I Have Lived a Thousand Years (13 page)

I notice the tattoos on one line are smaller and neater than the rest, and once again I drag Mommy to the end of that line, a much longer one. Poor Mommy. Poor, poor Mommy.

We languish hour after hour on that line. Finally, Mommy’s turn comes. I support her while she holds her emaciated arm for tattooing, and while the number A17360 is tattooed slowly, neatly, painfully on my arm.

During
Zählappell
there is a sudden downpour. We stick our tongues out and turn our open mouths to the sky. Rain drops on dry tongues, flows into parched throats. Wet, cold, wonderful raindrops. We suck in drops from our lips, hands, and arms. It rains and rains, and we lap insatiably.

Mommy is somewhat revived. She no longer needs my support but stands on her own, and, raising her face to the heavens, allows the cold rain to run over her closed eyes and perfectly sculpted cheeks. Rivulets of rain run from her cropped head down the high cheekbones, along her swanlike neck to the sloping, bony shoulders. How beautiful she is!

A new dimension has been added to our identity. A number freshly tattooed on our left arms. I am no longer anonymous. I have a name. It is A-17360.

T
HE
B
ROKEN
B
ED

AUSCHWITZ, AUGUST 8, 1944

It is nightfall when, wet and chilled to the bone, we are herded into a cell block. These barracks are different. They are unlike the partially constructed ones in the previous camp in Auschwitz or the ones in Plaszow. Is Aunt Celia still there in that camp? And Hindi and Suri? Will we ever meet them?

These Blocks are huge, elongated, brick buildings with enormous portals on each end. When you enter, you are overwhelmed by the building’s size, its height and length, by the endless rows of bunk beds reaching to the ceiling on either side. A forbidding gabled roof looms darkly above. A curious, chesthigh, brick structure runs down the middle, slicing the Block lengthwise into two equal halves. A dank, dark dread hangs in the air.

The beds consist of wooden planks, forming even squares covered with army blankets. We are permitted to get on the beds, twelve women to each square. The tiers are so low that when I’m sitting upright my head touches the tier above.

I take off my soggy dress and crawl on the lowest tier next to Mommy. I am glad to get under the army blanket on the bare wooden planks. It stills my shivering somewhat. Ignoring the din about her, Mommy is lying with eyes closed, motionless.

There is a sudden sound of crashing from above. One of
the planks in the tier above cracks, sending the women on the plank into shrieking laughter. Mother’s still body, directly below the dangling plank, is oblivious to what is happening. All other women on our level move to the side. Only Mommy remains, lying motionless, inches below the broken plank.

I attempt to rouse her, but she refuses to move. In a frenzy, I step up on the ledge to speak to the women above. I plead with them to get off the plank so as not to break it completely. But they laugh at my alarm. Food distribution is in progress, and each is eagerly expecting her turn. Not one of them pays attention to my frantic pleas.

I have no other choice but ask the
Block
ä
lteste
to help. She is a robust, pretty brunette from Slovakia who addressed us in flawless Hungarian when we came into the
Block.
We found out her name was Elsa Friedmann, and that she was sixteen, the daughter of a shoemaker from Presov. I am going to explain to her that I do not wish to get the women into trouble. I only wish the
Block
ä
lteste
to order them off the tier until it is repaired. I am sure Elsa will understand that, and not punish them for having refused my request to move.

I find Elsa at the entrance to her room. She is giving orders to her aide about the distribution of the food. As neither of them pays attention to me, I apologize to Elsa, and explain that my request is extremely urgent. Elsa glares at me. “Go back to your place immediately!”

“Please, understand. The bed is broken above my mother and she is too weak to move away. Please, tell the women to get off the cracked plank before it breaks completely and falls on my mother. Please. They will listen to you....”

My voice chokes with anxiety. Elsa looks at me incredulously. “You! You dare come here and interrupt. Get out of here, you stupid little dog!”

Her outrage is underlined by a fierce blow to my right cheekbone. My head reels from the impact of the slap. My eyes fill with tears. I run back to the bunk. The plank is dangling precariously and the women sitting on it are unconcerned, absorbed in their food. Perhaps I am wrong, after all. Perhaps the plank is not going to break. Perhaps it is all sheer hysteria on my part. I am too young and too scared and excessively concerned about my mother because I am still a child. The grown-ups know better. I thought I had grown and matured in the camp, but I still behave like a baby.

