Angel of Auschwitz (3 page)

Pulling back the covers, I got out of bed and tiptoed to the parlor. Standing in the arched entranceway I peeked into the tranquil room. In the quiet of the night I saw my mother, contemplating. She was seated in a high-backed chair, a quilt folded across her lap. A candle flickered on the bureau, light chasing shadows across her face. Mother gazed out the north window, entranced by the sparkling starlight, in awe of the wonder of God’s creation. The stars spoke to her in the silent language of the universe. What was she doing? Receiving messages from the stars? My child-mind wondered what the stars were telling her.
The stars are her teachers
, I thought.
They are teaching her the Language of Light
.

The womenfolk took particular notice of my mother. They saw that she was different. They recognized that look in her eyes: she knew things. The village women called her “the Seer.” Her piercing eyes saw through illusion. Like a hawk, she watched over the landscape of life. But there was a blind spot in her vision. She did not see what was to come.

My path was laid out before me. By acts of grace, signs from heaven appeared to guide me. But Mother did not see her future fate. A vision of destruction would have tarnished the happy moments of the now.

O
NE AFTERNOON
I
WALKED
slowly home from school, troubled by the biased opinions voiced by my teacher, shocked by the anger expressed by my classmates. What had begun as a discussion about European history quickly escalated into heated arguments among the students. Sparks of anger ignited latent prejudices, and a sense of self-righteousness filled the air. My teacher was overwhelmed by the uproar, unable to maintain order in the classroom. The subject of our lesson was “race and nationality.”

I sought counsel from my mother. I found her working in the garden, watering flowers of many colors. She offered me clarity of vision that helped me see in new ways.

“Mother,” I asked, “The Bible says the Jewish people are chosen by God. My teacher says that in Germany, Jews are considered inferior, and the Aryans are the master race. Who is right?”

Mother answered, “Neither one is right in the sense that no race or people is superior to another. God loves all people equally. He does not care what color skin a person has or what religion he follows. He cares about what is in a person’s heart. Each race and each nation is like a flower, of a different kind and color, planted in God’s garden. He wishes for all to flourish.”

My mother had the courage to speak what she considered to be true. She listened to her heart rather than following the dictates of popular opinion.

C
ARRYING A HARVEST BASKET
of carrots and parsnips, Mother left the garden to prepare the evening meal. I sat down under my favorite tree, leaning against the strong trunk. Deep roots reached into the earth, and tall branches stretched out to meet the sky. As I felt the healing power of nature, I knew that I was safe in God’s kingdom. Sitting under the protective umbrella of leaves, I reflected on what had happened in class today. What had triggered the angry outbursts?

Entering the kitchen, I breathed in the aroma of fresh-baked bread. My mother peeled the roots of the vegetables, exposing to the light what had been buried underground.

“Mother, can a race have a purpose or a mission to carry out?”

“Why do you ask, young one?”

“Because the Nazis believe that they have a mission to accomplish. The students in my class today were arguing about racial superiority. They were so entrenched in self-righteousness that their minds were closed. Everyone was talking, and no one was listening.”

“What do you say, Natasza? Speak your truth.”

“In my own heart, I know that all people are one. The glorification of race and nationhood divides people and creates conflict. The day will come when people live in unity. Every nation must commit to a world of peace and an end to war.”

“Well said, young one.” My mother beamed at me as I basked in the glow of her love. “You are ripening quickly, my child.” Mother sat down at the kitchen table across from me. The late afternoon sun radiated golden light, filling the room with serenity. “You are ready to know the secret of what happened long ago. I will tell you a tale of our forefathers, and how they served the Light:

In the ancient days, before time began, the people of the Earth talked to the stars. They recognized the star masters as great beings of light sending love to humanity. Their hearts spoke to the stars, and the stars spoke to their hearts. All knew the universal language. It is the mother tongue of creation, called the Language of Light.

