My Bridges of Hope (26 page)

The children in my classes speak many languages. Although Yiddish is the official language of the camp, the children chat in Polish, Romanian, Russian, and Hungarian among themselves. The school, however, is a microcosm of modern Israel—here the language is exclusively Hebrew. My pupils carry me along on the adventure of learning all about the country while learning the language. It's thrilling to grow together with my pupils.

Two or three weeks later I get a job teaching English in Munich at the ORT Vocational
School and at the Hebrew Gymnasium on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I love to take the train to Munich in the mornings and conduct classes to my peers at the gymnasium, and in the afternoons to people many years my senior at the ORT.

Just when I think my every free moment is occupied, Rabbi Blau introduces me to a Habad group, an intellectual branch of the Hasidic movement, and I am assigned the most exciting task of my teaching career. I become part of an outreach project—on Sundays I travel with a team of Hasidic scholars to conduct lectures on Judaism at the various D.P. Camps throughout the American Zone in Germany. I get to know many places and meet many people. I get to know and touch many lives.

Soon after our arrival in the D.P. Camp, Mommy and I register for emigration under the U.S. Refugee Act and begin the wait for our turn on the refugee list.

While we wait, fall turns into frosty winter, then bright spring, and then the shimmering heat of summer is exchanged, once again, by heavy autumn rains. A year passes,
and we are still waiting. And while we wait, we become old-timers in the D.P. Camp.

Mommy is sewing again, this time by hand. We have no sewing machine, but this handicap does not daunt her. Neither does the partial paralysis of her hand, the result of an injury to her spine in Auschwitz. With the support of an elastic bandage wrapped tightly around her wrist, Mommy practices moving her fingers nimbly, and learns to stitch with amazing speed. While making beautiful dresses for little girls, Mommy makes many close friends among their mothers.

Bubi is a senior at Yeshiva University in New York. He has a Kodak camera and is fond of taking pictures. In every letter we find marvelous snapshots of himself, his friends, Uncle Abish and his family, and of the university campus. I can barely recognize Bubi in these pictures. God, how he has changed since we parted three and a half years ago.

“I hope and pray,” he writes, “that you will be here for my graduation.”

Despite my intense involvement in multifarious activities, I carry with me a nagging sense of void, a raw yearning to be near him
again. Next July my brother will graduate from college. Please God, let me be there.

Good news reaches us from Israel. My friend Ellike, happily married to her cousin Moshe, is going to be a mother. Many of the other girls from the Home are also married and are busy building new lives.

The gang members have all been released from the military. They are no longer a group—the realities of life have scattered them to distant parts of Israel. Andy found employment as a male nurse in a Jerusalem hospital. Tommy joined a
kibbutz
on the Syrian border in the north. Leslie, now a married man, retrained as an electrician and works for the Herzlia municipality. Peter is pursuing his ambition as an apprentice in a Tel Aviv furniture plant. Hayim waits on tables in a Beersheba restaurant. Julius and Stephan work at Tel Aviv University—Julius the poet in the library, and studious Stephan, attending classes by day and cleaning corridors by night.

By the end of the year, emigration to Israel is moving apace. As the number of residents dwindles and the number of vacant bungalows grows, the camp starts to resemble a
ghost town. Rumors begin to circulate that Camp Feldafing will be liquidated. Where will they move us?

The rumors materialize sooner than we expect. Even before the first snowfall, we, the small remnant of the once abundant camp, are transferred to Camp Geretsried, a small encampment in the heart of a pine forest near the Bavarian village of the same name.

Camp Feldafing is a thing of the past.

October 1950—February 1951

The van drives through spectacular mountain passes on its approach to Geretsried and it pulls up at the gate of a dense pine forest. The gate opens, and the van rolls into a clearing at the center of the wood. Only moments later do bungalows become partially visible among the trees.

“What do you know! This must be our camp.”

Mommy's enthusiasm is quickly ignited. “Children, I believe Elli is right. This must be the camp. Look at the bungalows hidden under the trees.”

