I’m in Bergen-Belsen concentration camp. I don’t even know what a concentration camp is. I’m only nine years old, and I see barbed wire and a watchtower. So I know I’m not free.
Not long before, I was in my village, called Merašice in Slovakia, where I could still play.
In summer I used to run barefoot. In winter we used to toboggan. So my village was, for me, sort of a paradise.
But now I found myself a little prisoner. I’m confused. I’m starving. I’m cold. And I’m very, very miserable.
It was the sixteenth of October, 1944, when we were betrayed, arrested by the Gestapo, and deported to this hell on earth, Bergen-Belsen.
I remember this one particular day when we children began to understand what was happening around us, and learn what the adults already knew.
We had been in Bergen-Belsen perhaps two weeks. There was a routine. Every morning we had to go to a roll call.
We had to stand in the freezing cold outside for an hour to wait for our supervisors. They were young women SS guards.
But this particular day, they were accompanied by a group of armed soldiers.
I could hear whispers around: Something is wrong. Why these soldiers?
They called our number, and we had to say, “Ja.” After the roll call, we were told to go to the hut and bring our blankets and towels out, because we were going to go to another place to have a shower.
Now, that was good news, a hot shower. For me it was great news, because then I wouldn’t need to go to the washroom outside and wash myself with freezing-cold water.
But there were looks around, and I thought the women seemed sort of uncomfortable. We ran in to pick up the blankets and the towels, and there was quiet activity inside the hut.
And I saw this woman sort of lean against her neighbor and say, “You think everything is okay? They are telling us the truth?”
The neighbor just shrugged her shoulders and didn’t say anything. But I could see she had tears in her eyes.
I wanted to ask my mother, What’s going on?
But she was busy helping my omama and my cousin Chava to pick up the towels and blankets.
Auntie Margo was standing in the doorway, and she was urging us to come out quickly, because the soldiers outside were very impatient, waiting for us.
So, slowly, people were coming out, and when everybody was out, we had to be put three into a row, and then we began to march. It was very cold and eerily quiet. I felt more scared than usual, but wasn’t sure why (although it did bother me that none of the adults would meet my eye).
I had heard the women talking about how we would like to have a shower, and suddenly we have it, and they don’t seem to feel happy about it.
I saw a woman in front of me suddenly take her wedding ring off her finger. She looked around, to see if any of the soldiers were looking at her. And then she threw the wedding ring into the ground, to the dust.
Talking to her friend, she said, “These bastards will not get my gold.”
We continued to go, and in perhaps thirty minutes or so, we stopped in front of this big concrete building with a tall chimney on the roof.
There were gasps around me.
And one woman even shouted, sort of loudly, “Oh, my God!”
My brother and my cousin, they were puzzled, and I couldn’t understand the panic around me.
Next the soldiers began to hurry us into the building. “Schnell, schnell.”
So we were pushed in. We came to this long hallway. On the left side, we saw benches. There was a chemical smell that hung in the air, and there were metal trolleys with bars on the top with hangers on it. And on the right side, we saw these heavy metal doors.
Again the soldiers were barking orders at us. I didn’t understand. They were speaking German.
But Auntie Margo conveyed the order that we have to undress and put our clothes on the trolleys and the blankets, to leave everything there.
Everybody began to undress. The soldiers were standing on the side, and they were joking and smiling, making remarks and faces.
And when we were standing there, all naked, there was this little incident where one of the soldiers, who was rather young, suddenly started walking towards us. He was looking firmly at my cousin Chava. Like my brother and myself, she didn’t look very Jewish. She had long golden blond hair dangling over her shoulders.
When my aunt saw it, she stepped in front of her daughter and stopped the soldier, and the soldier said, “What is this Aryan girl doing here?”
And my aunt retorted, rather loudly so that the SS women could hear it, “GO AWAY!”
He turned around, and he walked away, and no more was said about it.
When I was looking around, it was shocking to see the old women with their white, crinkled skin, including my grandmother. They were so pathetic standing there, innocent and naked.
