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Paris, March 15, 1946
Sitting alone in a dilapidated Parisian hotel room, thinking ... here am I, alive, moving, thinking, planning, at times even hoping for a better future and almost all my dear ones are dead. I want to live! I have to continue to fight for a better world. But how? Where to start? What to do? Yesterday was "Esther Tanith," my Jewish birthday. I turned 26. Who would even guess it? The sorrow, pain, suffering of the last few years have changed my outlook on life, and this is mirrored in my face, my body, even my walk. My hair, once jet-black , now has lots of gray in it. I'm 26 going on 60. At times, I believe my life ended in Auschwitz. Am I only a fossil among the living? And yet, there is a strong urge in me to go on, to study, to become a medical doctor, a children's specialist, to help those in need. For this reason I left Czechoslovakia and came to France, hoping to receive my visa to the U.S.A. sooner.
The open Parisian society repels me: I cannot be, I must not be like others. Funny, how I must have blossomed into a good-looking woman! I never even considered myself pretty in the past! Yet today I'm greeted with stares from men of all ages. Some make audible remarks about my beauty and question my availability. I should be pleased, but instead I wonder. When did I become a mature, desirable woman? My teens were stolen from me. I hardly remember my early adulthood.
I watch my peers, young girls, not yet married, eager to meet young
men, attending shows, dances, all kinds of entertainment, living it
up as if there were no tomorrow. They seem to have no memory of yesterday,
how they gorge themselves on the joys of life's offerings! I watch them
with tears in my eyes singing, dancing, dreaming, hoping! I'm not one
of them. I feel like an outsider even though some of them are my own
age. Most of them want to marry, put their sorrows aside and start a
new life; they dream of husbands and children. For me it will not be
so easy. I like my independence and I believe in women's emancipation.
I couldn't be just a "mistress" to a supportive husband, let
him work all day long while I look after our house and children. No,
thank you! What was good for my mother is not good enough for me.
Paris, March 23, 1946
Alice, Minion, H–nig, and all have left early to a dance, to "have a good time," they said. Of course, I was invited too, but entertainment of this sort was not meant for me. Boys, an apČritif, music, coffee houses, how far removed it all is from me!
I was always serious-minded. I fell in love at 16 and today, ten years later, my thoughts are still with him. It was a long and difficult courtship. The war years interfered until finally, in 1943, on February 7th, we were married. No one on earth was happier than I that day. I achieved the fulfillment of my deepest desires.
But reality is stranger than fiction. Six weeks after our wedding, we found out that once more his age group was being called up to the military, that is, "forced labour". I was desperate.
Lulu left for Budapest to plead his case with higher authorities, at least to arrange some postponement. I stayed at home and my anxiety grew. So did a sickness, which had taken hold of me of late. Before Lulu returned home, I rushed to a doctor: "What is wrong with me?"
Doctor Szent Paly, head of the hospital and a personal friend of my family, looked very sober after he had examined me. "You are going to have a baby," he informed me. "Not the best prospect for a Jewish child in 1943." "But that is impossible, Doctor," I stammered. "You see, please do not laugh at me, but I am still a virgin. How can I be pregnant?"
"You are not the first such case. The child was conceived without deep penetration; your hymen is still intact. Rather than bleed, it will stretch at birth."
Lulu did not want to believe me. "A child talking about children! My G-d, how young and innocent you are!" he said. His eyes were full of tenderness and compassion when I caught him looking at me, though he was pretending to be asleep
While Lulu was away I gave up our rented apartment and moved in with my mother-in-law. I slept in the bedroom with my mother-in-law, and after his return, Lulu occupied his former room, the den. Strange arrangements for newlyweds! Soon afterward, on May 13, he left me and went to join his unit.
When the family found out that I was expecting, they were shocked and enraged. "With your husband away in these uncertain times, when Jews are persecuted everywhere and the war can last for a long time, there is only one thing to do, get rid of your pregnancy!"
I drew myself up straight, looked at them with anger and felt the bitter tears burning my cheeks. I believe I was sorry for myself. But suddenly I stopped being an obedient young girl, and became a "mother". My voice became strong and decisive when I declared my opposition to them: "No! I will not get rid of my own child, the only thing which binds me so strongly to Lulu. I do not want your support and I did not ask for your advice. I want this child more than anything in the world! Don't worry! I am strong and able to work, I will support the baby myself, come what may!
I gave birth to a healthy little boy on November 30, 1943: my unforgettable little Simon Baruchly--Michael Andrew.
But back to the girls. No, I cannot be one of them, yet at times I envy their attitude, so full of desire and hope for a new beginning. How easily they forget our recent misery--the forced labour camps, the ghettoes, Auschwitz, the selections, the gas chambers, our deep degradations at the hands of the Germans, until we were not human beings any more.
