Rena's Promise (44 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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disgust. A wheelbarrow flies toward the gallows, and prisoners carry her body to it.
"Take her to the crematorium at once. She is to die in the fire!" Her crumpled body no longer cares where it goes. Her spirit is already hovering over this world. The cart races toward the death chambers; her arm, dangling just outside of the cart, gushes her life's blood upon the soil of Poland.
"Please let her die," we pray. "Please let her die before they put her in the ovens."
Four
A.M
.
"
Raus! Raus!
"
It is hard to wake up. The vision of Mala bleeding to death disturbed our sleep and rocked all dreams of freedom we had fostered from her escape. The kettle of tea waits like a cauldron of doom. Then the whisper cascades gently through our ranks, nourishing us with what little courage we have left.
"An SS took mercy on her and shot her before she was put in the oven." Our prayers were answeredby a German, of all things.
4
It is a warm Sunday. We open the windows to let fresh air into the block. Standing at the windows, we stare at Block Five and the Brownshirts stare back at us.
Silently, we flirt. We are young and so are they; it is only natural. One of them holds a loaf of bread and points at it smiling and nodding. He runs downstairs and places a whole loaf of bread outside, then dashes back inside.
4. On September 15, 1944, the executions of Mala Zimetbaum and Edward Galiniski

* are scheduled to take place simultaneously, in the separate men's and women's camps. "Mala succeeds in preventing the execution. While the sentence is being read she slits her wrists and hits SS man Ruitters, who attempts to stop her, in the face with her bleeding hands. The execution was interrupted. Mala Zimetbaum is taken in a cart to the prisoners' infirmary to stop the bleeding so that the execution can proceed" (Czech, 710). Accounts differ on who the actual SS man was that Mala slapped, and on whether she died on the way to the crematorium or was shot before reaching the crematorium.

 

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I run down to retrieve it. He has paused at the doorway and we look at one another from our separate worlds. I smile briefly and mouth
Danke schön
before disappearing back into our block.
"Look, it's a whole loaf of bread!" We can't believe our good fortune. "How many are there of us?" We divide the loaf up into twelve chunks and inhale it hungrily.
BOOM!
We jump. Air raid sirens wail across the camps.
"
Raus! Raus!
" our block elder yells. "Follow me! Quickly! Into the basement." We run downstairs. A door opens and we cram ourselves through it, bumping into one another. We try to turn around and move apart, only to step on each other's toes. Turning around to see if there is more room somewhere else, I see an SS officer shut the door. The latch clicks.
"Don't lock us in here!" somebody wails. "Don't forget us!"
The space is suffocating. We are all terrified. What if the building collapses and we're trapped inside? The whole structure is shaking and we are crammed against each other in this small crawlspace. Flashbacks grab my mindour first night in Auschwitz, the transport from Slovakia.
"Are you afraid?" Danka's voice anchors me back in the present.
"No," I lie to her, controlling the panic that tries to steal my breath. I put my arms around her, pulling her close. My heart is pounding so loudly, though, that I switch sides, holding her against the right side of my chest so she cannot feel it.
I cradle her like a baby in my arms. Her eyes look up at me for assurance as she wraps her arms around my neck. The ground beneath us rumbles. My legs are liquid, struggling to keep us both from collapsing to the floor. Nobody moves. One girl faints, and then another. There is a huge crash outside.
Silence.
What if the building above us has been destroyed and we are buried alive? They will not save us. We are prisonersrefuse. No one will dig us out of this grave.

