Shores Beyond Shores

by Irene Butter

  “She’s Jewish, too,” Hanneli said.

  “I know. So what?”

  “It’s not easy for her,” Hanneli said.

  “Whose side are you on?”

  Hanneli ignored my question.

  “She fled to Holland. And she was sent to Westerbork. And she is here. Like us.”

  “And yet, she is not acting like she’s one of us at all,” I challenged.

  “True,” Hanneli said with a nod, “but she doesn’t have any family here, like we do. She’s alone.”

  “Where’s her family? Did she used to have one?” I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer.

  “She has two daughters. One was sent abroad and escaped. Rumor has it the other is in hiding.”

  “Good for her. For them,” I said, not really feeling good for Mrs. Mandel, though I did feel a little good for the girls.

  “Her husband died here. So did her brother.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Then I did. “That’s not an excuse.”

  “No, it’s not an excuse,” Hanneli said. “I just mean that the biggest difference between her and you is that you have your family here. You are together, and you are all alive.”

  I thought of Hanneli. She had lost her mother and her baby sister. So many others had lost loved ones. I had lost my grandparents and Rudi and probably my aunt and my uncle. I couldn’t imagine not having my parents and Werner. Mrs. Mandel had control, but she didn’t have family.

  “But she calls us spoiled,” I sputtered.

  “She’s jealous.”

  Now I was really at a loss for words. I went back to picking small things off the kids’ clothes and putting them in my pocket to throw outdoors later. All my brave, clever responses, all the things I wanted to yell at Mrs. Mandel, dimmed.

  24

  Camp Bergen-Belsen, Germany

  Spring 1944

  I felt unruffled for about a week before Mrs. Mandel started wearing on my nerves again, but then it didn’t make a difference. With the arrival of more prisoners, the barracks were reshuffled. I was so happy to leave our old barracks and leave Mrs. Mandel, but I was even more surprised when Mutti and I walked into our new home.

  “Trudi! Reni!” It was Pappi’s voice.

  “You came to help settle us?” Mutti asked, almost tripping over the small lip of the doorway.

  “No! We are living here, too. We’ll be together!” Werner blurted.

  We all hugged as if we had not seen one another in years. Our family was given two neighboring bunks, one for Mutti and me, and the other for Werner and Pappi. Nobody was happy about sharing bunks, but it would be warmer, and I could keep an eye on Mutti, who seemed weaker every day.

  With the new barracks came new children to look after in addition to familiar faces. Gigi and Lila got better, but sickness rolled from one child to another. There was diarrhea from cholera and dysentery, fever and pain from typhus, coughing from tuberculosis, and paralysis from polio.

  The one infection that had gotten worse since Westerbork was lice. Not just lice on our heads, but all over our bodies. We hated them. The sesame-sized bugs crawled through our shirts and underwear, along our scalps, and between the creases of our bodies. Our skin was their city, our blood their food, and our clothing their maternities. We were covered in little red bumps and rashes that turned our skin dark and thick over time. We were told not to scratch, because it spreads infection, but I couldn’t help myself. Mutti and I bumped each other awake with our scratching, tearing away scabs that took weeks to heal, only to be replaced by more. The red bites never went away—they only seemed to move around. The children who inched into my lap couldn’t settle down and nap. I would gently rake my fingers across their scalps to offer some relief, careful not to draw blood that might cause infections like what Gigi had. Thorough delousing was impossible. We were overrun.

  The days began to stretch, lightening the horizon and softening the soil. Only a few snow mounds remained where the sun couldn’t reach. Theft crept into Bergen-Belsen and flourished, feasting on the lack of everything. Food and clothing, even the smallest scrap and swatch, disappeared. Starvation made us sick and slow, but for some stoked a desire to survive so strong that they stole others’ means of surviving. It was every soul for its own. Jewish camp leaders had to deal with more arguments and accusations. Their goal was to make sure matters didn’t get out of hand. Their one task was to avoid the attention of the Nazis. As best as possible, don’t draw attention.

