I Have Lived a Thousand Years (5 page)

There are beds even in the synagogue entrance hall. Those who sleep in the synagogue itself have to rise before the morning prayers, and wait until after the evening prayers before they can retire for the night. I think this is rather convenient. You simply have to poke your nose from under the covers, and you are in the synagogue for morning prayers!

“You should live in the synagogue,” I say to my brother. “Your problems would be solved.”

My brother has trouble getting up for early morning prayers. You have to jerk his covers off; nothing else works in waking him. Then it’s a long sleepy drag until he makes it to the synagogue, usually late. Here, with one foot off the bed, he can join the prayers on time.

Most of life’s activities take place in the yard. Here several women are cooking on one stove. There a mother is bathing three children in a tub. A long line forms before the
public toilet, another one before the public bath. And, alongside the tall wire fence, a row of Hungarian soldiers and military police are watching the spectacle. They are our guards.

In the beginning I felt self-conscious of their stares. But gradually they have melted into the present scenery, and the awkwardness has waned.

Our life is taking on a bearable course. The early confusion changed into a harmonious hustle and bustle. Together we prepare meals, eat at long tables, retire for the night, and rise for prayers. The mood is shifting to optimistic, even confident. There is a hopeful tone to the rhythm of life. The worst is over. We have been uprooted from our homes; our property was confiscated; we have been humiliated, herded and crowded like cattle into an enclosure, stared at from behind a fence like animals in a zoo. Yet, God in His mercy made it all manageable. And bearable. We know we are not cattle or captured beasts in a zoo. We have carved a dignified lifestyle out of our confines. We are going to make it. We
are
making it!

I learn to like the ghetto. Here I have met more people I can identify with than ever before. Girls my age. Good-looking guys just a little older than me. Well-dressed ladies. Impressive men. Adorable kids.

And they are all so exposed to you. Their intimate habits are open to your observation. Families at their dinner table, families washing up for the night, families playing with their children, mothers suckling their infants, fathers studying with their sons, embraces, scoldings, tears, laughter, cries of pain and joy. And lines for the toilet. All in the synagogue yard.

I relish it all. I am part of every life. And every life is part of mine. I’m a limb of a larger body.

I enjoy the toilet line most. It’s long and slow moving. One has time to connect, and talk. There’s so much to learn. So many people with so many stories.

For the first time in my life, I am happy to be a Jew. And I am happy to share this peculiar condition of Jewishness. The handsome boys, lively women, beautiful babies, gray-bearded old men—all in the same yard of oppression, together.

The cock-feathered policemen who had trampled on our sofas and our self-esteem, the Gentile neighbors who were afraid to say goodbye, the Jancsi Nováks, the kind, gentle friends who have not attempted to send a note of sympathy, the peasant wagon drivers who dutifully accepted wages from us for delivering us to the enemy, the villagers who lined the roads and watched the carts taking us to the prison compound, and kept their silence . . . they all are on the other side of the fence. A tall fence separates us. A world separates us because they do not understand.

But we, on this side of the fence, we understand. We put up sheets around bathtubs in the yard in order to take baths. We cook on open stoves. We stand in long lines for the toilet. No friendship or love binds as this deep, spontaneous, easy mutuality.

I fall in love again in the ghetto. His name is Pinhas. He’s a tall, thin, pale boy with large dark eyes.

One day, as I sit in the yard on a pile of firewood and write, I notice him watching me. I am copying my poems into a notebook I brought from home.

I have over one hundred poems. My first poem, about a
ship tossed by angry waves on a stormy sea, attracted my teacher’s attention and she included it in the annual Mother’s Day program. I recited it to an appreciative audience, and became an instant celebrity of sorts at the age of eight. The epithet “poet” was added to my name, and I was invited to recite my poetry at all kinds of public functions.

Being a “poet” is central to my self-image, my aspirations and dreams. I write about nature, historical figures, my moods. I write almost constantly, often feverishly.

My poems are all very sad. Pain is their common denominator.

