All There Is: Book 3 — The Land of Milk and Honey

By Rita Willsher

'All There Is' presents, in four volumes, an adventurous life lived over three continents with political and personal intrigues worthy of any spy thriller. As a child, Rita Willsher, was ripped from her Czechoslovak homeland, robbed of her identity and coerced during her young adult years to a life of pretence in Israel, one of the most dangerous countries in the world. Unable to return and make a home in either country, Rita continued her travels through Europe to the other side of the world, seeking safety and freedom. As a twenty-three-year-old she arrived alone in yet another strange country, with different customs, culture and language. She started her life from the beginning once more, without means or support. This time however the country welcomed her with open arms and provided her not only with material support but also with the emotional and intellectual sustenance she craved. Rita made Australia her permanent home, where she also met her soul mate and her best friend.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rita Willsher
• Release date: Feb 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005817671

Rita Willsher

I was born in Czechoslovakia, where I spent my first 10 years. Due to dramatic circumstances that changed my life, I subsequently moved to Israel, living there till the age of 21 when I left for Europe only to abandon it two years later to migrate to Australia, where I am happily living today. My hobbies are reading, cooking, and working in stained glass. When not busy doing maintenance around my house, I enjoy writing. I am retired, a widow, and live on the NSW Central Coast.

Book preview

All There Is — The Land of Milk and Honey

Book 3

by

Rita G. Willsher

Published by Stringybark Publishing

PO Box 464, Hall, ACT 2618, Australia

http://www.stringybarkpublishing.com.au

Smashwords Edition

Copyright: Rita Willsher, 2022

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

Is that all there is, is that all there is?

If that's all there is, my friends, then let's keep dancing

Let's break out the booze and have a ball

If that's all there is.

From: Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller Is That All There Is? Sung by Peggy Lee

To my family and many friends who over the years urged me

to put my life’s story in writing.

I would like to thank my wonderful husband Trevor for his patience with me,

and all my friends and family for being part of this story.

I am indebted to Jan Royal for checking my spelling and suggesting various corrections, but any errors, omissions and possible inaccuracies are entirely my own.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

CHAPTER ONE

I felt terribly ill. No food would stay in my body longer than a few minutes after ingestion. I could not find relief in anything but a completely empty belly. And I was not the only one totally seasick. Sharing a berth in the women’s cabin, not one of the other five females could manage a decent sleep. The cabin reeked of vomit and the immense heaving of the ship left most people on board sleepless.

The Italian shipping company Adriatica, who was running the small passenger ship, was determined to take as little sailing time as possible to reach Genoa, and in spite of the winter storm and huge waves in the Mediterranean the captain decided against engaging the ship’s stabilisers, which would have made for a more pleasant and less rocky but slower journey.

Zvi had similar experiences in the men’s quarters, and all we could do was to sit in the ship’s lounge, hungry but less inclined to be seasick for the three days it took to arrive in Genoa. I remembered my first sea voyage eleven years ago and I wondered whether I had become softer as I got older.

The weather outside was cold and windy with sleet, and it was impossible to spend more than a few minutes on deck. Zvi and I did not have money to spend on alcohol or any other drinks that needed to be paid for in hard cash so we ate our meals, which were promptly evacuated into the by now soiled toilets and spent most of the time sitting wrapped in our coats in the lounge, drifting in and out of fitful naps.

As we neared Genoa, there was a palpable excitement on board. Even the grey looking seasick passengers regained some of their colour and everyone was looking forward to leaving behind the ship and its misery.

We disembarked at midmorning and our first trip was a taxi to the main railway station to reserve train tickets to Bielefeld. We found that we would have to change trains in Milan and in Basel, but that we could book our luggage direct to Bielefeld. That solved one of our main worries, as my trunk and Zvi’s large suitcase and bag were too much for us to handle, especially since we did not know where we were going! The train was leaving at 5pm that night and we were going to arrive in Bielefeld some twelve hours later.

After we spent over DM200 per ticket there remained nothing else to do but go sightseeing, but on a blustery and cold winter’s day it was not particularly pleasant. Tightly wrapped in our coats, and wearing our winter boots, hats and scarves, we set out to scale the steep streets from the harbour to the city centre.

The shops were beautifully decorated in anticipation of Christmas. Coloured lights were strung over the streets and reflected in the riot of coloured baubles and tinsel in shop windows. A chocolatier’s shop window was resplendent with chocolate figures and artfully decorated and displayed chocolates in all shapes and sizes. It made our mouths water.

As much as we wished to stroll and see more of the decorations, the bitter cold and icy wind made us seek out shelter at the railway station. At a small restaurant there we purchased the cheapest meal available and never ever before or since had a plain bowl of pasta with tomato sauce tasted better! The warmth of the restaurant and a full belly restored us to full function and we were content to sit with a cup of strong coffee until it was time to board our train to Milan.

In two hours we were changing trains for Basel, Switzerland. The trip took about five hours, running through the Gotthard Pass, but we did not see anything of the grandeur of the Alps, as it was dark and the middle of the night by now.

