The Brothers of Auschwitz

by Malka Adler

  The woman looked at us for a long time. Every minute she settled her beauty on someone else. Finally, she pointed at me. Ah? The man said, this is Betty, and you are?

  I looked at her and a pleasant warmth spread through me, to my neck, my feet. I forgot my friends from the monastery, forgot about the high waves at sea, forgot about myself. I was transfixed by Betty’s face and I was happy. Betty smiled at me. I saw that one of her teeth was bigger and covered another tooth, cute, and I smiled back. Betty approached, I rose as she came up and we shook hands. Her hand was gentle and moist.

  Oh, lovely Betty. I liked her from the very first moment. She had shoulder-length hair and green eyes. She had a rather narrow nose and had pink lipstick on her lips. She was a little plump, my height, wore a light skirt and a jacket drawn in at the waist. Her full breast spilled out of her jacket. She was my age, a girl from France who spoke Yiddish and who hadn’t been in the camps. She was traveling to meet relatives in Israel and wanted to remain in the Jewish land.

  We sat on deck wrapped in a blanket from morning till night, every day the same, and Yitzhak saw and said nothing. We whispered secrets into each other’s ears, mainly funny things, counting in Yiddish until the globe of the sun fell into the sea. Sometimes we sat silently before the sunrise even when we couldn’t see it for clouds. In the line for food, Betty explained to me about French baguettes and cheese with mold, and how much she longed for a glass of red wine. I taught Betty the Hungarian names of trees. She drew the Eifel Tower on my leg and wanted to know where I’d been during the war. I told Betty, I was born on a ship, now sing me a French song. She sang Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques and taught me to French kiss. I’d lie hidden under the blanket and feel her fingers gently traveling over my hand. She’d cover me with tiny circles like massage, oh, God, the hair on my body would rise in a second, but not only there. Sometimes my hand would begin to jump by itself, and there’d be electricity in my skin. I’d be alarmed and close my hand in a fist, and then she’d whisper, what’s wrong, my Bernard, and go on with the tiny circles of her fingers, on my neck, ear, barely touching, and every part of me would fill up.

  One day she found a scar like a hole in my arm. She looked at me sadly and said, does it hurt? Burn? And immediately began to cover the scar with little kisses, as if the hole in my arm was my mouth. Betty whispered, I love you, mon amour, love, love, and we began with a long, airless French kiss, ach, Betty, Betty.

  I wanted time to stop forever. It didn’t stop. We approached the shore. Betty said, I want to stay with you, Bernard, I have family in Israel, they’re waiting for me to come to them, but I want to go with you, the place isn’t important to me, it’s you I want, mon amour, let’s get married.

  I was confused. My chest hurt and I didn’t know what to do. I went to my brother. I found him in the lowest storeroom below deck. He was talking to one of the group instructors. I took him aside, told him quietly: Betty wants to get married and I don’t know what to do. My brother shouted, what? And frowned, what do you mean get married, what do you know about life, you have no home, no money, you know nothing about Israel, and you want the burden of a wife at such a young age, what do you need it for. I realized my brother was right. Betty didn’t belong to the group of youngsters from the camps. They’d already told us on the ship that our group would remain together. She couldn’t come with us. She said, I’m going to my relatives in Tel Aviv, will you know how to find me, Bernard?

  We parted. Betty wept when we parted, and I did too.

  Betty mon amour, my first love. Afterwards, I missed her very much. I’d dream about her before falling asleep. I didn’t have the money to go looking for Betty. I heard that a year later she got married. I never saw her again.

  Chapter 43

  Yitzhak

  We reached the Port of Haifa in mid-April, 1946.

  I was seventeen and a bit. It was towards noon. The sky was a special blue I’d never known before, a clean color. At the port a large band waited for us. The players wore a dark uniform and held strange instruments in their hands. Pipes with small holes, fat complicated pipes with large holes. The band played cheerful tunes, like the ones I’d heard at Auschwitz. One man held a small stick in his hand, gesturing as if to shoo them away. I didn’t see any dogs. Behind the band and on the side stood men, women and children. They had happy faces. They waved to us as if we were family. They stood with their legs apart, like people who knew the land belonged to them.

