A Corner of My Heart

by Mark Seaman

  We knew without doubt how we were viewed by our oppressors and such emotionless rationale left Sarah and I cold and in a state of utter disbelief. This feeling of incredulity only increased as we continued each day to sort through an ever growing mound of children’s belongings including, much loved playthings, comfort blankets and other treasured possessions they had carried with them to the camp only to have them snatched away moments before they were killed. We talked at length about these dolls and other toys that we were ordered to put into differing piles according to size and style. They would then be ripped open by other prisoners searching for hidden family valuables that might have been secreted inside them for safekeeping. We comforted each other as we tearfully recalled the many coloured ribbons and hair grips that had been removed from the young girls’ shoulder bags and cases or directly from their heads. These would be stacked high next to the mountain of hair which was then sorted for its colouring, having been collected from the children’s newly shaven heads. The Jewish human body may have been viewed of as waste but everything that had gone in it or on it was picked through in minute detail to garner anything that might be of worth to the German authorities. What sort of value system was this to live by?

  Sometimes, the true horror of what we had witnessed grew too much and we would simply hold each other in silence, both recognising words alone were futile in attempting to further describe the deeper feelings of repulsion, sadness and loathing we held towards those responsible for carrying out such brutal acts.

  One night Sarah began to cry as she told me how a German soldier had seemingly befriended her after her mother had died, giving her extra food rations and allowing her to have a proper shower before turning predator and forcing her to have sex with him.

  “I suspected his motives from the start, but the offer of additional food and a chance to be clean, coupled with the overwhelming grief at the loss of my mother all served to confuse my already fragile state of mind even further.”

  When you no longer have anything to live for and all around you is dark, the offer of a little comfort or sustenance becomes a light you reach out for no matter the source of its provision, nor the cost of its acceptance. I understood what she meant only too well; recognising, as I did, the circumstances of our lives now demanded they be lived in the moment and often, in Birkenau, the moment was all we had.

  “I told him I was only thirteen and a virgin; I begged him not to do anything to me. But he just laughed and ripped my clothes off, saying that my being a virgin meant I would be clean and not diseased already by having been fucked by some filthy Jewish boy. He said he enjoyed sex with young girls, the younger and tighter the better.”

  I sat holding Sarah’s hand as she re-lived the horror of that experience. “He raped me nearly every day after that, sometimes more than once. At first I would cry out, pleading for him to stop, but after a while I realised that my protests and fear were part of the excitement for him, and simply encouraged even greater acts of sexual violence towards me. Eventually, I just closed my eyes and lay still, praying it would soon be over, but that only served to increase his anger and aggression towards me. He would beat me whilst raping me and force his gun into my mouth threatening to shoot me just to make me cry or beg for mercy. He would make me do all sorts of things to him, filthy, disgusting things to excite him and degrade me even further as a human being.”

  “What did you do?”

  Sarah took a deep breath to steady herself before answering. “In the end I decided I would rather he pulled the trigger when his gun was in my mouth, so the next time he threatened to shoot me I told him to go ahead and do it. Of course I was scared, but the fear of death had become less terrifying than the threat of him continuing to violate me every day.” Sarah’s whole body was shaking as I squeezed her hand in a vain attempt to comfort her. “What happened; why didn’t he shoot you?”

  “I think he realised he could only kill me once, but by continuing to rape and mentally torture me each day I would remain his victim for as long as he wanted. Ultimately, I think his dominance over me as a human being was the bigger thrill for him, far beyond any form of perverse satisfaction he gained from his brutality towards me or the act of sex itself.”

  “Is he still raping you?”

  I noticed Sarah’s expression change from one of defeat to determination, as if recalling a particular memory or event.

  “No, it finished a couple of weeks ago. One day I began my period, the first in months.”

  I had also been irregular with my periods, as had many of the other women, which was hardly surprising considering the inadequate food rations and resulting malnutrition amongst those of us held in the camp.

  Sarah took another deep breath as if preparing herself for what she would say next. “This particular day when he took me to the room I told him I was having my period. He looked at me for a moment and then slapped me hard across the face calling me a filthy Jewish slut, and saying I was no use to him if I was bleeding.” I could see the pain etched on her face as she lifted the ragged top covering her upper body to reveal a deep blue and yellow bruise along the lower part of her rib cage. I felt my eyes sting with tears of outrage at the thought of her being beaten in such a way.

  “Did he do that?” I asked, already sensing and fearing her reply.

  “Yes, he knocked me to the ground and kicked me a few times.” She stopped talking for a moment, her expression changing again as she re-lived the moment. “I thought this time he was going to kill me, especially after saying I was of no use to him anymore.”

  I squeezed her hand again as she continued.

  “I lay on the floor holding my side, anticipating the weight of his boot crashing into my body again or perhaps a permanent end to my ordeal with a bullet to my head.”

  “But he didn’t?”

