Rena's Promise (23 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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tail in case the inside work doesn't pan out. It's okay. Even though the work's outside, I'll be safe.''
Four
A.M
.
"Raus! Raus!"
Danka stands next to Erna and Fela. We are counted. I stand farther away, separated for the first time from my sister during roll call. I do not like her being out of my reach. We are dismissed. I dash over to Emma's detail before it's full. Everything in Birkenau is first-come first-served. I stand behind Emma, keeping one eye on the sewing detail. Erna and Fela have their kerchiefs on, Dina is wearing hers. Danka looks lost, she doesn't have a kerchief on. My eyes sear into the back of Erna's head. Where's Danka's kerchief? my head screams. It's no use. Danka's thrown out of line. She looks across the camp for me, but it's too late; another kapo has signaled for her to get in line and they march out. I watch helpless as my sister goes to the fields to work without me. What have I done? Oh Lord, what have I done?
All morning I work, wondering if my sister is dead yet. I can barely finish my soup at lunch. And my stomach is so tied up in knots of worry that I don't appreciate the extra broth. I simply miss my sister and wish she were here to share it with me; I know she won't eat lunch today. Through the afternoon I try not to think about whether I will ever see Danka's smile or her beautiful eyes again. I cannot stand the time it takes for the sun to cross the sky. Finally Emma orders, "Halt!"
We put the tools in the shed and march into camp. We're the first back. Usually it is a relief to be in early, but today it is torture. Every kommando marching in seems full of dead or injured workers and they all look like Danka. My eyes play tricks on me and my mind follows. In one kommando she is being carried between two girls, her body is bruised and battered; in another she limps, leaning heavily on someone's shoulder. Weak from hunger, mad with worry, I believe that my sister has died a hundred times over. Then I really see her. She has been beaten, but she is alive. I cannot run

 

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and hug her, I cannot move until we have all been counted, but I see her and she is alive. Roll call ends and we reach each other through the throng of milling girls heading for their blocks.
I hold her fiercely, unable to let go. "What happened?"
"Erna didn't have an extra kerchief for me."
"What? I gave her four!" I'm so angry when I locate Erna that I can barely control my voice. "What did you do that to Danka for?" I whisper hoarsely.
"I forgot I had an extra one in my pocket."
"Erna, this is no joke here." I grab her collar, wanting to shake the sense into her. "Danka was almost beaten to death today."
"I'm sorry!" She weeps.
"What is sorry? I gave up my bread so my sister can have a safe place to work that won't exhaust her and you almost murder her by your negligence." I struggle to quiet my voice. "Erna, this is serious. It isn't like going to school or Krynica. We can die!" I point up at the watchtowers and whisper hoarsely, ''See that! If they say so, we are dead. There are no second chances. You have got to use your head."
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I was so scared that I forgot I had it. It was stupid, a stupid thing to do. Will Danka ever forgive me?" She takes the kerchief out of her pocket and hands it to me.
I hand it back to her. "Tomorrow she will be in the sewing room with you. You will see to thatunderstand?"
"Yes, Rena. I promise. I won't make the same mistake again."
"That will be your forgiveness, Erna. Remember, mistakes here are fatal."
The next day Danka gets into the sewing room. Now I march out alone with Emma. I miss my sister terribly, but at night as I wait for her at roll call I can relax a little, knowing she has not been beaten. She is not dead. The sewing detail doesn't last long, though; because the work is easier, everyone in camp starts organizing white kerchiefs and sneaking into that detail. We're getting too smart for them. So they cut down on the workers they need

 

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and Danka is one of the first to go. This time I'm watching closely, though, and take her hand, swooping her into Emma's detail. I'm not letting her out of my sight for another day of outside work; my nerves couldn't stand it.
Erna is a quick learner and manages to get Fela and herself into the detail in Canada. "This is good work, Rena," she tells me one night. "It's so easy. All we do is fold clothes, and when the SS aren't looking we can check the pockets and find all sorts of food left in them. We ate all day today. There were cookies and orangesI even found a chocolate bar! The best thing, though, is it's under a roof."
"There's a roof?" Chocolate is beyond my realm of imagination, but a roof is something I can connect with. Finally a work detail that can protect us from the elements. It is our only way to survive, I know this; outside work is hard, but next to the SS, weather is our worst enemy, and winter is coming.
"I've organized two red kerchiefs for you and Danka." Erna checks the area before taking my hand in hers. "Tomorrow, march out with us. Only twenty-five can come, so be early."
I squeeze her hand warmly, retrieving the kerchiefs in a deft and invisible moment. I know she is returning the favor and that she stills feel guilty about Danka getting beaten. I enter our block feeling slightly relieved. Tomorrow we work inside.
Four
A.M
.
"Raus! Raus!"
We march out to Canada. There are mounds and mounds of clothes; I have not seen so many garments since Uncles Jacob's dress shop. There's a long table in the middle of the room, where we fold the clothes, pile them into bundles, and bind them with string.
"Where are these clothes going?" I whisper to Erna.
"Germany," she answers.
"What are you doing?" an SS man hollers.
"Nothing," a girl at the other end of the table whimpers.