  The band irritated me.

  What were they hiding from us behind the band, what. What were they hiding? They had to be dumb or stupid or both not to think we wouldn’t think of bad signs. I asked one of the instructors, what’s the band for?

  He clapped me on the back, smiled at me with his white teeth, said, they’re giving you a festive welcome on behalf of UNRWA. You’re the first youth immigration, refugees from the Holocaust.

  I asked, what youth.

  He said, you’re refugee youth, you’re from a camp in Poland, aren’t you? Refugees.

  I didn’t understand what refugees were. However, I asked, will more refugees come?

  He said, many Jews will come. Ah, you could see he doesn’t understand the ramp at Auschwitz, he doesn’t know that the chimneys devoured almost all the Jews.

  And will they have a band at the port for everyone?

  He said, don’t know, we’ll see.

  The band played marches and people began to move, clapping their hands to the tune. I was sure they’d come to blows any minute. They’d hit each other, run away, look for a forest. I began to sweat and then I saw there was confusion, like Auschwitz: People who’d left the ship began to walk in different directions, not understanding what healthy people were telling them, and there was a long delay disembarking from the ship. From where I stood, I could see that some wanted to return to the ship. I think because of the band. It made us all very nervous, that band, playing march after march. The healthy people of Eretz-Israel continued to clap in time. They looked like good, happy people, and the babies in their arms also looked healthy and happy. They looked educated, too, I thought, they’re probably good merchants with lucky lives. By the length of their sturdy legs, I was sure they could catch a colt with no problem at all. Don’t know why, but their happiness brought tears to my eyes. Beside me several other youngsters were in tears.

  The sunlight was strong. Without smell or smoke. I felt my body gradually releasing my nervousness. From the port, they took us to Camp Atlit.

  Again there were lists and names. They had loud voices in Hebrew, even without a loudspeaker. Some had huge forelocks that fell nicely on their foreheads. They’d read two or three names, raise their heads, and hop, toss the forelocks back. The young men from Eretz-Israel wore khaki trousers and shirts with the sleeves rolled up in a broad band where their muscles were. And what muscles they had, they could lift a calf, even two on their shoulders without any problem at all, they were broad and well-padded. They could even catch chickens or a duck with their little finger, and carry at least three-four sacks of hay on their backs.

  I remember, when they called my name, I straightened my shoulders and neck, thrust out my chest and called out, yes, in my strongest voice. My voice sounded as strong as theirs, I was pleased. There were some who didn’t answer when they were called. Sometimes they had to repeat a name three times before other youngsters in the group said, it’s him, it’s him, pointing at someone. There was one who refused to answer to the name they’d called.

  The young man with the lists approached him and said, tell me, what’s your name? The youngster put out a hand, tugged at his sleeve and pointed at the blue number on his arm. The Israeli coughed and said, forget your number. In Eretz-Israel you are Ya’akov Mandelbitz, is that clear? Now repeat after me, Ya’akov Mandelbitz, Ya’akov Mandelbitz. The youngster just mouthed something.

  The young men finished reading names and then sprinkled powder over us, I think it was DDT. Waachch. What a stink. They said it
was against itchy disease. I was sorry I didn’t have a few bottles in the camps. Then they took us to wooden huts. Each one was given a bed to himself, a blanket, a sheet, and a pillow. The blankets smelled of DDT The smell didn’t bother me, I was glad I didn’t have lice.

  The next day they told us, now we have to wait until each of you is sent to a settlement in the country.

  I asked, how long do we wait?

  They said, a week or two, no longer.

  And what do we do in the meantime?

  They told us, we’ll sing a bit, tell you about Eretz-Israel.

  I immediately began to itch. I said to the young man who’d read out the names, I need some more DDT and can you perhaps give me a bottle for later? He refused.

