Read The End of Days Online

Authors: Helen Sendyk

Tags: #Biography & Autobiography, #Historical, #History, #Holocaust, #test

The End of Days (30 page)

 
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coordinated. Luckily there were no problems in aisle number one.
''I wonder how long they will keep us here in this camp," I said, laying on my cot, not addressing anyone in particular. Sabina sprawled on her stomach in her lower berth, only a foot away, her hands hanging out, swooshing back and forth on the floor.
"What is the difference where they take us? If we only had a little more to eat, so we would not starve before they shipped us away."
Poor Sabina, Rachelka thought, she is suffering so. "I wish I had something to give you. I remember your mother, Sabina," Rachelka commented to change the subject. "She used to come and pick you up from school. I never saw her without white gloves. She would walk with you arm in arm; you could see how proud she was of her daughter."
"Were you an only child, Sabina?" Nachcia asked.
"Yes," Sabina answered, turning now to lie on her back. She stared straight up, staring into the boards of the upper berth. The one naked light bulb that hung in the middle of the room did not shed any light on the lower cots, and Sabina was immersed in semidarkness. Painfully aroused by Rachelka's comment, she talked about her mother. She remembered sitting in the parlor and practicing the piano. Her mother was seated on the sofa with embroidery in her hand, putting her head back to enjoy the sweet tunes. Her mother always listened to her playing, and often, when Sabina had finished practicing, she would play a small duet with her. Sitting close to her on the piano bench, Sabina would feel the warmth of her mother's body, her soft caressing hand and her supporting arm. Instead of the padded piano bench, she was now here on the hard, cold cot, darkness surrounding her from without and from within.
It was not until we were well settled into the camp at Langenbielau that we found out about the proximity of the men's camp. Some of the people at Langenbielau had relatives in the men's camp. There were even some women from our hometown of Chrzanow who had fathers or brothers there. Occa-
 
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sionally some men were brought to Langenbielau to perform menial jobs that could not be performed by women. Only the staff that remained in camp had a chance of getting messages through to them. Sometimes a woman would find a way to send her bread ration to her husband at Sportschule, the men's camp. When someone complained how worried she was about her father, she would be reprimanded.
"Don't complain. At least you know that he is alive. You might even get a chance to see him if he gets into a work detail that comes here."
Many times a loved one came to the women's camp on the pretense of being a woodworker or bricklayer. Sometimes the women leaving for work in the morning encountered a detail of men being marched to Langenbielau. If a relative was sighted in the group by one of the girls, we were all happy for her. Our day passed by more easily knowing that someone was lucky.
We were allowed no contact with the outside world, not even eye contact, but on our way to work we would encounter different people. A prisoner staring back at a German spectator was swiftly lashed and made to march on. A prisoner losing the marching rhythm was driven on by a rifle butt.
One day on our journey to the factory, a man dressed in a trench coat stared at the women. Being ordered to move on only spurred his desire to observe us. He moved away, only to reappear at the next corner, watching us intently. The following day he was there again. Avoiding the SS guard, he tried to get close. None of the prisoners wanted to talk to him and risk getting beaten up, just because a German was somehow interested in hernone, except for Bina, a woman in her forties. She figured that an interested German is worth the risk. It could not hurt to discreetly make contact. Maybe one day he could be of help. When Mr. Trench Coat appeared she smiled at him boldly. He smiled back and quickly disappeared. The next day when we reached the city limits on our march to work, Bina searched the street, but he was nowhere to be seen. She even earned a kick for falling out of line, so carelessly did she pursue her search. Suddenly, he appeared at the corner. He
 
