Rena's Promise (20 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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ing line on a Sunday, embarrassed in front of the men? Will today be the day I cannot find anything to stop the flow and the SS decide to beat me to death for being unclean? Will today be the day the scrap I find gives me an infection?
I hate the smell. I hate not being able take a bath. The sink in Auschwitz was a relief, but in Birkenau there are no sinks, just faucets. It is impossible to remove the dirt and grime from my body without soap. On Sunday, if there's time, I use my red bowl for a sponge bath, although there is no sponge and the water is nothing but cold. No matter how hard, nor how often I scrub, it always feels as if something is left on my flesh. I worry that the smell of blood will attract the dogs to me. Of all camp horrors, the dogs scare me the most. I pray that if I must die, I do not die screaming.
The routine has changed slightly in Birkenau. It is easier to use the latrine in the morning because at night, after the door is shut, no one can go outside. So I try to get up before the room elders and sneak outside before the line gets too long. If that doesn't work, I use the bucket under the cover of darkness and then slip back into the bunk next to Danka for a few more precious moments of rest.
As bad as Auschwitz was, I miss it. I miss being able to wash my face and hands, I miss the straw mattress and the little blanket Danka and I both had. Now we must fight for just one blanket, and that barely covers us. In Auschwitz, the bunk beds we slept on were spacious in comparison; now there are six women per shelf. We are crowded so close that we almost have to touch.
As if that isn't bad enough, almost every day there's another transport, and more and more girl-women are filling the camp. The girls coming in from Holland still have polish on their nails.
3
3. "September 16 [1942] . . . 902 Jewish men, women, and children arrive from Westerbork . . . Holland. A first selection took place in Cosel, where about 200 men were probably chosen by the Schmelt Organization. After the selection on the unloading platform in Auschwitz, 47 men and 29 women are admitted to the camp and receive Nos. 6382563871 [men] and 1972019748 [women]. The remaining 626 people are killed in the gas chambers" (Czech, 239).

 

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There are so many more of us in this new camp than there ever were in Auschwitz; roll call takes twice as long as it used to. At the end of the day, when we're finally dismissed to our blocks, we run as fast as our weary legs can carry us to make sure we have a blanket and the best place to sleep. I have decided that we will always try to sleep on the middle tier of the shelves. The top is too high to climb up to after a hard day of work, and the bottom is too cold.
We take our bread, stepping into the dank block. Together we crawl onto the shelving, nibbling on half of our bread before collapsing into the despair of dreamlessness, crushing the other piece of bread in our hands for morning's breakfast. It is not safe in our pockets anymore. There are those who will try to pry open our hands while we sleep, to steal our food. There are those who will grab our blanket off our bodies while we sleep if we do not hold tight onto it. Some nights we come in from work and someone has taken our blanket already; some nights we wake up shivering because someone has ripped it from our hands. I cannot get up and do the same thing, though; taking someone's blanket while she sleeps is too heartless, so we huddle closer for warmth and wait until the next evening, when I will take a blanket off a bunk that has not been claimed yet. I have that right; someone has stolen ours.
In line for bread. The block elder calls out my name. "1716! You look sturdy. We're going to perform gymnastics on Saturday night. Can you do a cartwheel?" I nod my head gingerly. "Good! You want to earn an extra portion of bread?" I nod again, afraid to say no. ''Then you and a few others will come with me and practice a gymnastic routine to perform for the SS this Saturday night." I hand my portion of bread to Danka and follow the block elder and about ten other girls outside.
"We'll start with some tumbling," the block elder instructs us. "Who here can do a flip?" Two girls raise their hands. "Somer-

 

