The Brothers of Auschwitz

by Malka Adler

  I divided the clothes into piles. Men’s suits to the right. Dresses, skirts, and women’s blouses, to the left. Coats, apart on the right. Children’s clothing, behind me. Best of all was touching children’s clothing. They were stained and worn at the edges. Sometimes a patch or a tiny pocket, and another pocket stretched out of shape, sometimes embroidery with bright thread, a flower. Butterfly. Clown. Ah. The clothes had the smell of a regular home. The smell of soap and moth balls. Among the clothes I found some mama’s apron. A blue apron with a large pocket. I thrust trembling fingers into the pocket. I don’t know what I was looking for, but I found nothing. The apron smelled of fried pancakes and sausage. My mouth watered. I wanted to take the apron, hide it under my shirt. I didn’t dare because of the tall SSman who stood behind me, keeping an eye on my pace.

  For hours, I ran among the piles, without stopping to rest. My legs ached but I didn’t even stop for a second. The SSman stuck to my back. Out of the corner of my eye I could see a hand and a gun. I knew he’d put a bullet in me where it prickled. In the hollow of my neck. Ever since I’ve felt a prickling in that hollow whenever autumn comes. Once I saw his face and there were nails there instead of pupils.

  Daily routine at Auschwitz was consistent.

  We got up early, in the dark. We straightened blankets, ran to the holes in the latrines to clean up, ten minutes to pee or shit, crowded together in a suffocating stink, then splash the face with a little water, the line for thin, tasteless coffee, parade – and then we were divided up for work. Groups upon groups of prisoners with dry faces, shaved heads, dirty and quiet.

  We worked for twelve hours a day on a shrieking belly with pains in our muscles. Again the line for a bowl of soup. Again roll call in the bloc, and the evening parade, on the parade ground. Count. Mistakes. From the beginning. They hit a prisoner on the head with a baton. Thwack. Thwack. Scream into the loudspeakers for hours. I wanted to sleep. I so badly wanted to get to my bunk in the bloc, fall onto the board, sleep. I’d fall asleep in a second.

  After three weeks they sent us on foot from Auschwitz to Birkenau, a distance of three or more kilometers. I dragged my feet in a convoy of uniform stripes. I could barely walk. I raised my head and saw a yellowish brown color, like the moment before a storm. Smoke coming out of a chimney. Dense, thick smoke without holes. Without spaces. There was a sweet smell outside. The smell of good meat cooked over a fire. I wanted to vomit. Thick saliva rose in me, disgusting. In the distance I saw a row of barracks with walls built of rough logs. I couldn’t see any windows.

  Again I sorted through the piles of belongings emptied out of the suitcases. Shoes to shoes. Coats to coats. Bags to bags. Piles as high as a mountain inside the huge storerooms. I knew. The hands that had packed the suitcases were now pressed into a black smudge rising upward.

  At Birkenau I lived in a barracks.

  The barracks that finished off the most people. Between five and eight hundred people. The barracks had cubicles of three tiers. I slept on the third tier. Six prisoners to a cubicle. Every morning new prisoners would arrive and there was always space for them to sleep instead of the dead they’d dragged outside. Prisoners would take hold of the thin legs of the dead and pull them down from the cubicle to the floor. Sometimes I’d hear thump. Thump. Thump. The head would knock on the board, as if coming down steps. Thump. Thump. Thump-thump. Sometimes they stripped off their clothes there in the passageway, sometimes not. It depended on the smell of the dead from the night. Dead that smelled were left in their clothes.

  Every morning I saw different faces beside me. Faces with hunger and certain death in them. Every morning I heard questions, as if I had answers. The cubicle stank like father’s cow shed. I hadn’t seen a shower in two months. The lice were in rows on my skin, as if SSman had given the order. I scratched until I drew blood. A lot of blood. I wanted to bite myself.

  The head of the bloc, a giant with a triangular head, wore a striped vest. On his chest was a green triangle. The head of the bloc screamed, struck with a baton he always held in his hand like a long finger with a knob. The prisoners in the bloc whispered, they barely spoke. They reminisced about people they’d known back home. Reminisced about food. Asked one another how to erase spots that grew on the skin. Rashes, small sores, odd singes, signs of burns, scaly skin, infections here and there. They were alarmed by skin problems and by the doctor who’d examine naked prisoners and send them to Selektion. Between Selektion they’d argue about the chances of winning the war, or about a door that was left open to the cold. I didn’t interfere in anything. Whispers didn’t interest me. I’d put my head down on the wood and fall asleep.

