My Bridges of Hope (9 page)

The tale takes on a life of its own. As my audience grows, I am compelled to raise my voice above the clatter of the speeding train so the children sitting at some distance do not miss any of the details. It is stifling hot in the car, the air is charged with electricity, and my voice is growing hoarse.

“Sle
č
na.
” A large hand rests on my shoulder. “You've been talking for over two hours. Talking for so long over the din of the train is exhausting. You're wearing yourself out.” I raise my head in surprise, and our eyes meet.
This time the blue eyes are not mocking. They hold genuine concern. “Children, why don't you let
Sle
č
na
take a little rest? She can tell you the end of the story a little later. There will be plenty of time for stories. The Tatras are still very far.” Sruli Goldstein's smile is not patronizing as he advises me, “The children, too, can take a nap now.”

I am grateful. “Thank you, Mr. Goldstein.”

The children are disappointed, but do not protest. One by one they return to their seats. Sruli tips his hat and makes his way back to his group of teenage boys at the other end of the car. I lean back in my seat as both Ruti and Marko rest their heads in my lap, and within seconds, all three of us are fast asleep.

Frieda wakes me with a light tap on my shoulder: Would I help her hand out sandwiches and lemonade for lunch? By the time the children finish lunch, we have to get them ready to disembark at Poprad for a change of trains.

Poprad marks two-thirds of the journey from Bratislava to Vyšne Ružbachy. The radical change in the climate is astonishing. After descending from a hot, stuffy train carriage,
we are buffeted by gusts of cold, crisp mountain air. All around us dark green hills rise in sudden, unexpected immediacy.

The children's teeth chatter from cold. Frieda and I quickly bundle them up in sweaters, jackets, raincoats, and scarves pulled out of their luggage, and herd them to the platform where the train for the High Tatras is to arrive. Here the station house provides some shelter. By the time our train pulls into the station, the sun is setting in a blaze of orange and red, and the distant hills turn purple.

The ride from Poprad to the High Tatras stretches the limits of my capacity for absorbing sheer natural beauty. The suddenness of vertical cliffs reaching to infinite heights not more than an arm's length from my train window assaults my senses with unexpected force. Waterfalls cascading from tips of hills are inches below the sky, and giant trees swaying in menacing altitude on razor-sharp, snowcapped ridges are unmistakable messages of immortality. Divine secrets tangibly, ungrudgingly communicated.

It is a puzzling message. How can such unstinting beauty share the planet with
Auschwitz? How can it coexist with the specter of the Holocaust?

Suddenly, I remember: This is the route our boxcar traveled to Auschwitz. Two years ago, these very tracks carried the train from our hometown eastward toward its destination in the death camp. Just like then, the train snaked ever upward on fabulous mountain passes.

I need answers. I need to understand. I need to understand.

It is late at night when we arrive at Vyšne Ružbachy. At the dark, deserted station a row of open carriages wait to take us into the hills. The horses battle a cold wind as they plow ever higher, ever closer to the brilliant starry sky. On the peak of what must be the tallest mountain, the carriages halt. We are on top of a dark, blustery world under a shimmering sky. The sheer expanse of star-studded sky above and the infinite depth of darkness below us are overwhelming. We have arrived at our destination.

The Tatras, July 7, 1946

Brilliant sunshine and the chirping of a thousand birds wake me. What time is it? I hop out of bed and run to the next room. The beds are empty. I run down the corridor and find every room empty. Where is everybody? On my first morning I have overslept!

Alarmed, I run downstairs and follow the sound of soft chanting. In the large hall, the girls are in the midst of morning prayers. One girl serves as leader, or pre-cantor, and the others chant the verses in response. I have never seen anything like it . . . adolescent girls conducting communal prayers in Hebrew.

Watching the scene, I feel like an outsider. Silently I withdraw and continue my search for the little children.

As I pass the dining room I see Mrs. Gold busily setting long tables for breakfast, in the
company of my little charges, still in their pajamas.

“Good morning! How long have you all been down here?”

“Oh, the bright light woke us all early.” Mrs. Gold smiles. “The little ones have been helping me set the tables.”

