My Bridges of Hope (8 page)

All of us classmates left the school building together. At every street corner, as one or two broke away from the group, there were new farewells, new promises of reunion. As we neared the lower end of Main Street, Yuri and I found ourselves alone. He accompanied me all the way home, and we talked about his forthcoming trip to Moscow, my anticipation of the Tatras, the teachers and the school we had already started to miss. But all along, a question, like a ghost, was lurking in our dialogue.

We reached my heavy brown oak gate and lingered in front of my house, making small talk. Finally Yuri's question materialized: “Do you remember our walk to the Danube last February?” he asked. His voice was as taut as the string of a violin.

“Yes.”

“You said then that you had decided to leave Czechoslovakia. Is your decision final?”

“Yes, Yuri. It's final.”

“I thought perhaps you'd changed your mind since then.”

“No, Yuri, I haven't. Actually, it's not only my decision. My mother, my brother, and I made the decision together.”

“Do you know where you're going?”

“I guess America. My brother wants to go to America, and my mother doesn't want us to separate. I want to go to Palestine. But I don't want to part from my mother and brother, either. So, we submitted applications to the American Embassy.”

“Will you be here when I get back from Moscow?”

“In the fall? Sure. These things take time. Except . . . I will be in Bratislava, at a girls'
seminary. But I will be home for weekends.”

Yuri's handshake was almost as firm as Pan
Č
ernik's. With a pang I realized how much I would miss him. Even the thought of the Tatras did not allay the sudden twinge. A residue of ache persisted for days. For Yuri, Marek, Pan
Č
ernik, and all the others. Because I knew the separation was forever.

An hour later the city lights pop into view, and the train slows on its approach to Bratislava's Main Terminal. Bubi's embrace is warmer than usual. How did he guess that I need his warmth, his reassurance, tonight more than ever?

Bubi lives in a small apartment in Bratislava which he shares with a roommate named Max. I met Max when I spent the night in Bubi's room before my interview. He is perhaps only a few years older than my brother, but his large black-rimmed glasses make him look very mature and intelligent. Although he is shorter and slimmer than my brother, he projects an aura of authority I find very impressive. Despite their differences in age and temperament, Bubi and Max get
along famously. Both have a keen sense of humor and fun, and enjoy great popularity among fellow students of both sexes. The apartment is always bustling with company.

I am looking forward to spending the night there again prior to my departure for the Tatras so as to be ready to join the group bright and early. For me it is a special treat to be part of my brother's friends' lively company, if only for a rare evening. Especially in the company of Max.

During my last visit Max said my hair was of striking color and texture, and he liked the way I wore it, long with soft waves “cascading” to my shoulders. Since our return from the camps I have not had a haircut, and luckily the last throes of a permanent left traces of a wave in my otherwise very straight hair. Max also remarked that it was a shame the doctor ordered I gain ten kilo. “Your figure is just right as it is,” he said with a meaningful wink that made me blush.

Max's compliments have made me conscious of my appearance. I have taken to brushing my hair and watching my figure in the long mirror we recently recovered from a
neighboring farm. A leafy design carved into each corner of the mirror helped me recognize it in the parlor of the farmhouse where I went to buy eggs. While the farmer's wife placed the eggs one by one into my basket, I stared at the mirror in shock. When she finished counting, I said to her, “Mrs. Szantos, this is our mirror. I recognize the design in the corners.”

The farmer's wife shrugged and said, “If it's yours, it's yours. I can't help it.” The next day I borrowed a bicycle and rode to the farmhouse. The farmer's wife helped me tie the mirror to the backseat, and I walked with the bicycle and the mirror all the way from the farm to our house, two and a half kilometers. Mommy could not believe her eyes. She, too, recognized the mirror instantly, and tears sprang into her eyes.

I have spent hours before the mirror, simply gazing at my face, my hair, my figure. I am fifteen and a half, and my body is growing into the body of a woman. Max was the first person to notice it. With ten kilo gained I will look much better. Even Max will approve. No one likes thin women. In the summer camp I will force myself to eat, and fill out.

