My Bridges of Hope (17 page)

The committee members fill every available seat in the small office. The mood is solemn, but I do not detect any hostility. And yet, the faces are grave, and the atmosphere borders on funereal gloom. I can barely breathe.

“Sle
č
na Friedmannova.” MISS FRIEDMANN. Sounds ominous. Mr. Weiss, the president of the Bratislava Jewish Congregation, is
speaking. “It has come to our attention”—here it comes—“that you have been serving as teacher in four classes of the Beth Jacob School. You have conducted classes in grades A, B, C, and D. Is that correct, Miss Friedmann?”

“Yes, it's correct.” Both his daughters are attending my classes. Dinah is in grade B, and Rivkah is in grade D. Have they complained about something? They are lively girls but good pupils. I can't recall any confrontation that would have occasioned complaints.

“As you know, Miss Bock is leaving us,” Mr. Weiss continues. “She is leaving us at the end of the week. Her position as headmistress is hereby vacant.” Erica Bock, a tall, striking brunette, is getting married. Her engagement has been the talk of the dormitory. But what does it have to do with my Haganah fiasco?

Mr. Weiss looks intently into my face: “The committee has decided to offer the position to you, Miss Friedmann.”

There must be something wrong with my hearing. The room begins to rotate slowly.

“Do you think you will be able to assume the responsibility, Miss Friedmann? Of course, one of the graduates will be assigned to assist
you in teaching some classes, just as you have assisted Miss Bock. Naturally, you will receive the same salary as Miss Bock.”

I'm going to be sick. The room is rotating much too fast.

“Miss Friedmann?”

“Yes?”

“The committee would appreciate the favor of an immediate reply.”

My relationship to Miss Bock, a self-assured young woman with a prestigious diploma from the prewar Beth Jacob Seminary, has been akin to idol worship. And now I—how can I presume to take her position?

The members of the committee look at me questioningly. The faces of my two teachers, Malkele and Judith, are glowing with approval. My God, how do I deserve all this?

“Mr. Weiss, I wish to point out that I look much older because of my height. But, in fact, I am only a year older than the pupils in grade B. Does the committee believe me capable of assuming the responsibility?”

“How old are you, Miss Friedmann?”

“Seventeen.”

Mr. Weiss looks around, canvassing the other members in the room: “What do you think, ladies and gentlemen? Miss Seidel and Miss Goldstein, what do you think?”

My teachers glance at each other for reaction. Malkele undertakes to respond and delivers a verdict that would top all the tributes that I have received ever since.

“Elli Friedmannova is mature enough for the position. That is why we have recommended her.”

Mr. Weiss clears his throat: “So, Miss Friedmann, do you want the job? We would appreciate an answer.”

I take a deep breath. “Oh, of course. I want the job.”

They all stand up and, with a slight bow of heads, wish me
hatzlacha,
success. Even long-bearded Rabbi Gruenberg bows his head and murmurs
hatzloche.
I dare not smile. Standing on shaky legs I, too, bow my head and whisper:
“Dakujem. Dakujem pekne.”
Thanks. Thank you very much.

The three of us, Malkele, Judith, and I, remain standing as the rabbis and community leaders file out of the office. After the men
depart, Judith and Malkele put their arms about me, and I fight back my tears.

As I climb the stairs to my dormitory room, a flood of impressions washes over me. It was only two days ago that I was not deemed mature enough to be trusted with a gun. And today I am deemed mature enough to be trusted with children's minds. At seventeen I am not old enough to handle weapons, but I am old enough to mold children's souls.

Which requires greater responsibility: wielding a book, or a gun? Which is a more effective device, or a more lethal weapon: a gun, or education?

Bratislava, May 15—September 22,1948

It is a glorious spring after all. Eretz Israel is free! Yesterday the British left the shores of our land, and David Ben-Gurion, head of the provisional government, read the Declaration of Independence to jubilant crowds in Tel Aviv. After a two-thousand-year gap, the Jewish nation once again has a home. The ancient yet new Jewish State has an ancient yet new name. It is called the State of Israel.

“The State of Israel,” I keep repeating to myself, and with each repetition it sounds more familiar.

