by Tarra Light
In the topsy-turvy upheaval of war, my psyche craved order and stability. In spite of the uncertainties of daily living, I could depend on the sun to bring the morning light. The predictable path of the sun across the sky reassured me of the unfailing laws of nature. The sun was symbolic of hope and the sustenance of life.
To honor the sun, I saluted the dawn. I gave thanks for the promise of the new day and of all brave tomorrows. I envisioned a future when war would end and all people would be free. I prayed for peace among the nations and for the brotherhood of men.
Fantasy was a treasured tool in my arsenal for survival. I created a mental oasis to replenish my soul, an inner sanctuary of renewal. It was my retreat from the madness and horror of my days. I imagined a fat jovial man who lived on the sun. When the sun man woke up, he laughed so loud that the roar of his laughter chased away the darkness and scattered the cobwebs of the night. He sent his golden rays as ambassadors of hope to the people of Earth.
Survival
LIKE MEDICS ON THE frontline of battle, the sisters of our healing team risked their lives. As their leader I was responsible for making on-the-spot decisions. My psychic abilities helped me sense how people around me were feeling and reacting. By necessity I was one step ahead of everyone else, anticipating what was going to happen next.
I developed a practice of careful observation, paying close attention to the attitudes and dispositions of my comrades. I had learned the art of attention as a little girl spending the day at the shoe shop, watching my father interact with customers. From him I learned to read people’s characters and to respect the uniqueness of each person.
My mother was clairvoyant. From her I learned to see through the masks of personality and to recognize the light of the soul. These practices of observation and discernment became part of my arsenal of survival tools. My intuitive grasp of the human psyche helped me make fast and accurate decisions in dangerous situations.
Attitudes and beliefs about life either enhanced a person’s ability to survive or hastened their death. The prisoners at Auschwitz questioned the will of God. “Has God abandoned us?” they asked. “Is there justice in the world? What have I done to deserve this? Why us? Why me?” Their answers to these questions shaped their beliefs about the meaning of life. Sanity was a lifeboat tossed about on a sea of troubles. Their attitudes about life either added ballast to the boat or poked holes in the hull so it would slowly sink.
Positive beliefs about the purpose of living helped the mind cope with reality. The will is empowered by a sense of life purpose. The combination of a strong will and a positive mental attitude vitalize the immune system. Those lacking inner power would succumb more readily to disease and starvation, and they were more prone to accidents.
The Meaning of Life
MY CHILDHOOD BELIEFS ABOUT the meaning of life were shattered that fateful day when I was taken prisoner. The world I had known no longer existed.
Growing up under the protective wing of my parents, basking in the glow of their love, I felt safe and secure. My family life was my bedrock of stability. Life was predictable. My definitions of life gave my mind a sense of order. Every belief had a box to contain it, and a label to identify it. All of the boxes were stacked neatly on the shelves of my mind.
The steady pulse of village life contrasted with the shocks and jolts at Auschwitz. Here the rhythm of life was erratic. My life could end at any moment. Events occurred with no warning. A comrade would be taken from our midst, never to be seen again. Or she would return to the camp, covered with blood, bruised, and beaten. Perhaps one of the male prisoners had insulted a guard. Perhaps a woman had resisted the sexual overtures of a higher-up in the Nazi chain of command. The frustration of a guard or the whim of an officer was all that was needed for a person to be killed.
A higher knowing helped me to rise above. The light of inspiration helped me see through the darkness at Auschwitz.
Hunger
STANDING IN LINE HOLDING my metal cup and bowl, I looked forward to the morning gruel and stale bread. The thought of warm porridge was comforting to my battered psyche. It warmed my insides and made me feel strong.
Like a squirrel chewing on a nut, I gnawed on the hard bread. I tore off small pieces of crust, wrapped them in a handkerchief, and put them in my pocket. When I needed energy later in the day, I was able to suck on these dry crusts. On those days when there was more to eat, I stashed the dry bread in my secret hiding place next to my stones and feathers. My body hurt all over from the aches and pangs of hunger. When I was helping others, the pain went away.
Waking Up
I CAN’T GO ON. I can’t go on, I thought every morning before opening my eyes. I cannot make it through one more day. My body was tired. I ached all over. I was covered with sores and bruises from beatings. I was hungry, always hungry. How will I survive this day? I wondered. How many more mornings before I reach the end of my days?
“Father God,” I prayed, “Please give me the strength to carry on.” I hung on by a thread of hope, by the power of my faith, by the force of my commitment.
As I opened my eyes, I looked around the room at the faces of the women I shared my life with. Then I knew why I was here. I loved these women dearly. I was willing to give my life to save any one of them. With true love there is no sacrifice. A sense of purpose flowed through my veins and filled my heart with courage. My life did not belong to me: I lived my life for the world.
The Collective
FENCED IN BEHIND BARBED wire, we lived in a cage, like barnyard animals, like cattle and swine. We were tethered and harnessed like beasts of burden as slaves of the Nazi war machine to man the factories and farms.
My animal instincts warned me of danger. My senses were keen and alert. Adrenalin gave me endurance. It was the body’s survival drug.
