At the first station inside Hungary, the engineer released a long wave of steam, creating a heavy cloud. “Go!” he told Renia. This cloud obscured the escapees as they scrambled to disembark the locomotive and dash for the station. The engineer bought them tickets and showed them where to catch a passenger train to Budapest.
The ride took a day and a half, through increasingly warmer climes, during which time the comrades did not utter one word, not wanting to raise anyone’s suspicions. “The Hungarian language sounds foreign and strange,” Renia wrote. “The Hungarians themselves have semitic features. It’s hard to tell who’s Jewish and who’s Aryan.” Most Jews spoke Hungarian, not Yiddish or Hebrew. The radar that she’d developed in Nazi-ruled territory was no longer as functional. Jews were not required to wear ribbons or stars on their sleeves. There were no document checks or inspections on the train; it was probably unimaginable that they were Jewish refugees from Poland.
Then, at last, Budapest. The grand train station was crowded and hectic. The police inspected passengers’ bags. Renia passed through quickly and hurried to the address they’d been given. Moshe’s Hungarian skills were indispensable.
They took the tram to the Palestine bureau, which was bustling, echoing with German, Polish, Yiddish, and Hungarian pleas. Everyone wanted papers, everyone laid a claim as to why he or she needed to leave right away. They all deserve to make aliyah! Renia thought. The British, however, maintained their quotas and limited Jewish immigration. First in line for visas were the Polish refugees who’d endured the most terrible tortures. That meant Renia.
Renia waited impatiently for her departure date, which kept being postponed. First, her photos had not been received. Then, when the passports were ready, the visas were delayed from Turkey. The closer she was, the more nerve wracking the wait. The uncertainty was constant. “We kept thinking that something would happen that would postpone our aliyah,” Renia later reflected. “Was all the trouble we went through for nothing? The situation in Hungary is good for now, but it could change at any moment.” She had learned that life offered no stability, that moments flew past, that chances were paper thin, that the clock ruled all. She knew.
*
Renia needed the correct papers not only to make aliyah but also just to exist in Hungary. She watched as people were regularly stopped in the streets for inspections; those not registered with the police were arrested. Hitler had not invaded yet, but Jews’ rights had been curtailed. People who had long assumed that they were safe from the savagery that occurred in Poland now lived on edge.
Renia went to the Polish consulate to report herself as a refugee from Poland. The Polish captain lobbed endless questions: Was she a member of the PPR? （Communism was illegal.） No, of course she wasn’t. On the other hand, every Pole was obligated to support the Sikorski movement. Yes, of course she did.
One of the clerks asked: “Is Madame really Catholic?”
Renia told him in full certainly that she was.
“Thank God,” he said. “Until now, only Jews disguised as Poles have come to us.”
Renia feigned indignation. “What? Jews disguised as Poles?”
“Yes, unfortunately,” he answered. The performance was never ending. A photograph taken of Renia on a Budapest street in 1944 shows her coiffed and styled, wearing a tailored coat with fur-trimmed pockets, and carrying a leather handbag, the hint of a smile on her lips, entirely betraying the physical and emotional brutalities of her preceding months.
She received 24 pengo for room and board to last a few days, and a certificate that allowed her to walk around the city freely.
When she returned to the comrades, she learned that though they’d all registered as Christian Poles, the clerks had suspected that the others were Jews and did not give them money, only a certificate to show during inspections. The JDC, Renia explained, had paid the Polish consulate to turn a blind eye.
Renia never returned to that office, thinking she’d be gone in a few days. But a month later, she was still in Budapest, still waiting for her visa to Palestine.