I Have Lived a Thousand Years (12 page)

The sun rises and the glare becomes unbearable. We stand for over two hours, our trembling numbed into a faint echo. I am very tired.

The SS do not come. All the camp stands wearily for hours, and the SS do not show. Felicia bites her lip nervously. What happened? The
Lager
ä
lteste,
the head of the camp, a tall, thirtyish prisoner with the immobile face of an Indian chief, keeps walking away from his post near the flagpole. What is going on? The tension is unbearable.

Then, all at once, the
Kapos
come. Hurriedly, each selects his commando. Our
Kapo,
Jacko, detaches his commando without a word, and with a jerk of his head indicates that we
follow him. Follow him, just like that. Just like every other morning. Simply march in formation behind Jacko, out of the square, through the gates, in the direction of the mountain. Away from camp. Up the mountain, to the spot where we interrupted our
planierung
yesterday. Yesterday. Only yesterday I held this shovel. It is still wet. The ground is still soggy from yesterday’s rain. Only yesterday.

Just another day of work begins. No one speaks. We are alive. Alive. The sun is shining and the wet grass is brilliant green. The sky is azure. A soft, soft breeze. My tiredness turns into drowsy fatigue. In a dreamlike trance I dig into the soft earth. It is July 1944, and I am alive. Thirteen and a half, and alive. It is a clear, beautiful day.

What was happening? Why didn’t they shoot us? Had they postponed it until tomorrow?

The conversation starts slowly. Most of the girls are of the opinion that the decimation will take place tonight or tomorrow morning. Some even know of other instances, in the earlier days, when such things did take place. Quite often. The Germans would do this in order to torture the condemned inmates. They would do this daily for a week sometimes. Every evening the decimation would be announced for the following dawn, then postponed, unannounced, for another day.

But I stop worrying. I am basking in a miracle. I had known with all my heart that Mommy or I would be dead today at dawn. I had felt the pain of the entering bullet, had tasted the blood. I had seen my bloody corpse strewn in the dust among the others. I had experienced death. And now I am alive. I have seen the sun rise. I am touching the earth, the grass. I am here on the mountain. It is so simple, to be
alive. You move, you breathe, you touch. You feel the air about you. You can see, see far about you. The mountain, the people, the barracks. The sky. I stop being afraid.

There is feverish activity down below. Large trucks are rolling into the camp. The trucks discharge a great number of civilians. There are hundreds in the square and the SS surrounds them with guns drawn. They are taken into the command barrack, a few at a time, then hustled back into the trucks and driven away. More trucks come, with more prisoners. Some in dark-green overalls, or are they uniforms? In handcuffs. All are taken into the command barrack, then driven away in the trucks. This goes on all day.

Back in camp, we are totally ignored by the SS. The roll call is done by the
Lager
ä
lteste.
After
Zählappell
we are herded into our barrack and told to stay indoors.

From our windows we can see trucks with prisoners coming and going all night long. We can hear prisoners being interrogated in the command barrack.

The next day all is quiet again. All is routine. The decimation is never mentioned again. Apparently more important events replaced it on the SS agenda. Rumors had it that an entire factory had staged an uprising, management and workers, and the SS was busy with that. Others said the green-uniformed prisoners were partisans, underground fighters, from the hills, and now an offensive was being mounted against them.

Soon more rumors circulate about the partisans. It is believed that they came into the nearby hills in order to stage an attack on our camp and free the inmates. The attempt was unsuccessful, however. It was discovered just before the actual assault, and now the Germans are cracking down on
the whole countryside. Some inside contacts were discovered in the camp, and now these contacts are being used to track down partisans in the hills.

What if the partisan liberation attempt had worked! The night we spent in terror of death by decimation would have been the night of our delivery. Just like the story of Purim. But it failed, and we continue as slaves of Germany.

Yet, a miracle did occur. The episode of the factory uprising or partisan attack discovered during the pre-dawn hours of our scheduled decimation saved our lives.