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gazed directly at Bina, smiling and winking. He advanced to the next corner to face her again when she marched by. He swung by very close for a second and managed to say, "My name is Karl."
Every day now Karl waited for us to march by. He learned Bina's name and started bringing her some gifts of food. A sandwich packed in a brown paper bag would be thrown onto the road a few feet before Bina would pass the spot. She would bend down to pick it up while the other girls would avert the guard's attention. When she was unable to pick it up, another prisoner did and passed it on to her.
Soon everybody knew about Karl. Sometimes he included a sheet from a newspaper or a personal note. In his letters he called her sweet, affectionate names and made plans for when the war was over. At the day's end the girls would crowd around Bina to hear what he had to say. Karl became not only one woman's platonic lover, but an important source of information for all.
Nachcia struggled to keep up the pace of the dally marching. She was never in the best of health, and the labor camp ordeal weakened her. Her weak legs, empty stomach, and eyes strained by working the machines only compounded her severe headaches. I vainly tried to appeal to the
Judendälteste
on her behalf, as I could not stand seeing my sister suffer so.
There were now close to a thousand women housed in the labor camp of Langenbielau, divided into different work details of several hundred prisoners each. Every day each group was marched to one of the factories. We produced war material under the threat of German guns. But the camp was not yet full. One evening when we returned to camp, we saw a terrible sight. In the middle of the yard stood a small group of people, less than a hundred, who wore dresses yet looked like men because of their shaven heads. They were dressed in coarse, gray, prison smocks, their bare feet in wooden clogs, and they ravenously gulped the soup that was given to them. As hungry and tired as we were returning from our day's toil, we consid-
 
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ered ourselves more fortunate than these miserable victims, who seemed totally deprived of any vestige of femininity.
We were eager to exchange information. The newcomers wanted to know where they were, and how long we had already been here. We wanted to find out where they came from and what was happening outside the walls of our camp. But there was no time to make contact or get acquainted. Each group was promptly directed to its own barracks, with hardly enough time to do our evening chores before lights went out. Only on Sunday were we finally able to get together.
The disappointment was great when we realized that we were unable to communicate. The newcomers were from Hungary and spoke only Hungarian, whereas the majority of us were from Poland, speaking Polish and Yiddish. In part sign language, part broken Germano-Yiddish, the Hungarian women told of their having been recently taken from their homes and shipped to a camp called Auschwitz. There they were torn from their families and stripped of all their possessions. Shrouded in their prison dresses their heads shaved, they were shipped here, confused, forlorn, shattered. Some friendships were eventually established between the Polish and Hungarian girls, but the majority of them kept to themselves.
Letters from a prisoner's family were rare and sporadic. On occasion, even a package of food or clothes got through. Occasions like these were usually shared by all the inmates of the barracks. A letter would be read aloud, interpreted, and studied for any obscure meanings. People who received packages were certainly lucky, although the contents held mostly sentimental value.
One Wednesday evening Nachcia, Hania, and I returned from our day's labor to get the surprise of our lives. Mama, Papa, Blimcia, and Jacob had been taken away long ago, Heshek was somewhere in Siberia, yet we were called into the
Judenälteste's
quarters to receive a package. With queasy stomachs, heads spinning from excitement, we undid the rope and heavy brown paper, our hands shaking.
Inside were four pairs of underpants, four pairs of black
 
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stockings, two tops, two skirts, three kerchiefs, and two undershirts. Stunned, we sat staring at the clothes, speculating about their origin. Not a word was enclosed, or, more likely, none had been allowed to get to us. It was a sign from the Almighty, at any rate, that someone was alive in our family. Our emotions ran wild. We imagined Blimcia somewhere hidden by Gentilesthat could be why there was no return address, for she was endangering her own life to help us. And Mama and Papa? Where were they? Had Blimcia been able to help them too? How did she know where we were? Maybe it was not Blimcia. What about Vrumek? Could he be hiding as a Gentile? After all, Vrumek had found a way to come home from Bielsko after the war had begun. It could not be Sholek: he had run into the fields, penniless and homeless. Where would he be able to get clothes to send us?
I began dreaming about the members of our family. I saw them struggling, wrestling with the Germans. I saw them being torn from each other. I would wake up crying, moaning. Nachcia would come down from her cot and sit next to me, holding me, our bitter tears mixing in our embrace. We would quietly whisper again and again the possibilities of who might be alive in our family.
The clothes we received were very large, about size 52, yet they were cherished. Nachcia wore one of the blouses and skirts while Hania received the other outfit. The light cotton skirts and blouses were drab and worn and did not afford much protection from the chilly weather. Still, they were a welcome addition to our nonexistent wardrobe. I took the underwear and the stockings, which I wore tied around my waist and legs with string.
I had befriended a Hungarian girl named Lili. She was tall and slim and looked distinguished despite her shaven head. She did not walk bent humbly like the others, she walked with her head held high and seemed a little arrogant. Her face was beautiful, with deep black eyes, a high, wise forehead, and a dainty nose, and when she smiled, a dimple appeared in her cheek. She spoke a good clear German with a heavy Hungarian accent. What attracted me to her was her assertiveness and
 