“Why? Why all this
Weltschmerz?”
Mommy would ask, somewhat puzzled, somewhat indignant. “Why don’t you write cheerful little verses about trees, birds, kittens? Why the lurking tragedy behind every blade of grass?”

“Because she is a true poet,” Father would reply. “The true poet knows life is laced with pain. Human life is fashioned for tragedy.”

My poems have been scribbled on scraps of paper, and now I am copying them all into one notebook. I work at it for hours daily, when not helping Mommy with the cooking, or playing with children, or standing in lines.

At first I think Pinhas is watching me out of curiosity. But then I catch him watching me from behind the synagogue entrance when he is supposed to be inside, praying. I am not writing then. I am peeling potatoes.

The next time I see him, I smile at him and he smiles back. I am in love. And when my best friend Bobbi says he looks interesting, I can barely contain my happiness. “Interesting” is top evaluation.

Pinhas becomes central to my existence. I anticipate
meeting him in lines, watch for him as he goes to shul, look for him in the yard. A glimpse of Pinhas seems to pale everything else.

I take to endless hair brushing, experimenting with new styles. My hair is my strong point.

Mommy was disappointed when I turned out blonde. She had hoped for dark-haired, dark-eyed children, and both my brother and I are blonde with blue-green eyes. But at least my brother has curly hair, which Mommy had hoped for. My hair is as straight as freshly combed linen. “And as the rays of sun,” my Aunt Celia used to add. But that’s Aunt Celia, and not Mommy. Mommy had always been disappointed with my hair. It’s only recently that she has started to approve, even admire my hair.

“Just let it hang down,” she advises. “It’s most striking that way. Just let it hang in two braids, it’s best. Nobody has hair as long as yours, or as rich in texture. Or as brilliantly blonde. Just let it simply hang down in braids.”

She likes nothing else about me. But my hair makes up for it, I think. Thank God for my hair.

I try to roll the braid around my head. It makes me look older. It’s not becoming, however. Finally, I hit on a style. I crisscross the braids in the back, tying each end with a ribbon to the other side at the neck. It’s quite striking. I wonder if Pinhas will notice the difference.

He sees me a little later, on my way to the well. He stops in his tracks, and does a double take. And smiles. He stands without moving, and his eyes follow me to the line, and all the way as I carry the pail of water back to the stove. I almost drop the pail from excitement.

My day is made. I help around the house cheerfully, not
objecting even to kneading the dough. The trough is set up in the yard and I can watch people while I work.

“And people can watch my little sister and see that she’s working hard. Isn’t that the idea?”

I ignore my brother’s remark. I’m anxious to catch another glimpse of Pinhas. My world is filled with newfound excitement. Perhaps next time he’ll speak to me. We will become friends. It’s all very, very exciting.

Rumors reach the ghetto. Rumors of an impending “liquidation” ... of deportation to internment camps, labor camps, concentration camps. According to reports, other ghettos have already been liquidated and their inhabitants taken by train to camps somewhere in Austria.

There are other rumors, too. Younger men, from eighteen to forty-five, are being rounded up and sent to the Russian front to dig ditches for the Germans.

With every rumor Aunt Serena seems to shrink deeper and deeper into herself. She has changed since we left home. Her good-natured humor is gone. Her calm, patient smile is gone. And she has stopped singing. I used to love to listen to her voice—a soft, melodious, warm voice. Daddy used to tease her that she sang every song is if it were a lullaby.

Now she is silent. Silent and sad, and withdrawn, like a singing bird snatched from her nest and locked up in a cage. The ghetto is her cage. The sudden veil of gloom which has settled over her every aspect seems to grow heavier with every piece of threatening news. She barely talks. On Friday nights she does not even seem to hear the kiddush, only stare silently into the candlelight. As if she left her soul in her nest, her simple, charming home on the outskirts of Somorja, my favorite hideout.

“Don’t worry, my dear sister.” Mommy puts her arms about her. “It will be over soon. Soon all this will pass, like a bad dream.”

Mommy’s words of comfort suddenly, inexplicably, fill my heart with fear.

