My Canary Yellow Star (17 page)

Those with Schutz-Passes separated from the rest of the crowd and began to form a line.

“You’d better go and line up with them,” Judit said, trying to smile through her tears. “Let me give you a hug for good luck!”

Someone behind me jostled me. I lurched forward, step-ping on my friend’s foot.

“Ouch!”

“Sorry!”

“Not your fault,” Judit said. “These slippers aren’t good for much.” Her toes showed through the ragged material. We looked at each other for a long moment. The lack of
good shoes meant frozen toes, and the inability to walk meant almost certain death. If a prisoner could not keep up with the crowd, the Arrow Cross would shoot the poor wretch. I began to cry and Judit knew why.

“Don’t worry about me! I’ll be fine.” She forced a smile and patted my arm. “Maybe I’ll be lucky and they won’t make us walk very far.”

“No chance of that!” We had both heard rumors of the Arrow Cross forcing their Jewish captives to march long distances under gunpoint until they were ready to drop. Only the fittest won the dubious prize of being handed over to the German authorities.

“I wish my shoes would fit you,” I exclaimed in frustration.

“Well, they won’t. Not these boats,” Judit said. “It’s my own fault – I should have remembered my shoes. But don’t worry! I’ll be fine.”

Before I could think, I reached into my pocket and took out the billfold that contained my Schutz-Pass. In the chaos surrounding us, nobody was paying attention as I slipped it into Judit’s hand.

“Here! The picture on it is so grainy that nobody will be able to tell it isn’t of you,” I told her. “Everybody says we look alike.”

“Marta, I couldn’t!” Judit tried to return the billfold.

I pushed her hand away. “You have to. There’s no other way. You won’t survive a day’s march without proper shoes. At least I have shoes I can walk in.”

Judit opened and closed her mouth, but no sound came out. We both knew I was right. I gave her a little shove in the direction of the long column of people waiting to see Wallenberg. Judit nodded reluctantly, handed me her own papers, and hugged me tightly before she was swallowed up by the crowd straining to reach the table against the wall.

I made my way back to the corner where we had been sitting and lowered myself onto my haunches. But I felt lonely, so I stood up again and pushed my way through the crowd, desperate to find someone, anyone familiar. I thought I saw Mrs. Lazar across the huge room and tried to make my way toward her. By the time I crossed the sea of humanity, however, she had disappeared and I found myself at the very back of the throng waiting to see Wallenberg. I stayed where I was. The long line moved at a brisk pace, and I moved along with it. The closer and closer I got to the front, to the Swede sitting at the table, the more panicky I became. If I left the line, I would be deported. If I stayed in the line, I would still be deported since I didn’t have my pass. It wasn’t until the very moment I reached the front of the line that I knew what had to be done. One of the Arrow Cross, youths guarding Wallenberg butted me in the back with the barrel of his rifle to make me move closer. I stumbled and had to grip the edge of the table to prevent myself from falling on top of it.

“Put down your rifle,” Wallenberg said to the guard in a quiet, authoritative voice. “Put that gun down immediately.”

To my surprise, the guard lowered his weapon with a sheepish expression on his face. After giving the guard a long, cold look, Wallenberg turned his attention to me. His face relaxed into a smile. “I believe we’ve met before,” he said politely. “May I see your Schutz-Pass, please?”

I could only gape at him.

“Your Schutz-Pass, please,” he repeated patiently.

“I lost my Schutz-Pass on the way here,” I managed to croak. “It was in my pocketbook. One of the Arrow Cross took it away from me back at our apartment house when they rounded us up.”

“Lying Jew!” cried the soldier standing next to the table. He lifted his rifle into the air, ready to smash it down on my head. I lifted my hands to cover my face and began to pray under my breath. The blow did not fall.

“Stop or I’ll report you to your superiors!” thundered Wallenberg. “I demand you put down your gun!”

To my surprise, for the second time, the guard obeyed.