  It was evening, after work and after dinner. Mutti was lying down. Pappi was in the washroom. My stomach rumbled. All I could have was more water, so I took some, but not enough so I would have to get up in the night. Werner’s face had grown leaner, his eyes older, but his hair was still perfectly coifed.

  “We’re all like those thieves,” Werner said. It was one of Werner’s “observations” as Pappi called them.

  “Why?” I took the bait.

  “A thief ’s goal is not to be noticed. Not draw attention. We do the same. We lay low around the Germans. Then we lay low around the Kapos. Now we try to hide from each other. We try to hide from the thieves, and the thieves try to hide what they do. All hiding.”

  “And?” I asked.

  “That’s it. We’re all the same.”

  “No we aren’t. We hide to protect what little we have. Thieves hide to take what little others have.” That came out better than I thought it would.

  Werner looked surprised. “It’s the same: survival.”

  “Well, maybe all survival isn’t the same.”

  The edge of the cool metal cup rested on my bottom lip as I took a quivering sip.

  He looked out from under his bangs.

  “Maybe you’re right, Reni,” Werner pondered. “Maybe survival isn’t worth it at all costs. Maybe it matters how you survive.”

  After washing the clothes the next day and hanging them on the outdoor wire lines, I sat down in the dirt next to Hanneli and some other girls, leaning against the barracks. I turned up to face the sun, looking at the pulsing red life behind my closed eyelids. I was careful not to lean back too much or my hair would snag in the rough grain of the wood. I didn’t dare close my eyes for more than a few seconds. In particular, we kept a lookout out for two boys who lurked around corners of buildings, dashed out to grab what they could, and ran off before anyone could catch them.

  I thought I knew one of them, a boy only eleven or so, whose mother wore a dress washed to rags. I turned away when I saw her, embarrassed by the glimpses of her body, parts that were red and chapped from the sun, lice, and exposure. Could I blame her for sending out her son to steal, or her son’s willingness? Still, I couldn’t let them take our clothes, so I stayed alert. And I daydreamed of eating, of riding my bicycle along the canals of Amsterdam, of listening to my parents’ laughter float down the hall from our dining room, but mostly of lying in my old bed with my belly full of dinner.

  “Over there,” Hanneli said.

  A few of us stood up, taking a few steps toward the clotheslines like dogs moving to the edge of the yard as a stranger approached. The boy pretended to kick something and then waved. We didn’t wave back.

  “I heard that girl Henny De-something is having an affair with a Nazi officer,” said an older, red-haired girl who was with us.

  I wasn’t sure exactly what an “affair” meant, only that it was some kind of secret since the word was always uttered in a hushed voice.

  Riga, Latvia (Sept 6, 1918): Irene’s father John Hasenberg (right) with friend and fellow World War I German officer Leo Buschhoff. While they were all in Westerbork during World War II, Leo got Irene’s family off the list to Auschwitz concentration camp.

  Berlin, Germany (December 15, 1927): Gertrude and John Hasenberg’s wedding day.

  Irene’s Mutti, Gertrude Hasenberg

  Irene’s Pappi, John Hasenberg

  Berlin, Germany (1934): Irene and brother Werner

  Berlin, Germany (1928): Irene’s brother Werne
r with their grandfather, Julius Mayer, or Opa, as he was called by the grandchildren.

  Berlin, Germany (1935): Irene and Pappi

  Berlin, Germany (1931): Irene with her maternal grandmother, Pauline Mayer, or Omi, as she was affectionately called.

  Amsterdam, the Netherlands (1943): Irene’s identity card photo. German identity card photos required that the left ear be visible as an added identity detail.

  Amsterdam, the Netherlands (1940): Irene’s Poesie book entry from Pappi: “You sweet little one, you belong to me, you belong to me, you are the most lovable.”

  Amsterdam, the Netherlands (1943): Irene, Mutti, and Werner before being rounded up by the police and deported to Camp Westerbork.

  The Netherlands (1943): Student artwork of the train from Amsterdam to Camp Westerbork.

  Amsterdam, the Netherlands (1941): Omi Silten’s entry in Irene’s Poesie book, talking about the importance of being helpful and strong, because that would help lighten the load of others. Those words became more important the longer Irene was in the camps.

