I Have Lived a Thousand Years

by Livia Bitton-Jackson

  It works. Thank God. But how long can this be kept up? Two days? Three days? And what then?

  Mother cannot walk to the Block after Zählappell. She has to be carried. The Blockälteste must not notice. If she sees her, she will report her as an invalid. She will not take any chances of harboring an invalid in the Block. That is unquestionable sabotage.

  We succeed in smuggling Mommy into the Block and hiding her in the bunk. The day passes without incident. But what will I do tomorrow? Will my friends come and help me carry Mommy unnoticed to the Zählappell again? Will they stand by me, risking detection every moment?

  There is a sudden commotion at the front end of the Block. It must be near midnight, the lights have long been out. What is all the noise about? The news spreads rapidly. Selection. Tomorrow at dawn, the entire Block will stand for selection. Women from our Block will be selected for work in factories in Germany.

  Selection! How will Mommy pass selection? I have just smuggled her out of the Revier to avoid selection, to save her from the gas chamber. And now … Oh my God, what have I done?

  THE TRANSPORT

  AUSCHWITZ, SEPTEMBER 1, 1944

  Loud barks and bellows thunder through the sleeping Block: “Los! Los! Fast! Fast!” The selection commission of three SS officers, two dogs, one Lagerälteste, one Blockälteste, and an interpreter position themselves at the open wing of the gate.

  “Get undressed and line up, single file, on the right side of the partition! Los!”

  All one thousand inmates of the Block quickly climb from four tiers of beds, pull off their dresses, and line up alongside the brick structure that divides the Block in half, lengthwise.

  “Los! Start moving ahead!”

  It is very cold in the Block. It has been raining all night. Puddles of water cover the ground. The line of shivering, naked bodies advances toward the selection commission and parades before them one by one. Those who pass selection go through the open gate to the outside and are ordered to dress. Those who do not are ordered to drop their dresses in a pile at the gate and return to the interior of the Block, on the other side of the partition. There they remain naked, awaiting their fate.

  By the time Mommy and I reach the gate, there is a heap of sopping wet dresses on the ground, and a group of shivering bodies huddled together on the other side of the brick divider. I support Mommy with one hand as we advance, and, by the grace of God, she is able to manipulate the task without tottering. As we approach the commission, I make believe I am huddled against Mommy for warmth and not lending her my hand for support. The first SS man grabs her left arm and jerks her out of my grip. He looks over her body and shoves her roughly, impatiently, out the gate into the dark, foggy dawn slashed by relentless rain.

  God, I must rush after her, keep her from falling. I restrain myself and keep my despair under masterly control while I stand stoically during the brief scrutiny. I’m stronger than Mommy. There’s no doubt about me passing muster. Hurry. Hurry.

  I am about to bolt through the gate, to reach Mommy, when one of the SS men notices the wound on my lower leg. It is the bruise I had received from a kick over three months ago, and it has been festering ever since. Now it is a deep hole oozing an awful dark brown liquid, and exuding an atrocious stench. Around the hole, the leg is swollen and red. Lately it has been quite painful.

  The SS man pokes his colleague: “Look at this.” He points to the wound on my leg. “What do you think it is?”

  Please, hurry. I must reach Mommy …

  “I don’t know. But it looks bad. She can’t work with this. I don’t give her a week, and she’ll be dead. Tot!”

  “Drop your dress in the pile here, and join the others on the other side!”

  “But, officer, please. That was my mother right before. Let me go after her, please. Please. I’m strong. I can work hard. I promise, I will work very hard! Please let me go after my mother!”

  “Shut up, Schweinhund! Get to the other side!”

  I must go after Mommy. I must reach her right away.

  I turn to the other SS man. He is young. Perhaps he will listen. “Officer. Please. I can work. I’m very strong. This wound is nothing. Nothing. I’ve had it for over three months, and was working heavy work in the mountains. Planierung. I am a good worker. I promise I will work even harder. Please … please, let me go after my mother.”

  The young officer looks at me with disgust. With a snarl he points his stick and jabs me in the chest with such force that I stagger backward. Then, without a word he turns his back and continues the job of selection. And I am to join the naked group huddled in the back of the barrack.