“The world was at peace until a Dark force attacked the Light. The Masters of Light held a council, planning for victory—for the victory of the Light. A plan was devised to safeguard the star language until the Darkness was defeated. It needed to survive the dark days ahead and be hidden from the evil minds. When the Earth is cleansed and a new day dawns for humanity, then the ancient knowledge will be restored.”

“How did they protect the precious language from the Dark Side?” I asked.

“The Keepers of the Light kept the Torch of Light aflame during the midnight hour. Love is the eternal flame that burns in the hearts of humanity.

“The Keepers watched the ways of the people. They knew of a wise man who was also a great king. He was a man of divinity who could be trusted by the Light. He was called David, the king of the Jews. Three of the Keepers met with King David in the Temple of the Sacred Flame. They made a covenant to uphold the Light. The star language was hidden from the eyes of the enemy, saved intact for posterity. It was translated into codes of light and hidden deep in the cells of the king, in his DNA. The secret codes were passed along through the lineage of the House of David. The light codes are seeds to awaken humanity. Like dormant seeds in the cold night of winter, they await the return of the light to take root.”

“Do I carry these ancient codes, this ancient wisdom, in my cells?” I asked.

“The secrets of the star masters will be revealed to you as you proceed forward on your path. Your commitment to serve the Light will activate the dormant codes. They will amplify your inner knowing and hasten the expansion of your gifts. The star beings know that you have a sacred destiny. They know who you are. You will carry the torch for humanity. You will bring in light to dispel the darkness, and love to heal the world.”

Thus spoke my dear mother, Nadia Pelinski. She was a storyteller of the Early Time, a visionary and messenger of the star masters.

M
Y FATHER WAS A
shoemaker. His shop was located on the main street of our village. The shoe shop prospered. Father blended the science of business with the art of human relations. While writing up an order, while measuring the size of a foot and drawing a profile of its shape, he was in fact sizing up the character of a person and assessing the shape of his finances. Accounts must be paid, and books must be balanced. Yet in cases of need, his compassionate nature led him to forgive a debt.

As a little girl, I sat on a wooden stool in the corner of the shop, hidden behind heavy overcoats and cloaks. The shop cat, Karina, curled up on my lap for a nap. The aroma of cured leather filled the air. I watched and listened as my father dealt with each customer in turn.

Whole families entered the shoe shop together, and Father treated each family member differently. By carefully observing my father interact with the customers, I learned that every person has a personality unique to himself, a special way of being in the world.

O
NE DAY MY MOTHER
went to nurse a sick relative in a nearby village. Since she would not be able to return home until early evening, she left me at the shoe shop for the entire day. As the shadows lengthened and the sun hung low in the sky, I heard racing footsteps on the pavement outside. My eldest brother, Simon, stormed into the shop, slammed the door behind him, and angrily threw his school cap onto the floor.

“Father!” he cried, “Ten
grosze
have been stolen from my pocket. Without money, I am worthless. Without money, I am not a man.”

Father pulled down the shades of the shop and turned over the window sign to
CLOSED
. He sat down on a high stool by his worktable and motioned for Simon to sit facing him, so they could look into each other’s eyes. It was time to talk father-to-son, to meet mind-to-mind. My father spoke to Simon kindly. “There is no scale on which the value of a man can be calibrated. The human heart is beyond measure.”

“Father,” asked Simon, “how do I know who is honest? Who can I trust?”

“Pay heed to the actions of a man,” answered my father. “Does he keep his word? Does he compromise his integrity in times of crisis? Does he honor his wife, respect his elders, and teach his children moral values? Is he compassionate in his relationships with all people? Pay heed to his demeanor. Does he look you straight in the eye, or do his eyes shift and wander about? Pay heed to how he handles his money. Does he give to the unfortunate? Is he fair and honest in his dealings? These are some of the considerations in assessing the character of a man.”

As father and son sat in conversation, I listened from my seat behind the overcoats. As I pondered the advice of my father, my eyes wandered over the row of leather working tools—awls, punches, knives—neatly laid out in a line on his worktable. I admired the precision and specific function that gave each tool its identity. I wondered if each person in the world had his or her own special function or task to perform, if each person had been given talents and abilities to fulfill a certain purpose in life. At the age of five, I already sensed that I was born to this Earth for a special reason.

