Rena's Promise (38 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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that I know of in camp and is the head of all the secretaries. Aranka, whom I know by sight from Bratislava, is one of the scribes. Rumor has it that when she was brought in from the transports to be shaved and disinfected the SS guards stopped to stare at herthat's how beautiful she is.
We still have roll call, but there is a roof over our heads now, and there are only a hundred and twenty-five girls to count, so it does not take hours. Our first morning in this heaven roll call is conducted in the hallway outside our sleeping area, across from the laundry. It is not four
A.M
. when they wake us, it is five
A.M
. We get a whole extra hour of sleep and roll call does not last for over two hours in rain and sleet, it takes less than half an hour. There is no marching a kilometer or two to and from work, either, we are only a few steps from the laundry.
''This is where you will work.'' Maria instructs us on how to run the laundry. "You will wear these shoes while working here and leave your other shoes on this shelf." The shoes we are shown are wooden and have straps across the arch just like the ones we wore when we first came to Auschwitz. "This is the hot water you will use to wash with." She shows us a large kettle on a coal-burning stove, which is already steaming. There are tubs with scrubbing boards in them and baskets of dirty clothes to wash.
Wardress Bruno enters the laundry to inspect us. We all immediately stiffen at the presence of the SS woman. She has a stern look and a formal, military manner. She points to a girl. "You will be responsible for the water in the kettle and keeping the coals hot."
So we begin our first day in the SS laundry. The stone floor is cold and the water sloshes against our calves and knees. We scrub long johns and undershirts against the washboards, rubbing them hard to remove the stains. It's hard worknothing in Auschwitz-Birkenau is easybut we are inside. There is so much water being dumped into the drains that they back up. We wade through the water as if we were fishermen instead of charwomen. Then

 

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we put the damp clothes in the baskets and someone carries them away.
"Halt! Roll call!" We leave the laundry, lining up in the hall, where we are counted and handed a portion of bread as we enter our sleeping quarters. The bread looks bigger than it was in Birkenau. We get a slice of sausage; it is small but welcome. Our legs hurt terribly after that first day but no one is complaining; there are no dogs, no SS men beating us unmercifully, no immediate deaths.
I rub my calves before lying down to sleep. I wonder if so much water is good for them and worry that they will become swollen or infected. I check my skin for abrasions and cuts; everything looks fine. Danka is already asleep. I roll over, pulling my blanket up under my chin, staring up at the bunk bed above me. My eyes droop under the weight of the past few days. Suddenly I want to pray but cannot remember any words.
I feel as if Mama were there, tucking me in . . .
"
Did you say your prayers?
"
"
Yes, Mama." The feather comforter, already warm from the hot brick Mama used to slip in at my feet, makes me forget the harsh winter wind rattling our shutters
.
"
Sweet sleep." She kisses my cheek. I snuggle down into down
.
When Wardress Bruno enters the laundry followed by a kapo, everyone stiffens and works more diligently than before. Her face is hard, her demeanor severe; she walks directly up to me as if she knows what she wants. "You speak German?"
"
Jawohl
," Frau Wardress." I straighten my shoulders, looking forward but not directly at her.
"You will be responsible for taking the laundry out to dry. Pick two girls to help you carry the baskets."
"
Jawohl
." I point at my sister and Erna's cousin. "Danka and Dina." I call their names.
"Ilsa, they are in your charge," Wardress Bruno orders. There

 

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is an audible sigh of relief from amid the washers and sounds of sloshing water when she departs.
Ilsa is about fifty years old but wears a black triangle. I have trouble imagining her as a prostitute and have to stifle a smirk that creeps across my lips as I look at her red-orange hair and bowlegs.
"Take these baskets. I will show you the way to the drying place," she says in German.
"Danka, you and Dina hold the outsides," I instruct. I am afraid that the baskets will be too heavy for my little sister, so I decide from the very first that I will always be in the middle and step in between the two baskets heavily laden with wet clothes. We look at each other, reaching the handles simultaneously and hoisting them up, following Ilsa out of the cellar.
We step outside onto a road and follow it toward two buildings. My shoulders begin to ache. We pass the SS kitchen. My arms feel as if they're being dragged out of their sockets. We turn left into an open field beside another building. I stare and stare at the expanse before us. As I inhale deeply the air bites my lungs. It is pure; there is no smell of burning flesh hiding in its odor. There are lines set up, with a little bag of clothespins.
"This is the
trockenplatz
, the drying place." Ilsa announces. We set the baskets down, put on our aprons, and obediently begin hanging the clothes up to dry. Then we wait.
There is a very handsome man who stands outside in front of a water pump which he operates. We each sneak a look at him while we work. There are SS going back and forth along the road regularly. I fidget among the clothes, smoothing them, making sure they are perfect and straight on the line. I am afraid there is something we aren't doing that we might get in trouble for. Danka and Dina follow me, copying my obsessive antics. Ilsa informs us when it's time to return to the block for lunch. We take the clothes that are dry back to the laundry and after our turnip soup return to the trockenplatz with fresh wet laundry. Finally Ilsa signals us

