Rena's Promise (34 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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someone. Their attention is elsewhere. Gathering my self-esteem around me, I imagine the cloud of God descending down upon my sister and me, just as it did on the mount to speak with Moses. We take our first step out of line. Past roll call, past the watchful SS, past thousands of other female prisoners, Danka and I walk hidden in the mists of Zion.
Passing Stibitz and Taube, we walk with the air that we are doing exactly what we've been told to do. My fingernails dig into her flesh; I'm not letting go of my sister's hand. We walk, convinced that no one will stop us. We are important; we have been ordered to return to the sauna. I repeat this to myself over and over. Chins up, eyes forward, never look back.
The distance seems to remain the same. The sauna gets no closer. The lines and rows of prisoners seem to continue on forever. Through the desert of Birkenau we walk invisible.
Seconds slow to hours as our feet trudge through the mud. Our heads held high, our gaze never veers from our path. Danka's hand turns blue from the tightness of my squeeze. Chins up, eyes forward, never look back.
I open the sauna door without looking behind me. There are no voices behind us ordering us to halt, no gunshots firing at our backs. There's only roll call, the lifeline that we must grab as quickly as we can change our clothes.
We step inside, shutting the door behind us. The silence of the sauna is dense as steam.
"Quick, Danka. We have to hurry!" I whisper urgently. "Undress and give me your clothes and I will do the rest." Tearing the uniform of an experiment victim off my body, I search the pile of discarded uniforms in my underwear. Danka cannot move. She stares at me like a small animal frozen by fear, incapable of helping me, as I fumble through the clothes looking for her number, repeating ''2779, 2779" over and over, out loud. My hands tremble uncontrollably as my nerves unravel.
There's no time. Our lives depend on getting back to roll call

 

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and being counted before anyone notices we're missing from the special detail. I see her uniform and place it on the floor.
The pile seems to have multiplied since I turned my back. Shaking uncontrollably, I dig through the clothes looking for the one uniform out of fifty which is mine. They are all identical except for the numberswhat if I passed it when I was looking for Danka's? What if it's not here? Finally I locate the sleeve 1716. Stuffing the new dresses and aprons under the pile of old uniforms, I run to Danka.
"Can you put your arms up?" I ask gently. Her arms float upwards. I pull the old lice-infested burlap onto her arms and over her head. My fingers quiver as I button her into her old uniform, the number 2779 in its proper place. Then with a shudder I pull the comfort of anonymity over my own head. The number I've hated so much is now my refuge, my only link to life.
I open the door, carefully peeking outside. The SS are just a row away, coming our way. We have a few minutes to spare. I shut the doorcatching my breath, waiting for them to pass.
"Ready?" I don't wait for an answer, pushing Danka out ahead of me and into the neat ranks of five. "Please move up," I whisper to the girl-women around us. "Please move over. Make some room, please." No one pushes back, no one argues. The rows of fated women we depend on move as silently as water, swallowing us into their bosom until we are one with the ranks. The SS move up our row. We hold our breath.
They pass us. We have been counted.
Roll call ends and Emma is waiting. I nod to her as Danka and I take our places in her kommando. She raises an eyebrow at our presence. I think her mouth turns upward slightly, too, but can't be sure; all I know is it feels good to be safe with Emma. Even the nip of fall in the air makes me grateful that I am outside digging, building, rather than in Mengele's hands. It feels good to be chilled, to be alive.

 

