I Have Lived a Thousand Years

by Livia Bitton-Jackson

  AUGSBURG, APRIL 1, 1945

  The “Goat” is especially nervous this morning. This balky SS man looks like a goat and even his gait is like that of the foolish animal. His large, buck teeth protrude above a pointed chin and, when he walks, his head bobs up and down on a ludicrously elongated neck, like a goat. And the name has stuck.

  At the Zählappell he announces that he needs forty girls to clear some debris in the factory yard. Some debris! We knew there was extensive damage in the wake of yesterday’s Allied bombing. Our factory was put out of operation for today. We could see from our cell-block windows that the passage to the factory was blocked by masonry fragments, twisted metal parts, and other rubble—the remains of the factory annex leveled last night.

  The frequency and intensity of the bombings heighten our anticipation. We feel that the Allies have the upper hand. The end of the war just has to be near. The taste of liberation is becoming ever more tangible. And with growing hope, fear of death becomes an actuality. There is palpable tension in the air.

  From one end of the roll call, the Goat separates eight rows and orders them to march. I am among them. It is a brutally cold morning. Fierce wind slaps frozen snow piles against the windowpanes. The ground, where exposed by snowdrifts, glistens with patches of ice.

  At a run we head for our cell block to get the coats we had been issued at the beginning of the winter. But the Goat is frantic. He orders us to march straight outdoors.

  “Los!” he shouts in a nervous rage. “Follow me. March!”

  This is insane. We have nothing on but a thin dress and a pair of shoes. No underwear or stockings. It is certain death to work outdoors without at least our threadbare coats.

  As a rule the Goat is not extraordinarily cruel to us. As a matter of fact, I have reason to believe I owe him my life. The incident happened last Yom Kippur, when I decided to observe this holy day of fast. I had to forego my food ration before leaving for work on the night shift because it was served after the onset of the fast. Naturally, I also passed on the midnight soup and the morning bread portion. The next evening meal was served before the conclusion of Yom Kippur, so I left for the second night of work after having fasted for thirty-six hours. At 11 P.M., one hour before the anticipated midnight bowl of soup, I collapsed, unconscious, next to my machine. When I came to I was peering into the worried blue eyes of the Goat. I was told it was he who had carried me to the factory medical office and then, without reporting the incident, escorted me back to work.

  But this morning his demeanor had changed. The cauldron of breakfast coffee arrived, but he did not allow us even to have the hot drink.

  “But our coats, bitte, Herr Offizier, let us quickly get our coats. It’ll take only a minute. Bitter?”

  “Los!” he shouts, beside himself. “March after me this instant!”

  He heads for the staircase. We march at his heels. As we pass the toilet, several girls duck through its doors. I follow them. We hide behind the tall trash cans in the toilet.

  When he reaches the ground level, the Goat counts his group and discovers that eight of us are missing. In his panic he orders the column back to the camp. The Oberscharführer is notified, and a campwide search is mounted for the missing girls.

  All this time we are crouching behind the trash cans. From the sounds reaching the toilet we realize what is going on, and hold our breaths. Soon one of our inmates enters the toilet and calls out, “Come out, girls. The Oberscharführer is very mad. He ordered the entire camp to go without rations if you don’t show up immediately.”

  We file out of the toilet. The Oberscharführer barks the order: “Line up against the wall. Attention! Not a move, till midnight.”

  All day, all evening, in the hall, without food, without moving. It is bad news, but not as bad as it could have been.

  We do not have to do the work outdoors. And the others are issued sweaters in addition to coats.

  As we stand there I am terribly hungry. It is the fifth day of Passover. Mommy and I had decided that one of us would observe Passover by not eating the bread ration. The other one would compensate for the bread by sharing her ration of the cooked meal at noon and in the evening. I had volunteered to be the one to give up the bread ration. Mommy had agreed because she was in far worse physical shape than I.

  So I had only black coffee in the morning, and one-and-a-half bowls of soup at noon and in the evening. All that liquid without the ration of solid bread made me ravenously hungry, and by the third day of Passover I felt quite weak. Now, on the fifth day, having been deprived even of the morning coffee, I am feeling faint. My leg wound, which has become much smaller, now starts to hurt. I find it difficult to stand but am afraid to crouch, even when the Germans are not looking. I dare not attempt a second violation.