  “No. He knelt down beside me and spat in my face, telling me to get out and keep out of his way in future or I would be sorry.” Sarah looked at me. “I don’t know why he didn’t kill me, and much as I had wanted to die at times over those past few weeks I was suddenly grateful to be alive, even in the filth and the squalor surrounding me.”

  I smiled at her again, acknowledging the truth of what she was saying, a truth that so many outside of the existence we endured in Birkenau would fail to understand. Sometimes even when all hope is gone and death appears as a welcome visitor there remains something deep within us all that fights to hold on to life, no matter how fleeting or irrational that desire may be.

  “Have you seen him since?”

  “Only once, he’s been moved to another part of the camp. Apparently he’s found himself another couple of girls, even younger than me.” She looked at me again struggling with her emotions. “Yes I feel sorry for them, but at least he’s not coming near me anymore.”

  I smiled in recognition of her sadness for what the other girls were experiencing, but also of her appreciation that, for now at least, her nightmare experience of that particular physical and mental torment was at an end.

  “I just hope he forgets about me all together because if he doesn’t, and much as I want to live, I will find a way of killing myself before I let him touch me again.”

  She looked at me with tears of pain and determination in her eyes.

  “I’m serious, Ruth, I can’t go through that again.” She wiped her eyes, smearing dirt across her face as it merged with her tears. “I can still smell his foul breath and the stench of his sweat as he lay on top of me. There were times when he was raping me that I actually envied those who had been gassed or shot. At least they were at peace, their own tortuous existence at an end, while mine continued with each day proving more sadistic and brutal than the one before.”

  We wrapped our arms around each other as we struggled once more with the unspeakable truth, that for so many in the camp, there were indeed occasions when death proved the more desirable option
to life. Although I had no real words of comfort to offer Sarah, I knew exactly what she meant as we lay there holding onto each other for warmth and reassurance on those bare and unforgiving boards. I felt the tears of sadness and frustration sting against my cheeks; tears not only of sorrow for my friend but also of indignation towards God. How could he allow such pain? Yet even as I struggled for an answer I knew deep down that it wasn’t God who was responsible for the horrifying conditions we were being forced to endure, but rather the depraved and twisted logic of man. I reasoned that God, if he truly existed, would be crying himself at watching so many of his children suffer and die under the fist of such naked aggression.

  The two of us talked a lot over the next few days becoming really close and even allowing ourselves the occasional smile when we were sure no-one else was looking, especially the Germans.

  One night as we struggled to sleep Sarah asked if I could remember what my life had been like before the camp, before the war, when we had been a family living happily together in London and Guernsey. I smiled. “Yes. I love to think back to those days. Sometimes when things are too bad here I recall a day or event from the past to replace the horror in front of me.”

  “Do you have a favourite?”

  I thought for a moment. “Not really, although I do remember one particular birthday party from when I was younger. My parents gave me a beautiful doll dressed in traditional Jewish costume. Mama had made the dress out of some off cuts from a piece of material my father had been using for one of his customers. The dress itself was bright blue and she had made a long frock-style coat to go with it fashioned from some deep red velvet material. It had been a wonderful birthday party, with Mama also baking me a large cake with pink icing and candles on it. My friends and I had spent the afternoon playing games in the garden with the sun shining down on us. I remember how warm it felt and the sky was as clear and bright as our childish laughter as we ran around together.”

  I lay still for a moment on the rough wooden boards of my bunk, my eyes shut tight as I fought to recall the sound of my friends and I laughing and enjoying ourselves as we played contentedly on that summer’s day just a few short years ago. But my brief escape into the past and those happier times quickly returned to the frightening reality of today when I opened my eyes and focused once more on the bleak surroundings of the camp. I closed my eyes again in a desperate attempt to re-visit the memory of that birthday party. It had been such a fun day, but one that might have ended very differently if it hadn’t been for the forward thinking of my parents.

  After my friends had gone home Mama and Papa said as it was such a special day I would be allowed to stay up later than usual and continue to play with my doll and other presents for a while. What I didn’t know and was too young to understand was the real reason behind their surprising but welcome offer. It was because they were concerned if I had gone straight to bed following the earlier excitement of the party along with all the cake and other treats I had consumed still swirling around inside me, the day might have ended very differently, so they had wanted to give my tummy a chance to settle down.

  I turned and smiled briefly at Sarah before closing my eyes once more in an effort to see my beautiful doll again, dressed in all her finery. I loved that doll and called her Dinah after my best friend who had left Guernsey with her parents when the war had started. We used to have long conversations together Dinah and I about all manner of things although, being a doll, it was always me who did the talking. Even so I felt a comfort in her just being with me.

  She became my constant companion, staying with me wherever I went and reminding me of my special friend and a wonderful time in my life.