H
ITLER IS
N
OT
D
EAD

PLASZOW, JULY 20-AUSCHWITZ, AUGUST 8, 1944

A shocking sight on the square—the flag with the brilliant red swastika is flying at half-mast. At
Zählappell
a whisper reverberates through the ranks.

“Hitler is dead!”

More rumors: Russian troops are rapidly advancing. Unrest in Berlin. Unrest in German ranks on all fronts. Things are converging toward the end.

On a scorching August morning, trucks pull into the camp square, and we are loaded onto them. The endless caravan of trucks pulls out of the square, out of the camp. The entire camp is evacuated.

The trucks bounce through winding roads among the familiar hills. Where are we going? The train station of Krakow comes into view. It, too, is familiar. We saw this train station seven-and-a-half weeks ago, when we arrived. Only seven-and-a-half weeks ago. Yet, long, long ago. Before I became part of death and blood and naked horror. Before I experienced decimation, tasted death itself. It was before I saw people tortured and shot. It was before I knew that there were no limits to human cruelty.

In these seven-and-a-half weeks I have changed. I have grown into a concentration-camp inmate. I have learned to live with fear and hunger and abuse. I have learned to
swallow dirt, and live worms. I have learned to endure cold, pain, and long hours of hard physical labor. I have learned to live with waning hope and cling to reality born of pretenses. I have learned to wait . . . and wait . . . and wait.

I have become very thin and very tall. My neck is long. My hair has grown, and now it stands erect, about an inch high, like a crown of yellow bristles about my head. Other girls have boyish hairdos. Some have curls framing their faces. But I have a crown of thorns like a porcupine. My cheekbones protrude so sharply that sun blisters have formed on each because of their extreme exposure to the sun. Sun blisters have blown my lips up like those of a clown.

The sun is blazing as we inundate the train station, a weary human overlay covering the platform and the field far beyond. Hours pass under the glaring sun. At long last the loading into wagons begins.

“One hundred to a wagon!” the
Kapo
snarls.

One hundred, my God! There will be no room even to sit. I hope at least one of us will get sitting space. Mommy is fading, overcome by heat. She must have space to sit.

We are shoved and pushed into the wagons. Mommy gets a spot near the wall and I sit on her legs. But soon she is compelled to draw up her legs tightly about her as more and more people are pressed into the car and complain that she is taking up too much room with her legs partially stretched out. She starts to explain that I am sitting on her legs, saving space. She is kicked and told to draw up her legs. I stand up, and she draws up her legs. I am unable to stay on my feet. I am pushed and shoved and keep falling on top of others sitting. Mommy
screams, “Leave her alone!” She tries to get up and give me her place but as she scrambles to her feet, others press into her place, and she tumbles.

More and more people are pressed into the wagon. The heat and stench keep increasing. Air is steadily drained from the wagon. Breathing is becoming difficult.

The train stands for hours. More trucks arrive. Dogs bark. Shouts. And more shouts. Then we hear a
Kapo:
“Thirty more in every wagon!”

Thirty more? That’s impossible. We are on the verge of passing out. The crowding, the heat, and the lack of air are beyond endurance. Thirty more and we will suffocate.

The inmates from Poland, the old-timers, assure us that it is possible. There have been precedents. Incidents in which more than half of the transport suffocated before they arrived at their destination.

Soon we discover that it is possible to absorb thirty more. Noise subsides as the sweating bodies are pressed closer together. Breathing is difficult. No one speaks. The lack of air imposes its own dominion. You simply comply. Sit or stand with your mouth open, eyes half closed. Do not breathe but draw in air in short gasps. Do not sit or stand upright but lean against the body next to you. Let your body go limp. Do not think. Let your mind go limp.

Mommy is sweating profusely. She is unable to wipe her brow: Someone is sitting on her shoulder. I keep mopping her face with the hem of my uniform. She closes her eyes. She falls asleep, I think. But then with alarm I realize she has fainted. What should I do? Many others faint. They are white, with their eyes closed and their mouths wide open. They are piled one on top of the other in silent heaps. The
woman Mommy is lying on has fainted also, patiently tolerating Mommy’s inert body on top of her. Earlier she grumbled every time Mommy moved, poking her with a knee or elbow. Now both are still. Their breathing is belabored, plaintive.