In Basel we had to wait for about two hours and then we boarded the international train for Germany. We had two seats in a six-seat compartment, of which only two other seats were taken. We held polite conversation in German, which we both spoke reasonably well, and then settled in for the rest of the night. Sleep came very easily to both of us and the border guards had some difficulties in waking us up to check our passports. They apologised for the intrusion and we were free to dream on. We woke up when the light outside turned into a cool and misty mid-morning and to our big surprise the compartment was empty. Our co-passengers must have alighted sometime during the night or early morning without us noticing. Refreshed we sat up and looked at the scenery passing our window.

The Northern German countryside was mostly flat, with light snow covering the fields and farmhouse chimneys belching out white smoke that seemed to hang in the still cold air before dissipating into nothingness. We were hungry again but promised ourselves a hot meal after we arrived in Bielefeld.

It was evening by the time we arrived in Bielefeld in North Rhine Westphalia. With a population of some 327,000, it used to be the place for linen and cloth production as well as a sewing machine centre. Zvi booked us a room in a cheap guest house above a pub. He told the reception that we were engaged to be married. The booking clerk gave us disbelieving looks while taking the particulars of our passports, but checked us in. After checking in and carting our heavy luggage upstairs we treated ourselves to a sausage, mashed potato and sauerkraut dinner and fell into our bed still partially clothed. I don’t think our heads hit the wide thick eiderdown pillows before we were asleep.

The next morning, I assumed the duties of a housewife and went in search of breakfast comestibles. The bakery was already open and I bought some fresh bread rolls, butter, liverwurst spread, strawberry jam and a bottle of orange juice. I was surprised at the cost of the juice, as in Israel it was cheap and plentiful, but in wintery Europe it was still somewhat of a luxury.

After breakfast Zvi went out to meet up with his contacts, while I was left to organise dinner. I did bring with me in my ship’s trunk crockery and cutlery as well as a portable solid electric hotplate and several pots, so I decided to make a stew for dinner.

There was a problem with the placement of the said hotplate, as the only suitable spot was on the bedside table, which was covered with a sheet of glass. The glass cracked from the heat of the hotplate. The other problem was the smell of frying onions and the difficulties of keeping the only window in the room open during a snow blizzard, but I managed to produce an edible dinner, complete with potatoes, carrots and capsicums.

Zvi came back crestfallen. He had not received a welcome reception at a place he had an introduction to, and there did not appear to be any chance of work going at this time of the year. He had more addresses he intended to visit in the next few days.

I continued to play the housewife, buying and preparing our food as cheaply as possible while Zvi went out every day to look for work. The receptionist leered at us and continued to give us strange looks. We had decided that he was not convinced of us getting married, even though I had a diamond ring from my father, which could be interpreted with little imagination to be an engagement ring. We reasoned that if we purchased matching wedding rings, and make enquiries about a wedding, perhaps the suspicion would go away, as at that time, it was unseemly to live together without intending on getting married, especially in the very old fashioned and stayed countries of Europe. It was very shameful and frowned upon to cohabit.

At a small jeweller’s store we chose and bought two simple nine carat gold matching wedding bands, and in the next few days we planned to find out more about having a civil marriage ceremony. All this played out as if it was an event happening to other people, not us. There was no excitement or anything akin to emotional involvement, or declarations of love. There was real fondness between us but the potential marriage was planned as one would plan a visit to a doctor, necessary for wellbeing, important, but not particularly desirable.

I still wanted to go to Denmark to study art, but it was a matter of money to survive and an introduction or a chance to work and earn money seemed a good idea if we were to stay in Europe for any length of time.

Several events conspired against carrying out our plans. The guest house owner complained about my cooking in the room, which was not allowed, he made us pay for the cracked glass on the bedside table and basically threw us out after a total of five days, as we were not married.

CHAPTER TWO

It did not faze us at all. We were ultimately on the way to Copenhagen (København in Danish) and since there was no work to be had in Bielefeld, we were off to Denmark. We packed our luggage and purchased a train ticket to København, via Osnabrück, Hamburg and Puttgarden, and again paid a premium for our heavy luggage.

An amount of DM65.60 each, secured us a second-class rail seat to Copenhagen and a long stretch of over ten hours sitting on our backside to get there. The journey north revealed even a flatter landscape than we believed possible. It was all under snow, and as far as the eye could see was more snow, the horizon joining with the bleak and grey-white land to form a boring and featureless expanse.

Coming closer to the Danish border, we saw a ghostly ship, frozen solid inside the icy landscape, seemingly a long way from the sea. It looked unreal, in the middle of a snow covered land.

The train stopped at Puttgarden. It was a ferry harbour and a village on the German island of Fehmarn, situated on an important route between Germany and Denmark known as the Vogelfluglinie which crossed the eighteen kilometres strait, the Fehmarnbelt, to Rødby on the island of Lolland.

The whole train was then loaded on a ferry for the sea crossing. We had to leave our compartment on the train and go upstairs to the lounge of the huge ferry, loaded not only with our train, but also with trucks, car and motorcycles. The ferry was massive and very impressive. The border crossing passport control was carried out on the ship and by the time the ferry reached the port of Rødby we were returning to our carriage compartment and on our way to Copenhagen.

We arrived at Copenhagen main railway station in the afternoon, with our last meal of ham filled bread rolls on the train only a distant memory. A sausage seller stand proved irresistible and we tucked into hot pork sausages accompanied by a thick slice of brown bread. The paper plate sported two seasonings, a sweet mustard and something red, which proved to be tomato ketchup. From my experience in Vienna and Germany, most sausages were served with mustard, a mild or sweeter version like the American mustard.

