Hitler Made Me a Jew (5 page)

The Jewish Committee helped us with money. We went to Madrid and to Vigo by train.

In Vigo we didn't have much to do, Lilo and I. My parents were busy seeking out people who might take us illegally to Portugal. We had to get out of Spain before the boat to Colombia left Vigo. This was uppermost in our minds. On our way to Vigo from Madrid we met a Spanish family on the train who were also going to take the same boat. But they were going legally. They were friendly and excited to learn we would be traveling together to the New World. We couldn't tell them the truth—we wouldn't be going—alas! When we met them again in town—Vigo was a small port—we were embarrassed. We had to promise that we would dine together on board the ship. We met often. It was pitiful for us because we were beginning to like the idea of our being on that boat with these friendly people.

I was thrilled to be in Vigo, a busy foreign port city, a new culture and I saw that people survived in it. It was remarkable. As a typical French child I had believed that France was the only worthwhile country on the earth. I truly couldn't imagine people existing outside of France. Spain was a revelation: people speaking Spanish, eating Spanish food, thinking Spanish thoughts; wearing black clothes, laughing, working and being kind—so kind to strangers. I knew they had lost their Revolution and I felt for them because the French Revolution meant a lot to me. I was glad I had helped the Spanish refugees who had escaped to France when I collected money for them.

Lilo and I walked and spent long hours watching the fishermen unload their catch from their little boats and sell the fish directly from the docks. The people were dressed in old simple sturdy clothes and the fish were silver. I remember clearly being aware of the way things looked mysterious and ancient.

Chapter 8

Portugal: Illegal Border Crossing by Canoe 1943

The time had come for our departure. This time the Muchells were not with us. We were traveling with old friends of my parents from their days at the university in Liège, Belgium. They were a couple, the Lepskis, and their almost three-year-old daughter. She was very pretty with light blue eyes and golden hair. She talked like an adult with expressions of her own. She was anxious to be beautiful. To have her do as you wanted, without her crying, all you had to say was, “Don't cry, your eyes will get red!” I loved kissing her and holding her. She didn't mind. She giggled and was always in a good mood.

Our guides to Portugal were real smugglers who only occasionally took people like us across the river into Portugal. They preferred to smuggle dry goods or other merchandise, which was a more lucrative and less risky venture. We met them at midnight by the river but the moon was out—too bright that first night. They were annoyed with my father who had conveniently forgotten to tell them there would be children in our group. The boss said it was too bright and we had to wait for a darker night. He didn't know if he would take us across because of the children. An offer of more money changed his attitude. He said he had to take us to his house and he didn't want his children to know we were hiding there, so we would have to remain very still until his children had left for school.

We stayed in a room with drawn curtains so as not to be seen by the neighbors, either, and if someone entered the house, we had to freeze and not make a sound. All this wasn't so easy to do with our little girl. But at times she was so good we were amazed. It was as if she could sense the importance of the circumstances.

At one time, I remember having had to sneeze and pinching my nose to stop it. It was like torture. When the coast was clear the wife of the smuggler gave us food. We had not eaten for a day. Staying quiet and watching out was very straining particularly for Lilo and me. We were ready to explode. Then the men came to fetch us at dusk. The night was not as dark as they would have wished, but they didn't want to keep us in the house another night. It was too dangerous for them. The smugglers knew every movement and habit of the border police including when they did their rounds. They knew every tree that could be used as a brief stopover. They were very jumpy and worried about little Nicole. They fed her caramel candies to be sure she would keep quiet. Once we were near the boats they said, “You will stay low and not move as we paddle. We will be going very slowly. We can't risk making any noise.” The three smugglers were faceless in the night. They grabbed and stretched us flat on the bottom of the boat. They were deliberate in their movements and we hardly dared to breathe. Nicole, her mouth full of caramels, was motionless and silent. We could hear each other's heartbeats and at times some water dripping from the paddles. Sometimes the boats stopped short. We had no way of knowing why. We had been divided into three boats, they would all stop at the same time, wait, and start again—noiseless.

Once across the river, we ran through fields of wheat again. The grownups bent in half but, we the children, stood up straight because the wheat was tall enough to hide us. Again, we had to move fast and silently. Then we arrived at someone's hut, a small place filled with packages, which we assumed was contraband. This time they fed us canned sardines and dried bread, nothing to compare with the home cooked food the wife of the boss had given us before. We were too tired to care. We slept most of the day. I kept thinking I am now in Portugal, another foreign country for me.

