custom and ritual, and is zealous in performing them. Together with three brothers, Medi is a residentin the Home on Svoradova Street in Bratislava.
I see Bronia tiptoe down the stairs and slip quietly into her seat. She is the skinny little girl with the large head and enormous eyes who begged me for a story on the train and who puzzled me by knowing neither her name nor her age. Later I learned a little more about her background. When she first came to the Home, she could not speak. She gave no answers, asked no questions, did not cry, laugh, or complain. She was a silent little creature without a name, age, or history. She was part of a transport of children handed over to the
Briha
at a Polish border town. The
Briha
smuggled the children into Czechoslovakia and across the Carpathian Mountains all the way to Bratislava, looking out for the childrenâs safety. They had no time to find out about their histories.
The young girls who cared for these children in the Home believed the tiny creature was deaf and dumb, or brain damaged. She recoiled from all human contact. When the girls attempted to remove her rags, bathe and dress her, she did not claw or kick or strike out, like many other children, she only huddled in acorner like a frightened animal, silent and withdrawn. Months went by and she did not respond to the name Bronia the girls gave her, or to the affection they lavished on her.
Until one morning. The girl on duty entered the childrenâs room to help them dress, and to her astonishment Bronia greeted her by name.
âDobré ráno, Gitta!â
Good morning, Gitta! âHow are you this morning?â Bronia called cheerfully in perfect Slovak. Gitta almost fainted, but pretended to remain calm.
Soon it became apparent that Broniaâs speech and mind were unimpaired. She knew her surroundings, the names of all the children and grown-ups in the Home. But her own name she did not know. Neither did she know her age or where she came from. She knew not a word of Polish, nor did she have any recollection of other people outside the Home. So she has remained Bronia, the quiet, withdrawn little girl who has been sometimes stubborn but never violent or hostile. Bronia has been the favorite in the Home, pampered by all yet unspoiled by all the pampering.
As Bronia sits down she makes a slightscraping sound with the chair. Rivka glances in her direction, and the semblance of a smile crosses her intent face. A pretty girl with light brown hair, blue eyes, peachy complexion, and dimples when she smiles, Rivka is chanting the last paragraph of the prayer, and all the girls join in. Rivka commands her peersâ attention with natural ease. And this competence extends into the realm of personal relationships, where her easy charm softens the sense of authority. If only her mother, her father, and her siblings were alive to see her now, so lovely, with so much promise.
I am suddenly overwhelmed with pain as Rivka concludes the prayers, and all the others chant amen. So many tragedies. So many young, promising, ravished souls. What does the future hold for them?
Preparing for the Climbing Expedition
The Tatras, August 4â10, 1946
It is the first full week of August, and no counselor has arrived as replacement for Frieda.
We have settled into a comfortable routine. The older campers happily carry on with their practice of conducting prayers by themselves, and take turns preparing study sessions on subjects they learned at the Beth Jacob School during the past term. I love these sessions. They give me an opportunity to learn, and give them an opportunity to teach. I believe there is no better way to learn than by teaching, and there is also no better way to gain self-assurance. And what we teenagers need more than anything is self-assurance. We need it even more than love. Our egos are continually starved for nourishment. Will we ever be free, secure adults?
Since I cannot contribute to my
I see Bronia tiptoe down the stairs and slip quietly into her seat. She is the skinny little girl with the large head and enormous eyes who begged me for a story on the train and who puzzled me by knowing neither her name nor her age. Later I learned a little more about her background. When she first came to the Home, she could not speak. She gave no answers, asked no questions, did not cry, laugh, or complain. She was a silent little creature without a name, age, or history. She was part of a transport of children handed over to the
Briha
at a Polish border town. The
Briha
smuggled the children into Czechoslovakia and across the Carpathian Mountains all the way to Bratislava, looking out for the childrenâs safety. They had no time to find out about their histories.
The young girls who cared for these children in the Home believed the tiny creature was deaf and dumb, or brain damaged. She recoiled from all human contact. When the girls attempted to remove her rags, bathe and dress her, she did not claw or kick or strike out, like many other children, she only huddled in acorner like a frightened animal, silent and withdrawn. Months went by and she did not respond to the name Bronia the girls gave her, or to the affection they lavished on her.
Until one morning. The girl on duty entered the childrenâs room to help them dress, and to her astonishment Bronia greeted her by name.
âDobré ráno, Gitta!â
Good morning, Gitta! âHow are you this morning?â Bronia called cheerfully in perfect Slovak. Gitta almost fainted, but pretended to remain calm.
Soon it became apparent that Broniaâs speech and mind were unimpaired. She knew her surroundings, the names of all the children and grown-ups in the Home. But her own name she did not know. Neither did she know her age or where she came from. She knew not a word of Polish, nor did she have any recollection of other people outside the Home. So she has remained Bronia, the quiet, withdrawn little girl who has been sometimes stubborn but never violent or hostile. Bronia has been the favorite in the Home, pampered by all yet unspoiled by all the pampering.
As Bronia sits down she makes a slightscraping sound with the chair. Rivka glances in her direction, and the semblance of a smile crosses her intent face. A pretty girl with light brown hair, blue eyes, peachy complexion, and dimples when she smiles, Rivka is chanting the last paragraph of the prayer, and all the girls join in. Rivka commands her peersâ attention with natural ease. And this competence extends into the realm of personal relationships, where her easy charm softens the sense of authority. If only her mother, her father, and her siblings were alive to see her now, so lovely, with so much promise.
I am suddenly overwhelmed with pain as Rivka concludes the prayers, and all the others chant amen. So many tragedies. So many young, promising, ravished souls. What does the future hold for them?
Preparing for the Climbing Expedition
The Tatras, August 4â10, 1946
It is the first full week of August, and no counselor has arrived as replacement for Frieda.
We have settled into a comfortable routine. The older campers happily carry on with their practice of conducting prayers by themselves, and take turns preparing study sessions on subjects they learned at the Beth Jacob School during the past term. I love these sessions. They give me an opportunity to learn, and give them an opportunity to teach. I believe there is no better way to learn than by teaching, and there is also no better way to gain self-assurance. And what we teenagers need more than anything is self-assurance. We need it even more than love. Our egos are continually starved for nourishment. Will we ever be free, secure adults?
Since I cannot contribute to my
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