A few days later news reaches us of a massive Arab attack, from all sides, against the newborn Jewish State. There is an all-out war against the State of Israel, just as Beni predicted. War, again. The young volunteers trained by Haganah are needed urgently. Just
as the older Haganah man intimated in his parting words to me.

Gina is there now, in Palestine-Israel. Has she been assigned to combat duty? Has she perhaps already been engaged in combat? We hear high numbers of casualties, a high number of wounded. My God, is she among the casualties? We have no way of finding out. There is no direct communication with the State of Israel. The official news agencies report heavy fighting on all sides and predict a quick end to the Jewish State. Logic dictates their forecasts. Look at the odds, the radio commentators declare firmly. Massive Arab armies against a handful of undertrained, poorly equipped Jewish fighters.

But we dismiss the logic of the official line. We are bolstered by whispered rumors of secret arms shipments from Czechoslovakia to the Jewish fighters in Palestine, of clandestine donations of Czech airplanes.

We pray, and hope against hope. We remind ourselves of other battles, when Jews fought against overwhelming odds and won. We talk of the Maccabees. Weren't they, as history records, “few in number who overcame
the many, the weak who overcame the mighty”? Didn't a handful of Jewish guerrillas rout the powerful Greek forces and liberate ancient Israel? And our ancestors in Egypt, didn't they, a group of oppressed Hebrew slaves, overcome the mighty empire of the Pharaohs and march out, a free people, “with heads raised high and with backs erect”? How about Joshua at the walls of Jericho? Didn't the fortified walls of Jericho crumble before a handful of Israelites? Miracles happened in the past. Miracles can happen again.

Several weeks ago Annie disappeared. A short time before her sudden, mysterious departure Annie confided to me that she was going to join a Marxist-Zionist youth organization somewhere in Bohemia. She hoped to get to Palestine with this group and work with them to build a
kibbutz
there. A
kibbutz
is a collective farm where boys and girls work and live together. I was puzzled by her secretiveness and her reverence for Marxist ideology. Only when, in great secrecy, Annie recited poems by a Slovak-Marxist poet, her idol, did her conduct become clear. The poems were quite radical, and their message was certainly
far removed from the ideology of our Home.

I find myself thinking of Annie very frequently, especially since the outbreak of hostilities in Israel. Has her group reached Palestine? Have they formed the nucleus of a
kibbutz?

Ellike Sofer is worried about her cousin Moshe. Finally, toward the end of the summer, some letters arrive. Moshe is in a combat unit. One of his letters encloses his picture with a group of fighters in camouflaged headgear. My God, the fighters seem so young, so vulnerable.

Daily, young men and women leave for Israel via Austria, Italy, and the Mediterranean Sea. Daily, Bratislava becomes emptier. Daily there are mass farewells at the train terminal. Entire families flee from Communism for countries willing to grant visas. Argentina, Venezuela, the Dominican Republic, and Australia are the most popular destinations. Most of my pupils are gone. My Beth Jacob school has dwindled to two classes.

Then, unexpectedly, I am offered a job in
the public school as a “teacher of Hebrew religion.” According to a new law, every pupil is entitled to thirty minutes of instruction per week in the religion of his choice. Has my job been arranged by the
Briha
as a “front”? It entitles me to a governmental salary and membership in the Socialist Teachers Union. I am happy with the salary, no matter how small.

All government employees are required to donate a day's work per month for the benefit of the Party. The Socialist Teachers Union demonstrates the teachers' loyalty to the Party by lumping together the twelve days and donating them as one unit at the beginning of the school year.

During the twelve days we are to do “voluntary duty” assigned by the Party. On the designated morning in mid-September I arrive at the premises of the Union at six-thirty A.M. About seventy well-dressed men and women of all ages are gathered in front of the building, in a mood of obvious apathy. When our assignment is announced—we are to work on a road construction detail between Bratislava and Devin—a cloud of gloom
envelops the entire gathering. Teachers on road construction?!

With sullen silence we are loaded on trucks together with hoes, shovels, and wheelbarrows, and are shipped to the construction site north of Bratislava.

