember it. You shouted
“Juden raus”
and thundered
“Heil Hitler!”
even louder than Berlin—I plug my ears and refuse to hear it. Your language is German, your face is Aryan, your soul is corrupt—I seal my mind and refuse to think.

For five months I blot out reality and indulge in delusion. For five months I exhilarate in undiluted youth.

I am eighteen in Vienna and do not yet know that I will never be eighteen again.

Vienna, May—June 1949

In time, Andy becomes a “special” friend. He is the first gang member to visit every morning and the last one to leave in the evening. On our walks, bicycle rides, and shopping trips, he monopolizes the space near me. He always snatches the seat next to me at the movies and at all the other places we attend, always conniving ways to be alone with me. Before I notice what is happening, the other gang members begin to keep their distance. This nonverbal “understanding” is at times challenged by Tommy or Pete. During Andy's visit Tommy would sometimes appear in our room, nonchalantly flicking his cigarette and, with mock formality, present me with a red rose. Andy would turn scarlet and stare at his brother with ferocious intensity but make no sound or movement until the latter tipped his hat
and made his exit. A few minutes later Pete would appear and insinuate himself between Andy and me at the foot of the bed. Andy would fall silent again, awaiting the end of Peter's visit. But Pete would ignore Andy's discomfort and stay, invariably bringing up innocuous topics of discussion and causing Andy visible anguish. Sometimes the sunshine would beckon, and we would continue our chat in the park, where several other members of the gang would join us. Andy, his “territorial rights” violated, would bristle with annoyance and plunge into deep gloom.

Mommy is amused by these goings-on. She likes the boys and is tickled pink also with the little tokens of attention they shower on her as well. But lately she is concerned about Andy's growing intensity and warns me “not to encourage him.”

Andy is intelligent and high-strung. He is the most serious and the most educated, and from the start has assumed a leadership position in the group.

I have not objected to this subtle arrangement, because I enjoy Andy's company and
his erudite debates. I find his intensity strangely stimulating.

This afternoon, Andy seems more intense than usual.

“I received a telegram from my sister today,” he reveals with obvious tension when we are sitting alone on a park bench. “She and her husband are due to arrive next Tuesday.”

“How nice for you and your brothers! You must be very happy.”

“Yes. Next Tuesday . . . that's in five days. It would make me very happy if I could introduce you to my sister. Will you permit me to introduce you ...”

“Of course! What a question! Of course you may introduce me. I have been hoping to meet her. ...”

All three brothers, Andy, Tommy, and Leslie, have been speaking about their elder sister with great affection and anxiously awaiting her arrival. I feel I have gotten to know Annie through the brothers' references to her warmth and sense of humor. Andy's attachment to her and his anxious waiting for the young couple's arrival have made me especially eager to meet her.

“No .. . not that—” Andy nervously interrupts. “I wish to. . . may I introduce you . . . as my fiancée?”

Even I can hear my sudden intake of breath. I am thunderstruck. Is this a marriage proposal?

I have always wondered how it would happen. Who would it be? What would he say? Under what circumstances? So that's how it happens. Out of the clear blue. Just like that. “Introduce you as my fiancée.” Andy did not say he wished to marry me. Or that he loved me. He simply wanted to introduce me as his fiancée. How strange.

“How can you introduce me as your fiancée when I'm not? I'm not your fiancée, Andy, am I?”

“What I meant was . . . would you? Would you be my fiancée? I love you very much. From the first moment. Since Bratislava ... I have had no rest. Not a moment's rest. I've not slept for weeks, thinking of you . . . thinking of how to ask you to marry me. Thinking of what you'll say.”

Now he's said it. He's said it all. Love. Marriage. Torment. Just as it is in the novels.
Just as I have imagined. How strange. I feel nothing. Not even flattered. On the contrary, I am embarrassed. Painfully embarrassed.

“Andy.” I so wish to say the right words.
Are
there right words?

“Andy, you see, I don't know where I'm heading. There is so much I want to do. Most of all, I want to study. I don't know if I'll ever get to America, but if I do, I want to work by day and study at night. In America you can do that. I want to complete high school and then go to college. I don't know when I will get married. But it is not now. Not for a long time yet.”

Andy is silent for a long time. His eyes are fixed on a cluster of bushes ahead. “I know,” he says at long last. “I knew it all the time. If I were to go to America, if I were to live where you'll live, then perhaps in a year or two, when you are nineteen or twenty . . . maybe then you'd be ready to get married.” Andy falls silent again. Is he expecting an answer? Now his intent gaze falls on the ground, where a few blades of grass have been flattened by the agitated tapping of his feet. “But . . . ,” he goes on after a long pause, “I
have no prospects of getting to America. And so, when you are ready to get married, I won't be there. You'll be in America, and I'll be in Israel.”

What shall I answer? Shall I tell him that I would not marry him in Israel, either? Neither him nor anyone else. I want to achieve my goals first, and that will take years. One day I want to be a teacher in an institution of higher learning. I want to speak English with impeccable pronunciation. And write beautiful, literary English. I also want to extend my knowledge of Hebrew. Israel will be my home one day, and I want to know Hebrew as if it were my native tongue. I have no time for marriage. I never even think about marriage.

Andy is very, very quiet. In a barely audible tone he says he understands. He is not feeling very well, he admits. Would I mind if he went home? No, he does not want me to walk with him. Abruptly Andy mumbles good-bye and hurries away.

I do not understand what has happened. Didn't Andy say he understood? Then why the hasty departure?

I must have hurt him, after all. I will make up for it later. We have a date tonight: We are going to see
Der Fledermaus,
a very popular opera in Vienna. I am sure the music will lift his spirits. He has been looking forward to tonight. I will explain everything afterward. I'm sure he'll see my points then.

“I'll see you later!” I call after Andy. I don't know if he can hear me. He is just turning the corner and does not look back.

Andy is due to call for me at 5:10. At five I am ready. I am wearing my pink taffeta dress, the one I designed for the exam in my pattern-making course in Bratislava. It is a lovely two-piece dress with a flaired skirt, a tight waist, and a form-fitting top. The dolman sleeves and the Cossack-style standing collar lend it a striking, dramatic look. Andy likes this dress, and he will be pleased that I have chosen it for tonight. My hair is long, with a soft wave, the aftermath of a permanent wave that has, thankfully, grown out since then. The new shampoo I bought here in Vienna gives my hair a brilliant luster.

I am glad I look my best. Andy will be pleased, despite our little misunderstanding.
Or perhaps because of it. I will be very warm and attentive all evening. It is essential that he does not take my refusal to marry him personally. I must make amends whatever way I can.