by Mark Seaman
I cried for a long time when I heard the awful truth about their deaths.
I also tried, without success, to comfort my mother who stood gasping in utter disbelief when she was told what had happened to her men.
After my father and Joseph had been taken away with the rest of the men the process was repeated with the women, again with the very young girls and those considered unsuitable or incapable of labour joining the elderly in separate lines to the rest of us. Those of us who survived that first interrogation were taken to a long barn like building and ordered to strip, placing our clothes on a numbered peg attached to the wall. Our bags and suitcases were taken from us along with our jewellery, hair grips and slides. We felt embarrassed and ashamed standing naked before our sisters and mothers. This feeling only increased when a number of male guards entered the building alongside their female counterparts. We could see the men talking to each other and nodding towards the women with larger breasts as they stood, rifles by their side, waiting to direct us to our next station.
We were taken to a large room with a long run of showers and ordered to clean ourselves in the ice cold water that spewed from the rusting faucets. There was no soap so we had to wash ourselves down with our hands. Once the water was turned off we had a white powder thrown over us. This we were told was to rid us of lice. It smelt foul, stung our eyes and irritated our skin. We trooped back into the other room cold and confused before being given different clothes to put on, much of it unsuitable and ill fitting. Some were given striped pyjama-like tops and trousers, again with no consideration for size but at least they covered our naked bodies and to a small extent our shame and embarrassment. Others were less fortunate and were handed only a slip or shirt to wear.
There was almost no underwear available and one poor woman was given a bright green ballgown which looked all the more ridiculous being at least two sizes too big for her. It also had traces of blood on it but she had learnt, like the rest of us, even in the short time we had been at the camp, not to complain or ask for a more appropriate set of clothing.
Our heads were also shaved, with all the hair sorted into different shades and lengths and taken away. We heard it had been the same process for those who had been separated from us earlier with the frail, the very young and those who were sick forced to walk, still naked, to the gas chambers, or “the showers” as they were also described to them. “It is important for you all to be clean and with no disease,” they had been told by the female guards as they were marched away. For those unfortunates however it was death that was poured out upon their heads rather than the icy waters we had endured. In that moment, no matter how appalling our circumstances appeared, we realised we were the lucky ones; we were still alive.
Word soon got out to the rest of us about these alternative shower rooms and their fatal cleansing properties. Some guards would sit on motorbikes outside these buildings revving their engines to drown out the screams of those fighting for breath as they suffocated to death in those gas-filled chambers.
Those of us who survived this first experience of organised mass murder were left to make the best of what was available to us at the camp. We were directed to barrack style buildings that were to become our homes during our internment or until we were too weak to work and it would be our turn to face death at the hands of our aggressors.
There was just very rough flooring in the barracks with wide slatted bunk-style beds down each side of the walls on which we would sleep, sometimes four or more to a bed and with perhaps only one tattered blanket shared between us. There was little or no sanitation and this, coupled with the totally inadequate diet and ongoing stomach complaints, meant the stench of urine and human faeces in certain areas of the building soon became our constant and unwelcome companion. If you had your period the best you could hope for was a bit of old rag that you would try and wash out when you could, but with fresh water rarely available this was a luxury that often went unattended.
Food was also in short supply and whilst most people shared what they had initially, such thinking quickly became forgotten as the days went by and the hunger pangs, coupled with the desire for self preservation, took precedence over any sense of self-sacrifice and other forms of basic humanitarian consideration. At times, such disregard for others could also include your own family. Life soon became a daily struggle for personal survival rather than affording any thought towards helping your neighbour. The Germans appeared to enjoy watching the most fundamental acts of human decency and moral code evaporate from our mind-set and corresponding behaviour towards each other. Also, in the growing disagreements and fights that would ensue at meal times, perhaps even over a piece of stale bread. At times these disputes could become particularly aggressive if it was suspected that the offending crust might be hidden away for later personal consumption when traditionally, under different circumstances, it would have been shared. The guards also made great play out of making sure that others knew if any of the women had been giving sexual favours to the German soldiers in return for additional food rations or other gratuities. This would cause immediate outrage amongst the other women in the camp. On one such occasion some of the older prisoners meted out their own form of justice for this unforgivable betrayal by hanging one of the younger women because she had slept with a soldier. Apparently she had done this in an effort to gain extra food for herself while the others in her hut continued to starve. It was only after the event they discovered she had agreed to sex, not for food but, to save the life of her daughter who the soldier had said he would shoot in front of her if she didn’t do what he wanted. After they’d hung her, the soldier had the woman’s daughter taken to the gas chambers with another group to be executed, telling the other women from her barrack that the child’s death was now their responsibility.
“You killed her mother and so there is no-one to look after her. Her blood is now on your hands.”