  I start to tremble violently. This cannot be happening. Mommy passed selection and I’m held back. In one cruel ironic quirk we both perish.

  The others begin to comfort me. It’s not so bad. Perhaps we will not be sent to the gas. Perhaps we will be sent to lighter labor. There will be other transports …

  I’m not listening. I have to get to Mommy. I have to get to her before it’s too late. She’s out there in the pouring rain. She cannot stand on her feet without support. She cannot put on her dress without help. She’s out there, lying in a puddle in the rain, naked. By now they must’ve discovered she was an invalid. By now they must’ve put her in a transport for the gas… .

  My head is spinning. My trembling grows more violent.

  Now I recognize a girl I had worked with in Plaszow. She is the youngest of three sisters. The two older ones were sent on the transport, and now she is standing alone, visibly shivering, and crying. I move over to her quickly, and whisper in her ear, “Annie, let’s sneak out of here and join the transport. Your sisters are there. Let’s get to the transport …”

  She is sobbing now, and does not answer. “Come, Annie. Follow me. We can sneak through the hind gate. No one will notice.”

  “I’m afraid. They’ll shoot us.”

  I look around. No one is paying any attention to us. I run to the hind gate. It’s locked! The only means of escape is through the front gate.

  At the front gate the selection is drawing to an end. The line on the other side of the partition is dwindling rapidly. The last inmates in line are disappearing through the open wing of the gate.

  The Blockälteste approaches with a bundle of dresses in her hand. “Here. You can put these on. Dress quickly. You’ll be taken from here.”

  It’s all over. Under the Blockälteste’s watchful eye I pull a wet, soggy prison dress over my shivering body. She turns for a second. Like lightning I climb over the chesthigh, brick partition, and duck for a moment. In a flash I yank off the dress, and dash to the end of the dwindling line.

  There are three or four girls ahead of me. I clutch the dress to my right leg, concealing the wound. The sopping wet garment clings to my limb, entirely covering my lower leg. The SS men are in a hurry now. The selection has taken too long.

  I’m last in line. I hold my breath.

  A quick, cursive glance at my body, and the officer shoves me through the open gate into the downpour.

  I look around. There is no one out here. The rain, like a sheet of lead, obliterates my vision. Where did everybody go? Where’s Mommy?

  The Blockälteste is closing the gate of our Block. The selection commission, the SS men and their dogs, the Lagerälteste and their interpreter, are marching toward the SS command barrack.

  I pull the prison uniform over my head. The selected transport is nowhere in sight. I run to the nearest Block. It’s dark and quiet. So is the one next to it. But the third Block is lit and noisy. I run in there.

  There is pandemonium in here. A stout woman stands on top of a table in the middle of the Block, calling out numbers from a long sheet in her hand. Those whose numbers are called precipitate from the surging mass of women and form a line in the back of this Block, which is much more enormous than ours.

  I peruse the multitude, searching for a familiar face. Not one. I am afraid to ask questions. I’m afraid to inqui
re whether this is the transport freshly selected from Block 40.

  Where can Mommy be? As the numbers line up in the back, the crowd lessens. I still cannot see Mommy. And I still do not see a familiar face.

  The lines stand noisily for hours waiting for Zählappell. Finally the SS men arrive and begin the count.

  It’s late in the evening by the time we are given orders to march. The rain has subsided somewhat but has turned very cold. We march through the gate of the camp, past the command barrack where I knelt only a few days ago for twenty-four hours. We are marching on the road where the transport from Lodz arrived. I look for the yellow clown. It is not there.

  We stand in formation outside the showers for over an hour. Where are we being taken? I have still not asked any questions. What is this transport that I have sneaked into? Where is it heading?

  Perhaps Mommy’s transport was lining up in another Block while I rushed head-on into this one? Perhaps at this very moment Mommy’s transport is loaded onto trains, and shipped off who knows where? Or, perhaps she is, at this very moment, inside the showers, while we are awaiting our turn … What if she leaves through the other exit at the precise moment I am entering from this end? Or, perhaps she was detected, and taken to the gas hours ago?