In the evening they took us to the railroad station. They told us not to speak to anyone or even to one another. We were mute and deaf. There was a notice with our passports that explained we could not speak. This was the most excruciating train ride. We had to keep from talking and giving ourselves away. Every time someone opened the door of our train compartment I died of fright. This feeling has remained with me, and anything that has to do with telling an untruth to an official causes me anxiety, as if my life depends on the lie. I still fear I will be found out, uncovered and shot on the spot.

We were in Portugal illegally and on our way to Lisbon. We had no legal reason for being in the country even temporarily the way we had been in Spain when we had claimed to be on our way to Colombia. We had no idea about where we would be going next. We reached Lisbon and there we met other refugees like us. They were arriving from all over Europe escaping the Germans. Some were not Jewish, but the Joint Distribution Committee (an American Jewish organization that helped everybody) housed us in a small hotel whose manager was very nervous and kept looking sideways and forward and backward.

I met Annette, a girl my age, who became my best friend instantly while we were in Portugal. It was a relief to have a friend of my own and to distance myself from Lilo. We were living in the hotel while our papers were being processed and our stay in Portugal made legal. Annette and I were bored with nothing to do, so we decided to throw water on the hats of the ladies passing beneath our windows. We laughed so hard we could hardly straighten up again. Our targets didn't think it was funny. After they spotted us they called the police. The hotelkeeper was at a loss to explain our illegal presences. His entire hotel was occupied with refugees. There were whispers and the affair was settled somehow. My father was furious with me. He was convinced it had been my idea. Annette was overweight and had palms that were always perspiring. She was serious and very obedient. I was fond of her but I had the nagging feeling that she thought I was frivolous and light headed. She was so well behaved that she made me feel I was a bad girl.

Now that we were in Portugal my parents arranged Lilo's voyage to her uncle in Spokane. This pleased me. The thought of Lilo leaving us was a relief. She was not going to be my parents' daughter after all.

Mr. Eric Johnson was a Quaker. A Professor of History in a small college during peacetime, a conscientious objector during wartime, and the first American I met and loved. He was like Jimmy Stewart in
Mr. Smith Goes to Washington
. He was tall and gangly, with gold-rimmed glasses and beautiful regular teeth when he smiled. He told me the American way of life. Actually he was really talking to Lilo, because he was in charge of gathering Jewish children to go to America under a collective visa sponsored by the American Friends Committee. Lilo was the one ready to go. However, I listened too. He told us one could go to school in America and become anything one wanted to in life. He asked me: “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I told him, “I want to design hats.” I wanted, in truth to be a movie star, but I couldn't say it. I don't know why I said hats. I was just as surprised as my mother or Lilo to hear myself say, “I want to design hats!” Mr. Johnson thought it was a wonderful idea. He asked me more about the kinds of hats I wanted to make. I had to think fast. “Turbans,” I said. One day when he was visiting us, I showed him all I could do with towels and scarves, wrapping them around my head. He said I would have no problem being a hat designer in America. My mother was not keen about this. She didn't want me to go by myself. The more we talked about it, the more excited I was at the thought of crossing the ocean to the land of opportunity. That Lilo was leaving to go to America also made me envious.

After she left, we began to talk seriously about my going to America. Mr. Johnson was organizing a second convoy of children to be sent to Philadelphia. We discussed my preferences. Did I want to go to relatives? (We had my father's uncle living in New York but we didn't know him). Would I prefer to go to the friends of my parents? Would I like to stay with a group of children? I said I wanted to stay with a group of children rather than a private family. I thought that would be more like the experience I had had in the evacuation camp when I was with Thérèse.

Mr. Johnson was convinced it would be good for me to go to America. It would also help my mother get her visa faster if I were already there. My father was joining General de Gaulle's army. He was due to leave for Africa at the same time we were discussing my fate. I was ready to go but my mother was not sure it would be good to be separated. She wanted me to stay with her but she knew it was not safe to stay in Portugal. No one could predict what the Germans might do next. Naturally it would be safer for me to be in America but...she didn't know what to think.

At that time, we lived in Ericeira under house arrest. Ericeira was a small village resort town by the ocean near Lisbon. A tall, dark young man with a thin mustache was in charge. We had to report to him every day. The Joint Distribution Committee from America paid our rent and gave us a monthly stipend. In that way, we were able to live like royalty. When we first arrived in Ericeira with a tourist bus, the inhabitants came to welcome us with flowers at the bus station. They embraced the children, and had tears in their eyes because they knew we were refugees, that we had left our homes and everything we owned. It was a touching scene, all the more poignant because these people were shoeless and dressed in rags. They had also come to offer their services. Among them was a large lady who appointed herself our cook. She was always laughing. Who could resist such a good-natured woman?