I was living among thousands of prisoners, not all of them Jews. Among us there were gypsies, communists, and intellectuals, as well as homosexuals and shamans, labeled either “enemies of the state” or “subhuman.” The policy of genocide went beyond race and religion. It applied to all those deemed inferior and considered a threat to keeping the bloodline pure.
Like a flock of birds or a herd of horses, we shared a group mind as a collective. Because we connected to each other at the gut level, we felt what others were feeling. A person in one section of the camp could sense what was happening in another quarter, far beyond the range of physical sight and hearing.
These were my people. We dreamed the same dreams and we feared the same fears. Daily I faced the temptation to merge with the group, so strong was the bond with my comrades. Then I heard Boris whispering in my ear, “Natasza, you are not like the others. Rise above. Rise above. Keep your head above the crowd.” His words strengthened my resolve not to be pulled down by the pervading moods of terror, grief, and despair. With Boris’s guidance I was able to attune to the group mind of the collective, yet not be controlled by it.
I thought to myself, Our bodies are prisoners, but our spirits are free. Our captors are prisoners of their beliefs. Perhaps their cages are just harder to see.
Slave Labor
THE GESTAPO ESTABLISHED THE rules and policies for the concentration camps. Although the primary function of the camps was genocide, they also served the Reich in a variety of ways. Prisoners were used as guinea pigs for medical experimentation. They became a human resource of slave labor to manufacture munitions and the implements of war.
Personal servants and the favorites of the officers received special favors, including more food to eat. At times they even received medical attention, whereas the rest of the prisoners were left untreated.
If a slave laborer did not produce as expected, he or she was considered expendable. Factory workers were killed for not meeting production quotas. Farm laborers were shot on location for lagging in the fields.
There was an endless demand for slaves to do the work of the state. With millions of Jewish people living in Europe, there
was an inexhaustible supply of workers to replace the Jews put to death.
Redemption through Suffering
A HEAVY CLOUD OF ANGST hung low over the camp, a weight bearing down on the psyche. I walked about the yard, passing through crowds of suffering comrades. Looking into their eyes, I felt the pain of their sorrow, grief, and despair. Because of my empathic nature, I sensed the mood of the collective—somber and fearful, yet with a glimmer of hope.
Centuries of persecution had imprinted the psyche of the Jewish people with beliefs about life and the nature of reality. A scar on the consciousness that was unable to heal, these attributes were passed from generation to generation. The history of a race is recorded in the genetic code. The DNA contains subconscious programming for attitudes and emotional tendencies.
As I observed the behavior of my comrades, I noticed thinking patterns and emotional responses that seemed to predominate in Jewish people. On the negative side, I identified guilt, worry (especially among women), and distrust of non-Jews. On the positive side, I recognized intellectual prowess, creativity, and a sense of humor. A full measure of suffering in one’s life was believed necessary to shape a person’s character. The experience of suffering was used to define oneself. Purification through pain was the means to expiate guilt and atone for past offenses.
Through the crucible of suffering, we are redeemed in the eyes of God. Through the experience of pain, we are transmuted into our diamond selves.
Men
ON ORDERS FROM SERGEANT Kroger, I walked through the men’s quarters of the camp. Groups of men lingered in the dusty yard. As I made my way through the crowd I passed by a triad of men, intently engaged in conversation, recounting memories of the lives they had left behind. I heard the intonation of their voices, deep and sorrowful, as they told their stories with heartfelt woe.
One voice caught my attention. I saw a frail old man speaking to the others. His words were deliberate and succinct, punctuated by moments of silence. I turned to look at the face of the old man. “Oh, my God!” I gasped. It was my Uncle Jacob! I dared not speak nor make my presence known. I must move on, and quietly so, I thought.
My heart was bursting with excitement as I arrived back at barracks 12. “Old Mother,” I cried. “I just saw my Uncle Jacob. He is alive!”
Her eyes brightened on hearing the good news. She reached out her hands to hold both of mine. Her tender smile and loving touch calmed my racing heart. I told Old Mother about that fateful day at Uncle Jacob’s farm. “I discovered my gift of hands-on healing,” I exclaimed. “A talking bird told me, ‘Rise above.’ ”
Then I remembered the faces of all the men I had seen today. While my heart felt compassion for the men of Auschwitz, most men seemed to be a different kind of creature than women and girls. The iron men were the aggressors, the destroyers. The women were the victims of the brute force of the men. It was the duty of the women to be the caretakers and the healers, to teach humanity about peace and love.
“Old Mother,” I asked, “How can I love the men of this world? How could I ever marry one of them?”
“God has a plan for the sexes,” she answered. “Within every woman, God planted a male seed. Within every man, God planted a female seed. Each contains the kernel of its opposite. When you are able to love the male part of yourself, then you can love the men of this world.” Thus spoke the wise woman about men and women.
PART SIX
Debates with the Commandant
Expectancy
THE SUN WAS A blazing ball of fire high in the summer sky. Sitting in the cool shade of my barracks, I observed the comings and goings of wasps from their mud nest under the eaves. The constant hum of buzzing wings seemed particularly loud and tempestuous.
