The Brothers of Auschwitz

by Malka Adler

  Father spoke from inside the cupboard, leave the cat, Icho, don’t go outside. And then he straightened up, gripping his back, went over to the window opposite the road and said, come here. Look out of the window. Do you see the soldiers? They will come in soon and throw us into the street without our bundles, now do you understand?

  I felt as if a sickness was spreading through my body and taking away my life. I wanted my cat. The cat that came into my bed with its purrrr purrrring. It loved having its belly tickled and a spray of milk straight from the teat on its fur. Loved licking itself, for hours. Avrum, my older brother stood in the doorway. Avrum was tall, thin and gentle like mother.

  He said, come on, I’ll help you, Dov is also waiting for you. Just a minute. I wanted to hug my sick cat. Sarah stood beside me. Took me by the hand. We heard a noise outside. Sarah rushed to the window.

  Her bony body leaned out and she called father: Father, father, the neighbors are in our yard, they’re calling you. Sarah was also thin. Father didn’t turn round, said, not now Sarah. Sarah called more urgently, the neighbors are coming to the door, father, go out to them. Dov came into the room, put an apple in his other pocket and then some matzos inside his shirt. He had brown eyes and muscles like a ball in each arm. He’d tossed a sweater on his back.

  A knock at the door made me jump.

  Father went to the door. I heard our neighbor asking, where are you off to, Strullu? It was Stanku. He always wore a peaked cap; he had a red-tipped wart on his cheek.

  Father said, you tell me, maybe they said something to you.

  They said nothing to me. It was you they spoke to.

  Father fell silent. Stanku straightened up. And the children?

  Father said, they’re leaving with us. The old people too.

  Stanku took off his cap, you need bread. Father didn’t. He said, we’ve got matzos.

  No, Strullu, you need bread and water for the journey. I don’t.

  Take cakes, we have large cakes we made for Easter. We’ll give you the cakes. Hide them in your clothing. Who knows what will happen.

  Dov said to himself, a tragedy is what will happen. A terrible tragedy.

  Father smiled sadly at Stanku. He said quietly, that child is always thinking about tragedies. Don’t know what’s wrong with him. Stanku grabbed father’s hand. His hand trembled. His blue eyes were moist.

  Stanku said, we’ll take care of the house, Strullu, we’ll look after the cows, and you’ll be back, you have to come back.

  Father and Stanku hugged. I heard thumps on backs. I heard father say brokenly, I don’t think we’ll be back, Stanku, forgive me, I must go in. Father left.

  I turned to Stanku, so you’ll look after the house, the cows too, and the cat, and you’ll feed it, yes, and if people come by and want to take it, what will you tell them?

  Stanku cleared his throat. And again, holding his throat. I whispered, I have a small sum saved, I’ll give it to you, Stanku.

  Stanku threw up his hands, stamped his foot on the path, said, no, no, no, and don’t worry, Icho, I’m here to take care of everything until you come safely home. We shook hands. I went inside.

  Dov jumped out through the window.

  I was sure Dov was escaping into the forest. I was glad he’d run away. Glad no one saw. Glad that at least one of our family would stay to take care of the house. Father, mother, Sarah, Avrum and I went to the synagogue with our bundles on our backs. Hungarian soldiers counted us. Someone snitched, said a boy from our family was missing.

  Soldiers threatened father, shaking a finger at him: by nightfall. The boy must return by nightfall. Or we’ll stand all of you against the wall, boom boom boom. Understand? Father called Vassily from Dov’s class.

  Vassily was Dov’s best friend. Vassily liked going without socks and hat. Winter or summer, the same. Vassily came at a run. He had a coat with one short sleeve and one long one.

  Father hugged Vassily’s shoulder, saying, Vassily, bring Dov to us. He’s in the forest. Only you can do this. Vassily looked at father and was sorry, Dov, Dov. Father bent down and whispered to Vassily, tell Dov, remember Shorkodi, the young man from Budapest, he’ll understand.

  Dov came back swollen from a beating.

  That night he returned with Hungarian soldiers. His face stayed swollen for two days. He had a deep cut from forehead to ear. He had a crust of blood under his hair. He didn’t say a word. I was sorry, pity you came back, Dov, a pity.