 

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We lose all track of time and space, trapped as we are. No one speaks. No one can move. Another girl faints, her body hits the floor with a dull thump. My skin creeps eerily under my clothes.
Silence. Time stops.
There are footsteps outside. A key scrapes against the lock. Light sears into our widened pupils, causing them to retreat too quickly. We wince. Dazed and blinded, we struggle out of our cell. Each girl clutches a friend as our weakened knees buckle struggling up the stairs into daylight. There are ambulances and air raid sirens screaming across the complexes. We look out the windows, stunned.
Block Five is gone, flattened beyond recognition. Medical teams run this way and that, carrying stretchers. Frantically, the SS work to free their fellow soldiers from the rubble, but there is no one to save, all of the Brownshirts are dead. I stand at the window avoiding the tears smarting in my eyes. I am sorry that the soldier who brought us the bread is dead. I do not understand how I can feel this way about a German soldier, but I do. I conceal my sorrow. I do not love the Germans. I hate what they have doneare doingto me, my sister, and my people, but I do not understand why somebody who was nice to us must die. I do not understand why anyone must die. None of it makes any sense at all.
Everyone is dizzy with the bombings; suddenly it seems as if the war might end someday and we are filled with anticipation masked only by our servitude. Jusek, one of the men working in the leather factory, steals a few words with Danka one day as we are passing by. It is innocent, nothing more than what might happen in the free world when people feel hope. We go into the laundry not thinking anything more about it.
Wardress Mullenders stalks in behind us. Her eyes shift slyly. "Your number is up!" She looks directly at Danka and then exits.

 

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Danka's flushed cheeks go white. She leans against the wall, covering her face.
"Maybe she is just threatening to give your number up." I try to comfort my baby sister, but I'm scared. Mullenders has no softness toward us. She is cruel.
"What will happen?" Danka looks at me for direction. "Oh, God, what will happen to me?"
I do not answer. I do not know.
That night we enter the block with our bread and tea; we sit numbly on the bunk, trying to force the food down our tightening throats. There is a bit of commotion on the other side of the room, but we pay no attention. My mind is racing. What can I do to save Danka?
Dina sits down on the bunk and says matter-of-factly, "Danka will not be getting reported."
"I won't?"
"No. Everyone has pitched in with bits of jewelry, somebody even had a watch. We bought Mullenders off."
"What can I do?" I ask.
Dina shakes her head. "Nothing, Rena. It is done." The girls around us smile, their faces shining in the dark with pride and self-esteem. This is how close we are. These girl-women with whom we have worked and lived for almost a year have saved Danka's life.
"Rena, what's wrong with your voice?" Danka looks at me worriedly.
"I don't know."
"I think we need to do something about it."
"It'll go away, you'll see."
"You said that two months ago, and it's only gotten hoarser. Now it's getting cold again. I think this is something serious."
"There's nothing I can do about it, Danka." She's right though, it hasn't gone away. I almost sound like a man now; in another few

 

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weeks I may lose the ability to speak all together. Fortunately, there's little reason to speak out loud and no one inspects our throats or voices, but this loss of my voice is reason to be selected should an SS notice it.
''I heard what you were saying," a nurse says to us quietly. "We'll bring you something from the hospital. Saturday, after roll call."
"Thank you." Danka smiles.
It is Saturday night. We chew our bread slowly waiting for the nurses to come. "Thank you for being so concerned," I tell Danka.
"I can't let you get selected," she tells me. "We have an oath." I smile. We do have an oath, but it never occurred to me before that she's just as committed to my survival as I am to hers. "I have to go watch the door." She gets up off the bunk, slipping downstairs to wait. I watch her, amazed. This is my baby sister. When did she grow up?
We are deep into the night when four nurses arrive at my bedside. Silence is imperative; if any of us are caught we will all be shot.
The nurse in charge pulls a needle out of her pocket. "I am going to inject you with strychnine," she whispers. "Give me your arm."
5
"It'll be okay, Rena." Danka strokes my brow. "You're brave. You can do this." I try to look confident for my sister but cannot muster any feeling but fear. It is her eyes that are full of confidence and courage, and I lean on her strength, fighting the urge to panic.
The needle glimmers. Her firm hand is cool on my skin as she prepares for the injection. The needle penetrates my flesh and immediately there is a burning fire raging through my body. My muscles spasm as I lurch to scream, but their hands hold me down, pressing firmly on my mouth. The pain is excruciating. I try to re-
5. "At one time strychnine was used as a tonic and a central nervous system stimulant, but because of its high toxicity (5 mg/kg is a lethal dose in the rat) and the availability of more effective substances, it no longer has a place in human medicine" (Bartlett, 534).

 

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