Survival

by M. Ben Yanay

  The danger was clear and present. The patrol commander immediately issued the order to shoot the attacking Tuaregs. They killed three of them and wounded one of the horses, thereby halting the charge. The remaining warriors retreated somewhat, remaining on their horses and keeping a distance of fifty paces from the legionnaires. They convened to plan their next move, still waving and shouting. They were no doubt debating what they should do next, whether to attack the unit or share the well. While the Berbers continued their heated debate, the legionnaires lay on the scorching sand, waiting.

  Everything calmed down after a long while. Three Tuaregs dismounted and approached the soldiers on foot, two in front and one from behind. They aimed their long rifles at the legionnaires. Four warriors kept watch from behind. Janos saw the three Tuaregs approaching and tightened his grip on his own rifle.

  The Tuaregs stopped when they reached twenty paces away. Janos raised his head and looked round.

  “Don’t shoot,” whispered the commander.

  Two of the Tuaregs moved sideways, one to the right, the other to the left. The third marched forward, waving his rifle. He displayed a white rag. He pointed at the bodies of three of his men as if asking to clear them from the scene. The sergeant gestured his approval. The Berbers quickly turned toward the bodies and began dragging them away toward the horses.

  The commanding sergeant ordered the men to wait and lay back. Janos breathed a sigh of relief. Once the Tuaregs disappeared from sight, one of the soldiers, a German volunteer called Hans, shouted, “Death to the Tuareg people!” That same moment, a shot came from the adjacent sand dune, hitting him in the head. Hans fell face-forward.

  The soldiers began firing at the dune, without awaiting orders.

  The sergeant realized the shot came from a single sniper who had positioned himself at the top of the dune and hidden extremely well. There was no point wasting precious ammo.

  The soldiers remained on the burning slope of sand. The sun was merciless. Their bodies ached from the blazing rays and the scorching earth. Their tin water cans tied around their waists were boiling. Janos and his mates craved to drink, but the commanding sergeant forbade it.

  They heard the Tuaregs and their horses from afar. There was no telling what their move would be.

  The sergeant rose, and in a bold decision, he pulled his cap behind and said, “Stay back. I want to make sure the sniper is gone.”

  Janos was horrified, his heart leaped with terror. He felt each moment beating in his temple. It felt like nails driving further into his head.

  The sergeant bent over and said, “I saw a horseman approaching the well in a rapid gallop. We’d better stay here and not draw any attention to ourselves.” He sounded concerned.

  Janos’s anxiety grew stronger. His head hurt, his mouth was full of sand, and his throat was dry. “Did you see a Tuareg rider?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

  “I think so, he had a black abaya [Berber cape complete with headdress, also worn by men and women throughout the Muslim world]” replied the sergeant.

  The Tuaregs’ shouting grew into loud outcries.

  “Perhaps it’s a stunt designed to raise our curiosity and tempt us to draw near and be discovered,” said one of the soldiers.

  “Let’s wait and see,” replied the commanding sergeant.

  *

  Shouts came from behind the dune, “Yallah! Yallah!” and then came the sound of the horses beating the desert sands, raising clouds of dirt and dust in their wake. The dust screen dispersed as the sound of the horses died down. The commander rose to his knees. “I think they’re gone now. We’re staying here, hiding it out.”

  Janos crawled toward him and whispered. “Sir, the horseman may have been on the lookout. Perhaps he has come to warn them.” The effort it took to utter the words put an almost unbearable strain on his breath, hurting his already sore throat.

  The soldiers were lying in the sand, some on the verge of collapse. Janos tried to collect some spit and lubricate his throat. He tried to envisage a ripe pear, but could not pull it off. As much as he tried to picture the ripe fruit, he could not recall its actual image. His brain was no longer up to the task of transmitting the image to his eyes. He batted his eyes and choked time and again.

  Suddenly they heard someone shout, “The army’s here, the army has come.”

  Janos rose to his feet with his very last breath, leaning on his rifle, whose butt was deep in the sand. They saw cars along the road, the sound of their running engines amid the desert silence reminding them of humming bees.