  Some of us begin tottering but dare not collapse. Our camp mates are neither permitted to speak to us nor make gestures of communication. They pass by and cast compassionate glances at us. Poor Mommy keeps walking back and forth, passing me every few minutes, her face a mask of pity and despair. I make an effort to encourage her, but as the hours pass this proves almost impossible. I think I will pass out any minute.

  At noon the cauldron of soup is distributed in the hall right before our noses. So is the evening soup and bread. We are still standing. My legs feel wooden and my spine is a stripe of pain. My stomach feels like a ton of bricks. There is a light trembling in my whole body. I am very cold.

  At 10 P.M. the camp retires for the night. Lights go out on the entire floor. Only a faint searchlight illuminates the corridor. Our shoulders slump. Our heads hang to one side. Our lips and our hands tremble. We are beyond fatigue. Beyond hunger. But we are still standing.

  Brisk footsteps approach. It is the Oberscharführer.

  “Are you tired? Are you hungry? Did you learn your lesson?”

  We begin to cry.

  “Go to your Blocks!”

  We are barely able to move. Slowly, we trudge to our respective cells.

  It is dark and quiet in my cell block. Noiselessly, I approach my bed. Mommy stirs. She sits up abruptly and hugs me with uncharacteristic vehemence. “Thank God! Thank God it’s over! Come sit here.”

  From under her blanket Mommy takes out a bowl. There is soup in it. The bowl is almost to the brim with thick, cold soup. It was her supper. And her lunch. She had saved it for me.

  “Eat it.”

  “It is your lunch and supper. I will eat half. Take out your spoon, and let’s eat together.”

  “No. I will not eat. You have not eaten all day. You have to eat it all.”

  “Look, Mommy. I admit, I’m very hungry. And I will eat half of the soup. But you must eat the other half because you have become very thin and every drop of food you deny yourself may prove disastrous. Take your spoon and let’s eat together.”

  Mother gets very angry. She whispers, “Stop talking and eat!”

  She takes the spoon, thrusts it into the soup and raises it to my mouth. I shake my head with lips shut tight. Mommy looks straight into my eyes, her face aflame. But I am adamant: “I will not eat if you don’t share it with me.”

  Mommy’s anger and despair charges the air. “If you won’t eat it, I’ll empty the bowl on top of the bed!”

  I shake my head. “I will eat only if you also eat.”

  Mommy takes the bowl of soup and turns it over. In a splash, the contents land on top of her gray army blanket. Pieces of potato scatter in every direction. The liquid is sucked up by the bedding.

  I cannot believe my eyes.

  The soup. There is no soup! Mommy deliberately spilled it. And on the bed! My God, what is happening to us?

  “Mommy, why did you do this? For God’s sake, Mommy, why?”

  Mommy begins to cry. She hugs me tight, and cries. We lay down on my side of the narrow cot. I also begin to cry. For the soup, for Mommy, for all the hungry, miserable, cold prisoners of the world.

  We cry until dawn. Our weeping is uncomforti
ng, heavy, and hopeless. Bitterness burns my throat. Unrelieved, oppressive, desperate. The sky seems to darken with the coming of the dawn. Our grief is total, and for the first time, uncontrollable.

  Much later we find out that was the night Daddy died—on the fifth day of Passover.

  THE BIRD OF GOLD

  AUGSBURG, APRIL 2, 1945

  For some unfathomable reason, on this dark dawn in the spring of 1945, I remember a strange dream I had over a year ago.

  My father and I, the two of us, stood in the middle of our storage room called the kamra. In this room we kept sacks of flour, animal feed, chopped-up wood, and other odds and ends.

  I hated the kamra. It was a dark, bleak place. When Mother sent me to fetch flour or wood, I hurried out of the kamra as fast as I could. When I was little, I used to believe there were evil spirits in the dark corners of the kamra and was terrified to enter it.

  But in my dream I was standing in the middle of the kamra with my father, without an apparent purpose. We just stood there, silently, our backs to the entrance where a dim light filtered in. The flour sacks stood menacingly against the wall, and the pile of wood harbored a strange, brooding stillness.