  Camp Bergen-Belsen (1944-45): Student artwork and poem, “What is hope? Hope is the lone flower fluttering in the breeze above the hell and hot water, between hate and love, heaven and hell. Would you pick me, or wait until I bloom?”

  Biberach, Germany (January, 1945): Student artwork of the train station and Pappi.

  Camp Jeanne d’Arc (Algeria, 1945): Irene gains enough weight that she feels she needs to go on a diet.

  The Netherlands (1946): Lex Roseboom, Irene’s boyfriend in Algeria.

  Camp Jeanne d’Arc (Algeria, 1945): Vitek, the traumatized Polish boy.

  Camp Jeanne d’Arc (Algeria, 1945): Irene (front row, far right) with friend Mieke, to her right.

  New York, NY (1949): Irene graduates from Walton High School.

  New York, NY (1946): Irene’s brother, Werner

  Amsterdam, the Netherlands (1957): Irene as a newlywed with her husband, Charlie Butter.

  New York, NY (circa 1950s): Irene’s Mutti

  Ann Arbor, MI (1990): Irene with Wallenberg Medal recipient Elie Wiesel, Nobel Laureate, author, and Holocaust survivor.

  Bergen-Belsen, Germany (1991): Irene and her brother, Werner

  Ann Arbor, MI (1994): Irene with 1994 medal recipient Miep Gies who helped hide Anne Frank’s family during World War II.

  Ann Arbor, MI (1994): Irene with the Dalai Lama, the 1994 Wallenberg Medal recipient.

  Ann Arbor, MI (2013): Irene’s opening remarks at Wallenberg Centennial Celebration.

  Laupheim, Germany (2014): Irene at her Pappi’s grave.

  Irene’s husband, Charlie Butter

  Irene’s daughter, Ella Butter

  Irene’s son, Noah Butter

  “What do they do?” I asked. “There’s nothing to do here.”

  “I bet they eat together in his barracks,” said a new girl with big ears. “Meats and breads and lots of desserts.”

  “Really?” said the redhead with a weary look. “Are you serious? We’re talking about sex. Oh, I bet she gets food, but do you think she gets her food for free?”

  I blushed. The boys disappeared around a building, and we sat back down.

  “I bet she doesn’t have a choice,” Hanneli said.

  “Sex? She has to touch him?” asked the acne girl with a surprised face. “Like hold his hand and kiss him?”

  The rest of us turned our heads toward the red-haired girl, the obvious expert.

  “Don’t you know what sex is?”

  Big-eared girl’s nod was as slight as a breeze. I had some ideas about sex. The details were fuzzy, and I wasn’t brave enough to open my mouth, and not around the red-haired girl.

  Hanneli jumped in. “Sex can be kissing. It can be a lot more of other touching. The male guards in particular like other kinds of touching. They will pay for it with favors.”

  Kissing sounded…possible, with the right person. Never with a Nazi. And I would never want them to touch me in any other way, no matter what that “other” was. But what if I had to?

  “Aren’t the guards ever nice just to be nice?” the acne girl asked.

  “Never,” shot back the red-haired girl.

  “Sometimes,” I found myself saying, and added, “There was that Kapo who was nice to the nurse.”

  “Yes,” said Hanneli, “he got her supplies she needed to help others, but I heard he was punished for it. For being nice.”

  “And what about the German officer who took the cook to the hospital? You know, the cook who cut her finger?” the acne girl asked. “I heard he helped her because she looked like his sister.”

  “Hmmph,” snorted the red-haired girl, “Nobody is really nice here. The Nazis are the worst, but we do the same. Look at the boys trying to steal our clothes. The women giving their bodies to guards for a piece of bread….”

  “Forced to,” added Hanneli.

  “Whatever. Any of us would give up anything, even being good, in order to live.”

  I thought back to my talk with Werner. I knew what she was saying, but I just couldn’t believe it was like that for everybody, but maybe the good people don’t make the best survivors. Was it a choice? I prayed it wasn’t. I wanted to be both: good and a survivor.

