My Bridges of Hope (16 page)

Thanks to its geographic location, and to the corruptibility of Slovak officials, Bratislava has become a virtual bottleneck of illegal traffic from the USSR, Poland, Romania, Yugoslavia, and Hungary. For exorbitant bribes, officials from border police to local commissars agree to look the other way on designated days when refugees from neighboring countries enter Czechoslovakia on the east and exit on the west. The loading and unloading of camouflaged trucks or freight trains and all other movement must be accomplished under cover of darkness, at the risk of the organizers and their charges.

The hazardous journey notwithstanding, they keep coming, the young and not-so-young, carrying the burden of their tragedies.
Their faces are turned toward the Middle East, where the Jewish State is floundering under the Arab assault. Some relish the challenge of fighting for the Jewish homeland. Most shrink from the thought of yet more war. But they keep coming, a constant stream of refugees.

I am assigned to serve as liaison. The
Briha
organization deems my “typically Slavic” appearance—straight blond hair and high cheekbones—ideal for the task. How ironic. Dr. Mengele, the Auschwitz monster, believed my appearance was “typically Aryan.” While he sent thousands of children to their deaths, he ordered me out of the line that led to the gas chambers, and because of that I am here today to do a job that requires “Slavic” looks.

My task is to meet the transports at the outlying track of Wilson Station, now renamed Stalin Station, in the dead of night, and accompany them to one of the underground refugee centers, called “stores.” The former Jewish elementary school, now an abandoned building, serves as one such “store”. Furnished with army cots and blankets, it accommodates up to a hundred people.

A number of Bratislavian Jewish families have offered to put up refugees in their homes when the other centers are full. I bring new arrivals to these homes sometimes at one or two
A.M
. By using the secret code—a set of two long raps followed by three short raps on the windowpane or door—I alert the hosts to the clandestine arrivals, and they open their doors without delay. Through a narrow slit my charges slip in swiftly, and when the door shuts behind them, I make my way back to the dormitory as fast and as unobtrusively as I can. I hurry to catch some sleep before dawn, when other groups have to be escorted to gathering points in other parts of the city.

Sometimes there is a break in the process, the transport is delayed, and the refugees have to be sheltered for weeks. Then I make the rounds of all the hiding places every morning and respond to a multitude of requests: buy cigarettes, toilet articles, medication, make phone contacts, deliver messages. During these lulls I am busy nearly every hour of the day.

Despite the rare occasions when tension takes its toll and the refugees become fractious and quarrelsome, the
Briha
experience
reinforces my confidence in humanity. The refugees display remarkable courage, discipline, and cooperation, a sense of humor and generosity of spirit. And my
Briha
colleagues display inconceivable self-sacrifice and dedication.

During my nocturnal expeditions I get to know people at their finest. The same people who during the day seem like ordinary human beings motivated by nothing nobler than the pursuit of material possessions, at night assume extraordinary stature. Like knights in shining armor they work with superhuman dedication during the long night, but the morning betrays neither their activities nor their larger-than-life human dimensions.

Moravia, February—March 1948

Shock waves reverberate throughout Czechoslovakia. The Communists take over the government in a military coup. Our president, Edouard Benes, has disappeared. Our foreign minister, Jan Masaryk, son of Czechoslovakia's legendary first president, was thrown to his death from his bedroom window. The country is in turmoil. Daily, Democratic Party leaders, highly placed civil servants, and wealthy businessmen are fleeing to the West, across borders soon to be sealed by our new masters.

Crowds flood the offices of the American Embassy in Prague, clamoring for visas to the United States. But the American Ambassador has been recalled to the USA. For the next two days, the receptionists and clerks at the offices of the American Embassy, harried as they are, diligently jot down names and
passport numbers on bits of paper. On the third morning, the stately gates of the American Embassy remain bolted; the beseeching multitude is deprived even of the illusion of hope the haphazard bits of paper had held. We are abandoned in the tightening grip of Communist claws—we are trapped behind the Iron Curtain.