 

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His whip raises into the air, falling on her hands with a smack. "You were eating! You are here to work, not fill your filthy faces!" He strikes her again and again. A girl closer to me sneaks a morsel of food while his attention is diverted. Danka folds the clothes in front of her, staring into space. She is far away.
The whole day this SS man beats us to fold faster and work harder. There is not a minute when we can look for crumbs or candy in the pockets of the clothes.
I fold a Persian lamb coat. Touching its silky smooth fur, I lovingly reminisce about the last time I touched Persian lamb. Schani had promised me that someday I should have a coat as fine as my aunt's. I fold the sleeves behind the back, remembering how lovely Aunt Regina looked in her fur coat. I fold the front of it slowly over the arms, pulling out the shoulders so it won't wrinkle. The tailor's tag gleams up at me, white satin against the curly black fur. The words
Jacob Schützer, Bardejov
leap off the tag.
"No. Oh no," I gasp before I am able to quiet myself.
"What is it, Rena?" Danka comes out of her daze just in time to see that I am folding Aunt Regina's coat.
Where is the justice in it? Where are they? Where are Cili and Gizzy? Where is Aunt Regina? . . . Where is Uncle Jacob? . . . I cannot bear to stay in this place any longer. Looking outside, across the compound, searching for some relief from the horror in my heart, I see an SS man standing on a ladder. He opens a can, pouring something into a hole, then ducks down quickly as if he's avoiding something that doesn't smell good coming from the can.
"What's that man doing?" I ask, incredulous.
"Pouring the gas in," Erna hisses. "Don't watch."
I can't believe it, but I cannot avert my eyes. The rumors of gas chambers and crematoriums come back to me, plunging me into darkness. They are true? I stare and stare at the proof before my eyes. My aunt and uncle could be in there right now. I can see it but I cannot accept it. What does this mean? That my parents could be in there, too, right now, dying?

 

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No, they are safe. They are waiting for me to come home. I can see Mama waving to me. Her babushka still draped across her shoulders. She is far away, but I know she is waiting for us.
I'm coming, Mama. Don't leave without me. I have Danka with me. We're all right
.
Blinking hard, I force myself back to the present. Bundling up my aunt's coat, I wish I could bury my head in it and sob; I fight back the tears in my eyes. The mounds of clothes glare at me. These coats and dresses and suits and hats have been taken from my people. Where are these people now? Are they even alive? Are they in camp wearing the same uniform that I wear? Are they dead or are they dying?
"You know what we have to pray for, Rena?" Erna's voice slices through my thoughts.
"What?" Smoke billows out of the chimneys on the horizon.
"Not that we don't get in there, but that when we do end up there they have enough gas so we die and don't go into the ovens alive."
"Oh, my God, Erna, we don't want to work here anymore." I imagine the screams of mothers and children and grandparents as they wither into nothingness just a few hundred meters away from where we fold their clothes to be shipped to Germany for Reichdeutsche to wear. "I don't know how you do it," I tell my friend.
We are from the same village. How is it she can take this barbarism in stride while I must turn and flee from it? I respect her nerve, but I'm not as strong as Erna. I cannot fold the clothes of my mother's brother's wife, watch the gas go down the chimney, and not die a little more inside. If my sister and I are to live, we will have to find another way; this detail will destroy our spirits if it doesn't destroy our minds first.
The next day Emma is waiting for us. She doesn't say a word about where we were the day before. We just get in her line and nod to her. She doesn't ask questions. And we pretend that nothing ever happened.

 

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"Rena." Erna jerks her head toward the latrine. I lift my chin slightly upward, letting her know I'll meet her there. A few moments later we stand together next to the boards with holes in them that are supposed to act as toilets. She pulls a gift out from under her jacket, shoving it into my hand.
"Erna, you shouldn't have." But she is already slipping something else from out of her pocket. In my hands is something I have been dreaming of for monthsa bra. I put it on hastily before anyone can notice, but cannot withhold my sighs. My poor nipples, scabbed and blistered from the constant rubbing of wool, are immediately relieved.
"Here, take these, too." Erna hands me a pair of underwear. "That's not all. We're getting shoes for you and Danka, too."
How? I want to ask, but knowing better I simply nod my thanks and whisper, "I am indebted to you." We exit the latrine separately.
I cannot believe the difference this one tiny luxury makes in my outlook, my mood. To have one less thing to be in pain about gives me less to think about, worry over; my focus is more clear and I am more alert. I think this bra helps save my sanity.
Erna has paid back the injury she did Danka with these gifts, although I think because we are friends she would have brought them anyway.
It is much harder to get shoes. But Erna thinks of a way, and in each shoe is a sock to prevent blisters and keep our toes even warmer. We have been working in sandals and bare feet for almost eight months and now it's November, I think. These shoes make all the difference in the world. They cover our feet completely, protecting them from the elements and the rats; they lend support, keep our toes warmer, and don't fall off in the mud. The only shortcoming is they do not dry easily. We can use the potbellied stove, but it would take the whole night guarding them to dry them completely. After a short time by the fire, we put them back on our feet and go to bed. The leather grows hard and inflexible,

 

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