As soon as we reach the open country high above the Danube, the mood brightens. The shimmering silver-blue river below and the breathtaking cliffs all about make our spirits soar. When one of the teachers calls out, “Let's dig in, ladies and gentlemen, the road awaits us,” laughter reverberates throughout the ranks, and instant solidarity is born. In a spirit of high adventure we begin the work, and the sense of well-being does not desert us for the rest of the day. By the time we board the trucks for the journey home, we are elated at the prospect of seeing each other again tomorrow morning. We relish the thought of digging and shoveling and raking in each other's company from seven in the morning till five in the afternoon. Even the strict surveillance of die-hard Party “stool pigeons” does not diminish our anticipation of fun.

My partner, a sturdy woman of about
thirty-five, insists that I call her by her first name, Terri. At first we keep inadvertently banging our shovels together, apologizing profusely at each such mishap. Then we make a pact: no apologies. And this is the beginning of a friendly camaraderie between us. At each crash and clang we laugh uproariously, let wisecracks fly, and keep shoveling. Our rowdiness sets the tone for the others, and they all join in the banter.

The head foreman at the work site is a young man named Vilo. Rumor has it that his appointment to this exalted position has less to do with his expertise at road building than with his Communist credentials. Vilo is a no-nonsense Party official whose presence seems to intimidate even the other foremen. His towering figure dominates the work site. The dark blue uniform seems to accentuate not only his massive shoulders and slim waist, but his forbidding attitude. His small, piercing black eyes, framed by dark hair tucked under a dark blue military cap, seem to probe our soul. They scrutinize our dedication to the Party, the sincerity of our service.

When Vilo approaches, we instantly stop
all horseplay. We even stop talking to each other for fear of a word being misunderstood by Vilo. He does not seem vicious or ill-tempered, only zealous. Zealots are dangerous. Vilo's reputation of unquestioning Communist zeal and loyalty to the Party sets off warning bells whenever he approaches.

Vilo stops his motorcycle whenever he reaches our segment of the road. He surveys our work with a keen eye, asks curt questions, and issues curt instructions. Certainly, our raucous cheer has attracted his unwanted attention. I suggest to Terri and the others in our segment that one of us should serve as a lookout for Vilo. The lookout's warnings will give us enough time to wipe the last traces of amusement from our faces. It is obvious to all that Vilo is paying excessive attention to our segment. His much-too-frequent visits are making us all rather uncomfortable.

Moreover, Vilo almost always singles
me
out for scrutiny. I am the acknowledged troublemaker. Here, with an open vista of awesome beauty, and in the company of congenial colleagues, I have become as lighthearted and carefree as a child. I have turned into an
impetuous adolescent, trading silly observations with my fellow “laborers,” mimicking, teasing, and giggling without restraint. Vilo's attentions are a signal for caution.

All at once, Terri stops work and waves her shovel in the air.

“Hey, comrades! I've just realized something. I've had a brilliant insight! A revelation!” She shrieks with laughter. “I know why Vilo keeps stopping here and harassing Elli! Because he has a crush on her!” Shrieking laughter greets Terri's outrageous idea, and a barrage of quips follow: Vilo is searching for religion! He wants to convert to Judaism and needs the right contact, a teacher of Hebrew religion! Needs mothering! Ha-ha-ha! Elli, the maternal type; Vilo, a lost little boy! Elli, next time he stops by, just take him into your lap! More raucous laughter. Hilarity rises to an unprecedented pitch.

The next time Vilo passes our row I find it difficult to keep a straight face. I almost faint with fright when he turns to me and asks pointedly,
“Sle
č
na,
why are you smiling?”

“I'm not. I'm not smiling.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I ... I am happy. I like this work.”

“You like this work? Like this better than teaching?”

“Well ... of course this work is just for a short time. I don't know if I'd like it as much for my permanent job.”

“I'm told you are a teacher of religion. The Hebrew religion. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you study?”

“At the teachers' seminary on Svoradova ... I mean NeÅ¡porova. Next door to the Catholic Theological Institute. We are NeÅ¡porova seven. The Theological Seminary is nine. Actually the building is the Theological Institute's dormitory. I think the Academy is elsewhere. At least that's what I've heard. I'm not sure.” What's wrong with me? Why am I talking so much?