The Memory Monster

by Yishai Sarid

  To test my hypothesis, and before answering the editor again, I decided to run an experiment. I presented the next youth group I’d guided with a picture of Heydrich at his prime, in official uniform. I Photoshopped his swastikas off but left the other decorations and badges. I didn’t tell them who the man in the picture was, and asked that if one of them happened to recognize him, to keep it to themselves. I asked the kids what they thought of this man.

  “Serious,” said one girl. “Level-headed,” said another. “Hot,” someone giggled in the back. “A man who knows what he wants,” said a boy. “A man with a vision.” “Strong.”

  The experiment’s results were clear. That’s why we’d forgiven them so quickly, and that is the danger in the memory virus we injected into these children’s bodies. I had it too. I demanded that the editor leave the chapter untouched. I told him it was important.

  The project manager at the gaming company informed me that they had completed the Auschwitz facilities and were about to begin designing the human figures. We’ve defined three groups, he wrote to me, Germans, Jewish slaves, and Jews that were sent immediately to the gas chambers. He asked if they had gotten the distribution correctly. I wrote to him that there were other subgroups, such as kapos, Sonderkommandos, German criminal prisoners, gypsies, Ukrainian guards, doctors, and victims of experiments. The Germans also had a myriad of roles, from accounting clerk to head of extermination rooms. He wrote back right away and asked that I detail the characteristics of every group in terms of activities, daily schedules, appearance, and, as much as possible, their state of mind.

  I was impressed by his thoroughness and his desire to achieve a perfect result. This is how these people get rich, I thought, and I was glad to be a part of it. He sent me samples of the figures he’d already designed, but they were faceless. He explained that the faces would be added later, using real photos of Nazis and Jews.

  In a dream I jotted down as soon as I woke up in the darkness of a Poland dawn, I was walking out of a jewelry store on a sunless street, having looked for a gift for Ruth to appease her for my lengthy absence. I was approached by a Jew with a top hat, beard, and polite eyes, who asked me to join a minyan. Normally I refused such offers, but this time I wanted to do it.

  “Where?” I asked.

  He pointed to a nearby door.

  “There’s a synagogue there?” I asked, surprised. I thought I knew all the synagogues in this city.

  “It’s just a small place,” he said. “We only took over a little while ago. We did some renovations. It’s a synagogue for tailors, cobblers, simple people.”

  He led me into a small room with a low ceiling, one row of benches along the walls, just like in a gym locker room, shoes and socks beneath them. There were a few men in there, in different stages of undressing, as well as one woman in a bra with a small child, whom she protected as I walked in.

  “What’s she doing here?” I asked, running my eyes over the room in search of a holy arc and prayer books. “I don’t have a yarmulke,” I told the man.

  “No matter,” he said, “we’re not strict. Let’s turn toward the east and begin.” Then he raised his voice and said, “Bless the Lord.”

  One or two replied with a meek mumble.

  He was unsatisfied, and signaled to me to answer him. “Bless the Lord, blessed be He forever,” I said.

  The others all stood around in their underwear; only my guide and I were dressed. The woman tried to conceal her nudity, and the child was clearly cold. The man continued reading out the blessings, reaching Shema Israel, which made my heart tremble. His public was not participating, and my host prayed alone. I saw his body moving. His speech became too fast, it was no longer praying, but a flow of mumbling, a clear combination of words sounded only every once in a while, gather in your grain, new wine, and olive oil.

  He’s reading too quickly, I thought. That’s no way to pray to God. Suddenly he signaled to me to get out, quickly.

  “But wait,” I said, “what about all these people?” I ran after him, because the large iron door was beginning to close.

  We were both in a dark interior yard. “What’s going to happen to them? What about the others?” I asked.

  “They’ll manage,” he said. “They have their hiding places. Shake your clothes, hard,” he said, and began to speak the Kaddish prayer.

  I arrived for a short break in Israel, having determined to move on to the next chapter of my life. I would complete my obligations in Europe but would not take on new ones, and would use the time to look for a teaching position, even an adjunct position at one of the universities, or—if need be—at a high school.

  I informed Ruth of my plans and she was glad. Ido was thrilled to have me home. He was in the middle of his summer break and we spent a wonderful week together, attached at the hip. Ruth said she’d never seen him that happy before. I spent evenings proofreading the book that was about to be published. I asked the publisher how many copies he expected to sell, and he said if we hit a thousand copies he would consider it a stunning success, because the public didn’t normally read academic books, which are intended for experts in the field.

  I discussed livelihood with Ruth. I told her we would have to lower our standard of living, and she said we’d manage. My absence was taking too great a toll, and I looked sad and tired.

  We went to the beach with the kid. We hadn’t done that in years, and he was ecstatic over the sun and the waves. I asked around and found a part-time job at the university—for a hunger salary, but a job nonetheless.

  But then you called. Almost at the last minute, you summoned me through one of your deputies to a meeting regarding preparations for the seventy-fifth anniversary of the Wannsee Conference. Taking your honor and the magnitude of the event into account, I couldn’t say no, so I drove to Jerusalem. Your deputy had explained over the phone that you were impressed with my dissertation, as well as the knowledge I’d accumulated in the field in Poland, and you thought I’d be able to contribute to the task. You said the archaeologist from Sobibor had also given them a positive report of my visit there.

