All Rivers Run to the Sea: Memoirs (11 page)

His parents lived strangely apart from the community. They didn’t go to synagogue, even on the High Holidays. Were they accepted in non-Jewish circles? I didn’t think so. Actually, I had stopped thinking about them entirely. I had problems of my own.

And suddenly the man was at our house. What could he possibly want? My father explained it to us later: he had come to confide his anguish. If—if?—the Germans arrived, he and his family would surely be among the first to be arrested. What to do? Where could they find shelter? Budapest was out: the Germans were already there. Maybe they should convert. After all, he wasn’t a believer anyway.

He was the only one to ask these questions. In general, our Jews preferred to wait and see.

Rumors reached us from big cities and small villages: The Nyilas were taking advantage of the German presence to unleash their fury against the Jews, their favorite prey—beards torn out, students thrown from moving trains, women humiliated, children persecuted. Nothing was too low for these bastards. Never mind, my father said, it will pass. Everything passes, even the thirst for Jewish blood. If the local fascists decided to flaunt their “patriotism” by targeting the Jews, so be it. That too would pass. Eventually they would tire of it. Besides, we knew these Nyilas. They were our neighbors, our customers. Their bark was worse than their bite. But what about the shattered windows, the holy books profaned, the old men whipped in the streets? All right, we would have to redouble our vigilance, pray in softer voices, stay inside more. Anyway, we soon had little choice. The government in Budapest issued decrees designed to limit the visibility and activities of the Jews. Stores were closed, and we were forbidden to go out except at certain hours. Jewish state employees were fired. Jews no longer had the right to walk in municipal parks or go to the movies or take the bus, tram, or train. However (thank God), they could still breathe the mountain air and warm themselves in the spring sun. The important thing was that even this abnormal life be normal. The important thing was that there be no pogroms.

The synagogues were still open. People were getting ready for Passover. Several of us gathered at the house of our neighbor, the Rebbe of Slotveno. The special oven in which the unleavened bread,
the matzoh, would be cooked was ready. I loved it when the Rebbe, his beard quivering, eyes closed in ecstasy, cried, “A matzoh in the oven, another matzoh in the oven!” In fact, he was always ecstatic, this rebbe. If he could pray, study, eat, and visit the ritual baths, his soul would dance and sing his love of the Lord. Anything that brought Jews closer to heaven sanctified them. The Rebbe of Slotveno even called matzoh holy. Then suddenly someone came running: “They’re here, they’re here!” The Rebbe froze, a plate of matzoh dough in his hand. The messenger left, and several men followed him. At first I stayed alone with the motionless Rebbe, but finally curiosity got the better of me and I rushed out to the street. Yes, the Germans were here, in their tanks, jeeps, and motorcycles, wearing black uniforms, black to strike fear, walking straight ahead, looking neither right nor left. I watched for just a few seconds, for when I went back in I found the Rebbe just as I had left him. “Rebbe,” I said, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have …” He roused himself, put the dough in the oven, and called out his battle cry once more: “A matzoh in the oven, a holy matzoh for holy Passover.” He sighed. “Where are the others?” he asked. “Outside. They went to look. The Germans are here.” He lowered his head, then lifted it. “The Germans are here, you say? You say so because you see them? Well, let me ask you this: Do you see the blessed Creator? No, you don’t, but He is here, whereas they will disappear. Do they think they can upset our work just like that, with impunity? That they can offend the Creator by preventing us from fulfilling His law? In a few days we shall welcome Passover, and that is all that matters. Have you forgotten the meaning of Passover? Our enemies are swallowed up; the people of Israel survive.” I helped him prepare another matzoh. When the others came back, I went home. My parents, sisters, and several visitors were standing at the windows looking out at the vehicles rolling in from Bichkev, heading for the main square and the adjacent streets.

A page had been turned. The German occupation of Hungary was now a physical presence. But to everyone’s astonishment, the officers of the Third Reich behaved quite correctly. There was little to complain about. The maids in requisitioned apartments (those of Jews and others) found that the officers made their own beds. They bowed politely to the mistress of the house and offered children candy. We were baffled. What about the rumors of atrocities, of the savagery of Nazism? Exaggerations. Propaganda. “It’s just like World War I,” the older people said. “We’ve been fed lies. The people of Goethe and
Schiller cannot sink to barbarism.” No one warned us that we would pay dearly for the smiles and hand-kissing of the German officers, that their courtesy was part of the plan conceived by Eichmann and his specialists. Their psychological action against our people proved effective. Their aim was to lull us into a false sense of security. Our confidence and credulity was their weapon. Accustomed as we were to resignation, we told ourselves that since the enemy was cheerful and polite, there was no cause for alarm.