My thoughts carry me back to Ungvar, to the poverty of my parents' home, where there was no money to buy wood to heat our small apartment, where I was embarrassed to bring my boyfriend, where there was not enough money for food or doctors' bills, so that they kept postponing my father's much-needed operation. There was no money for a wedding either, so that only our immediate family could attend the ceremony. Two days before our wedding, I was still at work, as every cent was needed. My gown, shoes, veil, even my stockings were borrowed--yet I was happy, for I got the man I wanted. And so we settled into a furnished room, which we rented for only a month. The next Wednesday (three days after the wedding) I was back at work. Lulu resented it, called it unfair, but I explained that I had to continue to support my parents. I could not ask him for money, after all, he had married me without any dowry (dowries were customary in our country at that time). He was upset, but relented, the same way as he agreed to my suggestion of renting a furnished room. He had a house of his own, where his mother and sister were living, so he did not understand why we could not occupy a room there. But I preferred the privacy of our own lodgings, so we took a rented, furnished room.
In our city, Lulu was considered a wealthy man. But his stingy nature proved to be the same as that of my mother, from whom I wanted to run away. He was not thoughtful--just the opposite. He complained a great deal, for he wanted to be sure that I did not marry him for money or possessions.
I continued to work in Okemence, about twenty miles from Ungvar. Because I am a Jew, I was fired from my former job; only Aryans were permitted to work at such a big firm. A friend of mine from the mill, a non-Jew, opened his own premises there and employed me unofficially. I kept his books, did his correspondence, billed invoices, etc., and mainly counted the hours and minutes until I could finally run to the train which took me back to Ungvar, to my beloved, to his open arms, so that I could recount the day's events. But Lulu, who was also barred from other professions, had to spend his time the whole day long with uneducated peasants, pinching pennies, and he invariably came home upset, depressed and tired. He dampened my joyful mood with his sad and mournful face, his beaten, disillusioned disposition, his drooping shoulders, and his mute silence. Looking at him made me weep. I suddenly lost all my hopes, desires, optimism; I felt old and unwanted.
My husband ate supper with his mother, as well as lunch. As for me, I too continued to eat with my parents, as I had done before our marriage. This was extremely difficult for me, for they lived very far from our apartment, and the only way I could get there was on foot. The only meals we took together were on the Sabbath, either in his parents' home or in mine. This terrible arrangement lasted until Lulu was drafted. With it, an estrangement took place in our sentiments. No one could be blamed for it, but the idealistic love we were reaching towards before we were married disappeared very rapidly.
It was March, but spring was only on the pages of our calendar. In reality, the weather was cold and I often shivered inside our house. If I did not arrange for wood delivery, Lulu did not care. With numbed fingers I often sat and mended his stockings, washed or ironed, after work, so that my husband would have clean shirts and mended socks to wear. While I was engaged in this housework, Lulu would read the daily paper, until he became drowsy, then he would go to bed. By the time I could go to bed, he was sound asleep. Should I have awakened him? Instead, I cried myself to sleep.
Paris, March 27, 1946
Yesterday I attended the wedding of Katz Rajzku and Klein Suli. The sight of the Persian fur coats and silver fox capes on the well-dressed "New Parisian" women, with their huge diamonds and red-painted nails, made me physically ill. I knew most of them. They were refugees like myself--and look what a difference one year made in them! I listened to their stupid, inane, superficial conversation, and wondered: "Is this why the world hates us? Why do Jewish women have to be so visible? So loud? So vulgar?"
Only a year ago, most of them were still in Auschwitz or Bergen-Belsen, clothed in torn rags, barefoot, or wearing worn, unmatched shoes, wandering the crowded lager streets, sick and senseless. All around us, piled-up corpses of friends and relatives decomposed. The stench was unbearable, especially when the rays of the sun gave life to new bacteria. How the "musulmans" dragged their emaciated bodies...only bones, covered by dried-out skin. The flesh had wasted away long ago from hunger. On the other hand, we also saw another type, who became blown up from hunger, their face, their legs, all swollen. They only wobbled, knowing the end was near. Typhus was raging all around us. Not a drop of water was available. We all knew that our days were numbered.
There is an equality in the finality of death. At least 300 people died every day among our women in Bergen-Belsen. Those who survived the bout of typhus had enormous appetites, and there was nothing to eat. How they fought for a raw carrot or potato peels!
The lagerstrasse was crowded with corpses. Oh my G-d, look, here is a friend, here a relative, a neighbour-oh, no-my best childhood friend, too! I wept bitterly when I recognized her. No one came to bury our dead! There they lay, some with open eyes, where their last strength had carried them. I met the Angel of Death. There he stood before me, behind me, next to me--and he was grinning as if to say, "Don't fight, you will be mine, soon anyway!" I wasn't afraid of death. Those who stayed behind, envied those who passed away. I was afraid of more suffering, but not of death!
That was exactly one year ago. Is there any human precept to explain the behaviour of these survivors? Fancy clothes, jewelry, furs--will they never learn?