Wallenberg turned back to me. “It’s unfortunate you lost your papers, but I’m certain that we have a record of you in my ledger. We keep track of all of our Swedish subjects. What is your name, please?”

I suddenly realized that I couldn’t tell him my name. Judit had already used my Schutz-Pass. There was no sign of her, so I was quite certain she had already been released. I tried to think of another name to use, but in my panic I came up blank. There were only two names in the
whole, wide world that I could remember – Judit’s and mine.

“I am Judit Grof,” I whispered.

“Judit Grof… Let me see,” Wallenberg said. He turned a few pages in his ledger and ran his finger down the page.

I had to remind myself to breathe.

“Judit Grof… Yes, here you are. Right between Izsak Funk and Eszter Gross,” he said pleasantly. “Please join the others.” He pointed to a large group being led toward the open gates by three Arrow Cross guards. Three others were silhouetted in the doorway against the sunny sky.

“Where is this girl’s name? Show me her name in your ledger! I don’t believe she is in your book! The girl is a liar!” The guard reached for Wallenberg’s ledger. The Swede slammed his book shut.

“How dare you question me?” he said coldly. “How dare you! This girl is a Swedish subject. She is no concern of yours! She is one of my Jews. I will report your behavior to your commandant!”

The guard hesitated for an instant before turning his back on us. “To hell with you both!” he muttered. “Who cares about a lying Jew!”

“Hurry up, girl, or your group will be gone,” Wallenberg said.

“Thank you! Thank you very much,” I mouthed to him.

I ran toward the exit. The armed guards in the doorway stepped aside, and the sunshine blinded me.

T
he uneasy days blended into one another. For the one hour we were allowed out of our houses, we rushed from store to empty store trying to find food, dodging the Arrow Cross at every step. Had we ever had any other life? Only when I flexed my toes and felt the bump made by my grandmother’s necklace under my foot could I remember how things used to be – my friends at school, my family at the dinner table, Papa in his office and Mama busy with her charity work, Ervin teasing me until I could have screamed, and Grandmama baking me a special sweet when I visited her.

One cold November morning, we were awakened by thunderous knocking on our apartment door. We hastily pulled robes over our nightclothes.

“What now?” Aunt Miriam asked. Being disturbed and
rounded up by the authorities had become an almost daily occurrence.

“Open the door, Marta,” Mama said wearily.

Szasz, the caretaker, was standing in the hallway impatiently tapping his foot. He was accompanied by a young couple in country clothes. They entered our apartment without greeting us. Szasz began to show the young man and his wife around our home.

“As you can see, Mr. Kovacs,” he said, “it’s a bright and spacious suite. Much too good for these Jews.”

The man in the country clothes had the grace to look shame-faced, but his wife held her sharp nose even higher in the air.

“The kitchen is a little small,” she said.

“But well furnished,” Szasz answered. “Let’s look around some more. The stove is in good condition and the icebox is almost new. All the furniture is top quality. I could probably get much higher rent,” he added. “Soon they will all be gone.”

The woman’s brow was furrowed. “What do you think, Tibi?” she asked her husband in a country accent. “Should we take it?”

“Seems fine to me,” the man grunted. He avoided looking at me.

The woman turned to Szasz. “We’ll rent the suite. When can we move in?”

“This afternoon would be just fine,” the super said.

“What about us?” Mama protested. “Where are we supposed to go?”

“This is my home,” Aunt Miriam added quietly. “The furniture was given to me by my mother-in-law.”

Szasz spat on the kitchen floor. “I want all of you to get out of here immediately,” he cried. “And make sure you take none of the furniture with you. Not a single blessed object! Be grateful I didn’t report you to the Arrow Cross, thieving Jews!”

I finally found my voice. “But you can’t…” I wanted to explain that he couldn’t evict us without a valid reason, that it was totally unfair.

“Shut up!” Szasz shouted at me. “Shut up! I’ll be back with the Arrow Cross if you’re not gone.”

