Rena's Promise (11 page)

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Authors: Rena Kornreich Gelissen,Heather Dune Macadam

Tags: #Biography & Autobiography, #Historical, #test

BOOK: Rena's Promise
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Page 53
have heard. Looking across the dingy compartment of strangers, I remember. "I'm Polish!"
"Can you read the signs we're passing?" The men in our car lift me up so I can see the signs along the tracks through the barred window high above our heads.
The wind whips across my eyes. I blink back the pain as I recognize my native tongue, my native land. "We're in Poland," I say from high above their heads.
"Where are they bringing us?" Speculation and theories are discussed, but mostly there are just more questions.
"What are they doing?" Our voices ice the air.
Then there is nothing but the sound of wheels against tracks, tracks against wheels; even the baby has stopped crying.
It is as if I am in a tunnel with no light at the end and nothing to stop the onslaught of darkness. The faces around me have changed over the days until no one is far from losing control of their minds. It is as if the world has been shorn of all color, the only hues in the spectrum being black, gray, and the white of my boots. In this dank and fetid car I determine what I must do to survive. Everything that reminds me of what once wasmy childhood, my past, my lifemust be locked away in the recesses of the unconscious, where it can remain safe and unmolested. The only reality is now. Nothing else can matter.

 

Page 55
Auschwitz
 
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Page 57
Was I born from a stone?
Did a mother not bear me?
If you cut me don't I bleed? From a Yiddish song sung by Mama
The brakes squeal with such finality that we know instinctively that our journey has ended. The doors are pushed open to a dull gray haze. We blink at the light stinging our eyes. The sign reads AUSCHWITZ.
"Get out of the car," the Germans order. We shift from blank stares to the business of collecting our belongings.
"Go quick!" Men in striped caps and uniforms prod us with sticks, whispering under their breath, "Move quickly. We don't want to hurt you." The SS aim their guns, forcing these poor prisoners to hit us so that we jump from the car. And we jump, half dead, with our luggage, if we have luggage.
It is four feet to the ground. My knees, cramped from being stationary for so long, feel as if they will snap as I land. I turn to help the woman with her baby. A stick taps my shoulder, "Go quick." I look for the eyes belonging to the voice, but there are only hollow black holes staring into my face.
"Get in line!" Orders are sharp, punctuated by whips against shining leather boots.
"Throw your suitcases over there," the SS shout.
I place mine upright, neatly, next to the growing pile, then turn to ask one of the SS guards, "How are we going to find our suitcases later?" I figure I am a human being, I have a right to ask.
"Get in line and shut up!" he yells in my face, pointing his gun

 

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at me. The hair on my skin bristles. He doesn't see that I am human.
There is an odor I cannot identify. It is not from human waste or people who have not bathed in days, although those smells are also prevalent. It is the scent of fear permeating the air around me. It is everywhere, in the eyes of the men and women around me, in our clothing and our sweat.
The baby isn't alive anymore, but its mother does not notice the limpness of the form in her arms. Her desperate grasp on its corpse spooks me. There is too much happening. Everything is so hurried, so haphazard, that there is no way to make sense of the situation. I look through the crowd for some direction, for someone to tell me why we are here and what will befall us. I see him. He stands before us, superior and seraphic, taking control, directing us to go this way or that. He is so neat and refined in his gray uniform; he is gorgeous. I smile into his blue eyes, hoping he will see me for who I am.
"Do you want to give up the child?" he asks the woman with the dead baby.
"No." Her head shakes frantically.
"Go over there," he says.
How kind of him not to point out to her that her infant is dead, I think to myself. How kind of him to send her over to the group who is obviously weaker. The elderly and the very young are gathered apart from those of us who are stronger, able to work long, hard hours. I have no idea how many men, women, and children are on the platform, but each of us is told to go either to the left or the right. The direction has no meaning to us. I wonder which way the man in gray will tell me to go.
1
Parents try to hug their children before they are taken away.
1. It has been thought that there were no selections on the train platform prior to July 1942 (source: Czech, 148), but a survivorLenka, No. 1735from Proprad, the town where the first transport originated, states that she was taken from her home because she was over the age of fifteen, while her younger sister was left behind. For some reason this system of selecting only young women was not practiced in Hummene, where
(footnote continued on next page)

 

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"We have to go work." They try to comfort each other. "You are young enough not to have to come work with us. Grandmama will take care of you, . . ." they assure their flesh and blood. ''Everything will be okay, you'll see. You'll be happier if you're not with Mommy and Daddy." Then Mommy and Daddy are separated.
I cannot bear the sound of children crying. This is madness. My mind begins to whirl. Struggling to focus on something, anything, to keep me from screaming, I stare at the man in gray. He is so stunning I am sure he must be considerate too. His orders are always obeyed. The SS around us defer to him quickly, answering, "Heil Hitler!"
His finger points. I answer by walking to the side of the other able-bodied young women. On the other end of the compound, we envy the group that will not have to work. They will go someplace warm, somewhere where they will be taken care of. It is natural to think this waywe are human beings, we assume we will all be treated humanely. I watch the proceedings with semi-fascination before lapsing into the fog where nothing needs to make sense. This is not daydreaming, this is electric shock.
Trucks come and load up the old, the sick, and the babies. There is nothing nice or caring about the way they rush them. These feeble souls are herded onto the flatbeds like so many sacks of potatoes piled on top of one another. My stomach somersaults. For one sick moment it occurs to me that maybe they're not going to be treated as well as I've been thinking, but I chase that thought away. They're in a hurry, I chide myself. There are so many of us; they have only momentarily forgotten to treat them gently.
Many of the girls next to me wave good-bye to those being taken away. I watch their stricken faces realizing that my prayer has been temporarily answered. There is no one for me to wave to, and for one brief moment I feel a tiny shred of gratitude. At least
(footnote continued from previous page)
men, women, and children were put on this same transport. It would follow that because of this oversight there was indeed a selection on the train platform in Auschwitz of the first transport of Jews and that Rena was witness to that first selection.

 

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