Outcasts

by Susan M. Papp

  Among all the poetry, storytelling, and singing they all shared, Hedy's favourite piece was Sandor Petofi's "A Rab" ("The Captive").

  I battle for you, freedom

  My arms and legs in chains.

  Light, I crave after you

  As a mole, existing underground.

  When will freedom's hour strike?

  When will the happy hour be

  When I breathe from freedom's air again

  And you will shine on me, oh bright sunshine?

  And hope sustains him that he will someday be free

  Despite the time that marks half his life

  Hope that the other half of his life

  Will be spent in sweet freedom.

  But each time she recited it, anyone who heard it was in tears - the poem reminded them so much of their own situation and how they had to somehow gather the strength to survive. At the end of the poem, after so many years of hoping, craving after freedom, just as they remove the shackles and unlock the prison cell, the captive dies of a broken heart.

  Despite the tragic end of the poem, everyone kept begging that Hedy recite it, over and over again. She became convinced that reciting a brilliant piece of poetry or discussing a classic work of fiction brought their intelligence to the forefront and reminded them that they were still thinking, feeling human beings. The storytelling sessions kept their humanity intact.

  The singing and poetry also seemed to transport her back to Nagyszollos and her mind became full of memories of Tibor. She still saw his face clearly in her mind's eye, his deep, emotion-filled, brown eyes, so full of love the last time she saw him. But the memories evaporated once she looked down at her dress, felt her hairless head, or smelled the putrid air around her.

  Blokkova was the title of the prisoner in charge in the female barracks. In their barracks it was mainly Jewish women from Slovakia who were in these positions of power - they supervised the newly arrived Hungarian Jewish women. Hedy and Aliz quickly learned to avoid the cruel ones, those who meted out harsh punishments for no reason and were consistently looking for new ways to taunt them, verbally and physically. Although they knew exactly what it felt like to arrive to this place and be stripped, shaved, and humiliated, they seemed to have nothing but disdain for the newly arrived group. They spewed an endless litany of cruel, disparaging remarks.

  "Why are you crying? Do you want your mama? Well she's not here and no one else is going to help you get out of here." The Slovak women arrived almost two years before the Hungarians, which seemed to be another reason for their deep resentment and hatred.

  "You were still dancing and sleeping in comfortable beds at home when we were already dying in here!"

  One Slovak Jewish blokkova named Judit was an exception; she treated them with kindness. Of average height and weight, with an oval face and deep brown eyes, Judit looked plain, but she had a lovely cream complexion and a kind demeanour that intimated a background of education and civility. She didn't yell or scream like the others, but when she spoke, she did so with an authoritative voice and commanded respect. Judit was one of the few who protected and cared for the women in her barracks. It was only later that Hedy and Aliz realized how her invaluable instructions saved their lives on more than one occasion, especially in times of the selections.

  The word selections itself evoked dread, and was mentioned only in whispered tones; it was synonymous with annihilation. These selections were usually quite arbitrary, and no one knew when they were coming, or who was targeted, or on what basis they would be selected. Everyone understood that those selected or sorted out were automatically sent to the gas chamber.

  On one occasion, when the inmates from every other block were outside of their barracks, Judit imposed blokk sperre, or lockdown, for no apparent reason, forcing all the women to stay incarcerated in their barracks for many hours. It was only later, when they were released, that they learned that, while they were confined to their barracks, SS officers had implemented such a dreaded sorting.

  When no advanced warning came of the sorting, and Judit was unable to lock them inside the barracks for their own protection, she coached them on how to avoid getting selected.

  "Hold your skirts above your knees and show them a bit of thigh - that way it won't be as obvious that you've lost a lot of weight. They will be too busy looking at your legs. Act like young, energetic women," she cautioned them. "Run, don't walk. Run so fast that Mengele won't have a chance to pick you. Pinch your cheeks. Smile!"

