My Bridges of Hope by Livia Bitton-Jackson Page A

these times I am one of the pupils, listening and learning with unquenchable thirst.
    The Sabbath crowns the week with a perfect combination of the worldly and the spiritual. In the morning Sruli leads the prayers and delivers a lecture in the open, under the unfathomable sky. The afternoon is taken up by discussion groups and singing. We hold hands and dance in a circle to lively tunes, or lock arms and sway to the melancholy melodies until the shadows grow long and it is time for dinner in the dining room.
    Togetherness. Harmony of spirit. Beauty of nature. Learning. This day is closest to my idea of perfect bliss.
    On Sunday morning, a lone bicyclist appears on the front path of the villa. As he comes nearer, I recognize him. It is the mailman from the town. Mail on Sunday? He waves a piece of paper in the air. It is a telegram addressed to Sle č na Gelberova. Frieda opens the blue envelope with trembling fingers. One glance at the message, and Frieda’s face is flushed. She closes her eyes as she clutches the paper to her chestand just stands there, motionless. “My certificate!” she cries. “It has come! Can you believe it? Can you believe it?”
    The CERTIFICATE. The British immigration permit to Palestine. The passport to happiness. She is one of the lucky few to receive this coveted document. She applied over a year ago. Since then she has hoped and prayed, and then despaired of ever receiving it. And now, this morning, the miracle has happened. The certificate has reached her, here in the remote mountains.
    All the children begin to sing and dance around Frieda. Happiness overflows into the hills beyond the villa, into the trees, the clouds.
    We are due to return to Bratislava on August 25. “How wonderful,” I say. “You’ll reach the Land of Israel by Rosh Hashanah. And in the meantime, you’ll have plenty of time to get ready for the great journey. Mentally. Even physically.”
    Frieda does not hear me. “I know there’s an overnight train for Bratislava. It leaves here early in the morning. There are transports on Tuesday. I can make it for the Tuesday transport.”
    Tuesday? Which Tuesday? I must have heard wrong. I search Frieda’s face. But her face is averted.
    â€œI must pack immediately. It takes time to get down to the village to buy a ticket.”
    â€œFrieda, what do you mean, ’get down to the village to buy a ticket’? To leave when?”
    â€œTonight. I must leave tonight.”
    With mounting panic I shout, “But you can’t! You can’t leave just like that! What’ll happen to the children? Who will lead them? Who will teach them? Who will take care of everything?”
    It is only at this moment that she takes notice of my distress. “Don’t worry, Elli. I’ll send someone in my place. I’ll see to it that another counselor is sent here immediately. By tomorrow evening another counselor will leave with the six P.M . train. She’ll arrive Tuesday morning. You’ll be okay for one day, won’t you? Don’t worry, you’ll manage for one day. Elli, you’ll manage better than you think.”
    Frieda turns and, with hurried footsteps, goes to her room to pack.
    Frieda’s news reverberates through thelittle camp like an electric charge. The little ones cling to her, even the older girls cry unabashedly. Seeing the children’s reaction adds panic to my anguish. Yet I have to cope with my angst and alarm without any outward sign.
    After the horse-drawn carriage departs with Frieda, the abandoned camp resembles a wake. I am unable to console the children. I cannot make any promises. I know I cannot fill Frieda’s shoes, not even as a second-rate substitute, even if I had resources of strength and knowledge. And I am fully aware that I have neither.
    â€œTuesday morning we are getting a substitute,” is the only promise I can make. “She’ll arrive bright