My Bridges of Hope (7 page)

“Just a moment!” I rush up to him and put my arms about him. “Just a tiny moment, Mr. Magician. Please explain the magic trick. . . .”

“An organization in Bratislava is looking for an assistant counselor in a summer camp for homeless children in VyÅ¡ne Ružbachy. And I proposed you as a candidate for the job.”

“You proposed me? But I have no qualifications.”

“Let's say I stuck my neck out. I have some friends there, and they agreed to give you an interview. They're holding the interviews tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?!”

“Yes, all day, at their headquarters at the Svoradova Street Seminary. I came to take you back with me this afternoon. You can spend the night at my place and be the first applicant to be interviewed, bright and early in the morning.”

“But . . . what qualifications does a counselor have to have?”

“Don't ask so many questions. Pack your things. We have to catch the one P.M. train so I can make my evening class.”

Mommy helps me pack, agog with excitement. She also packs sandwiches and a bag of
pogácsa,
her very special, firm butter pastries. She accompanies us to the train and, as the train pulls out of the station, she waves to me, her face lit up by a brilliant, sunny smile I have not seen for a long time.

The trip to Bratislava is an unexpected treat. The thrill of going to the city in the company of my big brother compensates for
my initial panic at the thought of the interview. And for a feeling of guilt about missing school tomorrow.

Thursday morning Bubi walks with me to the corner of Svoradova, where he takes a tram to his school.
“Hazak Ve'Ematz!”
he shouts as he hops onto the streetcar. “Be strong and of good courage,” the Zionist greeting in Hebrew, does little for my spirits. I climb the hilly slope of Svoradova Street with trepidation. I have no experience. I have never been a children's counselor before, or a baby-sitter. I know nothing about children. I have had no younger brothers or sisters. Not even younger cousins. And I had never played with my friends' younger siblings.

Svoradova 7, a girls' seminary, is a rambling three-story building with a flight of stairs leading to a side entrance. In the entrance hall flocks of girls seemingly my age pass me, busily chatting and ignoring my attempts to inquire about the director's office. Finally one of them pauses long enough to point to the stairwell leading to the second floor.

Three women and a man turn their faces to
the door as I enter. They nod in unison when I introduce myself. Then all four glance at their watches in surprise when I apologize for being late. I blush—I am not late at all. It is simply force of habit. Or is it nerves?

First the interviewers take turns in describing my duties. I find out that the girls' camp consists of twenty girls ranging in ages from four to sixteen. A counselor is expected to serve as mother, caretaker, and teacher to these children, most of whom do not even remember their parents. The counselor has to provide love, security, education, and discipline.

After the general introduction of the counselor's duties, a member of the panel hands me the outline of studies for the summer. The assistant counselor's task is to conduct classes for the younger children and supervise the homework activities of the older ones.

“These youngsters lost years of schooling,” she explains. “And it is the objective of our organization to provide them with the basics of Jewish education.”

I look at the study outline, and a wave of dizziness washes over me. I cannot even read
the headings of the daily program, which are in Hebrew script. My own Jewish education has been practically nonexistent. I can recognize only the printed letters of the Hebrew alphabet. I have been taught to read printed Hebrew characters in order to recite the prayers in the prayer book. I have done this all my life without understanding the words I am reciting.

I know neither ancient nor modern Jewish history. I am familiar neither with biblical nor with modern Hebrew literature. I have been taught to observe Jewish law without knowing the reasons underlying the various rituals.

I have no choice but to admit the truth about my lack of Jewish educational background. I also reveal to the panel that I have had no experience with children of any age.

“I apologize for having wasted the committee's time,” I say in conclusion to my list of confessions. The panel accepts my apology, nodding in unison once again. The chairperson, a short, slim woman of about thirty with straight, shiny black hair, promises to notify my brother of the panel's decision.

For me, the polite, formal handshakes at the end of the interview suffice as notification—I know I have lost the job. I am disappointed about missing the summer vacation, yet, strangely, instead of sadness I am filled with a sense of elation. I have come across something wonderful on the baffling pages of the study outline. I have discovered a new world I did not know existed. I have found a niche of relevance. I have found myself; I know I belong to that niche.