I was about to leave, when I was forced into an automobile. The happy young newlyweds greeted me. The car stopped at the rue Medici and we entered the Foyer des IsraČlites restaurant where beautifully decorated tables awaited us. The food was sumptuous, the speeches brought back nostalgic feelings for my hometown, Europe and the lost Jewish communities. Rabbi Kahan, a French army captain, spoke heart-warmingly about our Jewish heritage, our duty to remain "good Jews". My father came into my thoughts. I loved him so dearly; what would he say about my present irreligious feelings? The atmosphere of the rich Talmudic sayings quoted by the speakers evoked my previous life. It was good to know that this beautiful heritage still existed! It warmed my heart, reassured me that I was not a stranger among these people. Yet, this was what I had wanted to throw away. When the groom's brother stood up to speak, people wept openly. He evoked the memory of our parents, and produced a "Sefer Torah" which had been hidden somewhere by their father, and presented it to the newlyweds, pronouncing the blessing of "Yevarechecha" (May the Almighty keep you...).
I saw Apuka before my eves, blessing his children on the eve of Yom Kippur, the last time before leaving our home for the ghetto: "Yevarechecha". How I wanted to forget all this, to become an unbeliever, irreligious, uncaring, a fatalist. Yet, undoubtedly, there is another side of me, struggling and in conflict with the irreligious side, my own old self: religious, hopeful, believing in our tradition and continuity. Which one will win? Which one will survive?
Boulayes, March 30, 1946
Good news from the Agudah, we are leaving today for Boulayes. Alice is full of anticipation and I cannot hide my excitement either. Spring, beautiful balmy weather in Paris when we embark. The chateau in Boulayes, which used to be a Rothschild residence before the war, is only about 40 kilometers from Paris; it's surrounded by a lovely park, with an outside pool, and luxurious inside. The magnificent sculptures are covered with white sheets, but the rounded balustrade staircase and elegant crystal chandeliers are witnesses to better times, gone forever. At present the chateau is occupied by refugee girls and boys. Alice and I were joined by four other girls in one room. It still seems comfortable and cheerful, with its huge picture windows looking down onto the park. In these uncertain times I welcome this new "home" for us, where the Joint supplies us with food and necessities of life temporarily. On Friday night and the Sabbath there is a religious atmosphere among the inhabitants. I caught myself last Sabbath praying myself. Is this, then, the direction I am choosing for myself? I am still uncertain about my inner feelings. How I love the tranquility of this place! The huge trees surrounding the castle, all the birds twittering, as if welcoming us. The food is good, the girls for the most part younger than myself; the same goes for the boys. Friedman, the cantor, is the exception: dark-haired and blue-eyed, still in his late twenties, he often visits us using music as an "excuse". His eyes speak to me with compassion: "I want you". But I pretend not to notice. He must think me stupid, for I pass off his obvious remarks, as if I didn't know what he was talking about.
I will try to avoid him in the future, lest I complicate my life as I did with Arnold, my brother-in-law.
After I was liberated, I had to see my old home in Ungvar once more. It was very painful. Only Arnold's presence helped to overcome my terrible pain over the loss. "I waited here for you for three months," he said. "I heard you survived and I figured sooner or later you would want to come home." "Why? Why, Arnold?" "I love you," he said, "I always have." His eyes were tender, full of fear, expectation, desire. He unexpectedly put his hand on my waist and pulled me toward him, his lips approaching mine. This was not my brother-in-law; this was a stranger, a man obsessed by desire.
I pulled my head back. "Please, Rose, marry me, I'll make you very happy."
"No, I couldn't! I am still filled with memories of Lulu--I will not marry again!"
"You will, and I will wait for you, no matter how long!" I knew then that I had to leave Ungvar for good.
Will I have to leave Boulayes for the same reason but for a different man? I close my eyes, and think back in time, and once more I am in Ungvar, my home town, where I was born and raised, where I worked hard, grew up--and from where I was forcefully taken away. Now I've come back--not to the home I shared with Lulu, but to my childhood memories. Was I prepared for the destruction I found? The emptiness, the shabbiness, the sorrow? I knew that my brother-in-law, Arnold, was back and was living in Ungvar. I didn't know he'd chosen our apartment on Drugeth-Street #5, for his present dwelling. I didn't know it was done on purpose, for in his heart he knew that one day I would decide to come back home!
Thus I found myself looking at the broken windows and examining the crooked door leading to the entrance. Where did I get the courage to go in? I will never know. The wooden floor was rotted, signs of entry, forced here and there. What were they looking for? Money, jewelry? Silver? Luxuries my parents never had? But to our "goyish" neighbours "Every Jew was rich". Remembering the lean days before deportation, my parents' shabby, threadbare, clothing, I lamented bitterly. Only one piece was left from the girls' bedroom (later I found out that Arnold recognized it and forcefully removed it from my neighbour's house). A dilapidated closet, the old worn-out sofa and a makeshift table with some chairs constituted the only furnishings in this neglected dwelling. The kitchen was full of dirty dishes and empty bottles. I knew then what misery is and asked myself reproachfully, "Is this what you were so anxious to come back to?" I would have run away then and there, but where to? The next day was the Sabbath and there was no one in my own city who could offer me a Sabbath meal.
My city, where I once had so many friends, relatives, school buddies, neighbours! Today I was an outcast in a beloved place which considered me sub-human and undesirable. I couldn't even go to the cemetery, for my dear ones were not buried there!
