Shores Beyond Shores

by Irene Butter

  That evening at dinner Werner was less talkative about what he was hearing. His excitement about his work had faded, his lips were tightened, and he bit his nails.

  “What is it?” I asked as we sat outside on the steps of our barracks.

  “Nothing,” he repeated. “Leave me alone. Don’t hassle me about your Rudi.”

  “He’s not ‘my Rudi.’”

  Werner didn’t make a comeback, nor did he tease me or get frustrated as much as I bugged him.

  “Reni,” he said picking at his cuticles. “You know this is a transit camp, right? A camp that sends people to other places?”

  “Yeah. Tell me something new.”

  “You know I’ve been looking high and low for Rudi, like you have. His family was here, but they boarded the train a few weeks before we arrived. He’s gone. I found out yesterday….”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He paused, then said, “Because I heard other things, too. And I wanted to check on them. Rudi left for that camp Auschwitz. Auschwitz is worse than here. A lot worse.”

  “How can Auschwitz be worse than this? We’ve been taken from our home. Who knows who has all our stuff we left behind. We’re bored and doing stupid work. The food we brought is gone, and the camp only has gross soup and stale bread. And we have to use a big open bathroom with no door!” I felt panic rising in my throat.

  “Reni, you don’t understand….”

  “I understand. I understand that you didn’t tell me about Rudi right when you knew!”

  “They don’t just bore you or even starve you at Auschwitz. They kill you. I had to hear it a lot before I believed it. They kill people at camps like Auschwitz. They kill Jews like us…and like Rudi.” His voice rose and he choked on the last words.

  “You don’t know that for sure,” I cried.

  “I know they left. I know they left on that train. And I know they kill people where the train goes.”

  “You don’t know what happened to Rudi!” I covered my face in my hands.

  He put his hand on my back. There was a rushing sound in my ears. I thought of telling Werner again that he didn’t know anything, but instead I got up and stormed off in the direction of the evening sun.

  I marched the camp, making sure to go through all the barracks again. None of it made sense. Sure, the Nazis were mean, but why would they use all this effort to kill us? We didn’t do anything to them. The Germans had a war to win. Why bother with us? The next day I ran through my chores before going through Westerbork again. I fought the fear that came when I saw the smudged numbers on the train cars. Is that what was left of Rudi? For the first time I missed dinner; my appetite was in a hole.

  The next day, outside our barracks, Mutti and Tante Alice were crying as they stood with my Pappi and Oom Paul. Mutti said the name of a camp “Theresienstadt” and the name of my Omi and Opa.

  “Have we heard from Omi and Opa?” I asked, hoping to hear something good.

  Before Mutti could say anything, her red eyes told me what I feared. Omi and Opa are dead. Maybe like Rudi.

  “No Reni, we have not heard from them,” Tante Alice said. “We are just very worried about them. They are old and the camp they were sent to months ago is much harder to be in than we first thought.”

  “So, no postcards come from Theres…”

  “No, none yet,” Pappi said,

  Mutti dabbed at her eyes. “We just don’t want them to be sick.”

  Omi and Opa are dead, I thought, but I pushed that away, squaring my shoulders.

  “Omi and Opa are strong, even if they are old,” I said.

  Everyone nodded. I realized that uncertainty had been my hope. But like a fire slowly dying during the night, that hope was being smothered under a cinder pile of stories. We didn’t know much, but maybe we knew enough. Killing camps existed. I turned from my family and retreated to my bunk and buried my loss in my blanket. I would never see my grandparents again, and I might never see Rudi.

  I was silent for days, entombed with my thoughts.

  I paced the camp and noticed a few birds perched on the top of the barbed wire post or on the peaks of the barracks. In a place that had quickly become routine, the birds didn’t fit in. I watched them because I could never guess how long they would stay, or what direction they would fly. They flittered up and over the fences. And out. Watching them, I felt something drill down through me into the earth, tapping into a well of sorrow that I never knew was there. Who knew such sadness existed just below my feet?