Ketchup was occasionally served, if specifically asked for, but its sweet taste did not go too well together with a spicy sausage, not in my mind anyway.

The ketchup in Denmark however was so sweet, it was like eating strawberry jam with a sausage. I found it totally revolting, and I stayed with the mustard and even that was a trifle too sweet for my taste. I found out later that even pickles in Denmark were far too sweet to compare with the rest of Europe, and I never got used to it.

Zvi had an address of a married Jewish friend who lived in Copenhagen and we were going to impose on his generosity and ask to stay with him for a few days, until we organised our own accommodation.

He lived not far from the station, in one of the side streets off the main drag of Vesterbrogade. He and his wife and a six-year-old son and a younger daughter resided in a flat, consisting of three bedrooms, a lounge and a kitchen, with a small bathroom and a long hallway, used to store coats, shoes and bicycles. The flat was in one of the many old burghers’ houses, usually three or four stories high with a central stone staircase, divided into flats and apartments, with high double-glazed windows and high ceilings, wonderful in summer but cold and damp in winter.

The third bedroom was more of a small storage room rather than a bedroom, full of toys, suitcases, old discarded furniture and spare boxes with mysterious contents. We found an old three-quarter bed underneath the boxes and we were given several old blankets and sheets to use.

To this day I do not know what Zvika’s friend did for work, or what he was doing in Denmark, other than trying to provide for his family. It was obvious that we were imposing, and that he struggled to provide for us, so we did our own food shopping and his wife kindly cooked the food we bought.

We stored our milk between the double-glazed windows, and it kept the milk just above zero degrees. The butter froze solid, and the yoghurt was almost frozen, but edible.

The discussions around the dinner table revealed some interesting facts about Denmark that we were not aware of before. All families living in Denmark received free Vitamin C tablets (for the whole family) during winter months. Everything was much sweeter than the rest of Europe, cakes, bread, pickles and condiments. The health care was free as was education.

However, in order to earn money in Denmark for my living expenses I would need to go to work. That was no problem, as there were jobs available to anyone that wished to work, and working visas were available, but in order to find work, I would need to learn Danish. Even that would not present a problem, as there were many private teachers willing to teach foreigners, as the friend’s wife was learning at that time. The only problem was to find the money needed for the tuition, thus the problem came around a full circle without a solution.

Zvi was in the same boat. He was willing to look and find work, but he needed to speak Danish, which he did not. I had no means of scraping together more money than I already had, and which was insufficient to keep me going any length of time without working. It was obvious that I could not stay in Denmark without work. I had to go and find work somewhere else and Germany was the logical choice as my German was very good.

Since Zvi already tried to find work in Germany and was not successful, he decided to go back home to Israel, talk to his father and see if he could borrow some more money from his father and return to Germany to meet up with me there.

We spent the rest of the Christmas holidays in Copenhagen, mostly wandering through snow covered streets looking at the decorated shops and not being able to afford anything. Zvi and his friends did not celebrate Christmas, so I was left to browse the streets alone, enjoying the Christmas sights and sounds and freezing at the same time. My three quarter imitation brown suede coat was sufficient for the relatively mild Israel winter, but it did nothing for the biting cold and the icy wind in the city.

I fared better with my boots that I bought before leaving Haifa. They were sheepskin lined and rubber soled knee-high suede boots, made in Germany and they were just right for the weather.

In a walking distance from the flat I managed to find the famous Strøget, a car free zone and collection of streets that spread out from this central thoroughfare in Copenhagen, to become a popular tourist attraction and the longest pedestrian shopping area in Europe. The street was opened only some years ago, initially for Christmas shopping, and was bound on the west by The City Hall Square (Danish: Rådhuspladsen), the central town square by Copenhagen City Hall, and on the east by Kongens Nytorv (The King's New Square), another large square at the other end.

I window shopped in my mind, deciding which of the wonderful clothes I would buy, had I had the money to spend. I did buy myself however a colourful green and orange silk scarf as a souvenir, and added a small china plate picture of the Little Mermaid from Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tales. I knew there was a statue of her somewhere on the sea front in Copenhagen, but I did not know how to get there and I did not have money for a taxi.

Tivoli, the famous amusement park I had heard about was also in walking distance and I saw it across the road, but it was open only during the summer season and I did not get to see it.

Close by was also Nyhavn (literally: New Harbour), a 17th-century waterfront, canal and entertainment district in Copenhagen. Stretching from Kongens Nytorv to the harbour front just south of the Royal Playhouse, it was lined with brightly coloured 17th and early 18th century townhouses and bars, cafes and restaurants. Serving as a ‘heritage harbour’, the canal had many historical wooden ships, and I regretted not having a camera to capture the colourful sight. The powerful smell of stale beer and drunken singing emerging from the bars below the street level added to the atmosphere.