  Judit coached them on how to run like a pack of gazelles, protecting each other from being selected. She organized the group so that the youngest, most agile would sprint on the outside, thereby protecting the weaker, thinner, older on the inside.

  When camp commanders asked for volunteers for work brigades, the inmates frequently had no idea whether it was to go to work, or be sent to the gas chamber. It was a life and death lottery. Sometimes members of the work brigade received a bit more food, sometimes they didn't.

  By the fall Hedy and Aliz were assigned to a work brigade that went to construct a drainage ditch to the Vistula River. It was back-breaking, exhausting work and their daily rations were not increased, but by working Hedy and Aliz hoped that their chances of survival would probably be better than if they stayed in the barracks. Each morning, as they walked down the Lagerstrasse to be led out of the camp, Suti and Kapo Dzeidjic walked along the inside the fence, saying goodbye, in effect escorting them as they headed off to work. Dzeidjic and Suti stayed at the fence as long as they were within sight of Hedy and Aliz. No matter how exhausted they were in the morning, the two sisters acted energetic, and smiled and waved at the two of them, comforted by the fact that Suti also had someone looking out for him.

  BUT THE FEELING OF being protected melted away for Suti one day in September when a sudden selection was implemented, targeting the younger teenaged boys. Those who were under the designated height were selected out. Dr. Mengele was there, personally supervising this selection. It was a quick movement of his finger that was the final arbiter of life and death.

  Before Suti could fully comprehend what was happening around him, he had been selected, along with many hundreds of others. Suti and the others were taken to empty barracks, where they were locked up. Emptying barracks for a specific reason took a matter of minutes: the guards simply entered and ordered everyone out.

  The young boys and teenagers knew instinctively that this meant the end. The next step was inevitably the gas chamber.

  Suti was shocked and dazed. Everything had taken place with such incredible speed. His protector, Dzeidjic, wasn't around when the selection took place. No one from the Dzeidjic group saw Suti being taken away. It would be hours before his sisters would return from their day labour on the Vistula River.

  The barracks were packed with hundreds of boys. Suti looked around and estimated there were at least 699 boys - he being the seven hundredth.

  It was the eve of Yom Kippur 1944, the Day of Atonement, the holiest of all Jewish religious holidays. Some of the boys began to recite the Kol Nidre - the prayer of contrition and consolation that is the climax of the holy service. The prayer spread through the group. Within minutes, they were all praying together. All except one.

  Suti couldn't and wouldn't pray to a God who he believed had abandoned all of them. God did not exist. Ever since the day when he howled at the heavens, soon after entering Auschwitz, he relinquished his faith in God.

  The others saw Suti's atheism as the cause of their own condemnation. Two boys from Nagyszollos - Sanyi Lebovics and Chayim Teitelbaum - challenged Suti. "Why won't you pray with us?" they demanded. "Your arrogance will cost us our lives. It's the Day of Atonement. If you don't pray with us we'll all be condemned!"

  "Szégyeld magad Weisz Sanyi!" (Shame on you Sandor Weisz!)

  Suti was unmoved, simply staring at the door.

  No living boy could convince Suti of the existence of an immortal God.

  This was the scen
e on that eve of Yom Kippur - minutes turning to hours, hundreds of wailing, crying, praying children and teenagers crowded into the cramped corridors of the death barracks, muttering, chanting, whispering psalms and prayers for deliverance. All except one.

  Suti fought his way through the dense crowd, trying to find a place to stand at the nearest point to the entrance so he could see anyone entering or exiting the barracks.

  Trying to fight back the overwhelming feeling of panic that was creeping into his body, Suti saw Janek, one of the men who worked in the brigade run by Kapo Dzeidjic, enter the barracks. Janek headed in the direction of the block altester's room for dinner. He was alone.

  In a panic, Suti yelled to Janek - from about a metre and a half - as loud as he could. "It's me, tell Dzeidjic I'm here! Please tell Kapo Dzeidjic I'm here!"