For Mommy, Jeno, Ily, Ida, and Gyuszi, all in their twenties, are like her children. They have been anticipating the move from Feldafing with trepidation, and the inexplicable journey into a forest has not allayed their anxiety. But now their spirits begin to rise.
This place is enchanting. It looks like a scenic summer camping site.

My knowledge of German, Yiddish, Hungarian, Slovak, a smattering of Russian, and my typing skill land me a job in the office of the camp administration. Slovak is especially helpful as a key to a number of Slavic languages. In a short time I serve as the emigration officer, filling out applications for those who register for emigration. Through my job I come in contact with every resident of Camp Geretsried, and our circle of friends becomes enormous. Mommy once again turns her sewing skills to dressmaking, and our bungalow turns into a popular meeting place.

A new, painful reality confronts us during the winter. All at once the emigration of refugees to the U.S.A. slows to a trickle. The anti-Communist campaign of Senator Joseph McCarthy influences American policy. Everyone from “behind the Iron Curtain” has become suspect, and the number of those allowed to enter the country is drastically reduced. We are hurt and confused—we cannot understand why the Americans have attached the stigma of Communism to us. No
one in America, not even Senator McCarthy, detests Communism as much as the refugees who have escaped from the fangs of Communist regimes. Why don't the Americans realize this?

One day, unexpectedly, a U.S. military commission called the Criminal Investigation Division (CID) arrives to investigate every refugee who registered for the U.S.A. Because of the commission's unconcealed bias, the majority of the applications end up stamped with
UNFIT FOR U.S. EMIGRATION
. As emigration officer, it is my unwelcome duty to notify the applicants.

The CID becomes a permanent fixture. Every week two CID officers arrive to interrogate each applicant, and I serve as interpreter. During the interviews two CID officers sit facing the applicant and his family and shoot a barrage of questions at them in rapid English. I have to be extremely careful to make sure I understand the questions perfectly and translate them correctly. A mistake may prove very grave for the applicant's future. The questions take us by surprise with their accusatory tone and content:

“Why do you want to go to America?”

“Were you a member of the Communist Party?”

“Were you a member of a subversive organization?”

“No? Where is your proof?”

“Where are your documents?”

“Where were you from 1946 to 1950?”

“Where is your proof? Where are your documents to prove that you did not live in a Communist country in those years?”

“You escaped from Poland? Where is your proof?”

“You escaped from Czechoslovakia? Where is your proof?”

“You escaped from Hungary? Where is your proof?”

“Why don't you have proof? Perhaps you are lying. We can't take your word alone for it. We need written proof.”

“Witnesses? What good are witnesses? Why should we trust your witnesses? We need written proof. Written proof. Only written proof.”

Do the Americans not understand the catastrophic conditions that forced tens of thousands
to flee for their lives, without documents, without recorded words? Are the Americans unaware of these realities?

I translate the answers and explanations, the pleas. The refugees who have no written evidence to substantiate their accounts, their life stories, are turned away from the shores of America, the land of their dreams.

The story of David, one of my pupils at the ORT School, is a heart-wrenching example of the many tragedies. After the war David found out that his brother was alive in Denver, Colorado. Although he dreamed of going to Palestine, David registered for emigration to America in the summer of 1946. Sadly, he watched his closest friends leave for the Jewish land, but because his yearning to be reunited with his brother in America was more compelling, David stayed in the D.P. Camp, waiting patiently for his turn.

Now it is the early winter of 1951, and finally David's turn has come. This time I am not concerned about the CID officer's stern questioning. David has an ID card from the International Refugee Organization (IRO), dated 1946, stating that he has been a resident
of the D. P. Camp since then. David is the rare refugee who has written proof that he never lived behind the Iron Curtain. He is guaranteed clear sailing.

“Will you be a loyal citizen of the United States?” the CID officer inquires after the standard questions have been answered satisfactorily.

“Of course I will be a loyal citizen,” David says in Yiddish, and I translate.

“If drafted, will you join the armed forces of the United States? In case of war, are you ready to fight for the United States of America?”