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<><><><><><><><><><><><>
Danka remains in a daze for a few days. Everything she does is automatic, without thought or contemplation, but sometimes I believe she looks at me with amazement and maybe gratitude; sometimes I am not sure where she is.
Rumors still haunt the latrines. There are more voices murmuring, "There's going to be a big selection."
14
We're not safe. We're never safe. We just narrowly escaped death for one daywhat about tomorrow?
A girl in the latrine asks, "Remember that special work detail they selected last week?"
I watch her warily, wondering what she knows, wondering how much bread she is going to blackmail me for in order to buy her silent allegiance.
"I think so," I lie to her face.
"I heard from someone working in the infirmary that it was for sterilization and shock treatments. He took half of the girls and put hot plates on their stomachs to send electric shock into their bellies over and over again until they fainted. When they came to, they did it again and again until they died." I feel weak, nauseous. "The rest he cut open in order to take their female organs out. Some of them are dying from infection now. The lucky ones are already dead." I move away from this stranger's voice, the blood draining from my face.
"Rena, what's wrong?" Danka comes up behind me.
"Nothing, Danka, nothing. I must be hungry." I head back to our block.
"You're not getting sick, are you?" I shake my head. She watches me with concern.
14. "October 1 [1943] . . . The occupancy level of the women's camp is 32,066" (Czech, 497).

 

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There is a pressure screaming for release against my eyes. I don't cry. It takes time to cry and there is no time. I fight to find a reason, but there is no reason in this place. What did they do when they discovered there were three numbers missing in the experiment detail? Did the woman who snuck her cousin or sister out of line just put somebody else in her place? Why didn't they search us out?they had our numbers written on a list. Why are we alive and the other girls we were selected with not? Will there ever come a time when we can thank God for being alive today before we have to ask the same privilege tomorrow, and the next day? Is life a privilege or a curse?
Rumors of the big selection increase. One thing after another tumbles across my brain. As if we were never in Mengele's clutches, I go back to worrying about Danka's injury again. The scar's not as angry as it was a few weeks ago, but it is still red enough to attract the bitter eyes of SS selection officers.
"Tomorrow," a voice whispers in front of me. I pass the information down the line. This is how we send news, the same way we toss bricks, from one to another. Usually we're in the soup line or waiting for the evening bread. "Tomorrow."
Taking my bread, I turn to Danka. "I'm going outside."
"For what?"
"For anything I can find." I'm irritated. It's not her fault. We're both nervous, weary with the exhaustion living on the edge brings. I need to scour the grounds, I need to do something besides think that tonight may be my last night on earth. Walking past the kitchen, I scan the ground for potato pieces or anything that might be edible. I wish we had some extra food for the selection. Beyond food I don't know what else to look for, and tonight the rats and other prisoners have beaten me to whatever scraps may have been here. Much to my surprise, a light-blue-and-red wrapper with the word
Chickory
on it peeks up out of the mud at me. For a moment I stare at it simply enjoying the familiarity of the logo and the

 

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memory it brings with it. Picking it up, I bury my nose in the wrapper, allowing the aroma to carry me back.
"
Rena, don't play with that, it will turn your fingers red," Mama scolded sweetly. "Look at your hands! Don't touch anything. Go wash it off quickly. The ink stains
."
"
What's it for, Mama
?"
"
It makes the coffee smooth and not so acid on the stomach, just like Papa likes it
."
I can smell freshly brewed coffee in the night air.
A familiar redness has left its stain on my fingers. I stare and stare at it, then carefully fold the precious paper into what is left of the hem in my dress. "Thank you, Mama." I head back to the blocks.
I force myself to sleep by telling myself that I need to be fresh for whatever test they give us. Sleep comes fitfully at first and then deeply, until I am no longer conscious of the sounds outside, the screams, the gunshots. Many who hold no hope in tomorrow will risk the moon in the sky trying to reach the fence, and tomorrow morning the SS will have a few less to select for death.
Four
A.M
.
"
Raus! Raus!
"
Morning comes too soon. There is no tea. Fear as thick as fog has descended upon our camp. The dead we carry out each morning have always been pitied by me, but today I feel differently; they have passed away in the bliss of unconsciousness. The bodies on the fence usually make me feel sad, but today I respect them for choosing to rob the Nazis of their secret delight. This is mercy in Auschwitz-Birkenau, to die by your own hand.
It rains, pouring sometimes, sprinkling others, as if heaven cannot make up its mind. But the selection team has no trouble making up their minds. We stand for hours on the Laggerstrasse in rows of five. The line stretches the length of the camp. The morn-

 

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