  Suddenly, a bird flew into the kamra. An unusual bird with an egg-shaped body covered with golden feathers and large, greenish yellow wings. As it flew in, a shaft of bright light streamed in with the bird. The shaft of light followed the bird as it fluttered about. It hovered above my father’s head, the light growing ever brighter until it bathed the bird in a glittering flood of blinding sparkle.

  But the room remained cloaked in darkness. And we, too, my father and I, remained wrapped in the shadows.

  “Look at that bird!” my father called out, pale with shock. He was deeply moved. Not frightened; strangely moved by the awesome sight. I glanced at the bird and then averted my eyes. I dared not look at it. It was too awesome, too frightening. I began to tremble. My father gripped my arm, and again cried, “Look at that bird!”

  He stood transfixed, not moving his gaze from the horrible beauty of the apparition. His grip tightened on my arm. When I looked at him, he was no longer a living creature but a gray statue with eyes lifted to the heights. His lips, motionless, kept whispering, “Look at that bird …”

  When I awoke I had a clear, dreadful knowledge that my father would be dead. I did not tell anyone of my dream. I did not ever think of that dream.

  Until now. And now, all of a sudden, the dream takes hold of me with the savagery of the dark, bitter-cold dawn.

  AN ECHO IN THE FOG

  EN ROUTE TO DACHAU, APRIL 3-4, 1945

  Fantastic rumors are circulating during the last days of March. The Allies are approaching. Our liberators, the Americans and the English, are very near …

  Then other rumors reach us. We are going to be evacuated. Shipped eastward. We are going to be transported to Austria …

  There is nothing to indicate the rumors’ validity. Our work routine is the same. There is no change at the factory. None of the German workers reveal any awareness of imminent events. No covert remarks of regret come from Mr. Scheidel, who has become my friend. Nothing.

  Then, one April morning at the conclusion of Zählappell, the Oberscharführer reads the order. Tomorrow morning we are to be transported to Dachau under guard. Not a word of this is to be discussed with anyone. Not in camp. Not at work.

  The day laden with apprehension drags on. Mr. Scheidel is oblivious of my predicament. Why can’t I tell him goodbye? Why can’t I convey my fears … or my thanks for the surreptitious help?

  I remember the morning when he put a small brown paper bag on the workbench and hinted with a wink that I take it. There were dried thin bread crusts in the bag. When I attempted to thank him, he averted his eyes in panic and acted feverishly preoccupied with work. I hid the brown bag under my dress on the way back to camp, and Mommy and I eagerly shared the marvelous snack. His gesture encouraged me to ask him for paper. “Paper?” His astonishment had baffled and worried me. “Did you say paper? What kind of paper? What do you need paper for?” I knew it was risky to ask for anything, especially an item like paper, but had not realized the extent of its gravity. I regretted my mistake but was obliged to answer his question.

  “Any paper. Just a small piece. For writing.”

  “For writing? What do you want to write?”

  “A poem. I want to write a poem. I … some time ago I used to write poems. But forgive me. I didn’t intend to …”

  “Ah, a poem. You’re a poet, ha? A poet!” Mr. Scheidel’s rasping laughter frightened me.

  But the next morning he furtively placed a few yellow slips of paper wrapped in crumpled brown paper on my lap under the workbench. This was the onset of Mr. Scheidel’s clandestine paper-smuggling operation, and the onset of my career as camp poet.

  Goodbye, Mr. Scheidel, faded old friend. Goodbye, Montage. And you, Herr Zerkübel, the monument of stony superiority. As you emerge from your glass enclosure, will you notice that we are gone?

  The journey through Augsburg is a high point. Our streetcar snakes around Gothic buildings lining the cobblestoned streets. The city is gradually receding into a fine spring mist, which seems to envelop every silhouette of the past.

  Goodbye, Augsburg. I had hoped you would be the scene of our liberation. I had dreamt countless times of Allied troops marching toward me on your cobblestoned streets, bringing liberty with the rattle of armored trucks and tanks. I had a sweet, mysterious premonition of freedom when I first caught sight of your Gothic charm, when I first breathed your reassuring civilized air eight months ago. Eight months of dogged dreams, hopes, and prayers.