  I told Ruth about it, and she recognized the enthusiasm I was trying to keep at bay, and how this invitation filled me with self-importance. She was familiar with my ambition. She already knew, though I hadn’t made up my mind yet. That night, just before I put Ido to bed, he handed me a drawing he’d made, of a monster with many heads and limbs painted red and black, and a small man standing tall before it.

  “That’s you, Dad,” he cheered. “Fighting the monster!”

  I arrived at the meeting early and wandered for a spell among the fragrant pines on the border of the Jerusalem Forest, with its clean dirt and clear air. By the time I walked into the conference room, officers in uniform, government officials, and Yad Vashem experts were already whispering around the coffee station.

  After a slight delay, we were asked to take our seats. I took a seat at the conference table, behind a small sign with my name on it, along with the title “Poland Extermination Camp Expert.” The officers across the table examined me. I was embarrassed, but proud of the position I’d achieved justly and through hard work. I was flattered. You walked in and the meeting began. “This is an initial working session,” you said. “Let’s see where it takes us. At this point I want to ask all of you to maintain confidentiality. In a little over a year, it will have been seventy-five years since the Wannsee Conference, which took place on January 20, 1942, chaired by Reinhard Heydrich, chief of the Reich Main Security Office. Hundreds of thousands of Jews were murdered before the conference,” you emphasized, “possibly even more than a million, murdered by firing squad, by fire, by starvation, all manner of methods. Gas trucks were utilized in Chelmno even before the conference. But Wannsee is typically seen as the beginning of the Final Solution.”

  You told us that in light of this occasion, the Germans would be holding a conference of thinkers and artists at the villa in Wannsee. There would be, of cour
se, Israeli representatives present, but the conference would be intellectual in nature and mostly devoted to the Germans’ self-examination. Simultaneously, the Israeli prime minister had requested Yad Vashem, the Ministry of Defense, and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to examine the possibility of holding a central memorial event at one of the extermination camps in Poland. “The prime minister is a man of historical awareness,” you said, “and he believes the event should take place at the location of the murder.”

  Your office manager clicked a button and a presentation appeared on the screen, under the title “Israel’s Show of Power at the Site of Extermination—the People of Israel Live” with a picture of the gate to Auschwitz and the famous “Arbeit Macht Frei” sign, on the backdrop of the Israeli flag. You explained that the Polish government would most likely not allow for the event to take place in Auschwitz, due to interior considerations. Our first mission, therefore, was to pick an alternate location for the event. “This could prove to be a blessing in disguise,” you said. “Everyone’s already heard about Auschwitz. Now we can turn the spotlight on a different central site of the Holocaust.”

  “What would we do there?” asked the Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs.

  The answer appeared in one of the next slides in the presentation. This would be a combined event, you explained, including elements from all of Israeli society. Though it would be mainly run by the military, it was absolutely not intended to be a military event alone. Political leaders, rabbis, artists, and youths would also participate. The keynote speeches would be given by the president and the prime minister. “The prime minister’s idea,” you continued—I remember you standing, erect and confident in front of the screen, pointer in hand—“is that a combined IDF force would be landing in helicopters at the chosen site, deploying and in fact taking it over, followed by a ceremony, speeches, songs, the entire program. A few years ago,” you said, “the Air Force had held an aerial demonstration over Auschwitz, you’ve probably all heard about it. It was impressive and a great success. This is going to be even bigger, because we’ll have forces on the ground too. That’s the general theme of the event.”

  I looked at the other participants around the table and recognized in their expressions the usual preoccupation of public officials, but no hint of surprise. The idea made perfect sense to them.

  “Will there be any musicians?” the Ministry of Culture representative asked. “Of course,” you said. “Accompanied by the IDF Orchestra.”

  Then division of labor and timelines were discussed. Your office manager handed out printed tables with a breakdown of assignments, work teams, and areas of responsibility. It was agreed that in one month, team representatives would reconvene to report on their progress. I searched frantically for my name in the tables and finally found it: I was a consultant on site decision and ceremony planning.

  The presentation was over and the participants asked many questions. The discussion lasted for hours. At noon trays of sandwiches and pitchers of lemonade were brought in. During this short lunch break I walked over to you and introduced myself. This was unnecessary. You immediately said, “Of course, I know who you are. Thank you for making the effort to be here today, your presence is very important.”

  I was filled with pride. You can’t imagine how moved I was.

  Your office manager, quick and energetic, asked me to follow her and introduced me to the others, both military and civilian. I shook their hands, one by one. She introduced me as Doctor. I handed out business cards and they all promised to be in touch soon.

  “A very useful meeting,” said the office manager, then added, “It’s exciting, isn’t it?”

  I nodded. Indeed, yes, exciting. I liked the attention she was paying me. When I left the meeting I felt elated. I called Ruth to tell her about it. She agreed that this was an opportunity I couldn’t miss and understood the national significance of such an event. We were both very good children; we could be trusted.