  The young men gathered us together in one of the huts and told us about the kibbutz and the moshav, and we sang songs, “Anu banu artzah” – We came to this country – “Se’u tziona ness veh degel” – Carry a flag to Zion – “Hatikvah” – The Hope – the country’s anthem. The young men from the country sang enthusiastically, the youngsters from the camps in Poland did not. Those sitting in the first line sang all right. The second line not so well, from the third line, nothing. Some mouthed the words, some looked into the corners or at the ceiling and didn’t even mouth the words. I mouthed the words. Dov confused the words, too. The young men from Israel stamped their feet on the ground, clapped their hands, and tirelessly sang many songs. One of them put two fingers into his mouth and gave a whistle that almost burst my eardrum. At least five-six youngsters from the group jumped up from the bench and ran outside. There were times when in the middle of the yula, yula, yulala, my head began to throb, tach. tach. tach-tach-tach. But I stayed in the happy hut and whispered to my brother, we’re staying till the end. Dov was one of those who constantly stood up and sat down, stood up and sat down, took two steps and returned to their chairs. They made all the healthy people from Eretz-Israel dizzy.

  There were several healthy people from Eretz-Israel who stopped the tune because of those who got up and were confused: They couldn’t find the door, wanted to open a window, they were tired and wanted to lie down on the bench, all in the middle of the great happiness.

  When the healthy young men went on to sad songs, they’d put their hands behind their backs and hug and sway and gesture to us, you hug too, and everyone together, “Hinei ma tov oh ma naim, shevet achim gam yachad” – How good and pleasant it is for brothers to be together – sing with us, “Hinei ma tov oh ma naim, shevet achim gam yachad,” and, interestingly, this line made some weep at all this togetherness, but there were some with weak nerves and they kept getting up from their chairs. They’d tell them in Hebrew to sit down, sit down, soon we’ll have refreshments, but many got up and left, not understanding one word of what was said to them, and so they missed the refreshments.

  In the happy hut I loved to sing Hatikvah most of all. When we reached the line, “To be a free people in our land, the Land of Zion, Jerusalem,” I’d shout loudly as if I had a loudspeaker in my mouth. It made me feel good to shout out that line.

  Dov had a very-very hard time in Atlit. Hardest of all was the happy hut. Sometimes I pulled him to a chair, telling him there’d be wafer cookies or plain cookies and Oy va’avoy, if they didn’t hand out candies at the end. Dov was unhappy, I think mainly because of the girl from France who’d wanted to marry him. I couldn’t agree to such a plan because that girl didn’t know anything about what we’d been through. We spoke like normal people, smiled when appropriate, but our hearts were broken, and this she neither saw nor felt, we were chronically ill in a way, and ordinary people didn’t immediately see it. I was so fearful for us. I knew that if Dov married, he’d commit suicide within a week. I was glad he agreed to give her up, but I worried about what I saw in his eyes. I saw him sitting with people and not hearing what they said to him. I saw he wanted to be alone and I was worried. I refused to let him be alone. I would go to him, take him by the hand and bring him back to sit with everyone until refreshments.

  Two weeks at Camp Atlit and then they took us to a small village in Lower Galilee, opposite the Kinneret – Sea of Galilee. Thorns as tall as our heads and heavy black mud. In this village the roads were narrow, the work hard and our pockets empty. A collective, we were told, I didn’t know anything about it. Friends said, if you mix kibbutz and private moshav together in a large pot, you get a collective moshav. I imagined a large pot, mixed and mixed, and remained hungry. In the very first week I didn’t understand what I was doing in that collective village.

  Chapter 44

  Dov

  We were twenty-five young men and women who arrived at a small collective village that was ten years old.

  A youth-group, mostly from Poland, Holocaust survivors, as we were known in the village, I didn’t know exactly what I’d survived, but neither did I ask.

  It was the month of April. We walked along a muddy path with the heavy smell of wet grass. Alongside the path I saw small, black, stone houses with empty yards. Men and women of about thirty were waiting for us in a rather large building they called the Members’ Hall. The men wore simple clothes, khaki trousers, blue shirts. The women wore short skirts, some wore trousers. They had red embroidered x’s on their shirts. Near several women was a pram with a baby. The people looked at us and sang together, “We’ve brought peace upon you, we’ve brought peace upon you, peace upon you all.” Some clapped their hands and nodded to us, nu, sing along with us, but I stuck to a chair and the huge belly of a woman in a sweater who was sitting in the corner. She was holding the very bottom of her belly and I wanted to flee.

