|
|||||||||
A memoir of the Holocaust
By Jacob Zylberman
The online version
© Copyright 1995, 2000, Jack Zylberman
Metamorphosis
Stuttgart is surrounded by a most affluent suburbia, Degerloch, Botnang, and Vaihingen, elderly folks greeting with the familiar "Gruss got," a striking contrast from the camp where the sight of an old man or woman was uncommon.
Jacob worked in the U.N.R.R.A. tailor shop, among others Shumacher, Mayer Fogelman, the Kormans and Kholeva brothers; the older a recent repatriate from the Soviet Union, and the younger a former inmate of Auschwitz.
The atmosphere was cordial, often abounding in lengthy discussions. Each had a story to tell … except for young Kholeva.
Seated in a corner of the spacious room, this rotund little man, absorbed in his work, harbored a secret.
One Friday afternoon, Jacob whistling, the last stitch in the coat almost gone, he was startled by the presence of the recluse, praising his taste in music.
"Jacob, that is a beautiful tune," Kholeva said. "I love Rigoletto, particularly this aria."
"And I thought you were a mute!" Jacob said, staring at him. "What a pleasant surprise! Not only you talk, but you have a vibrant, melodic voice, not using it. Then again, who am I to say? There must be a reason."
"My friend, let me tell you, I am neither deaf nor mute. I am aware of everything around me. But what can one say, how can I tell about the horrors I have experienced? It could fill volumes. And who would want to listen? Men don’t like sad stories; moreover, when they are guilty of causing them. My only consolation is music, and opera is my haven, my peaceful retreat."
"If that is so, I am just the right guy for you. In me you will find a comrade-in-arms – because Bach, Beethoven, Puccini and Verdi were my redeemers. From them I derived strength, persistence to overcome the most difficult times.
"But one cannot dwell on the dark, wretched misery of yesterday. True, I was not in Auschwitz, and may never grasp the folly of human behavior, but one has no right to bury himself alive, life must go on. There is a purpose to it. More important, the world has to be told about you.
"They who caused it must know, whether they like it or not, because what happened yesterday, could be repeated tomorrow. So, why don’t you start with me?"
It was a cloudless, balmy Saturday afternoon, the park adorned with multicolored trees, leaves covering the rusty grass. Squirrels gathered acorns, bees collected the last nectar, the scent of myriad flowers titillating.
An old man searched for a cigarette butt, a young woman pushed a carriage, when the familiar features of the young Kholeva came into view, the last rays of the autumn sun caressing his pate.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Kholeva!"
"Oh, it’s you," he said, startled. "It’s you, the music lover! Sit down," he gestured, clearing the bench, and offering him a Pall-Mall, lighting one also for himself.
Inhaling deeply with the last puff of his cigarette butt, he lit a fresh one, the taut lines of his features subsiding.
Like an animal awakened from hibernation, so was he. He cleared his throat and began.
"It was an early Friday afternoon, I remember so well. The chicken soup, the gefilte fish waiting, a seldom treat in those days, when suddenly there was a loud knock at the door, and six soldiers with bayonets, led by an SS officer, ordered us out, yelling ‘Schnell! Schnell!’
"Soon after, we were at the railroad station. Men, women and children, huddled in panic, total pandemonium. Father, wiping blood from a gash on his face; mother clutching the little hands of my bewildered sisters. Then we were forced into wagons, soldiers with lightning precision locked the sliding doors, taking positions. One could see through the narrow slats of the moving train our Gentile neighbors, staring with cunning nonchalance, women, children in their arms, rigidly unemotional, a few waving.
"Hours later we arrived at the final destination, a human cargo, thousands upon thousands, tidal waves approaching the camp. If for any reason one stepped out of line, he did not make it back, he remained there, bayoneted, rivulets of blood lapped up by German shepherds and Doberman pinschers.
"This was Auschwitz. A tall, heavy meshed iron fence intertwined with barbed wire stretching for miles, in front a huge iron gate with the bold inscription,
ARBEIT MACHT FREI
"An all-woman orchestra, opaque-eyed, inept robots, played a Strauss waltz, a sad imitation of its sweet tunes. An eerie grotesque greeting, fused with black smoke and the acrid smell of human flesh. A devilish fury of hell culminating with the forced separation of families, the
SELECTION.
"A clean-shaven, handsome officer dressed in a perfectly fitting tunic, on his left arm a black band emblazoned with the swastika, feet slightly apart, in his right white-gloved hand a riding crop, with his left hand regulating traffic, bellowing – Right, left, right, left.
"Sidekicks forcefully dragged away children from their mothers, husbands from wives, fulfilling the orders of their master, the evil incarnate, Mengele, the
ANGEL of DEATH.
"A spectacle of iniquity, so horrid, so preposterous, that the clouds refused to witness, escaping, leaving a blushing sun behind.