  “You can drink now,” the commanding sergeant ordered them. He drank from his tin water tank, pouring straight into his mouth. They all followed suit.

  Five armored vehicles approached them, turning toward the well. Janos and his fellow soldiers advanced toward them slowly. Hans’s body remained behind. No one minded it.

  The armored cars stopped by the well. A few armed soldiers jumped out, holding their rifles. They looked around, surveyed the area, and shouted to the others the coast was clear or something to that effect. Janos did not recall their exact words. He struggled with the deep sand and made his way to the well. When he finally arrived, he rolled the bucket down, then raised it and poured the water all over himself. Revived by the cold water, he could now feel his blood flowing and his entire body waking. He moved his limbs and rolled the bucket back down. One of his comrades sat next to him and grabbed hold of the rope. He pulled it back up and poured its contents on himself, as Janos did. Everyone else followed suit, down to the last man. Then, the sergeant held the full bucket over his head and cried out, “Au secours!” [French: Help!] After letting the water pour, he waved his hands about. Smiling, he added, “What a good shower” in a satisfied voice. He then went over to speak with the convoy’s commander who was standing by one of the armored vehicles, speaking to his men.

  The convoy of armored cars had been making its way from Oran to Timbuktu. One of the cars was carrying expensive cargo, which was to remain unknown. The other four secured the cargo.

  The commanding sergeant reported the severe incident to the convoy commander, whose Burnside mustache reached his earlobes. In the meantime, Janos and the other patrol soldiers sat motionless next to the well, under the date palms. Shortly after that, they heard crows and saw black spots in the sky above them.

  The soldiers in the armored convey said their goodbyes and moved on. Once the patrolmen regained their strength somewhat and filled their water cans, the commander issued the order to hit the road. He led the single file in stride and forced them to match his speed. They reached their fort by dusk. Yet another day passed, dying out into the abyss.

  *

  “I’ve never recounted this day to anyone,” Janos told Bob. “I think I was the one who hit one of the Tuaregs. I saw the bullet flying out of my rifle, hovering rapidly in the air and disappearing into the guy’s chest. I then saw the Tuareg falling from his horse. I never thought about it until now, but I remember the sight vividly.”

  19. Final Days at Camp

  Strasshof Camp, some twenty-one kilometers [thirteen miles] from heavily bombarded Vienna, was the sight of quite a few strange goings-on this past week. A group of Jewish prisoners arrived. They were unfamiliar to Terry, and said they were taken from Strasshof by train, but the train and railroad were bombed, so the guards ran away, leaving them behind. Consequently, they decided to make their way back to camp on foot.

  Terry also learned from them that they, too, were in the large Debrecen ghetto and were taken to the brick factory. From there, they were taken to Strasshof, where they had been interned until they were sent by train to Vienna. The group was nearly one hundred people, families and children, whose train car was spared in the bombing.

  The morning after their arrival, Terry befriended one of the women, a mother of two grown girls. The woman, Elinka, and her two daughters, Klari and Eva, joined Terry as she roamed outside the camp. While they were on their way to seek foo
d in the thawing fields, Elinka told her they worked as part of a team in a building called Floridasdorf, situated in Area 21 in Vienna. They told Terry Vienna was constantly being bombed, so their task was to clear the wreckage, sift through the broken bricks from the roof tiles that remained intact, and pile everything up to be reused for construction. When the Russian shelling intensified, they were ordered to pick up their belongings and board the train bound for Theresienstadt, in Nazi-occupied Czechoslovakia. This was a new camp, where—so their guards told them—there would be work and food on a daily basis. All these promises vanished along with the remains of the blown up train.

  Terry was confused. If the Russians were on the offensive, that meant the Germans were under attack, and if so, then why would they want to transfer Elinka and the rest to Czechoslovakia? What did it mean? And what would happen now? But Elinka had no answers for her.

  They spent the day steeped in the muddy potato field and returned to camp that afternoon with plenty of supplies. The camp looked the same as it did when they left it that morning, except that the few remaining German guards who patrolled the fence were no longer to be seen.

  “They ran away, I’m telling you,” Elinka told Terry. “The Russians are getting close, I’m sure of that.”