Anyway, it was Passover, festival of hope and remembrance. On the eve of the holiday a decree was issued closing the synagogues. My friends and I sadly took our leave of our own Beit Hamidrash. I glanced one last time at the walls, entrusting to them the holy scrolls and the volumes of the Talmud. Would we see them again? What a question! Of course we would, after all this was over. Otherwise we would have had to bury them in the cemetery, in accordance with tradition. In fact, I felt a sudden urge to go to the cemetery, to plead with the dead to intercede on our behalf. I didn’t, though I don’t remember why. Perhaps because there were more urgent tasks, like trying to decide where we would pray during the holiday. If the synagogues were closed, we would gather in private homes. My father and I went to services at the house of the Borsher Rebbe. We recited the Hallel, the song of gratitude, a group of psalms thanking God for His kindness to His people. Our hearts were heavy, but we sang just the same, albeit softly. We shook hands all around and left, wishing one another a happy holiday.

Back home the table was set: a white tablecloth, six candles, gleaming silver. My grandmother, in her holiday dress, was even more thoughtful than usual, as was little Tsipouka. My father made no effort to conceal his distress: “This is the first time in a long while that we’ve had no guest at our table.” Usually we found guests in the Houses of Study and Prayer, but they were now closed. My father, however, did not give up. “Wait for me,” he said, and disappeared. A good hour went by. We were just beginning to fear the worst when the door opened and my father came in with our guest: little Moishele, Moshe the beadle, his eyes gleaming strangely and full of pain. I had not seen him in weeks. Where had he been hiding? My father happily showed him to his place, on my right. Our guest didn’t say a word during the first part of the Seder service. Did he read the Haggadah, or follow the narration? My father took Tsipouka on his lap and announced: “This is the bread of our affliction.… Our ancestors ate it in the land of
Egypt.” Why did our guests smile seem half-ironic, half-desperate? I asked the first of the four ritual questions. “Why is this night different from all other nights?” Here again, our guest seemed both amused and exasperated. My father replied: “… Because once we were slaves, under Pharaoh in Egypt …” I glanced at the man sitting next to me. No doubt about it, he was laughing, but it was a joyless laughter. Suddenly I thought: What if he was the Prophet Elijah disguised as a beadle? Wasn’t this the night Elijah was supposed to visit all Jewish homes, the night we remember and drink four cups of wine in honor of our deliverance? In the middle of the meal Moishele began talking in a soft, feverish voice. “Reb Shloime,” he said, “I thank you for inviting me. Everyone else forgot me. They’re afraid of me. You alone were not afraid. So I have a present for you. I would like to tell you what is in store for you. I owe you that.”

Around the table all eyes hung on his parched lips. My little sister, lovely and sweet, lovely and heartbreakingly grave, sitting quietly on my father’s lap, put her hand over her eyes as if to shield herself from a painful sight. My father stroked her hair, reassuring her. “Not now,” he said to Moshe the beadle. “Your stories are sad, and the law forbids sadness on the night of Passover.” “But this is important,” Moshe insisted, “very important. You don’t know what’s in store for you, but I do. Why won’t you listen to me, Reb Shloime? This concerns your future, the future of all of you.” “Not now, Reb Moishe,” my father repeated, “not now. Some other time.” We finished the meal in silence. We recited grace. As we were about to rise to open the door, glasses in hand, to greet the Prophet Elijah, our guest disappeared.

This was my last Passover, my last holiday, at home. Its sadness would weigh upon all those to come.

Let us linger for a moment with Moishele, or Moshe, as I call him in my books. Perhaps he plays such a central role in the world of my novels because he represents the first survivor. Sometimes he is confused—or I confuse him—with Moshe the drunkard or Moshe the madman. But Moshe the beadle is different, for he lived our destiny before any of us. Messenger of the dead, he shouted his testimony from the rooftops and delivered it in silence, but either way no one would listen. People turned their backs so as not to see his eyes, as though fearing to glimpse a truth that held his past and our future in its steely grip. People tried, in vain, to make him doubt his own reason
and his own memory, to accept that he had survived for nothing—indeed, to regret having survived.

