I will never know if money or jewels change hands. All I know is that
aer a series of excruciating moments, the soldiers tip their hats at
Csicsi, turn, and walk back to the station. How did I face a selection
line, sometimes every day, sometimes more than that? At least in a
selection line the verdict comes quickly.
Csicsi returns to the compartment. My heart has stopped its
frenzied beating but I can’t bring myself to ask him how he convinced
the soldiers to turn away. Our safety feels too fragile to count on. If we
speak our relief out loud we risk destroying it. We are silent as the
train moves on to Vienna.
* * *In Vienna we are little drops in the Ęow of 250,000 seeking refuge and
passage to Palestine or North America since the end of the war. We
take shelter at the Rothschild Hospital in the American-occupied part
of the city. e hospital is being used as a center for refugees Ęeeing
Eastern Europe, and the ĕve of us are assigned to a room with three
other families. ough it is already late at night, Béla leaves the room
even before I have settled Marianne into a bed. He is intent on
contacting Bandi and Marta, the friends from home with whom we
have been planning to go to Israel, to tell them where we are. I rub
Marianne’s back while she sleeps, listening to Klara’s whispered
conversation with the other women who share our room. Here at the
Rothschild Hospital are thousands like us, all awaiting help from
Bricha. When we sat at our table eating sauerkraut soup with Bandi
and Marta on New Year’s Eve, hatching the plan to start a new life in
Israel, we were building something, not running away. But now, in a
crowded room with other refugees, I realize the meaning of Bricha.
Bricha is Hebrew for “flight.” We are in flight.
Is our plan a sound one? e women in our room at Rothschild tell
us about their friends who have already immigrated to Israel. It’s not