by Tarra Light
Our airborne allies were part of our reconnaissance system. By making periodic sky patrols over the camp, they gathered intelligence and warned us of events taking place beyond the range of our sight and hearing. We were grateful to our animal friends for their devotion to our welfare and dedication to our healing mission.
Jezra Meets Boris
COMPLETING THEIR INSTRUCTIONS, THE pair of crows flew away. Jezra returned to play her game of make-believe. As she looked again at the neat rows of precious stones, she gasped in surprise. She saw another black feather, straighter and taller than the other, standing at attention across from the first feather. How can this be? she wondered. As Jezra examined the new feather, she heard a kind of ethereal laughter. She looked around, but no one was there.
“Ha-ha-ha,” she heard again. “Greetings, Jezra, artist child,” she heard in her mind. The crows had left. Who was speaking to her? A whirlpool of energy swirled in front of her. Slowly, the transparent form of a man began to emerge. He appeared to be stoutly built and in his mid-sixties. His gray hair was pulled tightly back, and he sported a handlebar mustache. He stooped forward, as if he carried a weight on his shoulders.
The ghost-man picked up the feather and twisted it around and around. “I have been watching you, dreamer child. The crows speak to your imagination, and you listen. Natasza speaks to your heart, and you feel compassion. I have come to speak to your spirit-self. I am in spirit form myself, so it comes naturally,” he laughed. “I am Boris Brozinski.” He bowed humbly before the amazed girl.
“Did you move that feather to trick me?” she asked.
“Aha!” Boris winked at her. “And to get your attention. These feathers are a gift from our airborne allies. Dream children fly to heaven on wings of fancy. I am Natasza’s spirit guardian. I serve as the unseen captain of your team of healers. I can feel the bond of love shared by your sisterhood. Let the flame of love burn brightly in the chambers of your heart.
“When you wish to call on me, whisper my name, or take a sacred stone and hold it in your palm.” With these words, the ghost disappeared from sight.
Boris and the Crows
BORIS MADE A NIGHTLY reconnaissance of the camp, entering every quarter, identifying those most in need. Then he communicated the results of his survey to the crows, who marked the locations of the sick and injured.
In the morning the healer girls scanned the skies, looking for messages from the airborne allies. Some of the crows brought supplies they had foraged from the nearby countryside. They carried in their beaks small items such as twine or thread. The twine was used to wrap a splint for a broken bone. The thread was used to sew together rags to make compresses. The birds also gathered herbs of the field and the leaves and roots of plants to be made into medicines and poultices.
A Doll for Talya
ANIELA WIPED THE SANDS of slumber from her sleepy eyes. She looked out the window and welcomed the warming rays of the sun. As she greeted the new day, she saw a black crow fly by the window. “Caw, caw,” and then another “Caw-caw-caw.”
“Natasza. Natasza,” she came to wake me. “Someone needs us. Two crows flew by the window.”
We ventured outside and followed the two crows as they flew over rows of barracks. They landed on a rooftop, three barracks down and two over. The birds stood together, side by side, on the edge of the roof, awaiting our arrival.
Gingerly I opened the door of the rundown building and walked in. Aniela followed me, almost on tiptoes. We saw a group of women gathered around the bed of a small child, perhaps four years of age. The little girl was sweating from fever. She was delirious. As she turned her head from side to side she cried, “Dee-Dee. Where are you? Dee-Dee.”
I approached the woman standing closest to the child. Katerina was her name. “I am Natasza. Aniela and I have come to assist as nurses. What is the cause of her fever? And who is Dee-Dee?”
Katerina was clearly grateful. “This is Talya, an orphan child. Today is the third day of her fever. The food she ate was contaminated. She suffers from food poisoning. Dee-Dee was her baby sister, murdered by the Nazis. Her grief consumes her and adds to her frenzy.”
