My Bridges of Hope (13 page)

The Talmud teaches that there are four kinds of students: the sponge, the funnel, the sieve, and the strainer. The sponge is not selective; it absorbs everything, from essentials to useless trivia. The funnel does not retain anything: whatever it draws in at one end, it pours out at the other. The strainer lets the good wine escape but retains the slush! The sieve, on the other hand, lets the flour dust pass through and retains the fine flour. I am a sponge. I keep absorbing, without pausing to select. To me, every available bit of learning seems worthy of retention.

Feverish imbibing becomes my raison d'être. Once again I lose sight of important matters like clothes, makeup, and hair. My new, caring friends surround me with motherly interest and gently goad me: Why don't you do something with your hair? It's much
too straight. Why don't you put a curl in it? Why don't you ever buy a new scarf? A pair of pumps instead of flats? A new belt? Why don't you use a touch of lipstick?

During my visits home, my mother pleads: “Elli, look into the mirror once in a while. Fuss with your appearance, just a little. Your eyebrows, for instance. They are so light, they are practically invisible. Can't you find out if there is anything, some dark dye, to color them?”

My brother has other complaints. “Why don't you stand still when I come to visit you? Must you always be so preoccupied?”

Bubi is attending the university now. He passed the gymnasium course for young people who missed out on learning because of the war. And then he passed the university entrance exams with flying colors. I am terribly proud of him.

He drops in to see me every day whenever there is a gap in his schedule. I am invariably in the midst of studying or doing chores. Although I am thrilled to see him, I am bristling with impatience to get back to my work.

For Mommy, my studies at the Seminary are of secondary importance. First and foremost she wants me to become a fine dressmaker, in preparation for America. Through some of Mommy's friendly contacts I have become apprenticed to Mrs. Magda Gellert, a dressmaker with a first-class professional reputation. Mrs. Gellert has graciously consented to accommodate my apprenticeship after my classes.

Although I like Mrs. Gellert, I am not happy at her workshop. I know manual skills are not my forte. Mother insists that sewing is not merely a manual skill: Fashion is the product of the mind, not just the hands, she maintains. She claims that thought and creative talent go into making a beautiful dress, that the lovely color and texture of the fabric enhance its style and elegance. But to me, fashion is nothing but meaningless frivolity, and dressmaking does not excite my sense of accomplishment. Mrs. Gellert, although an accomplished professional, is not an inspiring teacher. I find her sewing class sheer drudgery.

There is also the issue of my fellow apprentices' resentment. Because I had already
learned the rudiments of dressmaking from my mother, Mrs. Gellert immediately skipped me to more advanced tasks and appointed me “senior apprentice.” To add insult to injury, Mrs. Gellert insists on chatting to me in Hungarian during work, even though my fellow apprentices speak only Slovak, putting me in a painfully awkward position.

A tall, slim blonde with large, wide-set eyes, Magda Gellert could pass as a model. During long conversations while stitching, basting, and hemming, I find out that her maternal grandfather was a Hungarian count who converted to Judaism and became a disciple, then son-in-law of the Kalever rebbe, one of Hungary's leading Hasidic masters. The fabulous tale of her ancestry unfortunately culminated in the gas chambers of Auschwitz. After hearing her story, I understand the enigma of Magda Gellert's looks, the combination of very fair coloration, Gentile features, and deep dark eyes that hold indomitable sadness.

Twice a week I attend the Folk Academy for Languages to study English. At this academy, native speakers teach the languages
through the audio-lingual method. My teacher, Mr. Bock, who lived in England for years, would tell a simple, often humorous anecdote in English and then ask us to repeat it verbatim. The power of repetition is astounding. It enables me to acquire proper diction, vocabulary, and grammatical skill. To my great delight, within a few weeks I am able to carry on conversations in English and to write simple poetry.

My days are filled to the brim. Between the teacher's seminary, the dressmaker shop, and the English class, I find myself rushing from one activity to the next.

No wonder my brother is annoyed with me for not being able to stand still even for a few minutes.

