I Have Lived a Thousand Years

by Livia Bitton-Jackson

  The camp is a huge barren enclosure fenced in by barbed wire. Half-built barracks stud the horizon. Deep craters block our advance toward the barracks, and we are ordered to reroute our path around them.

  “Zählappell!” With automatic speed we line up by fives in front of a flat, narrow brick building under construction. No windows or doors. This is our barrack. The entire camp is under construction. Was there water in the barrack? No, there was no water in the barrack. There is no water in the entire camp.

  After Zählappell we are permitted to disperse. News of our arrival has spread like wildfire. Large numbers of young women swarm about us. A mass of faces. A rising tide of clamor—shrieks, shouts, savage exclamations. What are they shouting? What is all the mad excitement about?

  They are all inmates of this camp, brought here weeks ago. All are anxious to meet relatives. Their eagerness is like a mad hunger ready to attack us, to devour us with a passion like the scorching sun. I have not fainted yet. I am standing in the midst of this blinding mad place, in the midst of the blinding sun, the white-hot rising dust, the wild clamor. Yet, I have not fainted. I am standing barefoot, my ankles and toes bleeding, on scorching ground. I need water.

  From the sea of random din, words precipitate and float toward me:

  “Where are you from? What city? What town? Which ghetto? Do you know if Budapest has been liquidated? How about Komárom? How about Dés? Miskolc? Have you heard of Kisvárda? Of Debrecen? Of Szeged? Have you? Have you?”

  “Is there water in this camp? Please. No, I haven’t heard anything about Budapest. I don’t know if Komárom has been liquidated. No, I don’t know of Kisvárda. Or Debrecen … “Where is water?”

  “Where are you from? Which ghetto? Tell us. Tell us, please.”

  “Is there water in your camp? We are from Somorja. Slovakia. Upper Hungary. We don’t know anything about anybody. We have been on the road for over three days, and before that under guard in the ghetto, over a month. We have no information about other places. We arrived this morning. The men were taken away. The elderly. And the children with their mothers … to the other side. That’s all we know. “Where can I get a drink of water?”

  The crowd keeps growing. New faces, eager, expectant faces.

  “Somorja? Upper Hungary? Then you know Guta. Do you know the Weiss family from Guta? The Rosenbaums from Galánta? Do you know the Guttmanns from Surány? Did you see them?”

  “Bubi!”

  The maddening heat. The crowd. The thirst… My God, am I going insane?

  “Bubi!” No, no. I refuse to go mad.

  A pair of brown eyes is peering into my face. “It’s Elli! Look Hindi, it’s Elli. Ellis here! Oh, Ellike!” She holds me tight. “I thought you were Bubi. You look just like him.”

  “But who are you?”

  “Don’t you recognize me? I’m Suri. Suri Schreiber, your cousin.”

  “Suri!” I scream. “And you’re Hindi. My God, you are here, too! When did you get here?”

  “We came a few days ago. Who is with you?”

  “Mommy. She is with me here. But everybody else was taken away. Daddy, Bubi, Aunt Serena. I don’t know where they are.”

  “Only young women and girls are here. We were also separated from everybody. Mommy, Father, Layi, Breindi, Aunt Chaye, and Grandmother went to the other side.”

  “What about Benzu? And Elyu?”

  “Benzu was taken to the Russian front several months ago. And Elyu is in a Hungarian labor camp. Only the two of us remained. But now we found you. We will be together from now on. Where is Aunt Laura? Let’s go look for her.”

  Suri and Hindi are my cousins from Sátoraljaujhely, in Hungary, daughters of my father’s sister, Aunt Perl. Four years ago I spent part of my summer vacation in their house. The happiest vacation of my life. It was a large house with many children and cats. Hindi was the oldest, about nineteen. Suri was sixteen, a brunette beauty. Layi was my age, and Breindi a year younger. The two boys, Benzu and Elyu, treated me like an equal although they were much older than I. Benzu was twenty-one and Elyu seventeen. Benzu, the handsome ladies’ man, and Elyu, the yeshiva student with black hat, long peyes, and large blue eyes. My grandmother, ignoring her lame leg, lorded it over the roost. Aunt Perl, a heavyset, good-natured blonde whose laughter rang like bells throughout the house, and Uncle Abram, a Hasid with a rich brown beard and generous disposition, looked to Grandmother for advice and discipline. She held the reins of family and business.

