The Memory Monster

by Yishai Sarid

  The boys stood aside, worried. All at once, I had no complaints about them, their kind faces. Only they had the right to complain to us, for having brought them here and made them suffer.

  The other bus arrived, the doctor got off, felt the girl’s stomach, and said he thought it was a gynecological condition, like ovarian torsion, and that we had to take her to the hospital. We tried to call an ambulance but got no response. I ran to the train station office a few hundred meters away and yelled at the clerk to call an ambulance, we had a sick kid on our hands. I stayed there until they rang the Red Cross. I ran back and forth from the quad to the office two or three times until the ambulance arrived. When it finally came, the paramedics brought out a stretcher and carried the girl inside. The doctor and the teacher rode to the hospital with her. I told the paramedic in broken Polish to take good care of her. It was important to me that she come out unscathed. I regretted not having noticed her earlier, her sorrow, her pain. I regretted talking without listening. I wanted to walk among her friends who remained beside the tracks and apologize to them.

  “Drink some water, get some rest,” the Polish driver told me when we got back on the bus. “You look terrible.”

  In Krakow, the night before leaving for Auschwitz, with the children already upstairs in their rooms, a large group of Hasidic men walked into the hotel in top hats and long jackets. They received their room keys, and one of them, with an orange beard and kind eyes, decided to take his time. He asked for a bottle of Coke and a plastic cup and took a seat beside me.

  “From Israel, correct?” he asked after saying a blessing over his beverage. “What does a Jew do in a place like this?”

  I answered him and returned the question.

  “We’re visiting the grave of Rabbi Elimelech of Lizhensk,” he said. “I come here once a year. The rabbi promised that whoever visited his grave would not leave this world without repentance, so just in case, I come every year.”

  He and his friends were in high spirits in spite of having just gotten off a flight. They looked nothing like our delegations, which assumed a mask of mourning from the moment they got off the plane. “What do you do at the gravesite?” I asked.

  “We pray at the rabbi’s synagogue,” he said, “ask for forgiveness, sing, dance, eat. Everything is ready for us there, bless the Lord. The stricter ones spend Shabbat there. We stop to visit other rabbis on the way. We see Divrey Yechezkel in a place called Sieniawa, and Zera Kodesh in Ropshitz. Jews from all over the world go to Rabbi Elimelech’s grave. I’m surprised to be meeting a Jew who hasn’t heard of the place.”

  “Don’t you visit the camps at all?” I wanted to know.

  “No. What for?” His face fell. “What do we have to look for in those evil places? We live our lives, seeking sacredness and steering clear of filth. Torah and mitzvahs, that’s what we live for. And there was once plenty of both here, and thank the Lord we are able to carry on with the tradition today.”

  “But that’s all over,” I said. “There’s only death here now.”

  “That’s not true,” he said. “There were great rabbis and the largest yeshivas, synagogues, and holy Jewish life of any generation. What do you think, it’s all lost? It’s all here. And here.” He pointed to his temple. “And we continue to enjoy their virtue, returning this place to the Torah, drying the swamps and flowing fresh water in. And that’s why our prayers are heard and our sons come with us. This is where our roots are. You must know the meaning of a root. You know, my friend,” he said, leaning closer, “when the Germans, may their names be expunged from history, came to Rabbi Elimelech’s grave and realized an important Jew was buried there, they opened it up, wishing to desecrate it. But when they broke the stone and dug up the grave, they found the rabbi intact, as he had been in life, though he’d died 150 years earlier. The Germans were so stunned that they ran away, and the Jews of that town were saved,” he concluded, uplifted, and ordered another Coke.

  I pulled out my phone and quickly checked the Yad Vashem website. “That’s nonsense,” I told him. “That whole story you just told is nonsense. There was a ghetto there, and a Judenrat, and forced labor, and executions, and eventually the Jews were all taken to Belzec. You might want to go there; it’s where your Jews are all buried.”