 

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that the day is over. We sort out which clothes are dry and which are not, carrying them back in separate baskets, but we bring in all of the clothes for the night. When we arrive in the laundry we leave the partially dry clothes in the baskets and place the rest on a table for folding.
We can see the Polish men working in the kitchen when we pass by each day, but because of Ilsa and what happened to the Polish Gentile girls, nobody dares to communicate with us. The man at the water pump, however, is so close to us that we manage to whisper to each other.
"What's your name?" He asks.
"Rena, my sister Danka, and our friend Dina. All three of us are from Tylicz."
"I used to ski there. It's beautiful. I'm Tadziu."
I can't help but wish that Ilsa would move farther away so we could have some conversation, but we are watched very closely these first few weeks. I guess we're on probation. The days lag as Ilsa watches us watch the clothes and we smile secretly at Tadziu. I think he is a shy man.
My fingers feel as if they are about to be peeled loose from the handles of the baskets, spilling the clean clothes across the dirt road; I struggle to keep them clenched closed. My shoulders ache. Ilsa is far behind us.
"Look at your kapo," Tadziu says to us as we put down our baskets. We look down the road and see her coming toward us on her extremely bowed legs. Her red hair gleams in the sun above her curving limbs as if she had a huge ball between her knees. She waddles towards us.
Tadziu teases, "Here comes innocence between parentheses!"
Like a bubbling gurgle of water, a sound wells up from inside of us, erupting quietly from our chests. We are completely surprised. I barely recognize what is happening or what we are hearing and doing . . . we laugh.

 

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The quaking feeling in my chest has not been caused from fright or sorrow, but from mirth: prisoners are laughingin Auschwitzthough not too loudly.
Ilsa is getting closer. We try to stifle these strange sounds, which causes our eyes to squirt tears down the sides of our faces. And the closer she comes, the funnier she looks. We hide our faces, but every time we catch each other's eyes we start giggling all over again. It is terribly difficult to act austere and serious when all we can think about are Ilsa's bowed, parentheses legs and how innocent she isn't; the rest of the day we silently shake whenever we look at our kapo. Danka's face lighting up gives me a momentary sense of relief. We have not laughed in I don't know how long. This laughter, which is so strange to us, is as valuable as bread; it eases our hearts of just a little pain and gives us something to smile about secretly.
Two weeks later Ilsa is no longer coming with us to the drying place; I guess that either she has completed her sentence and been pardoned or she's been moved to another place in camp. I become the one responsible for taking the clothes and there is no one watching us for the first time since the beginning. Now when we carry the baskets out to the trockenplatz I stop and have Danka and Dina change places so they can switch hands. I do not allow myself to exchange positions.
We take the clothes out to hang no matter what the weather. Wardress Bruno believes that fresh air is essential for clothes, so even on inclement days we stand in the rain or sleet and watch the clothes get as soaked as we do. Only if it looks as if it will rain all day do we stay inside and wash clothes to dry the following day; on days when it rains sporadically we hang the clothes up in hope that the sun will come out later. Hanging wet clothes in the cold nearly bites our hands off. We stick our fingers in our mouths to warm them, and then continue. Some days the clothespins with

 

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springs are too difficult for our fingers to press open and we have to use the ones with just slits in them. It is strange that after everything we went through to get inside work, here we should be, outside, with winter coming closer with each day.
I worry that the burlap dresses we wear are not nearly warm enough for the temperatures we will have to bear. And we have no gloves to warm our hands, either. I think briefly back to last winter in Birkenau, while staring into space. I cannot believe we survived it.
On the way back from the trockenplatz one night, the window to the SS kitchen opens and a friendly face asks, "Where are you from?"
We slow our steps down. "Tylicz, Poland," I answer in a low voice.
"All three of you?" He sounds glad that we're Polish.
"Yes, Polish Jews." I want to turn and face the person I'm speaking with, but that is an impossibility. I shift my eyes sideways without moving my chin.
"I'm an actor, from Warsaw. My name is Stasiu. Stop tomorrow in this same spot and I'll throw you a piece of sausage." I catch a glimpse of his face just before he moves from the kitchen window. He's old, at least for Auschwitzhe must be in his forties. We pick up our pace as if nothing has happened.
The next day we stop outside the SS kitchen just as the window cracks open. Danka and Dina switch places as I busily rearrange the clothes, making a hole in the center. A package lands neatly in the basket and I cover it up. Our hearts pound as we pick up the laundry and continue our trek. Inside staff quarters, while Dina and Danka unload the laundry I disappear with the package, hiding it under our mattress, hoping and praying that nobody will catch me. We wait until dark; then, when everyone else is asleep, we divide the piece of sausage Stasiu sent us three ways and devour it.

 

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