I further discovered that the Danes were very unwilling to speak German, even if they understood it well. Their memories of WWII were still very raw and I could getter a better response in the shops speaking very poor and broken English rather than fluent German. I learned to say God Dag, (Good day) God Aften (Good afternoon), tak,(Thanks) mange tak,(Thank you very much), ja (Yes), nej (No) and used it often. The shops had many deep-frozen processed foods which were a novelty for me, and I wanted to know how to cook them. I could not decipher the instructions and made a guess at to their preparation methods, but since they seemed quick and easy, under the circumstances they would be the best solution for our needs.

In the flat we watched Scandinavian TV and I was surprised that the programmes were interchangeably in Danish, which reminded me of a German and English mix, Swedish and Norwegian, with Finnish thrown in for good measure. It seemed that the Danes understood all the other languages equally, and after a few days I could even tell in which language the programme was. The easiest for me to recognise was Finnish. When it sounded like Hungarian, I knew it was Finnish as it was totally different to the other Scandinavian languages, which had a common sound to them, some words sounding distinctly English or German.

With the Christmas holidays over, Zvi’s friend went back to work, the children went back to school and we decided that it was time for us to move as well.

Zvi suggested that I go to Tübingen in Germany, since they had a large university there, and perhaps I would be able to study there, if I could find work nearby. It sounded reasonable and I thought to myself, why not?

CHAPTER THREE

Being short of money for his return flight home, Zvi asked me to lend him enough money to buy his ticket. Reluctantly I agreed, and he promised me that he would reimburse the money as soon as I let him know my address in Germany. He then helped me to deliver my trunk to the railway station and on the 12 January 1968 I bought a train ticket to Tübingen, via Karlsruhe, Würzburg, Stuttgart and Reutlingen. Tübingen, a city in southwest Germany south of Stuttgart was a traditional university town in central Baden-Württemberg, about thirty kilometres south of the state capital, Stuttgart, on a ridge between the Neckar and Ammer rivers. About one in ten people living in Tübingen were students and I believed that perhaps there I could realise my dream to study art.

We parted on the platform, as Zvi was flying directly to Israel the next day and we promised to write and meet up again soon.

The long and uneventful journey took many hours and I spent my time reading newspapers and magazines I found abandoned in the compartment. I must have slept as well, as Tübingen was now not far away.

Upon arrival in Tübingen, I sought the ‘for rent’ notices on display in the main arrival hall and looked for one with a reasonable and affordable monthly rent. I found one that rented a room in a house, with the use of a wash basin and toilet, but without a bath or shower. The price was quite low, suitable for students and since I did not know if or when I would find work, and also considering my money, depleted by the large loan to Zvi, it suited me well.

With assistance I rang the phone number on the notice, and I was given the address of the house. I needed a taxi and assistance with my heavy trunk and after a short ride in heavy snow we arrived at the accommodation.

From the outside the house looked like any other ordinary family house in the town, a two story solidly built house with lace curtains, wide hallways and large rooms. A younger male with a farmer’s appearance helped me bring the trunk upstairs to the room I was going to rent. The room was not large. A single bed, a small table with two chairs, a massive, oak old fashioned two door wardrobe and a bedside table completed the scene. Large, single, double glazed window with wooden shutters and lace curtains looked out into the back of the house. The garden contained several bare fruit trees, their branches covered with snow.

I was shown the toilet, thankfully on the same floor along a corridor, and the bath, but since I did not pay for its use, it was not available for me. Inside the room however I had a small wash basin for washing my face and my privates, so I did not see any problems with it. There was a central heating radiator under the window that kept the room warm, but not hot. I decided to take it and paid one month’s rent in advance, which reduced my kitty ever further. Very soon it would fall to critical levels and then I had to make really difficult decisions.

The next day I set out to look for work. The local newspaper had a good section for job seekers and there I found one notice that seemed suitable. It was looking for a ledger bookkeeper at Schweickhardt Brothers factory that produced various wine and brandy vinegars. I asked the locals for directions to the factory and found that I could walk to it from my accommodation in about twenty minutes. I arrived at the factory office and was received warmly by the supervisor.

The work included ledger input for the factory accounting section and while I would start on the manual ledger entries, I would be eventually trained to use the large automated accounting machine that produced wages, not only for our office but for the whole factory. I was in awe of this enormous operation, but I was reassured that I would only take over on the machine when I was fully trained and confident in its operation.

I did not have time to think how brandy vinegar or wine and vinegar went together to produce it or even what they had in common when I started working in the accounts office few days later. I was keen to show that I was a good worker, but I had to concentrate hard on their instructions. My Viennese German was nothing like the hard pronunciation and inflection my co-workers used, and many times I had to ask for them to repeat what they said to make sure I understood correctly. They were most happy to do so, even if they had a hearty laugh on my account, but they were not mean, and I did not take offence.

Even though they knew I was from Israel, they did not show any anti-Semitic remarks or comments, and I felt quite comfortable there. Apart from the weather I did not find the work too difficult or the company unfriendly.

The working hours were from 7:30am, when we clocked on till 5:30pm, with an hour for lunch. On Fridays we worked an extra hour till 6:30pm, but then we made Feierabend (closing time for work), and celebrated it with drinks and homemade cakes brought in by the workers.

Saturdays and Sundays were free. The wages were not particularly high, but by the time I was able to recoup the cost of my rent, paid in advance, and some food, I was not out seriously of pocket.