I felt the shame and insult. I was tainted.
We were told to move towards the doors, and everybody got a piece of soap. We entered this large room with concrete floors and pipes with showerheads crisscrossing the ceiling.
And when everybody was in, it suddenly became very silent. We didn’t hear the soldiers anymore. The door was slammed behind us. We stood there, and the adults all looked up towards those showerheads.
I didn’t know what was happening. I saw some of the women were crying.
It was cold. My mother took me and my brother and pressed us against her body.
I don’t know how long we stood there, perhaps a few minutes or several seconds, when we heard this gurgling sound coming through the pipe. My mother squeezed us even harder. I could hear her heart beating fast, and she was breathing very hard, like she was gulping for air.
Everybody was looking towards the ceiling. We heard this noise coming nearer and nearer. And suddenly, hot water was sprouting from the showerhead.
And this was exactly what I was expecting.
But I couldn’t believe what was happening around me. The women were kissing their children. They were laughing and crying at the same time. They were embracing one another.
I couldn’t understand, what is all this happening around? I just wanted to wash myself with the soap and the hot water.
I didn’t hear such laughter again while we were in the camp. In fact, that was the only shower that we had during our stay in the camp under the German imprisonment.
Of course, in late 1944 the adults among us already knew about Auschwitz and Birkenau. They knew about the gas chambers. But we kids, we did not know anything about it.
Millions of Jews were fooled by being given soap in hand, pretending they were going to have a shower, and they ended up in gas chambers. So I can only imagine today what our mothers were thinking at the time.
Bergen-Belsen was liberated on the fifteenth of April, 1945. In a week’s time, we will commemorate the seventy-year anniversary of our liberation. That day was the day that our nightmare ended.
TOMI REICHENTAL is an engineer, an author, and a human-rights activist. He was the subject of a one-hour documentary entitled I Was a Boy in Belsen, directed by the Emmy Award–winning producer Gerry Gregg. His second film, Close to Evil, also directed by Gregg, had its premiere at the 25th Galway international film festival, where the film earned second place in the category of documentary features. In 2012 Reichental was awarded the Order of Merit by the president of the Federal Republic of Germany, for his untiring commitment to furthering mutual understanding, reconciliation, and German-Irish friendship. He has also received a Global Achievement Award and was the recipient of the 2014 International Person of the Year Award. Reichental is the author of I Was a Boy in Belsen and is currently working on his second book.
This story was told on April 9, 2015, at the Liberty Hall Theatre in Dublin, Ireland. The theme of the evening was The Ties That Bind. Director: Meg Bowles.
It’s the late 1980s, and I’m in my early thirties. I’m a lead actor in a hot downtown New York theater company.
In those ice-cold rehearsal halls and those dank basement theaters, I am all-powerful.
I trust my instincts. I make big choices. I surprise the hell out of my audience. Coming to our shows is like coming to a wild party, and to some extent, I am the party.
But downtown theater is a very small world. A corporate friend of mine once told me that he liked to impress first dates by bringing them to our shows, “Because you guys are so funny, you’re so smart, and no one has ever heard of you.”
Now, when your claim to fame is “no one’s ever heard of you,” there are financial implications. In a good week, my company can pay me a hundred twenty-five dollars. And even a quarter century ago, in New York City that’s abject poverty. And abject poverty is wearing thin.
Two o’clock in the morning, end of a fifteen-hour tech-rehearsal day, the thought that I could get into a taxi for the short ride over the Brooklyn Bridge to my house? That’s ten dollars. It’s not in the equation. It’s down into the subway and hope for the best, which sucks.
I don’t want to give up the fun. I don’t want to give up the party. But I need some money. And that means film or television. I’m not looking to be a star. I just wanna be able to take a taxi every once in a while.
And it’s not just money in terms of a paycheck. Experimental theater, it exists outside the laws of supply and demand.
There’s only supply.
There’s no demand.
And for whatever reason, I want to test myself out in the marketplace.