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confidence. Lili told a group of us the story of how a German woman in the factory attacked her and insulted her by demanding that she wear a kerchief on her head.
"Aren't you ashamed to appear like that in public? You disgust me with that shaven head of yours. Cover your shame," she ranted.
In total defiance, Lili looked the woman straight in the eyes. "I should be ashamed? I should cover up? It is you who should be ashamed. You Germans have done this injustice to me. You shaved my head to humiliate me, degrade me, and defile me. And even if I wanted to cover up, what could I use to cover my head? This prisoner's dress is now my only possession. You cowardly thugs have pilfered all we had."
"I knew I was asking for trouble," Lili continued her story, "but my outrage was so great that I became oblivious to the consequences. I stood there bold and challenging, ready to receive a slap or blow, but the German woman just abruptly turned away."
I was immensely impressed. That is exactly how I would have wanted to act if I had the courage. I always feared them punishing me or taking me away from my sister Nachcia. But oh, how I yearned to defy them, to stand up to them like Lili. I became friendly with Lili and managed to spend some time with her on Sundays. I tried to be like her and at the same time tried to help her. Lili was much worse off than I, as she had no one in her family with her. She was friendly with another Hungarian girl, Estee. They shared their food like sisters. I also admired Lili's ability to love and share and be compassionate in this sea of ugliness, violence, terror, and competition for survival. The first thing I did when I received the package was give Lili a pair of underwear and some stockings. It was the only thing I had to offer.
The camp routine involved waking up before dawn, lining up for roll call in the dark yard, being marched for two hours to the factory, trekking back to camp after a ten-hour workday, lining up for a ladleful of soup, and then doing some evening chores. But there were also many terrifying breaks in our rou-
 
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tine. There were new arrivals coming to camp now and then, and there were selections taking place in which people were sent away. These added additional tension and anxiety to our lives. Who would they take away next? Even in our free hours we could not relax, we could not forget where we were and the dreadful fate that might await us. Because of that constant fear, we tried to cheer each other up, to persuade ourselves that we were still normal people who could cry and laugh. We were persecuted and hated, yet we strove to remain capable of love. There were those of us who fought over crumbs of bread or pails of clean water. There were ugly words, vicious name calling, and curses pronounced. But in the midst of it all there were devoted friends, loving sisters, and cherished relatives who cared and sacrificed for each other.
Whenever there were selections Nachcia would stand in the front row hiding me behind her back. One day the fat German SS man who unexpectedly appeared while we were lined up for roll call pointed his finger at Nachcia. The
Judenälteste
told her to march over to the other side. Her face flushed red, her heart pounded, and her knees buckled, but before she panicked there were other prisoners being ordered to stand with her. Soon there were about fifty women left standing in the yard, while the rest of us were ordered away in the usual shrieking manner by the
Lagerführerin
.
I was distraughtsuddenly I was so alone. My heart banged in my chest. I could not let my sister be taken away. Nachcia stood there in the middle of the yard, forlorn, petrified. Mustering all of my Lili-inspired confidence, I told Nachcia not to panic in sign language. I ran to Fanny, the
Judenälteste
. I pushed my way through and unrelentingly clung to her, pleading, crying, begging her to help get my sister out of the group standing in the yard. Fanny raced back and forth ranting and screaming, but I insisted. I followed her every step, chasing after her.
"Please, help me! I cannot live without my sister. I will perish, and my sister is going to die wherever she is sent. Please get her out!"
The Germans who had made the selection were gone, and

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