Mommy is happy that I have “rediscovered” the mirror. Besides my thinness, she worries about my concentration on studies to the exclusion of everything else. She worries about my lack of interest in clothes. I wore the dresses she made from leftover material without paying much attention to how they looked.

But my discovery of a new world of learning and my decision to enroll at the Seminary in the fall have sparked a new interest even in things as mundane as pretty clothes and hair.

At the apartment Max welcomes me with enthusiasm: “Let me look at you. You look splendid! You've grown again.” Unlike other times, tonight he keeps eyeing me with a quizzical look. Suddenly he exclaims: “Now I know! It's the exuberance, a new vitality. It's very feminine,” Max laughs with delight at his discovery. “I couldn't figure out what's different about you tonight. You've grown, to be sure, and so did your hair. The sun gives your hair that shocking blond tone. It's spectacular. And this colorful outfit does great things for you. And yet . . . it's the sparkle, a certain radiance, that's what makes the difference. It's devilishly feminine. Don't you
agree?” Max turns to my brother, whose eyes glare with irritation.

“Cut it out, Max. You talk too much.” My brother's annoyance at his friend astounds me. It is so unlike him—Bubi is not given to flares of temper. In a flash I understand: Bubi is protecting me from the male world. Bubi's concern is strangely reassuring. It makes me happier than I have been in years.

Bratislava, July 1, 1946

The streets of the city still slumber in an early morning haze as my rapid steps carry me toward the girls' seminary in Bratislava. From the corner of Svoradova Street I can see a group of children and adults milling about a faded yellow bus parked in front of number 7. Are these children my charges? My God, I am not ready to meet them yet.

When I reach the crowd, I make a bold attempt to escape into the building undetected. Just as I am about to pass through the front entrance, someone calls after me:
“Sle
č
na?”
Miss?

Reluctantly I turn around and face a young woman with two little children in tow. “You are with the transport, aren't you,
Sle
č
na?”

“Hm, yes. I am.”

“You see,
Sle
č
na,
these children here are going with you. I can't wait for the transport to
leave. I am late for work,” she says with a note of urgency, pushing a little girl with light brown pigtails toward me. “This is Ruti . . . and this is Marko, her brother. Come on, Marko.” The small boy, who has large brown eyes, refuses to budge. The woman gives each a light peck on the head. “Have a good time in camp.” Once again she gently shoves the two frightened children toward me.
“Sle
č
na?
Would you keep an eye on them until the transport departs?”

Without giving me a chance to explain that I am not the counselor and I know nothing about little children, the young woman is gone. Stunned, I stare after her as she boards a tram across the street. And I am left on the sidewalk with a heavy heart, a heavy canvas bag, and an even heavier responsibility for two little children I have never seen before.

Ruti, who looks about seven, pulls away from me and runs to join her little brother, who has climbed onto an enormous trunk on the sidewalk. The little boy, not more than five years old, his feet drawn up to his chest, shoots a defiant glance in my direction.

“Can you wait here?” I ask the two children.
“I have to go inside, but I'll be right out, okay?” Then, as an afterthought, I place my bag next to the children's trunk. “Can you do me a favor? Can you keep an eye on this for me until I get back?” They look at each other and nod in unison, and I sense a softening in their attitude.

Inside the building, a frantic hustle and bustle bespeaks a late start. Young men, women, and children dash in every direction, tripping over bundles of all sizes that clutter the corridor.

All at once I spot my counselor, Frieda Gelber, and hurry toward her with a sense of relief. She flashes a quick, preoccupied smile and brushes past me on her way toward a row of children lined up against the wall. She hands out a slip of paper to each child and is soon joined by another organizer who pins a yellow tag on each child's lapel. I stand there at a loss, not knowing what to do, when a voice calls out: “Ah, Elli Friedmannova. There you are. Have you been given your assignment yet?” It is Emil Block, the administrator. “Would you grab this clipboard and check each name on the list against the children
lined up in the hallways and in front of the building? Please underline the missing names. And when you're through, bring the list to my office, would you please?”