I am hurt and very tired. I lie down. next to Mommy, determined to stop worrying about the broken plank. After all, if it breaks, the women above are liable to get hurt, too, and they do not seem worried. Why am I alone such a coward?

The food is now being distributed to our tier. I manage to raise Mommy to a sitting position and place the full bowl in her lap. She begins to eat. But when I reach for my portion, the cauldron is empty. I have to wait for the next batch. I lie down again, supporting Mommy’s back with one hand.

There is a sudden loud bang. The entire upper bunk comes crashing down. I am aware of a sharp pain on my forehead: A plank has pinned me to the bed. There is broken wood all about me. Women are screaming. Naked bodies are dangling in the thick dust cloud.

Slowly I move my head to the right to see if Mommy is all right. I cannot see anything as another broken plank presses against my right cheek, blocking my view. But I hear
a thin, high wail from the other side of the plank. And again: “Yaaaaay . . . yaaaay ...”

It sounds as if it is coming from very far away. Yet I can hear it amid the noise. All at once I realize it is my mother’s voice. Right next to me. My God, she must be badly hurt.

I start to move my shoulders and realize that I am completely free, except for my forehead. Pressing against the plank with one hand, I manage to free my head also. Sliding on my back, I start to crawl out from under the debris.

I see Mommy pinned under a huge pile of wood in a most peculiar position. She is lying on her back but her head is bent forward in such a way that her face stares at me in a vertical pose. It is terrifying. Her eyes are wide open but she does not seem to see me. She keeps emitting that eerie, high-pitched wail: “Yaaay . . . yaaaay . . .”

The women are still sitting on top of the broken planks, some shrieking in pain. I begin to yell hysterically, “Get off! Get off this instant! There’s someone right underneath you. You’re crushing her to death!” Like madwomen, they keep on screaming and crying, ignoring my shouts. I begin pulling them by their arms, savagely pummeling those who pull back. I cry and yell and pound at their naked flesh.

“Ellike, what’s the matter?” It is Mrs. Grünwald, a neighbor from home. “What happened?”

I am unable to speak. I point at Mommy’s body under the rubble. Mrs. Grünwald shouts at the women, and several of them get off the bed. Others refuse. They are simply beyond caring.

With the help of Mrs. Grünwald and her daughter Use, I lift the plank that presses Mommy’s head against her chest, and start to pull her out by the legs.

“Leave that white thing alone, and help me!” Mommy cries. “What’s that white thing you’re pulling there?”

I am in shock. “Mommy, it’s your leg. I’m pulling you out by your leg. Mommy, don’t you feel it?” Mommy does not answer. She closes her eyes. The three of us manage to pull her out from under the debris and place her on top of the brick divider. She falls into a stupor. She does not respond to my voice, or to my touch.

A young fellow inmate, a doctor, tells me to find a sharp object, a pin, for instance. Someone hands me a needle, and the doctor pricks Mommy in several places. Mommy does not respond. The doctor’s face is grim as she pokes the soles of Mommy’s feet with the needle, and the lifeless body does not stir.

She puts her arm about my shoulders. “You’re a big girl now. You’ll understand. There’s no sensation in your mother’s body. She’s unconscious, and totally paralyzed. I think her spinal column is broken. She’ll never regain consciousness. It’s a matter of hours. You must be prepared. You must brace yourself.”

No! No! No! This cannot be. I will not live if Mommy dies.

I
S IT
T
RUE
A
BOUT THE
S
MOKE
?

AUSCHWITZ, AUGUST 1944

I am sitting on top of the brick structure at Mommy’s head. A steady stream of rain pours on her head from a leak in the roof directly above, and I keep wiping the rainwater off, all night long.

It’s very cold in the cell block. I am wet, and chilled to the bone. And very hungry. Because of the accident, I did not receive my bowl of food in the evening.

