I Have Lived a Thousand Years

by Livia Bitton-Jackson

  “Yes, we know him. He’s in a bunker together with others from Somorja. Wait right here. We will tell him to come.”

  The two figures disappear with a slow shuffling gait into the milky darkness, and we are left standing in the brutally cold rain. The barbed-wire fence looms like an eerie black web, with hanging raindrops forever uniting and dripping into dark pools on the ground. The piece of bread from Lina is becoming soggy and wet in Mommy’s hand.

  Lina was assigned to the kitchen commando this morning, and she smuggled the bread from the kitchen. She gave it to Mommy during the Zählappell. “Mrs. Friedmann, give this to your son when you see him tonight. The men in this camp get very little food.”

  Out of the gloom a tall, thin shape now emerges and comes toward us. Ah, Bubi! But when he is nearer we see a mere skeleton with wild dark hollows for eyes. A tattered prison uniform hangs in shreds from its frame. The apparition comes with a painful limp and a loud clatter. A tin can hanging about its waist makes an awful din every time the figure takes another step.

  When it reaches the fence, the figure stops clumsily and positions itself a few steps from us. From such close proximity we can see the face clearly. It is the face of a skeleton with parchmentlike skin covered with patches of light fuzz, and scabs. There are severe bruises on the high cheekbones. It’s a face unlike anything I have ever seen. It resembles faces in the science fiction magazines my brother Bubi used to read.

  As the apparition stands there silently staring at us, a horrible certainty grips my insides. “Bubi!” It is he. I know it.

  Mommy’s eyes open wide with horror. “This is not he. This is not Bubi.”

  Bubi’s eyes focus on the piece of bread in Mommy’s hand. His voice is an unearthly gasp, “You may throw the bread over the fence, Mommy. The guard does not mind.”

  Mommy’s shriek is a bloodcurdling howl.

  “Bubi! Is it you? Oh, God is it really you?”

  “Mommy, throw the bread over the fence.”

  Mommy swallows hard. She swings her arm, and the soggy piece of bread flies above the barbed wire and lands in a puddle at Bubi’s feet. With the deliberate, jerky motions of a robot, Bubi bends over to pick it up, but stumbles, and with an ear-shattering clatter rolls into the mud. Mommy gasps. I grasp her shoulder to give her support but cannot control my violent trembling.

  We watch aghast as Bubi scrambles to his feet and, bread in hand, trudges away, clumps of mud tumbling from his tatters.

  We wait. But he does not turn around. He keeps limping on, and soon his figure is swallowed by the twilight. But the clatter of his tin can continues to echo in the fog.

  It reverberates in my being all night long.

  TO FACE THE WORLD

  WALDLAGER, APRIL 1945

  Mommy is assigned to the kitchen commando. She sits in an elongated barrack among many other women and peels potatoes from early morning till late at night. The peelers are permitted to eat from the potatoes. Sometimes they peel carrots, and they are permitted to eat from the carrots, too. But they are not permitted to take anything out of the kitchen—they are frisked every evening as they leave for the bunkers. A few days ago, a young girl from our transport was hanged in the Appellplatz, the central square of Waldlager, because at frisking time they found on her a carrot and two potatoes. Mommy does not dare hide any vegetables on her body, and I am glad.

  Members of the kitchen commando do not get any bread ration in order to compensate for the vegetables they eat during peeling. So now Mommy and I have only one bread ration among us. Until now Mommy and I shared one bread ration, and the other we threw over the barbed-wire fence for Bubi. Every evening after Zählappell we would watch Bubi as he hobbled to the fence with his clattering tin can and wait for the piece of bread to land on his side. Then he would retrieve the bread from the ground with great effort, and limp away, just as he came, without speaking.

  Now I alone meet Bubi at the fence, because the kitchen commando works late into the night, but Bubi does not take notice of the change. He continues his robodike routine. I no longer attempt to speak to him; I have resigned myself to his silence. But tonight, before his departure, Bubi raises his eyes to mine, and slowly, haltingly begins to speak. “Where is Mommy?” he asks.

