Rena's Promise (29 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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The reality strikes me squarely between the eyes, as if Taube himself had hit me. Their purpose is not only to destroy and defile us, it is to make a mockery of every positive moral value we have. Adela is thrown onto the flatbeds with the rest of the women, but she turns to help those behind her. Her chin still tilts with courage and dignity. She is not afraid. Her arm encircles a weaker girl whose knees are failing her. The trucks spew their exhaust as they head for the gas chambers. I cannot wrench my eyes away from her departing form. There is a tearing inside of me, as if a cord has been severed in my heart. As the trucks drive away, part of me dies with Adela.
<><><><><><><><><><><><>
We're working on the new blocks, digging sand out of a deep hole and sifting it through the mesh nets. It's old and familiar to us now, this digging and sifting. Our hands are hard. They no longer bleed from the long hours of work, except occasionally when we throw the bricks and the palms get cut once more. But that detail has become less frequent as they find real work for us to do. We load the lorries with the sand, pushing them toward a building that is closer to a men's kommando than our own. There are tracks for the lorries to glide along now, so pushing is not the horrific task it was a year ago. But it's still difficult, and as we heave the sand toward its destination I cannot believe we ever accomplished this task with no tracks, up a hill, and wearing slabs of wood on our feet.
We approach the men digging trenches to bury pipe in. Emma is watching the group sifting sand, and the farther away we move from her the closer we get to being within earshot of the men. There are no SS nearby or watching. It is a precious moment to exchange words.
"Is anybody Polish there?" a man asks from within the ranks of working men. We scoop the sand out into a pile next to the building.

 

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"My sister and I are," I whisper back. Stealing words carefully. None of the other girls pay attention to our snippets of conversation.
"Where're you from?" The lorry is empty. Grabbing onto the side of the car, we push it back to the piles of sand and reload. It takes a long time to fill the lorry. I am warm and cannot tell if it's the warm weather or my nerves making me shake. I long to have a conversation with this stranger on the other side of the fence; I long to know his name, his place of birth, his family . . .
I push the thoughts of normal life back where they belong, gouging deep into the dirt and rocks that must be sifted. I notice that Danka has slowed and quickly double my effort by taking a scoop from her section every few minutes.
"Take this lorry," Emma instructs. I grab the side, making sure there is room for my sister to hold on. We push it back toward the men's detail and begin relieving the car of its cargo. My eyes check the area for SS.
"Tylicz, near Krynica," I answer. We dig. The sound of shovels grating against dirt and pebbles seems louder than before. They dig. Our silence magnifies the noises around us.
Finally I hear "Krakow." We dig. They dig. An SS man appears. Our conversation is doomed until tomorrow. We push the lorry back toward Emma and the rest of our kommando.
Four
A.M
.
"
Raus! Raus!
"
Anxious to get to work this morning, I have already been to the latrine by the time the room elders are hitting and yelling. Under a blushing sky we eat our snippet of bread and drink our tea. The days are growing longer, as do our hearts; not only do the seasons pass us by, but the longer the sun is in our sky the longer they work us. Sleep is just something slipped in between roll calls. Danka crosses her arms across her chest, holding her elbows. "I'm cold, Rena."
"The sun will be up soon."

 

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''No, I mean I have a chill.'' There is a thick crust on her swollen lips.
"What is that on your lips?"
"I don't know." She touches her mouth. "I'm so thirsty." I hold her forehead in my hand.
"You're hot," I say, trying to quench the worry and alarm surfacing in my mind.
She nods. "You have a crust on your lips, too." I touch my lips, feeling the flakes brush off from beneath my fingertips. Placing my hand to my forehead, I tell myself I feel fine.
"Are you hot?" she asks.
"No, Danka. We work so hard and eat so little that the body must try extra hard to warm itself." I lie to my sister as I lie to myself. She is warm, too warm for the temperature outside this morning. She is ill.
I do not say anything about this knowledge; I just make a mental note to myself. I can be alert for SS and green triangles, selections and dogs, but disease, this is something I cannot foresee. It comes upon us despite everything else we do to survive. This is our second spring. I can remember almost nothing of last year, nor do I want to. Still, I run through what memories surface about the first camp to see if any illness was common then, at this time of year. All that comes to mind is the biting bugs and the itching bites; the clouds of mosquitoes which infested camp last summer. So much has changed since last year that I cannot pick one change that stands out from the rest and fear that there are no answers in the past.
We march out with Emma toward the sand. Suddenly I am overcome with the fear that it was all a trick. The kind Pole from Krakow speaking to me yesterday will not be there today. A million things could've happened over the night. He could be dead, they could've moved his kommando to another area. My friend is gone. My fingers twitch against the burlap dress I wear. Agitated, these thoughts race through my mind without reason or logic.