I could not cook at home, so I used to buy bread, biscuits and tinned food and occasionally eat lunch at the pub, or a sausage with bread at the market stalls. A small electric heating iron submerged into an enamel mug heated up water for a cup of instant coffee, and milk left outside on the window ledge was kept cold for several days.

Apart from work I had no other activity. Every day I trudged through the snow and ice to work and then back home again. It was disheartening. I was cold and miserable, everything looked and felt bleak and the only thing that kept me sane was the thought that this was the absolute bottom of my existence, and anything that would happen in the future would have to be better than what I was experiencing in those moments. Funnily enough, even then I never thought of returning home as an option.

To warm up as well as to get clean, I used to go at least once a week after work to the public baths in Tübingen. Housed in an old stone and tile building, the baths provided time-controlled access to hot showers, baths, and spas. For a few DM I secured myself a small cabin with a very small change room and a hot shower and a towel for half an hour.

It took about ten minutes just to strip down to bare flesh. First were the coat, scarf and a woollen cap, followed by the pullover, blouse, vest, bra, boots, long stockings, long skirt, petticoat and finally my underpants. All these items had to be carefully placed on hooks and along a narrow wooden bench just so they did not get splashed by the water from the shower, as there was no curtain around the shower. The whole place was full of steam and everything in the entire place was damp with water droplets, settling down on everything, so to keep anything dry was akin to a miracle.

I was finally able to step under the hot steaming shower, and lather myself well, before thawing out my frozen thighs and feeling the warmth spreading into my bones. I washed my hair under the shower as well, since hairdressers cost money I did not have. After about ten minutes of ablution time, it was time to get dried and dressed again, otherwise I would be charged for another half hour should I exceed the allotted time.

With all the steam and dampness in the air, it was difficult to get dressed. Even after towelling myself dry, the body heat made me perspire and every item of clothing kept sticking to my body, unwilling to move. I had to fight with every piece just to put it on. With my hair still damp I wrapped it in a scarf, put on my woollen cap and rushed home to get my hair dry next to the central heating, where I also dried my hand-washed underwear. I felt hot and sticky but clean and relaxed and ready for a dreamless sleep.

Shopping one day in the smallish local supermarket I was approached by a male student who introduced himself as Uwe and asked me if I too was a student at Tübingen University. I replied that I wished I was, but that I was a tourist and worked at a local factory. We got to talk about University life and he asked me if I wanted to join him at the weekend. There was going to be a party at one of the residential halls of the University and I was invited.

I agreed to meet Uwe in town and we walked to the French Quarter student accommodation. The party was in a large room, with many students milling around with a glass of beer in their hand. Uwe introduced me to several of them and then disappeared into the crowd. I was able to talk to couple of the students, about the courses offered and they were many and varied such as Humanities, Theology Protestant Theology, Law, Economics and Business Administration, Medicine, Philosophy and History, Social and Behavioural Science, Modern Languages, Cultural Sciences, Information and Cognitive Science, Mathematics and Physics, Chemistry and Pharmacy, Biology and Geosciences.

Alas, Art was not one of them. Ah, well, I thought, maybe just as well, since it became clear to me that living and study expenses needed far more resources that I was able to.

After I asked and received information about the various courses, I found that I had no other common theme I could talk to the students about. They did not want to know my personal story, and I could not talk to them about their subjects as I was not familiar with any of them. They seemed to be on a different and higher level of existence, somehow separated and isolated from the normal everyday humdrum of life, in a cloud of ideas and learning that I could not be part of. I found Uwe and told him that I was going home. He asked me if I needed escort and seemed relieved that I declined. He then turned around and continued his earnest discussion with his colleagues and I left, confused and disappointed at the turn of the events.

It was towards the middle of the second month working at Schweickhardt Brothers wine vinegars factory that I was asked to the manager’s office. He wanted to see me about my working visa. I told him I did not realise I needed one, since it was not asked from me when I started to work there, but that I would be happy to get one immediately. Then came a bolt out of the blue!

He told me that the factory would be most happy to continue to employ me, but that I needed to return to Israel to obtain the necessary working visa for Germany from there. He was happy to supply me with a letter guaranteeing my employment to get the necessary visa, but it was not possible to obtain the visa in Germany. Regretfully I had to leave work at the end of the month.

I did not anticipate this kind of problem and I did not have the funds necessary for a trip to Israel and back. My pride and their lack of resources made it impossible to ask my parents for help. It was clear that I could not remain or work in Germany without a visa and I needed to rethink my plans yet again.

A letter went to Zvi in Israel, outlining my dilemma. I asked for return of the money I lent him. I told him that I was not going to be able to study art in Tübingen, and that I needed to return to Israel for the visa. In my letter however I omitted to mention that I had no intentions of returning home or wishing to see him again. I just needed my money back to make the next move and I hoped that he would send it.

Lucky for me he did, letting me know that he asked his father for the amount that he had previously borrowed from me, and that he was looking forward to seeing me when I returned to Israel.

In the meantime I had formulated a plan that hopefully would allow me to stay in Europe for a while longer. I decided to travel to Vienna and consult my uncle Walter as to what else I could do. My money arrived in time just as I finished work, and the next month’s rent was due in about a week.