  The shock of Bubi’s voice stuns me into momentary silence. This is the first time he has spoken since our arrival, almost two weeks ago.

  “Where is Mommy, sis?” he repeats, and the unexpected thrill of hearing the familiar reference to myself nearly causes me to faint. I quickly pull myself together.

  “Mommy works in the kitchen commando.”

  “That’s good. This way she can eat potatoes.” Then Bubi adds that he has been feeling much stronger. The bread ration he has received from us has made a significant difference in his condition.

  I am bubbling with joy as I report this to Mommy in our bunker at night. Thank God, Bubi’s health is improving. And he is okay mentally: He knows who we are. And his speech is not impaired. Our fears about Bubi were unfounded.

  Mommy and I can barely sleep with the emotion of this new development. Our hopes are rekindled. Bubi will make it.

  A few days later sudden, unexpected changes occur. The camp is agog with the news: The Americans are approaching, and Germans are surrendering the area without a fight. Mommy has just left for work, and I run to the fence to send a message to Bubi. As I emerge from our bunker, I run into a male inmate. A male inmate! From the men’s camp beyond the barbed-wire fence!

  “How did you get here?” I shout, and my head is reeling from the implications of his presence here.

  “The gates are open,” he shouts back.

  “Where are the guards?”

  “There are no guards at the inner gates. Only at the main gate of the camp …”

  I continue running toward the gate of the men’s camp. Before I reach the gate I see Bubi coming toward me. I reach him and throw my arms about him. He, too, encloses me in his frail arms, and we stand there in a silent, timeless embrace. I close my eyes. Freedom. It has come. It has come.

  Together we walk to our bunker and sit on its roof, a small grassy elevation. A soft breeze ruffles the tall grass around the bunker.

  “So this is it,” I say with a deep intake of breath. “Freedom. It has come.”

  “Not yet. These are only rumors. We are not liberated yet,” Bubi warns.

  “But where are the guards? Aren’t you here, in our camp? The gates are open. Doesn’t that mean everything? We are free to move about. The Americans will get here soon, and then we’ll be liberated. But it has already begun …”

  “One never can tell. One never can tell what the Germans will do next. There may be some fighting. The Americans aren’t here yet …”

  I cannot keep from talking about the future. “After liberation I want to travel throughout Germany to find all our relatives in the different concentration camps, in different parts of the country. Especially Auschwitz. Most of them had arrived in Auschwitz. Daddy, we have no idea where he can be. He had been taken to a labor camp in Hungary; he is probably going to be liberated there. He will probably be the first to get home. Perhaps we should go home first. We will find everybody at home. Perhaps that’s the best plan. To go home, and not waste time searching here in Germany, when everybody will be heading home anyway …”

  Bubi interrupts. His voice is a low murmur. “Whom do you expect to find?”

  “Why, everybody. Daddy, Aunt Serena, Aunt Celia, Uncle Márton, Imre, Uncle Samuel, Aunt Regina, Grandmother, Suri, Hindi …”

  Bubi raises his bony hand and places it slowly, hesitantly on mine. “Look at me, Elli.” He searches my face, and I see infinite pain in his blue eyes. “Look at me, Elli.” He touches my face ever so lightly, as he says slowly, very slowly, “You will find no one. No one survived the death camps.”

  His soft, tired voice drops even lower as he continues. “We. We survived. We are the only ones. We are here. We are the only survivors.”


  “But there are many other camps. Maybe they are there. Daddy, and Aunt Serena, and the others …”

  “Daddy is different. He’s a young man, he may have survived in the labor camp. He may be alive. He’s the only one who had a chance. He’s strong, athletic … But the others, don’t expect to meet any of the others.”

  “You mean, Aunt Serena? But she was taken to a camp for older people.”

  “There is no such camp. Aunt Serena was taken to the gas chamber.”

  “That’s a lie! A lie they were telling us in Plaszow. They told you a lie. You know it’s a lie!”

  “You know it’s not a lie … I had friends who worked in the Sonderkommando. I know all the details.”

  “What details?”