There seemed to be no end to the ways in which the guards would try and foster disagreements, conflict or even physical violence between the prisoners, men and women alike, in an effort to engender a constant lack of trust between us. Our captors’ reasoning, if they could divide our loyalties towards one another as human beings we would function more like animals, with the instinct for self-preservation taking precedence over any thoughts or consideration we might traditionally afford our fellow inmates. Correspondingly, when any display of tension did spill over into an argument or a fight between us the guards would then mete out their own form of retribution in the shape of a public beating or execution. This would be carried out in full view of the other prisoners thereby causing an even greater sense of foreboding and anxiety amongst us. After a while it became a never ending cycle of fear and death, either brought about through the actions of the guards themselves or via the gas chambers. All of this was designed to destroy, not only, our physical bodies but also any form of mental resistance left within those of us still alive. Under almost any other circumstances these actions might have prompted us to fight back against such depraved and nihilistic oppression, but the overriding awareness of the Germans’ brutal retaliation in response to our obvious defeat, if we were to even consider such a protest, was palpable and hung heavy in the air. We quickly came to realise that all forms of protest were pointless and would only add to our, already unbearable, suffering. This of course was exactly the outcome the Germans were seeking, and had so masterfully instilled throughout the camp.
Following our arrival in Birkenau those of us deemed fit and able enough were quickly put to work sorting through the clothes and belongings of the other prisoners who arrived at the camp. All new prisoners went through the same humiliation and degradation we had on arrival at the camp, initially being stripped of both their clothing and their corresponding dignity. They then had their heads shaved and were showered before being sprayed with the same foul white powder as us to rid them of lice. As well as burning our skin and itching ter
ribly it also had little effect on the lice themselves which continued to thrive and infest all areas of the camp. Any money, watches and jewellery, indeed anything of any value was handed over to the Germans immediately on arrival as it had been with us. Much of the rest of our personal belongings were burnt and destroyed. Some of the prisoners were forced to take the dead from the gas chambers and transport them to a particular area where any gold teeth or fillings were removed before the bodies were moved on to the ovens for cremation.
These workers were called Sonderkommando. They would carry out their duties transporting the dead to and from the gas chambers and the ovens for three to four months until it was deemed they knew too much about the eradication of their fellow internees and it would be their turn to be executed and a new group of workers would be selected for this soul-destroying task.
I remember one day soon after our arrival my mother and I were working with a group of other women when one of them found a Jewish tract, a piece of scripture, in a coat and thinking no-one had seen her put it in her pocket, presumably to read and pray over later. All bibles, scripture readings and anything to do with our faith were taken from us and destroyed on arrival at the camp, along with everything else we held dear. One of the guards had seen this particular lady hide the piece of paper and marched towards her, shouting for her to stand still. As he approached her he hit her full in the face with his fist sending her sprawling to the ground as he demanded to know what she had taken. “What did you put in your pocket? I saw you take something, you filthy Jewish whore, what was it?” Struggling to her feet and with terror in her eyes she tried to speak, but the soldier continued to scream questions and abuse at her in broken English.
“Don’t try to hide it from me, you bitch, I saw you take something, where is it?” She took the tract out of her pocket, trembling with fear and attempting to explain, as a piece of scripture, it was very precious to her as a Jew. He tore it from her hand and incandescent with rage hit her again. She was now visibly shaking and tears were streaming down her face. He shouted once more, this time loud enough for all of us to hear.
“It is strictly forbidden to keep any such artefacts or other religious items, you know that, don’t you?” The woman nodded meekly as the guard stepped towards her, his face almost touching hers as he leant forward and spat out the next few words menacingly at her. “If this piece of paper means so much to you then keep it. If it makes you feel closer to your God then maybe you should go to be with him now.”
We all stood frozen to the spot as he forced the piece of paper into her mouth, then drawing his hand gun from its holster shot her full in the face. “Now you can give it to God personally,” he snarled. We watched as the woman fell to the ground, a pool of blood gathering in the mud around her shattered head. The soldier stared at her for a moment and then looked up as if daring one of us to say or do anything in response to his actions. After a few moments he walked away shouting at my mother and another woman to come and take her body to the crematorium. As I stood there, young as I was, I resolved not to be shocked by anything I saw in that camp ever again, no matter how horrific or bloody it might be, not if I wanted to survive.
Five
I wish I’d never written now, never filled in those papers, never asked to make contact. I could have told Jenny I didn’t know how to get in touch with my mother, and as it had been so long since she’d let me go she probably wouldn’t want to hear from me anyway. I could have said she would have built a new life for herself, along with whatever family she might have today and so wouldn’t want to be reminded of the past. Also, that any family she had probably wouldn’t be aware of me, so what effect would such news have on them, especially any children, in discovering they had a sister and their mother having a secret past they knew nothing about? What impact would such a revelation have on them as a family and on their relationship with her?