Our house in Ericeira was as comfortable looking as our plump cook. It had beds with pillows so large they could be used as comforters. Everything was old-fashioned and immaculately clean. It felt as if we were living in a fairy tale. There were towels and napkins embroidered, surely part of a dowry that had been slowly and lovingly stitched. The house had everything one would need for a luxurious vacation.

It was the dead season and the entire resort had been assigned to the refugees by the Portuguese government. The refugees' presence made everybody happy. On the main square, there was a cafe where most people assembled. I sang the songs of Edith Piaf. It was the beginning of my career as a cabaret singer. I was fourteen, and I sang songs about women who loved the wrong men—men who told them lies, promised them everything and then dumped them when they were old and useless to anybody else. I had learned these songs on the radio. Twenty seemed so old to me then as if it would never be an age I would reach. At that time I couldn't even imagine growing old. I belted my songs with tremolos, pathos; the audience loved my singing, after all I was the only entertainment. And I loved being acclaimed.

Annette and I walked on the deserted sandy white beaches philosophizing about life and imagining what was ahead for us. Her parents were also waiting to get visas to go to America where they had family. We promised each other eternal friendship. Now that our life was routinized we became aware that we were living strange days. We didn't go to school. It didn't bother me, but I was impressed to hear Annette say we were missing important years of learning.

The day came when Annette and her parents left for America, and after she had left, life in Ericeira was boring for me. I pressured my mother anew to let me go. The departure of my boat fell on the exact day of my father's departure for Africa. My mother had to see us off from two different docks at the same time that day.

Chapter 9

Philadelphia, PA USA 1943

I waved good-bye to my mother. I saw her smaller and smaller as the
Serpa Pinto
, a Portuguese boat, left March 2, 1943 from Lisbon. I was on my way to America, alone. It hit me, in one blow, that this departure, this separation had been my own doing, my choice. And I saw the bottomless ocean around me and my helplessness. I began at this moment to lose the me I was. I felt a loss from which I never quite recovered.

The trip took twelve days. We arrived March 14, 1943 in Philadelphia, the city of brotherly love. I began to miss my parents hard, and I felt a pain forming a small ball and locating itself just below my throat.

I had no one to turn to except a redheaded German girl I had befriended on the boat and to whom I taught several French words. I don't know the exact number of children who were in our group. Many years later, L.H.F. found the passenger list where I am listed. I remember a boy who was carrying diamonds in his anus. I have exchanged memories with several friends and some stories were remembered by several people after fifty years. The boy who had the diamonds in his rectum was a Portuguese Jew whose father was a furrier. There was a reporter from Life magazine, and I have some photographs taken by a professional photographer that I believe were taken by him. I remember well that there was a US sailor who looked like a movie star. He had twinkling eyes, and I had a crush on him. For some odd reason he had been stranded in Lisbon. I was seasick for a few days and that was a new experience, as was this trip on a big boat. Otherwise it was an uneventful voyage.

We disembarked in Philadelphia. My chest felt tight and I could hardly breathe. To leave the boat—another change—was bringing forth my miserable feelings of anguish and anxiety all over again. The American authorities interviewed us on the docks. A boy told me they were the FBI but I didn't know what he was talking about. They were asking questions concerning the guides who got us out of France and Spain. One boy told me his interviewers knew all about his trip across the mountains. I was frightened with the same sensations of doom I had had when we had to travel as mutes. I didn't know what I was supposed to say. I couldn't utter anything. I kept thinking about the boy with the diamonds and that made me feel better. Imagine if I had to hide diamonds, I thought to myself.

After the interviews, The American Service Committee handed our group over to The Children's Aid Society, and we were taken to New York. Someone from the group told me they had taken us to Kingsbridge Hospital in the Bronx—I didn't remember the name of the hospital or even that it was a hospital. I remember that everything in New York was gigantic. The space of it! The white walls, sparkling glass, white glass of milk, cold milk, white slice of wonder bread, soft bread, soft toilet paper, huge paper napkins…disposable, white tiles in the immense bathrooms, stainless steel, straight lines, cleanliness and shine, bare surfaces, huge window panes and mirrors, white enameled tables, detergent smells, order and efficiency—America!

We stayed a few days in that place. Some children were sent to the Jewish Children's Home, an orphanage in Newark. Mr. Johnson had told my parents that I, too, would be going to stay in a home with children, but for some reason I was placed instead with an Orthodox Jewish family in Philadelphia on Darien Street. My parents had specified that we were not religious but that didn't seem to be important to anyone but me.