  Janek looked, recognized Suti, mumbled under his breath that he would tell Dzeidjic, and proceeded into the block altester's room, closing the door behind him. Suti had little choice but to wait patiently while Janek and the other workers ate their dinner. After what seemed like an interminable length of time, the door opened again and Janek came out. Suti whispered (as loudly as he could), "Please don't forget to tell the kapo about me." His heart pounded loudly as the words came out of his mouth. No matter how hard he tried to control it, his voice was quavering.

  When Janek left, Suti hardly noticed the desperate teenagers around him anymore. A numbness descended upon him. There was nothing he could do but wait.

  An hour later, just as Suti convinced himself that all hope was gone, Janek returned with another man. Dzeidjic's assistant never even glanced at Suti as he went directly to the block altester's room once again and closed the door. After a short time, the visitors opened the door and came back out. Janek walked directly toward Suti, pointed to him, and yelled in an angry tone, "You are coming with us, now!"

  The room fell silent and everyone seemed to hold their breath in shock as Suti was grabbed and taken out of the barracks.

  The men took Suti directly to an empty barracks where Dzeidjic was standing in the middle of his small working group. Everyone around him was sitting. Suti looked at Dzeidjic, hardly able to speak. Dzeidjic gave him a steely look, put his finger to his lips as a signal to be quiet, and pointed to the upper bunk at the farthest end of the barracks.

  Suti could barely find the strength to pull himself up the stairs - his legs had been drained of all energy - but he somehow scrambled to safety. There, to his surprise, was a Greek Jew who comforted him by putting his arms around him until he stopped shaking. He began talking to Suti, first by telling the boy his name - Chaim Raphael - then telling him stories in a soothing, comforting tone.

  He sensed by the trembling of the young boy that he had just survived a devastating experience, the seriousness of which the Greek man could only guess at by the length of time it took to calm him.

  To take Suti's mind off the trauma, Chaim Raphael quietly sang Italian folk songs and encouraged him to sing along. After more than an hour of quiet singing, the boy finally stopped trembling.

  Suti later learned the price Dzeidjic had to pay to extricate him from the death barracks: five cans of sardines and twenty U.S. dollars. Such was the appraisal of a single human life at Auschwitz-Birkenau in the autumn of 1944.

  Before dawn, the other children and teenagers were exterminated. All except one.

  chapter 18 | fall 1944

  TIBOR HARDLY SLEPT ANYMORE. His days melted into nights as he tried to get through the seemingly senseless existence he had been living since he last saw Hedy. He lay awake at night wondering where she was, what might have happened to her since they parted. His thoughts were filled with a steady series of self-recriminations. What more could he have done to save his beloved? How could he have enticed her to stay? Why didn't he think of spiriting away the entire family? Tibor knew deep in his heart there was little he could have done other than to get on board that train and go with his fiancée, but the recriminations continued. Each time he replayed the events on the train the night before they were taken away, he felt an additional thrust to his wounded soul.

  The nightly aerial bombardments that could be heard for hundreds of miles did not help. Each member of the household lay in their bed at night, listening for air raid sirens. The steady, rumbling noise of exploding shells from tank turrets and the long guns reverberated through the earth itself. The fighting on the eastern front seemed to grow louder and louder and closer and more deafening with each passing day. It was an ominous, never-ceasing roar that invaded every moment of their lives.

  Each window of their expansive home was covered from the inside with thick, dark-blue paper that completely blocked out the light. The entire town had to be pitch black at night to evade the bombers. The inside of their home, dark both day and night, reflected the mood of its inhabitants. Tibor's mother, Karola, who had until then emanated so much strength in the family, was a broken and utterly depressed woman. She hardly ever came down before noon and sat listlessly in the darkened parlour, seemingly listening to the radio, in the afternoons. Ironically, the grape crop was bountiful that fall but, no matter how often the estate manager came to her with positive news, he was unable to engage Karola in the details of the harvest and the many tasks that lay ahead.

