Angel of Auschwitz

by Tarra Light

  The phonograph record went around and around as Captain Otto went up and down. My eyes wandered back to the photo of the young woman. I imagined that she was his sweetheart, or perhaps his wife. I gazed into her soft dreamy eyes as she looked sweetly at me. My apologies to you, schön Frau. I’m sorry, I thought. I hoped she would forgive me. The captain did not believe that he was unfaithful to his wife. Jews were considered less than human, so having sex with a Jewess did not count.

  The silver moon lit the night sky as I descended the creaking stairway. Moon shadows marked my footsteps on my pathway into womanhood.

  Klara’s Baby

  AS I WALKED INTO my barracks, I heard a cry of jubilation. All the women and girls were gathered around Klara’s bed, weeping tears of joy. Klara’s baby had been born alive. We reveled at the miracle of a live birth at Auschwitz.

  The newborn babe was so tiny that he fit in her open hand. His heart was beating, and his tiny hands were clenched into fists. He was gasping for breath, struggling to grasp hold of life. He was not strong enough to cry out loud or to shed his baby tears. His right leg was twisted, the foot pointing to the side. Birth defects were commonplace for babies born to starving mothers.

  As I stood watching this poignant scene, I thought of Captain Otto. I wondered if he would plant his seed in my womb, whether I was destined to bear his child.

  Klara could not nurse. Her breasts were dry. How long could this child live? We must hide him night and day. Better for him that he not be heard crying. How could he survive until the Day of Liberation?

  Our worries were short-lived. Early the next morning, two guards burst into our barracks and grabbed the tiny babe from the bosom of his screaming mother. How had they known?

  That afternoon, several of the girls were ordered to the kitchen to prepare a dinner for visiting officials from the High Command. Klara was told to cut up onions and add them to a big pot of soup boiling on the stove. As she lifted the lid the steam gushed out, blurring her vision. She stared into the soup pot. Floating on the surface, amid carrots and parsley, was what appeared to be a bent knee with a tiny foot twisted to the side.

  The Gift of Pain

  “GOD’S PLAN IS FAULTY!” I cried out in anger. “All I see is suffering. Why does God allow this? I can no longer bear the pain.”

  Boris was sensitive to my distress. As a healer, I took on the pain of the collective and carried it inside me. I was vulnerable to the anguish and emotional turmoil of my comrades. “Pain has a purpose,” explained the professor. “What appears to be evil serves a higher good.”

  “What is good about bloodshed and violence, rape and torture?” I argued.

  “The gift that pain offers is the opportunity to surrender. When the pressure of pain becomes unbearable, the walls of resistance collapse. A doorway opens, grace enters, and suffering is redeemed. The greater the pain one endures, the greater is the capacity for joy. The more pain you are willing to bear, the more love you can let in.”

  Overcome by anger, I could not listen. “God is to blame! He created the world.”

  “God is not responsible for the consequences of humanity’s free-will choices,” he answered. “The presence of pain is an indicator that we are not thinking or acting in harmony with God’s Law of Love. Our belief that we are separate from Him causes our suffering. If we could feel His infinite love, which is always present, if we could experience our oneness with creation, then we would not feel betrayed or abandoned.”

  “Your words are like fairy flowers, blowing in the wind; they have no roots in the earth. Being a ghost you are far removed from blood and guts,” I said, insulting him. My anger burned inside my breast as my spirit rebelled against God. I stomped away from my mentor, doubting the perfection of God’s plan for humanity.

  The Grand Design

  THAT NIGHT, AS I lay drifting off to sleep, a vision played out in my inner sight. It was a scene from eons past, before time began, before the creation of the human race. I was witness to an auspicious meeting in the heavens. The grand council of Planners had convened. They were the founders of the Divine Plan for the spiritual evolution of humanity. Around an oval table sat the Council of Nine. Discussing and debating various proposals, the group divided into factions. Then the vote was cast. The counting favored the “mental majority” by a vote of seven to two. The dissenters advocated a heart-centered reality, but they were outnumbered. As a result, law and principle became the authority guiding human progress.