  Within a few weeks, my sorrow shifted to numb tedium. The weather cooled and the camp’s few trees began to drop their leaves. For the first time in my life, the season did not mean school, new clothes, new teachers and friends, paper, pens, and books. I missed it. I talked and played with girls my age, making up games with rocks and pieces of paper. I met a girl a few years younger than me named Rachael, and we became friends. Werner, Pappi, and Mutti weren’t much fun. They were too tired. Pappi had to do a lot of heavy lifting and work with hot torches. This manual labor was harder than his work at the bank and American Express. He seemed to be always in a state of healing from scrapes, cuts, and small burns. In addition to sorting beans, Mutti was working in a sewing circle, mending clothes.

  One morning, Werner was overly fussing with his unfailing hair in the washroom, something he didn’t need to do. No matter how he pushed and pulled, it flopped into perfection.

  “What’s wrong now?” I asked.

  “Um, nothing,” he said while running his teeth under his index finger nail.

  “Don’t do that. There’s dirt under your nails. You’ll get sick, just like Mutti says.”

  Werner gave a quick look of disgust. “It’s my work. I’m delivering more food now…like taking it from the kitchen to Jewish leaders. Things like that….”

  “All that fresh food?” I said. “What’s the problem?”

  “I’ve started tasting it.” he said in a small voice, and paused. “What if I get caught?”

  “I don’t know. Stop taking it.”

  “I’m not taking. I’m only tasting. And I only taste when there is a lot of something, like one sweet roll if there are twenty. No crumbs left behind.”

  “So, why are you telling me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I know. Because you feel bad.” I said, “Well, you should. If you get caught we will all be in trouble.”

  Werner looked like he had just been hit. The camp police were becoming stricter.

  “Forget it, Reni. I’m sorry I said anything.”

  I wasn’t going to let him off. I’d lost Rudi, and I realized I was still angry. Werner was feeling guilty only because he was getting tastes of fancy food. I knew he wouldn’t stop. He might feel bad, but at least he got what he wanted. I would never get Rudi.

  Another Monday evening: tension had been building in the camp all day as night approached. People walked through the camp, past the black, slumbering train. When the beast woke up, it would be hungry. It was like living with a lion. Satiated, it rested, and we could afford to let down our guard. Awake, panting and ravenous, we knew some of the herd would be stalked and caught. The stress followed the rhythm of the week, wearing on us over time.

  There were more angry words and curt replies. Smiles were rare. After dinner, sitting on the front steps, I overheard Pappi telling Mutti how lucky we were. It was hard to think of anything here as lucky, I thought.

  “Our names were on the list this week,” he said. “To be called tonight.”

  “Which list? The train list?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh my god. What happened?”

  Leo Buschoff, Pappi’s buddy from the war, had seen our family on a list to go to Auschwitz. Leo had influence. I thought about Pappi’s old war photos, standing or posing with fellow soldiers. I liked Pappi’s war pictures. He looked happy with his friends. He looked strong.

  “Anyhow,” Pappi continued, “he took our names off t
he list. I think we are safe for awhile.”

  Pappi was right—we were lucky. It almost seemed like a miracle. A war pal Pappi knew from twenty-five years ago just happened to see our names on a list, and happened to erase them.

  Another Monday night came and the barracks door shot open, and the two Jewish police came in. My heart started banging as the door closed behind them. Barracks’ leaders read the names of those who would leave tomorrow: A’s, B’s, C’s, down to the G’s and finally the H’s. I put my hands over my ears. I went rigid, then felt Mutti’s touch. Safe again for now.

  “Mutti,” I said. My lips were dry.

  “Yes, Reni.” She moved beside me. “You’ve been so quiet. And I know that you and Werner have been fighting.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “It’s okay. Rudi being gone is hard.”

  “That’s not it. I’m sorry about Omi and Opa. I’m sorry they…your parents are gone.”

  Mutti’s eyes dampened. We were in that deep sorrowful well, but together.

  “Thank you, Reni.”