It is this sense of elation that carries me downhill on Svoradova Street toward the Carlton Hotel, where I am to meet my brother. I have made a decision. I am going to enroll in the Seminary to study Judaism. As if I had broken through a wall of isolation, all of a sudden I feel free. I feel free to reach out for life. And life, magically, assumes meaning. Breathless with anticipation, I hurry to meet my brother.

Bubi is sitting on a bench on Carlton Square facing the Danube. As I approach him, his face takes on a look of happy surprise: “How did it go? What job have they assigned to you?”

“I didn't get the job. But I don't mind. I know I don't qualify. Bubi, I've just discovered I don't know a thing. Zero.”

Bubi is startled. “Is that what makes you so happy?”

“You don't understand. The study guidelines the committee gave me—Bubi, I've never seen anything like them. Bible, Jewish ethics, history, Hebrew language, literature. Everything. Bubi, I never knew how ignorant I was! It's absolutely appalling. I couldn't even read the headings of the study guideline. Bubi, I want to enroll in the Seminary. I want to learn everything. Will you help me get in? I want to enroll for this fall.”

“Okay. But what about the job? What makes you think you didn't get it? Did they tell you?”

“I told you, I don't know a thing. I simply don't qualify. They will have classes in Jewish studies every morning, and the assistant counselor is supposed to teach the younger children. How can I teach if I don't know a thing? In the afternoon the counselors are supposed to lead the children in group games. I don't know any group games. I've never
belonged to a group that played games. They also said the counselors have to be substitute mothers. I don't know how to be a substitute mother. I've never had anything to do with little children. I am simply not cut out for this job.”

Suddenly a heavy blanket of clouds conceals the sun, and a cold wind ruffles my thin, plaid skirt. The metal park bench feels like a sheet of ice.

“It's getting cold. Come, I will take you to the station.”

Bubi carries my canvas bag as we walk down Michalovska Street to the Manderla Building, where we will catch a streetcar to the train station.

“About the job—they have no way of knowing about your lack of background. Or your lack of experience with children. Did you tell them your age?”

“They did not ask my age. By the way, some of the children are sixteen, that's older than me. But I had to tell them about the lack of my Jewish education. My ignorance is obvious. And how could I not admit my lack of experience with little children?

“According to Dr. TomaÅ¡ov, it's imperative that you gain weight. The Tatras are ideal for that. They have sanatoriums in the Tatras for people like you. You must get to the Tatras somehow. I think you can tackle the job. I know Frieda Gelber, the counselor. She will teach you. And you'll learn fast. You'll see.”

There is no point in arguing with Bubi. I don't mind being rejected. I do not want to undertake a job I know I am not qualified for.

Mommy is bitterly disappointed by the news. And worried. She is also convinced my health depends on this vacation in the Tatras.

Bubi comes home for the Sabbath, his face beaming once again. He turns to Mommy, for additional effect.

“Elli got the job as assistant counselor! They'll train her. In about two weeks she'll have to return to the Seminary, for a day or two, to be trained for the job.”

“Bubi! How did you do it?”

“The committee said they appreciated your honesty,” Bubi declares with mock solemnity. “And they felt you were
mature
enough to handle the task. And
intelligent
enough to learn. Mature! And intelligent!” My big brother
emphasizes the adjectives with a chuckle. “I listened politely and, for the sake of your health, I let wisdom prevail and withheld my views on the subject.”

Mommy is delighted. “You'll need a warm sweater. I found rolls of wool thread in the rubbish in the attic, a nice rich brown color. I will start knitting right away so that it is ready before you leave.” She turns to Bubi: “When does the camp begin?”

“The first week in July,” Bubi answers. “She'll also need warm pajamas. Nights are very cold high up there. It's a ten-hour journey by train to VyÅ¡ne Ružbachy, and from there another two hours by carriage to the villas that will serve as summer camp. One villa for the girls' and the other for the boys' camp.”

I can barely contain my excitement. A ten-hour train ride, and then a long carriage ride into the mountains! The fabulous mountains I have heard so much about but never dreamed I'd see.