  Terry rushed over to the boys. Sandor and Andre waited for her by the shed.

  “Mom, they’re saying the guards took off,” Andre called out to her.

  She found the news unsettling. “We’ll wait for someone to tell us what to do.”

  Her fears of the unknown mixed with the jubilation of hope. Perhaps the war really is over, perhaps there’s no point waiting for instructions, and all I have to do is simply venture out on foot with the kids in the direction of Vienna. The train station and the tracks led there. It’s possible. After all, Elinka and her daughters came from there, with news about the Russian advance. On the other hand, maybe it’s better to wait for them to arrive here in Strasshof. She kept her thoughts to herself and entered the shed.

  “The fields have thawed,” she announced. “Those who are physically able should get up and gather potatoes. I brought a large pile, but they won’t be enough for everyone.”

  Blank eyes stared back at her from the bunk beds. Everyone there was suffering from malnutrition. The kids, whose stomachs were swollen from hunger, lay there motionless. The adults huddled frail and exhausted along the walls.

  “The Germans are gone!” she reported, loudly. No one responded; not so much as a word or gesture. It seemed all hope was lost. Her words could not revive them.

  Terry went out to the yard and sent the children to gather twigs as she went to fetch water to fill the pot. She then sat and began to clean the mud off her feet and shoes. Until now, her shoes served her well and protected her feet. But one of the soles gave in to the dampness and came loose. She recalled Weiss Bácsi [Uncle Weiss], the old cobbler whose shop was on Nagy Street, right next to the synagogue.

  There was also a cobbler in her own native village of Korush. She could not recall his name, but she could still imagine the little house where he sat, slaving over his desk. It was a house with a heavy wooden door and geranium bushes in the yard, right next to white houses with thatched roofs.

  Back at her parents’ house, geraniums grew only in the pots on the windowsill on the only window that faced east. Their yard was strictly for their farm animals. She could hear the sound of the aggressive geese that had taken command of the yard. She smiled to herself. As though in a dream, she could see cackling geese and hens, along with yellow chicks running about.

  She gathered the pile of potatoes and put four of them into the pot. Back in the day, when she was still a child, she was responsible for feeding the sow they kept in the pen after giving birth to a pair of cute little pink piglets. Piles of potatoes had served as the sow’s primary food when she nursed her piglets. Terry remembered standing by the pen, watching the mother sow nursing her young. She recalled how she used to clean the pen, clear out the trash, and sweep it. Her thoughts then wandered into the house, to the iron stove that ran on the blocks of chopped wood she and her sisters used to gather on the outskirts of the large forest, where the woodchucks used to leave scraps of wood. Terry could now smell the baking bread and feel the soft touch of warm winter linen. The images from home focused on the large wooden table. They used to dine from large porcelain bowls filled with her mother’s boiling vegetable soup.

  Now, Terry covered the pot and called the boys. “We will eat soon. It’s been a while since we had such a delicious meal.”

  She rolled the potatoes on the ground and spilled the water.

  “If the war ends soon,” she said, “we’ll sit and eat at a table again. We will have chairs to sit on and plates…”

  “Will Father be with us too?” asked Sandor.

  Her eyes filled with tears. She replied in a cracked voice, “Your father will sit at the head of the table. He will serve the bread, and I’ll dip it in fat and give you the slices, all dripping with it. You’ll have delicious soup each day for breakfast, lunch and supper. I’ll also make you eggs and noodles. I’ll spread sugar and raisins on Andre’s noodle plate, and yours, I’ll mix it with your favorite plum jam. I promise you that’s the way it’s going to be.”

  Sandor looked at her with eyes wide open. He bit into his potato ravenously. “That’ll be great, Mom, but when?”

  She began to cultivate some obscure hope. “After we meet Dad, after the Russians come, after the war, perhaps as early as next week. I spoke with this lady, Elinka, who told me the Germans are fleeing and the Russians are closer than ever.”