  One morning the loudspeaker played my number: Achtung, Achtung, A-4092 report outside. I was sure they’d throw me into the oven, that it was my turn for the Garden of Eden. I told myself, say goodbye to the world, Dov. Say goodbye to the sun. Say goodbye to the blue number on the arm. Say goodbye to the rags you’re wearing. Goodbye to the stinking cubicle. Goodbye to the lice smeared all over you, damn them. You and the lice into the fire together, but first the gas, because there is order.

  I came out of the barracks like a boy with dignity.

  I looked for the sun. I couldn’t find it and trembled as if they’d put ice in my trousers. Three more left the bloc with me. The large prisoner beside me didn’t stop crying. I walked upright, didn’t interfere. What could I say to him? I knew the Germans took strong guys for labor and it didn’t always help. What determined it was what they needed: If they did or didn’t need laborers for work. If things were held up at the crematorium or not. There were cases when whole transports were sent to the chimney, they didn’t even look at them on the platforms. And there were strong young men among them, each shoulder a shoulder, not just any hands, but hands that could carry a heavy calf without a problem. And there were cases they took so-so young men to the crematorium and then, right at the crematorium they told them to return to the barracks, why? The Sonderkommando hadn’t finished emptying out the previous transport. I was a boy and I knew I didn’t stand a chance.

  On the side was an open truck of prisoners in striped pajamas. SSman, baton in hand, signaled us to climb into the truck on the double, to move in close. Beside him stood two guards with guns. We ran to the truck. Another SSman was waiting for us with a leg in the air. A strong kick in the backside and we were off. I didn’t know where they were taking us, and I didn’t ask. I thought, maybe to the forest to meet with a machine gun, a mass grave in a field, maybe to work? I didn’t dare ask the guards, didn’t want to talk with prisoners.

  The truck stopped at a labor camp: Jaworzno.

  Israel, 2001

  14:18 boarding a suburban train on the Nahariya platform.

  Because of the sea I stick to a window, wait for it to bring a few waves to Nahariya. Blue sea and cellphone ringtones. A cheerful Turkish march fails to wake the phone’s soldier. Stops. A message. On the left, Khachaturian’s Sabres attack and at the end of the carriage another tune and a message. Blah. Blah. Blah. A slight, pin-like pain digs sharply into my head, releases. Yitzhak would say, what do you want with a headache in a carriage, better you take a taxi. Dov would say, best to use headphones, you wouldn’t even hear the Auschwitz orchestra, would you?

  I’d look at Dov, swallow saliva and remain silent. Finally I’d say, I just can’t wear headphones, can’t wear them, Dov, I have so much noise in my head, I need an opening. And then Yitzhak would ask, what noise do you have, huh? And I’d tell him, never mind.

  If I told Yitzhak and Dov the truth, if I told them that between 15.5.44 and 8.7.44, they transported 501,507 Jews from Hungary, most of them to Auschwitz, Dov would say, I’m no good at math. They took us away before we learned such big numbers. And Yitzhak would say, what do you mean, immediately pouring vodka into a glass of grapefruit juice, and his wife, Hannah, would say, what do you need that for, and he’d say, for life, Hannah, and then I’d focus on Dov, and he wouldn’t believe a single word for five mi
nutes. Then he’d clap his hands loudly, how did they manage that, wanting me to say: How did they manage it in two months, transport five hundred and one thousand and another five hundred and seven Jews out of Hungary, huh?

  Less than two months, Yitzhak would correct. Less than two months, Dov.

  Are you sure, Dov would ask me. Yes, yes, I’d say, I saw it on television, and then Dov would ask, what program, I know all the programs, and I’d say, Channel 8, maybe, or maybe Channel 23, and then Dov would say, boring, with a gesture as if brushing away a fly. Is there a crematorium on your channel? We can’t describe a crematorium standing there without smoke and smell. We can’t imagine the smell of flesh not coming out of the television.

