I have never been able to hear out of my right ear since. Although enraged and thrashing me horribly, he did show some restraint. He could have simply shot me on the spot and there would have been no repercussions. In retrospect, I’m lucky to have only lost hearing in one ear.
Message from Jurek
When Hindenburg camp was built, the clothes storeroom was placed just opposite of our barrack. I sometimes went there because men brought new clothes and smuggled news from other camps. One day began as all the others, with roll call. There was just one difference. I sensed deep in my heart that something good was about to happen. My soul was light, and I nearly could describe myself as “happy.”
It was a cold day, but the sky, which I saw from my bed, was clear and blue and promised decent weather. However, it was not weather alone that made me buoyant; it was the anticipation in my heart. Call it a premonition.
When I sneaked over to the clothes storeroom, I met a man who silently put a matchbox into my hand. I was surprised, but we could not talk. I ran back to the kitchen with the matchbox, opening it secretly. There was a message from my dear brother Jurek inside: “I’m working in a subcamp at Gleiwitz.” At this moment, I felt overwhelmed by emotion and thanked G-d for saving my big brother.
Binne’s Infatuation
Now seventeen years of age, I had begun to develop physically. I sensed that I was becoming a woman. My feelings got earthier. It was not only music and poetry that interested me, but I began to think how it would be if we were free. I was so wrapped in my daydreaming that I didn’t perceive a change in my fifteen-year-old sister’s behavior. It was disturbing enough that she had a growing addiction to cigarettes, even picking up discarded butts guards threw on the ground. Little did I know that nicotine was not her only addiction; Binne was discovering boys as well.
One night, when I came back to the barracks, beaten down from work, I saw that my sister and Helen were sitting on their bunk, talking. I bent down from my bunk to ask them what they were talking about. Binne told me that she had fallen in love with some French prisoner of war who was working with her. They could not make themselves understood to one another because he didn’t speak Polish, and she didn’t know a word of French. Besides, the strict surveillance of the guards would have made any conversation dangerous. Prisoners endured heavy punishment if guards discovered them attempting to communicate with each other.
I begged my sister to please, please be careful. Once, two girls who had talked together were punished by cutting off their hair and eyebrows and by forcing them to carry heavy stones over their heads while moving forward on their knees. I was prepared to intervene by talking the SS officer into letting my sister work with me, but she promised me that she would not attempt to speak to the French prisoner anymore.
This punishment given to the two talking girls was often imposed in the camp when someone didn’t strictly obey the SS camp leader. One woman, especially, suffered. She was a descendent of a gypsy tribe, a stunning beauty, an artist’s dream. The camp leader fell in love with her, and, as long as he hoped to get what he wished, he treated her gently. But, then, she smuggled out a letter to her husband who was, incredibly enough, a High German officer. The officer came to see the SS camp leader about his wife. From then on, Taube treated the poor woman in a beastly manner. We all cried for what he did to her.
These memories come back to me now that I am speaking of my sister’s love interest because I was afraid she would betray herself and then be punished. I beseeched her to please be careful and not to show any sign of interest in the French prisoner. She promised that she would hide her feelings, but I was less anxious about her behavior than his. I feared the French boy would give himself away because he seemed more ardent than she was. For her, the flirtation was a transitory event, but, for him, it was apparently a little more, so my sister told me.
A short time after this conversation, I had a chance to see the French prisoner. The pipes of our bathroom began to leak, so guards led us to the factory for our showers. There I saw the workers, and my sister pointed the French boy out to me. I was quite charmed by his extraordinary looks. He had a face as only a sculptor could chisel out of marble; his features were so fine. His hair covered his head in soft, black, waves; his eyes were a burning blue. To me, he was so handsome that I understood why my sister had fallen for him.
When I saw the Frenchman, some of my apprehension for my sister ceased. I saw what a fine lad he was and knew that he would not do any harm to Binne. Nothing happened. A short time after, Binne and Helen were transferred to a different section of the factory. Thank G-d it was only a brief infatuation for her.
A Gypsy Celebration
Shortly before New Year’s Eve of 1945, the camp was covered with snow. We only saw the lights of the watchtowers shining on the whole area. It seems strange to say that there was a somber mood in the camp. We had received some news through the clothes carriers that the war was near its end.
Because of this good news and being together with twenty-five gypsies, the mood altered, and they put on a big show that night. They sang, danced, and jumped about. It was kind of a symposium of dance, talk, celebration, freely flowing exchanges. In the midst of this, we were afraid the SS camp leader would catch the gypsies dancing. During the gypsies’ performance, many of the prisoners laughed, but inside our hearts were sick with fear.
Along with the filtered news that the war would come to an end in 1945 was a rumor that, in case the Germans lost the war, they were planning to exterminate all the prisoners. That night, however, we laughed, perhaps with the thought that it might be our last light-hearted moment.
In fact, all laughter soon ceased. Within days, the SS sent us on a “forced evacuation,” as the Germans called them. We victims referred to these journeys as “death marches.”