 

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We're going to die. The pit yawns before me. Fear chases me towards it jaws. We will die not of selection or gas but in the hospital. Which is worse? The hope that has given me strength and energy to endure seems to run out of my fingers and toes and ears as all the fluids in my body drain away. We march toward the sand. My eyes glaze over.
Then I see them. The men are working in the same area they were yesterday. The pit disappears. We are safe once moreor are we? Danka is hot. The fever is gaining.
We push a lorry toward the building. I see the tall, skinny one and his shorter friend as we start unloading our cargo. The sun beats against our bare heads, keeping at bay the chill that sends shivers between Danka's scapula and spine. She is sweating too profusely. A stone falls to the ground a few feet away. I mark the place with my eyes without stopping my work. The lorry will be unloaded shortly. There are no SS. I focus on my work. I move a step towards the stone, digging, digging. In a few moments we'll be done. Digging, digging. I stoop quickly, my hand landing directly on the note. Firmly grasping the paper around the rock, I let the stone slip from my hand. We stand along the sides of the lorry getting ready to push. There is a moment, a second, in which to move, and I quickly adjust my shoe in that split of time and stillness, slipping the note under my foot. We push.
The afternoon wears on. Danka sweats. There has to be something I can do. The fears of the morning are gone. There is not time to fret over death. We are alive; all I can do is try to keep us that way.
"Halt!" We quickly put our shovels in the toolshed and line up. "March!" We march toward camp. "Heads up!'' We raise our chins, lift our feet as if we are proud to be slaves of the Third Reich. The only thing we have to be proud of is that there is no one to carry in today. Today we have all survived the Nazis' whips and boots, but a secret enemy is among us.
Tomorrow, if nothing happens tonight, Danka and I will return

 

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to Emma as we have done every day for weeks, monthsover a year, now. We will not recognize anyone in our detail tomorrow, just as we did not recognize anyone today. We pay no attention to faces. We survive by ignoring the temporal and have stopped looking for repeaters, those who work in our detail day after day; it is useless, in vain, depressing. They don't exist.
After roll call Danka and I get our bread and excitedly read the note from the man on the work team:
I'm Heniek. My friend is Bolek. Your names?
"Which one do you think likes me?" Danka asks.
"Look at you, all flushed by the thought of flirting with a boy in camp," I tease her gently, afraid that she is flushed because of her illness, not love. "I'm going to get a scrap of paper from the block elder to send them a note. You wait here."
I had typhus when I was twelve and remember the symptoms for that disease. Although it's the most common illness in camp besides scabies, Danka doesn't have typhus. I do not know what this enemy is. I have three missions as I leave Danka behind: one is to get a scrap of paper, one is to find out if there is an epidemic in camp, the last is to check outside for a morsel of anything edible. Whenever I have any extra energy I scour the grounds, organizing what tidbits I can.
Sneaking among the shadows, I pass the kitchen, all of my senses on alert. Finally, just as my eyes and legs are about to give out from weariness, I spy a piece of potato in the mud. Grabbing it, I dart back to the wall. It is a small morsel of food, barely big enough for one bite. I stare at it, looking for the proper place to mark it in half. Finally I dig my fingernail into the pulp so I know exactly how much I must save for Danka. My mouth waters but I do not risk even a nibble before I can share it with my sister.
Back in the block, I go to the block elder's door. She seems in a good mood tonight, handing me a scrap of paper and a bit of pencil. "Don't get caught with it."
"Can I ask you something?" I figure it's worth a try. If anyone

 

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would know about what's going around camp it would be a block elder.
"What?" She doesn't seem to mind my intrusion into her time.
"Is there any illness in camp that causes fever and crusting on the lips?"
She peers at me closely, warily. "Swamp fevermalaria," she says, shutting the door in my face.
12
I ponder her words while writing our note to Heniek and Bolek. I scratch our names out, then wrap the note firmly around a stone, sticking it into my hem for tomorrow. Back in our bunk, I hand Danka the pitiful piece of potato and we nibble on it, trying to make it larger and more savory than it can ever be. "Thank you, Rena." How I wish it could be more. I long to take care of her properly, feed her chicken soup, lots of water, bed rest, all the things we're not allowed to have. Her eyes glisten like glass in the dark. I am worried. The conclusion the block elder has stated is not an optimistic diagnosis. I say nothing to Danka, but I have heard of this happening in the whispers around camp. The mosquitoes are terrible this spring, and the swamp we live in makes our bodies their banquet tables as they suck us dry. There is no defense; between them and the lice infesting us, we are too weak from starvation to fight their gorging. I fall asleep feeling a wave of chills wash across my muscles in quiet spasm.
The stone lands close to Heniek. He retrieves it easily, bravely glancing at the note. He taps his friend. We dig. There are no SS nearby, so we slow the progress of unloading the lorry just a little bit in order to steal what bits of conversation that we can.
They dig. I am so concerned about Danka that for a moment I wonder if anyone can help us.
As if reading my mind, Heniek asks, "Can we help you in any way?"
12. "June 3 [1943] . . . 302 female prisoners who are ill with malaria are transferred to Lublin (Majdanek) C. C." (Czech, 411).

 

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