  As much as I appreciated sharing space in the barracks with Werner and Pappi, being back as a family wasn’t all I had expected. Werner was surly that I didn’t have to work at a “real” job as he put it.

  One morning, at the end of Appell, I had crawled back into my bed. Something shook me: I blinked to see my brother beside my bed.

  “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to bump you,” he said, “princess.”

  My eyes fluttered, and I dozed, only to wake up again, curled in a ball with my hands tucked under my chin. My blanket was on the floor.

  “Sorry. I must have knocked off your pretty pink blanket.”

  I reached down, pulling my cover over me again. Werner glanced at me as he got ready for work, but my eyes stayed open so he left me alone. He had succeeded in waking me. Werner was right, I had wanted to retreat to bed, but not because I was tired. Watching my family leave every morning without me was painful. I worried that something would happen to them. Every morning good-bye was possibly the last.

  “Have fun sleeping,” Werner said as he left.

  After a half hour, I got up. I needed to be ready for the younger children.

  “Werner is being a jerk,” I said to Hanneli when I first saw her.

  “Still?” she asked. “You’re smart. Can’t you come up with a way to get back at him?”

  “I used to tease him about his nightmares when we were younger. Before going to bed, he’d ask me if I thought he would have them that night. I would say yes, and he would. That doesn’t work here.”

  “No. Not here. There are too many real nightmares,” Hanneli said.

  I looked up at some of the little ones who were huddled under my blanket. They didn’t cry or say anything unless they had to go to the bathroom. I kept a close eye so they wouldn’t get sick in my bed.

  “Back home, I could put something itchy, like sand, in his bed, but now we have lice. I could wake him early, but the guards do that. I could put something funny in his food, but we all have upset stomachs.”

  “The Nazis really kill fun, don’t they?” Hanneli agreed. “They take things way too far.”

  25

  Camp Bergen-Belsen

  Late Spring 1944

  At first, hunger was a pesky neighbor, sometimes noisy at night, interrupting sleep. Then it was a nagging visitor who came rapping on the door more and more. Finally, it had the keys. Hunger marched in and settled down. As the spring months dragged on and the cold raced across the camp, through every crevasse, under every blanket, hunger went from a distant stranger to an annoying acquaintance to a constant companion. There was no place to escape, no room to retire to. It became an ever-present, day-after-day rumbling.

  As mothers, fathers, and relatives started returning from
work in the late afternoons, I left my job watching kids to get our daily rations. I waited in the long line with other kids and some adults. With food becoming increasingly scarce, adults started pushing the kids out of the way to get ahead. I watched carefully. We were free of Mrs. Mandel, but it always paid to be attentive when it came to food. If needed, I asked servers for more vegetables. And I measured the hunk of bread. Again, I protested, but only if needed. I wasn’t loud, but I was quick. Then I returned to our bunks and waited.

  I sat on my bunk, arms around our pail, pulling what warmth I could and inhaling the smell. Hunger sat beside me, whispering in my ear to eat it all. It would be easy. There wasn’t much, and for the first time in almost a year, I would be able to go to sleep with a full stomach. I slid my finger around the inside edge of the pail, feeling the moisture build to drops. When nobody was looking I put a shaking finger to my tongue. My senses bounced between the all-absorbing taste and listening for my family’s approaching footfalls: Mutti’s delicate gait and Pappi’s longer shuffle. The barracks darkened with the evening. The food cooled. Every few minutes I collected drops of soup telling myself it would have evaporated anyhow.

  I couldn’t wait any more. With careful measure, I took my portion of food and devoured it. Instead of feeling better I found myself ravenous. I dipped my spoon with my shaking hand into the pail a few more times and picked off and ate the uneven bread ends. As the food hit my lips, my body wanted to slurp down every last drop and chew down every crumb. Maybe this is how vampires feel about blood, I thought. I kept thinking I heard my family, only to realize I was wrong. Then there was no mistake. I was terrified that they would say something about the portions or read my guilt. But also relieved that I was free of further temptation.