Bratislava, March 20,1947

Three months have passed, and we have not received a response from the American Embassy in Prague about our position on the quota. In December news reaches us about a new U.S. emigration law under which young students and members of specific professions requisite for the United States economy would be granted “exceptional visas” to the United States.

Uncle Abish sends us a letter containing two student certificates. One for Bubi, from Yeshiva University, and one for me, from the Esther Schonfeld High School for Girls. These certificates, actually letters confirming our enrollment at the schools, qualify the two of us for “exceptional visas” to the United States. But what about Mommy? The list of “indispensable” professions does not include any that would qualify Mommy for a visa.

After a lengthy discussion, the three of us decide that Bubi should take advantage of the student quota and apply for the exceptional visa, and I should stay with Mommy and wait for our turn on the regular emigration quota. Once in America, Bubi would do his utmost to help expedite our case.

On March 6, Bubi's visa arrives. He is booked on a Swedish boat departing from Malmö on March 23. In order to reach Malmö by then, Bubi has to leave Bratislava by March 20 at the latest.

That's in two weeks! My God, why so soon? I ride a roller coaster of trepidation and thrill. Mommy plunges into stoic preparations. Bubi has serious doubts.

“How can I leave the two of you behind in Czechoslovakia? Apart from the anti-Semitic incidents last summer, political turmoil is brewing in Czechoslovakia,” he says with a voice as heavy as lead. “And who knows what's going on with your place on the quota?”

Mommy reassures him. “Don't worry about us, Bubi. Just prepare for your journey with a peaceful heart. We'll be okay. Once
there, you'll be able to help us. What can you do for us here?”

Bubi packs in slow motion. I cannot imagine my day without seeing his bright face at the bottom of the stairs. Without the radiance. Yes, that's it. Bubi is the light in my life. He's fun, ideas, humor, action. He is my source of information, insight, help, encouragement. I have a need to prove myself for his sake. I crave his approval, his validation.

I watch as he slowly, deliberately places his belongings into his luggage, each piece like a pledge of farewell. Every item is a part of me being locked in that suitcase. In the days that follow I fluctuate between resignation and deep despair. There are days when I go about the routine of living with composed determination. And there are days when I cannot bear the weight of his departure. I drag myself about on limbs of lead. I dread the moment of parting, but I preplay the scene over and over. Bubi's last embrace. Bubi vanishing behind the closing doors of the bus. The vehicle receding into the distance. The chasm between us filled with exhaust fumes.

March 20 is a Thursday. With a shudder, I
remember another March 20 not so long ago. Three years ago Bubi came home from Budapest unexpectedly, in the middle of the night, because he saw the invading German troops, he saw the Nazi swastika on their tanks as they rolled down Budapest's main avenue. An eternity ago he came home to warn us of the approaching doom. And now, on this day, Bubi is leaving home. Is it an omen?

Mommy comes in from Šamorín to see Bubi off. The three of us speak little on our way to the bus station. Is the oppressive silence due to their remembering this date? Or is it due to reliving past partings that governed life and death?

The bus stands near the designated platform, doors open. As passengers begin to file onto the bus, Bubi's face takes on a masklike hardness. He makes a gesture, as if ready to embark, and Mommy puts her hand on his shoulder. Her voice quivers slightly as she says, barely above a whisper, “Bubi, remember to remain a Jew, a good Jew. You must do this for Daddy. He would have asked you ...”

A shock of embarrassment sweeps over me.
I cannot believe my ears. How can Mommy doubt even for a moment? “Mommy,” I cry, “why are you saying a thing like this? How can you . . . ?”

But Bubi is silent. His eyes fill with tears as he throws his arms around me. “Take care, little sister.” Slowly he walks up the steps onto the bus and hands his ticket to the conductor. Silently, I plead: Turn around, just once more, please. The conductor punches his ticket. Bubi turns around and flashes a brilliant smile, a last gift.

The doors close, and the bus begins to roll out of the station. Mommy says, “Let's go.”

“No, Mommy. Not yet. Let's wait a little longer.” For the same reason that I desperately want to wait until the bus disappears from view, Mother desperately wants not to. She is heading for the exit, and I have no choice but to follow her.

