Rena's Promise (40 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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lief. I tell Danka and Dina the good newswe have cover. It is just in time. Winter has arrived.
How strange it is that after all my hoping to get a job inside I should be standing outside, but I am simply grateful to be away from Birkenau with my sister, still alive.
The first rainy day after my request we stand under the awning all day. Sometimes I lean my elbows on the railing and scan the fields before me, where there are no fences. A train passes in the distance. I am careful not to make contact with anyone in the kitchen. This is my first day using the porch for shelter and I do not want to lose the privilege, so I keep to myself and my private thoughts.
The next day as we bring the laundry back from the drying place a stone lands at our feet. "Change positions," I whisper. Danka and Dina stop. We put the baskets on the ground and I retrieve the note adroitly.
We wait impatiently through roll call before I can read the note. Danka peers over my shoulder as I unfold the paper, but there are no words; it is a pencil drawing. We are slightly giddy about it and I am flattered that someone should take the time to sketch me: I am leaning forward and my skirt is hitched up a little too high around the curve of my legs.
"Does my skirt ride up that high?" I ask Danka.
"No, Rena, it doesn't." We giggle.
"He makes my legs prettier than they are, too!" I wish I could hang the drawing up or hide it somewhere safe, but there is no place that is safe enough. Besides, it is signed: Stasiu Artista. He has also scribbled in the corner,
When you walk by the window tomorrow, lean back a little bit and slow down. I'm going to throw something to you
.
The next day we stop in front of the kitchen and Dina and Danka exchange places while I look busy arranging the clothes. Smooth as clockwork the package lands in the underwear. I cover it up

 

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without a second lost and we pick the baskets up without looking back.
After roll call we discover that the package Stasiu has sent is a bag of sugar. "Let's share it," Danka suggests. Dina and I nod in agreement; this is too precious to hoard selfishly. We whisper to twenty of our closest girlfriends to come to our bunk after everyone is asleep.
"We have a surprise for you," we tell them. "Bring your spoon."
Sitting with the bag of sugar in my lap, I take the spoon from the first girl in line, carefully leveling it off, making sure that everyone gets an equal amount. When it's all gone we rest on our bunks in the dark, licking the metal of our spoons over and over, trying to squeeze out every last bit of savory sweetness.
It is sleeting. I have come to enjoy inclement days now because they give me a chance to whisper with my new friend, Stasiu Artista. Sometimes I long for a conversation that is face to face. One that is real and long and not dangerous. It's silly to long for something that is impossible, but I miss the days when I could flirt and walk down the road with a beau and just talk about whatever comes into our minds. That shouldn't be a crime, but it is.
"How did you like the picture?" Stasiu asks through the window.
"It was very nice, but you made the skirt too short. You were dreaming."
I hear a sound like soft laughter. "You are beautiful."
"My friend, I am alive, and here that is beautiful. Thank you for the compliment, though."
"How long have you been here?" he asks.
"March 1942." "That's too long . . . " His voice suddenly sounds very sad.

 

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"How about you?" I hear him moving away from the window and fall silent.
It seems silly sometimes, especially when it's sleeting, to act as a sentry for clothes, but I have my orders. The afternoon wears on slowly. The gentle tapping against the tin roof above my head sounds like a lullaby. The crispness of the air seems to capture the smells from the SS kitchen, dangling them before my nose. Whether it is the smell of meat roasting or the sound of sleet I do not know, but suddenly I am transported back through time. How wonderful our house used to smell the night before Sabbaththe goose, the kugel, the potato cakes. I long for real homecooked food and actual meals that take place at a table with white linens and silverware, meals that last for hours because there is so much food. I long to sit across the table from friends and family enjoying genuine conversation and togetherness. I long to see Mama with her white silk scarf draped over her head, lighting the candelabra on the dining room table for Sabbath.
She says the Sabbath blessing out loud, her arms stretching out from her body over the flames and back toward her hearttwice. Then, covering her eyes with both of her hands, she prays silently. Danka and I watch her with awe and anticipation. It is a solemn moment, with nothing but the golden flickering light upon mama's hidden face to indicate that time is passing. Her hands lower slowly, tears shine on her cheeks. There are always tears sparkling in her eyes after the Sabbath prayer
. "Git Shabbes,"
she wishes us, radiantly
. "Good Sabbath, Mama."
Danka and I run into her arms. Papa returns from temple and we sit down for a feast; we feel so blessed, so loved
.
My mouth waters for the tender meat of roast goose. I sigh.
The note falls close to my feet. I reach down and pretend to adjust my stocking while reaching for the message. I wish I could just read it immediately without having to wade through the rest of the afternoon until we get back to Stabsgebaüde. My palm

