I Have Lived a Thousand Years (2 page)

I love to lie and daydream for hours after dusk. Life is an exciting mystery, a sweet secret enchantment. In my daydreams I am a celebrated poet, beautiful, elegant, and very talented. My poems open the world’s heart to me, and I loll in the world’s embrace.

I yearn for my mother’s embrace. When, on Sabbath mornings, my friend Bonnie and I join our mothers in the synagogue, Mrs. Adler takes Bonnie in her arms and calls her
meine Schönheit,
my beauty, in German. Mrs. Adler always says German endearments to Bonnie. Mommy only greets me with a hello and a smile, no hug and no words of endearment.

“That’s all nonsense,” Mommy would respond to my complaint. “Do you want me to call you
meine Schönheit?
Bonnie’s mother makes a fool of herself. Why, everyone can see how plain looking her daughter is!”

What does it matter whether Bonnie is pretty? I care only that Bonnie’s mother thinks she is beautiful. And what about the hug?

“I don’t believe in cuddling,” Mommy explains with a smile. “Life is tough, and cuddling makes you soft. How will you face life’s difficulties if I keep cuddling you? You’re too sensitive as it is. If I would take you in my lap, you’d never want to get off.... You’d become as soft as butter, unable to stand up to life’s challenges.”

Mommy’s explanations are unconvincing. I believe she does not hug me because she does not think I am huggable. I believe she does not call me beautiful because she does not think I am pretty. I am too tall and ungainly. My arms and legs are too long, and I keep upsetting things. When I carry a tray of drinks, Mommy shouts at me not to walk so clumsily. That’s the reason why everything spills. “Look at Eva. She’s a year younger than you, yet how deftly she carries a tray.” Or “I was in your friend Julie’s house yesterday. You should see how skillfully she helped her mother serve!” Or “See your brother Bubi? He’s a boy, and see how much more he helps out, and how much better he is around the kitchen?”

This I know is the secret of my mother’s disapproval: my brother. He is the favorite. He is good. He never answers back, my mother says. And never asks “Why do I have to?” whenever she tells him to do this or that. Why can’t I be like him?

Why can’t I look like him? My brother is good looking, and I am not. I am far from being pretty. He has curly hair, and I don’t. My hair is straight. There is not even an inclination of a wave. “What a shame!” I hear my mother say to
a neighbor. “Who needs such good looks in a boy? I mixed these two up. My son should’ve been the girl. And my daughter, her looks would be fine for a boy.”

And there is another thing. My brother Bubi looks like my mother’s four brothers. Mommy refers to them as “my-beautiful-brothers.” The three words as one. Bubi talks like them, he walks like them, and he acts like them. And he is brilliant like they are.

I am like my father’s family. They are okay, but they are less dazzling. They are made of much plainer fabric.

Bubi has ability, and I only have ambition. You see, I get good grades because I like to study, but my brother gets good grades without ever opening a book. Mommy is very proud of him. Daddy praises me for my ambition. He says ambition is sometimes more important than ability. You can sometimes accomplish more with ambition than ability.

I wonder: Does the fact that I have ambition mean that I have no natural ability? Or talent? How will I ever become a celebrated poet without talent? Can I get there by ambition alone?

“Look, Elli,” Mommy explains, “you have a pretty smile, and when you smile, your face becomes quite pretty. Whenever you meet people, say hello with a smile. And people will take you for a pretty girl.”

I listen, and smile whenever I can.

The summer passes and my brother Bubi leaves for Budapest. He is a student at the Jewish Teachers’ Seminary there, and how I hope and pray that my dream of joining him next year will come true.

Dark, rainy days of autumn freeze into glistening white winter. The gloom of the Hungarian occupation, the slow
drag of the war, and increasing food shortages thicken the winter chill. Hitler’s shrill radio broadcasts, especially one of his oft-repeated promises, “We will play football with Jewish heads,” strike panic in my heart. Daddy reassures me. “Don’t worry, little Elli. It’s only a manner of speaking. Don’t take it literally, God forbid.” Sharp lines of pain etch his square, handsome face as he lets his hand rest on my shoulder. “Don’t even think about these things, Ellike. Just forget you ever heard them.”

But I cannot put the vision out of my mind. Bloody heads rolling on the local soccer field become a recurring nightmare.

