Rena's Promise (17 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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where on our bodies. I long for order and neatness, any way to feel better and not so filthy.
More Poles have arrived. Some are Gentiles and put in separate blocks from us Jews. They are better than us. Some of the Jews are from the ghettos in Krakow. There is one young girl called Janka whom we all cherish. She is just fourteen but had the guts to lie about her age on the train platform. For one so young and pretty, it is hard to believe she is also so streetwise. Her young life has been war and the ghetto, and I think she can be ruthless, but then Auschwitz is a good place to learn to be ruthless. Janka is a rare bird. She loves to flirt with the men and they give up many portions of bread for her smile and because she has news of home, and perhaps because she reminds them of their own daughters.
Our kapo, Emma, is brunette. She pulls her hair back tight against her head and wears a babushka. She is taller than most of us. Her friend Erika has blond curly hair and a pretty round face. She is slim and of medium height. Our blocks go from Five to Ten. Emma, Erika, all of the kapos live in different blocks but they are in camp with us. Only the SS live outside of the electric fences.
I haven't seen Tolek in quite a while and am worried about him. It is dusk, time to be going into the blocks, time to be getting to sleep soon so we have energy for tomorrow, but I scan the men's camp for our friend's face.
Erika walks by and then turns back. "You want to come and see our block?" she asks me. I am startled but do not show surprise. This seems like a strange offer.
"I'm not allowed. I'm Jewish." I tell her.
"Yah, of course you're Jewish or you'd be living in my block, but come see it anyway. I'll take the responsibility."
Sure, I think, you'll take the responsibility, but I'll take the beating if we get caught. The sun glows red on our faces as I follow her lengthening shadow.
She opens the door for me and I step into a world of neatly made

 

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beds and rooms where there are sheets and pillows. There is a blanket that looks thick and warm. How I'd love to have a blanket like Erika's.
''Have you ever loved a woman?" she asks me.
I come out of my revery. "Of course. I love my mama and my sister, who is here with me."
Erika smiles benignly. "Would you like to sleep here tonight?"
"Oh, no. I'd be terrified! My sister would worry, too. It's not fair that I should get to sleep on cotton sheets while she has straw." Then, fearing that I have been rude, I quickly apologize. "Thanks for asking, anyway. I can't leave my sister even if staying here meant having a good night's sleep and being warm."
Erika laughs. "You go back to your block. You're not ready for this." She leads me toward the door. "Here." She slips me an extra portion of bread. I take it quickly, not understanding why she would offer me such a nicety, not comprehending anything that has just happened. The light from the kapos' block illuminates the ground and then is severed as Erika shuts the door. I disappear into the closing night.
In our block I split the extra piece of bread with Danka. The crisp, clean whiteness of the sheets in the kapos' block haunts me. I cannot bear to think about the filth I wear, the conditions in which we are kept. Where our hands were once blistered we have grown huge callouses. My chest and legs are always red from bites and the wool rubbing against my skin. I want to scratch and scratch at the dirt on my body until there is nothing left for the bugs to gnaw on. Suddenly I am struck by an idea and take off my pants.
"Rena, what are you doing?" Danka sounds concerned.
"I'm going to fold these horrible trousers and put them under our mattress at night so they have a crease down the leg."
"Don't, Rena. It's cold."
"I want to look neat, and there is no place to wash and iron these clothes." I spit on the fold and begin running my fingers down the

 

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material, squeezing it together. "If I can't be clean, at least I can be neat." My glance falls to the floor. My shoes are filthy.
Our poor feet are too miserable to look at for long. They are no longer pink with health but pale and dyed with reddish brown stripes left by the leather straps. Soon it will be summer and at least our feet will not be cold, but now it is spring and the weather is the worst it's been in years. I spit on the leather strap, using the inside of my pant hem to polish the leather. "I can clean my shoes first without dirtying my pants too badly!" I hold the first strap out for Danka to admire.
"You're crazy."
I return to pressing the crease into my uniform before motioning for her to move. Lifting the mattress up, I lay my trousers lengthwise, smoothing them until there is not a wrinkle. I place the mattress back in its place and let Danka get back in bed. She shakes her head but doesn't say another word.
In the morning we roll off our straw pallets. I lift up the mattress, retrieving my neatly pressed pants. Shivering a little, I pull them on, tuck in my shirt, and tie them with my rope. Smoothing my trousers down my leg, I smile; the leather strap has a sheen even in the dark. What I wouldn't do for socks, as well as a bra.
"You look nice, Rena." Danka observes. We head out the door. We rarely have to use the bathroom more than once a day because of dehydration, although I try to wash both morning and night. It is more to my liking to use the facilities in the evening than to wait in the morning line and chance a beating at roll call.
We turn over the dirt in a field. Shovel after shovel, we lift the damp dirt and rocks into the air, dropping them back to the ground. Sprigs of spring grass shoots stick up from the earth. When no one is looking we sneak these little blades into our mouths. The white portions of the grass are sweet and succulent. However small, they comfort our dry throats.
The SS woman over our detail today is gorgeous. Her raven-