 

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itches, but I tuck the note well into my jacket, ignoring the nagging desire I have to read it. Glancing quickly at the window, I see Stasiu scuffling away. Once again I am alone with the skittering sound of sleet.
That night we read Stasiu's note as if it were the day's newspaper; that is how important these communications are to us.
I have been here since 1939. The chef is number 45. He has been here the longest of anyone I know who is still alive
. We stare at his words seeing the naked truth. It is impossible to believe that years could go by and we might still be here, but Stasiu is proof. We are proof. I crumble his note while walking slowly to the toilet. It swirls downward, dragging with it all prospects for a life of freedom.
<><><><><><><><><><><><>
After roll call, ten packages are given to us from the Red Cross. There are no names on them as there were in Birkenau, but Maria tells us, "Divide these up between you the best you can." We stare and stare at the packages, eager to tear open the brown wrapping paper to see the goodies inside.
"I think we should take a vote to decide who is going to divvy up the food." Mania suggests.
"I think Rena should do it," Janka volunteers. "She's very particular and honest."
"All for Rena, raise your hands." I cannot believe my eyes; every hand in the room is up. All one hundred and twenty-five girls vote for me. We open the packages as if this were a holiday, even though it's not a feast for so many. I put everything into separate piles: twenty cans of sardines, ten sweet cakes, ten loaves of wheat bread, and bags of sugar cubes.
"Somebody get a knife from Maria and someone else got a measuring tape from the sewing room so I can be exact." My hands shake. This is the biggest honor I have ever been given, more im-

 

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portant than being chosen, the first Jew and the first girl, to recite a poem before our entire village on Poland's biggest national holiday when I was eleven years old.
We lay the measuring tape across the cakes; each one is about six and a quarter inches long. I divide the length of the cakes by one hundred and twenty-five and figure that each piece should be half an inch thick. With two girls holding the measuring tape taut, I mark off thirteen sections of cake and then carefully slice each piece at the premeasured mark. Our mouths water. We measure the wheat bread in the same way.
My hands tremble as I slice each section of cake. These are hungry people; everyone must receive exactly the same portions. I cannot show favor to anyone, not even my sisternot that I would even think of cheating another hungry person out of such precious food.
There are twenty tins of sardines and between six and eight per tin, and I figure that there are enough sardines for each girl to have one tablespoon. "It will be easier to divide the sardines up using our spoons so we do not lose the oil," I tell the girls. They stand in line, holding out their spoons as I meticulously scoop out the fish so that each spoonful is level. The sugar cubes are counted out as well. When it is all done, everyone takes her piece of bread, spoonful of sardine, and her nibble of cake and goes to her bed to eat in grateful silence.
If you knew there was a million dollars somewhere and you could take it, would you? These pieces of bread and cake are worth a lot more than that amount of money. I have never stolen from anyone in camp. Every scrap of food is a matter of life or death and I can never bring myself to cheat another human being. I remember how it was in Birkenauwhen I found even the tiniest morsel of food, even if it was a potato peel on the ground, I divided it with my baby sister. Even though it was burning my hand because I was so hungry, I always brought it to her to share.

 

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I consider myself an intelligent person, but I am so obsessive and prudent about food, it is ridiculous. This is what starvation can do to one.
The girls in the SS offices are constantly complaining about the Jewish kapo, Edita. She's always reporting them for the littlest thing and then punishing them too severely. She is a tyrant and treats them more severely than some of the German kapos. None of us understands why she is so mean, but the secretaries come up with a way to get back at her.
"We have a secret mission," Aranka tells me. "Do you want to join it?"
I look into the faces of seven of the scribes. "For what?" I ask.
"We can't tell you. Have you got guts and are you strong?"
"Yes, I've got both. Is this something that will endanger my sister's life?"
"No," they assure me. "We're going to pin Edita down in her sleep and beat her." I nod. It sounds like a worthy cause. ''You want to beat her or hold her mouth?"
"I'd better hold her mouth. I don't have the chutzpah to beat a person," I tell them.
"Tonight, then." We shake hands.
While the rest of the block sleeps, we sneak into Edita's room, gathering around her bed silently. Then, on the leader's signal, two girls grab her arms and two grab her legs as I pull my hands over her mouth and another girl covers her eyes. The two who are going to beat her begin to strike her over and over on the stomach, where no one will see the bruises. It's hard to keep the pressure on her mouth as she struggles to get free, but I press my hands into her face to prevent any groans or noises. When they are done pummeling her they nod to us and we release our hold, dashing back to our bunks. Our covers are already folded back so we can

 

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