My Bridges of Hope (4 page)

After unloading, Mr. Kemény hands Mommy a list of names. They are the names of Gentile neighbors who hold Aunt Serena's other belongings.

Mommy puts on Aunt Serena's winter coat, and once again tears well up in her eyes. I bury my face in the fur collar of my favorite aunt, who suffocated in the gas chamber in
Auschwitz, and the two of us howl with unendurable anguish.

The next day Mommy and I make the rounds of Aunt Serena's neighbors on Mr. Kemény's list, and we find among Aunt Serena's belongings two of Daddy's suits and several pieces of furniture that belonged to us.

In one of the bundles we find cotton thread, needles, and a pair of scissors. These things are unobtainable even if we had money. Mommy is overjoyed. She cuts up a fine thick army blanket we received from the Americans after liberation and sews winter coats for Bubi and me.

Bubi is unable to wear Daddy's suits. Although he is tall, Daddy's jackets hang pitifully on his shoulders, and the trousers overhang his feet. Daddy was forty-five years old and had a wide-shouldered, athletic build. Bubi is only seventeen and has very thin, narrow shoulders.

My brother the fashion plate refuses to wear the delightfully warm coat Mommy made for him. He prefers to shiver in the tattered old sweater one of his classmates in Bratislava gave him.

Tonight I walk home alone and, as I pass the shuttered storefronts a short distance from my school building, a tall figure emerges from the shadows. Just like Daddy, he has an erect posture and walks with rapid, athletic grace. I increase my speed in order to draw closer. Just about two steps behind him, I can see the man is not like Daddy at all. He is shorter, sturdier. And yet, the similarity is breathtaking. In a sudden flash, I realize why. It's the man's coat, a short gray town coat with a high, opossum collar. I know it's a fur-lined coat. I even remember the name of the fur—nutria. I loved to cuddle up to the soft, silky lining of Daddy's town coat.

I quicken my pace in order to pass the man. Faster, faster. I must see his face. I must meet him face-to-face. I start to run, and pass him. When I reach a considerable stretch beyond the man, I swing around and walk toward him. I cannot make out the man's features in detail, but I see he has a square face under a wide-brimmed gray fedora.

“Hello, sir.” I know I am being impetuous. I know I am taking a reckless chance. The
man stops in his tracks. He seems startled. “Forgive me.” Suddenly, I feel as if an invisible hand were strangling me. I can't breathe. It takes great effort to produce words: “I do not wish to be impertinent, but ... I believe the coat you're wearing used to belong to my father.”

God, what's going to happen next? What is the man going to do? Will he shout at me and order me to leave him alone, to get out of his sight? Will he become belligerent, threaten to call the police? Will he assault me?

The stranger stares at me, his face shielded by shadows. “Where is your father,
sle
č
na
young miss?”

“He is ... he was killed. In a German death camp.”

We stare at each other, and the silence seems interminable. “Yes. This coat could well have belonged to your father. I bought it about a month ago, not here, in another town. It's a fine coat.” The man runs his right hand over his left sleeve. “A very fine coat.”

A tremor passes down from my head and lodges in my calf muscles. My legs shake as the man continues to stare into my face. “How
about the hat? Do you recognize the hat? I bought it at the same time. In the same store. Do you think it, too, belonged to your father?”

“I don't recognize the hat. But the coat. . . My father loved this coat.”

We stand still, facing each other. Time stands still. People hurry past. Cold wind laps at my feet. The church bells begin to chime. It must be eight o'clock.

“Sir, I miss my father very much. ...” My voice drowns in tears. “Please. May I have his coat?”

“Let's see. I live not far from here. If you come with me, I can put on another coat and give you this one right away. How about the hat, do you want the hat?”

“I don't know about the hat.”

We walk rapidly against a fierce wind. The man halts in front of a two-story building. “Wait here, young lady,” he says in a strangely cheerful tone. “I'll be back in a few minutes.”

The man vanishes in the darkness of the courtyard. Will he indeed return with the coat? Will I hold Daddy's overcoat with the opossum collar and the soft nutria lining in my arms this very evening? Is this a dream?

A gate opens, and the stranger, now wearing another overcoat, emerges from the windy courtyard carrying Daddy's coat and the gray fedora. “Here,
sle
č
na,
take it. It's yours.”

“I'm not sure about the hat.”

“Take the hat. It's my way of saying, forgive me. Forgive us, miss. For everything.”

I clutch the coat tightly and close my eyes. Daddy. Daddy.

The stranger playfully pops the fedora on my head. “Here. It suits you better than me.”

“Thank you. Sir, may I know your name?”

He shakes his head. “This is your father's coat,
sle
č
na.
I am one of the nameless thousands who benefited from your loss.”

He tips his hat and vanishes in the dark courtyard.

Šamorín, December 1945

One evening, when I am ready to go home from the Tattersall, I pause at the open door of Miki's office.

“Ah, Elli. You are leaving?”

“Yes, I have to get home.”

“Wait. Let me close up.”

Miki rises to his feet. After shuffling some papers on his desk, he turns the key in each desk drawer and slips each key into his pocket. Before turning off the light, he reaches for the large key ring on the wall.

He invariably fumbles with the keys, trying to decide which would accomplish the feat of closing the office door. I find it enchanting, his absentmindedness in never knowing which is the right key for which door.

We walk silently for the first few minutes. Then Miki begins to talk. He tells me that
the British are refusing to allow Jewish refugees to enter Palestine—thousands of young Jews just like ourselves, survivors of ghettos and concentration camps, now languish in internment camps in Cyprus, and in refugee camps in the Allied Zones of Austria and Germany.