  A ferocious trembling grips my body. What should I do now? I do not want to leave Auschwitz now. Perhaps Mommy was detected and held back in Auschwitz … not taken to the gas chambers yet. Perhaps I can still save her.

  The front gates of the shower Block open, we are hustled inside, and the doors shut behind us. There is no escape. There is no way out.

  “Auskleiden! Los!” Get undressed! Move it!

  In the crowded compartment, as bodies are getting stripped in haste, I notice a lone figure huddled motionlessly against the wall.

  “Mommy!”

  In a leap I am at her side. “Mommy, it’s you! It really is you! I can’t believe it!”

  Mommy is oblivious to my presence. She stares vacantly, her quaking body clinging to the wall. She seems desperately ill.

  How did she get here? Who helped her dress, walk, line up? She cannot answer my questions.

  Oh, God, I have found her. After all the panic, the tension, the fear … I have found her. She is here. Right here, in the showers. We are in the same transport. What perfect bliss!

  We are together, Mommy and I. We are leaving Auschwitz together! What a divine miracle.

  A HANDKERCHIEF

  AUSCHWITZ, SEPTEMBER 1-2, 1944

  It is in shoes you conceal your possessions.

  You have to leave your prison dress in a pile before entering the shower, and pick up a disinfected one from another pile at the exit. But you hold on to the shoes. You take them with you into the shower. It is in the shoes you hide things you hope to keep, like a small memento from home.

  Mommy has such a memento. It’s a small handkerchief with her initials embroidered in one corner. It was part of her trousseau. She wears it in her shoe, wrapped around her foot.

  I help Mommy get undressed, and tuck the handkerchief in her shoe. We are driven into the shower compartment in a frantic haste. The rush of cold water from holes in the ceiling lasts less than five minutes.

  “Los! Los! Blöde Hunde.” Move it! Idiotic bitches. Put on your shoes. Fast.

  I struggle with my sopping wet shoes. By the time I am ready to help Mommy with hers, the room is almost empty. The tall, husky SS woman supervisor is standing in the doorway, driving the last few girls into the next compartment. Mommy is sitting on the wet floor clumsily trying to wrap the handkerchief about her foot. The SS woman notices her.

  “Du, blöde Hund! Hurry and get to the other room!”

  But Mommy does not hear. She is oblivious to everything except the impossible task of maneuvering the handkerchief around her foot with paralyzed hands. The SS woman leaps at her, grabs her arm, and in a rage begins to twist it.

  I lose my head. I forget everything. I remember only that Mommy’s arm is paralyzed, that she is ill and very weak, and that the SS woman is going to break her arm.

  I jump at the tall, husky woman and shove her against the wall. “Leave my mother alone! Don’t you see you are going to break her arm?”

  The towering buxom figure in the dreaded SS uniform swings around. Her fist on my cheek sends me reeling. A second punch knocks me to the slippery floor. Now she is on top of me. She is kicking me in the face, in the chest, in the abdomen. She is kicking my head. The black boots gleam and my blood splashes thinly on the wet floor. A kick in the back sends me rolling across the floor toward the exit. Then the door slams and I’m lying flat on the cold, slick floor. Cold drops of water keep falling on my face from somewhere.

  A thought formulates somehow—I’m alive! I taste blood. I am unable to lift my head. My body feels totally numb. But I am alive. She did not trample me to death. She could have shot me. But she did not. I have committed the unthinkable, the unforgivable. I attacked an SS officer. The gravest possible form of sabotage … Yet I am alive. Brutally bruised, but alive.

  The noise in the adjacent compartment has subsided. I hear Mommy’s faint voice, “Elli … Ellikém. Can you hear me? Try to get up. Try. Can you hear me? Elli, try. I cannot help you. You must. You must get up. Now. All by yourself.”

  I roll on my abdomen and slowly pull myself up. My head reels. Blood is trickling from my nose and mouth. I cannot open my left eye. There is a very sharp pain in my left side. But my legs are not broken. I can stand.

  Slowly I limp out of the damp compartment. In a puddle in the middle of the room I notice a dismal looking little cloth. It’s Mommy’s handkerchief.