Will I live up to everyone's expectations? Am I mature enough?

On the Train to Bratislava, June 30, 1946

Mommy accompanies me to the train station and helps me lug the canvas bag containing my wardrobe. I own a beautiful silk dress that came in a CARE package from America. When it arrived Mommy at first admired the lovely dress, but then she spotted a large cigarette burn on the skirt. “Look!” Mommy exclaimed. “What a shame! Right up front, in the most noticeable spot!”

“What luck,” I retorted. “Without that cigarette burn the owner never would have put this dress in a CARE package. Thanks to that cigarette burn, I have a lovely silk dress.”

Mommy laughed and immediately set about concealing the hole in a neat fold.

My canvas bag also contains a pink outfit made from bed linen that arrived in the same CARE package. Pink sheets and pillowcases!
All our neighbors were agog with amazement when it arrived. No one had ever seen bed linen other than white. What will the Americans think of next? Mommy turned the sheet into a full peasant skirt, and the pillowcase into a matching bolero jacket, the fashion rage of the time.

I am wearing a red-and-white-print jumper and a white blouse Bubi found in an abandoned villa in Seeshaupt several weeks after our liberation in that Bavarian town. The outfit must have belonged to a large woman: Both the jumper and the blouse were enormous, but Mommy adjusted them to fit my figure. I look elegant and cheerful in the outfit; the billowing puffed sleeves of the blouse make me look grown up.

Mommy's creative mastery with leftover fabrics is stupefying. The
barishnas
often bring much more material than Mommy needs to make their dresses, and then refuse to take away the leftover pieces of fabric. From these Mommy has produced an entire wardrobe for me and for herself. She has even sewn trousers for Bubi from gabardine left
over from pleated skirts, a great favorite of the
barishnas.

The conductor's whistle blows. Mommy and I embrace, and I hop onto the lowest rung of the train. All at once, Mommy's voice breaks: “Take good care of yourself, Elli. Be a counselor to yourself, too. Remember, you, too, are still a child. . . .”

“Oh, Mommy.” A quick wave of the hand, and the train jerks into motion. My throat tightens. Oh, God. The train picks up speed, and the rapidly increasing distance between Mommy and me suddenly contracts my stomach into a tiny ball. Will I ever see Mommy again? Oh, God. I should not leave her. The train races on, and Mommy recedes into a blur.

The train compartment is stifling. Sweat covers my face, arms, hands. I need air. In vain I yank at the window latch: It does not give.

“Is anything the matter, miss?” the conductor inquires.

“My window is jammed. Can you open it, please?”

With a quick tug the conductor opens the window, and a gust of air slaps against my
face. “Oh, thank you.” The conductor nods and moves on. I take a deep breath and settle into my seat. Bit by bit my panic subsides as I watch the familiar scenery, the flat green plain, clumps of oak and acacia, and an endless row of telephone poles whiz by. This is the first separation. I'll be gone for nearly two months. The time will pass, and I will return to find Mommy alive and well. There is nothing to fear.

My thoughts drift to the High Tatras. They defy my imagination. I keep thinking of these fabulous mountains, but I cannot picture them. I keep thinking of cool summer nights, yet I cannot conceive of having to wear warm pajamas. In Šamorín most summer nights are blistering. The town is nestled between the Danube River and the Carpathian foothills and collects hot air like a basin, often turning my bedroom into a sweltering sauna.

My anticipation of a vacation in the High Tatras overshadowed even the prospect of graduation, and the day arrived all too quickly.

Pan
Č
ernik, decked out in a crumpled dark blue suit and a bow tie, handed each of us a
diploma with great formality. After shaking each pupil's hand, he bade us farewell with the weary yet warm smile we had come to know and love. In a mist of nostalgia we parted with fervent promises of keeping in touch.

Most of my classmates made plans to meet during the summer at the banks of the Danube, but not Yuri, Marek, or me. Yuri was going to Moscow to visit his grandparents, and Marek's family was going to spend the summer on a farm near Prague. I was considered the luckiest—summer vacation in the Tatras was everyone's wildest dream.