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A memoir of the Holocaust
By Jacob Zylberman
The online version
© Copyright 1995, 2000, Jack Zylberman
"You must be Jacob," said the man, his right hand grasping the young man’s hand, his left holding tinted glasses, as his grayish-brown eyes scrutinized Jacob.
The young man nodded enthusiastically.
"Let me introduce myself. I am Milton Berger, a friend of Mrs. Feinberg, sister of Mandelewitz, who sponsored your brother Leon and his wife to arrive in America.
"Leon, an expert watchmaker, transformed a broken-down vegetable store into a boutique shop. He is up from early in the morning till late at night immersed in his work, wrapped up himself, not easily reached."
Berger added some tobacco to a pipe, lit it and took a few short, quick puffs, the sweet aroma filling the small, dark room.
"I am a writer, a student of psychology," he said, "and a correspondent for a newspaper in Hartford, Connecticut. I was one of the first to witness the tragedy of the war in Europe, and to interview some of the survivors, like your brother Leon.
"I saw barracks unfit for human habitation – cages of vicious German shepherds waiting for a chance to attack those in striped suits. I saw the gas chambers, the hanging tree, and the chimneys of the crematoria.
"I was not in Auschwitz, or Bergen-Belsen, Maidanek or Treblinka, but in a small concentration camp, where I pried open the iron gates marked with the inscription
‘ARBEIT MACHT FREI’
"For days I walked as if in a trance, awakening at night in a cold sweat, and wondered where were the people, the leaders of the world, the powerful church? How could they witness this and do nothing?
"Bewildered, I kept asking, WHY? Is there any ethical, moral justification for these outrageous crimes?
"Many months have passed, and still I ask the same question: WHY? WHY? WHY?"
An uneasy stillness enveloped the room. Berger wiped a tear, as his wife sobbed softly in the background, and a baby played quietly in a crib.
It was Jacob who broke the silence. He switched on the light hanging over the table and said, "Mr. Berger, I value your compassion. Only a decent human being can express so much concern, such sympathy. Yet you, a stranger in that part of the globe, cannot comprehend the conditions of those who lived on the other side of the fence. What made them tick.
"Those born and raised there might be able to shed some light. Only the indigenous can provide some answers.
"Although I was not in a concentration camp, I think I know some of the reasons that led to their existence.
"For as long as I remember, I was aware of a hate, only because of my faith.
"Ostracized, I walked on ground fertile with hostility, unforgiven for breathing the air, for eating the same bread the others did. Inculcated, narrow-minded cowards in search of scapegoats blamed me and my brethren for their failures, their misfortunes.
"No wonder the infamous factories of death were located in these parts of the continent.
"Just the other night," Jacob went on, his listener transfixed, "I listened to Dvorzak’s New World Symphony. Enchanted by its poignant beauty, my mind wandered from place to place, some real some imagined.
"There I was, soaring high above the clouds, a gentle breeze taking me home. ... A little boy, when life was good, beautiful, and thrilling.
"Like a book, its pages turned back, one after another, until there were no more. I remember it so well, and I would like to tell it.
"This is my story. …"
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