  “Mommy, wait.” I stagger toward the puddle and pick up the small, soggy rag.

  “Leave it there.” Mommy’s voice is an agonized whimper of resignation. “I don’t want it anymore.”

  “But I want it.”

  In the next room I manage to put on a dress, and help Mommy put on hers, and join the lines of women shivering in the cold dark September night.

  We stand outside the showers till dawn. All night we stand with freshly shaven heads, wet bodies, in threadbare gray cotton uniforms. There is no means of protection from the relentless autumn wind. The brick wall of the barrack has no nooks or crevices to cling to. The cold is inexorable. It seems unbearable, this exposure to cold, hunger, fatigue.

  Many girls begin to sob aloud. Others whimper with teeth clenched. And some recite phrases remembered from the Psalms.

  The pain in my side grows sharper. My left cheek is swollen. The cut above my lip makes it difficult to speak. The old wound in my right leg is throbbing with a vengeance. I’m unable to stand on that leg.

  There is an especially painful bump on the back of my head. Mommy says I fell to the stone floor of the shower room with a frightful bang. And then the SS woman gave a sharp kick to that same spot on my head. But my head did not crack. Solid material, Daddy used to tease. Solid, like rock. And stubborn like rock.

  “You are insane,” several girls accost me on the lines. “Totally insane. Didn’t you know what you were doing? You jumped on an SS woman! And she didn’t kill you!”

  I crouch against the wall of the barrack near Mommy, who is slumped, unconscious, on the ground. I drape an arm about her skeletal shoulders and huddle close to keep us warm. Her open mouth is a dark hollow.

  The SS guards have retired for the night to a nearby barrack, and we are left on our own. Everyone takes the liberty of crouching. The night seems forbidding and endless. The sky has not a single star.

  The filtering light of dawn brings our German masters marching briskly. The roll call brings the reality of our existence into focus. We have survived the night.

  A long row of cattle cars await us at the train station. I help Mommy, slowly, painfully, up into the boxcar. Then I climb up, smothering a cry of pain. A sense of triumph overwhelms the anguish. I have won. I have attained the first, and greatest, triumph of my life.

  My whole being is
awash with a sense of gratitude.

  THIS MUST BE HEAVEN

  AUGSBURG, SEPTEMBER 3, 1944

  “Elli, wake up. We’ve arrived.”

  Sun streaks into the boxcar through open doors. The train stands still. Mommy is gently shaking my shoulder.

  I can open only one eye. My head weighs a ton. Slowly I scramble to a sitting position.

  “You slept for over twenty-four hours,” Mommy says. “We’ve arrived.”

  “Where are we?”

  “The sign says Augsburg.”

  Augsburg. Augsburg. I learned about Augsburg in school. The Battle of Augsburg. When was it? When was the Battle of Augsburg?

  German officers, men and women, stand on the platform and scrutinize us with curious glances. They stare at us, then exchange incredulous, puzzled looks.

  The tall officer at the head of the group breaks the awkward silence, and addresses us directly. “We expected women. Five hundred women.” Then, after several moments’ hesitation, he inquires, “Who is in charge?”

  Our guards had returned with the departing train. We have no escort, no leaders. Except these openly astonished, hesitant men and women in an unfamiliar military uniform. They are our new masters.

  “Any of you speak German?” the officer inquires again. Several girls volunteer.

  “We expected a transport of women from Auschwitz,” the tall officer repeats. “Are you from Auschwitz? Were you sent instead of the women?”

  “We are from Auschwitz. And we are women.”

  A wave of disbelief ripples through the ranks of the assembled army personnel. Women? Our freshly shaven heads, gray prison garb, and sticklike bodies are not very convincing proof.

  We quickly line up in rows of five, ready to march. Our new masters just stand, waiting. We too, stand, awaiting the order to march.

  The train pulls out of the station, and the last boxcar has disappeared around the bend, and we are still standing at attention. Finally, the commandant addresses us again, “Aber wo sind euere Pakete?” But where is your luggage? Laughter rings from the lines. Our luggage?