Aniela and I performed hands-on healing on Talya during the morning, doing what we could. The child clutched a rag doll as she wept and cried out. She held the doll in the crook of her arm, as if she were its mother. I sensed that she believed it was her job to watch over her baby sister. She felt that she had failed in her duty to her sister. She could not protect the baby from the brute force of the iron men. She grieved not only for the loss of life but for the loss of her own future.
Katerina followed behind me as I walked out into the yard. She tapped me on the shoulder, seeking consolation. “Is she going to live?” Her imploring eyes touched my heart.
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “The ways of God are beyond my understanding.”
Then her eyes lit up. “Let’s make her a new rag doll! That will surely strengthen her will to live.” All the women wanted to give Talya the gift of a new rag doll. Everyone offered to help in any way they could.
The pair of crows gathered straw from the ryegrass fields outside the camp. Meanwhile, I sewed together patches of fabric to make the head, body, arms, and legs, using the needle and thread from our emergency medical kit. I stuffed the rag doll with the straw so it was firm to grip. Jezra gave us blue-gray stones for the eyes and a short twig for the mouth. The nose was a small bone from a mouse skeleton. The birds brought their tail feathers for the skirt and down from their nests for the hair. Baby doll Dee-Dee was now complete.
We brought the new doll to Katerina to give to the orphan child. Every girl needs a doll to develop her nurturing qualities. The rag doll would be a source of comfort for Talya, something to hold onto when fear gripped her heart.
Girl Talk
OUR COMMITMENT TO “SERVE unto death” united the girls of our healing team. We formed a strong bond of love and dedication to our mission. We shared a group energy, a reservoir of strength from which each girl drew courage and fortitude.
After practice sessions of laying-on of hands, we remained together to express our feelings about our sexuality and femininity. Our bodies were changing and developing new features. We watched as tiny breasts sprouted from bony chests. Downy hair turned coarse and dark. Our feelings were contradictory, with fear on the one hand and hope on the other. We feared rape and sexual assault by the guards. We hoped for the Day of Liberation—to marry and bear children.
Jezra ran her forefinger across her broken front tooth. “When the war is over, no man will want me. If I smile, he will think I am ugly.”
“Oh, no, Jezra!” Aniela exclaimed. “Find a man who loves you for your inner beauty, a man with spiritual sight, a man who can see the truth of you.”
“Do those kinds of men really exist?” asked Klara. “No man would marry a girl with a limp. I will always be too slow and too far behind.”
“Consider yourselves fortunate,” cried Aniela. She pulled her blouse up to her shoulders, exposing her breasts and torso covered with bruises and sores. “These men see only my body. They don’t see my spirit. I feel like a cow, the way they suck my nipples. It hurts!”
“If women ruled the world, they would put an end to war,” I concluded philosophically.
A New Life
OLD MOTHER SAT OUT in the yard during the heat of the day. One by one she pulled out scraps of fabric from a sack to purify them in the healing rays of the midday sun. This sack of rags was her pillow and served as a reserve supply of tourniquets for first aid. Klara sat down beside her, admiring the colors and patterns of each piece of cloth.
“I have come to confide in you, dear Mother,” she began. “I am with child. A new life is growing inside me. I can feel the heartbeat of my little one.”
“Prepare yourself for the inevitable,” admonished the wise woman. “Auschwitz is not the place to experience the joy of motherhood. Do not allow yourself to become attached to
the baby.”
“Pray for me, please,” beseeched the pregnant girl. “Pray for a miracle, that my child is born alive.”
Himmler Visits
AS THE AUTUMN SUN shone orange in the morning sky, a motorcade arrived at camp headquarters. The three touring cars parked first, followed by an escort of military vehicles. They displayed small flags with swastikas flapping in the breeze.
As the car doors slammed and members of the Nazi High Command disembarked, Commandant Schuller walked out of his office and lavishly greeted the visitors. “Heil Hitler!” he saluted them. Following the formalities, the Commandant invited the guests to dine at his private quarters, catered by his personal servants. After the luncheon he took them on a tour and inspection of the camp grounds, pointing out specific buildings and answering their questions. Additional bodyguards joined the party as they walked through the gate into the barbed-wire confines of the concentration camp.