As the winter wears on, my father’s erect posture begins to stoop somewhat. His silences become longer and the shadows under his cheekbones deeper. Ever since the Hungarian occupation three years ago, when our business was confiscated, Daddy has become more and more distant. His famous wit has become caustic; his laughter, a rare treat. He seems to derive pleasure only from study, and the endless winter evenings find him poring over huge folios of the Talmud.

On my birthday, February 28, the snow starts to melt. Spring is in the air. Daddy has cheered up a little and it makes my heart sing with joy. I have turned thirteen and it promises to be a wonderful spring. I got a new coat with shoulder pads that make me look less thin and more mature. I look at least fifteen in that wonderful navy coat with high shoulders. Even Jancsi Novák, the heartthrob, smiled at me, and said, “Oh. Hello.”

Many other wonderful things are happening this spring. I passed the examinations with high marks and Daddy gave
his consent. Without wasting a moment, I wrote for application forms to the Jewish Preparatory School in Budapest. I also wrote a long letter to Bubi.

How marvelous it is to see my dreams come into sharper focus with every passing day! How marvelous it is to contemplate living in Budapest, meeting Bubi after school! Going places with him! My brother knows everything about Budapest.

That night my daydreams are not laced with painful longing. They are anticipatory and real, and I fall asleep in a glow of happy excitement.

There is a sharp knock on the window near my bed. In the next room my parents are stirring.

“They are here again,” my father says in hushed tones. “I wonder what they want this time?”

“Please be polite to them,” Mommy whispers. “It’s always better to be courteous, even if they are rude. Please. We must avoid trouble.”

I can hear Daddy unbolt the storefront door. Now there is pounding at the rear entrance of the house.

I hear Daddy quickly rebolt the door and hurry to the back of the house. I hear Mother’s footsteps following him.

The illuminated clock says 2:30
A.M.

They always come unexpectedly in the middle of the night, the Hungarian military police. They always come pounding on windows and doors, five or six of them. High-heeled boots, guns perched on shoulders, tall cock feathers tucked in black helmets. They are the dread of the Jews in the occupied territories. They stage raids,
razzias,
in the middle of the night, looking for concealed weapons. They would turn the house upside down, rudely poke furniture
with bayonets, and order Daddy around as if he were a criminal.

“You Jews harbor enemy aliens! You collaborate with the enemy. You want to sell out Hungary to the enemy.”

They would take whatever they liked—packets of coffee, tea, chocolate. They would open closets and drawers, and slip a watch, a fountain pen, a bracelet, or a silk scarf into their cases.

I was never allowed to get out of bed. Mommy would order me to stay all covered up and pretend to be asleep. But I would always peek and see them menacing my father in rude tones, see my father biting his lips. My father is a tall man, but they would be taller in their feathered helmets. My father is slim and they are sturdy.

They would usually find some violation. Once they officially “confiscated” my mother’s winter coat, saying it was made of English wool—enemy fabric. Another time they took a box of tea, claiming it was Russian tea—enemy import. Once they carted away cartons of soap and cases of cotton thread. It was French soap, American cotton. A severe charge: consorting with the enemy in secret. A summons for the violation was left on the dining room table, and my father had to appear at the police station the next morning, politely answer an endless row of absurd questions, and sign a “confession” to the crimes he committed—concealing English wool, French soap, American cotton, Russian tea under Hungarian labels. The fine was steep. Sometimes they detained my father for days. We lived in agony: Are they torturing him? Will they release him alive?

There are voices in the kitchen. Why are they staying in the kitchen so long? Against my mother’s orders I tiptoe to
the kitchen door and peer through the curtains. There, right in the middle of the kitchen stands my brother, face flushed, talking excitedly to my parents. No one else is in the kitchen. Where are the police?

“Bubi!” My surprise and joy knows no bounds. I rush into the kitchen, barefoot, hugging him. “Bubi!”

“Shsh. Let’s keep still.” My father is pale. “Let’s all sit down. Now Bubi, tell us, slowly, quietly, what happened.”

The Germans invaded Budapest! On his way to school this morning Bubi saw German tanks roll down Andrassy Ut. He saw a huge flag with a swastika on the Parliament building. He saw a long column of armored vehicles with Nazi flags move through Budapest’s central thoroughfare.