  For days, I continued to only poke and sip at my food and drink. Then I began to bubble to the surface. When my appetite returned, it roared in. Now that the food we had brought was gone, there was only one meal a day. And though it was nothing like Mutti’s cooking, I found it delicious. I savored my portion of the carrot and potato stew or the sweet and sour bread soup. I actually hoped Mutti could remember how to cook these meals when we got out of the camp.

  17

  Camp Westerbork, the Netherlands

  Fall 1943

  I had trouble getting used to all the people, all the time. There was never privacy. I was used to having my own room, and our own apartment. I was used to family always being around, but if I wanted, I could go to my bed, or even a quiet corner where I could make a nest of blankets. Just me, by myself. In Amsterdam, I would look out the window at the rain, blue sky, or snow. At Westerbork, all I saw when I raised my head were the tortured twists of seven-feet-tall barbed wire fences and, beyond that, the armed soldiers high in the watchtowers watching everything that happened.

  Mutti let out a breath that she must have been holding; it smelled of the onions from dinner. Behind us, I heard a woman crying. I turned to see Rachael’s mother. Rachael’s family had arrived only three weeks ago, and now I had to say good-bye. This was not the first time. It seemed that I lost friends as quickly as they got here. At this point, after three months, we had become one of the old families. Rachael, her family, and the others started packing; their friends and their friends’ families helped.

  “Let’s go, Hasenbergs,” Pappi said.

  We toured the camp, stopping in on family and friends, to see who had been listed. Almost every time, we knew somebody, or at least Pappi and Mutti knew them.

  We spied Tante Alice and Oom Paul just after going into their barracks. They looked normal to me, but Mutti picked up on something. She sucked in her lips and lightly said, “Oh, my God.”

  Mutti and Tante hugged for a long time.

  “Sobibor,” Tante said when they pulled apart.

  Mutti’s hand went to her mouth and then cupped the side of her face.

  “I promise to send a postcard if I can,” Tante said with a forced smile.

  “You better,” Pappi said. “You don’t want us to worry.”

  “A beer when this thing is over,” Oom Paul said.

  “As many as you want,” said Pappi. “I’ll pay.”

  “That goes without saying. You’re the banker.”

  Tante got around to hugging Werner and me, telling us to be good.

  “We will see you in the morning,” Mutti said as she hugged her sister again.

  “Yes, the morning,” was all Pappi said to Oom Paul who didn’t reply, only nodded.

  We headed back to our barracks, crisscrossing others’ paths. We walked silently, close to one another. It was a chilly November evening. Searchlight beams moved over and between the buildings, carving the night from guard towers sitting on spindly stilts.

  Mutti and Pappi encouraged us to sleep. Sleep was always hard on Monday nights—too much commotion. Adults talked, deciding what to bring and what to give away. That Monday night was impossible. Sleeping must have seemed like the wrong thing to do if your family was about to go away, maybe forever.

  The next morning we gathered for good-byes. Tante Alice and Oom Paul held hands like young crushes. My brief friend, Rachael, was in her best dress like she was off to her first day at school. They were ordered outside and we were ordered to stay put until the train left. We sat until the train’s whistle shrilled far off and away. Mutti collapsed against Pappi.

  That night was cabaret night. Our Camp Commandant, a man with the last name of Gemmeker, loved the theater, so he allowed famous Jews to make music and perform for us. As prisoners, we didn’t see Commandant Gemmeker much, except at the cabaret. I sat between Pappi and Mutti, with Werner just beyond Mutti on the right. It was humid, and I could smell the work on my parents: oil and sweat. Pappi’s fingernails were black on the ends, chipped, and his fingers stained and nicked. Mutti’s head rested on Pappi’s shoulder. Two men at pianos in front of the stage bobbed their heads and marched their hands back and forth across the keys. Men with violins jabbed the air with their bows. A series of small skits and coordinated dances swept the small stage in front of a dark red drape. In the end the performers joined hands, bowed, and waved to all of us as the curtain swept away the last of the show.