Commandant Schuller joined Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler as they walked side by side in the front of the others, followed by other high ranking Nazi officials and their SS bodyguards. The Gestapo was obsessed with punishing Jews. I wondered what plans they were making that would change our lives.
Death Count
COMPLETING THE INSPECTION, THE entourage reconvened in Commandant Schuller’s office. He sat behind a big desk in a high-backed leather chair. From his file cabinet he pulled out stacks of papers with statistics. As the men began to review the figures, a lieutenant entered carrying a tray with schnapps and liquor glasses. The Commandant offered a toast: “To the Third Reich.” The liquor glasses clinked together simultaneously with the clicking of their heels. Then the Commandant brought out a wrapped gift for Reichsführer Himmler, a box of raspberry-filled Bavarian chocolates.
The Gestapo elite drank schnapps and ate chocolates as they examined the statistics of death. The extermination reports were compiled daily. They represented an accurate account of the genocide of the Jewish race. Columns of numbers, neat and sterile, revealed the success of the master plan of the Third Reich. The average death count at that time was 1,312 per day, over 9,200 per week.
The men discussed various logistics to speed up the process. The main drawback to increasing the death count was the problem of disposal of the bodies. Also, because of the slave-labor requirements, a reserve pool of workers had to be maintained. Workers who died of illness or abuse were quickly replaced from the reserve supply. Others were kept for experiments by Nazi scientists. Not all Jews were to be eliminated.
After praising the Commandant for the extermination statistics, they offered a toast to the mastermind behind the genocide project. “Heil Hitler!” they cried.
From lifetime to lifetime, Hitler was consumed by a drive to wield power. To the eyes of the world he was a conqueror of nations. In his private moments he bowed in fear to the gods that controlled him. He became a victim of his mania and madness.
Housecleaning
HIMMLER AND HIS ENTOURAGE had completed their inspection. Commandant Schuller was praised for his extermination procedures. In the wake of the Gestapo’s departure, girls from barracks 12 were ordered to clean up the mess.
As our circle of sisters shared the secrets of our hearts, our conversation was abruptly interrupted. The door of our barracks flew open, and two armed guards burst into the room. Our intimate party ended suddenly as the male intruders took charge of the scene.
“Get ready, Jew girls! Prepare to work as maids and housekeepers,” the iron men yelled at us. The guards escorted four of us—Aniela, Klara, Jezra, and myself—to a waiting truck and drove us to a section of the camp that housed the officers and staff. They parked the truck in front of a two-story gray house on the corner of the street.
As I walked from room to room, I found piles of trash and garbage, cigarette butts, and empty vodka bottles—sordid evidence of the decadent lifestyle of the Gestapo officers. In the entryway to the house an assortment of cleaning supplies had been laid out for our use. Each girl was assigned to clean a different room in the house. As the girls began to clean the upstairs bedrooms, I prepared to wash the kitchen floor.
My Water Spree
CARRYING THE METAL WASH bucket into the yard, I turned on the outdoor spigot. Gleefully I watched as the clear running water spouted out in a steady stream, forming bubbles and white foam at the bottom of the pail. Cautiously I looked around to see if anyone was watching me. Then I formed my hands into a cup and drank as much as I could of the clean, cold water. Rolling up my sleeves, I placed my palms flat on the bottom of the bucket. Then I wet my face and splashed the water up high above my head. I felt like a little child at play. The water of life revived my spirits.
The Note
WHEN THE BUCKET WAS full I carried it into the kitchen. The water sloshed from side to side as I struggled to keep my balance.
Down on my knees, wash bucket by my side, I focused on my work. Around and around I made circles on the floor with the scrub brush, leaving behind a trail of suds and bubbles. I breathed a sigh of relief. The air felt lighter here. For a few moments at least I was free from the heavy weight of oppression so familiar to my psyche. These work assignments became a welcome escape from the squalor of the camp.
