be leaving Vienna almost as soon as we have arrived. We won’t be
waiting years, as Klara and Csicsi might have to in order to go to
Australia.
But I don’t feel joyful at the prospect of leaving Vienna in thirty-six
hours, of having Ęed the postwar chaos of Prešov only to bring my
daughter back to a volatile conĘict zone. I sit on the edge of the bed,
with the papers from the American consulate in my lap. I run my
fingers over the ink. Béla watches me.
“It’s a little late,” he says. That is his only comment.
“You don’t think we should discuss this?”
“What is there to discuss? Our fortune—our future—is in Israel.”
He’s right. Half right. Our fortune is in Israel, probably baking in a
boxcar in the desert. Our future isn’t. It doesn’t exist yet. Our future is
the sum of an equation that is part intention and part circumstance.
And our intentions could shift. Or split.
When I ĕnally lie down on the bed, Klara whispers to me across
Marianne’s sleeping body. “Little one,” she says, “listen to me. You
have to love what you are doing. Otherwise you shouldn’t do it. It isn’t
worth it.” What is she telling me to do? To argue with Béla over
something we have already decided? To leave him? She is the one I
expected—maybe counted on—to defend my choices to me, the ones I
have already made. I know she doesn’t want to go to Australia. But
she will go to be with her husband. She of all people should
understand why I am going to Israel even though I don’t want to. But
for the ĕrst time in our lives she is telling me not to do as she does, not
to follow her lead.
* * *In the morning, Béla leaves right away to procure the things we will
need for our journey to Israel—suitcases, coats, clothes, other
necessities provided for us refugees by the Jewish Joint Distribution