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saults? Handsprings?'' I raise my hand with a few others. We line up according to our talents and proceed to work through our paces. "Smile when you finish that round-off!" she shouts. "Hold that pose after you finish the cartwheels! Thrust your chest out! Chin up!'' It is beyond strange to be tumbling across the floor of a vacant block on a little stage. It is even stranger to try to pretend we're having fun doing these antics.
We work for about an hour before we are excused. "Okay, get some sleep. Tomorrow we'll practice a pyramid." We trudge back to the block sore and tired from the physical exertion. I can't believe they're going to force us to perform for the SS. We continue to practice our routines for two more nights.
Saturday night as we receive our evening's ration the block elder tells us, "I have gymnastic uniforms for you to wear for the show. After you eat, come to my room and I'll give you the clothes." In her room, we each get a sweatshirt and pair of shorts to change into. "You will get your extra portion of bread after the show." She reminds us of the reason we're doing this charade. "Now go change and meet me at the door in two minutes!"
A selected group of prisoners are allowed to watch. Danka is among them. The SS sit down in the back of the empty block to be as far away from the stage as possible. It was bad enough doing these tricks with no one watching, but now that the SS are watching the humiliation is ten times worse.
A bulb hangs over our performing area, lighting the plywood stage. The SS sit in chairs at the other end, eager to watch their monkeys perform. They chat merrily, enjoying their Saturday night out, as if this entertainment were the circus coming to town.
We march into the center of the lights and bow to the officers. They clap halfheartedly. The block elder beats on a drum she has organized from someplace, trying to give us a sense of rhythm. I do three cartwheels in a row. Applause. A girl does a flip. Applause. Somersault. Applause. I cartwheel in a circle. There is no smile on my face when I stand upright. Applause. The lips won't

 

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go upward no matter what I do. I can work ten hours a day, I can be starved to death and watch people die, but I cannot smileit is impossible.
The wood under our bare feet is hard and unforgiving. I complete a round-off. Applause. A girl does a split. Applause. The bottom of the pyramid lines up. The second level gets on top of their backs, then the third. I vault on top of all of them, praying they don't collapse beneath me from fatigue. Then I stand up, raising my hands over my head, opening my mouth slightly. It is not a happy face I wear, it is a questioning face, a mouth hanging like a question mark. Why am I doing this? Is it really worth a piece of bread?
The applause is mediocre. I leap to the ground. We line up holding hands, bowing to our superiors, then turn around and march, chests out, chins up, back to our block.
In the block elder's room we return the gym clothes and take our extra piece of bread, like dogs getting a bone. "Good work." She praises us. "Next time," she continues, ''I think we should try some more difficult flips." Eyes lowered, I scan the ground for some relief while splitting my portion of bread exactly in half to share with my sister.
There is not going to be a next timecan't she see how sick and tired we are? Just these few days of practice have taken their toll on our bodies. I'm afraid I have lost more weight; I know some of the other girls have. All for a piece of bread. We should have an entire meal for the work we did. I never want to do anything like it ever again. Crawling into our space on the shelf, Danka whispers, "You were good, Rena." Her voice is so sweet, so loving. My head droops. My eyelids fall. I disappear.
Somehow we figure out how many Sundays we have been in camp. This tells us it is Yom Kippur, and we fast from sundown to sundown. In my heart I pray: Oh, Lord, my Lord, please help my parents and protect them until we can return home. Tell them we

 

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are alive and that we love them. Tell Mama that I know she is watching over us through your eyes. Strengthen our faith and our bodies. Let us not falter from hunger. In your name, Lord, who is my Lord.
There is power in my prayer; it strengthens my arms and my back as we sift the sand all day. The knowledge that our God is near us lifts our spirits and we work with renewed hope in our hearts, ignoring the bread deep in our pockets and refusing the soup at lunch. In the evening, after sundown, we eat yesterday's bread for supper and save today's for morning. It is something to fast, but we are so hungry already fasting makes little difference to our stomachs. We simply do as we have done every year of our lives since we were old enough to fast on the holy day.
Danka is behind me, waiting for her soup, when the kapo accuses her of coming back for seconds, and hits her on the head with the steel ladle.
"I'm never going for soup ever again." She stands in front of me crying, her bowl empty.
"Danka, you have to get soup. They don't feed us enough for you to skip a meal."
"I'm never getting in that line again."
"Here, share mine."
"No, you don't have to do that."
"Why not? It could've been me who got hit. She just chose you because she's cruel and selfish and she wants your meal, too."
"I'm not taking yours."
"Well, you better, because I'm not taking any until you do, so you're going to let the whole thing go to waste. Come on, take some." We take our spoons, scooping together out of the same bowl. She sips it hesitantly.
"You didn't fill your spoon up as much as mine. Take some more." She takes a little more, smiling vaguely. There is a little tidbit of turnip floating around. I push it toward Danka. She

 

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