Even the crows were restless, flying helter-skelter, this way and that, crosshatching the sky. There was a feeling of unease, a sense of foreboding that overshadowed the camp. Just as the creatures of the wild instinctively sense danger before a storm, the group mind of the collective was on alert. The crows were cawing and squawking, making lots of noise. They assembled into a V formation with nine crows pointing west.
The Massacre
SPURTS OF MACHINE GUN fire rang out and echoed through the camp. People fled in all directions, scrambling to escape the bullets of doom. The screaming, the sobbing, the horror. People gasped and fell dead in their tracks. Shockwaves of terror rocked everyone.
Hiding in the shadow of the barracks wall, I quickly surveyed the scene of the carnage. Bodies were piled in heaps. Only a few were breathing. Rivers of blood ran into pools, saturating the ground. With the power of intention, I created a DNA-specific shield. It enabled my Jewish comrades to see me, but I remained invisible to all others. Then I hid myself amid the pile of bodies, and tried to remain calm. Blood drizzled over me, covering me like a warm blanket. I did what I could to stop the bleeding, to lessen the pain. As I opened my heart, the flow of healing energy became stronger. The greater the love, the more powerful the healing.
I was in a state of constant prayer as I ministered to the dying. A man asked me to bless his soul. A child wept in my arms. Beside the child lay the twisted body of a girl. “Oh, my God!” My mind screamed. It was Jezra! In that instant my protective shield shattered like glass. A guard spotted me and leaped onto the heap of bodies. As I reached out my arms to hold my soul sister, he ripped me from my dear friend and threw me to the ground.
“We’ve got you now, fearless rebel,” he snarled at me. “We know who you are. You have been caught in direct defiance of official orders. Commandant Schuller has been expecting you.”
Debates with the Commandant
A Toast
THE SKY TURNED BLOOD-RED as the sun set and sank into oblivion.
Two guards grabbed me. One walking in front of me, the other walking behind me, the three of us went to meet the Commandant. I looked down at my bare feet as they stirred up the dust. I had dared to walk the path of Light in the shadow of the Reich. Now my moment of truth was at hand. Was I ready to confront a commander of the forces of Darkness?
We came to a row of three one-story concrete buildings bordering a dirt road. The middle one was camp headquarters, the office of Herr Commandant. The guard knocked on the door, then beckoned for us to enter.
Heinrich Schuller sat behind a big desk, reclining in a black leather armchair. His sharp-heeled black boots rested on the corner of his desk. His face was long with a high brow. His hair was straight and shiny black. Dismissing the guards, he ordered his servant, an SS corporal, to draw the drapes to shut out the light. Then he lit a cigarette extending from an elegant silver holder.
“Aha, rebel child, we meet at last,” he taunted.
I hesitated for a moment, as I wanted to assess his character. My father had taught me how to read a person’s character while measuring the size of his shoes. He had an aura of intellectual arrogance, of the prowess of the mind. He was eager to begin our duel of words, confident that he would win. It was part of our agreement, so this story could be told.
He had the power of the Reich behind him, the authority to judge and condemn. He could put to death those who uphold the Truth, but he had no power over Truth. The Truth itself is invincible. The Truth cannot be moved. The Truth is indestructible and immutable. The Truth is forever free.
“Be my guest, Natasza.” His tone was friendly. He pointed to a silver tray of chocolates. Then he poured schnapps into two waiting glasses and handed one to me. “A toast,” he proposed. Then he stood up and tapped the bowl of his glass against mine. The clink reminded me of the clinking of the heels of the boots of the iron men.
“To world domination,” he said. “Heil Hitler!”
“To Freedom!” I countered. “May all people be free.”
He drank his schnapps and then poured another glass. I reached for a sweet. Candy was a fantasy for the children of the Holocaust. As I sucked on the candy, I looked around the room. Where is Boris when I need him most? I wondered. I supposed
he wanted me to find my inner strength, without depending on him to rescue me. I looked back at the Commandant. How shall I relate to this ambassador from hell? I asked myself. To my surprise, the ghostly form of Boris coalesced in front of me.
“Have you forgotten my teaching?” he scolded. “Realize that Herr Schuller is not the enemy. There is only one enemy, which lies within the self. That enemy is ignorance: ignorance of love, ignorance of the Truth.”
As I pondered the words of my mentor, I reached for another square of chocolate. I must not stand in judgment of this man, I realized. Even those we call evil are the children of God.
The Truth Is Whole
Schuller gestured for me to sit down in a wooden chair by the window. As I sat, my mind raced forward. I must devise a plan of action, a strategy of confrontation, I told myself. I see that we are about to play a game of mental chess. I must take the offense and make the first move. That will give me an advantage. If I can checkmate the Commandant, I can save my life. I got up from my chair and stood up as straight and tall as I could. I wanted to look big and powerful. Like a proud red rooster, I puffed up my feathers.
“Who dares to act as the arbiter of Truth?” I asked, daring to challenge his authority. Then, locking my eyes onto his, I drew Archangel Michael’s Sword of Truth. Holding it above my head, I boldly stepped forward in front of his desk, confronting him face to face. As I lowered the sword and pointed it toward him, sparks of blue fire spat out from the blade.