I felt terribly tired, and I threw myself on the sofa and wept. I must have fallen into a deep sleep, for when I opened my eyes, light was shining through the window and I heard steps in the adjacent room. I sat up and listened. I was not afraid. There was only poverty and despair here. As for me, if I didn't die in the camps, I was meant to live.
I sat up on the sofa and listened. I recognized my brother-in-law, Arnold. I realized that I had almost forgotten that someone had told me he was back. I watched him set a table with bread, onions, green pepper, coffee, yogurt. I knew he bought all this on the Sabbath, but it didn't bother me at all. Being in concentration camps did not strengthen my religious beliefs; I had come to question my faith often of late.
I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep. He entered my room and stood by the bed for what seemed an eternity. When our eyes finally met, I could see tenderness, warmth and compassion in his eyes. I sat up in bed. He kissed me tenderly. It was good to see a familiar face, and to be held by someone from my family, someone who loved me.
After a hearty breakfast I still felt Arnold's eyes upon me, as if he wanted to devour me, too! "Arnold," I said, "I am lucky to have such a thoughtful brother-in-law. At least I don't feel all alone in this world." He smiled. "Don't worry; now that you've come back, I don't intend to ever let you go."
"What do you mean?"
"Don't you know? I love you! I've dreamed of this moment, of your homecoming. You are so beautiful, so desirable."
"Arnold, you...you don't talk like a brother-in-law. Please stop it! I cannot, I will not stay in Ungvar."
"You know, I have a little shop, and we could move to a better house, we could start life over."
"No, no, never, Arnold, please, what gave you these ideas?"
"I dreamed it more than once, even when I was awake. This house was dirty and neglected when I first came in. I fought for every piece of furniture in it, always with you in mind. For I knew you'd come hack, and familiar things make for a warmer home."
I looked around and bit my tongue, not wanting to hurt this gentle, good man who had made my sister Manya so happy. He was good-natured, tall, good-looking, a good provider, a fine mechanic, only 34 years old to my 26--but, my G-d, couldn't he see the gulf that separated us? To marry Arnold, and to stay in Ungvar, would be equal to suicide for me. A small-town life with a simple, uneducated man, in my own city where I knew joy and wrenching sorrow, where every step would be a reminder of my past life, of the injustice of the world, of our humiliation, no, that was not for me. I wanted to forget Lulu, his brilliant intellect, our long courtship and short marriage, and just to continue life as if nothing had happened--to marry Arnold, to have children: potential victims of yet another generation's hatred for Jews.
"No, no!" I screamed. "I...I am leaving tomorrow."
"Because of me?"
"Arnold, I haven't recuperated yet from the terrible losses. I am not ready for any new involvement, with you or anyone else."
His eyes were pleading: "Do not leave me, I love you more than words can tell, and I want to marry you. I want you to be my wife. I will love and cherish you forever and I will make you very happy."
I thought of his first wife, Manya, my darling sister. How sweet and thoughtful she was, always caring for me. She was my mother, my confidant, my friend. Manya never read a book in all her life, she didn't understand politics, but she was the kindest, sweetest person I ever knew in all my life, and we shared our little secrets. Thus I knew more of their sexual life than a young girl should, and I simply couldn't imagine myself replacing her. They seemed to be happy, with two adorable children. I knew he must surely suffer from my radical rejection of him--yet this was the only way. Originally I had intended to stay in Ungvar for a few more days to find out what had happened to Lulu's house. I thought I might sell it and start a new life somewhere far away--but Arnold's presence and persistence were driving me away. Refugees could criss-cross the country without paying for their fare. I had no money whatsoever when I left for Prague the next day.
How tricky memories are! One second I am in Ungvar, the next I am back in Boulayes, France. It's April 23, 1946.
The religious atmosphere at Boulayes was soothing for my rebellious spirit. All of us coming from similar backgrounds, boys and girls, all of us survivors of the Holocaust, there was a certain familiarity one usually finds only in families. It was almost like being home with ten times as many brothers and sisters. I washed my hands and made a blessing before eating, as all of them did, though more by habit than religion. I kept the Sabbath as I had seen it done in Ungvar, and I started to feel pretty good about it. I asked myself: why are you doing it? Are you not a hypocrite? But I liked to continue it, it made me feel good.
Friday night I put a kerchief on my head before candle-lighting and went down to the dining room without removing the kerchief. The hall was lit as I went downstairs and I felt many eyes turning. I overheard a remark: "Look how lovely she is, so young and already a widow!"
The women have compassion in their eyes, the men admiration, desire. I know I am attractive and move easily in the crowd--let them look! Szrul Jankel, the cantor, is good-looking, a widower at 32 and manager of the provisions store at Boulayes. He sees to it that I eat well. He openly admires me, takes a seat opposite me at the table, and with his attractive blue eyes almost undresses me. I start to feel uncomfortable. He sends me fruit with his sister and brings me chocolates. Poor Szrul Jankel Friedman!
Aliceka is also happy when we celebrate Sabbath or during Passover. But she has mixed feelings. I watch her. Her pale complexion is emphasized by the thousands of freckles on her face. Her head is bowed, her hands together on her lap.