  I got up from the chair, but my brother, Yitzhak, grabbed my trousers and pulled me back into the chair, he whispered, what’s wrong with you, sit still. I couldn’t sit still because of the picture in my mind: The picture of a pregnant woman’s huge belly, she was maybe in her ninth month, and she was flying into the fire, aah. I said to myself, pull yourself together or you’ll be done for. The woman with the belly smiled at me, she looked happy.

  People in the hall talked and they talked in Hebrew, we didn’t understand a word.

  I bent down as if I had to tie a shoe-lace, took a large step, and went outside. I looked for trees. Didn’t find any. Opposite the entrance was a row of small pine trees in round holes, they looked half alive, half dead. My brother stood beside me. He looked at me with a long face and beckoned with his finger, we’re going back into the hall.

  I went back to my seat and then someone at the central table with protruding teeth stood up and said in Yiddish, hello, my name is Issasschar, and I’m your instructor and translator. He welcomed us in the name of the members, said a few words about the collective, and explained our daily routine in the village. Issasschar constantly looked for words in Yiddish, nonetheless I managed to understand from him that we’d start work early in the morning, continue until noon, and every afternoon we’d study in a classroom with a teacher.

  He says classroom with a teacher and my mind goes pak. I whispered to my brother, ask which teacher, quickly, because maybe we need to return to Camp Atlit now, before the truck leaves the village. My brother said, excuse me, sir, what do you mean a classroom with a teacher, you mean like a school? Issasschar said, yes, and approached us, because in the meantime people began to talk among themselves, and we couldn’t hear a thing. He said, we’ve organized a special classroom for you, there are books, notebooks, and we have an excellent teacher in the village.

  My brother said, and what will we learn in school?

  You’ll learn Hebrew, reading and writing, history, Bible, and … that’s it.

  I understood there were several other things we had to learn, and he couldn’t find the words in Yiddish. I whispered to the instructor, tell me, are there return ships in the country, yes or no, and where do your ships leave from, and where do these ships go, and how many times a week. The instructor didn’t understand a single word.

  I had to have something swee
t in my mouth.

  Women gave us a glass of lemonade and a slice of cake. A brown cake with soft chocolate icing on top. I put the cake in my mouth and my nose ran colorlessly. That cake tasted like the cakes Mama made for Shabbat. I liked being with Mama in the kitchen. I’d help her beat the egg whites, slowly fold in the sugar and flour and put it in an iron stove that stood on two metal plates. I wanted to swallow the entire cake that remained on the table and grab some from the others who were eating slowly and politely. I said to my brother, if, in this village, they make good cakes like Mama used to make, we’ll be all right, I’m still worried about the lessons, what do you think?

  My brother smiled at me, said, we’ll be all right because we have no other place, understand? And then Issasschar said, now we’ll go to the rooms. He took us to two single-story buildings, divided us up, three-four to a room, with beds and a small cabinet, boys and girls separately. We were given clothes and high work shoes and a new name for the group. Buddies, Issasschar called us. Come on, buddies, get up, buddies, no dreaming, buddies, and time for bed now, nu, buddies.

  That first night I couldn’t fall asleep. I pursued the stripes of light cast into the room through the window. I got to the ceiling and began to descend. I wanted to go back to the ship, to embrace Betty.

  The next day we were examined by a doctor.

  A man with glasses and greasy hair without a white coat. He cleared his throat. Every minute or two he’d clear his throat. Cach-cach. In the meantime he examined chest, back, ears, and even inside underpants. My face flushed in an instant. The doctor didn’t say a word. Neither did I. The doctor didn’t look me in the eye. And I didn’t look at him.

  A few days later, Issasschar came to my room and said, Dov, you have an appointment for surgery.

  I felt I was about to faint. Yelled, what surgery, what do you mean surgery, I’m not in any pain and I decided to run away.