  Two days later, they took us by train to Ungvár, now Uzhhorod.

  In the town of Ungvár they put us in a huge pit like an open mine. There were thousands of Jews there from that area without an outhouse or shower. Just a small tap and pipe. Rain kept falling. The rain washed out the mine. We were drowning in mud and a strong smell. First came the strong smell of people who were going to die. Then came the smell of human excrement. I couldn’t get used to the bad smells. I wanted to vomit even after I finished vomiting.

  Our family was given a space the size of a living-room sofa. We slept on planks and wet blankets. We ate a bowl of potato soup after waiting in line for hours. One bowl a day. We were still hungry. We saw peddlers walking around the pit. They made signs at us with their hands. Signs of the cross, signs of slitting throats as if they held a knife in their hands. They grinned toothlessly, hee hee hee. I could have pummeled them with my fists. Mother spoke to me wordlessly. I pummeled myself with my fists until my leg was numb. People with important faces and wet jackets walked among us. They were known as the Judenräte.

  They promised, just a matter of days and you’ll be in the east. They spoke of many work places.

  We waited for the train that would take us east to many work places. The train didn’t come. People became impatient, at first a little, then increasingly so. After three days they yelled at one another for no reason. If they unintentionally touched an elbow in the line for soup or the tap, they yelled. They argued about where to place their head or feet when going to sleep. Or why they farted right into a baby’s face.

  Poor little thing, he choked, a little consideration, Grandpa. They argued about rumors. Yelled, yelled, yelled, a day later, they repeated the rumors and reported new ones. There were no rumors about death, no words about death; about liberation, yes. Many words about imminent or distant liberation. We were ignorant about the news they reported, we just heard and waited. Waited almost a month.

  Finally a special cattle train arrived on the track.

  We were sure it was a mistake. Soldiers pushed us into the cars. They forcefully pushed entire families. Entire villages. Towns. Cities. I understood. The Hungarians wanted to cleanse the world of Jews. Didn’t want to breathe in a world a Jew had passed through. Wanted to look far into the future, ah, no Jews. None. Clean sky, sun and moon, too.

  The journey by train was a nightmare.

  We traveled three days without food or water. We traveled in a car with a tin bucket for the needs of a small town. The infant in the arms of the woman with cracked glasses cried ceaselessly. A yellow thread oozed from his ear. My mother cut a strip of fabric from a sheet and tied it around his head. Like mumps. The infant’s crying increased. The woman tried to give him her nipple, but he didn’t want it. He only wanted to cry. After two days the crying stopped and the woman began. At first she wept alone, then another five or six people alongside her began to weep, like a choir. Finally, she covered the infant’s face with a sheet. Refused to give him to the tall man standing beside her. She had a brown spatter on her glasses. I dug my nails into my leg, dug and dug, until there was a small hole.

  Dov said, he was saved, the baby died in his mother’s arms. We will die alone.

  We stood in line on the platforms at Auschwitz.

  Trains were standing the length of the track. Like an enormous, long-tailed serpent.

  Babies flew into the air like birds. Pregnant women were thrown onto a truck. One woman’s belly exploded mid-air, everything scattering as if there was a watermelon there, n
ot a baby. Old people who couldn’t walk were smeared on the floor. Whole villages stood on the platform without room to move. In the air, a column of smoke and the sharp smell of burned chickens. That’s what I remember.

  First they separated the women from the men.

  I never saw mother or Sarah again.

  We passed by an officer with a pleasant face, as if he liked us, felt concern. As if he cared about us. With his finger, he signaled, right, left, right, left. We didn’t know his finger was long enough to reach the sky. Then they asked about professions. Dov jumped first. We didn’t have time to part from each other.

  The soldiers shouted builders, are there any builders? Avrum and I walked forward together. Father remained to choose another profession. I never saw father again.

  They took us to a building where we were to strip.

  A long, never-ending line. As if they were handing out candies there. And then they told us quickly, strip quickly. Naked women ran in the direction of a large iron door. The door constantly opened. Naked women were swallowed up into the black opening of the door. Like the large mouth of the sea. Men and boys ran the other side. Bearded rabbis screamed Shema Israel, Shema Israel.

  Avrum and I stood trembling opposite the building that had swallowed the most people.