Once again we bundled up the remnants of our former lives. It took us two hours of trudging to arrive at the white apartment building on Rose Hill, on the Buda side of the Danube. Father had grown up in this cozy apartment. I had wonderful memories of Friday night dinners, with the whole family gathered around a dining-room table groaning with all kinds of delicacies.

“I am certain Ida and Tamas will put us up,” my mother said. “Grandmama charged them little rent. I heard them tell her how grateful they were.”

“They sound like good people,” Aunt Miriam said.

I had met Colonel Nagy and his wife before. I remembered a middle-aged man in an army uniform and his fussily dressed wife taking tea with my grandmother.

Mrs. Nagy answered the door on the first knock. We entered the airy marble foyer.

“Kornelia, Miriam, and young Marta too! How nice!” she said with a strained smile.

Mama explained our situation. “So you see, Ida, we have nowhere else to go. We are desperate. Could we stay with you for a few days until we make other arrangements?”

“Of course you can!” She walked over to the parlor door and opened it wide. “Wait here,” she said. “I’ll go for Tamas. He’s getting a haircut.” Without giving us the opportunity to respond or to ask why she didn’t just telephone for her husband, she was gone.

As we waited and waited on my grandmother’s stiff sofas, my stomach growled. We hadn’t eaten all day. I hoped that Mrs. Nagy would share her rations with us when she returned.

“What’s taking her so long? I’m famished!” I whined.

“Patience, Marta, patience. Everything takes time. Ida and Tamas will be here soon.”

Finally, we heard the key turning in the front door. A burly Arrow Cross officer stood in the doorway. Mrs. Nagy was a few steps behind him. The ferocious expression on
her face had turned her into a stranger. I was proud of my mother and my aunt, however; neither of them showed any surprise. Only her quick intake of breath betrayed Aunt Miriam’s fear. I realized for the first time that silence could speak.

“So, Ida, you’ve finally come back – and you brought company too,” Mama said sweetly.

Mrs. Nagy’s glance was full of contempt. “These are the wretches I told you about,” she said. “Get them out of my apartment!”

“You must let us go,” Mama said. “We have Swedish protective passports.” She took our Schutz-Passes out of her purse and handed them to the Arrow Cross guard. I was grateful I had thought to get mine back from Judit.

He examined our documents intently. “I’ve heard of these, but I haven’t seen one before,” he said. “Still, I have my orders from Comrade Szalasi!” He took our passports and tore them into small pieces. We were too shocked even to protest. Mrs. Nagy laughed.

The soldier hustled us outside at gunpoint. We were not allowed to take our belongings. A green police riot vehicle was parked by the front door, and a young policeman was leaning against the truck, smoking a cigarette. When he saw us, he stubbed it out and carefully put the butt into his pocket.

“Take us to the Mirabel,” the Arrow Cross said to him.

We climbed into the back of the truck and sat down on one of the wooden benches. The Arrow Cross jumped up after us and sat down on the bench facing us. The vehicle started to move away while Mrs. Nagy watched from the gate. The expression on her face made my blood boil. Just as we were about to turn the corner, I jumped up, leaned out of the truck, and waved my fist at her.

“God will punish you for what you have done!” I cried at the top of my lungs.

The truck turned the corner before I could see her reaction.

In twenty minutes, we arrived at the sleekly modern, gray Mirabel Hotel, which was built into the side of a mountain in Buda. It was now the Hungarian Gestapo headquarters. As we walked into the elegant lobby, I remembered the last time I had visited the hotel. We were celebrating Mama’s thirty-fifth birthday with espresso coffee for the adults, cocoa for the children, and sugary cakes for everyone. No cakes would be awaiting us at the end of this journey. The Arrow Cross officer left us, and the armed driver, quiet but not unkind, led us down the steep servants’ staircase into the belly of the hotel. We walked through a long, gray maze until the policeman finally stopped in front of a dilapidated brown door, which he opened with an old-fashioned
metal key. We found ourselves in a cell-like room with worn carpeting and stained walls. Everything reeked of mildew. Barred windows sat high up on the wall at street level. They were so grimy that hardly any sunlight could penetrate them.