Much as I resented what she’d done to me, I still didn’t feel comfortable in the thought of tearing her world apart again after so many years, and yet here I was potentially about to carry out that very act.
I should have said I would find it too painful and that Granny and Granddad were now my parents, and had been since the day they brought me into their home. Also, that I didn’t want to hurt them by seeking answers to such awkward questions, questions perhaps they had hoped would never see the light of day, and none of which would make any difference to the way we felt about each other now, nor to the love that had grown between us so deeply over the years.
Why would I want to tell this woman about Jenny and how I’d brought her up, as if appearing in some way to seek her approval, or as though I were trying to prove that I’d been a better mother than her by not deserting my child as soon as she had been born.
Jenny would have understood that surely? So why put any of us through even greater pain by raising issues and questions about a life I’d never known, or in looking for answers that might not be forthcoming anyway and certainly wouldn’t make any difference to the people we were today. It wouldn’t heal any wounds, certainly not for me. What if I’d discovered she was dead; where would that have left us, having stirred up those long forgotten memories only to find out she was no longer around to provide the answers to my questions anyway? All I would have achieved was to remind myself, yet again, of the sorrow and heartbreak I had experienced in those earlier years but had, over time, come to acknowledge and accept.
I had the love of Jenny and Chris to sustain me now, along with the ever present care and affection they had showered on me throughout my life. The two of them had only ever given of their best to me, so why was I even attempting to make contact with someone I didn’t know to ask for answers to questions that I didn’t really want to hear, or did I? It was too late now. I’d thrown the pebble into the pond and the waters of my seemingly calm and peaceful life had been disturbed, perhaps never to settle again.
Six
I remember lying on the bare wooden slats of our bunks at night, and even though it was cramped and uncomfortable and I could hear other children crying I still prayed for those nights to go on forever. It was the only time I knew I could lie safely in my mother’s arms and think back to the lives we’d known before the war, remembering when Joseph and I would sit on our father’s knee as he bounced us up and down playing with us. I would lie quite still listening to my mother’s steady heartbeat as she slept and rest in the warm and protective embrace of her body enfolding me. Sometimes she would cry out in her sleep, perhaps struggling once again with the memory of losing my father and brother to the gas chamber. I would stroke her brow and whisper words of comfort until she would settle again.
“It’s alright, Mama, I’m here, we’ve still got each other. I love you.” Safe for these few hours at least from the horrors of the day I could pretend all the terrible things we had witnessed were just a bad dream, and that in the morning I would wake again in my old bedroom back on Guernsey with the sun shining through my window warming me as I looked across the inviting waters of the sea.
The seagulls would call out as they circled in the clear blue sky above and the waves broke on the rocks below.
At other times the true horror of the nightmare we were living through would overtake me and, with my heart heavy with emotion, I would recall the shocking events that had taken place during our time in the camp, and of the day we heard that Papa and Joseph were dead. My mother and I had been appalled to discover that instead being held in another part of the camp they had been taken straight to the gas chamber. One of the guards confirmed what others had told us that both Joseph and Papa had been “disposed of” as they had nothing to offer to the German war effort and its great leader, The Fuehrer.
“There is no room or time to waste in keeping alive those who cannot make a contribution to our glorious Fatherland. They are a drain on the limited resources of the camp.” The guard smiled at my mother and nodded towards the buildings t
hat we knew by now housed the gas chambers, suggesting that if she wanted she could be reunited with her men folk. “You can join them if you want?” his offer tormenting her as she battled to counter between the prospect of an eternity spent with her men folk or in continuing the horrifying existence of daily life in the camp with me. Facing death no longer held any fear for her personally but the thought of leaving me behind to survive in this living hell on my own was one she could not even bear to consider. I knew that her life counted for nothing in her own eyes anymore, save being there for me. I looked on in tears as my mother shook visibly at the frightening prospect of what the soldier had proffered and as she struggled again with the cruel reality of losing my father and brother. She tried, as best she could, to stand firm, taking my hand and squeezing it for reassurance, not wanting to give the guard the satisfaction of seeing her own tears flow until after he had left.
She wept a lot in the days that followed, especially at night when she thought I was asleep as we lay together on those sparse wooden planks and she recalled the last time she had seen Papa and Joseph alive as they walked to the gas chambers. They had glanced over their shoulders, smiling briefly as they caught one last glimpse of the family they loved but, as we now knew, were leaving behind forever.
I felt so hurt and angry for her and could hardly conceive of the pain she was experiencing as wife and mother to them both and in knowing their lives had ended in such a terrifying and unspeakable way. I tried to imagine the fear that would have gripped Joseph as the doors of the gas chamber slammed shut behind them. How, in the ensuing darkness and panic he would have clung tight to my father for reassurance and comfort before the deadly gas took full effect and filled their lungs as they fought for air and the very life that was being sucked from them.