  The dissenters continued to meet and petitioned God to bring divine love to Earth. The heart-centered group worked for centuries preparing the way for the birth of Jesus Christ. He made manifest in human form God’s perfect love, teaching humanity that the kingdom of heaven lies within the heart.

  When I awoke the next morning I felt refreshed and renewed. My faith was restored, and my commitment to minister love was strengthened.

  The Rape of Rosetta

  THE AIR WAS LADEN with a heavy mist. A long afternoon downpour had ended. A respite of stillness followed the storm.

  A telepathic call of distress commanded my attention. My psychic senses quickened. Who was calling me? I wondered. My eyes scanned the sea of faces in front of me. It was hard to see clearly. A gray fog shrouded the camp. Far in the distance I dimly discerned the silhouette of a young girl, weaving her way through the crowd. It was my beloved soul sister Jezra, staggering as she walked and came into view.

  Quickly I walked to meet her, and she collapsed into my arms. I felt her frail body quivering and trembling as I held her tight. Her face was white, and her eyes appeared vacant. She looked dazed and stunned, as if she had met the devil and had escaped barely alive.

  “What has happened to you, Jezra?” I asked. So great was her shock she could not speak.

  Old Mother came to the rescue. She too had sensed Jezra’s call. Together we carried the grief-stricken girl to her bed. We covered her with a blanket and raised her feet. I sat by her side, holding her hand. Old Mother gently stroked her forehead. Together we prayed for her life to be saved. Then we joined our hearts as one and laid hands on the ailing child. We sat vigil by her bed. Hours passed as Jezra slept. Her shaking slowly subsided, and a hint of color returned to her cheeks. She opened her eyes, awake and alert. It was time for Jezra to tell her story.

  “There was a big party for the guards, celebrating some German holiday. They had been drinking lots of vodka and became loud and rowdy. The drunken guards entered the camp and formed themselves into roving gangs of predators, like packs of wolves on the prowl, lusting after flesh. They were cursing and kicking anyone who happened to be in their path.

  “Rosetta was seated next to me when one of the men spotted her. Known by reputation as ‘the voluptuous Jewess,’ she was an object of desire and derision by the guards. Three of the brutes tackled her and threw her to the ground. Screaming, kicking, flailing her arms in a frenzy of fear, she tried to fight them off. By brute force they overpowered her. She was at the mercy of her attackers.

  “First I recognized Sergeant Krause. He was the ringleader, the most aggressive of the brutes, and mounted her first. Next I recognized Corporal Kroter. He had a fixation on Rosetta because she had such big breasts.

  “Then they grabbed me and pushed me against a post. As they prepared to rape her, each man unstrapped his belt and wrapped it around my body and the post until there were seven belts holding me. Their belts were wrapped so tight around me that it was hard to breathe. My arms and legs turned blue and went numb. I was forced to watch, with no escape. Before my eyes I saw defenseless Rosetta being raped, mutilated, and humiliated. They thrust the venom of their anger into the helpless girl and stole her power and her light.

  “One man was ejaculating in her mouth, another was sucking her nipples, and a third was penetrating her private parts. They slapped her cheeks to break her teeth so her mouth would open wider. Then they kicked her face with their boots and broke her jaw so their big cocks could go deeper down her
throat. They kicked her again and broke her nose. Fingers of blood ran out of her nose and mouth. Red blood ran into her eyes and covered her face. Blood gushed down her legs from her genitals and anus.

  “Waiting their turn to violate their victim, the men watched the scene, laughing, leering, and joking obscenities. ‘Jew animal,’ they yelled, and spit on innocent Rosetta. ‘Filthy slut,’ they insulted her.

  “Pinned down by brute bullies, she lay crushed by the sheer weight of her rapists. Her ribs cracked and punctured her lungs. Gagging and gasping for air, she could not catch her breath. She choked to death as she swallowed her own teeth and blood and saliva and the semen of the rapists. She stopped breathing, and nobody noticed. They kept on banging her until the last man was satisfied.