Dear Rose,
Hearing your heartbreaking, traumatic story, I wonder, “How do you continue to move on with such grace, compassion, and life?” Because you are a survivor, a fighter, and an advocate for yourself. The first thing I noticed about you is your joy, your smile, and the way you listen to others. You know that other people matter, and you treat them as such. As a child, I associated the word trauma as something paralyzing, lifeless, unable to overcome; still, to this day, it’s hard to shake that definition I understood as a young girl. Yet you defy my definition of traumatic although the Holocaust was just that. You are anything but paralyzed. You blossomed into a wonderful woman who continued through her life, getting married, having babies, being a grandmother. Seeing you in the grocery store, you are normal.
Seeing me at school, I look normal. Most people I come in contact with do not know about my cochlear implant that I have had since I was three years old, just as they don’t know that you endured multiple blows to the head causing you to lose hearing in your right ear. These obstacles are what shaped us as women.
I am not known as “the deaf girl”; I am known as a business student to my professors. My friends know to call me at any point, for anything. My parents know me as their first born who moved to Manhattan at the age of seventeen. Strangers don’t know the countless hours spent in speech therapy. The obstacles of being deaf occur every day, in my own life. It’s small things like walking on the right side of a friend to hear them more clearly or asking professors to repeat themselves. I am not a part of the deaf community. I am in the world, attending university.
Rose, you have left a beautiful print on those fortunate enough to have met you. I truly believe that meeting you and hearing your story has a purpose in my life. You are so much more than a victim of the Holocaust. You are a mentor, a friend to my dear teacher Robin Philbrick, and an inspiration to me. I will always be grateful for the bond we share and the honor of meeting you.
With love,
Larek Green
Dear Rose,
I just want to start by saying thank you. Thank you f
or being brave and sharing your story with the world, despite the pain it might cause, so you can help younger generations be aware of the horrors your generation faced so that it may never happen again. Stories like yours are part of the reason I became the soldier I am today. I have heard your story three years in a row, and every time I can’t help but think about the words that you end with, “Don’t be a bystander.” So, I stood up and enlisted into the U.S. Army to help defend those who can’t defend themselves. Just like you wanted to protect your sister Binne when she arrived at Auschwitz, I want to protect this country.
Thank you again, Rose for sharing your story with the world and me. You have been a tremendous influence in my life, and I hope I get to see you again sometime in the near future!
Sincerely,
PFC Jacob A. Ciotti
United States Army
Dear Rose,
The strength and motivation of your story was truly moving and provided me with many new views on how to move past everyday struggles. Listening to how you constantly fought and battled your way through years of horror brought great waves of pain. I felt you. You reminded me that some people don’t get to experience the calm before the storm; they are forced straight into a hurricane. So, unexpectedly, people’s lives are changed beyond repair. After years of constantly cold and dark days, you finally saw a sliver of sunlight, and even if the sun hadn’t felt the same as it did before the storm, you still survived. I’ve learned to enjoy the sun every day and be grateful for everything that this life offers me.
You are a hero, Rose Williams. Thank you for being one of the strongest woman I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet. I wish you good health and happiness.
With faith and love,
Brittney McEwan
Chapter Thirteen:
Death March to Gleiwitz
By the winter of 1944-45, the Germans knew they were losing the war. With the Allied Forces invading from the west and the Soviet Red Army moving in from the east, Nazis were trapped in the middle of Occupied Europe, frantically trying to destroy all evidence of their crimes against humanity, whether that be documents, buildings, or buried corpses. While Germany needed prisoners for the production and maintenance of armament, more crucial was the knowledge that the most damaging evidence of all would be living witnesses.41
Himmler commanded that all transferable prisoners from concentration camps be moved to the interior of Germany. Those ill or unable to walk were shot by the thousands before the marches even began. Fifty-nine “forced evacuations” (German term) occurred during the winter of ’44 to May ‘45.
Approximately 750,000 prisoners remained in concentration camps by this time; 250,000-375,000 prisoners endured these horrendous treks without substantial clothing, food, or water. Many dropped from exposure and starvation.42
From Auschwitz alone, where 60,000 prisoners were evacuated on January 18, 1945, 15,000 died on the death march. Approximately 250,000 prisoners died from exposure, starvation, dehydration, exhaustion and shootings during the course of these marches.43
• • •
Clandestine Death March Photo: Maria Seidenberger secretly took the photo below from the second story window
of her family’s home in a small village outside Munich while her mother stood outside and gave potatoes to prisoners. This picture is a death march to Dachau, likely the way Jurek ended up there.
Photo Credit: US Holocaust Memorial Museum, courtesy of Maria Seidenberger
March to Gleiwitz
For me, the march to Gleiwitz had one positive: I knew that my brother had to be there. Focusing on a reunion with Jurek enabled me not to feel the snow and the sub-zero temperatures of this harsh German winter quite as much. After being locked away from the free world for such a long time, we began to look about us and see again the wonders of nature: snow-covered trees, fields, the sunset, the dusk, the small houses with their lighted windows.
