I thought from the look on his face that he might kill me right then. That mild-mannered facial expression turned into a grimace instantly. The dark eyes became an evil, penetrating black, as black as his SS uniform. How dare I question his judgment! He pushed me farther to the right. He barked, “You are still young! You can live!” How many Auschwitz victims can say that Dr. Mengele actually saved their lives? Not many.
Post-Selection Photo, May, 1944
To the Left
Selected to go left at Auschwitz, doomed women watch
as trucks come to strip them of their possessions
and send them to a warehouse called “Kanada,”
a symbol of wealth. (1944)
Photo Credit: US Holocaust Memorial Museum, courtesy of Yad Vashem (Public Domain)
Post-Selection Photo, May, 1944
To the Right
Selected for slave labor, these women are walking
toward their barracks after being deloused
and having their heads shaved.
Photo Credit: US Holocaust Memorial Museum, courtesy of Yad Vashem (Public Domain)
Finding Binne
One day, we heard that a new transport from Sucha had arrived. This meant that perhaps my sister had come, too. In fact, Binne did come. She looked horrible. Her gorgeous hair had been chopped off down to the scalp. But the beauty of her face was not marred.
My first thought was how to get near her. How could I manage that? When the prisoners were brought in, I saw her in line with Helen. I had to use utter restraint not to jump at them. Eventually, the lines moved, and I lost them in the crowd. But now I had real hope. I knew that my sister was not only alive but somewhere in this monstrosity called Auschwitz. The moment was one of both joy and pain as I had no knowledge of where she might be assigned.
Every day, men had to cross over to the women’s side in order to pick up their kettles of soup. It is here that whispers of information and occasional notes were secretly handed off. I did not work in the soup kitchen, but I knew people who did. Twice, a man tried to ask for Rose. He had a note. The first attempt at passing the note failed; on another day, he succeeded. The note finally got to me and brought the first sense of hope I had had in a long time. It said that Binne was in the children’s block! Now, I knew where she was.
As it happened, Elsie was on good terms with the kapo in the children’s block; she also knew the kapo would accept a bribe. Through Elsie’s intervention, we were able to switch two people from our barrack into Binne’s and allow Binne and Helen to move into ours. What a reunion! Our first meeting robbed us of a night’s slumber as we stayed up together and talked all night long. Binne told me how good our friend Helen had been to her, even when she had been ill. Helen had changed foreign money to buy medicine for Binne.
The most important thing was that I was near my sister now. We vowed to never again be separated from one another. Having Binne there with me changed my whole demeanor. The reunion not only restored my mental health but also my spiritual faith. My little sister was reason enough to do whatever was necessary for us both to survive.
Being Branded
Several days after my sister’s arrival, there was a roll call that resulted in the loss of our names. We had numbers pierced into our arms that morning. We were branded like cattle. My number was A-15049, a number that I shall never forget. It will be an eternal token of remembrance. It is still on my arm, a number that will always speak of the horror I saw and lived through. This number, from the moment it marked me, wiped out my name. Binne endured the same needle puncturing pain with blue ink smeared into the wounds. Her number was A-15757.
Tattooing meant forced labor ahead. After the traumatic procedure, we were led back to the barracks, and the SS leader of Auschwitz, Josef Kramer, came with some other big shots to “sort the beasts.” The weak ones went right away to the notorious Block 25. Older ones went at once to the crematorium. Those who were still strong went to the concentration camp group. My sister was sent, once again, to the children’s barracks with other children who had been added to our barrack.
I don’t know how I managed to slip from my group to the children’s group and then back with my sister and our friend Helen, but I did. It is still a riddle to me. I had sworn to myself that I would never again be separated from my loving sister. Now, I could stand in line with a feeling of relief, holding on to my dearest beings.
We were again led to a shower and got other clothes, this time the typical striped uniform. The concentration camp uniform consisted of gray dresses with blue stripes. The Mogen David on our arm marked us as Jews. Once more, in the light of the late August afternoon, we boarded freight wagons for the concentration camp called Hindenburg, a subcamp of Auschwitz.
Dear Rose,
I enjoyed listening to you more than any other person. The awe of hearing about the Holocaust from someone who witnessed and survived it is astonishing. My mother was a history teacher, so she was thrilled that I would actually meet a survivor. Every time I hear your story, I get shivers down my spine. I can only imagine what you have seen and heard and experienced.
I will never forget what you shared with us. You told us that when you arrived Auschwitz, the guards put everyone in lines and their fate was decided by the notorious Dr. Mengele. It was either to the left or to the right. You told us that as it came your turn, that you wanted to be sent to the side with the gas chambers. Yet, Dr. Mengele said you were still too young and healthy, leaving you with no choice but to work in the camp. As you went through the harsh winters with your wooden shoes, you struggled with terrible, inhumane conditions. The blisters that formed on your feet caused you pain and suffering. The terror, death and poverty was unimaginable. But, now we know that the outcome of you surviving through the pain is that we get to hear your story.
