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Authors: Rena Kornreich Gelissen,Heather Dune Macadam

Tags: #Biography & Autobiography, #Historical, #test

Rena's Promise (28 page)

BOOK: Rena's Promise
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Page 147
before I die. There are sounds coming from above me, horrible guttural sounds.
Hasse is laughing. "The miserable
mist biene
thinks she's dead!" Hasse guffaws.
9
Her joviality plugs my ears. "I didn't shoot you!"
I raise my head, looking up at the SS woman's grinning face. "
Hau ab!
Get lost!" She waves me away.
What an idiot I am! Jumping up quickly, I brush myself off hoping Hasse doesn't change her mind and shoot me anyway.
"
Hau ab!
" she yells again.
We work all afternoon carrying stones, knowing this is worthless work only to keep us busy. We will miss this day sorely in the middle of the week. Next week we will be shaved again, another Sunday with no rest. How will we ever catch up? I wish we could have had the day off.
We work in the spring dirt, turning over the soil the same as we did the year before. The fresh young sprigs of new grass stick their white tips out of the soil, tempting us to gather them for a midday snack. The succulent, sweet juice of these grasses is a pleasant sensation to our tired taste buds and parched throats. We sneak them into our mouths when Emma and the SS aren't looking.
The girl next to me falters in her digging. I follow her gaze. Stooping to pick medicinal herbs, a group of broken souls moves slowly past our detail in blue-and-gray striped dresses with clean, white, pressed aprons. Their skeletal forms do not haunt me as badly as their bottomless eyes. We freeze for a moment of shock before returning to our work. Their knees quiver weakly, as if each step they take is their last. I shudder, surprised by the chill racing down my spine despite the warmth of the day.
I have seen many things between Auschwitz and Birkenau but
9.
Mist biene
is German for "manure bee" or "dung bee."

 

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never have I seen anything comparable to this. I have seen despair and hopelessness, I have seen insanity at first onset, but I have never seen any face so devoid of life. Even the dead look more alive than these walking corpses.
"They are experiment victims," the girl next to me whispers. Danka's face pales. My hands begin to shake with fright. "They torture them until they are dead, or vegetables." She turns another shovelful of dirt over. "After they are done experimenting with them, they go to the gas."
10
Of all the horror we see daily, of all the shattered selves we witness on a regular basis, they are beyond any realm of imagination. They look as if the spirit God breathed into their souls has been utterly sucked out. They're no longer human beings, having long ago ceased to be girls or women. They are a child's nightmare.
"Rena, I have scabies and terrible cuts from a beating I got." My cousin's wife begs, "Please, help me." I look at her without pity, without feeling. Still, I must help her. It is not in my heart to turn family away, despite how she treated me when Danka and I first arrived in Bardejov, when she invited me to her house and served me a cookie and cup of tea while still in her bathrobe and her hair in rollers. She kept fidgeting and acting like I was a nuisance, then abruptly told me she had errands to run, indicating it was time for me to leave. She didn't ask me about my parents, or how Danka and I were doing in her city. She was so well bred, so wealthy, I felt like the poor Polish cousin being swept under the carpet to avoid embarrassment.
I was not fond of her because of this incident in Slovakia. Then I heard she had made trouble in camp. She was caught on her
10. "April 30 [1943] . . . 242 female prisoners are earmarked for experimental purposes . . . housed in the experimental station of Professor Dr. Clauberg in Block 10 of the main camp" (Czech, 386). "By the time [Dr. Josef] Mengele arrived in May 1943, Auschwitz was packed with almost 140,000 prisoners and stretched for miles in all directions" (Posner and Ware, 20).

 