A yearning remembrance of family, parents, and a warm home rose in my and Binne’s shattered hearts. I longed to have a home in one of those houses we silently trekked past. I thought that life could be beautiful again like it was before the Germans came to Radom, that we could live again, do something with our lives, and be happy maybe…. Maybe. There’s that word again…maybe. How many maybes had I dreamed about these last five years?
Immersed in such thoughts, we wandered on and then, abruptly, we were ordered to stop before a large farmhouse. Our SS camp leader asked a peasant who the owner of the farm was and whether we could stay overnight there. In fact, he didn’t ask; he commanded the peasant to give us shelter. The farmer allowed us into the hay barn to sleep. But, in spite of our fatigue, neither Elsie, Binne, Helen, nor I could sleep. We talked and relayed our dreams about the future, hoping not to get killed before we reached our destination.
How could we have possibly imagined what we would have to endure during the last three and a half months before liberation? Those months were worse than the previous three and a half years in the concentration camps.
Transport Horrors
At sunrise, the death march began. Those of us who survived the treacherous walk reached Gleiwitz, Germany, at nightfall. Many had dropped along the wayside from starvation, sickness, and the blizzard. Others were shot for not keeping up, their bodies left by the side of the road.
As soon as we reached the camp, havoc ensued; lately, the guards themselves had seemed unsure of where we were going and were issuing contradictory orders over one another. In the confusion, it was easy for me to slip away and look for my brother. I made sure that Binne and the others did not follow me.
Frantically, I searched, full of hope, for my brother. But it was in vain. At last I met someone from my hometown, and he told me that Jurek had been sent to Dachau, likely on a treacherous death march like the one Binne, Elsie, Helen and I had just survived. Facing the bad news, I went back to my sister and Helen to await the morning and tell them. At sunrise, guards loaded us into freight wagons. Our destination was Bergen-Belsen. Death was our most omnipresent traveler on these wagons of horror.
The trip was worse than Hell. In open wagons, drenched by the falling snow, without food, without water, we rumbled on. Acting worse than beasts, five days and five nights without being able to move, people began to fight each other for an inch of space or a drop of snow water.
During the snowfall, we opened our mouths so that the snow might fall into them and at least moisten our dehydrated lips. We tore our blankets and made ropes of them on which we fastened small pots, just to catch some snow. All precipitated on this little bit of moisture. But, when we were lucky enough to capture a small amount of snow, people began killing each other for one poor drop. If there is a Hell, I went through it on this trip to Bergen-Belsen.
From time to time, we stopped at small stations. The inhabitants of those tiny villages occasionally wanted to give us some water or bread, but the SS guards pushed them back. Villagers often tried to throw it into the wagons, and, if they managed to do so, the result was always the death of at least one of the prisoners who fought to catch a crumb.
Open Cattle Car used for transports deeper into Germany as the Allies moved in. Rose’s trip was during a blizzard, 80 people stacked in each car without food, water, and sufficient clothing or restroom facilities.
Photo Credit: United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, courtesy of Ilona Shecter
Mauthausen Stop
Mauthausen, a camp outside of Vienna, Austria, is where the SS stopped our train. The purpose of the stop was simply that there were too many corpses in the wagons. They had to be unloaded. Mauthausen was a camp originally reserved for political prisoners. Most of them were not Jews. Some had been prisoners there eight or ten years or even since Hitler came to power. To us, this camp was like paradise after the gruesome trip we had behind us, but, then again, we were not there to do forced labor in the notorious rock
quarry or mines.
From all accounts, Mauthausen was a ghastly camp. As the war years continued, Germans transported Jews and other state targets there from other occupied areas. In our case, however, they actually gave us some food and a chance to shower, both of which we desperately needed to start feeling human again.
After only one day’s rest, we were shipped out to Bergen-Belsen. I had only thought I had seen Hell. I had no concept of just how gruesome Bergen-Belsen would be.
Dear Rose,
It has been a true honor to have met and stood by someone as strong and inspirational as you. To have heard of such courage fuels my heart with passion and drive to succeed when it feels as if the world is pushing against you at every turn. The triumphant nature of Rose Williams restores the lost faith in humanity.
The pure savagery of the Nazis, the ruthlessness endured, to be threatened by death every day brings flashbacks to my youth. Although the dark past that lies behind my eyes bares no competition, I am able to relate to the mental scars you bear. At such a young age and to have to comprehend that you may never see your parents again, to fear for the safety of siblings about to embark on a treacherous journey you have no control over. “I couldn’t think straight. My thoughts raced from question to question.” “I would be expected to take care of the others.” The brutality of man leaving the purity of children in a sand storm of confusion.
In comparison, moving forward step by step, chained with weights of fresh memories of family members being tortured in front of his very eyes. A young boy hearing his mother being beaten every night by the man who enslaved them. The scars left on a seven-year-old boy’s hands while cleaning up after his new tormentor. With bare hands turned red with blood after picking up the shards of glass left behind from the daily glass of alcohol being slammed on the ground to be picked up by this boy who dreams he would be strong enough to protect his mother and his new brother. To one day have the courage to stand up to his very own dictator and leave the darkness in my past.
Letters to Rose Page 12