  The building had a black door and another one just the same. My brother and I didn’t know where we should run. Naked and confused we ran from one side to the other, treading on legs, pushing with our hands. Around me I saw people spinning with their hands above their heads, beating their chests, pulling their hair from their heads, their genitals. I saw people weeping to their God, telling him, God, hear me, give me a sign, where is the Messiah, Master of the Universe. The was a sound there like a low hummmm, heavy as a snowstorm. Hummm. Hummm.

  I called to my brother until my throat was hoarse.

  I called, Avrum, Avrum, which door should we run to, Avrum, answer me.

  Avrum caught my hand. Avrum sobbed, here, no, there, no, no, Avrum, what do we do, where, where, the first door, no, no, the second, Icho what are you doing, Icho listen to me, wait, liiiiisten. We were inside.

  We were inside a huge hall with benches. A huge hall with barbers who shaved hair. Tirelessly, they shaved and shaved. Then they took us to the showers. And then, phishsh. Water. I called, Avrum, it’s water, water, we’re alive, Avrum, we’re still together, Avrum, we’ve been lucky, Avrum. I sobbed during the entire shower.

  Chapter 2

  I am Dov: The State of Israel gave me the name Arieh-Dov, Dov for short.

  The Nazis gave me the number A-4092.

  The goyim gave me the name Bernard.

  My Jewish people gave me the name Leiber.

  In Dov’s Living Room

  I was sure they were taking us to die.

  Father thought they were sending us to work in distant factories. I thought about death. My death had a shiny red color. Red like the blood oozing from the ear of the man standing beside me in the train to Auschwitz. This man had refused to board the train and the blood refused to stop streaming for three days, perhaps because of the crowdedness and the pressure, everyone was pressed against everyone else. We were like fish in a barrel stinking of fresh death, a new smell that came into my life and didn’t leave me for a long time.

  The train to Auschwitz stopped.

  The car door opened quite suddenly. Torches like projectors exploded in our eyes. The loudspeaker announced, quickly, quickly, schnell, schnell. Leave belongings on the train. We heard irritability in a voice that was sharp and loud, as if there was nothing but a voice there, no human being, just a voice, schnell, schnell.

  On the platforms were soldiers with guns and voices like loudspeakers. Get down, quickly, quickly. They yelled as if they had a loudspeaker installed in their throats. To the side stood piles of striped pajamas, a head and arms sticking out of them. I saw nothing else of them. They stood to one side with bowed and shaven heads. They were more frightening than the orderly soldiers. They looked ill and suffering. The soldiers didn’t. The orchestra was also healthy. They played cheerful marches suitable for a victory parade.

  Dogs on leashes barked wildly. Dogs with sharp teeth and runny noses, their hackles up like nails. Soldiers pushed an old bearded grandfather who didn’t understand, who said, excuse me, sir, to the commander, what should … Thwack. The old man fell. Soldiers beat up other frail old people. Smashed shoulders, belly, back. They didn’t let them die on the spot, they left them to sob. And they sobbed with pain. Others wept in worry or because of the orchestra. There was a good orchestra at Auschwitz. I could immediately hear it was good. I almost wept for the beauty of it, but the large pile of striped pajamas stayed in my mind, and I didn’t cry.

  On the other side, soldiers were kicking a small child about like a ball; he was maybe three years old. The child hadn’t heard, move, quickly, quickly. The little boy had black curls, a short coat and a heavy diaper in his trousers. A diaper full of poop from the journey. The child had lost his mother and father and all he had left was a brown teddy bear that he held under his arm. The teddy bear was first to fall. The child followed. Another kick. Again he didn’t hear move quickly. It was a little hard to hear because of the music. The child’s head opened slightly. Another kick, and that was it. He remained on the platforms beside his teddy bear like a black stain on the road. The place grew very quiet. For a moment nobody spoke, not a word, just cheerful music.

  I was dragged forward and the noise increased. It was a great weeping. The greatest weeping I had ever heard. The weeping of a large ocean, a stormy ocean. Weeping like waves breaking against rocks on the shore, whoosh, whoosh.

  Soldiers screamed stand in line, quickly.