  The joy left his face. He picked up his suitcase and stood up to join his friends. “I don’t know where you just read that, but it isn’t true,” he said, angry. “Thanks to the righteous Rabbi Elimelech not a single Jew in that town died during the war. You know what, maybe heretics did—the ones you call ‘enlightened.’ They may have received their punishment. Now, good night, my friend. Perhaps one day you’ll join us there and see what I’m talking about. You could witness real Jewish joy with your own eyes.”

  The next day, in Auschwitz, I saw them for the first time. Not through books or the computer game, but for real. “This is where the trains stopped,” I explained, hearing the train pulling up, the cars opening, seeing the floodlights, feeling the panic, where’s the kid, where’s the suitcase, still alive. Where are we. Where do we go now. I stood before my group and said nothing. I could feel their frantic movement around me. The explanations would wait. I was sick of the myth, the ideas, the perverted curiosity. I tried to hear what they were saying. Take care of the child. No, take him with you, he’s so thirsty. When will they give us something to drink? Children go with mothers. I’ll see you later. Let me touch you, I want to remember. Where are my wife and child. Stand up straight, no questions. Who are you, how long have you been here. When will they give my kid something to drink. And eat. Stand. Walk. Shut up.

  “Grab him,” said one of the boys standing next to me. “Catch him, he’s falling.”

  I was gone for a few seconds, I’m not sure exactly how many. I woke up with my face wet. Above me was the strange sky. I tried to get up and the world shattered.

  “Run to the entrance, have them call an ambulance, he’s not well,” the doctor shouted above me.

  “No need,” I said, “I’ll get up.” Through sheer force of will I got myself up on my feet. My head was burning with the effort. “Let’s keep going,” I said. In the direction we were headed, flames jumped out of the chimney. The stage was set for my arrival, hints of odor in the midst of nature, a flock of fleshy birds resting on the grass on the border of the forest, where they all stood in a neat line, waiting their turn to walk down the stairs. Papa will be here soon, don’t worry. They’re going to give us food and drink. I’m thirsty too. The people there will help us.

  “Sit down,” I managed, “and I’ll tell you exactly what happened. I’ll give you all the facts.”

  The doctor sat at my feet and watched me with concern. Someone handed me a bottle of water. They were truly worried about me. I finished my speech. I took no shortcuts. What’s going on, Mama, why are you taking your clothes off? I’ll take mine off too, Mama. This nice man says we’re going to take a shower and then they’ll give us something to eat.

  “From this hall,” I could hear myself saying, “they were taken to the extermination hall, that large rectangle you see over there. They were stuffed in there, and once the door was closed behind the final person in, the job was as good as done. All that was left was cleaning up the filth afterward.”

  That night, we had a concluding discussion with the kids. They were going back to Israel the next day.

  “What has this trip taught you?” I hated that question, but I was required to ask it. The kids were already tired, thinking about home, their rooms, their beds, grateful to have someplace to return to. The lights in the business hotel’s conference room, with its wall-to-wall carpeting, blinded me. I searched for a clear voice to explain what we were doing there. I listened to them carefully, my eyes narrowed. I knew I must seem odd to them, and that they hadn’t forgotten the image of me passing out in Auschwitz.

  “To be strong,” somebody says.

  “Strong Jews.”

  “To be moral but strong.” />
  “United.”

  “To never forget.”

  “To be human.”

  I’ve heard all of this before. I know it by heart.

  “Okay, one last answer,” the principal said, wrapping it up.

  A boy sitting on the sidelines stood up. I widened my eyes and saw a tall silhouette, glasses. An athletic type. Somehow, I knew he would be saying something meaningful.

  “I think that in order to survive we need to be a little bit Nazi, too,” he said.

  A bit of chaos ensued. Not too much, though. He was just saying to adults what they usually only say among themselves. The teacher pretended to be shocked, waiting for me to respond, to do their dirty work for them, to take care of this monster that they and their parents had nurtured.