  Now we are leaving you, Mommy and I, and all of us, still prisoners. Heading for what future? Dachau. What awaits us in Dachau?

  At the terminal we disembark, and continue on foot. Our journey leads through bombed-out streets, gutted neighborhoods. The last seven months have not left the city unscathed.

  The train station is also in ruins. The row of cattle cars is far beyond. We wade through heaps of rubble to reach the cattle cars. The train takes off instantly. By nightfall we arrive at a gloomy, dark place called Landsberg, and we march on a narrow rocky road through stark landscape, past barren trees, endless telephone poles. In the gathering dusk flocks of crows perched on the telephone wires are strikingly etched against a metallic sky. Their shrill cries send a chill down my spine.

  Camp Landsberg is a subsidiary of Dachau, a sprawling, enormous camp, but its austere gates do not open for us. The camp is full to capacity: Inmates from several other camps in the vicinity arrived before us. We are lined up near the gate, and wait far into the night. Our guards telephone for orders, and during the early dawn the orders reach us. Back to the cattle cars.

  Thank God, we are leaving this ominous place.

  During the late afternoon the train halts at a place called Mühldorf. Open trucks are awaiting us at the station, and we are driven among tended green fields and then through the gates of a small, overcrowded camp. Skeletal inmates flock noisily to meet us with huge, hysterical eyes, eager faces, and rapid, animated questions. What camp are we coming from? What have we been doing there? Where are we from, originally? They are women, emaciated beyond anything we have seen. Even the inmates at Landsberg, who had flocked to the fence and whose shriveled appearances had shocked us, were not so starved as these excited skeletons. They speak with rasping voices, clamoring for answers and more answers.

  Soon we find out that typhus raged at Mühldorf and at all the other camps of the Dachau complex all winter long. It was this devastating disease that killed about fifty people daily, and left the survivors in such a skeletal state.

  The male inmates behind the barbed-wire fence look even more ravaged. In less than an hour we find out that there are men from Somorja, our hometown, among them. And a bit of heaven—Bubi, my brother, is in Waldlager, Mühldorf’s twin camp in the nearby forest!

  Mommy and I can barely contain our excitem
ent. How can we get to meet Bubi? We find out that trucks with provisions go to Waldlager daily, and if we are lucky we might be picked for the work commando of unloading. If we persist in volunteering for this physically taxing assignment, we might eventually be selected to go along with the trucks.

  The next morning one hundred women are selected for transfer to Waldlager. Mommy and I are among them! Right after Zählappell we are put on trucks and driven through luscious green woods. The sun’s rays and a dainty breeze dapple the greenery, and I feel happiness tremble within me. Mommy and I are in ecstasy. Everything is turning out beautifully. Oh, my dear God. Thank you, my dear God!

  Waldlager looks like a forest of oversized mushrooms. Hundreds of small, grassy mounds conceal an underground world of bunkers, where thousands of inmates are housed, fifty to each long burrow.

  Our dark, dank hole is lit by a small window in the ceiling, which, just like the entrance of the bunker, is camouflaged by tall grass. In our excitement, Mommy and I can think only of Bubi. We find out that the men’s camp is right beyond the barbed-wire fence we saw nearby, and when the guards’ backs are turned it is possible to meet the men and even talk to them after work and the evening Zählappell.

  Mommy and I spend the day anxiously waiting for nightfall.

  Finally, after Zählappell, Mommy and I stand by the fence, huddled together against a relentless downpour. The entire camp is shrouded in haze and no living soul seems to stir on the other side of the fence. Just as Mommy and I resolve to make our way back to our bunker, two sticklike figures materialize from the mist and slowly approach the fence. One of them mutters in Yiddish, his voice barely projecting across the fence, “Are you from the new transport?”

  “Yes.”

  “From which camp?”

  “From an airplane factory in Augsburg.”

  “You must have had it good there. You look strong. Where are you from?”

  “Czechoslovakia. Hungarian territory. Somorja is the town’s name.”

  “There are some men here from Somorja.”

  “We’ve heard. That’s why we’re here,” Mommy says and her voice rises in anticipation. “Do you know my son, Bubi Friedmann? Tall. Blonde. He was an interpreter in Auschwitz. Do you know him?”