  Now they all were gone. To the “other side.” Only Suri and Hindi are here.

  We go to look for Mommy and find her lying on the ground. She is half asleep, her lips cracked. A red blister has formed on her nose, covering its whole length.

  Mommy is surprised to see my cousins but too exhausted to exhibit joy. Her first question is, “Where do we get drinking water, do you know?”

  There is no water in this camp, Hindi and Suri explain. There is black coffee in the morning and soup in the evening. During the day the inmates drink from the lake.

  “Lake? Where is it?”

  Mommy wants to go to the lake at once. Suri and Hindi lead us to a puddle, a large hollow in the ground filled with murky water. It has an unpleasant odor.

  “To drink from this? It’s putrefied! It’s filthy! It stinks!” I look at my cousins with horror. “You drank from this?”

  “We all did. There is nothing else. If you are thirsty enough you don’t care.”

  I am thirsty enough. My tongue is covered with a layer of whitish stuff, and my lips have begun to crack. But I could never drink from the filthy, smelly swamp!

  Mommy bends down and takes a handful of water to her mouth.

  “It’s not so bad. Hold your nose, then gulp. It’s not that bad. Drink, Elli. I feel a little better already.”

  I raise a palmful of swampy water to my lips. The smell makes my stomach heave. But I have no urge to vomit. My stomach has been empty for a long time.

  I close my eyes and hold my nose with my other hand. Then I quickly slurp. It is not bad at all. As a matter of fact, I like it. I delight in the touch of wetness on my lips, mouth, throat. I take another palmful and drink, now greedily gulping without holding my nose. The smell does not matter. The water quenches and revives.

  “No more, Elli. Please, don’t drink more. Some girls got very sick. They drank too much.” Hindi forces me to spill the third palmful.

  The women in our transport are sprawling on the ground when we get back from the “lake.” Most are lying with eyes closed, oblivious to the bustle around them. The shouting and calling of names continues. Sudden exclamations of recognition, frantic embraces, shrieks, cries, more embraces. Some lonely figures move on, looking and searching farther, appearing more forlorn and dejected with every failure.

  With every “Don’t know” answer, I feel the weight of their search. And it drones on, the continuous confrontation with young girls searching for families, friends, security of contact. Every “Don’t know” brings visible despair. I start to modify my style: “The transport you’re looking for is over there. Perhaps they know …”

  Mommy has long withdrawn from the crowd. Overcome by fatigue, she sits in one of the deep holes.

  Suddenly I spot a tall figure wandering about, shouting, “Laura! Laura! Laura!”

  “Aunt Celia!”

  It is Mommy’s sister, my youngest aunt. My beautiful, stylish aunt. Even now, as she meanders about in the drab gray garb with shaven scalp, she looks distinguished.

  “Aunt Celia!” The vehemence of my embrace almost sweeps her off balance. She grips my shoulders and stares into my face. Her eyes open wide with shock and disbelief.

  “Elli! My little Elli! Is it you? Here? There are no children on this side. How is it possible? Oh, my God! Oh … my darling.”

  She rocks me in a tight embrace. She is kissing my scalp. And we both begin to weep.

  “You’re here. My little darling … Are you alone?”

  “Mo
mmy is here, too. Come, I’ll take you to Mommy.”

  “Your Mommy is here, too? My God, my God …”

  We find Mommy sleeping in her hole. Aunt Celia kneels and strokes her face. Mommy opens her eyes wearily, as if in a drunken haze. Then suddenly she recognizes her sister’s tearstained face, and she sits up in alarm. “Celia!”

  Aunt Celia crawls into the dusty hole and the two sisters hold each other in a silent clasp. They have not seen each other for three years. And now, a reunion in the scorching hole, in Auschwitz.

  Still sobbing, Aunt Celia reaches into her bosom and takes out a lump of black substance tied on a string around her neck. She unties it and hands it to Mommy. “Here. Eat it.”

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s bread. My bread. My bread ration. Eat it. It’s yours. I want you to have it. You must be very hungry.”

  “This is bread? It looks like a cake of mud. How can you eat this?”

  “Eat it. You won’t get anything to eat until the evening Zählappell”.

  Mommy takes a bite and tears spring into her eyes. “I can’t eat this.”

  “You must. There’s nothing else.”