  “Then they pulled up their pants and came to get their belts. When the last man unstrapped the last belt, I fell to the ground, panting. Somehow, I found the strength to get up. I must find my way back to Natasza, I told myself. Then I will be safe.”

  That night, Jezra slept in my bed with me. She was too terrified to be alone. I felt her body quivering all night long. What could anyone say to comfort her? How would she find peace?

  Jezra’s Inner Fortress

  JEZRA SAT CROSS-LEGGED ON the ground, her bag of stones in her lap. She stared ahead blankly, seeing nothing. The girl had escaped to her inner fortress, a safe haven of make-believe.

  Playing the stone game helped her sort out her feelings. Each sacred stone had a symbolic meaning, like each card in a deck. The act of laying out the stones had a grounding and stabilizing effect on the sensitive girl. The symmetry of the stones pleased her. When the pattern of her life was challenged by outside forces, arranging the stones in a familiar order restored her sense of self. It was her way of coping with trauma, a ritual to maintain her sanity. Her hand shook as she picked up her drawing stick and pressed it into the hard dirt. The rows of stones were crooked. Some of the tall stones had fallen over like dead men.

  After Rosetta’s death, Jezra had changed the arrangement of her stones. She divided them into three groups: the black, the white, and the red. Three rows of black stones confronted three opposing rows of white stones. Like armies poised on the battlefield, the forces of Darkness sought to conquer the army of Light. In the center of her stone design, between the rows of black stones and the rows of white stones, was a circle of red stones.

  Jezra explained, “Do you see this line of soldiers, the white stones? They represent the good guys. They stand for truth; they stand for love. Over here, this line of warriors, are the black stone men. They are the masters of deceit, the manipulators of the mind. In the center, the circle of red stones, are the downtrodden, the weak, and the helpless. The color red represents the blood of sorrow shed by the innocent victims of the Holocaust. Look, this stone is Rosetta. She was my friend, and I loved her. She was only thirteen years old—too young to die.”

  I could fathom the depths of her pain. Her spirit was wounded. Her body was shaking because there was no solid place to stand. The very foundation of her being had been shattered.

  Jezra struggled to make sense out of madness, to create order out of chaos. By rearranging the stones, she took the various elements in her life and gave them new meaning.

  Jezra retreated behind the stone walls of her inner fortress. Inside her mind was a world that she created, where she was free, a safe place to rest and to dream. Fantasy and imagination were survival tools for prisoners at Auschwitz. They fed the soul and rejuvenated the psyche. They opened a channel for creative energy, for healing and renewal.

  Dream Lessons

  THE DEATH OF ROSETTA cast a dark shadow across Jezra’s path. Her bright eyes turned into gray stones that looked downcast on the ground. She disconnected herself from reality.

  During the night, our ghost mentor mentally projected thoughts of hope and feelings of optimism into the subconscious mind of the sleeping girl. Aniela, Old Mother, and I were already students in Boris’s dream school. The professor used dreams as a vehicle to imprint the mind with thoughtforms and visual images. The purpose of the dream school was to increase our capacity to survive.

  Boris projected healing colors during our dream sessions. For Jezra he used brown for grounding and connection to the Earth. For Old Mother he used gold for wisdom. For Aniela he used blue for inner peace. My dream color was turquoise, for protection. My favorite subject in sleep school was “dreams of the ocean.” Cleansing dreams released negativity from the subconscious. I woke up feeling refreshed and rejuvenated.

  The crows also visited my dreamtime. They telepathed messages to me about the conditions in the camp. They were my cheerleaders. “Rise above, Natasza!” they called out as they flew over my head.

  Confrontation with Hitler

  A DREAM I WILL NEVER forget is etched in the archives of my memory:

  A party of Gestapo visitors had entered the camp grounds to make an inspection. They walked with a commanding gait and the arrogant authority of elite power. I was standing a short distance away, hidden from their sight by the other prisoners in front of me.

  One man stood out from the others. He walked briskly ahead of the entourage with short staccato steps. He wore a peaked officer’s cap and a brown trench coat. His eyes were fierce and menacing, and his mustache was neatly trimmed.