“Oh, of course.” I reach for the clipboard as if it were a lifeline. Remembering Ruti and Marko, I decide to start the roll call in front of the building. The two children's faces brighten when I approach and call their names. All the other children also respond readily when their names are called, and I feel a sense of relief. Thank God. These are normal, alert, and bright children.

I continue the roll call in the building, and here the children also respond with the same lively attention. A second list comprises the names of teenage boys. I find this group congregating in one of the rooms. At the head of the list, the name Sruli Goldstein is marked. Who is Sruli Goldstein? I have not heard that name mentioned before.

Just as I complete the roll call, a tall, young man with striking blue eyes enters the room. “Are you in charge here,
Sle
č
na?”

There is a touch of mockery in his tone. “Oh, no. I'm only checking the group against
the list. I'm only an assistant counselor.”

“Oh.” The blue eyes radiate amusement, and I feel my face turn crimson. “My name is Sruli Goldstein,” he says somewhat patronizingly. Suddenly I am tongue-tied. As I do not respond, he continues: “I'm in charge of the boys' group. We will be neighbors.”

I still cannot think of an answer. Sruli Goldstein, with the most dazzling smile and blue eyes I have ever seen, again breaks the silence: “What is your name,
Sle
č
na?”

“My name? Elli . . . Elli Friedmannova,” I stammer. Then, to make up for my awkwardness, I go on: “Leah is my Hebrew name. Leah Friedmannova. I like to be called by my Hebrew name.”

Why have I talked so much? Why have I told him I liked to be called by my Hebrew name? I've made a fool of myself.

“Glad to meet you, Leah Friedmannova.”

“Glad to meet you, too,” I mumble, and then I run down the hall to Emil's office with the list of children's names, my face burning with embarrassment.

Soon children and luggage are loaded onto the bus, and I take charge of Ruti and Marko.
Now the two little children eagerly hold my hands. We have become friends.

At the train station I see Sruli Goldstein again as he and his husky young assistant direct the group of teenage boys into the train car. Why is Sruli Goldstein mocking me?

On the train a slender, middle-aged woman introduces herself. She is Mrs. Gold, our cook. She helps arrange the children's bundles on package racks and under seats. Remembering some of their names, I manage to organize the children's seating arrangements: little ones near toilets, older ones near windows.

The train carriage is stiflingly hot, and the children complain of thirst. Frieda begins filling cups with lemonade from a huge thermos, and I am handing them out, cup after cup after cup, into a sea of small hands. By the time I get to my seat we have been traveling for almost an hour, and I am overcome by fatigue.

I close my eyes and allow a myriad of impressions to filter freely through my mind. My apprehension is gone. The Sruli Goldstein episode has dissolved into oblivion. It has
been a long day. So much has happened since I left Šamorín.

A small, sticky hand on my knee wakes me from my reverie. As I open my eyes, I stare into a pair of enormous dark eyes set in a pale, almost translucent complexion. The large face seems out of proportion to the three- or four-year-old body. It is the face of an adult.

“Tell me a story,
Sle
č
na”
The tiny, plaintive voice is barely audible. “I'm scared.”

I put my arms about the strange little figure and draw her into my lap. She seems weightless.

“What's your name?”

“I don't know. They call me Bronia.”

“You don't know? Who calls you Bronia?”

She shrugs. “Tell me a story, please,
Sle
č
na.
I'm scared.”

Who is this child? I must ask Frieda about her. But first, a story for Bronia. What kind of story would suit her?

“How old are you, Bronia?”

She shrugs again. “I don't know.”

I hope my shock does not show. What is the matter with this child? I clasp her closer to my bosom and embark on a story about a
lost kitten. Bronia's face lights up with excitement as I let my imagination run wild and spin a tale centered around a brilliant and brave little cat. As the kitten's adventures grow more and more thrilling, they start to draw an ever-growing audience. All the other children draw near, taking up positions on every available place near me. Little boys and girls sit with eyes open and mouths agape in rapt attention. Ruti and Marko, who were sitting on either side of me, now snuggle up close, Ruti resting her head on my shoulder and Marko proprietorially pressing a chubby little hand into mine.