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A memoir of the Holocaust
By Jacob Zylberman
The online version
© Copyright 1995, 2000, Jack Zylberman
Displaced persons
A heavy load pressed on Jacob’s mind, his emotions bursting. He was stretched out on the bed on this gray rainy afternoon reminiscent of autumn in the Ural Mountains, his hands behind his head, his mood matching the outside, when there were quick steps in the hallway, a knock at the door, and there was Gershon in his soaked raincoat, inserting a half-cigarette in his silver holder, "Brrr. … It’s lousy outside," he said, looking intently.
"What is it, Jacob?" he asked. "You seem in a fog, far away. Maybe I should not have come. Do you expect somebody?"
"No, Gershon, no, you are more than welcome – in fact you are the one I want to see. I need someone to talk to, my psyche is behaving strangely. Maybe you can analyze it.
"But first grab a bite. There is salami, cheese, bread and crackers – go ahead, help yourself."
"I don’t mind if I do." He finished the last puff, cut a slice of salami, grinning. "This will be a down payment for services rendered," he said, chewing loudly.
"Now, let’s be serious," he said. "But before anything, let me try to guess your sickness. Overcome with a loss of equilibrium, you have the same symptoms as the majority of us, in a precarious period of transition, a situation not easy to solve. You are in the same boat, desperately trying to find yourself, get adjusted. … You are ‘ferblondziet.’
"I am not only speaking about the remainders of Hitler’s hell, but also of the uncounted masses who were scattered in the taigas and tundras, the Ural Mountains and Siberia. We are lone survivors of a vicious ugly storm in search of a haven, our background identical, totally uprooted, drifting, grasping for something to hold onto.
"We are DPs (displaced persons), and whoever coined the phrase was so right; displaced physically, spiritually, morally, if you will," he said, becoming sadly animated, engrossed in his narrative.
"After years of war, one finally realized that a journey, however long, does not always justify its destination. That freedom is often more traumatic than the iron shackles of imprisonment. Confronted with the reality, we are victims of barbarism, pitiful remains of a people.
"The war is over, the enemy defeated, and Europe, though deeply wounded, is at peace, back to normalcy. Now, what did peace do for us? What did it accomplish? Nothing, my friend, absolutely nothing. It is worse than before, without the only thing that helped us overcome the insurmountable setbacks: our hope, tenacity, the fuel that made the journey possible.
"For years we nourished a dream, to return to our loved ones. Instead we found wastefulness, disillusionment, a tragedy beyond anything possible. Our birthplace, saturated with the blood of our people.
"So here we are, at the end of the rope, facing reality smack in its face – the total destruction before our eyes. We have come full circle, back to the place where it began. The masterminds of the Holocaust grovel at our feet, beg for food, bending backward to please us.
"Hungry for affection, we find it in the arms of their daughters, sharing our semen, our innermost feelings.
"There is no stability, no permanence. We experience a false sense of security, a happiness not genuine, though at times it seems so real that one almost believes, or better yet wishes to believe. Young and under the influence, we are drugged. This is a paradox, but nevertheless true.
"Now the question is, should we go on sharing out bodies or live a life of celibacy? Is this the solution? Certainly not! The answer is clear. We must take it in stride, think of it as a pleasant interlude, because it will not last forever. Sooner or later we’ll leave this place and start a normal life. The only way is not to get addicted.
"There is a saying, ‘All the torments of the spirit begin in the pelvis,’ and it’s so true. No one could be blamed for it. We are human after all. Our conscience is clear. Let those who feel guilty, atone.
"Jacob, I think about life, testing it constantly, trying to make it worthwhile. I remember the past and compare the present, but I can’t go back, only forward, there is no other course. Thus I came to the conclusion that you, and I, and many others – greater minds than ours could not change it. Wasn’t it Plato who said, ‘The life which is unexamined is not worth living’? Your alter-ego demonstrates it.
"Now, Jacob, the trouble with you is that you have time to brood, so if it’ll make you feel better, go ahead, cry, let the tears wash your heart, rinse your soul, cleanse your mind. But don’t feel guilty, have a good time, do enjoy yourself, you have nothing to be ashamed of. You are not the only one, you have plenty of company. … So have a ball."
Satisfied with his lecture, Gershon meticulously inserted the other half of the Camel cigarette in his holder, expecting a comment, but Jacob was not supplying him with one.
"What’s the matter now?" he said. "Have you nothing to say? Nothing? One way or another I won’t charge you. I had my reward; instead of you it was I who unloaded a great burden. But still I am curous as to what you have to say."
"The truth is, Gershon, if you really want to know, our minds are on the same wavelength, our feelings identical.
"Your diagnosis is right, but the malady still lingers on. The only thing that makes it easier is that so many are afflicted – miserable, and my friend, misery loves company."
Chapter 33 (coming soon)
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