M
Y PARENTS TAUGHT ME
many things—to keep my mind open, to tell the truth, and to develop self-discipline, perseverance, and determination. They taught me compassion and tolerance, kindness and gentleness. Most importantly they taught me respect and reverence for life.

Nadia and Benjamin Pelinski were independent thinkers, not conforming with the mainstream of Jewish thought. I was encouraged to think in universal terms beyond the boundaries of our religion and culture. It was not until years later that I realized the values and beliefs that laid the foundation for my moral code were considered unorthodox.

“Do not submit to outside authority,” Father warned me. “Do not give your power away to the printed word, nor be fooled by the clever rhetoric of politicians.”

“Go within to find the Truth,” Mother counseled me. “Listen to your heart.”

T
HE GLORY OF MY
childhood years was my relationship with Uncle Jacob and our family visits to his farm in the country. Uncle Jacob was respected as the elder of the Pelinski clan and venerated for his silent wisdom and calm composure. He was a wood carver and sculptor of statues and figurines. He took me into his workshop overlooking the Vistula River. The whirling currents of water washed clean his mind. He held his carving knife steady with astute concentration.

Standing on his workbench was a cast of village characters, exquisitely carved of oak and elm. They were players in the magic theater of life: the lamplighter holding his torch, the blacksmith working at his anvil, the village clown playing a prank, and the schoolmaster looking very serious. Watching the drama from a shelf above the workbench were carved animals of the wild: the bear and the fox, the owl and the partridge.

Uncle Jacob had a long white pointed beard and eyes that looked deep into things. He was precise and concise with his words. His terse phrases were punctuated by long silences in which one could rest. He made his point, and that was that. His sparse style of speech inspired me to fill in the blanks with my imagination, and I became a philosopher.

U
NCLE
J
ACOB WAS A
widower. His wife Amelia had passed away on his fortieth birthday. After her death he turned to nature for consolation. The spirits of wild animals spoke to him and animated his wood carvings with their innocent perspective.

It was the joy of my life to be with him. He emanated a vibration that brought me great peace. We rarely spoke out loud; ours was the silent language of soul communion. In the depths of our being, we knew one another. It was a profound mystery how this could be. Uncle Jacob taught me to revere the silence.

“Be still and listen, Natasza dear,” he said as he looked at me with his tranquil eyes.

“I hear a hum,” I answered. “It goes
Aum
.”

“Nature is singing. It is the hymn of creation, the song of eternity,” he explained. “Listen to the silence, and you will experience inner peace.”

My eyes sparkled. I was thrilled to hear the sacred song of God’s creation. My sense of awe and wonder intensified in his presence.

I
T WAS THE HEART
of winter, a cold day in mid-January. From far and wide, family members of the Pelinski clan traveled across the snow country to our annual get-together at Uncle Jacob’s farm.

Rosy-cheeked children greeted the white dawn with anticipation, eager for a new day of adventure. Assembling in a grove of oaks atop a nearby ridge, my brothers, sisters, and cousins gathered to sled down the steep slopes. Screaming with excitement, shouting with glee, boys and girls careened down the hillsides. Sometimes sleds collided. Other times there were near misses.

As the noise and commotion became too intense for my sensitive nature, I picked up my sled and walked over to the far side of the slope, away from the crowd. Faster and faster my sled slid down the steep hill. Startled by the cry of a hawk, I glanced upward to see the great bird as he swerved above my head. All of a sudden, I lost control of the sled and slammed into the trunk of a hoary oak. Tumbling down the hill, I rolled over and over. My knee was bruised, and blood seeped through my leggings. “Mommy! Mommy!” I cried out, but she could not hear me. I was alone. After a torrent of tears, I sat still in the awesome silence. A moment of peace, and my inspiration came. Intuitively I cupped my hands over the throbbing wound.