“Yes. As a United States citizen, it's only natural that I—”

“I have another question,” the American officer interrupts. “Suppose the United States of America goes to war with Israel and you as a United States citizen are drafted into the army. Will you unhesitatingly bear arms against Israel? Will you unhesitatingly shoot at Israeli soldiers?”

My voice trembles as I translate. David turns as white as a ghost. I want to whisper, “Say yes.” But I know he wouldn't. I know
David. He won't lie even though his future depends on it. As I have expected, David is silent.

“I demand an answer. Are you prepared to fight for your country the United States against Israel?”

David raises his eyes and looks straight into those of the American. “I will not shoot a fellow Jew.”

My voice shakes as I translate.

The interview is over. The CID officer hands me David's application. Stamped across the face of the top sheet, in large red letters, are the words:
UNFIT FOR U.S. EMIGRATION.

The next morning David's body is found dangling from the roof beam of his bungalow.

The names of the fortunate ones are posted in the hallway outside the offices of the IRO in Gauting. Jeno is in the habit of taking the train to Gauting every morning to check the list. From my office window I watch him return to the camp gate every noon. I can tell from his gait and the slump of his shoulders that his name is still missing from the list. As the day wears on his posture straightens, and by the evening he even jokes around among
friends in our bungalow. Jeno's day consists of this cycle: Gauting, gloom, recovery.

One morning Jeno comes through the camp gate with an erect posture. He smiles mysteriously as he walks through the door of my office. I expect him to blurt out the good news. But Jeno tarries.

“So? Speak, for God's sake.”

All at once, a cloud passes over his countenance. The smile is gone.

“Ida, Gyuszi, Ily, and myself. Our names are on the list. Aunt Laura and you . . . yours are not.”

I swallow hard. “Jeno, congratulations. I'm happy for you.”

We have become a family, the six of us, and I feel truly happy that they have made it. Especially Jeno. He has been deeply concerned about the CID investigations.

“Elli”—Jeno reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze—“you'll see, you and Aunt Laura will come next. Very soon.”

“I believe you. I believe it's a matter of days for us, too.”

“You know what I think? I think your permit is delayed because they need you here.
Who would be able to take your place? Especially as interpreter. Who can translate from German, Hungarian, Slovak, and the other Slavic languages? I am convinced that's the reason.”

“That's nonsense. But thanks, anyway, Jeno. Your good luck gives me new hope.”

I watch with mixed emotions the four friends who have become brothers and sisters prepare for the big journey. I am saddened by the thought of their departure, yet caught up in the excitement of their momentous happening. Mommy and I go shopping in Munich for parting gifts—a fountain pen for each. In addition, Mommy sews a new dress for each of the two young women.

At the end of February, when crocuses appear on the brown patches in the snow, the four of them take their farewell.

Once again my life becomes an empty platform for departing trains. The sound of good-byes rings in my ears, lingers in my soul. My God, how much longer?

When will the day come when I will wave good-bye to the empty platform from the window of a departing train?

March 19—30, 1951

The emigration office is quiet these days. All transports to Israel are gone. Most camp residents who were registered for the United States have switched to other destinations—Canada, Cuba, South America—and their emigration permits have come through. They, too, are long gone. All our friends are gone.

A dismally cold, wet winter drags on and on. Is it merely a reflection of the winter in my soul? Passover is in four weeks. One more Passover in Germany. How many more Passovers? How many more years? Will we ever reach America?

Mommy and I were interrogated by the CID over two weeks ago. Why don't they let us know the results? Even a dismissal would be easier to bear than this maddening uncertainty.

I must be having Monday blues. It is indeed a bleak Monday morning. I have a
sinking feeling of abandonment. I miss the friends with whom I shared so much of my daily trials and joys. They have all gone to distant parts. Hershu, Laci, Irene, Bronia, Arnold; the Ganzfried, Braun, Grunstein, and Markusz families—where are they now? Ily, Sanyi, Ida, and Gyuszi are fond, aching memories. Jeno's absence is a gaping wound.