  “The Sonderkommando was a special unit. It was they who removed the bodies from the gas chambers. It was their job to strip the bodies of all valuables, even gold teeth, even teeth with gold fillings … before putting them into the ovens.” Bubi’s voice lowered to a whisper. “Sometimes they recognized the bodies … Younger siblings, parents, close relatives … Elli, all children, and adults older than forty-five … went to the gas.”

  “Little Andy, Elizabeth, Uncle Samuel, Aunt Regina, Grandmother … ?”

  He nods. “They all went to the gas chambers.”

  “My God! It can’t be true … Aunt Celia, we met Aunt Celia in Auschwitz. And Hindi. And Suri.”

  “If you met them, they made the first selection—they may be alive. But since then so many have died. Do you know how many died here during the winter? And how many are dying daily? Every morning at Zählappell we find friends missing. The Blockälteste orders two men to go into the bunker and carry out those who died during the night. The corpses are placed on the lines and counted in the Zählappell until they are officially reported dead to the authorities.”

  I sit stunned. Shattered. We are the survivors. Perhaps there is no one else. Only the three of us.

  I had known about the gas chambers all along. The shadow of the gas chambers followed us even when we left Auschwitz. And yet, I had stubbornly clung to the myth of the camp for the children and the elderly. Some children must have survived.

  “No. No children survived. They were all gassed.”

  “And the mothers? The mothers were with the children. I saw the mothers go together with the children, to the other side. What happened to the mothers?”

  “Mothers were gassed together with their children.”

  “No, Bubi. Do not say that! Do not say that!”

  We sit silently for a long time on the green slope that forms the roof of the bunker. The tall grass continues to sway and shudder in the cool April wind. Freedom. The Americans will be here soon, and we will be liberated. We will be freed—to do what? To face a world in which little children were gassed with their mothers. To face the world in which this was possible.

  My God. My God. I have just been robbed of my freedom.

  THE LOST GAME

  IN THE TRAIN, APRIL 23-27, 1945

  It is Tuesday morning, the last week of April, 1945. At Zählappell open trucks arrive in the square. In quick order we are loaded onto trucks and driven out of the camp to the train station. Mühldorf station. Thousands of striped male uniforms, thousands of gray women’s uniforms pour from hundreds of trucks straight onto hundreds of boxcars. One hundred to a car. A sea of prison population is being shipped away from the approaching liberation.

  Where are they taking us? Rumors circulate. We are being shipped to a long, deep tunnel where we will be blown to bits. The Germans prefer no witnesses to their atrocities. So we are to be liquidated in the trains.

  Only rumors. Pay no attention to them. We have survived until now despite rumors. The Americans are near, the Germans would not dare kill us now, so near the end. God, do not let the rumors be right.

  Where can Bubi be? I was going to see him after Zählappell, as we had done every day since the gates between our camps were opened. Where is he now? Is he among this sea of blue stripes being loaded onto the train? By nightfall the loading ends and the train begins to roll.

  The boxcar is jammed to capacity. There is a small window laced with metal bars near the corner where Mommy and I are crouching, and I can see the lovely woods we are leaving. A cool April breeze rushes in through the small window and we drink in the fresh air with mouths wide open. Now the train goes around a bend and I can see as far as the train’s locomotive. Incredible! There are at least one hundred wagons between us and the engine! As I look the other way, I can see perhaps even more. My God. I have never seen such a chain of boxcars, over two hundred! Where are they shipping so many prison inmates, one hundred to a wagon? Where can they house so many? They are evacuating the camps to escape the enemy closing in on all sides. The circle is getting smaller. Where will they find room for us? God, help us. Do not let the rumors be true.

  The train rolls slowly all night, all day. Again all night, and all day. No food or drink. How could they feed all this multitude? Tens of thousands. For days before evacuation we barely received any food. On Thursday we stand in a forest clearing for hours on end.

  From my corner perch I am watching a dogfight involving three fighter planes. One plane receives a hit and bursts into flames, and now it is careening in a wide, flaming arc behind the trees. There is a series of loud explosions somewhere beyond my vision.