He immediately took a streetcar to the railway station, bought a ticket, and got on the next train heading for home. He had been traveling since the morning.

My father puts his hand on Bubi’s shoulder. “Son, there must have been some mistake. How could the Germans have invaded Budapest and the whole country know nothing about it? Not a word on the radio. Not a word in the newspapers. How can it be?”

Mommy’s voice is tense. “We will see in the morning. The morning papers will surely headline the news. Then we’ll know what to do. Let’s go to bed quietly.”

In the morning there is no news of the invasion.

“Bubi, I didn’t tell anyone you came home last night. By now I’m sure it was a false alarm. I’m absolutely sure. I don’t blame you for being frightened. I don’t blame you for coming home. These are frightening times,” Father says softly.

Bubi’s eyes catch a strange flame. He says nothing.

“But there’s no reason for you to stay home and miss your
classes. I think its best for you to go right back. There’s an express for Budapest at 1
P.M.
”

“But, Dad, I saw them—the tanks, the flags with swastikas. Everywhere. And the crowds, I heard them shout, ‘
Heil
Hider!’”

“It must’ve been a demonstration. Some kind of Nazi rally.... If you leave on the 1-
P.M.
express, you can be on time for classes tomorrow morning. You shall have missed only one day of classes.”

Bubi averts his eyes. Father is to be obeyed. Mother concurs and packs a food parcel for my brother.

I kiss my brother goodbye, and a savage stab of pain slashes my insides.

We do not walk him to the station, so as not to arouse suspicion. People would ask questions. And we have no answers.

Bubi leaves for Budapest on the 1 -
P.M.
express.

At 1:20 Mr. Kardos, the lawyer down the block whose son also studies in Budapest, comes running to our house. He received a telegram from his son:
THE GERMANS INVADED BUDAPEST!
He wants to know if we heard anything from Bubi.

Father turns white. “At this moment my son is on his way back to Budapest.”

“What? He was here? And you knew? You knew and didn’t say anything?”

“I did not believe him. No one had heard anything. There was nothing in the papers. On the radio. What shall we do now?”

“I’m going to Budapest at once. To bring home my son.”

For the first time in my life I see my mother cry. She is a strong woman, always cheerful and full of hope. But today she walks about with eyes brimming and red.

My father’s face is ashen, and his hands tremble as he lights one cigarette after another.

I want to scream and scream.

The next morning headlines roar: WE ARE LIBERATED! HITLER’S GLORIOUS ARMY IS IN BUDAPEST!

All day long the radio blares
“Deutschland über alles,”
and the country is agog with the news. Two days late. Two days late.

News reaches us of Jews having been arrested in Budapest on the streets, on streetcars, at their workplaces, at railroad stations, and herded into freight trains. And the trains are chained shut. Where were they shipped? No one knows.

Father stops pacing the floor. “I cannot stand it any longer. There’s a train at 8
P.M.
I’m going to Budapest to bring Bubi home.”

“It’s too late. They’ll arrest you, too. You won’t be able to help him. Stay here with us. God will be with us, and save him.”

Mother’s voice has a strange tremor. I hug her and she begins to cry openly. Father’s tall, erect frame crumbles like a dry biscuit. God, if only Bubi were here!

During the night Bubi arrives from Budapest.

Mr. Kardos does not return. Neither does his son, Gyuri. They are shipped off in freight trains. They become our first casualties of the Holocaust, together with all the boys and girls of our town who studied in Budapest. They were all taken away from the beautiful Hungarian capital, in trains chained shut, to an unknown destination.

Budapest, the city of my dreams, has become the anteroom of Auschwitz.

“H
EY,
J
EW GIRL,
J
EW
G
IRL
. . .”

SOMORJA, MARCH 25, 1944

Almost inaudibly, Mrs. Kertész added, “Goodbye, class. Goodbye, children. You can all go home now.”

Mrs. Kertész, our homeroom teacher, had just made the shocking announcement: “Class, the Royal Hungarian Ministry of Education ... to safeguard our best interests . . . has terminated instruction in all the nation’s schools. Effective immediately.” Her voice broke. She swallowed hard. “Our school is closed, as of now.”