"Suddenly I was alone. I can only remember the horror-stricken face of my mother, her limpid eyes transformed into a glazed stare.
"When I came to my senses, I found myself surrounded by filth, squalor, putrid air. Greeted by pitiful hollow-eyed skeletons, a most pathetic welcome to my new environment.
"Day after day, at the first sign of dawn, hundreds of shivering bodies standing at attention waited to be counted, then marched to work in the presence of vicious dogs and their masters.
"Separated by a road, ditches on each side, we carried boulders across to and fro, a back-breaking, demoralizing labor of body and spirit … an exercise in futility.
"One morning we were waiting in line in ankle-deep mud, the steady rain penetrating our pajama-striped suits, when at the sound of church bells a jeep turned the corner toward us. An officer in a long trench coat, high boots, stepped out of the jeep, exchanged salutations with his subordinates, scrutinizing the inmates.
"As he turned, he suddenly stopped, ordering me to the back of the vehicle, then passing a narrow railroad, bulging carts entering windowless structures, tall chimneys spewing black soot, warehouses heavily guarded.
"At last we arrived.
"‘Follow me,’ he said, smiling, walking hastily toward a long rectangular wooden structure into a room, a handful of chairs, a table and a stand. Guns, neatly arranged in a glass-covered wall, at the far end round white objects interspersed with black circles, and in the center a bulls eye.
"‘This is a shooting gallery! Here sharpshooters gather to practice! Then why am I here?’ I thought. ‘What is the reason this smiling officer brought me here? Does he want my company? Could it be that his vanity requires a witness to his performance, his skill!…or … or…
"Suddenly I began to tremble, beads of perspiration mixed with my drenched body.
"Am I supposed to be a target? Is that the idea? That is absurd! He could have had me shot anywhere, anytime, without any fear, in front of anybody, not drag me all the way here for it. Doesn’t he have more important things to do? This is not true! This is a ridiculous bad dream!
"I did not have to wait long, the answer came soon. His face turned distortedly red, his eyes aflame, his shrill voice thunderous, commanding. ‘Sie, Jude!’ he screamed, ‘gehen Sie ruber, zu die ende – sofort, zu die ende. March, machen Sie schnell. Verstanden?’
"Rigid, turned into a robot, a stupefied zombie, I ran to the target, my brains unable to follow the speed of my feet, nor the beating of my heart. Then a shot, a second, a third.
"I don’t know how long that ordeal lasted, time could be a deceiver. The interval lasted a lifetime. I thought I had died, but the pounding of my heart, and rivulets of sweat on my cold spine reminded me otherwise.
"At last the shooting ended – and I was ordered to get back. His first words were: ‘Congratulations! You are a brave young man, and for this you deserve a prize – handing me an apple. ‘Now get inside the car, I’ll take you back home.’
"When the rest of the inmates returned they found me on the floor, unconscious, a part of the apple in one hand, the other in a puddle of vomit.
"The next day, at the first sound of the church bells, his car turned the curve; he called my number, ordered me inside, and the cat-and-mouse drama started anew.
"I was resolved to end the agony, the slow, torturous, lingering death, get it over with. But each time my mother’s eyes were in front of me, entreating me not to give up.
"By the third day I was already immune to this ghastly experience, but this animal in human disguise called me back, smiling broadly, handing me an apple, this time ordering me to return to the target, and place it on my head.
"There was a shot more thundering, more deafening than the others, and before I opened my eyes he was beside me. He removed the apple, examining it -- the core of the fruit was gone, just as my heart appeared to be.
"‘Now, my friend,’ he declared, a wide grin revealing a mouthful of perfect teeth, ‘reluctantly I must admit that your behavior was commendable. Thirty-six shots passed by within a hair-splitting distance of your body, just as many times you were at the crossroads between life and death.
"‘As of your reckoning, 18 to you means life, thus, logically, you deserve it not once, but twice. Therefore, I grant it to you.
"‘Aren’t you happy? Aren’t you going to thank me?’
"I began to giggle, a paroxysm of laughter overtaking, a convulsive tremor of an unearthly power forcing me to move away from him.
"‘Life! Death!’ I finally uttered, my eyes like burning steel piercing through him. ‘You sadistic beast, you Nazi animal, you maniac! You contemptible deranged bastard! What do you know about life and death? You rat!
"‘Take me back to the barracks!’ I shouted. ‘I am not afraid of you and your kind anymore. I don’t want to look at you! You make me sick! Verstanden?’
"And you know what? This tall officer stepped aside, his handsome face ashen, bloodless. He meekly went over to the car, opened the door, waited for me to get inside, closed it gently, and without ever uttering a word he drove me back to the barracks – and I did not see him again.
"But still, the sight of an apple makes me sick, and the pealing of church bells causes my body to tremble."
 |