It is a chilly evening. Mommy and I dread returning home to Šamorín and facing the house, where every item is a reminder of my brother's absence. The Heino family, who are both distant relatives and close friends, have invited us to spend the weekend with them
here in Bratislava. The invitation now seems like a godsend. So, instead of putting Mommy on the familiar faded green bus for our small town, I accompany her on a bright yellow streetcar to the Heino home on Edlova Street.

In the streetcar we hold hands, silently comforting each other. Tomorrow is Friday, and I have classes only until 10
A.M
. I will spend the rest of the morning with Mommy, perhaps shopping downtown for small items unobtainable in our little rural town. To fill our gnawing inner vacuum with trivia. At the entrance of the building I say a quick good night. I must hurry and make it back to the dormitory before ten. As Mommy's solitary silhouette approaches the front stairs, I am filled with an ache. I run back to her for one more hug: “Good night, Mommy. I'll see you in the morning.”

Mommy holds me a moment longer and presses her cold cheek against mine: “Good night, little girl.”

I give a little chuckle at the familiar, loving epithet and run against the wind all the way uphill in order to reach the dormitory before lights out.

Bratislava, March 21, 1947

I am too late. Lights go out at ten sharp, and now it's five after ten. Groping in the dark, I manage to fish my toothbrush and toothpaste out of the cupboard and make my way down the corridor to the bathroom, and then back again, to bed. As I slide under my blanket, I muffle a scream. There's a body in my bed! Mortified, I leap out. How could I have made such a foolish error and picked the wrong bed? Let me reorient myself. I peer at the face of the sleeping girl. Which of my neighbors is she? It is much too dark to make out her features. Let me find the empty bed. I tiptoe around several beds—each is occupied. Luckily, the streetlight illuminates the adjacent bed enough for me to make out the face on the pillow: It is Ellike Sofer, my best friend and my neighbor on the right. Then this
is
my bed! But who is the person sleeping in it?

What should I do now? There is no spare bed so I have no alternative but to share this one. Carefully I crawl back in and ease myself onto the narrow strip of space the intruder has left free.

Sleep eludes me. A notoriously restless sleeper, I toss and turn and lie in various positions during the night. Cramped by a bed-mate, I cannot sleep. Who is this stranger who sleeps so soundly all night?

With the first glimmer of dawn I peer at the sleeping face but I do not recognize it. It is daylight when, overcome with fatigue, I fall asleep, only to awaken when someone's alarm goes off with a shrill clatter. It is seven
A.M
. My guest does not stir. Have I been sleeping with a corpse?

Groggily I get out of bed and make my way to the shower room. Somewhat refreshed by the cold shower, I begin to dress. The door of the metal cupboard creaks, and the corpse sits up in alarm. “Who are you?” she shouts indignantly.

“I was going to ask you the same question. How did you get into my bed?”

“Is it your bed?” she asks, somewhat mollified, and slips back under the covers. “I like
it. It's a very good bed. And where did you sleep?”

“Where do you think? There are no empty beds. I slept with you. At least, I attempted to.”

“You couldn't have! I didn't notice a thing.”

“Of course not. You slept like a log. You took up all the room, and I teetered sleep-lessly at the edge.”

Now the large brown eyes stare in disbelief. “I'm a light sleeper. I would have noticed if someone got in bed with me. You couldn't have slept in this bed!”

I have no time to argue. “My name is Elli. Do you have a name?”

“My name is Rachel. I really liked your bed. Thank you.”

“I'm happy to help out. Perhaps I'll see you later and find out how our little night romance came about. Now I must hurry to class.”

But after class I have no time to return to the dormitory. I must hurry to Edlova to meet Mother for the shopping trip. In the evening Rachel is no longer there. Days later I find out that she, a former resident, had dropped in for a visit and decided to stay over. My neighbors had assured her I would be spending the night
in Šamorín. The incident eventually forges a bond between Rachel and myself, a friendship that has endured for years.

By the time Mommy and I meet, however, my night adventure is forgotten, and the gnawing ache over Bubi's absence returns. But the anguish of this day is soon eclipsed by something that happens a few hours later.