And the story the needs to be told. There are many trials that people go through, that test our own abilities every day. Some have lost a family member or are going through a painful parental divorce, which affects their mental state, and they decide to end their lives. We have seen that happen to our own classmates. You endured that pain as you told us about the death of your grandmother. Hearing the cries after the gunshot are only ghosts to my ear, but so very real in yours.
As you worked through your days, weeks, months and years, you never gave up. I thank you for that because you are here to tell us your story. I will never forget it. It is my duty to be your messenger. Every time someone mentions the Holocaust, I make it a point to say that I have met you. I will tell my children your story and the stories of others. Rose, you persevered through one of the hardest trials mankind can go through and you survived. You taught me to look at life in a new way.
Thank you so much,
Logan Rivard
Dear Mrs. Williams,
Your story has changed not only how I look at life, but how I treat my own life. It was so inspiring to hear that, even though you lost faith, you made it through. You made me call my family, right on the spot, and tell them thank you. When I went home, I told my parents about you. They have now made it a goal that we will visit a concentration camp when we go to Europe this summer, along with my twin, Aaron. I will carry the picture we took together of you and me as I will walk through that place, not only remembering you, but YOUR WHOLE FAMILY.
You have inspired such a change in me. It’s amazing! Please continue doing what you are doing. You are changing lives.
Thank you.
Alyssa Keyes
Dear Mrs. Rose Williams,
It was such an honor to hear you speak today. This was the third time I have heard your story, and each time I am moved. The first time I heard you was last year at Johnson High School. I was a sophomore. I saw you a second time at the Encino Library. I got to meet you and take a picture with you that time. You are the sweetest person I have ever met.
Yo
u are so nice to everyone. Having gone through what you went through; you still have a smile on your face. You smile at all of us and say, “thank you” after everything. When you said you wanted to go to the left; to death, but got pushed to the right, you said, “I thank God that I’m still here today.” Well I’m glad you’re here too. You’re so sweet and kind, and you make me reflect on myself.
I’m only seventeen, but everyone has their own problems to deal with. I once wanted to die too. Although our thoughts of death happened decades apart and for different reasons, well, that was our wish. We are both still here today. I’m not a religious person. I don’t really believe in God. But I know I’m still here. I know I’m here for some reason. I just don’t know what that reason is. But I’m here. I’m alive. I’m so grateful for that.
I’m sorry about your right ear. I’m deaf in that ear too. I’m also sorry about your son. No mother should have to go through that.
I’m very honored that I’ve had the opportunity to listen to you. I hope this letter finds you well. I hope each and every day is your best. Happy early birthday. Thank you for sharing your story with us.
Love,
Andy Arriaga
Dear Rose Williams,
It was such an honor to meet you in person. I am also amazed that you could be so brave and honest about what you experienced at the concentration camps. When you fixed your sleeve and pulled it up to show the entire junior class your tattoo, my heart stopped. You explained that you no longer had a name; that number on your arm was your identity. An anger built up in me, and I asked myself how someone could be so cruel to do such inhumane things innocent people?
Another touching moment happened when you explained how you kissed the ground when you arrived in the United States. My eyes filled with tears. I hope that coming here meant you would be safe from terror and horror. That you would feel safe. You said that you would die for this country. This means a lot to me because I would do the same.
You and your story have truly touched my heart.
Sincerely,
Samantha Castro
Dear Mrs. Rose.
One thing that stuck with me was when you mentioned the bald spot on your head that is still there to this day because of the Nazi who hit you with his baton. My heart goes out to you because of the permanent scars you live with, like your tattoo, that remind you of the horrific injuries that you endured during your captivity.
With love,
Jocelyn Lopes
Dear Rose,
After I listened to your speech, I felt something change in my mind. My perspective changed. I think it is because you are a survivor from the Holocaust, and it became real to me. I had heard about the Holocaust before in my classes in Japan, but it seemed like something in a book. But when I saw your tattoo, A-15049, on your left arm, I knew you were a very strong woman. Your tattoo is a tremendous injury, both physical and mental, and it makes me want to cry.
I recall when a student asked you if the Holocaust made you question “Who am I?” You said, “No.” It would seem that those kind of conditions, the great personal loss, hunger and abuse would make a person lose their mind. Again, I realized how very strong you truly are. I am amazed by you.