  She takes another bite, swallows it, and promptly throws up. Her tears flow on dusty cheeks. “I can’t. I’d rather starve.”

  Aunt Celia cries, too. She bends down to wipe away the tears with the edge of her prison garb. “Laurie, if you don’t eat you will not live. You must.”

  I snatch the bread from Mommy’s hand and begin to eat. The dry, mudlike lump turns into wet sand particles in my mouth. The others have eaten it. I swallow. The first food in Auschwitz. To survive.

  Aunt Celia tells us her husband and son have been arrested by the Arrowcross, the Hungarian Nazis. My cousin Imre is seventeen, tall, dark, and very handsome, a virtual copy of Aunt Celia.

  We decide to form a family of five and vow never to be separated from each other.

  Suri says it is much easier to survive in Auschwitz if you are five. Bread and food is distributed on Zählappell. Every five get one portion of bread and one bowl of food. Those ahead of you take the first bits of bread and the first gulps of food. If you are tall and stand last, you get the smallest piece of bread and the bowl may be empty by the time it reaches you. But if you have family or friends on the line, you are careful to share it equally.

  We stand evening Zählappell together. But when the bowl of food is handed to me, I am unable to take a gulp. It is a dark green, thick mass in a battered washbowl crusted with dirt. No spoons. You tilt the bowl until the mass slides to the edge, then gulp. The dark mush smells and looks repulsive. The edge of the bowl is rusty and cracked and uneven with dried-on smut. My nausea returns in a flash. I quickly hand the bowl to Mommy. She takes a gulp and begins retching. I try again. This time I take a mouthful but cannot swallow it. It has grains of sand in it, just like the bread, and something else—pieces of glass . .. and wood … and cloth. I spit it out and begin to vomit. My empty stomach feels as if it were rising through my gullet.

  “Never mind. We all threw up at first. But then we learned to swallow it. It’s food. You must eat to live. Close your eyes. Hold your nose. Now, gulp.” Suri’s gentle but firm admonition gives me impetus. I gulp. And again. Four times.

  “Good girl.” What wisdom moved my beautiful sixteen-year-old cousin to store in a few days the secret of survival against all odds? The secret of triumph over death? And what cruel fate ultimately robs her of it? I never find out.

  Our family of five is separated during Zählappell. Aunt Celia, Hindi, and Suri are ordered back into their barracks.

  Mommy and I stand on Zählappell until long after nightfall. It turns very cold. Under the loose garb, the chill wind reaches every particle of my bare body. A slow shiver begins on the lines. In time, the rhythmic shiver of thousands standing on Zählappell in the dark, cold nights of Auschwitz will become a familiar sound. But now it is new to my ears. It is the conclusion of my first day in Auschwitz. The first day of my new life.

  THE RIOT

  AUSCHWITZ, MAY 31, 1944

  The riot occurred during the first night in Auschwitz.

  There were no beds in our barrack. Each group of five received two army blankets. One for mattress, the other for cover. The unusual hardness of the floor, the close proximity of strange bodies, and extreme exhaustion after the long traumatic day made sleep impossible. The windows had no panes. Cold wind penetrated the blanket. There were muffled cries in the dark. Slowly, finally, I drifted off to sleep.

  A shriek tears into the night. In seconds the barrack is agog with screams. A wave of panic sweeps the prone bodies, whipping them into wild frenzy. Shrieking senselessly, girls begin trampling upon each other in the dark.

  “I smell gas!” someone shouts. “They are exterminating us!”

  Many surge for the door. It is locked. They begin pounding on it. A shot is heard outside. Then a second, followed by a barrage of fire. The screaming stops instantly. The door is thrown open. German guards are shouting orders:

  “Back on the floor! Lie down and don’t move! Or you’ll be shot!”

  There is dead silence. Suddenly a girl screams, “Mommy! Mommy! They are killing my mother!”

  Another shot rings out.

  “Rube. Quiet. Or you’ll be shot.”

  But her shrieks grow more frantic. “Mommyyy! Where are you? Mommyyy … They are killing my mother! Everybody, listen. Hear the shots? Oh, Mommy. Oh, God, they are killing her!”

