My Bridges of Hope by Livia Bitton-Jackson Page B

and early on Tuesday. Until then, we will all have to be brave.”
    This promise is also my only consolation.

I Will Make It After All
    The Tatras, July 8, 1946
    I have asked Mrs. Gold to wake me at dawn. I can never wake up on my own, and rising at dawn is anathema. Yet I have to make an early start. I must participate in the morning prayers with the older campers, and then help the little ones wash and dress. My God, how will I accomplish all this?
    The teens refuse to get up. “There is no point in getting out of bed,” they argue. “There is nothing to do.”
    â€œWe will work out a program,” I promise with an artificially cheerful tone. “We will work it out together.”
    â€œFrieda is gone,” they counter. “Nothing matters.”
    â€œWell,” I suggest, “perhaps we can discover things that matter. I will listen to your suggestions. We will work out a program that will make everyone happy.”
    â€œWe will never ever again be happy,” they reassure me, “now that Frieda is gone. We do not care to be happy.”
    No matter what I propose, no matter how much I reason and cajole, it is all met with a stone wall of resistance. Finally I lose my temper.
    â€œNo more arguments!” I shout. “All of you, get out of bed. This very instant! Wash and dress, and get downstairs to prayers in twelve minutes! Not a second less.”
    I rush into the bathroom and lock the door. What have I done? Why do I always lose my cool? Involuntary tears begin to flow down my cheeks. I am supposed to be a grown-up, and I behaved like a baby.
    What shall I do now? I will ignore the teens altogether. Let them do as they please. Let them fend for themselves. I will take care of the little ones only. But what happens if the little ones also refuse to cooperate?
    I wash my face and wait a few minutes. I cannot appear in front of them with red eyes. Regaining my composure, I emerge from the bathroom and with dignified footsteps make my way to the little children’s rooms. As I pass the two adjacent bedrooms of the teens, Isee they are empty. The beds are made, and the bedclothes are neatly folded on the shelves. When I reach the downstairs hall, I find the girls sitting quietly, with prayer books in hand, waiting. They are waiting for me.
    â€œFine,” I acknowledge in a firm tone. “Let’s start. Who was the pre-cantor yesterday?”
    â€œRivka!” Alice is always the first to speak. “All last week Rivka was the leader. But Frieda said from now on we’ll take turns.”
    â€œDid she appoint someone for today?”
    â€œNo, she didn’t. May I be the leader today?” Alice’s eagerness prompts her to hop up and down like a yo-yo.
    â€œThat’s not fair,” Minka, a sturdy, freckle-faced girl interjects. “I’m older than you. I should be the leader.”
    â€œI’m the oldest here. I’m fifteen and a half.” Miri, a tall, skinny brunette raises her arm. “I should lead the prayers.” I, too, am fifteen and a half. How fortunate none of the girls is aware of this.
    â€œWhat’s the difference? I’ll be fifteen next month!” Minka volunteers, her voice rising.
    I have to stop this bickering before it gets out of hand.
    â€œOkay, let’s draw up a chart according to birthdays. Whose birthday comes first?”
    The idea works like a charm. Within seconds the girls are deeply involved in making up a birthday list, and the day is saved. The prayers get off to a lively start with Miri as pre-cantor for the day, and I hurry upstairs to help the little ones get ready for breakfast.
    Marko is sitting in bed, crying. “I don’t feel well. I don’t want to get up.”
    Marko’s face is flushed. I touch his head—it feels hot. What do you do when a child has fever? I remember that Mrs. Gold had children before the war. She would know what to do. I must run to the