  That night I dreamed of guards’ harsh voices chanting “Hasenberg” until it became a scream and I awoke damp and sweaty.

  Mutti cried for days.

  A few weeks later my Pappi received a package. Other than the food, we had received no mail at the camp.

  “It was forwarded from our Amsterdam address,” Mutti said as she turned the small brown package over in her pale hands. “Who would send us something with no return address?”

  “I don’t recognize the handwriting,” Pappi added.

  “I’ve never seen forwarded mail,” said Werner. “Even with all my deliveries.”

  I felt more excited than I could remember. The fall morning was bright and dry; sweet-smelling leaves blew around the camp, having escaped the far-off trees to visit us.

  “Should I open it, or wait for a birthday?” teased Pappi.

  “Open it, just open it!” I practically shouted.

  Pappi’s thick, rough fingers tore away the crisp paper to expose four small white booklets. The words República del Ecuador Pasaporte were above an official looking seal that showed a bird with spread wings sitting on an oval, surrounded by flags.

  “What are they?” I asked.

  “Pasaports,” Werner said. “That looks like Spanish. They must be the passports.”

  “I can’t believe it,” mumbled Pappi as he flipped through them, looking at every page. Most were blank, yet he stared at them in wonder.

  The three of us asked to see them. Pappi gave us each one. The inside page had uneven typed words that I couldn’t read—they were definitely in Spanish, Werner chimed—and there were official red stamps and signatures in black. A school photo of me was stapled in. I looked at my smile, remembering when the photo was taken. We had filed onto the stage one at a time, sat, were directed to look happy at the camera, and then we filed out.

  “They’re real.” Mutti said. “The contact in Sweden came through.”

  “Yes Trudi,” Pappi said. “I don’t know how or why these things made it here, but they did. This is…remarkable.”

  “They are really from Ecuador,” I said.

  “Ecuador’s in South America,” Werner stated.

  “I know, Werner. Are we going really going there?”

  “No,” Pappi said. “At least I don’t think so. These just mean we now have the status of Austausch Juden, ‘exchange Jews.’ We can be traded for German nationals made prisoners by the Allies. That’s the value of our Ecuadorian passports. We are
worth something to the Nazis.”

  “So this is good?” I just wanted to know.

  “Yes, very good.” He turned to Mutti. “These should protect us from being sent to Auschwitz. We have a chance now.”

  “We really might get out of here,” she said.

  It couldn’t happen soon enough. Winter pushed away fall. Thin barracks’ walls that gave some summer comfort now let in cold drafts. I buried deeper into my pink blanket and moved closer to Mutti. Food and supplies were harder to get. There was less soup to eat and less soap for cleaning. One thing was plentiful: bugs. The bathrooms were full of flies that seemed to want nothing more than to be in your mouth, and little white worms wiggled on the ground. I learned to not look into the latrine holes where the surface moved from so many of them. The worst were the head lice. I started itching and scratching my head, even in my sleep. I tried washing my hair, but the cold water and lack of soap couldn’t get rid of them.

  18

  Camp Westerbork, the Netherlands

  Winter 1943

  I started to not feel well. I was tired, achy, and had a slight fever. “Just a cold, Reni,” Mutti said as she tucked me in. “Stay in and rest more.”

  After a week I felt worse. My pee was dark, even though I drank more water.

  “Her skin looks yellowish,” Pappi commented.

  Mutti took me to the small hospital. We sat, my head in Mutti’s lap, the solid bench hurting my bottom. I heard moans around us. We were led into a small, silvery room that smelled like chemicals. A white-clad nurse and doctor looked me over top to bottom. It was too warm in there.

  “She has to be quarantined,” the doctor with the tiny round glasses said. “She has jaundice.”

  Mutti asked what that meant exactly.

  The doctor said that quarantine meant I would need to stay there, by myself.

  “Alone?” I asked Mutti.

  “Yes. We can’t see you until you are better.”

  “How long?”

  Mutti looked into the small round glasses on the doctor’s face.