  The train stopped just as the nausea from the smell of flesh began. The end of the track. Impossible, Dov would say, possible, possible, Yitzhak would say, the Germans were good with large numbers, and then Dov would say, break. Bring juice for everyone, and I’d throw off my shoes, roll up my sleeves as high as possible, and look for a shutter to open, and Yitzhak would say, what’s the matter with you, and I’d say, hot flashes, it’s the age, pay no attention.

  Chapter 5

  Yitzhak: How come I only studied up to third grade?

  Dov: You didn’t want to study after third grade.

  Only I studied all the time.

  Yitzhak: Do you want to know the month of my birth in 1929?

  When they took compost out to the field and planted cabbage.

  The month of November.

  11.11.1929. Dov was also born in November. One year before.

  Dov: I was a year old when they sent me away from home.

  Dov

  We were born Czechoslovakians. Sent to die Hungarians.

  In 1944, my family was taken to a concentration camp. Father Israel was forty-nine. Mother Leah was forty-two. The children were between fifteen and twenty.

  We lived in the village of Tur’i Remety in the Carpathian Mountains, near the town of Perechyn. A small place, maybe six hundred families. Maybe thirty Jewish families. Our village was known for horse racing.

  People from the area would come to us with their beautiful racehorses. I didn’t buy a ticket to the races. I had no money. I sat on a platform near the mountain. Ate an apple, played my harmonica with a phoo phoo phoo. Phoooo. Phoo. Phoo. Phoo. Phoooo. Phooah. That’s what came out and in the meantime I speculated on the horses’ chances. The races were in the time of the Czechs. The Hungarians put a stop to the races. War was already raging in Europe but they didn’t talk about it in the village, we were far away in the mountains.

  The goyim – Jews – in our village were farmers. The Jews were merchants. Butchers, grocery, bakery, a flour mill, things like that. Jews always had money in their pockets.

  In the village we’d gather in the evenings to peel corn with the goyim. Let’s say the corn in the Korol family’s corn field was ripe. The Korol family cuts the corn. The Korol family brings the corn to the storeroom. The village youngsters gather together in the evening to peel the corn.

  The youngsters work, sing, eat hot corn. Sometimes two youngsters, a boy and a girl, yes, would peel the corn with a scrap of shirt, or trousers; and, unintentionally, yes, we’d soon start throwing peels at them, lots and lots of peels with hairs at the end, like a blanket, so they shouldn’t get cold, God forbid. By morning we were in vecherkas, as we called the gatherings with the goyim. The next day we’d go to another farmer and start the vecherkas and the fun all over again. Everything ended when soldiers came to the mountains and forced us to wear yellow patches.

  Father Israel was a butcher.

  We had a butcher shop next to our house. Father was also an animal trader and away from home three nights a week. We had a cow shed in the yard and we had geese and chickens. Mother raised the children. Mother milked the cows, helped in the store, ran the home, mother was an expert baker, her cakes tasted like the Garden of Eden. Mother worked and worked, didn’t rest for a moment. When we were hungry we took food for ourselves. We only sat down to eat a meal together on the Sabbath. When I was a year old my brother Yitzhak was born and I was sent away from home. My sister Sarah was five. My brother Avrum was three. Mother couldn’t take care of everyone at once. I was sent to Grandmother and Grandfather. They lived in another village, maybe thirty kilometers from my village. When I was three they brought me back home. My sister Sarah said I didn’t stop crying.

  Our village was near a huge forest in the Carpathian Mountains.

  What I loved most was walking in the forest. Always with a stick, because of the wolves. I loved swinging from branches and climbing trees. I would climb almost to the top of the tree and look out over fields, over houses. I only ever felt safe in trees. I knew no one would find me up there. I had my own private hiding place in the forest. I hung up a hammock made from a blanket I took from home and I ate fruit from a hoard I collected, all according to season. In the forest I knew where to find pears, mushrooms, berries and nuts. I was the first to know when the fruit was ready to eat.

  In winter I suffered.

  In winter I waited for the snow to melt so I could throw off my shoes and run barefoot to my forest. Mother embarrassed me. She’d run after me, shoes in hand. She’d call my name aloud in front of the neighbors, worried that I’d catch cold, shouting Avrum, Avrum, Avrum, to help her with me, but he’d go off with father. I’d hear, Sarah, Sarah, leave your book for a moment, nu, and go and look for your brother, put his shoes on and bring him home.