  The kid looked perfectly normal; from a good family, with a loving mother and a functioning father.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “That we have to be able to kill mercilessly,” he said. “We don’t stand a chance if we’re too soft.”

  A few of them voiced some meek protest, nothing more.

  “But you’re not talking about killing innocent people,” the principal clarified.

  The boy thought for a moment, calculated, taking his time. He wasn’t one of the monkeys. Then he said, “Sometimes there’s no choice but to hurt civilians, too. It’s hard to distinguish civilians from terrorists. A boy who’s just a boy today could become a terrorist tomorrow. This is, after all, a war of survival. It’s us or them. We won’t let this happen to us again.”

  These were the whispers from the back of the bus, no longer contained there, enhanced in the mouth of this young man. It was an opportunity I could not let slip away. “Why the Nazis?” I asked. “Why not the Americans, the Russians, the British? They were the ones that ended up winning the war.”

  The boy considered this. Just don’t chicken out on me now. “Because they went all the way,” he said.

  The room fell silent. I lowered my head and took my time looking up again. It was a moment of silence in memory of ourselves, and I stood at attention for it. “We didn’t have to bring you here,” I finally said. “We could have taken you to Paris to see the wonderful streets, or to Italy to eat the best food in the world, or to London for the theater, or to Egypt for the pyramids. We could have taken you to eat candy in the markets of Marrakesh, to see a soccer match in Barcelona, or to hear singers performing tunes about broken hearts in Athens. But we brought you here, to the site of the murder. And I suppose we’ve accomplished our mission. We made you see that it’s all about power, power, power. I’m not going to play naïve or chaste. You’re right. Power. Hitting. Shooting. Annihilating the other. Because without power we’re like beasts, chickens for slaughter, dependent on the graces of others who, at any moment, in a split-second decision, could chop off our heads, strangle us, strip us of our clothes and honor, abuse us in any way imaginable; make sure there’s good lighting so they can take pictures of us getting torn apart, cut, penetrated, hacked to pieces; play music in the background, turning our horrendous demise into a bit of entertainment. Everything is conditional, and therefore worthless. Culture, fashion, conversation, smiling, friendship, opinions, letters, music, sports, food, love—they have no value. They are only a flimsy sugar coating. One spit in the face melts them away. Dear teachers, you can report back to your school that the message has been received. Only power. No conscience, no manners, no second-guessing. Those only challenge the soul and harm functionality. We can’t allow ourselves even a moment of weakness, because everything will be taken away. We have to be a little bit Nazi. You’ve finally said it. You got the point, kids, well done.”

  Nobody else spoke. They looked away from me. When I left the room they were already beginning to strum their guitars, some classic Israeli folk songs followed by a sensitive ballad by some new rising star. They sang deep into the night, pleasing their souls. It was the end of their journey.

  The editing of my book was finally complete. It was published, and you hosted a launch party for me in your auditorium, across from the Jerusalem Forest. I remember the beautiful speech you gave in my honor almost verbatim. You stood there, straight-backed and elegant, and spoke about us, those who carry the burden of memory. You praised the meticulous precision of my book, which would help readers fathom the extermination process. “Not through empty slogans,” you said, “not through meaningless words, but through facts, growing clearer in all their horrendous glory as the years go by.”

  I said my acknowledgments. Ruth was sitting in the front row, and I could see the pride glittering in her eyes. She had made me shave my beard and dressed me up nice. My mother was sitting next to her. The room wasn’t full, but I was grateful for every person who came. Then there was a short musical number by a singer I didn’t know. She sang in Yiddish, accompanied by a violin.

  When it was my turn to speak I did so carefully, like a man crossing a minefield. I was thinking about the fact that I still had a career to consider, and ever since that time I had passed out the ground had never felt steady beneath me. I remember someone in the back of the audience fell asleep. I told myself I could wake her up in a second, if I only spoke the way I did to the kids on the trips. But I wasn’t ready for that. I still needed a little push.