After almost three months of travelling around Europe it also became crystal clear to me that the trunk and its contents were becoming an albatross around my neck. The costs and difficulties of moving it made keeping it untenable. I bought two new large suitcases and selected the absolute necessities needed for my next trip. I kept the quilt, which squeezed into one of the suitcases, one set of bed sheets, pillowcases, winter and some summer clothes, boots and couple of pairs of shoes. I kept my two favourite LPs, a small brown transistor radio, toiletries and a book I bought for the train journey.

I gave notice to my landlord and explained that I had to go away temporarily, but could he do me a favour of looking after my ship’s trunk in the meantime? He reassured me that the trunk would be stored safely until my return. I wonder whether it might still be there, waiting for me to reclaim it?

It was still wintery and very cold in the middle of March 1968 when I boarded the Trans European Express train in Stuttgart for the seven hundred and thirty kilometre journey to Vienna.

CHAPTER FOUR

I arrived with my luggage unannounced at Uncle Walter’s sport shop in Herrengasse. Surprised, he greeted me warmly and then wanted to know how and why I happened to be in Vienna.

It took a while to relate the whole story, with interruptions from customers wishing to be advised only by my uncle, even though there was another salesman working there. Aunt Helene was not in the shop. My cousin Sonja has left home in the meantime and married a certain Wozicky, and they were proud parents of a twelve months old boy called Danny.

Uncle Walter offered me as a matter of course a temporary stay at his apartment. I reassured him that I wanted to find work as soon as possible and then I would find a place of my own. He was content to have me. He asked about my previous work experiences, since we had not seen each other since we left for Israel. Father used to be in touch but of course not with the latest details of my life.

That night I had a very nice light fish dinner with Uncle Walter and Aunt Helene and the next morning I met my cousin Sonja when she brought little Danny for babysitting. I offered to take him for a walk in the park, where I used to take Yogi, the dog, who passed away some years ago, and was never replaced.

Danny was very cute, with pale blonde hair and blue eyes and also very active. He was already walking but could not resist stopping and picking up anything he saw in the street. I put him in his stroller to start with while crossing busy streets, but he wriggled and cried until I put him down in the park. He soon found the sand pit and was happy to crawl around and throw sand at me, the birds and over himself. I was not sure how to handle it, and I worried in case Sonja would get angry at the state of his clothes but could do nothing about it. He tried several times to run away, but I was able to catch him. At the end of the outing I was not sure who was tired the most, Danny or I.

In the meantime, Uncle Walter made enquiries about some vacant positions and I was told to go and present myself for an appointment with the General Manager of the Vienna Intercontinental Hotel at Johannesgasse 28, across the street from the large city park called Stadtpark. Uncle Walter did not promise that I would get the job, but because he was well known in important Viennese society circles, he was able to secure a job interview for me. How I fared at the interview was entirely dependent on me. I was very grateful for the opportunity.

I put on my best Sunday clothes, in this case my favourite pale green two-piece costume with matching shoes, handbag and my winter coat and scarf on top and at exactly 10am I knocked on the door of the general manager. He came and opened the door for me and bade me to enter. I shook his hand and sat down for the interview.

He asked me how I knew my Uncle Walter, what my work experiences were and if I would like to work in a large international hotel. Of course I would like to work here, I replied, It would be a privilege.

In that moment my father’s one-time dream when I was younger came to my mind, when he expressed his hope for me to attend the prestigious Hotel School in Switzerland, knowing very well it was not going to happen.

The interview went well and the general manager seemed well pleased with my replies. He checked my references, and then inquired about a work permit and I reassured him that I would organise for one straight away. With that he dismissed me and told me to present myself to the wardrobe department, in the hotel basement next week to start my job as the hotel foreign currency exchange cashier.

My elation knew no bounds. I could not wait to tell Uncle Walter the good news. He was pleased and told me to take time looking for accommodation until after I started work, to which I readily agreed, while at the same time being most impatient to become independent.

Next task was to apply for a work permit for foreigners. Since I was already assured a position, it was relatively simple to obtain the required piece of paper, without which you were destined to starve or beg in the streets. But a work permit was not granted without a residency permit. That was another hurdle to overcome. The residency permit agency was out in the suburbs, and I had to take the tram to get there.

Once there, I had to undergo a very detailed health check, some additional inoculations, check-up by a dentist and unless I had a work permit I would not be granted a residency permit and vice–versa. Both permits were only valid for six months, so I would need to go through the same procedure again in six months’ time.

The appointments and check-ups took several days, and my passport glowed red hot from the incessant need for its display and checks. I needed to open a bank account to which my wages would be paid, and there was absolutely no activity without the need to show my passport. It was always the first thing everyone asked for. I wondered what would happen should one lose their passport, as it was impossible to do anything in Europe without one. It would have been very difficult for a ‘non-person’ to exist there.

I started work on 20 March 1968. The work permit was dated two days earlier and valid for the duration of six months till 30 September 1968. It listed my job as a cashier.

I was measured for a company uniform and issued a sky-blue woollen skirt and jacket and a crisply washed and ironed white buttoned up short sleeved blouse. Everyone was issued with a freshly laundered shirt or blouse every day, and the uniforms were dry cleaned once a month or when needed. I had to supply my own shoes and stockings and after a few days in high heels I realised I needed to purchase some more sensible footwear.