Sincerely,
Misato Ueda
Chapter Twelve:
Hindenburg
Hindenburg (Polish: Zabrze) became a subcamp of Auschwitz in August, 1944. Its lifespan was short, existing for only five months. Located about twenty-seven miles from Auschwitz, in the southeastern portion of Germany near the Polish border, Hindenburg consisted of wooden barracks surrounded by electrified barbed wire and guarded by the SS as well as Wehrmacht soldiers.38
In August, about 400 women were shipped out of Auschwitz to the subcamp, still incomplete, to build barracks and then to do factory work nearby. At least with new barracks, the women lived about twenty girls to a hall-like room, sleeping on straw-filled mattresses. They also had access to regular showers. The German guards were paranoid about disease and encouraged them to regularly boil their clothes and bathe.39
Slave laborers were producing artillery ammunition and grenades; some worked in a welding department, presumably on tank or airplane parts. In October, about seventy male Jewish Czechs were brought in as well. On January 19 of ’45, the subcamp’s inhabitants abandoned Hindenburg as the Soviet Red Army approached from the east. The SS force-marched their prisoners to Gleiwitz and then transported them by rail to the interior German camps, such as Bergen-Belsen and Buchenwald. The victims called them “death marches.40
• • •
Arrival at Hindenburg
We arrived at Hindenburg, a human muddle of poverty, despair, and abandon. We only saw the factories, chimneys piercing the air, and the unfinished barracks, which would become our housing.
Our camp director was SS-Unterscharfuhrer Adolf Taube, a monster of a man; the supervisor was an SS woman named Bauman, an old hag--gnarled, sadistic, and despicable. Under the leadership of these two supervisors, we had to build our camp from its foundations and pave it with stones. Soldiers drove us on and on. We never seemed fast enough for them. Often, they beat us savagely for working too slowly.
I tried to evade work as often as I could. I frequently climbed up into a hay silo, grabbing my sister with me, and hid there. An old German man, who installed the electric wires, found us. He seemed to be compassionate but was afraid to speak to us. He left us his lunch there every day. What a picnic! We got bread with butter; sometimes we even got eggs or ham. But how far could such small portions stretch? I shared them with my sister, Elsie, and Helen. Nevertheless, I have been forever grateful to that old man and have never forgotten his kindness.
Kitchen Work
Somehow, the finishing of our camp didn’t take as much time as we had thought. Shortly after its completion, we again lined up in rank and file and received work assignments in nearby factories. My sister and Helen went into the section of soldering. This, I couldn’t prevent, and I sure did not want welding as an assignment.
Standing next to Elsie at roll call, an officer asked who could speak German. He needed about ten volunteers to work in the kitchen. The kitchen? That sounded like a dream job, being close to food. Elsie, the former German teacher who, though Polish, grew up in Germany, immediately raised her hand. Determined to have such a good assignment and be with Elsie too, I raised my hand.
Elsie became angry. “Rose, what do you think you’re doing? Do you speak German?”
“No.” I started crying.
Before I knew it, the officer had counted off ten of us and gathered us into a group. Fortunately, he did not interview us individually, or he would have quickly discovered my ruse and likely beaten me for lying. He simply gave us instructions.
Later, Elsie said, “Okay, now you will learn German before you get into trouble. Find something to write on and I will give you ten words per day. In ten days, you will have memorized a hundred words and can start forming sentences.”
I found scrap paper here and there; finding a writing utensil was much more difficult. Thank goodness, a fellow prisoner had managed to keep a bit of lipstick. That’s what I used to make my lists. Before long, I was speaking some German along with Polish and Yiddish. I must have a natural facility for language as I added English and Spanish to my repertoire after the war.
So, I worked in the kitchen. Elsie managed the provision and storage of food in the prisoners’ kitchen; I became one of her assistants. I had to cook, too. After a falling out with the chef, Elsie was reluctant to take on any more responsibility than necessary. She asked me to guard the keys of the storehouse. The task scared me to death.
There were hundreds of hungry people around me, people who could steal the keys, break into the storeroom, and rob food. I would be blamed. Hunger undermined the morality of the prisoners. They would readily commit any crime to get somethin
g to eat. They didn’t even fear death. I was afraid to go to bed in the event somebody might grab the keys.
However, I must admit that Hindenburg was the only camp where the prisoners got their food regularly and where there was cleanliness. We had the ability to bathe every day. Beds and rooms were clean.
Working in the kitchen was tolerable. I had a German overseer who was relatively easy to work for under the circumstances. Sometimes, I was able to sneak out of the kitchen after closing with a potato or carrot or turnip. I would take the food back to our barracks and share with my sister and friends or to a nurse willing to pass on a bit of food to a friend in the infirmary. Every morsel of food is precious when surviving on starvation rations.
Caught in the Act
I had been lucky with my little petty thefts…until one evening. I had cleaned up the kitchen, making sure I was the last to leave. Under my coat, I hid a small package of stolen vegetables. Just as I was leaving, the kitchen supervisor returned, something he had never done before. I don’t know if he suspected kitchen theft and had been lying in wait or if his return had been purely coincidental. Either way, the meeting was not fortuitous for me.
“Halt! What have you got there?” He demanded.
“Nothing, Sir,” I timidly replied. He grabbed the package. I was caught in the act. What could I say?
“Sir, I’m so sorry. I meant to ask your permission, but you had already left.”
Anger turned to pure rage when I added an obvious lie to theft. He gave me the worst beating I had ever endured. This man, who had been reasonably kind, turned into a monster. He beat me so hard on my right ear (the same one that had already endured two previous injuries) that my ear drum burst.
Letters to Rose Page 11