  Now we move rapidly through deep forests and rolling hills and long, dark tunnels. And then slowly, in spurts, among budding fields and sprawling villages, little roadside inns and distant towns. We roll in and out of train stations. Sometimes we stand for hours at a station, and sometimes we pass it without pause. And through it all, nagging hunger and thirst in the boxcar.

  By Friday morning I am not hungry anymore. The violent hunger pangs have mellowed into a dull, persistent ache. Ar obliging lightheadedness lulls me into an apathetic numbness. Mommy also sleeps for longer periods. Her nagging hunger must have subsided somewhat. Brilliant sunshine filters through the cracks of the boxcar. The train is standing still.

  We must have been standing for a long, long time; my recollection of the train’s movement is distant. I prop myself up on my elbows with extreme effort. My fellow passengers are sprawled on each other in a stupor. Mommy is also in deep sleep; her head is rolled on my left shoulder. I ease it slowly, gently aside and rise to my feet to get a view through the small window.

  The train is perched on a high embankment above a softly sloping valley and a wide-open green cornfield. I can see houses in the distance, a small hamlet. High hills loom on the horizon, dark, beautiful, and forbidding.

  The entire foreground is flushed with bright sunshine; a playful gust ruffles the green sea of corn leaves. It is a gay, lighthearted day of spring out there. In the boxcar it is airless and dark, and the scent of apathy is suffocating. I sink back onto the floor in my corner and place Mommy’s drooping head on my shoulder. How much longer will we stand still in this place?

  Now it must be noon: The sun is high in the sky. Friday noon. We have been locked in this boxcar since early Tuesday morning. Without food. Or water. That makes this the fourth day without food. How long can a person survive without food? I do not remember learning anything about this in school. How much longer will we stand in one place? Who knows? I cannot bear standing still. It is easier to bear all this when we are moving. There is hope in movement. Motion means life. It’s insufferable just to stand in one place, aimlessly, endlessly … locked in, crowded, thirsty, suffocating from lack of air. Why are we standing here so long?

  My shoulder is getting tired. I shift Mommy’s head to my lower arm. It chafes. Mommy’s hair is very short, and the bristles are stiff and prickly. Mommy opens her eyes.

  “Why don’t you sleep a little, Elli? Why don’t you get a little rest? I’ll sit upright so you can put your head in my lap… .”

  All at once, the boxcar’s doors are wrenched open, and cold air rushes into the wagon. Two men in striped uniforms le
ap into the car shouting, “We are free! We are free! Get out of the wagon!”

  The chill gust and noise shake everyone awake from the lethargic daze. “What’s happening?? What’s going on? What’s going on?” We all scramble to our feet and surge toward the wide-open door. Drunk with the sudden onrush of fresh air, we lumber down the metal steps. The boxcar is empty within minutes.

  Out on the platform, the air is filled with the roar of thousands pouring out of the wagons, scampering down on the high embankment, and shouting, cheering, howling, whooping with ecstasy. The entire valley is filled with a swarming multitude of striped prison uniforms, gray prison dresses. The narrow embankment is also covered with men and women laughing, and crying, and embracing everyone they meet, or just aimlessly milling about among the tracks. “We are free! We are free!”

  Most inmates head for the green cornfield. Hundreds are tearing at green husks of corn and eating them. Others are devouring the young corn leaves. And some are heading toward the hamlet in the distance. But where are the Americans? Or the Germans? Only inmates are to be seen everywhere.

  “Mommy, let’s go to the cornfield. We will pick some corn. Or we will go to the village to get some food there. Everyone is going.”

  “I’m not going from here until we find Bubi. He must be in this transport. We must find him.”

  “How can we find him? That’s impossible. There are thousands and thousands of people dispersed in every direction. He might have gone to the fields. Or to the village. We will never find him here at the train.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until we find him!” Mommy’s despair spills over into fury and panic. “I’m not going anywhere!” Then, having spent the last ounce of her energy in her angry outburst, she continues in a low, tired voice, “He could not go to the fields. He could not get off this steep embankment. He has no strength to walk even … He must be here somewhere among the boxcars. Or, maybe he is in one of them. He might have been too weak to get off. He may just be helplessly lying there, in one of the abandoned boxcars.”