Rena's Promise (43 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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My heart droops. Standing up slowly, I try to break away from hearing more without allowing her to see the bewilderment in my face. I have a feeling she does not approve of emotional weaknessno SS doso I move toward the folds of underwear swaying in the summer breeze and hide.
There is a roaring in my ears, a train rushing through my head. Why don't I just die right now if I'm going to be a slave for the rest of my life? I stumble blindly away from her voice, fighting the dryness stinging my eyes. What's the point of going on if this is all there is? I hide my face between clean white undershirts and shorts. I want to tear them off their lines and scream at the encroaching clouds darkening the sky above us. I want to end it all, make the endless monotony cease . . . make everything stop. I want to sleep forever and never wake up. Then I hear myself saying, Come on, Rena, you don't even know if you're going to survive tomorrowwhy worry beyond that?
The train barreling through my head stops. My thoughts quiet and slow. The sky has not changed, the sun still burns brightly and Wardress Grese still lies on her stomach as if she has said nothing to destroy my world. I could die tomorrowI will worry about the rest when and if I make it that far. I hang up an undershirt, smoothing the wrinkles from the cotton, trying very hard not to think about Madagascar, watching her beautiful body tan.
It is harvest time. My birthday must be near, or maybe it has passed. I do not know. I only know that a farmer is crossing
the field with his wagon full of cabbages, so it must be late August. He slows down his horse just a little as he passes us, then clucks and jerks the reins. The horse starts with a jolt and off roll five heads of cabbage. Danka grabs my arm with a squeeze.
''Dina," I say. "You and Danka keep watch while I nab a cabbage. Next you go, and then Danka." They nod in agreement, turning their backs to me, hanging up the clothes and keeping their eyes peeled for SS. I walk toward the bounty the kind farmer

 

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has left for us and quickly retrieve it, carrying it back obscured by my clothes and hiding it in one of the baskets. Within minutes we have obtained three huge cabbages, their leaves luscious and warm from the sun.
"What about the other two?" Dina asks.
"We have enough. We could get caught if we're too greedy. Besides, I'm sure some other hungry person will find them."
That night we dole out several leaves to our dearest friends while everyone else is asleep. They are sweet and crisp. The juice runs down our throats as we consume them. They are so fresh you can almost taste the earth they come from, and so full of vitamins that our bodies feel immediately revitalized, however momentarily, and that permanent hole that lives in our stomachs is partially filled.
The next day I notice that the other two cabbages are gone. A few days later we see the farmer and his wagon coming across the field again. His head down, he slows the horse and then clucks, just as he did before. Off roll a few more cabbages. I cannot prevent the smile that emerges as I say a prayer of blessing to this man before nodding to Danka and Dina. This simple farmer does the same thing for us one more time during the harvest season, and always we share the bounty with our friends.
As the fall moves in on us again the news becomes more and more positive, hope begins to seep into our pores and our dreams. Morning tea is our favorite time of day because the men from the kitchen who bring the kettle whisper news of the war to one or two of us. We sip our tea sharing the latest information: the Allies are pushing back the Germans; the Russians are closer; the Allies are going to bomb the train tracks.
We wait each day for more good news, more hope, which comes in on the radios smuggled into camp. This is food for the soul, and even those weak from hunger feast on this free meal of information, holding it close to their hearts as one would an extra ration of

 

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bread. This is good because the portions are shrinking once again and Stasiu is throwing less food, less often. The SS seem more tense and irritable, so we must be extremely careful not to annoy them. There are rumors that the laundry is going to be moved. We've heard planes overhead.
It must be September and the air is changing. The farmer with his cabbages no longer crosses the trockenplatz. Harvest is over. We hang the clothes out to dry in the cooling wind and whisper about the events outside our world, wondering where the laundry will be moved, wondering when and if the war will ever end.
At morning roll call we are told to line up and march out. There is anxiety at first; we eye each other nervously. Danka grabs my hand for a reassuring squeeze. We leave the basement guarded by SS. Please don't let it be Birkenau, is the prayer each girl repeats in her heart. Anything but Birkenau. We head down the road praying they will turn down another path. There is a fence and watchtowers in the distance, but it is not Birkenau. Our fears are quickly relieved. We assess our new compound; the fence is not electric, there are eleven blocks.
We march into Block Four. "This is where you will sleep." We enter our new living quarters hesitantly. The hair on my arms is raised, my skin is prickly: these are the new blocks, the blocks that Danka and I helped build when we were in Auschwitz and Birkenau. The concrete holding the bricks together was sifted and delivered by our own hands. We have forged our own prison.
Roll call in the new blocks is held outside and then we are marched out of the gates to a leather factory, where the laundry has been relocated. Mullenders is our wardress. She is Dutch but speaks German very well. "There are men working in the leather factory," she tells us. "You will not speak with them or have any dealings with them. If I catch any of you carrying on with them you will be punishedseverely!" Her cold eyes glare at us so that we catch her meaning.
It is whispered that in Block Eleven they are conducting experi-