I want to see if my work has value. I want to see if I can even do what I know how to do when money is on the line.
But it’s a long way from an illegal firetrap theater to Hollywood.
But then the film director Jonathan Demme becomes a fan of my company. Now, I love Demme’s movies. I’ve been into Demme all the way back to Melvin and Howard. I would love to be in a Jonathan Demme movie.
And this could also be a gateway opportunity. He put a downtown friend of mine in Married to the Mob. The guy got a great agent. Three months later he’s on Miami Vice, getting eaten by crocodiles.
And sure enough, when Demme starts casting his next movie, he puts a couple of guys from my company in it.
But not me.
Well, it’s crunch time, so I get up the nerve and I ask Jonathan Demme for a part in his next movie. True to his generous nature, Jonathan comes through.
But the seeds of doubt have been planted. I mean, downtown, I am the party. Here I wasn’t even invited to the party. I’m pretty much crashing the party.
But, you know, screw it. I got a part. I’m thrilled. I start reading the script.
What is this? Jonathan Demme’s doing a horror movie about a serial killer? What is this thing? I look at the cover. The Silence of the Lambs. What do I know? It could be good.
What’s my part? I keep reading. Okay, I play an EMT. And, whoa, I get killed in the back of my ambulance by Anthony Hopkins as Hannibal Lecter.
If I can pull this off, it’s gonna be great.
If.
Fly out to the location. Pittsburgh. Take a taxi to a very nice hotel.
Intimate dinner that night at the house they’ve rented for Jonathan. Demme, his wife (the artist Joanne Howard), his producing partner, cinematographer, me. And Anthony Hopkins, who I end up seated next to.
From his questions you can tell the guy knows nothing about Jonathan Demme. This was supposed to be just a couple weeks’ work in a busy year.
He tells me that only a fool would try to judge a film by the dailies. “But I must say, they’re looking awfully good, and I’ve never had so much fun on a set.”
Well, I haven’t even seen the set, but so far I’m having a great time.
And I keep telling myself that pulling off a conversation with Anthony Hopkins isn’t the same thing as pulling off a scene with Anthony Hopkins, but so far I’m doing great.
They’re filming at night, and the first couple of nights I’m really an overpaid extra. I’m riding shotgun in my ambulance and hurrying the gurney inside.
Then comes the night of my first real scene. Not my scene with Hopkins, but the first scene where I speak.
My crew of extras huddles around this apparently injured cop while I shout orders and the camera whirls around us. I feel loose, focused, committed to the imaginary circumstances. It turns out to be easy to pretend when they make it so real. The guy looks like hell. His face is shredded to bits.
Take one, I rock.
Take two, even better.
Take three, trust my instincts, make the big choice. I throw in an R-rated improvisation: “Buzz, I need the fucking oxygen!”
Cut, print, wrap for the night.
Demme gives me a big bear hug. Shredded-Face Guy high-fives me. The crew, wrapping up, has adopted my profane improvisation: “Jill, I need the fucking gaffer’s tape!” This is like downtown, only with a fat paycheck and all the food you can eat. I am the party.
Flash forward a couple nights. My last night on the set. My big scene with Hopkins. Now, spoiler alert—are you ready? It’s not a cop in the back of the ambulance. It’s Hannibal Lecter, wearing the uniform and face of the cop that he’s killed.
Now, I say it’s my big scene. But to the crew, my scene is the thing to get out of the way. The real business of the night is the stunt driving with the ambulance. That’s gonna take some time.
There’s only one interstate that tunnels through the mountains and into downtown Pittsburgh. And they have closed that interstate at the mouth of the Fort Pitt Tunnel.
We have from the end of rush hour in the evening to the beginning of rush hour in the morning to get my scene out of the way, do the stunt driving, get packed, and get out of the way so Pittsburgh can get to work in the morning.
I feel ready. Ready to end on a high note.
Setting up takes hours longer than it should. It’s almost midnight before they even start to think about my scene, and that’s when someone realizes that my speech—a few sentences of medical lingo shouted into a radio microphone while Hannibal Lecter rises behind me—is short.