Mommy must be cold, too. Her feet feel like ice. But I have nothing to cover her with. I can rub her legs with my hands to warm them. I rub Mommy’s legs and wipe the rainwater off her face in turns. From time to time, I bend over her mouth and touch her lips with my cheek. She’s breathing. Thank God.

At dawn I can see that Mommy’s eyes are partially open. At times they flutter wide open, and stay open for several seconds. Please, please, let her live. I implore you. ... Let her live. If she will not, I will die, too. I cannot go on without her . . .

I must leave Mommy and line up for
Zählappell
The
Blockälteste
informs me that Mommy cannot stay in the cell block: I must remove her to the
Revier.
The
Revier
is the infirmary. Here the sick and the invalid are held for up to a month. Once every month there is a selection at the
Revier,
and those who have not recovered are removed.

Mrs. Grünwald and Yitu Singer, our rabbi’s daughter from Somorja, help me carry Mommy to the
Revier
on a stretcher.

I’m not permitted to visit Mommy at the infirmary, but Juliska, our doctor from home, brings me daily reports about her condition. But that is only in the evening, and I’m anxious about Mommy all day. Every morning after
Zählappell
I sneak to the end of the row of cell blocks, to the last one, which holds the infirmary, and hang around there. Whenever one of the staff comes out, I inquire about Mommy. Some stop and respond. Others just glare and say nothing. I then rap lightly on the wooden wall and call Mommy’s name in hopes of finding her.

Once a patient answers and says that Mommy’s bed is further on, and that Mommy is alive. Thank God.

Soon I find the exact spot where Mommy’s bed is standing. Rapping on the wall and repeatedly calling to her, I hope to raise Mommy from her stupor and stimulate her to speak. All of a sudden I notice a loose knot in the wooden wall. As I am poking it, the knot gives way and falls in. I peek inside and can see the top of Mommy’s head quite nearby.

“Mommy,” I call in ecstasy. “Mommy, I can see your head!”

Mommy answers! Her voice is tired but distinct. Her words, slow, halting, form a question: “Ellikém ... My little ... Elli. How are you?”

I cannot answer. Tears choke me. This is Mommy as I know her. She has recovered her speech. She has recovered her old self.

Daily I linger near the infirmary waiting for the right moment to sneak to the knothole and speak to Mommy. One morning she tells me she can lift her head. The next day Mommy can lift her right arm. Then she begins to sit up in bed. And then she starts to complain of hunger. Thank you, my God. Mommy is getting better. Mommy’s going to make it.

Most of the time I have to hide behind the
Revier
so as not to be discovered by the SS. Sometimes I can speak only a few words to Mommy. If I notice a guard approaching, I disappear like lightning. But those few words sustain me for the rest of the day.

One morning, as I am talking to Mommy through the knothole, an SS guard grabs me by the shoulder, and marches me to the command barrack. This is it. This is the end. How will I be executed? Will they shoot me? Send me to the gas chamber?

I am not shot. I receive a punishment. I am ordered to kneel on the gravel in front of the command barrack for twenty-four hours without food or drink.

The command barrack is far from the cell blocks, right at the entrance of the camp. The carpet of sharp, black grit upon which I have to kneel stretches to the barbed-wire fence. I have to kneel facing the fence.

Beyond the fence I can see a road flanked on the far end by barbed wire, and beyond that fence, endless rows of cell blocks identical to the ones in our camp. From the spot where I kneel, I can look down the road in both directions and see infinite rows of cell blocks like ours, covering miles and miles ... as far as the eyes can see.

The immense proportion of Auschwitz strikes me for the
first time. Never before had I had the chance to see this. A world of barracks and barbed wire.

The road is busy with constant traffic. Trucks and various military vehicles rush past. Clusters of people keep marching by, men in striped uniform accompanied by SS guards and dogs. Women drawing carts with huge cauldrons, others carrying huge cauldrons on thick wooden bars across their shoulders. Women and men in varying degrees of malnutrition.

There are some who can barely walk, and it seems they are going to collapse any moment. Others seem like darkened skeletons, yet they walk upright, without faltering. No one looks to the side. Not one of them takes notice of me. They move as if animated by a magnet pulling them into one direction, straight ahead.