11

The truck came at midnight. Ephraim issued his final instructions to us with great excitement.

“The truck will take us to the wharf. The ship will probably be full of refugees. You must set an example and help the weak, the sick, and the wounded. On the ship, too, you must take care to speak in Hebrew. You must obey the captain’s orders and those of his officers, and make yourselves useful to them.”

We listened with pride. We were no longer boys lingering about after the war whom everyone tried to exploit and maltreat, but an auxiliary force in the nation’s service.

To our disappointment, reality was entirely different. Hundreds of refugees crowded on the wharf, surrounded by packages and cardboard boxes. No one obeyed instructions regarding the arrangements for boarding the ship and the size of the baggage. The quarrels were bitter and were accompanied by threats and shouts. Visions of the ghetto constantly appeared before our eyes. We, too, were forced to shove, but sturdy refugees pushed us aside.

Because of the disorder and quarrels, we were delayed, and the ship sailed only after two days of rioting.

The very next day a storm struck, and everyone began vomiting. No first-aid workers were at hand. Shouts of “Help! Help!” went unanswered. Everyone took care of himself. The feeling was that here, too, as in the ghetto, the strong and violent would survive.

Ephraim was very upset. All our preparations and training for the voyage were of no use. The idea that we would be a good example and help the weak and the sick was quickly disproved. We lay prostrate on the deck, vomiting. Only Ephraim stood strong during the storm. Every time one of us fainted, he hurried to take care of him.

The ship was tossed about for three days. The sea did what it wished with us. The violent refugees had no consideration for either children or old people. The officers begged in vain, “Help the weak.” Their cry fell upon deaf ears.

Abashed, we gathered around Ephraim. We hadn’t done what we were supposed to do. Ephraim didn’t demand the impossible. He asked only that we keep apart from the awkward refugees and make a corner for ourselves. We were so weak that we couldn’t even obey this small request properly.

Surprisingly, in that mass of humanity, I discovered a family friend, a man as close to us as an uncle, Dr. Max Weingarten, the Latin teacher in the secondary school. He used to come to our house from time to time to play chess with Father. I couldn’t believe my eyes and stood there, dumbstruck. I finally grasped his hand and said, “Dr. Weingarten.”

I didn’t tell him what had happened to me during the war. I told him a little bit about our physical exercises and language training, and about Ephraim’s method for teaching Hebrew. Dr. Weingarten was surprised.

“Without notebooks or textbooks, everything orally?” he asked. For a moment, his surprise set him apart from the mass of humanity and made his face glow. “In medieval monasteries,” he told me, “they employed similar teaching methods.”

I asked him whether he had studied Hebrew in his youth. He said yes and immediately declaimed a few sentences. I was so moved that I cried out loud, “Dr. Weingarten!” I wanted to gather up all my joy at finding that precious man, but I was so weak that I couldn’t find the words to express my happiness.

But then Dr. Weingarten recovered and said, “Wait, wait. I want to tell you some things you have to know.” I didn’t know what he meant. I was so weak that I couldn’t stand up. I collapsed alongside him and said, “Once this storm is over, we can sit and talk. I want to spend time with you.” But Dr. Weingarten was afraid of the storm that was raging, or perhaps he was afraid he wouldn’t see me again. In any event, it was important for him then and there to reveal to me things that I might not have known.

“Did you know that when he was young, your father wanted to go to Berlin and study in the rabbinical seminary?” He spoke loudly, to drown out everyone’s noise and the din of the sea.

“Was he religious then?” I was surprised.

“He was seeking his way to faith.” Dr. Weingarten spoke to me with great intensity.

“Why didn’t he go?”

“Because he started to write.”

“Did he think writing would bring him to faith?”

“I guess so.”

“I didn’t know this,” I said with my last bit of strength.

I was so weak that I couldn’t absorb any more. I asked Dr. Weingarten’s pardon and dragged myself to the corner where my comrades had gathered and collapsed.

Just then the storm died down, and I fell into a deep sleep that lasted two straight days.