But the shot, the movement of the camera/Anthony Hopkins’ business is long. They need more words for me to say. And all eyes turn to a guy on the periphery of the set.
He’s a local guy with a medical background. He’s rented them the ambulance for the night. I see his face light up. This is his chance to write a line for a Hollywood movie. Now he’s the party, and I know I’m not gonna have any fun at all.
Guy scribbles out three pages of tongue-twisting medical gibberish: “Postdictal with lactated Ringer’s running on a double IV, viscous evisceration.” On and on and on. And I’m handed these three pages, and I’m told to memorize them, fast.
And I do. But practicing in my trailer, I can speak them with all the élan of a bar mitzvah boy who’s blown off his Hebrew studies till the morning of the big day.
We haven’t shot a single frame, and I am screwed. Dead man walking from my trailer to the ambulance, my new friends on the crew shout encouragement. “One take, Josh! One fucking take! Clock is ticking!”
There’s a midwinter thaw, and the temperature’s spiked to nearly seventy. The evaporating snow has condensed into a thick fog.
I climb into the back of the ambulance and drop down on the bench. With the film lights, it’s at least ninety degrees in here. Equally humid.
Hopkins is escorted in and laid out on the gurney. Silicone mask in place, they start ladling chopped-up SpaghettiO viscera onto his face.
This hellhole instantly takes on the ripe stench of an elementary-school cafeteria.
Take one, ACTION! It’s a disaster. I get the words out, barely, but worse, you can see my eyes scanning the scribbled pages that I’m visualizing in front of me.
Cut, reset!
It takes twenty of the night’s precious minutes to redo Hopkins’s makeup. I’m starting to panic. I’ve got to get out of this ambulance. I’ve got to breathe. I’ve got to go back to Manhattan,
where I belong. But every escape route is blocked. Hopkins and the makeup guys, the camera, the lights. I cower in there like a cornered animal.
Everyone but me is ready for take two.
Demme calls in, “Just drive the speech, Josh. Just spit out the words.” I try to spit out the words, but mostly I just spit.
Cut, reset!
My heart is pounding, and my brain starts to take up its rhythm: You blew it, you’ll blow it, you blew it, you’ll blow it.
And I do.
In place for take four, Hopkins asks, “Might I speak to Jonathan a moment?”
Demme squeezes his head painfully between the camera and the doorframe.
“Are we gonna be much longer at this? I’m feeling a bit claustrophobic, and this goo is making me nauseous.”
Anthony Hopkins is unhappy. When take four still shows room for improvement, Demme goes into crisis-intervention mode, chopping out big chunks of my speech, while the cinematographer unhappily dumbs down this pivotal shot that pays off the entire escape sequence.
But the problem with taking out chunks of a speech I barely know is it only muddles me more.
Take five is my worst yet.
Take six—cut!
Take seven—cut!
Take eight—cut!
Waiting for take nine, I start thinking about the Pittsburgh commuter. I have no idea what time it is. Is he awake? Is he headed for his car? Is he headed for my tunnel?
Take nine, action!
And something in me snaps. Midway through the speech, I’m shocked to suddenly hear myself wail, “Jonathan!”
Now, of all the highly successful people I know, Jonathan Demme is far and away the kindest. But now I’ve forced him to try out tough love.
“Keep rolling! Just do it, Josh!”
[BAM!] He slams the high side of the van, hard.
And it works.
Take nine, continued, goes a little bit better.
Take ten, even better.
For take eleven, they reinstitute my full speech, and the full complex shot, and my brain resets to accommodate the new information.
Take eleven, action, and I am in role. Medical language I’ve used for years fires from my lips as I stare out through a windshield I can’t actually see. Instinct tells me that something is amiss with my patient, and I whip around to find him sitting up…with a new face. No lacerations, but drenched in blood. He holds a knife to my throat.
The Moth Presents All These Wonders Page 14