April 23, 1946
For the first time since the Holocaust, we attended yiskor, the prayer for our dear departed. We were not allowed to utter a word, just listen to the cantor crying bitterly, the unbearable losses fresh in our minds. How we miss our families!
We were told not to cry, to remember the living memories of our parents who died with the words "Shmah Yisrael" on their lips. "Remember their heritage, they sacrificed their lives for Judaism. We must continue in this vein," said Beth Jacob, the teacher. For to depart from their teachings would be a sacrilege. Today we might be full of doubts, but the road ahead is what they taught us and that is: Shmah Yisrael Adoshem Elokeynu, Adoshem echad. G-d is One.
Our Jewish heritage is a continuous process, we must never depart from the teachings of our departed parents.
Les Boulayes, April 25, 1946
Each day has brought more joy into my life here at Boulayes. I have friends in each room, and my popularity has grown with every passing day. I've also begun to readjust to a normal life. Yet I am worried about Alice, since she has a heart condition. I can remember finding her unconscious on the floor of her room in Barrack 23, how we had to hide her, so that the Germans wouldn't discover her before she recovered. Otherwise she wouldn't be here today! She is pale and listless, and she might get sick again, but doesn't dare admit it, for fear of becoming a burden to me. How many times she's apologized to me for having treated me shabbily in her barracks. Once or twice she even hit me--but in reality she saved my life by helping me out with some food when I was starving. I've forgiven her; I've let go any resentment I felt towards her, for I knew that the Slovak girls, who were the first to arrive in Auschwitz, three years before us, suffered more than anyone else can imagine. So who are we to judge her? Only a year ago in Auschwitz, we stood before the Brotkamer, hoping against all hope to catch a few bread crumbs. How we fought over them--like wild beasts! Who cared if, during the scuffle, somebody stepped on the bread? We grabbed it and stuffed it, ravenous, into our mouths. How quickly we forget!
Today we sit around a table covered with a white cloth and make a face if the potatoes are not done properly, or the meat is somewhat undercooked. Auschwitz belongs to the past.
Yet we must remember!! Will those who were not with us in Bergen-Belsen ever believe that brother killed brother for a raw carrot? Or the way we searched the stinking garbage for potato skins or a discarded piece of parsley or cabbage? Who cared about the stench of the garbage? It was still better than eating grass. I remember how for weeks on end, bread and water were not available, how people fell by the hundreds on the streets of Belsen, just like flies in summer. Typhus and cholera were raging; everyone had diarrhea. The human bodies smelled of disease and bacteria; my friends and neighbours from Ungvar staggered about and dropped dead every day by the dozens. Their swollen legs could hardly carry their bodies; even their lamentations became fainter. No one had the strength to talk or cry any more. Yet no one wanted to die! We held out in the hopes that maybe, maybe help might still come. People would fall down, and then get up again, starting to hobble around. "If I lie down, I will never be able to get up," said one.
And for the first time in my life I, too, was in despair. But if we died, who would be alive to tell the world what we had suffered? I believed that through our suffering, new lights would shine, the world would change and become a better place to live in.
I was wrong. Today I was standing among friends, my co-religionists, who were also in concentration camps--there they were, pointing their fingers at Alice. Alice shouted at them, and kicked them. One of them claimed that Alice had beaten her up--but above all, Alice told them on the first day to shut up, since their parents, brothers, sisters, husbands, children had all been cremated. "And so will you be, too, if you do not listen and keep order."
Who is Alice, besides being my second cousin? Four years ago, when they gathered 24,000 Jewish teenagers, the Slovaks handed them to the Germans (at their request), most of them were only 17 - 18 years old. Alice was among them, an only child of well-to-do parents. She had known only a loving and unusually harmonious life with her parents. Still a high school girl, she was very naive about life outside her home and school. An obedient child, she read a great deal, and stayed at home most of the time, for she was not interested in boys her age. She had a secret crush on my brother, who was eight years her senior, and of whom she dared to dream on rare occasions.
She was born and raised in Presov, where people in general spoke German. She spoke Slovak, but her mother tongue was German.
The Germans were thorough in their plans to annihilate six million Jews. They knew especially how to take advantage of the Jews' faith and trust. They trained Jews to work against Jews, helping the German death machinery to function through fright and unimaginable cruelty. First with Slovak girls, later with the creation of ghettoes, they appointed "overseers" from among the Jews, who obeyed German orders to the letter.
Young, beautiful, innocent girls underwent terrible suffering, punishment, degradation. First, they dehumanized them, and afterward, those who survived were given new orders: "You must do everything we tell you, follow orders and you will have a chance to survive." Those who disobeyed were flogged before the eyes of the others, then killed and dragged away.
Alice was taken, with others, to a village called Oswietzim on the Polish border. They had to carry, in their bare hands, every stone and every brick, and cement, to build barracks next to the old existing one. Little did they know that these barracks would serve as graves or stepping-stones to death's entrance into the infamous Auschwitz crematoria, where millions of their co-religionists, and members of their own families, would perish.