On the seventh day of Passover, which symbolizes our ancestors’ miraculous crossing of the Red Sea, a series of nefarious decrees was issued. Events now moved rapidly. The town crier, a hunchback carrying a drum that was too big for him, imperturbably announced these decrees. By order of the military command all stores and offices belonging to Jews were closed. No Jew was allowed to go out, except in the late afternoon to buy food. There was a sudden frenzy of shopping. Though we no longer had the right to sell anything, the store’s shelves were soon emptied. It mattered little whether customers paid or not. My father simply gave them what they needed. My sisters and I pitched in. Even little Tsipouka, her hair carefully combed, helped out. If the police caught us, God would not forsake us. Who could tell what tomorrow might bring? Then there were three days of curfew. Fortunately, everyone was well provisioned. There was nothing more to fear.

The yellow star? That scarcely bothered me. It made me feel more intimately bound to the Jews of the Middle Ages who wore the
rouelle
in the ghettos of Italy. I felt I was living—not learning, but living—an incandescent chapter of history, one that later generations would study. No, I was not afraid of the yellow star. All Jewish families were cutting up bits of yellow cloth. A wretched market sprang up; there were stars of every possible style. Those worn by the rich were bright, those of the poor faded. Strange as it may seem, I wore mine with newfound pride. Some passersby stared at me derisively, while others averted their eyes. That was their business. But the posters that suddenly appeared on the walls were something else. They were signed by the German military governor, and their message was clear: Whoever opposed the new order would be shot. Shot? I didn’t believe it, couldn’t believe it, but my legs trembled.

Special units of the army and the notorious Gendarmerie began raiding Jewish homes. There were inspections, searches, threats. You had to turn in your jewelry, silver, foreign currency, precious stones, objects of value. My father tried to make light of it. “They’re going to be disappointed. The only thing they’ll find in most Jewish homes is poverty. I hope they confiscate that too.” But even poor families had silver candlesticks or Kiddush cups for Shabbat, so they left the least
valuable objects in sight and hid the others in cellars and attics. It was reported that anyone who resisted was beaten by soldiers, though not at our house. A lieutenant and two gendarmes drew up the list. They went through the living quarters and the store, searching cupboards, opening drawers, throwing books on the floor. But my poor mother was impressed nonetheless. “Did you notice?” she asked. “The lieutenant saluted on the way in and the way out?” Maybe she was trying to be funny. One way or the other, the gendarmes got what they wanted: the poor Jews of my town became poorer still.

It would be hard to exaggerate the malice of the Hungarian gendarmes. Ordered to implement the Eichmann plan, they did so with a zeal and brutality that will forever remain the dishonor of the Hungarian army and nation. Were they all anti-Semites or members of the fascist Nyilas party? Why were they so cruel, so sadistic? They beat women and children, trampled on old people and the sick. The announcement that a ghetto was to be created came almost as a relief. At least we would be among Jews, with our families.

Once again I felt as though I were reliving a page of medieval Jewish history. We would now live as our ancestors had in Italy and Spain, and later in Germany and Poland, and we would not be alone, for their presence would protect us. I pictured myself within the walls of Frankfurt or Venice, Lublin or Carpentras, listening to masters from beyond the grave who explained that these gloomy little alleyways led to the light of discovery. We must not give way to pessimism. In search of certainty, I rushed to the shelf where my mother kept her German books. There I consulted her pride and joy: the
Jewish Encyclopedia
. I looked up “ghetto” and was surprised to find that in ancient times the Jewish quarters were created by the Jews themselves, out of fear of alien influences. Such was the case for the communities of Rome, Antioch, and Alexandria. Only later were ghettos imposed on them, under various names: Judería in Spain and Portugal, Rue des Juifs in France. In 1288 King Alfonso III ordered the Jews of Saragossa to live apart from the Christians. In 1480 the Catholic monarchs Ferdinand and Isabella issued a similar order. In 1555 Pope Paul IV drove the Jews from his cities, except those who lived in the ghettos. In Mainz in 1662 the Great Elector Jean-Philippe deprived the Jews of the right to live outside the walls of their quarter. But the ghetto, however deprivational, could be spiritually rewarding. It helped to preserve the culture and tradition that constitute the Jewish heritage. After all, in 1652 my own ancestor, Rabbi Yom-Tov Lipmann-Heller,
rejoiced in having helped to build the walls ringing the Jewish quarter of Leopoldstadt.