  I froze in my tracks at the instant of recognition. It was Hitler! He sensed my presence and glanced in my direction. Quickly I turned my head to avert his psychic probe. I scrutinized him discreetly with sideways glances, fearing to look into his evil controlling eyes. Making contact could allow his darkness to penetrate my shields and defenses. I sensed the magnitude of his power as an adept black magician.

  Every muscle in my body tensed as the specter of fear gripped my psyche. A knot like a clenched fist tightened in the pit of my stomach, turning into nausea, as my body was repulsed by the dark force emanating from this man. Time stood still as I was overcome by abject bone-chilling terror.

  By the grace of God, I remembered Boris’s teachings on conquering fear. “Fear is the weapon of the Dark Side,” Boris had instructed me. “Transcend your fear with a heart of love.”

  Would I kneel before the altar of evil and give fear the power to control me, or could I summon from my God Self the strength and courage to confront the Darkness? “The power of God’s love is invincible,” the voice of my heart spoke loud and clear. “Trust in God’s love to protect you.”

  Opening my heart, I relaxed and felt the love deep inside. Then, to my amazement, a miracle occurred. Hitler turned to face me and pulled open the front of his trench coat, revealing the truth of his inner being. White light as bright as lightening burst out from within. The radiance of his True Self dazzled my eyes.

  My heart was pounding as I woke up in my barracks. Perhaps the forces of destiny had arranged this encounter with Hitler to occur in a dream state. Until this moment, I had envisioned Hitler as the epitome of darkness personified. How could Hitler radiate light?

  Boris appeared at my bedside, offering his interpretation of my dream and answer to my question.

  “ ‘Light’ and ‘Dark’ are roles we play in the game of life,” he explained. “Our personality masks and the roles we play conceal our true nature. We are the loving essence of our Creator, every one of us.”

  Captain Otto Revisited

  AS THE MONTHS PASSED and turned into years, my heart opened to Captain Otto, and I grew to love him. He was the only man I would come to know with intimacy. Beyond the boundaries of race and war, there was an attunement of souls that drew us together. On the surface we pretended that we were strangers. We played our assigned roles according to the rules. We kept our soul connection a secret, never to be spoken about, even to each other, a secret hidden in the chambers of the heart.

  Knowing this man helped me overcome my prejudice against the Germans. When my conscience questioned the rightness of our union, my inner voice answered, Love your enemies.

&nbs
p; My relationship with Captain Otto lasted for two years, from the ages of fourteen to sixteen. Our meetings took the form of a silent ritual. I was forbidden to speak or make a sound during the sexual act. Countless times I climbed the creaking staircase to his room, drank a cup of tea, and went to his bed. We spoke with our eyes. Due to the bond of our sexual union, I was empathic to his feelings, telepathic to his thoughts.

  One cloudy afternoon, as he opened the door, I sensed a change in his mood. This day he did not want sex. For the first time, he spoke to me. He was seeking a confidant, a sympathetic ear. His voice was laden with emotion as he shared the news that had broken his heart. The hardness of his soldier self melted in the pathos of his grief.

  “My dear Gretchen, my beloved wife, is dead and gone. She was killed during the bombing of Berlin. I have lost my future. She was seven months’ pregnant. This war is a disaster for all sides. When will it end?”

  My eyes turned to her photo in the gilded frame. I looked at her face with sympathy. “I feel she is at peace,” I said kindly. “Be grateful she is no longer suffering. Her spirit is free of the woes of this world.” In this way, I honored the Healer’s Code. I expressed compassion to my enemy. He was vulnerable and human, just like me.

  Months later it was my turn to carry Captain Otto’s child. This child also would not live to take its first breath.

  The Man Who Lived on the Sun

  IT WAS MY GOOD fortune to be born an optimist. Amidst the pain and the sorrow, I saw a silver lining gracing the darkest clouds. In my midnight of despair I turned to the heavens for inspiration. I found solace in the tranquility of sparking starlight and comfort in the healing rays of the sun.