I herd all six of them to their rooms to wash and dress; and then down again for breakfast in less than half an hour. At the breakfast table Frieda leads the children in reciting the blessings for the food, then explains the meaning of each blessing. I am familiar with the various blessings for food, one for bread, another for cakes and cookies, a different one for milk and other drinks, and one for fruit and vegetables. This morning, however, I learn that there is also a blessing,
brakhah
in Hebrew, to be recited when encountering natural phenomena like thunder and lightning, or when seeing the ocean for the first time.

How fascinating . . . this impromptu affirmation of a phenomenon when experiencing it. As a child, I remember the terrifying impact of a sudden thunderclap. By reciting
the
brakhah,
“blessed be you, our God, king of the universe, whose power and might fill the universe,” you sublimate your fear into a dialogue with God.

Here in these fabulous mountains I encounter a new spiritual dimension. I realize that Judaism is in essence an ongoing dialogue with God. As a matter of fact, all human experience is an ongoing dialogue with God.

I am infatuated with the mountains, the green forest, the radiant sky, and with knowledge. I learn to love Frieda, my intermediary to all the new things I am learning. There is a magic circle about her. During meals, during formal class periods, and on long walks in the hills, she dispenses knowledge—lessons in the Bible, Jewish ethics, history, and rituals. She also teaches us modern Israeli dances and songs.

My responsibility is to care for the two little boys and four little girls. During the older campers' formal class periods, I play catch and tell stories. During rest periods, I practically devour the books in Frieda's personal library.

After dinner the boys' camp joins us, and
the two counselors, Frieda and Sruli, conduct shared study sessions. At these times I am one of the pupils, listening and learning with unquenchable thirst.

The Sabbath crowns the week with a perfect combination of the worldly and the spiritual. In the morning Sruli leads the prayers and delivers a lecture in the open, under the unfathomable sky. The afternoon is taken up by discussion groups and singing. We hold hands and dance in a circle to lively tunes, or lock arms and sway to the melancholy melodies until the shadows grow long and it is time for dinner in the dining room.

Togetherness. Harmony of spirit. Beauty of nature. Learning. This day is closest to my idea of perfect bliss.

On Sunday morning, a lone bicyclist appears on the front path of the villa. As he comes nearer, I recognize him. It is the mailman from the town. Mail on Sunday? He waves a piece of paper in the air. It is a telegram addressed to Sle
č
na Gelberova. Frieda opens the blue envelope with trembling fingers. One glance at the message, and Frieda's face is flushed. She closes her eyes as she clutches the paper to her chest
and just stands there, motionless. “My certificate!” she cries. “It has come! Can you believe it? Can you believe it?”

The CERTIFICATE. The British immigration permit to Palestine. The passport to happiness. She is one of the lucky few to receive this coveted document. She applied over a year ago. Since then she has hoped and prayed, and then despaired of ever receiving it. And now, this morning, the miracle has happened. The certificate has reached her, here in the remote mountains.

All the children begin to sing and dance around Frieda. Happiness overflows into the hills beyond the villa, into the trees, the clouds.

We are due to return to Bratislava on August 25. “How wonderful,” I say. “You'll reach the Land of Israel by Rosh Hashanah. And in the meantime, you'll have plenty of time to get ready for the great journey. Mentally. Even physically.”

Frieda does not hear me. “I know there's an overnight train for Bratislava. It leaves here early in the morning. There are transports on Tuesday. I can make it for the Tuesday transport.”

Tuesday? Which Tuesday? I must have heard wrong. I search Frieda's face. But her face is averted.

“I must pack immediately. It takes time to get down to the village to buy a ticket.”

“Frieda, what do you mean, 'get down to the village to buy a ticket'? To leave when?”

“Tonight. I must leave tonight.”

With mounting panic I shout, “But you can't! You can't leave just like that! What'll happen to the children? Who will lead them? Who will teach them? Who will take care of everything?”