The general manager introduced me to the front desk staff from the reception counter, as my separate little operational desk was right next to the reception desk. I had met Otmar Kukowitch, a young Austrian, a blonde young woman named Helga from Sweden, Amir from Egypt, Ante Zoric, the hotel janitor and handyman from Yugoslavia, Otto, another Austrian and Mr. Sanders, originally from England. There were others, who manned the night shift, but I mostly interacted with the regular staff, which also changed shifts, mostly coinciding with mine.

I also got to know some of the waiters in the two main restaurants, the Brasserie, which was open during the day and dispensed snacks and light meals and the main dining room which was very expensive and open only for lunches and exclusive dinners. One of their waiters caught my eye, as I thought he was very handsome and I hoped to see more of him.

Being a five-star hotel, the Vienna Intercontinental Hotel was one of the larger hotels in Vienna, but not necessarily the most exclusive. That privilege was given to a smaller and older hotel called the Imperial not far from our hotel, which hosted the English Queen Elizabeth II and many other famous personalities.

In contrast to our hotel, the Imperial was very tastefully furnished with precious, authentic antiques, walls cocooned in jewel-toned silk, and bathrooms made of marble, with only seventy-six rooms and sixty-two suites.

Our 429 rooms were large and functional, and were run on the American business model of everything to be as large as possible. The hotel was used mostly by business people, airline staff and large groups of American tourists on their once in a lifetime guided tour of Europe. Our front desk composition and the ability of the staff to speak more than one language and preferably more, had to include English, as I don’t remember any American on their tour speaking anything but their native tongue.

My English was not very fluent, but since I completed an evening Berlitz English course in Israel before I left, I did not find it too difficult to communicate with the tourists and hotel guests.

My main task was to change foreign currency to Austrian Shillings, and the exchange rate at that time was roughly S25 to $US1. I was issued with the exchange rate every morning by the hotel duty manager, and I had a float which was my responsibility. There was another exchange cashier but I never exchanged more than a few pleasantries with him, and did not know much about him at all.

I was obliged to enter all the foreign currency I changed that day in the daily register as well as issue a receipt for each transaction. Traveller’s cheques had to be signed in my presence with the guest’s room as well as their sequential numbers entered on the receipt. Cash only had to be entered as an amount, however all $US100 notes had to have their serial number recorded on the receipts as well.

Fun began when the hotel hosted various groups of guests from the Middle East. The Sheik of Qatar was a frequent visitor to Vienna, mostly to buy optical prescription glasses or shoes (always in dozen lots), as were the rulers from Oman, United Arab Emirates, Saudi Arabia and Kuwait.

At those times an unusually large entourage took over several hotel floors and our Egyptian receptionist Amir was assigned to them exclusively, for the duration of their visit, to arrange any requests they might have had, regardless of how strange or unusual they were.

On one of the trips they wished to go on a hunt, so a deer hunt was organised for them in the beautiful Austrian forests in the west of the country. The deer was then prepared and cooked by their own chefs in their suites, and a banquet was prepared, eaten in the traditional manner with cushions on the floor up in their rooms.

The Arab potentates usually did not travel without their wives, and I saw several groups of women, waiting in the lobby, black veiled from head to toe, waiting for their escort to take them shopping. Shopping necessitated money and each of the women had several $US100 travellers’ cheques they wished to cash. The problem was that only their male escort came to me with a fistful of traveller’s cheques, each signed with a different signature and no room numbers, and none was done in front of me. Being very conscious of my instructions of sighting signatures before affecting the currency exchange, especially on such large amounts, I had to consult the manager on duty as to what I should do.

He gave me a permission to cash the already signed cheques and topped up my float with the large amounts I needed to make the payout. He also advised that he would let me know when a Middle Eastern guest arrive and their room numbers, so that I can exchange money without getting the guests irritated by such questions as room number and signature. I found it all a little bizarre.

Another group of guests caused regular irritation to the front desk, whenever they stayed overnight at the hotel. These were the crews of various airlines that flew into Vienna and some of whom had a permanent booking in the hotel.

The most irritating and infuriating were the Lufthansa crews. They were always late to check out, always in a hurry and always rude, if they could not get instant service. The procedure specified that any extra expenditure, such as a juice or sandwich in their room, incurred by the members of the crew had to be paid personally by the member in the local currency. It called therefore for DM to be changed to Schillings and the extras paid to the reception in cash before checking out.

Mornings were always the busiest time at the reception, as every guest was eager to be on their way, and queues were inevitable. This did not suit the Lufthansa crew. They always demanded to be served before anyone else, as they claimed to be in a hurry to get to the airport. It did not suit the other guests who were equally in a hurry to leave, and many a time terse words were exchanged between all parties. We never had any problems with crews of the various Scandinavian airlines, KLM, or British Airlines, only with the Germans.

My morning shift started at 7am. I usually came in through the staff entrance in the basement and clocked in at 6:30am, to change into my uniform and a clean blouse, store my handbag and other personal items in my locker and pick up my float and the exchange rate for the day.

A narrow corridor and steps brought me up to the large entry hall of the hotel, a large rectangle, with dark red and richly patterned deep carpet in its centre and marble tile edging facing the park across the road.