My social worker was business-like, a professional. She carried a large folder with confidential notes about me. She had come to take me to “my family,” and she spoke no French. The children in my group were the wards of the Federal Government and the social worker regularly had to send a report about each child to Washington. Washington in turn sent a copy of the report to the parents. I was still going to see a social worker for a casual visit every so often when I was in college.

My first home in Philadelphia was a brownstone with a stained-glass front door. As soon as we entered the living room, I noticed the piano, and I touched a few keys lightly. The lady of the house and the social worker smiled at each other. They were pleased, I showed an interest in something. The social worker had warned the lady that I cried a lot since I cried as soon as I had met her. The first memo in my dossier was that I cried constantly.

We had coffee, bagels, cream cheese and lox in the kitchen of the lady. These were new foods for me. I forced myself to eat because I wanted to please. I was distracted and forgot my usual sorrow for a while. I felt numb, almost as if I were not even there. I was thinking maybe everything would be O.K. Then the social worker got up. She had to go, and I felt a stab in my chest. I could not control my distress. I started to sob hysterically. I didn't understand what was happening to me. I didn't even like the social worker, but at that moment she was the one holding my folder; she was my only anchor. The lady was uneasy, and the social worker alone knew how to keep her cool. Unflinchingly she opened the door and without looking back she left us.

The lady took me by the hand and led me upstairs to “my room”—a cheerful room papered with rose flowers. Through the window, across the street, I saw a house with an American flag. As soon as I saw the flag it waved and I took this as a sign. It reproached me for having chosen to come to America. I wished I were dead. Death presented itself as a solution and thinking about it was almost a consolation. I couldn't think about my parents. I was sure I would never see them again. I felt I didn't really exist as if I were disconnected from myself. I wanted to be dead.

The lady's husband was taciturn and I was grateful. Had he made the slightest gesture toward me, I would have lost my countenance and cried. I refused to eat. I couldn't eat.

That first evening friends of the lady came to look me over. They spoke fast and eagerly with high voices. The lady told them that music is an international language and that I had touched the keys of the piano. Everyone approved. One woman, to be friendly and make conversation, asked me where I had come from. I answered, “From Lisbon, Portugal.” She exclaimed, “Oh! In England!” and I cried. Full of good will, the ladies stuffed my pockets with money.

As the days passed, I made more money wherever we went: on the bus, in the cafeteria, in stores as the lady explained that I was a refugee, that I was all alone—people wanted to help and gave me money.

The lady didn't know what to do because I refused to eat and she was worried. She kept buying me lox because I had eaten it once and she thought that I liked it. I was only happy and distracted when her husband took me riding in his car. Then I didn't cry. I liked him because he didn't talk. My other diversion was looking in their Encyclopedia for all the French words or the names of famous French people. I asked the social worker to give me French books by Balzac. She declared: “Absolutely no, it is against the policy of the agency. You must learn English. You have to forget French.”

Soon after, the social worker registered me in the local public school. She and the Principal decided that I would do best in the fifth grade because I didn't know the language and I was short. The pupils were tall but I could tell they were much younger than me. The entire morning I was in school that day I had to answer my name to every one who asked, “And what is your name?” I had to say over and over, “My name is Nadia and what is your name?” And they told me their names.

During a break, as soon as no one was watching, I ran out into the street and pushed by an instinctive urge I went to see my redheaded German friend from the boat. I ran through the streets. I didn't know where my friend lived. I wanted to hear her say the French words I had taught her. Miraculously, I found her. No one mentioned my going back to school after that. I stayed home with the lady who was religious and swayed as she prayed every morning, facing the same direction.

One day to be helpful I washed a dirty dish. I was handling it and she grabbed it from my hands, rushed into the back garden and buried it in the ground. I thought she was crazy. I didn't know about kosher laws and not mixing meat and dairy dishes.

Her son was her other big concern. He was nineteen and worked nights in a war plant. He was a good son but she complained that he kept company with a girl of dubious background and a non-Jew on top of everything! She couldn't do anything about it. As I went to bed early in the evening, I never saw him except one night when I heard him shout at his mother. I was surprised he could get away with being so disrespectful to her.

Once when the lady was out I dialed the telephone operator and in my broken English explained to her that I wanted to locate my parents' friends in Norfolk, Virginia; although I didn't know the names of the relatives with whom they were staying nor the address.

After a few days, I received a call from my father's friend, Sasha. He had been stunned to learn I was in America. He didn't know we had escaped from France. I could hardly believe I was speaking French to him, a person who knew me and my parents. I felt I was me again. Often since, I have wondered about the faceless telephone operator who had been so smart and had understood my despair on the phone. And most of all, I wondered how she did the detective work to find my parents' friends.