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hands and knees inside the soup kettle, licking it out, scraping what food was stuck to the bottom with her bare hands and feeding herself like an animal. An SS woman had found her and beat her for behaving so despicably.
I'm ashamed to say that I do not trust her now and am afraid to have anything to do with her. She has no self-control, and for all her airs and superiority she has become less than human, and people like that are dangerous in camp. I do not doubt she will do anything to save herself but cares nothing for me.
I look at the scabies on her face. She will die at the next selection if I don't help her. "If I'm going to get you any salve, you must promise not to tell anyone what I've done for you," I tell her. I do not want to have anything to do with her.
"I promise. Just this once. If you would help me I will never bother you again." I am cold-hearted, committed to little else but my sister and our survival. I do not turn away from her, but I am confused that she doesn't hand me her portion of bread to barter with when I go to the block elder, and since she doesn't offer it, I don't ask her for her food.
Taking my portion of bread to the block elder, I trade my only meal to get her the salve she needs. I know that if our roles were reversed she would not give up her bread for me, she will not even give me her bread for her own self, but I am expected to sacrifice mine for her.
She snatches the salve from my hand, hiding it quickly in her dress. "Thank you, Rena."
"You must be more careful in the future." I warn her. She disappears into the night. I do not feel virtuous or good about myself. I feel used and hungry, but I also know that I will never look back and regret trying to help my cousin's wife. There is little we can avoid in Birkenau, but trying to act with a little bit of dignity helps me, reminds me of home.
The Jewish beggars came to our door Friday, before Sabbath. Mama had Danka and me stuff burlap sacks with straw for them

 

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to sleep on in the kitchen. The day after Sabbath, Mama had to burn the straw, scrub the floors, and boil the sheets and pillow-cases to get rid of the lice and fleas they left behind. Danka and I didn't like cleaning up after these people, but Mama would remind us that they had children and were less fortunate than we were. The same was true for Gypsies and beggars; no one who came to our door ever left empty-handed
.
This is my legacy, to treat everyone with compassion.
Four
A.M
.
"
Raus! Raus!
"
The horizon grows dark. The wind shifts. My nose twitches in the breeze. They don't smell like rain clouds.
I feel myself detaching from my body; it happens sometimes and I am helpless against it. The chimneys are smoking. I watch myself move away as if I were taking a step to one side, leaving my body behind. There are footsteps approaching. My eyes shift toward the sound; my mind remains stationary.
Hasse smiles like a hunter who has captured its prey and is about to skin it alive. That is how she feels to us, ruthless and capable of snapping our necks in two without the slightest hesitation.
She flips up her hand at the gray clouds covering the dismal sky. "Look how the French models are burning!"
It doesn't matter who you are, if you're rich or beautiful or elegantif you're a Jew, you're nothing! She is always ridiculing us, gloating at us. I cannot fathom her cruelty. She continues down the line, counting and smiling, a sadist thrusting her verbal knife into each of our hearts for the fun of it.
We stand in line for selection. It is a long day; no food, no water. I haven't seen Adela Gross except for a few times in camp. We didn't know each other, but I recognize her as the rabbi's daughter from Hummene. I wonder if she was on the first transport as well. I do not remember.

 

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The line moves, and I catch a glimpse of Adela stepping forward. For a moment I am struck by her beauty and remember how gorgeous her beautiful red curls were before her head was shaved. I am astounded that despite the hardships of camp she still looks pretty.
She steps up to the death squad. The SS stare at her. Her chin is tilted slightly, bravely upward.
The thumb points away. She moves toward the ranks of the doomed.
I'm confused. How can she be selected? She looks better than me. Adela should stay alive. It must be a mistake.
The next girl steps up to the death squad.
Furious at the self-proclaimed gods who rule our lives, I wish I could yell at them, make them see their error. But I must prepare myself for the thumb. Squeezing Danka's hand one final time before letting go, I march toward my fate. We are hot or cold, there is no in-between. We are hungry and miserable. In a few moments we may be dead. Not sick, not hungry, not hot, not colddead.
I step up to the death squad, chin up. The thumb points.
Danka follows my lead, stepping up to the death squad. The thumb allows us both to live for another day. The girl behind us steps up to the death squad.
11
The trucks begin loading the girls, the women, my friend. Normally I don't watch, but this time I must. Running the selection over and over in my mind, I search for the reason in their decision. Why? Why? There is nothing wrong with her. She is a lovely young woman. She is beautiful. We are nothing but pieces of scrap wood.
11. "May. 31 [1943] . . . Nos. 123205123234 are given to 30 men prisoners and Nos. 4568145698 to 18 female prisoners . . . The occupancy level of the women's camp in Birkenau is 20,542" (Czech, 409410). By the author's calculations, if there were 20,000 women in camp and a selection lasted fifteen hours, then 1333.3 women were selected per hour, 22.2 women per minute, or one woman every 2.7 seconds.

 

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