In the middle stood a small desk occupied by the captain in charge of several bell boys. Resplendent in a dark red uniform, an imposing hat and sporting epaulets, gold braids and owning a rich baritone voice he was responsible for the movement of the enormous amount of luggage in and out of rooms and onto buses, taxis and cars. The much younger porters also wore dark red uniforms, and flitted nimbly whenever bidden to be of service to the guests.

During my stay the hotel management decided on a policy of making the staff and their names and job descriptions more Viennese and less American, so the bell boys became Hoteljungen and Gepäckträger. The manager became der Betriebsleiter and receptionist was now called der Empfangschef or die Empfangsdame if she was a female. The change was difficult on the Austrian staff and more so on the poor guests that had no idea whom to ask for if they wanted help with their luggage. I don’t know if the new approach worked or not, but no one was happy as far as I could tell.

It was especially difficult on Mr. Sanders. Originally from England and now in his late middle age and slightly thinning on top he had worked at the Vienna Intercontinental for some time and he spoke reasonable German with a very thick English accent. A typical old-fashioned English gentleman, he was very kind and patient and we had never heard him utter a bad word about anyone. He was frustrated however with the hotel instruction letters with which we were bombarded almost every other day. Coached in an administrative language and full of clauses and subclauses, with the verb typically right at the end of sentence, he had problems understanding the gist of the letter, and often asked me to explain it to him.

The reception and exchange bureau were situated on one long side of the hall, facing the glass entry doors to the hotel, and from there we could watch everything that happened in the hall. During the summer months however we were too busy to observe, instead trying to keep up with the guests’ requests. The hours ran into days, interspersed with sleep periods and an occasional outing.

CHAPTER FIVE

A month after I started work I had enough money to seek my own accommodation. I felt that I had imposed enough on my aunt and uncle and I knew that they too would be happier without me.

I started looking for a flat or room within walking distance of the hotel, as any additional costs would leave less money for me. I found a few advertisements for rooms to let, that seemed to be in my price range. I had been invited once to Helga and her husband’s flat and I realised that I could not expect to rent a flat, as theirs was a dump and not cheap at that!

Even Amir who seemed to have more money to spend than some of the others, probably from tips of the rich sheiks, lived in a tiny studio apartment with no toilet or running water in it, and had to go out into the shared house corridor for both.

The first place I visited, the location was ideal, it was only about ten minutes’ walk to the hotel, and was situated about one street back from the city park. The building was three storied, old and solid, with large windows and appeared very quiet. I rang the bell and an old woman opened the door. I told her that I came about the room and she called out to her sister, who also lived there. Both women were tall and thin, their long grey hair tied tightly in a knot, dressed in similar old fashioned dresses buttoned up to their necks, where it finished with a discrete white lace collar. They must have been spinsters, as there did not seem to be any indication of any male presence ever, as I observed walking through the apartment to the room on offer.

A large room, with two large windows had a double bed in its centre, covered with a hand crocheted lace bedspread. Along one wall was a large old wardrobe, and next to the bed was a small bedside table with a table lamp. In one corner by the window was a tiny round black table with a chair. The room was clean, affordable and full of light. I liked it and I said so. The women looked at each other and smiled. You will take it then? they asked.

Excuse me please; can I also see the washing facilities and toilet? I asked politely. The two women looked at each other again, not smiling this time.

There are no washing amenities or a toilet use included in the rent of the room, said one of the women. I was stunned.

How do you expect me to live here without being able to use a toilet? I asked incredulously.

You would have to go and use a toilet somewhere else during the day and come here only to sleep. she said earnestly, her lips pressed together to form a thin line.

I could not believe what I heard. How could anyone even think of renting a room without any basic facilities was just beyond the pale. Incredible! I told the women that I was not interested in the room after all and they just shrugged their shoulders. I wonder whether they ever managed to rent the room, and to whom.

My next stop was in Vienna’s third district, further away from the hotel, but still within walking distance. The address was Kübeckgasse 2/4 and the name I was looking for was Mrs. Menashe.

I had found my prospective landlady on the third floor of a large old building, accessible with a very slow old lift, ensconced in a lacy steel corset in the centre of the building, flanked by spiral stone staircase.

A large, matronly woman, with full heavy but still firm breasts, dressed in dark clothing as if in perpetual mourning greeted me at the door. Breathing with some difficulty, and moving slowly but deliberately she showed me the room.

Sited on a corner wall and alone on one side of her multi-roomed flat it was sunny. Large windows opened on two sides of the room, and overlooked a yard with several large trees, now still leafless. The room had a large dining table with two chairs positioned under one of the windows. The windowless wall accommodated a single bed and a free-standing wardrobe. In the corner of the room was a large steel solid fuel heater, currently inactive. The room would eventually prove to be wonderful in summer, but freezing and perpetually cold in winter. All this I was yet to find out.

Mrs. Menashe then showed me the small kitchen I could use, should I wish to cook something simple. The toilet, sink and a bath were in a corridor, dividing my room from hers. Mrs. Menashe explained that she had regular baths every Friday night and that I would be able to use the bath water after her. To my regret there was no possibility of having a shower in the bathroom but I did not care. After the last rental offer this was akin to heaven.

The monthly rent for the room would take up about a third of my monthly wages, but I liked Mrs. Menashe and the room. I decided to take it.

I found out later that she had been married to a Jewish cloth maker and