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 minutes. 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.
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.
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