  When the Germans had ordered us from our home and sent us to Birkenau I had taken Dinah with me. I managed to smuggle her into our barrack under my dress and kept her from being found by the guards by hiding her under the wooden base of our bunk. Although I was older now and didn’t actually play with her anymore I still spent a lot of time each night whispering to her about my fears and how much I missed Joseph and my father and also as to how worried I was about my mother. I would hold my precious doll close to my chest, confiding my innermost thoughts and secrets to her before placing her back under the bed the next morning in the hope that no-one would discover her or steal her from me. Although she quickly became dirty and ragged and had her left leg chewed off by one of the rats that roamed freely about the camp I was still happy to find her there at the end of each day.

  “Presumably the guards did find her eventually,” Sarah asked, “as you don’t have her anymore?”

  I explained how one day when I had been feeling particularly sad I had made the terrible mistake of taking Dinah outside the barrack with me.

  “I was waiting by the latrine for my mother and became so engrossed in talking to Dinah that I forgot about the guards for a moment. A soldier saw me and demanded to know where I had got a doll from, thinking I had taken it from one of the piles of toys and children’s belongings that we had been sorting through following their arrival in the camp; mistakenly I told him it was mine. He started yelling at me, shouting that it was strictly forbidden to have dolls or any sort of toys in the camp.

  I stood rigid, rooted to the spot as a warm wet sensation ran down my leg and I held my breath in fear of what he might say or do next. He marched towards me, removing his rifle from his shoulder and screaming abuse at me. He tore Dinah from my hand and threw her to the ground, stamping on her with his boot and grinding her body into the mud.”

  Sarah, recognising my distress stroked my arm. “It’s alright, Ruth you don’t have to say anymore.”

  “No I want to, I want to tell you.” I paused briefly, allowing the memory to overtake me once more.

  “The soldier looked down at me as I stood before him trembling, my emotions veering between total hatred and absolute fear. My mother came out of the toilet and saw immediately what had happened and how upset I was. I was worried she might say something and make matters worse. As she came to my side the soldier glared at her as if willing her to defend me, but she just put her arm around me and we walked away, both too terrified to turn around and praying desperately that he wouldn’t call us back to inflict further abuse or punishment onto us.”

  Sarah and I shared many such stories during the time we spent together in Birkenau until one day she became sick. She developed pneumonia, and because there was no proper medication or any way to care for her properly she died very quickly. We spoke intimately of our deep and genuine feelings for each other in those few short days before her death and also of our family circumstances, and more especially of our determination not to be beaten down by the ever present fist of inhumanity so eagerly administered towards us each day by the Germans.

  I had wanted to send Sarah to the medical area where some of the very sick were taken, but she was too frightened. She thought the doctors would say there was nothing they could do for her and so end her life there and then.

  “I will have more chance of surviving if I fight the infection myself.” We both knew without the proper drugs and an immediate change to her surroundings and diet this couldn’t happen.

  I think, although she knew she wouldn’t recover she was more fearful of our being separated than of the prospect of actually dying. Death, after all, was something we had all come to accept as our eventual fate in Birkenau.

  I woke one morning to find Sarah lying next to me; her eyes wide open in a stare and her thin, fragile body unresponsive and cold. I cried and held her in my arms, pulling her close into me even though I knew she was gone. I just hoped in some supernatural way she might know that somebody still cared about her, that I cared. I prayed that she was now reunited with her family and, stroking the hair gently from her face, gave her a brief kiss on the forehead as she lay in my arms limp and unresponsive. Mama said we would have to tell the Sonderkommando because if we left Sarah there the rats
would soon arrive to gorge themselves on her emaciated remains. We told the transporters about my friend and a short while later two men came to the hut, picking up Sarah’s lifeless body and throwing it, without ceremony, onto a cart with some of the other corpses that were being taken to the ovens. It seemed so sad that this young and vibrant life should meet its end in such a way. I cried again that night as I lay on those unforgiving strips of wood, struggling with my emotions over the loss of both Sarah and Dinah and seeking comfort in the loving and supportive haven of my mother’s gentle embrace. At least we still had each other, but for how long?

  Seven

  I knew it was a mistake to contact her, but it’s too late to rewind the clock now. I should have simply told Jenny only what she needed to know at the time about her father, the detail of my adoption and what I knew, or didn’t know, about my own parents could have come out later, presuming she ever bothered to ask again. It would have been easier to explain my reasoning once she was older, having gained some life experience of her own and when she could better understand things from an adult’s point of view. But I have made the mistake of writing and now this woman, my birth mother, wants to see me. She says there is too much to discuss, too much to explain about all that has happened over the years to be swept away or dealt with in one short letter. She wants to arrange a meeting and present her side of the story face to face.

  It’s not that I’m not interested in hearing what she has to say because, in a way, I am. It might even be good for me to hear the facts directly from her as she suggests, and perhaps try to understand her motives and purpose in letting me go. The truth though, certainly for me at least, is that I’ve grown up without her, learnt to live my life without her. So what’s the point in revisiting a past that contains no shared memories or experiences between us and then seeking to start all over again? It certainly won’t change what happened or the people we’ve grown to become in the years since.