A week later I board the train for the station in Moravia, the name of which Gina had divulged in secret. I have not consulted Mommy. I did not even mention the subject of Haganah during my visit to Šamorín last weekend. Once again I am caught on the horns of the old dilemma—America or Palestine; the family pact, or the Haganah. The clear-and-present expediency has won.

The Communist takeover is my cue. Mommy and I must find a way to get out of Czechoslovakia before the borders are sealed permanently. With America's doors shut in our faces, the Haganah is our only avenue of escape.

Gina has been accepted for combat training. Before leaving the Home last week, ostensibly to join relatives in Bohemia, she
disclosed that Beni had arranged an interview for me at the Haganah training grounds.

The long train ride provides ample time for reflection, but I refuse to reflect. I know I've made a rash decision. But I also know we have no alternative. By the time I reach my station, I feel as if the last shreds of doubt have miraculously evaporated.

It is still early morning. Sparse snowflakes flutter in the crisp air as I descend from the train and look about with apprehension. How will I recognize the contact person who is to drive me to the camp? Just as I reach the platform, lugging my canvas bag stuffed with immediate necessities, a trim young man comes near, reaches for my bag, and whispers under his breath, “My name is Beni. Follow me.”

Without responding, I follow Beni out of the train station. The two of us walk silently for about fifty meters, then Beni addresses me once again in a barely audible undertone: “There's a bus behind the station house. Don't look around. Just board the bus.”

There are about fifteen young people on the bus, boys and girls. I take my seat in the
third row next to a girl who looks a few years older than me. I nod with a smile, but my companion does not acknowledge my presence. I follow suit and do not introduce myself. No one speaks. A tallish young man joins the bus and with an imperceptible nod takes the driver's seat. Soon Beni enters and begins to battle the door of the bus in an effort to close it. At long last he succeeds, and takes the seat next to the driver. With a forward lurch the shabby conveyance takes off.

About seven or eight minutes later, when we are on the open road, the bus pulls over and the two men drape all the windows with khaki army blankets.

“Please do not attempt to move the curtains and look out,” Beni warns quietly. “The location of the camp is a secret, known only to a few of us. I expect you all to cooperate. This entire operation is highly classified. Even the word ‘Haganah' is classified. After your visit you are asked never to refer to it.”

The drive takes about an hour. No one attempts to strike up a conversation. I sit with eyes closed and listen to the tree branches brushing against the bus with every bump of
the road. We must be crashing through thick growth in heavily wooded terrain.

When the bus comes to a halt, Beni directs us to line up single file behind him. We follow Beni obediently through a dense forest until we reach a cluster of wooden huts camouflaged by tree branches. Do these few huts constitute the headquarters of the Haganah in Czechoslovakia?

As we forge ahead, treading on stiff, frozen undergrowth, I notice thick metal cords running from one tree to the next across a clearing. Quite unexpectedly, my bus companion whispers, “That's for paratrooper training. They train you to jump from those wires.”

I am taken aback. Apart from Beni's curt instructions, this is the first human voice I've heard since morning. What's compelled her to speak to me now? How does she know about the wires? Is she permitted to disclose this? I don't reveal I've heard her remark, and we revert to our initial silence.

Beni points to a flat hut. “You can wait in there for your turn. And this,” he says, pointing to the tallest of the wooden huts, “is where your interview takes place.”

We are summoned one by one. Each recruit spends about half an hour in the command hut. When my turn comes, I find I'm a bit nervous. What if I don't look tough enough for combat? What if my answers are less than satisfactory? What if my rationale for joining is not acceptable? What if my mother's consent is required?

The young man with horn-rimmed glasses looks friendly, and I am somewhat relieved. He does not seem so tough himself. I believe he will find me acceptably tough. And, after all, who would guess I have a mother?

The questions seem simple. What's your name? Your address? Your father's name? Your mother's name? Your place of birth? Your date of birth?

“What? You're only seventeen?” The friendly face freezes: “Who sent you here? Didn't you know about the minimum age requirement?”