“But why? Why are they in prison camps now, after liberation?” I ask in shock. “The war is over. Germany was defeated. Aren't the British our friends? Weren't the Allies our liberators? Why would they keep survivors of German camps in their prisons?” My voice rises in indignation.

Miki attempts to calm me with the light touch of his hand on my shoulder. “Elli, please. You must lower your voice. Britain has been restricting Jewish immigration to Eretz Israel for years. They don't want any more Arab riots against Jewish settlements. Instead of controlling the rioters, the British gave in to their demands and limited the influx of Jewish pioneers.”

The implications of what the British had done by closing the borders of Palestine at a time when the Jews of Europe needed a haven
are unbearable for me. I had heard of ships filled with Jews trying in vain to reach Eretz Israel—they were turned back to Europe, where the passengers met their deaths. I never understood why. Now, with dread, I understand.

I am overwhelmed with what I have just learned. But Miki goes on, and my heart fills with wonder.

In tones so low that I have to strain my ears to catch every word, Miki tells me of a secret organization he is working for. It smuggles Jews across Europe, and then across the Mediterranean Sea on illegal ships, to Palestine.

Who founded this secret organization? I want to know. Miki tells me about an army of young Jews who fought against the Germans during the war. Members of this army, called the Jewish Brigade, now help refugees get to Palestine.

“Recently the organization had a secret meeting in Bratislava,” Miki whispers. “Plans were formed to smuggle Jews out of Poland, Romania, and Hungary, into Czechoslovakia. The operation has begun. We've brought in
large numbers. Members of the organization shelter them here until they can be slipped across the Austrian border.”

“Here? They are here?” I ask, and Miki silences me with a touch on my arm.

“Careful. You must speak in low tones. Not here in Å amorin, of course. They are in Bratislava. Hidden in various places, until we smuggle them to Vienna.”

“And from Vienna? Where do they go from there?”

“From Vienna the groups are led mostly on foot through the Austrian forests and across the mountains into either Italy or Yugoslavia, depending on which trails are open. In Italy, they board the illegal vessels under cover of darkness. ...”

I cannot believe my ears. “Does the Tattersall gang know about any of this?”

“Not really. Some of the boys are involved. Information is passed on to them regularly, but they are not allowed to divulge it, even to sisters or brothers. It would be dangerous for the others to know. When the time comes for us to organize a transport here, we'll let them know.”

“Thank you,” I say, my throat tightening, “for trusting me.”

Miki coughs in embarrassment. “I want you to know about the transports so that you can plan ahead,” he says flatly, then falls silent. I look up into his face, but I can't read it. The street has turned completely dark.

“You can tell your mother,” Miki continues after a long pause. “I know her. She can be trusted.”

There is a long, awkward silence between us. I am finding it difficult to breathe. We reach the heavy oak gate in the back of our house. My hand trembles on the massive wrought-iron door handle.

“I'll let you know further details as they come in,” Miki whispers and prepares to leave.

I don't want him to leave. Not yet. Not yet. There's so much I need to know.

“Does the organization have a name?”

Miki hesitates. “It's called
Briha
, the Flight, in Hebrew,” he answers haltingly, his voice barely audible. He stands there, tall and slim against a pale half-moon, his blond hair like a wild halo about his head. Suddenly I think, perhaps all of this is Miki's wild imagination.
Tomorrow morning in the Tattersall I'll meet the real Miki again, the careful, fumbling bureaucrat, the shy, silent introvert with the casual slump. Tomorrow morning all this will have dissipated like a mad dream.

“I'll let you know as soon as I get details of a new transport. My old friend Levi, a
shaliah,
an emissary from Palestine, is in charge of the office in Bratislava.”

I must know more. I must prolong this moment of madness. “How is the operation carried out? I mean the crossing of the borders. That must be extremely difficult, and dangerous.”

“Yes. There are
Briha
meeting points near the Polish border. The Polish border guards at these points are heavily bribed to look the other way when small groups of young people walk across and disappear into the forest. Sometimes the police in the border town have to be bribed as well. You see, transports are directed to the meeting points, but crossing is not always possible. Sometimes there are delays, and the transport has to lie low in the border town for days, even weeks. That's risky.” He pauses for a moment, then continues.

“In these hiding places—we call them 'stores'—every group is given a slip of paper with a code number on it. And when the group moves to the crossing point, they must present it to the
Briha
leader awaiting them there. Only after the
Briha
man recognizes the number does he activate the chain of operations for the border crossing.” Miki's voice takes on a strange quality of excitement. He speaks rapidly now.

“Once the transport is within the borders of Czechoslovakia, it's easier. Here we have a tacit understanding with the government not to interfere with our movements. The Czechoslovak government even helps us financially, together with UNRRA, the United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration. They provide transportation and even some food supplies. Most of the food comes from the JDC, the Joint Distribution Committee, an American Jewish organization.”

Miki draws closer. He bends down and continues in a slow, hesitant whisper: “We just received news about one of our ships. . . . It arrived in Eretz Israel last week. Although
it arrived far offshore, on a moonless night, the British police found out about it . . . they must have been tipped off. They were waiting on the shore, a large military police convoy, and as the refugees waded ashore, they arrested them and took them to a detention camp near Atlit. In Eretz Israel. . .” His voice trails off into silence. I hold my breath until he speaks again.

“After all they went through ... to end up in a British prison. ...”

“Is there no way to get them out?”

“We plan . . . something will be worked out.”