  The silhouette of a body sitting upright is outlined in the middle of the room. Someone places an arm around her shoulders, trying to soothe her: “Shush. Quiet. You had a nightmare. Lie down here, next to me. Lie down. Here.” The hand gently draws her down on the blanket, but the body jerks away, springs up, and begins to scream again, a bloodcurdling scream: “Let me go! Let me go to my mother!”

  The door opens, and two German guards enter, their guns drawn. “Who is shouting?”

  Flashlights train on the lone standing figure.

  “Komm mit” Come along. “Los!” Each guard holds on to an arm, and the young girl, still screaming, is led out of the barrack. Seconds later, a shot rings out.

  I sit up with alarm. “They shot her?”

  “Shush, please. For God’s sake, quiet, everybody. We don’t want another riot. It’s dangerous.” It is the voice of the gentle woman who had tried to quiet the hapless young girl.

  At dawn we’re aroused for Zählappell. It is still totally dark when we line up. The sky is studded with stars. It is cold. Some girls bring their blankets along and the whole row of five stands wrapped in one blanket. Why didn’t we think of that? But soon a gruff girl appears and orders them to return the blankets. As the girls obey and run toward the barrack, the young woman in charge lands a heavy blow on the head of each with her enormous stick. She is our Blockälteste, the head of our barrack.

  She had been brought to Auschwitz with a transport of sixteen-year-old girls from Slovakia in 1942. Two years in Auschwitz! Survival at incredible cost. She is eighteen now, thin but strong, her face set in a countenance of grim determination. Or defiance. And anger. It is a face of unap-proachability. Blockältestes are the absolute commanders of the Block, the barrack. They have private rooms in the barrack and supervise their charges at all times. But in our barrack there is no extra room, or any facilities, so our Blockälteste sleeps in another barrack. But she knows of the riot.

  “You are lucky you were not all shot for what happened in your Block last night.” Her tone is as cold and hard as ice. “Sabotage! Do you know the meaning of sabotage? If it happens again, you will be sent to the gas. The entire Block. I am responsible for your conduct. If any of you makes sabotage anytime, I shall report you immediately. This is your warning.”

  Gas? What gas? What did she mean, You’ll be sent to the gas? Could any of those horrible rumors actually be true? What was sabotage? She did not explain, and no one asked questions. And no one asked who the young girl was whos
e broken heart had set off the riot. No one mentioned her name. Where was she from? She was a dark, nameless silhouette in the night, and like a shadow she disappeared in the night. Only her shriek remained. We all carried her shriek in our souls.

  TEEN VANITY

  AUSCHWITZ, JUNE 3, 1944

  Today, the fourth day in Auschwitz, I saw myself for the first time. As we were approaching the last barrack on our way to the latrine, our guard stopped to chat with another guard. While we stood patiently waiting, I glanced at the window nearby and saw my reflection in the glass pane. I did not recognize myself. I was a shocking sight.

  The latrine is a long, wide ditch where we are taken under guard in groups of fifty. Luckily, the German guards cannot bear the stench and stand at a distance while we use the ditch. This makes the latrine an ideal place for meeting friends and relatives. Here we resolved to meet Suri, Hindi, and Aunt Celia at noon. We have no watches and cannot tell time. Noon we can tell by the sun.

  At first I panicked at the latrine. The ditch is very wide and very deep, and I had nightmares of falling into it. Mommy was holding me by the hands while I crouched above the smelly abyss, and I held her while she did. But after the first few times I learned to balance at the precarious edge, and now the fear is gone. Amazing how fast one learns. Everything. Even swallowing the dark, daily mush became easy. Lying on the hard floor is also easier now. And the Zählappell is quite bearable.

  We are aroused at dawn, and it is totally dark when we line up for Zählappell. Gradually it grows lighter. The stars fade and a cold gust buffets my bare body under the thin dress. I crouch, hugging my knees in order to keep warmer and control my fierce trembling. Mommy promises to poke me when someone approaches so that I can quickly stand upright.

  All at once I notice that blood is flowing on the legs of the girl before me. A thick red stream of blood on the inner side of each leg. Oh, my God, she must’ve been shot! I panic: What should I do? Then in a flash I realize: She is menstruating. We have no underwear, no sanitary napkins … the blood simply flows down her legs. Poor girl. My God, this is horrible. Why doesn’t she say something? Ask for a rag, or something? Whom can she say anything to? From whom can she ask for anything? She might even get shot for bleeding. Does menstruation constitute sabotage?