As if stung, he springs to his feet and races out of the room. A few minutes later he reappears with a taller, older-looking man, also with horn-rimmed glasses. The older man fixes me with a severe gaze. “Who sent you here?”

“No one sent me. I found out about this place from a friend. She's in training here.” Instantly I regret the last sentence. Perhaps I am not supposed to be aware of training, or even use the word? My heart beats rapidly, and I feel the blood rush to my face.

“How old is she, your friend?”

“Twenty-one.”

“Didn't she tell you about the age limit? We don't accept even eighteen-year-olds. I'm told you're seventeen. What do you expect to do here?”

“I ... I don't know,” I stammer. “To be trained. For Pal-Palestine. I want to go to Palestine ... and fight, if... if. ..” I do not go on. Is the word “fight” classified? I shouldn't have spoken so much.

“We do not accept younger than eighteen and a half for training. This is not a game. Everyone who comes here jeopardizes our security. You should not have put us in this position.” His voice is as hard as steel. “You will be driven back to the station and put on the next train. Return to your home and do not breathe a word to anyone about your little expedition! Understand?”

I feel like crying. He's right. My brother is right. I am a baby. Why do I always mess up everything?

The tall fellow's horn-rimmed face mellows. He rises and extends his hand.
“Shalom.
Come to see us in a year and a half. I'm afraid we'll still need you then.
Lehitraot.
Till then.”

The jeep, camouflaged with tree branches, its windows draped with green army blankets, delivers me to the train station in less than an hour. The driver hands me my train ticket and points to a train on the nearest platform. “There. Your train is waiting.
Shalom!”
He salutes with a hint of a smile and disappears in a shower of dust and pebbles.

Once again, my dilemma is solved by powers other than myself. My sense of humiliation and guilt slowly dissipates as the train draws closer to Bratislava. By the time I mount the stairs to my dorm room, I am overcome by relief.

It is only three
P.M.
and I have lived a lifetime since early dawn.

Bratislava, March 1948

As if an invisible hand turned off some light-bulbs in the sky, the entire spectrum of life has dulled immeasurably since the Communist takeover. All private businesses and industry are nationalized. All grocery stores, now called “Source,” are homogenous little units with uniform exteriors and uniform items for sale. Textile stores, shoe stores, drug stores—each has lost its individual character. With the disappearance of competition, the initiative for improvement, courtesy, and even attractive packaging and window display has vanished. All forms of advertisement have become a thing of the past. Color is gone.

Movies and plays are censored. Russian films have replaced the American, French, and Italian films that had been the rage of Bratislava. The Russian films are propaganda
vehicles designed to indoctrinate, not entertain. On the front wall of the Redute, the favorite hangout, drab black-and-white streamers proclaiming party slogans have replaced the colorful posters that had announced forthcoming events and attractions. Movie houses are empty. Coffeehouses and sidewalk cafes formerly brimming with life are now deserted. Fun has vanished.

No one complains. As a matter of fact, no one says anything. Silence has become a way of life.

And life goes on.

No one, except Gina, knows of my humiliating attempt to join the Haganah. Two days later I am summoned to the main office by a panic-stricken Martha. “They want to see you at once,” she hisses breathlessly. “They are all there. Even Mr. Weiss. Malkele is there, and Judith, Emil, Leslie, and a man I don't even know. Even Rabbi Gruenberg is there. What have you done this time, Elli? This time it is very serious. Hurry. Hurry.”

I am in shock. How have they found out? Gina would not, in a million years, squeal. Besides, she's not here. Someone from the
Haganah leadership? But why would anyone from Haganah disclose the affair? It makes no sense.

I walk slowly downstairs, preparing answers. I know I have to admit the truth. There is no point in trying to deny it. My only defense is the truth: that I could see no reason why any Zionist institution would object to Haganah. And the Home is a Zionist institution. The Haganah is fighting for the Jewish State. And there is nothing written in the Torah against fighting for the Jewish State. On the contrary: It's a
mitzvah,
a commandment. Why hadn't I told anyone about my plans? The Haganah operations are classified. Haganah discipline demanded that I do not reveal them even to my own mother. . . .