By the time the Hungarian Jews began to arrive in closed wagons (1944), only a handful of Slovak girls remained alive: 300 left from a former 24,000. Many of these girls had families in Hungary, and only they knew the awful truth. They had met thousands of transports previously, but now they saw their own families, their own flesh and blood, arrive: people they knew and loved.
They became hysterical. There was nothing they could do. The Germans threatened and punished them; those whose hysterical outbursts didn't subside were taken away to the crematoria.
During the past three years they witnessed the deaths of many thousands, maybe millions of people, but somehow even then they didn't give up hope that some day they would be freed and go home to find all as it had been when they had left. But now, even this faint hope was shattered.
No one ever came out alive from the crematoria. These girls lived for over three years in the Hell called Auschwitz, where the fires, fed on human flesh, were constantly burning. Four chimneys belched dark greyish black smoke which rose to the heavens. Oh, G-d, how could you watch all this day after day, for over three years? Suddenly the thought occurred to Alice that among the group of people who had just arrived might be her dear Mutti and her own father. When she recognized them she felt a sudden sharp pain tightening around her heart; she felt weak and fell numbly to the floor. When she came to, her cousin Magda (who was also among the few Slovak girls who survived) was forcing water into her mouth. "Alice," she said, "get dressed, pretend to be strong, Dexlerka is on her way to pay us a visit." (This was the Lager Aufseherin.)
Auschwitz was organized like an army camp.
Dexlerka arrived and announced that from then on Alice would be the block ”lteste of barracks number 17, responsible for one thousand freshly-arrived "heftlings". Alice was afraid, she dreaded this job. No, she couldn't order Jewish women around. She begged the block ”lteste not to give her this responsibility, reasoning that she was too young and inexperienced. She offered to do anything, but not that, saying she wasn't cut out for a job like that. But the Dexlerka looked at her coldly and announced: "Ich gebe Ihren eine viertel Stunde zum Nachdenken, w”hlen sie sich, Block”lteste other S.K.?" (Strafenkomando). (Punishment detail)
Thus she became Block”lteste, at the age of nineteen. Poor Alice! By then she had a heart condition, although she was not aware of it, and the most trying period of her life had only begun.
The Hungarian transports were pouring into Auschwitz; the blocks overflowed with them. She herself was responsible for over 1,000 women. Just imagine a thousand women, their heads and bodies freshly shorn (it's like what one does to unwilling animals). Some were lamenting and protesting the brutality of the men who had done it to them, and all of them were disoriented. None of them knew where they really were, why they had been separated from their parents or children, or what had happened to the lives of loved ones who were forced to go off in a different direction. Everyone was shouting, screaming, crying--a terrible noise of human fear and lamentation. Here and there one could distinguish a voice shrieking: "Shma Yisroel!" or "Mother! Where is my mother?" Or, "Where did the old people go?"
Alice saw one woman pulling her hair and crying bitterly: "Why did they take my child from my hands? Who was the old lady into whose arms they placed my baby?" Alice was afraid her heart would give out, for she knew the answers to all the question, of course. But she had not been prepared for so much noise: over a thousand voices shrieking, crying, questioning.
Only the Germans knew what to expect, for Alice and the other "blockovas" were told to keep the women quiet, or else they would have no food for three days. Alone and desperate, she wished she could embrace each one separately, and console them--but how could she? The Germans told them: "If you want to live, be brutal. Kindness will lead you to the crematoria as well."
In the beginning there were not yet any Stubendiensts, who would later help her somewhat. At the arrival of this huge Hungarian transport, she had to think how to organize them, how to keep the blocks clean, to order some blankets and food, to stand the people up for appel, to see that the sick ones were cared for. What to do?
"Only brutality will work," warned the Germans. Alice thought of a family of unruly, disobedient children. How would a father make order among them? "Flog them!" a voice told her, "Haven't you seen how the SS behave? And how quiet everyone becomes after they beat up a few at random, kick the faces of the innocent, or kill a few just for the fun of it?" Alice took a stick in her hand and threatened the crowd, but it didn't help. But she knew the consequences if the block didn't quiet down, and because she was young and wanted to live, she became enraged and used her stick--indiscriminately at first.
During the night, she cried bitterly to herself, "What has become of me? I am turning into an animal, just like them." Many from her block were found dead on the electrical wires: those who wanted to escape and couldn't. Alice knew better. She wanted to create an orderly block and fight for more food. "If I succeed, I might save some lives," she reasoned, "many lives, to compensate for the first few hours, of my brutality." She worked extremely hard to follow orders and to help those who survived.
I had been in Auschwitz for three months when one day, by chance, I heard someone mention "my cousin, Alice." I rushed to the block to meet her. Her voice was harsh, she looked much older than her twenty years, she didn't talk, she gave orders. Yet I knew what to do. I followed her orders, moved to her barracks, and was often given an extra "treat!" (unnoticed to others) "Not for you, don't thank me," she said, "I am doing it for your brother Ern–."
And so a few months passed in Auschwitz. When selections for the fittest took place, I hid, I knew I looked better than the rest, thanks to Alice's extra portions of food. I feared the unknown. Here at least I was under Alice's protection.