It is only at this moment that she takes notice of my distress. “Don't worry, Elli. I'll send someone in my place. I'll see to it that another counselor is sent here immediately. By tomorrow evening another counselor will leave with the six
P.M
. train. She'll arrive Tuesday morning. You'll be okay for one day, won't you? Don't worry, you'll manage for one day. Elli, you'll manage better than you think.”

Frieda turns and, with hurried footsteps, goes to her room to pack.

Frieda's news reverberates through the
little camp like an electric charge. The little ones cling to her, even the older girls cry unabashedly. Seeing the children's reaction adds panic to my anguish. Yet I have to cope with my angst and alarm without any outward sign.

After the horse-drawn carriage departs with Frieda, the abandoned camp resembles a wake. I am unable to console the children. I cannot make any promises. I know I cannot fill Frieda's shoes, not even as a second-rate substitute, even if I had resources of strength and knowledge. And I am fully aware that I have neither.

“Tuesday morning we are getting a substitute,” is the only promise I can make. “She'll arrive bright and early on Tuesday. Until then, we will all have to be brave.”

This promise is also my only consolation.

The Tatras, July 8, 1946

I have asked Mrs. Gold to wake me at dawn. I can never wake up on my own, and rising at dawn is anathema. Yet I have to make an early start. I must participate in the morning prayers with the older campers, and then help the little ones wash and dress. My God, how will I accomplish all this?

The teens refuse to get up. “There is no point in getting out of bed,” they argue. “There is nothing to do.”

“We will work out a program,” I promise with an artificially cheerful tone. “We will work it out together.”

“Frieda is gone,” they counter. “Nothing matters.”

“Well,” I suggest, “perhaps we can discover things that matter. I will listen to your suggestions. We will work out a program that will make everyone happy.”

“We will never ever again be happy,” they reassure me, “now that Frieda is gone. We do not care to be happy.”

No matter what I propose, no matter how much I reason and cajole, it is all met with a stone wall of resistance. Finally I lose my temper.

“No more arguments!” I shout. “All of you, get out of bed. This very instant! Wash and dress, and get downstairs to prayers in twelve minutes! Not a second less.”

I rush into the bathroom and lock the door. What have I done? Why do I always lose my cool? Involuntary tears begin to flow down my cheeks. I am supposed to be a grown-up, and I behaved like a baby.

What shall I do now? I will ignore the teens altogether. Let them do as they please. Let them fend for themselves. I will take care of the little ones only. But what happens if the little ones also refuse to cooperate?

I wash my face and wait a few minutes. I cannot appear in front of them with red eyes. Regaining my composure, I emerge from the bathroom and with dignified footsteps make my way to the little children's rooms. As I pass the two adjacent bedrooms of the teens, I
see they are empty. The beds are made, and the bedclothes are neatly folded on the shelves. When I reach the downstairs hall, I find the girls sitting quietly, with prayer books in hand, waiting. They are waiting for me.

“Fine,” I acknowledge in a firm tone. “Let's start. Who was the pre-cantor yesterday?”

“Rivka!” Alice is always the first to speak. “All last week Rivka was the leader. But Frieda said from now on we'll take turns.”

“Did she appoint someone for today?”

“No, she didn't. May I be the leader today?” Alice's eagerness prompts her to hop up and down like a yo-yo.

“That's not fair,” Minka, a sturdy, freckle-faced girl interjects. “I'm older than you. I should be the leader.”

“I'm the oldest here. I'm fifteen and a half.” Miri, a tall, skinny brunette raises her arm. “I should lead the prayers.” I, too, am fifteen and a half. How fortunate none of the girls is aware of this.

“What's the difference? I'll be fifteen next month!” Minka volunteers, her voice rising.

I have to stop this bickering before it gets out of hand.

“Okay, let's draw up a chart according to birthdays. Whose birthday comes first?”

The idea works like a charm. Within seconds the girls are deeply involved in making up a birthday list, and the day is saved. The prayers get off to a lively start with Miri as pre-cantor for the day, and I hurry upstairs to help the little ones get ready for breakfast.

Marko is sitting in bed, crying. “I don't feel well. I don't want to get up.”