  If only I wings, she thought. I would fly to one of the treetops and watch the fleeing Germans. I would watch the Russians approaching with their armored cars. If only I had wings, I would take you with my wings and set off to find your father. We haven’t seen him in four years. He has never come to visit. I have no clue where he might be. He’s alive, of that I’m certain. He is not a man to give in to death. We shall fly over the camps until we find him.

  She got up to fill the pot with water. She once again filled it with four potatoes and patiently waited for the water to boil. We’ll give this portion to Zoltan’s twins. They’ve been in such a poor state ever since their father died.

  “If only I had wings,” she said out loud, “I’d fly up to heaven and tell their dad his children are still alive and that I’m looking after them.”

  “Where is this place you speak of?” asked Andre.

  “It’s very high up in heaven. The dead live there. Only birds and airplanes can get there.”

  Andre burst into tears. “I don’t want you to go to heaven. I don’t want you to fly. I’m afraid to be all alone.”

  “I’ll fly with you,” she said as she hugged him. “I’ll never leave you.”

  “So how can you be a bird?” he asked, weeping in her arms. “Who’s going to make you wings and a beak?”

  “I can’t be a bird. I only said ‘If only I had wings,’ that’s imaginary, make-believe. It’s only a wish, like a dream when you’re sleeping.”

  Terry stuck her knife into the potato in the bubbling foam. I will soon bring the boiled potatoes to Tibi and Shulman. Those poor little orphans. She knew their father at Strasshof. He told her his wife had died of pneumonia back in the ghetto. They lived in the small Debrecen ghetto where she was buried, too. Zoltan himself was already ill when they arrived in Strasshof. He somehow managed to hold on for a few weeks, until he collapsed at the slaughterhouse and was brought to the shed in a wheelbarrow. He had a high fever and died that very night, both his sons lying next to him on the mattress. Ever since, she watched over them. They were the same age as Sandor and worked alongside him in the sewing factory. They used to collect the occasional scraps of food together with Sandor and showed their gratitude when she cooked those blood omelets for them.

  *

  The camp guards used to go on patrol in the evenings. That evening, there was no one to
be seen throughout the camp. Darkness engulfed the sheds and all the scrawny people inside. There were a few whispers here and there. Who could believe skeletons could talk? Terry thought. She wrapped herself in her woolen blanket, deciding she would cut out a band from it and use it to wrap her torn shoe. She dozed off, her mind drifting to her conversation with her children. “Your dad will sit at the head of the table,” she told them, for this is what she wanted to believe. Just like in the good old days, the way things should be in an orderly world where families live at home and have a warm meal together. Her back shook. She arched it, brought her knees closer to her belly and sat down.

  What was I talking about with the kids? She tried to recollect. I said I’d never leave them. Perhaps that was a mistake. I should bring them to my parents’ house and then set out to find Janos. There, they will be able to help out their grandma to tend the vegetable garden in the mornings, as well as feed the animals. They’ll be able to take the geese out to the fields. I will not have them attend the Catholic school at New Korush. They shall not go to school until I come back for them with Janos. They will work with my father in the afternoons. She, too, worked with him when she was young and learned to make wicker baskets. The boys will help their grandpa pick the materials and dry them off in the shed. Perhaps they’ll even help him sell the baskets on market day. The sight of New Korush, a little town turned regional hub complete with power lines and running water, incurred her jealousy. In her own village, people still used oil lamps and drew water from the well. Nothing but a stylish metal bridge separated the village—still set in its medieval ways—and the town. She used to watch the new buildings from her yard, which was right by the flowing stream. Everything was within a very short distance, the post office, state school, police station, department store, train station and railroad, where train cars came and went out into the world she never knew. Those days saw construction begin on the new high school, as well as the completion of a road across town. They will have plenty of things to do by the time I get back, she thought to herself before closing her eyes. She fell asleep in an awkward position, feeling funny. Her scrawny arms fell heavily along either side of her body. As she tried to move them, she discovered how taxing it was. She let go without having meant to and then felt her arms rising, suddenly bursting out through the roof. Her body flew in the air with the greatest of ease. Her neck stretched forward, and she could feel the breeze hitting her face. Am I really flying? she asked herself, looking down at the black roofs merging into one black blurry shape.