  After the event was over, I signed books out front. We had chosen a cover photo of the German staff at Belzec, with their long overcoats and their psychopathic faces. It disgusted me to even touch the thing, but I kept flipping the covers and writing personal inscriptions for friends and acquaintances who came to the event to honor me. I remember you pausing behind me for a moment and resting your hand on my shoulder. How I yearned for your touch. It felt like the most natural thing in the world, and the thing I’d been missing the most. It felt so good that I couldn’t speak. I felt as if you truly understood me and loved me. We said goodbye. I think that was the last time I saw you in person.

  As we stepped outside, Ruth put her arms around me. She was so proud, so impressed by the book and the event, all that honor, and she didn’t want to stand in my way. I had to go back.

  The military’s initial delegation arrived in Warsaw to begin preparations for the ceremony. I was invited to meet them at the military attaché’s office. Three lieutenant colonels—a commander of a helicopter fleet, the second-in-command of an elite commando unit, and a senior representative of the IDF Spokesperson’s Unit, her hair gathered behind her ears, a gold wedding band around her finger, and her full face projecting strength.

  The military attaché introduced me with great fanfare, calling me an authority on all matters pertaining to death camps, a doctor with years of experience. I lowered my head modestly. They came to see the potential sites for the ceremony with their own eyes, check the different parameters, and return with a recommendation for their higher-ups. The attaché updated us that the ambassador was negotiating with high-ranking Polish representatives, trying to convince them to let us have the ceremony in Auschwitz after all, but that for the time being the answer was still no, due to the military nature of the event.

  “We have a terrific collaboration going with them,” he explained. “We sell them weapons and hold training sessions together, as well as exchanging intel. But these symbolic affairs are very tender. One possibility is involving the Polish military in the ceremony, and that might convince them to let us use Auschwitz, but that’s problematic on our end.”

  The Spokesperson’s officer added, with the other two officers nodding in agreement, that according to the initial information they’d received from me, as well as from their own research, they’d chosen, at this stage, to focus on Majdanek and Treblinka. They had decided not to include Belzec and Sobibor out of considerations of accessibility and topography. It turned out the three of them had already been to Poland on military memorial tours, and this time wanted to focus only on operational aspects. The attaché provided us with a large embassy car, the kind I rode in with the Minister
of Transportation. We had two and a half days. We were on our way the very next morning.

  On the road, they wore civilian clothing so as not to draw too much attention. We conducted our business quickly and efficiently, which suited me, because it meant I didn’t have to speak too much. The three of them took pictures and recorded their impressions on small laptops. The pilot checked helicopter landing strips, obstacles such as electric cables, and the nature of winds. In Majdanek he spent most of his time in the small quad outside the gas chambers, where selection used to take place, as well as on the small plain at the foot of the ash monument and the crematorium.

  “We can land here,” he determined, “but in winter, which is when the ceremony is slated to take place, the harsh winds might make it difficult.”

  Between the stops they made for observation and documentation, the pilot chatted with me, drawing more and more information out of me, to what end I did not know. He had a sharp profile, a classically Jewish face, with large eyebrows and protruding ears. For a moment, I could see him pushing a rock-laden cart while a German whipped him; pushing on, never daring to raise his hand. But now, seventy-five years too late, we were going to show them hell.

  The commando officer, the name and method of action of whose unit I am familiar with but will not describe here, was always either rushing ahead or dawdling behind. He had the habits of a tracker. He was looking for access routes among the sheds—I should have told him the guards might become suspicious—as well as the borders between different areas, where the prisoners were divided by type, gender, and nationality. He remarked that we would have to watch out for the barbed wire fences, which, to this day, serve as a significant barrier. He asked if I thought the Poles would let us cut them down.

  “No,” I said. “They won’t.”

  “Then we’ll just have to come up with a different solution,” he said.

  When we climbed atop the ash hill he considered the exact positioning of the suppressive force with their machine guns, assuming this was where the helicopters would be landing.