To my surprise I heard footsteps approaching. Suddenly the kitchen door burst open behind me, and I felt a hard boot kicking my behind, pushing me forward. I found myself sprawled out on the kitchen floor, lying in a puddle of mud and foam.
“Ha-ha-ha,” I heard a man laughing at me. As I got up onto my knees, I turned around and looked behind me. I recognized the face of the laughing man. I had seen him before, watching me. In that instant, our eyes met. We recognized each other. It felt like we had known each other forever. It was a mystical, magical feeling, a sacred communion of souls.
“Fraulein Natasza,” he spoke my name. My heart pounded with anticipation. What unforeseen path am I going to walk down? I wondered. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a note and handed it to me. Without another word, he turned around and walked away.
For a few moments I held the note between my palms, hesitating to open it. Then, slowly, I unfolded the paper. “Meet me at sunset. Stand on the corner by the gray house, and wait for me there.” Under this brief message was scribbled the signature of the man. Now I knew his name: “Captain Otto.”
Captain Otto
AS THE PINK RAYS of evening light faded from the sky, I waited on the corner by the gray house, watching for Captain Otto. I felt a push-pull of emotions, between attraction for this man and apprehension as to the purpose of our meeting.
As Venus rose above the horizon, I saw him walking toward me. He stopped, motioned for me to follow him, and turned in the opposite direction. He led as we wove our way through the dark streets and alleyways until we came to a three-story wooden building. A rickety stairway climbed along the outside wall. I placed my hand on the railing and walked up the stairs behind him. The wooden steps bent and creaked under the weight of our footsteps. We reached a landing facing a door. He turned the knob and gestured for me to enter the room.
His living quarters were small but comfortable. Above his bed was a lifelike portrait of the Führer, dominating the room. On either side of the Führer was hung a brass musical instrument, a French horn on the left and a trumpet to the right. Across from the bed was an antique dresser. It was covered with memorabilia, medals, and mementos of war. I was immediately drawn to examine the photograph of a young woman. The frame around her face was tarnished gold like a halo that needed polishing. Her eyes were soft, and her hair was light and curly. She acknowledged my entrance into her domain.
By the window were a small table and two chairs. The captain motioned for me to sit at the table across from him. Following his lead, I resisted my impulse to speak. He looked into my eyes, and I looked into his. My anxiety subsided. I sensed a touch of kindness. He was a step above the iron men of the Reich.
Captain Otto filled the teapot and took out a set of cu
ps and saucers. Not since my village days had I seen a set of real china. The teapot whistled, and he poured the hot water. The steam was soothing to my frazzled nerves. Onto my saucer he placed two round teacakes. I felt honored to be treated with this kind of respect. He took out a record and placed it on the phonograph. It was a medley of soldiers’ songs, dedicated to the triumph of the Third Reich. I heard trumpets and French horns, accompanied by flutes and drums.
I tensed up again when he sat down on the side of the bed. He took off his heavy boots and dropped them to the floor. I was a virgin, just fourteen years old, emotionally unprepared to receive the male energy. He motioned for me to begin undressing. Shyly, I stood in the corner, carefully placing my clothes on the chair. I wondered why he had chosen me. Surely other girls were more mature and attractive. Then he stood up and unbuttoned his shirt. He went to the phonograph and changed the record. The military band halted its march and a woman with a deep voice began to sing romantic melodies. An accordion accompanied her.
Ich sehs in deinen Augen
Ich fühls in deiner Berührung
Ich schmecks von deinen Lippen
Und um so mehr liebe ich dich.
I stood naked in the corner, my back toward him. He clapped his hands to get my attention and motioned for me to lie on the bed. He mounted me and held my wrists down with his palms. I felt pinned down under his heavy weight. When his male organ penetrated my innocence, I screamed. He slapped me across the face to shut me up.