Wife,
mother, grandmother. She lived through the horrors of the holocaust to bear
witness against the evil one man does to another.
My life was neatly divided into two parts: the person I
was before the camp and the person I was after being liberated. Every minute of
my life was marked by the horror of those days spent in the camp. I did not
understand why we were being herded like cattle into boxcars and being
transported across our land to the work camps. I was seventeen and very pretty,
even for a Jew. At least that’s what the Nazis would say when they walked by me
when we lived in the ghettos.
I don’t remember much of our times before we went into
the ghetto. All I remember is my father coming home from work early one morning
and telling my mother there wasn’t a job there for him any longer. My mother
was a nurse, but the hospital wouldn’t let her work. I remember thinking my
sister was lucky because she had been sponsored by our aunt in America and
father had spent the last of our savings to get her papers and passage out of
the country. I wanted to go too, but mother said I was too young and father
would have to work and save two more years to get the money to get me out. I
had asked why we couldn’t all go and I remember the look my parents gave each
other before shushing me and sending me to bed. Then there was the ghettos and
then the camps.
Father was called first. He was ordered to march with
many of the men and boys to the next village where they would be put on trains
to go to the work camps. He promised to write. We never received any letters. A
few days later a neighbor boy, one who had went with the men, came staggering
back into town sometime in the middle of the night. My mother went to his home
to care for him and when she came back she was pale and shaking. She told me my
father was never coming home and we needed to take care of ourselves from now
on. When the letter came for my mother and I to report to the work camps I knew
we would never return.
I don’t talk about my years in the camps, not even to my
children, not even to my husband, not even to my God. I let the pictures and
the scars and the numbers tattooed on my arm speak for me. My youth and beauty
were given to the camp. My grandparents, my brother, my mother, were all given
to the ovens when we arrived. I only learned this after I had been liberated. I
was young. I was strong. I could work. I was allowed to live. My prettiness
soon faded under the harsh conditions in the camp. The thing that had brought
me treats from the soldiers, a little extra food here, a chocolate bar, a pair
of shoes, did little to serve me here. I worked hard. I did what I was told. I
stood for roll call every morning and every evening. When I was sick and didn’t
want to get out of bed I still stood in line with the other women. Anyone who
stayed in bed after roll call were taken away. We thought they were being cared
for in the hospital. It was only later we learned they were being given to
ovens.
I remember when the English came. I remember the American
soldiers. I remember being liberated from the camp, but I don’t remember when
the suffering ended. I remembered I had an aunt in America and someone sent her
a letter for me. I was still sick from malnutrition and weakened from the
illnesses so prevalent in the camps when they received a response back from
her. I was to be sent to America right away. My sister was there and they were
waiting for me.
It took years to get my strength back. My sister cared
for me. She had never suffered. She was still pretty, even for a Jew. Her
husband wasn’t even Jewish. Neither of them would understand what happened to
me. They didn’t even know what happened to mother and father. I was alone in
this world.
My husband, he understands. We stood together, quiet
witnesses to the horror. My children are named for my grandfather, my mother,
my brother, my father. I wanted to keep going. I wanted to have enough children
to carry the name of all of my lost relatives, but the doctor said no, I needed
to stop. My children are my final witness to the horror. They will carry the names
with them and pass them on to the next generation and the generation after
that, least some future generations forget. Our names will stand witness to it
all.
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