  When he could no longer wait for Karola to make the decisions, the estate manager came to Tibor. Tibor and his younger sister, Picke, helped out as much as they could. Picke volunteered at the local hospital, taking crates of grapes to the sick and injured. Tibor assisted Hunzelizer with the hiring of hundreds of local Rusyn workers. Although Tibor felt the entire charade was ludicrous, "The harvest," as his mother explained in her more coherent moments, "was something that had to be done, especially this year, for appearance's sake. People look to us for leadership in this community," she would insist.

  One day, while Tibor was walking in the fields, he overheard two women who were harvesting grapes talking.

  "You know, when the Russians arrive, this will all be ours," one said.

  "Why would you think that?" the other woman said in an incredulous tone.

  "Because I heard that under communism we will all be equal and the land will be divided equally. Just think how many of us will become landowners if the Ayklers are thrown out!"

  Tibor tried not to listen, tried not to see the dissolution of everything around him. But he knew all was lost. He remembered that, before his little brother, Bela, had gone back to military school in the fall, the boy had saddled a horse and rode around Nagyszollos, through the centre of the town, the estate of the Baron Perenyi, up and down the outlying hills.

  When Bela returned, his mother and Tibor were waiting for him.

  "Where did you go?" Karola had asked her son. "You were gone for so long, I was worried."

  "This is the last time I will ever see this place," Bela had replied. "I just wanted to take one last good look around."

  How pragmatic Bela was, Tibor thought. How realistic. Bela had left for military school in September already knowing the end was near. Yet here was the rest of the family, incapacitated by fear and depression, keeping up shallow appearances, not quite knowing how to prepare for what everyone knew was inevitable.

  Colonel Domokos Aykler came home with increasing frequency now that the front was just beyond the nearest mountain range. Rumours swirled about an impending ceasefire and armistice with the Allies. Romania had switched sides and negotiated an armistice with the Allies in 1944. Hungarians hoped that, like Romania, Hungary would also be able to switch sides and reach an agreement.

  On October 14, Domokos Aykler returned home and, as always, Karola came to life. The first thing she wanted to do when he returned was to retire to the parlour with her husband and talk to him privately about how he was and how things were progressing. But this time, he arrived with a few other officers and Karola could see in his eyes a sort of sad pleading. Domokos has such expressive eyes, Karola thought. She knew what it meant. He was t
elling her he couldn't talk openly in front of these military men and to just be patient a little while longer. She got the message right away. During the simple meal that followed his arrival, Domokos asked his wife to tell the officers how the harvest was progressing. Karola repeated the cheery news of the bountiful harvest and all the details of the work like an automaton. She didn't have to think much about what she was saying - the details of the tasks that needed to be done seemed second nature to her. But when her husband calmly turned to her during the meal and said that tomorrow she should order the slaughter of two pigs, something in his tone of voice made her afraid. Get ready to leave, he was telling her in code.

  After supper, the officers went on their way but Domokos stayed. That night, they lay together in bed, clinging to each other and whispering. This was such a rare moment, when Karola had her husband to herself, but Domokos was completely worn out. He asked her to trust him. He told her that soon, all would be known. Soon. He fell asleep and slept well for the first time in a long time.

  Karola lay beside him and looked at his face. She knew that, ever since he had become head of the press corps, her husband had a stash of pills that he ingested regularly. "They keep me going when the demands of the military require it," was what he said when she asked him what they were for. But the years of popping uppers had started to take a toll on her husband. There were deep crow's feet around his eyes and he smoked incessantly. His beard had turned stark white.

  On October 15, Regent Horthy himself made an important announcement on the radio. The regent declared that Hungary had signed an armistice with the Allies and the Hungarian army would lay down their weapons. The news that everyone had been hoping for had finally come. The family was elated but a bit numb at hearing the good news. After so many years of war, they could hardly believe it. Karola asked Tibor to pour everyone a glass of red wine. But Domokos sat in silence. The nearby crashes of exploding shells and the sounds of the long guns reverberating in the earth continued through the night.