A M
IRACLE

NAGYMAGYAR, MAY 13, 1944

“I’m glad they are taking us to labor camps,” Mommy remarks in response to the rumors. “Our food is almost gone. At least we can work for our food. Here they don’t let us get even a loaf of bread!” Mommy, always practical and optimistic, makes us all feel better about the rumors.

But how will we obtain food in the meantime?

The ghetto was totally isolated. Ghetto residents were forbidden to leave; people on the outside were forbidden to enter. They were forbidden even to approach the fence.

What will happen when we run out of food?

Days pass and we use up the last scrapings. Our flour sack is empty. This morning I kneaded bread from the last batch of flour.

There is a commotion at the front gate. People run past our room toward the front. Something is going on at the fence. I quickly join them to see what the furor is about.

There is always something going on. Yesterday a baby was born. The day before someone got a letter from the Budapest ghetto.

Outside the gate a buxom peasant woman is arguing with the young soldier on guard. She insists on entering the ghetto, but the soldier refuses to allow her to come near the gate. The woman is making a great fuss, angrily scolding the young
guard. I know that soldier. The other day he called out to me and asked my name. I told him my name even though I knew it was not permitted. But he looked kind. And very young. He had soft brown eyes, and blonde fuzz for a mustache. He told me he was from a small town beyond the Danube, and I answered I was from Somorja.

All at once I catch sight of a girl in part obliterated by the buxom woman still in the midst of her shouting match with the guard.

“Márta!”

Márta Kálmán, my schoolmate from Somorja, hears my shout. She is at the fence in a flash.

“Elli! Ellike!” Her face is flushed with excitement. “Oh, Elli, I can’t believe we found you!”

She runs and frantically tugs at her mother’s sleeve. “Mother! Mother! Look! It’s Ellike! She’s there. Come, quick!” Unceremoniously she drags the irate woman away from the soldier, toward my direction.

Now I recognize Mrs. Kálmán. She used to drive Márta in her buggy from their farm to our house. I used to help Márta with German and math.

When she sees me, Mrs. Kálmán practically charges the fence. She thrusts her arms through the bars and grabs my hand, shaking it forcefully. The young guard catches up with her.

“You can’t do that. It’s against the rules.”

All at once the guard catches sight of me.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning. These are my friends. May I talk to them for a few minutes?”

“O.K., but be careful. Just a few minutes.”

“Oh, Ellike. I’m so happy to see you. We thought they killed you, all of you. And here you are. My God!”

“Hush, girl,” Mrs. Kálmán warns her daughter. “We brought you some things. Flour, eggs, and a goose. We owe you so much. You know, Márta passed her math, and in German she got a high mark! We would have brought you these things sooner, but we didn’t know where to find you. They wouldn’t tell us anything.”

The young guard is agitated. The other soldiers stationed farther alongside the fence begin to take notice of the hubbub. A huge crowd has gathered on the inner side of the fence.

“Please. They must leave now.”

“Officer, I brought some things for this young lady. She’s my daughter’s best friend. Can I give them to her?”

The guard casts a hurried, frightened glance at me. My eyes reflect a desperate plea.

“Fast. Let no one notice.”

Márta and her mother carry the things from the cart at a run. The live goose and the white bundle containing at least two dozen eggs fit between the bars. A sack of flour is hurled above the fence, landing on the shoulder of a young boy, who quickly carries it to our lodgings. Mrs. Kálmán’s arms draw me into an awkward embrace from behind the bars. “God be with you, Miss Friedmann. God be with you!”

Márta cries unabashedly.

The goose in my arms feels warm, and brings on a rush of memories. Bittersweet memories of fluffy white geese in our yard. Lovely goslings I had held in my lap. Memories of another era.

Choked with emotion and chagrin, I manage to whisper
thanks to the young guard. As I carry my precious cargo to our lodgings, a large admiring crowd of men, women, and children accompany me. They all join in the celebration of the miracle they witnessed at the gate.

Thank you, God, for this miracle. For your providence.

Thank you, God, for the miracle of human kindness.

D
ADDY
, H
OW
C
OULD
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