In the meantime Alice herself became sick. She had to rest a great deal and watch out that the Germans shouldn't suspect that she was ill.
At that point there were only "musulmans" in the camp. I knew that I would have to move on, it was obvious that everyone in Auschwitz would eventually end up in the crematoria.
Alice was seriously ill. I found her once in her little hut, lying naked and unconscious on the cold floor. I was stunned at first, for never before had I seen red pubic hair. But then I realized that something had to be done, and I ran for help. But there was not much I personally could do for her. At the next selection I was among the first drafted. We all got a 1/3 of bread and a piece of margarine. Our apprehension about landing in the gas chambers did not fade until we left the gates of Auschwitz. We looked back: "Arbeit macht frei", it proclaimed. I shuddered.
I didn't see Alice again until after the war, when she came to stay with us in Liberec. She told me what had happened after I'd left Auschwitz. She felt weak from undernourishment, and suffered from renewed pains of frostbite. She lost weight and looked like the rest of the Auschwitz inmates: a musulman. She couldn't take care of her block any more, and went to seek medical help in the so-called "Hospital." Everyone was aware that this was the most dangerous place to be, for the selections always started with the "hospital", and all the sick people were selected out quite often. Why did Alice go there? She could hardly walk at that point, and of course it so happened that it was "sortierung" (selection) she saw the other sick people being piled up on a wagon, and suddenly there she was on top of them all, and there was simply nothing she could do about it. The wagon started to move. Suddenly someone grabbed her by the neck and, with seemingly superhuman strength, threw her off the wagon, with such tremendous force that she landed a few meters away, unconscious, but alive. A lady doctor, who knew Alice and recognized her, dared to pull her out. "Suppose the Germans had noticed it--then both of us would have landed in the gas chamber," said Alice's friend, the Jewish doctor. The rest of the patients who were on the wagon were all taken to the crematoria.
She never entirely recovered. Even after the liberation, she spent weeks in one hospital or another. Weak and racked with pain from frostbite and mental anguish, she often asked herself, "Why? Why did I survive when everyone I loved died?" She felt like an abandoned orphan. In the hospitals everyone had visitors except for her. She cried for her mother, for her lost family life and the loss of her innocent youth.
At this point she was only twenty-one years old. She wanted to commit suicide. And then she remembered: "I sinned. I hurt so many innocent people. G-d, if I could only kneel down and beg forgiveness from each and every one. No, I can't die, that would be too easy. I must live and suffer for my deeds."
By some miracle my brother Ernest heard somewhere that Alice was in a hospital in Bratislava. He had work in that city and made it his business to find Alice. A week later she joined our household in Liberec. She couldn't throw off the guilty feelings about her behavior in the camp.
"From now on," she said, "I want to do only good. I have nightmares, I hurt people, some were my mother's age--how could I? How I regret it! Beasts the Germans made out of us! But I'd like to become human again and help wherever help is needed. How can I tear out four years of ugly memories? How will I be able to live? Can there be anything good ahead of me yet? No," she said, and pretended to be a little girl again, safe in the warmth of a family. "Do you hear Mother calling: 'Aliska, mein teures kind,'--and her voice sounded just like her mother's. She talked constantly about her childhood, as if by repeating it, she could somehow rebuild her shattered past. She wanted to be the little girl again, loved, doted on, cared for. In her mind, she wanted to continue where she had left home so suddenly, torn away by force. She wanted to forget the four years of misery. No, that wasn't really her, not the tender Alice, someone else had inhabited her body during those intervening four years.
The only times she smiled were when she spoke of her young years. Otherwise she seemed to be in a deep depression, afraid of the people around her, fearing for the future (in Boulayes). Back in Liberec she seemed to be more contented. I took the place of her mother, and she became part of "our family".
She followed me to Paris, and came with me to Boulayes. Her sensitivity was extraordinary. She had a premonition: "Rose, we both like it here, but it won't last, someone will discover me, and I will have to run away." "Don't worry, Alice," I said, "I will never let you go. I'll always be with you--besides, no one is bothering us."
The next day I was called to a "special committee meeting." When I entered the room, there was a strange, hostile atmosphere. Everyone was upset, I thought, yet all the committee members were friends of my brother Ernest or myself. But I was not afraid. I asked them: "Why was I called here?"
Without any preamble they told me: "Alice must go."
"What do you mean?"
"A chavera recognized her as the block”lteste who hit her in Auschwitz. Others knew about it too! If she stays, she'll be beaten up. She must leave immediately."
"Do you realize what you are saying?" I replied. "She can't go alone! She is sick and doesn't know anybody in Paris. She doesn't know the language, she has no money or any way to support herself. What will become of her?"
"Who cares!" the leader answered.
"I" care, and if Alice goes, I go with her!"
"You are liked here, Rose, no one wants you to leave. Why are you so determined to take sides with an inhuman creature like Alice?"
"If anyone is inhuman; it's you. You used to visit our home in Ungvar, and you know me and my family quite well--yet you would take it upon yourself to throw out two young women onto the streets of Paris, without giving a thought to the consequences!"