 

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ments. Next to us, in Block Five, there are German soldiers known as the Brownshirts hiding in case there is an enemy attack on camp. We can see them through the window of our block when we come back from work.
''They're waiting for the Russians," one of the girls tells me.
A bomb falls in a field, leaving a huge crater, but no one is even remotely injured. The transports keep coming, the gas chambers keep killing, the crematoriums keep burning. The first few days are depressing. We have lost our secret supply of food and miss contact with Stasiu Artista. The men from the kitchen who bring our morning tea do not risk sharing any news with us until the situation can be judged safe. We are lost without our daily routine. We hunger and thirst for news of the war.
The old, all too familiar routine begins again. We wake at four
A.M.
We rise to harsh reminders, "
Raus! Raus!
"
The tea arrives. I stand in line to get my cup, but when it is my turn the server whispers, "Marek is downstairs waiting for you." He pours my tea and I move on. My head is pounding so hard that my ears ring. Danka watches my flushed face as I hurry into the basement.
He leans against a table in the hallway, opening his arms for an embrace.
"Marek! What are you doing?" I can barely whisper out loud, I am so nervous.
"You wouldn't run away with me, so I have come to you." He pulls me close to him. "I've wanted to hold you for so long."
"I must be losing my senses to be here with you. We could both be shot."
"It'll be worth it if only for one kiss." He lowers his head and kisses me, but I am in no mood to kiss back. "That was lovely." He sits on the table, pulling me onto his lap, holding me tight. I cannot resist the warmth of human comfort, the longing to be held close and dear. I kiss him long and endearingly.

 

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"That was really worth it!" He smiles. "And now you must get upstairs before anyone notices you're missing, and I must get back to serving tea before they notice my absence."
"Please be careful. I'll die if anything happens to you."
"Nothing will happen to me. I've been tortured and beaten by the Gestapowhat more is there?" I do not answer him. Taking his scarred hands, I stroke the places where his fingernails once were.
"When we are free, will you marry me?"
"Marek, how do we know what will be?" We kiss once more before I flee upstairs. Danka and Dina are waiting for me, and together the three of us run out of the block and into our positions for roll call. My face is glowing, my belly is wound up so tight I cannot even eat the portion of bread I saved from last night.
Four
A.M.
"
Raus! Raus!
"
We are woken with orders to line up for roll call, then we are ordered to march. Confused but obedient, we head out of the gates in neat rows of five. Using side glances, we look at one another warily, sending warnings like silent Morse code with our blinking eyes.
Our hearts sink as we approach the electric fences of Birkenau. The band is playing as we march beneath the sign
ARBEIT MACHT FREI
. The entire women's camp is standing at attention facing a platform.
"Halt!" We stop, turning to face the gallows.
We wait. Camp waits.
Drexler steps up on the platform. "Today we will witness the execution of a prisoner who tried to escape. This is what you all have waiting for you should you even think about escape from Auschwitz!"
Mala is brought up on the platform. She is calm, undisturbed.
Drexler continues talking about how foolish Mala was to think

 

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she could escape the Third Reich. "We will rule the world," she reminds us. I remember Wardress Grese telling me about Madagascar. We will always be slaves, there is no hope. There is no reason to fight against them. They are everywhere. Drexler's voice drones on, instilling fear and trepidation into our veins.
Mala is standing there holding her hands gently in front of her, a faint smile on her face. She looks victorious. There is no regret in her eyes. Her dress is extremely dirty. I am sure they tortured her, trying to extract information and the names of the underground who helped them escape. She does not look as if she told them anything, though. She has pride. Her chin is up, her eyes are unwavering.
We have stepped over so many dead bodies that death is something we have become immune to, but this execution disturbs us. Why do we feel so terrible? Why is this so much worse than the suicides on the wire, the selections, the endless murders? But they were dead faces devoid of hope, and here is Mala shining despite the darkness in camp. Her face never falls in despair. Why did it happen? Why can't just one of us stay in the free world and survive?
She is so beautiful. The sun in the sky isn't shining for us, but Mala is. She is our sun. She has tasted freedom and seen heaven in the world outside. There is no hope for us, we may not survivebut Mala, her chin lifted high, has escaped from all this madness. She has been the secret ray of hope, and now they're going to try to snuff our only light out.
They move her toward the noose, but in one adept movement she pulls a razor blade from her sleeve and slits her wrists. Her blood spills across the platform.
Taube tries to stop the bleeding. "
Scheiss-Jude
, you will die by hanging, not by your own hand!" He swears and curses her. She slaps him in the face, digging her fingers into his eyes.
"I'll kill you with my bare hands!" he yells, beating her body unmercifully. "Bring the cart!" he bellows, wiping his hands in

 

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