 

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black hair gleams in the sun. She must have had a perm. I remember the last perm I had before I came to Auschwitz. She is dressed in gray. Her skirt is tailored to her waist and her boots are polished to an obsidian gloss. Her skin is alabaster, radiant against her rosy cheeks, and her lips shine with health despite the wind.
It is a cruel day. The wind is damp and nips at us between the holes in our clothes. Her black cape keeps snapping in the wind as if teasing us, saying, Look at me! Look at me! Aren't I gorgeous? Look how far superior I am to you. She stays far away from us. We have lice. We are poison to her sophisticated senses. I cannot help but steal a few precious glances. Her beauty holds my gaze. I am in awe. We are so wretched in comparison.
She is Reichdeutsche. Her German shepherd has fine bloodlines, too; his head is not too pointed and his ears are upright, attentive to her voice, her commands. He is gray and black. He matches her outfit. Together they strut outside of the postenkette, the work boundary that separates her from her slaves. Her whip cracks against her boot. The wind cracks her cape. We shovel.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her take her army cap off her head. Her hair dances in the wind, against her cheeks. Her eyes are defiant as she looks at Emma, who is not, who will never be, her equal. She throws her cap outside of the boundary which we are restricted to work within. I quickly drop my gaze to my work. The wind is still.
"You there!" the SS woman barks. "Get my cap."
A girl looks up from her work, glancing at the rest of us, but we are busy. We are invisible. She is not. She puts her shovel down, running quickly across the field to obey the order. She does not think about it. She does not question it. She is a slave just as we all are. Hesitating before crossing the boundary to retrieve the Wardress's cap, she casts a glance back at the SS woman.
"
Schnell!
" The wardress cracks her whip. Stooping to retrieve the cap, the girl moves tentatively toward the Aryan. Her frail and skinny arm holds out the cap timidly.

 

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"Attack!" The wind grabs the order with a hiss. The girl freezes, paralyzed between fear and confusion.
The dog rushes past us, snarling. The girl's hands fly to her face. I move in front of Danka. "Don't look."
He lands on the girl's chest, driving her into the ground. Her screams lacerate the sky, rending the breath from our mouths, splitting our hearts apart. We cannot cover our ears. We cannot breathe.
The screams, oh God, those screams. There is no sound on earth as horrible.
I glance, just once. Her bloodied arms flail the air. The dog reaches her throat. Cemented before my eyes, never to rest, is her spirit as it departs, separated from her body by a dog's jaws on her neck.
There is no silence like this silence . . . empty . . . silent.
The reverberation of death. I turn over the earth. Danka follows my lead. The girls next to us lift their shovels. Nobody breathes.
We work harder than before. As fast as possible we shovel, almost hysterical, faster and faster. Our muscles ache. Our ears weep with the echo of her screams. Only the sounds of the dying are immortal in Auschwitz.
The dog pants. The wind whips her cape. The wardress pats his head. He licks his paw. "Good boy." It begins to rain. We shovel faster and faster.
"Halt!" Jarred, Emma motions for two of us to carry the body into camp. The girl looks like a little spider somebody squashed underfootso thin, so fragile. I take her arms. They are not cold. They are sticky. We march. With every step I take her head flops against my back. With every tap of her head, every step I take, her screams tear my soul. I tighten my grip, afraid that I may drop her, afraid that I might damage her further, afraid . . .
There is no silence in my head. There is only screaming.

 

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Four
A.M
.
"
Raus! Raus!
"
We roll off our bunk. My period has arrived again, even though everyone else's has stopped. I rush to the toilet. Today I am lucky; there are newspaper scraps. I stash extra in my pocket before hurrying outside to get my tea. We get counted.
Four
A.M
.
"
Raus! Raus!
"
It is Sunday. How many Sundays have we been through? We do not talk about it. Danka and I pick lice off ourselves. It is disgusting, but it is worse to have lice than to pick them off. We go outside for a look around. It is not hot yet, but summer is nearing. Some days are very warm, but I wonder if the chill will ever go away or if it is like the permafrost in Finland, always just below the surface of our skin.
"Danka! Rena!" We can barely believe our ears. Scanning the fence, we see Tolek. He is looking much better, more like the boy we used to know.
"Tolek! Where have you been? We have been so worried."
"Are you hungry?" Danka asks.
"No, no bread. I have gotten a good work detail emptying the latrines. We take the filth to the fields, where the local farmers take it to use on their crops for fertilizer. There is a kind farmer who sneaks me food from his kitchen whenever he can."
"That's wonderful."
"If you had not shared your bread with me I would never have been given such a good job. You gave me the strength to go on."
"You gave us hope, too, Tolek."
"I'm going to throw something over." That is the cue to keep our eyes peeled for danger and to be ready to hide the thing coming over the wires. The guard in the watchtower is looking in the other direction. The coast is clear. A large chunk of real bread falls at our feet.

 

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