"Sorry, but the decision stands," he said coldly, and turned to face the window, with his back to me.
I returned to Alice heartbroken. I found her crying and lamenting, "Mutti, ach mutti!"
"Aliska!"
"Ya," she said, "please, please embrace me, kiss me, as you used to do. Tell me, my liebes kind." She was hallucinating.
I embraced her, stroked her red hair. "Alice," I said, "it's me, Rose, you were dreaming again, weren't you?"
"Why did they call you? It was because of me, wasn't it?"
"No, Alice, they wanted to give me a position and I refused it. I told them I want to leave this place: too much security. I want to see Paris, live independently. "
"What about me?"
"You will come with me."
She started to cry: "It's because of me, isn't it?"
Liberec, New Year 1946
Rosh Hashanah. The house which served us as a shul was crowded to capacity with refugees: a young crowd, eager to observe, to question the newly arrived people: "Where are you from? How long are you here? What do you do? etc." and pray with fervour. We felt close to the Almighty, saved so recently and so miraculously from death. Each of us had a story to tell of how he or she escaped death. There were many eligible young men and women. During recess, we gathered in groups. Among us, some were already engaged. Old acquaintances were renewed; new ones were deepening. We all missed our families, the security of belonging to someone.
A tall, lanky young man approached me. "Rose, how nice to see you again," he said. It was Cin, my first serious suitor from Hust. I recalled how jealous I had made Lulu because of him. "Anyone back from your family?" I asked. "Only my wife!" "Lucky you," I said. "We got divorced; she wasn't for me. May I see you, Rose?" But I didn't like him then, and I don't like him any better now. "Sorry, but I am not available." "At least let's go out a few times," he continued, "don't refuse me right away." "I have someone," I said. And I wasn't lying. My heart was still full of Lulu.
I rushed home. Why didn't I linger, mix with the crowd, let people know I am around? Was I proud? Was I shy? Or did I simply have a premonition that my future lies somewhere else? I was now the breadwinner, who had a large family to support. There was LČzu, who was in love with my three nieces (Agi, Evi and Edith). He couldn't decide which one he liked the best. There was my newly arrived brother Ernest, who was ready to marry my childhood friend Dina, and there was Alice.
It looked like a coherent group but in reality we all had our individual desires and needs. Ernest was soon to change his mind about Dina, and leave for Ungvar to find Rozsika (my future sister-in-law). One day LČzu got engaged to Edith, which pleased me very much, but it turned out to be a mistake. She didn't like him. She only did it on account of me. Edith was the first one who wanted to escape our seemingly idyllic life. She went to Prague, met a second cousin, Weinberger, and married him. We lost contact with her. Later on we heard that they had settled in New York. Agi and Eva joined a group of youngsters who were about to leave for Paris. They were only in their teens, and the Jewish Organizations were ready to transport them to any destination they chose. LČzu also wanted to go with the same transport.
Why the sudden "exodus" among most families? The majority of us who returned from the camps were in reality not Czech-born. We came from Karpatorussia, which was now part of a communist state. Liberec was only a step toward our real destination, whether that be Palestine or the U.S.A. Suddenly a rumour spread among us refugees: all those who claimed to be Czechoslovakian must now prove it! Those who were from the East would be sent back! But it was only a rumour. By now, however, we could no longer tell the difference between the truth and rumours. We believed the Germans. Their lies became the truth, and suddenly our hearts were once more full of fear. Nobody wanted to go back, where only sad memories and the communists dwelled. The next day, many of us left for Prague, to ask for passports and rush our visas. But to no avail. What to do? I went to work and began to spend my days automatically toiling in the office. I liked my job, yet I knew that I'd have to leave soon. The rumours of our imminent deportation back to the cities of our birth made us tremble with fear. Many left Liberec that week. "If you wait," people were saying, "we will be dragged off," just as the Germans did to us. What to do? I was over 21 and so was Alice. Priorities were given by the Jewish organizations to the younger survivors, so I couldn't even get a valid visa.
"Where would you go, if you could?" asked my brother Ernest. "To Paris," I said without any hesitation. "Let me go up once more to Prague and check my chances of going to the U.S. After all, my affidavit from my cousins reached them months ago." There was a long, long line at the American consulate in Prague. "You must wait until we call you," they said. "How long?" I wanted to know. "Who knows?" came the answer. "It might even be a year. The quota is already filled."
But I made up my mind, and I went to the photographer for a passport picture. I handed it to Ernest. "No more questions asked," I said, "I want to go to Paris."
"I have a contact," he said, "you name the place and next week a valid visa with your picture on it will be in your hands." "You mean false papers?" I asked. "Someone who manufactures it for money?" "If you must know the truth, yes, but I won't have to pay for it. We worked together in the underground, and he owes me a favour."
The trains were still carrying the refugees and war casualties for free. My trip wouldn't cost me a penny. I could go to London, Amsterdam, even Lisbon or Marseilles, so why did I feel so strong an urge to go to Paris? (Paul, who believes in destiny, always claimed it was the hand of the Unknown, a Guidance which has never left us.) Within a week's time, Alice and I left for Paris.