  I returned to Poland. My datebook was still full of tours, and now this special mission was added to the agenda.

  “Personal Contract Agreement Regarding the Wannsee Project.” That was the title of the contract you sent me. It emphasized that we would not have an employer–employee relationship, but the fee was handsome. I signed it.

  The military did not dawdle. A lieutenant colonel from the Operations Department asked that as a first step I would send them a brief review of each extermination site, presented in table form: name of site, location, historical briefing, number of Jews murdered, victims’ countries of origin, uprisings, survivors, access.

  I was confused about the last column: did they mean access routes for invasion, as I had learned in tank commander course? I asked and was told this required only general addressing, because they would be studying detailed topography themselves after a site was chosen. They allotted me only a few days to form my response and thanked me for my contribution to the success of this operation.

  I was able to fill most of the table by heart and quickly, without having to stop and check my books. This was truly basic stuff for me—we’re all professionals here, Mr. Chairman. But there were a few columns that required special attention. First and foremost, the number of Jews murdered in each camp. As we both know, this piece of data has seen some changes over time. For years, it was common knowledge that four million people were murdered in Auschwitz. Then, with time, this estimate was reduced to 1–1.5 million people, mostly Jews. On the other hand, the estimate of the number of people murdered in Treblinka is persistently growing, and now stands at close to a million. The estimate of the number of victims executed at shooting pits in the former Soviet Union has also grown exponentially, as have the estimates of other odd deaths. I filled the table with the information known to researchers these days and made a note of the difficulty involved in such an assessment. I saw piles of dead bodies before my eyes when I completed this column in the small space allocated for each answer.

  I knew the victims’ countries of origin by heart, but still checked myself to make sure I hadn’t missed a thing. I asked if a breakdown of hometowns was also required, and was told that country of origin was sufficient. I went through the countries of Europe, one by one, as well as the transports coming in from North Africa, and filled them in. I emphasized that all camps were international in terms of countries of origin, thanks to the complex European rail system, which allowed trains to travel from one place to the next without special difficulty. The manner of determining which camp each transport would be taken to was one of the most tiresome questions in the study of Holocaust logistics. As you know, I myself had dealt with this question quite a bit in my dissertation.

  I gave a truncated answer in the uprising column due to the limited space, but made a note that there was much to be expanded on here. I pointed out that Auschwitz and Treblinka saw uprisings initiated by the Sonderkommando when transports dwindled and the Jews working in the death facilities realized their end was near. In Chelmno, the remaining Sonderkommando rebelled on the day the camp was closed down for good. One might wonder why they didn’t rebel earlier, when they had the potential of saving the lives of other Jews, those who were not part of their ranks, but I didn’t write that, because the answer was obvious, a result of the most basic survival instinct of man and animal. I’d often asked myself if I would have been able to handle the awful chores of extermination (removing corpses from gas chambers, cleaning the chambers after each round, pulling teeth, setting bodies on fire, grounding large bones, etc.), thus extending my life a bit longer. The memories of survivors show that most of the Sonderkommando people had adapted to the work, and the rate of suicide among their ranks was low. I therefore concluded that I would have adjusted. I wrote in the appropriate column that in Sobibor an uprising began after Jewish prisoners of war who had served in the Red Army had arrived at the camp—people who had not lost their humanity. This uprising was especially bold and effective. In its wake, the Germans closed d
own the camp, afraid the escaped rebels would expose its crimes. I also saw fit to note, very briefly, lesser-known rebellions reported in certain testimonies. For instance, a transport that had arrived at Treblinka and rebelled on its way to the gas chambers. The Germans ended up killing the rebels with machine guns. Another example is the rare rebellion of a few women who spat in the faces of Germans before being pushed into the gas chambers in Auschwitz. These were wonders to me, and if I had the choice I would erect monuments to these heroines in every city of Israel. There were also escape attempts, in spite of the barbed wire and the guard towers and the armed Germans, but almost all of them had failed. I grew furious as I filled out this column.

  Onward, to the survivors’ column: there were thousands of survivors from Auschwitz because it had also served as a labor camp, with dozens of sub-camps. Those who passed first selection, and were incredibly lucky, and had physical and emotional stamina, survived. On the other hand, only one man survived in Belzec—Rudolf Reder, who has given testimony about what went on in the camp. He stayed there four months, one of several hundreds of Jews utilized as camp laborers as opposed to the hundreds of thousands of Jews who were murdered the very day they arrived. One day, the SS took him to his hometown of Lvov to help them carry building materials for camp maintenance. At some point the Germans left the car and he remained inside with one guard, who had fallen asleep. Reder took advantage of the opportunity and fled the car. He found shelter with a Polish woman and stayed with her until the end of the war. The story of his escape was one of the most riveting ones I’d ever heard, and I was surprised that so little has been written about it. He was enveloped in a cloud of mystery. From Chelmno, as far as anyone knows, only three Jews had escaped. There were a few dozen survivors from Sobibor and Treblinka, who had managed to run away during the uprising that broke before the camps were closed down. I wrote to Yad Vashem to find out how many of them were still alive—the military wanted to know that, too—and I was told very few.