  Sometimes I’d come back with Yitzhak, shoes in hand. Sometimes with Sarah. I liked feeling the cold earth. It was a nice tickling feeling in my back, right up to the hollow in my neck. Maybe that’s why my feet didn’t hurt when I walked in the camp with paper-thin soles.

  Yitzhak and I went together to cheder – a traditional elementary school teaching Judaism and the Hebrew language. We started there at the age of four. We left home every day at five-thirty in the morning. In winter the temperature was twenty-five below zero. We’d hold hands and walk in the dark. We wore a coat, a hat, a scarf and gloves and woolen socks with shoes. Despite this my face hurt, like an iron stuck fast to my skin. I couldn’t feel my feet in that frost. Our legs were like planks bent in the middle. Our ear-locks were like barbed wire. We didn’t talk so our tongues wouldn’t fall out and stick to the snow.

  We’d study for two hours in cheder and then go home. At the age of six, after cheder, we went to the Czech elementary school. We studied until 13:00 and went back to cheder in the afternoon. For at least another two or three hours.

  A city rabbi would come to bless the village on two fixed occasions twice a year. The city rabbi was an important and respected man. He had a black coat, a hat, and a thick beard like steel wool. The rabbi would comb his beard with two fingers, stopping only to spit into a handkerchief. The rabbi didn’t say they’re throwing Jews into the Dnieper. The rabbi didn’t say they’re throwing Jews into the Dniester. The rabbi didn’t say they’re shooting Jews in forests. People in the village asked him as they had always done over the years, rabbi, what should we do. What should we do, rabbi, on the radio they speak against Jews, there are rumors, rabbi. They send families far away, where is far away, rabbi, what do they do to us there, does it hurt? And there have been whispers, rabbi, passing by word of mouth, whispers about mass graves of hundreds, thousands, danger is coming, rabbi, what is waiting for us, rabbi, tell us what is waiting for us, is this the end?

  The rabbi would think and think, and in the meantime a woman with an enormous belly pushed two Jews with beards and hats who stood in the aisle, and approach the rabbi from the side, punching him, boom! in the middle of his back and the rabbi jumped and the two Jews with beards and hats fell on the woman and she rolled about like a full barrel, shouting, hooligans, leave me alone, and they wouldn’t leave her alone, but rolled her out of the synagogue, and three old women with covered heads would call out in unison, she’s crazy, she’s from a goy family and she’s crazy, and the
rabbi would arrange his hat, pull his coat and bend down to us with raised eyebrows, asking the nearest man, tell me, Jew, do you light candles at home?

  Yes, we light candles, and you, tell me, have you checked your Mezuzahs?

  I’ve checked them, and you, Jew, do you remember to put on tefillin, we remember rabbi, we don’t forget a single day.

  And then the rabbi would say, nu, good. There’s a God in the heavens, open the Siddur, say Shema Israel and the Messiah will come.

  The village people said, very well, and looked down at the ground. The rabbi requested a chair. The rabbi took off his hat and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. The rabbi put his hand in his pocket and played with coins. Chink. Chink. Chink. People stole glances at one another but refused to buy the rabbi’s medications. A few minutes later they continued to badger, what should we do, rabbi. Should we run away, answer us, rabbi. They had the voice of a hungry chick. Many chicks that weep and weep.

  The rabbi would frown, saying: Certainly not, Jews. Forbidden! Forbidden to leave the village!

  People said, very well, but immediately longed for Eretz-Israel, rabbi, Palestine, you know, the Jews are studying Torah there, maybe we’ll escape to Palestine?

  The rabbi shouted: Forbidden! A boycott on anyone who goes to Palestine. Boycott! Boycott! Boycott! We must wait for the Messiah!

  The people said very well, but until he comes, rabbi, what must we do?

  We have a strong God, He will help, shouted the rabbi banging his hand on the Ark.

  The people said very well. Men and heavy coats, and women with head coverings and handkerchiefs in their hands, crowded in front of the synagogue Ark, weeping and shouting in unison, help us, our Lord. Save us from Hitler, damn him, bring the Messiah, and then they went home. On the way, if they saw a priest or a white horse, or a chimney cleaner in black clothes and a black hat, they’d grab a button on their clothing, against the evil eye, not letting go until they reached home, believing that this would help them get through Hitler. Some kissed the Torah morning, noon and night, some wept. Small children rushed around the synagogue yard with sticks in their hands. They cursed Hitler and beat the ground.