  Soldiers divided, women to the left, men to the right. Men hugged young children. Children sobbed Mama, Mama, Grandma, where’s my Mama. A grandmother with a scarf hid her mouth behind her hand. She had no teeth. Grandmother made strange sounds, like a life-saver at the beach. A life-saver who shouts into a megaphone, not a big one, in the wind. Waaah, waaah, waaah, waaaaaah.

  A grandfather with a cane took the hand of a crying child. Held him firmly, saying, sha, sha, sha, don’t cry, boy, and collapsed to the ground. Thwack. The child fell silent. Soldier seized a baby wrapped in a blanket from a mother’s arms. Soldier ripped the woolen hat from the baby’s head and smashed the bald head against the car door. I heard a scream like a calf being slaughtered in the village, before the knife.

  Mother and Sarah grew steadily more distant.

  Mother threw her hands up in the air. As if she wanted to chase off spirits and devils. Mother pulled the scarf from her head, pulled at her hair, shrieked: children take care of yourselves. Mother shouted more loudly: My children, take care of yourselves. Do you hear me? Mother’s cry made a wound in my heart. As if someone had put a nail on a nerve and hammered it in. To this day I ache when I remember mother’s tears and her last words.

  Mother and Sarah were among the first four. They walked and walked until they vanished in the middle of the platforms.

  Soldiers yelled to stand four to a line, quickly, and the orchestra played.

  The loudspeaker continued to issue orders. The torches hurt less. People were running about like cockroaches in the dark. They forgot there was light. They were looking for relatives with whom to make a foursome. The noise was immense. An order from the loudspeaker momentarily stopped everyone on the platforms, then everyone began to run, call, Tibor, come closer, Solomon, Yaakov, come, come, we’ll make up a foursome. Shimon, who sold meat with them, came up without his glasses, tried to push in. You aren’t with us, Shandor-with-the-limp was alarmed, move back.

  Cross-eyed Yaakov from our village said, that’s enough, we’re four, and you’ll stand behind us. Cross-eyed Yaakov began to walk.

  Shandor-with-the-limp grabbed his hand, where are you going, stand next to me, here, one, two, three, four, five? No, no, move, no room, Yaakov, wait, what’s wrong with him, he’s throwing dow
n his hat and pulling down his trousers, Shimon, come here, come back quickly, stand here, here, don’t move, no more room, you will all stand in front of us, so what if you’re cousins, nu, start another foursome.

  The platforms loudspeaker changed station. Moved to dance music. We stood there, three boys and father, thin and beardless. Father raised his head, Avrum caught father’s arm, Yitzhak took two steps towards SSman.

  Avrum forcefully pulled Yitzhak into the line. Whispered, what d’you think you’re doing.

  I stood like a heavy stone thrown into an abyss. Spin, spin, spin, thump.

  Like a stone that had crashed on a rock.

  Father was silent, pressing my arm like hot pliers.

  A calm German officer signaled with his finger, right, left, left, left, left, and right again.

  The orchestra changed the dance. The officer had eyes like the crack of a window.

  He wore white gloves. He had shiny buttons and a wine-drinking face.

  We went right. Whoever went right went to work. Whoever went left, went.

  I saw smoke traveling not far from a cloud. I remember it, a black cloud, special. The smoke came out of the chimney of a large building, a huge building, the smoke drew mushroom . I asked father, what’s that?

  A steel factory, Dov.

  Father, answer me.

  It’s a factory, Dov. A steel factory for the war.

  This is where they burn Jews, father, that’s the smoke of Jewish flesh.

  Father jumped as if he’d trodden on a snake, no. No, of course it isn’t, it’s a factory, that smoke is from machines, Dov.

  Soldiers called out, mechanics, any mechanics here?

  I shouted, I’m a mechanic, me, me. I jumped out of the line. Jumped alone.

  I wanted to run as far away as I could. I wanted to escape the piles of flesh in the smoke to come. Father, Avrum and Yitzhak remained behind me.

  I didn’t look back, I wanted forward, far away.

  Soldiers in polished shoes and leggings like tarpaulins took me to a two-storey building. They put me on a storey with German political prisoners. German prisoners with blond hair, and one with a mustache. The prisoners had received food packages from home. They sat eating in a group. They had a wooden box at the end of the bed. A box with a lid and a medium sized lock.