As the evening bears down, the heat grows more oppressive. Loud wheezing and hoarse moaning break the density of the darkness. By now I am lying drenched in sweat on a pile of bodies. Someone is lying on top of me, lifeless, wet and heavy. I cannot move. I do not know where Mommy is. She must be nearby. Perhaps in the same pile. I do not know.

Sometime during the night the train starts to move. The rattling of the rapidly moving train drowns out the sound of moaning, and I feel better. The movement of the train, the sensation of going ahead, inspires confidence. There is life in movement. Hope. Standing still is terrifying.

The train moves all night and all day. The second night we reach an area where the air is somewhat cooler. We must be traveling north. Breathing is somewhat easier. The moving train sucks in air through cracks in the wagon wall. Most people revive.

Mommy also revives. She insists that I sit in her place while she stands up. But she is unable to. I stand and crouch alternately throughout the day and the night that follow.

On the morning of the third day the train comes to a halt. The doors open and chill air rushes into the wagon. Dazed by the light and air, we scramble slowly to our feet. Some are unable to get up. I have to pull Mommy to her feet.

Men in striped uniforms drag us like rag dolls off the train. For over two days we’ve had no body space, no food,
no water to drink, and very little air to breathe. Our limbs are cramped, our lungs and brains are compressed. The freedom of space and movement is now overwhelming.

As I stagger out of the wagon, my glance falls upon the sign of the station: AUSCHWITZ

So Hitler is not dead, after all.

T
ATTOO

AUSCHWITZ, AUGUST 8, 1944

The motorcycle stirs up dust as it roars past us. Mommy has barely enough stamina to straggle along. The train ride from Krakow has drained her of energy. And of determination. She has lost her will to live. As we stagger into marching formation on the Auschwitz platform, she seems unable to grasp the mechanics of survival. She wants to stay in the wagon with those unable to walk. She is indifferent to the implication of this. She just insists that she is unable to march, and pleads with me to leave her behind.

In my alarm, I grab her arm and shake her violently. “Stop that! Do not say that! You can walk. Come. Walk!”

I pull and drag her along. Like a puppet on a string, she starts to move her legs involuntarily and keep pace. When the selection officer appears on his motorcycle alongside our rows on the road to camp, and asks straggling women whether they could work, Mommy whispers to me, “I cannot work. I cannot even walk. I will not even reach the camp.”

“Yes, you can walk. In camp we will get food. And water. And you will feel better,” I hiss between my teeth.

Now the motorcycle is coming back again. It comes to a sudden halt. The tall, heavyset SS officer in gray uniform approaches our row. My throat tightens. My heart pounds so
loud I am certain he can hear it. God, let him pass us! Let him drive on! God, save us! But I can feel his gaze. We march on, stoically dragging our feet in a desperate effort at speed, not even glancing in his direction. His scrutinizing stare pierces my awareness. He keeps pace with our row. Our row. There is no mistake about it. He is watching someone in our row!

Suddenly, his stick reaches into the middle of our row. His stick taps Mommy on the shoulder. “Hey, Grandma, can you still work?” To my astonishment, he speaks Hungarian. A
Volksdeutsche
from Hungary! An ethnic German from Hungary; a volunteer in the SS army. They were worse than the Germans.

Mommy crashes on, ignoring the question. As Mommy’s silence confirms his suspicion, the SS officer is about to reach for her arm and pull her out of the marching column. I poke her sharply in the rib and whisper under my breath, “Say yes. Say it, for God’s sake!”

She turns to the SS officer. Her voice is the thin, high-pitched screech of a bird, barely audible. “If I must, I will. I will work.”

For one awful moment time stands still. Then the officer swings back on his motorcycle and drives on. My legs tremble. Thank God. My dear God!

Mommy marches on like an automaton.

When we reach camp, we are handed slips of paper. A number is written on every slip. We are lined up to have the numbers tattooed on our arms.

The lines are long. The sun burns the top of my head. Through veils of fatigue persistent thirst penetrates. But Mommy bears it silently. Indifferently.