Read the book: «The Brothers of Auschwitz»

Prologue
Israel, 2001
7:30 in the morning and it’s frrrreezing.

I’m huddled in a heavy black coat on the Beit Yehoshua railway platform. I have a meeting with Dov and Yitzhak in Nahariya. There was a time when Yitzhak was known as Icho and Dov as Bernard. Yitzhak is seventy-five and can still lift a whole calf. Still strong. Dov at seventy-six is bigger than Yitzhak and loves cocoa cookies, television and peace and quiet. They have wives. Yitzhak has Hanna, a goodhearted woman. Dov has Shosh, who is also goodhearted.

The rain stops falling like a scratch. Like pain. At first it falls hard, abundantly, then trickles down. Branches drop to the ground indifferently. Shhhh. The tops of the eucalyptus trees travel from side to side in the wind and already I need to pee again. The loudspeaker announces the next train. The lamp flickers. In two hours’ time I’ll meet with Yitzhak and Dov. Yitzhak no longer pushes forward. And Dov never pushes, not even before. Dov will bring good coffee and cookies with cocoa and raisins.

Pew. Pew. Pew.

A man in a long coat fires at the approaching train. Pew. Pew. Pew. Wearing a beret pulled to one side, he holds a black umbrella and fires. His face is divided in dark lines, forehead, cheeks, chin, even his nose. His face is taut as if someone had slipped underwear elastic under his skin and pulled and pulled, almost tearing it, but no. He takes short hurried steps, flapping his arms hither and thither as if brushing away a swarm of flies or insects, or stinging thoughts, and firing. Raising his umbrella high in the air. Aiming at the eucalyptus trees or the train and shouting, pew-pew. Pew-pew. Pew.

I look the man straight in the eye as he shouts, pew. Pew. Pew. Pew. Pew.

I’m beside him now and he says stop. Stop. Aims and fires, pew-pew. Pew. Pew. Pew, all dead, he says and wipes his hand on old pants. I cough and he frowns, thrusting out his chin and biting his lips as if to say, I told you, didn’t I tell you? You had it coming, sickos. And then he breathes three times on the end of the umbrella, phoo, phoo, phoo, brushes imaginary crumbs from his coat, straightens the beret and returns to the middle of the platform. To and fro. Back and forth and back again, his hands in fighting mode all the time.

The soldiers have grown used to Friday shootings, the great rage that explodes on the platform from seven in the morning.

Everyone knows he comes from Even Yehuda on his bicycle. Winter, summer, he comes on a Friday. A constant presence. The trains pull out and he remains until noon. Firing without resting for a moment. In summer he uses a cane. People say, eat, drink, rest, why tire yourself, go home, too bad, but he’s in his own world. Seven in the morning, Friday, he must be seventy, maybe less, shooting on the platform in dirty clothes with wild, white hair. Every Friday he leaves on his bicycle at twelve-thirty on the dot. The cashier tells everything about him. Eager cashier. Fat cashier with blond bangs and black hair. The man has no watch. There’s a clock on the station wall. But he stands with his back to it. It isn’t important to him to see the time. He knows. He prepares the Sabbath for his dead.

Ah. The Beit Yehoshua platform is the closest thing to the platforms at Auschwitz. This is what the cashier tells us and we fall silent. At Auschwitz he touched his family for the last time. That’s what Yitzhak would say, and he’d raise his hat and shout, why should Jews stand on platforms at all? Are there no buses? Sometimes you have to stand on a bus, well, a taxi then. Taxis are expensive. So what, he refuses to stand on the platforms. Dov would cough if he heard Yitzhak getting mad about something. Then Dov would be silent. I’d pay no attention. I’d look first at Yitzhak, then at Dov and turn on the tape. Yitzhak would say loudly, why do you stand on the platforms, why don’t you take a taxi, too. Yes.

Now the eucalyptus trees are still. And the cashier is telling someone about Yajec. She has to talk fast before the new person shouts at Yajec. Every Friday the cashier protects him. Every Friday there are people who don’t know about him, haven’t heard him despair. The cashier has heard him and tells the older people so they won’t bother him. Leave him alone to kill with his umbrella, pew. Pew. Pew. Pew-pew. Once she told some new people, leave him alone, leave him be. Yajec was a little boy when he grabbed his mother’s dress, crying, yes. He wept incessantly, screamed, don’t leave me, but poor woman, she pushed him towards the group of men, and he ran to her, Mama, take me, but poor woman, she didn’t. Looking at her child, her face white, she screamed in his ear, Yajec you aren’t staying with me, go over there, you hear? And she slapped him and pushed him fiercely. You heard me. Yes. She went with the women and he stayed with strangers who didn’t see him because he was seven or eight, yes.

The train entered the station and stopped. Quiet. Three minutes of quiet. Even the cashier doesn’t speak when the train stops. She doesn’t want people to get confused. Whoever has to, boards the train, whoever has to get off – gets off. The train leaves, and the cashier said that Yajec’s father disappeared too. And his grandfather, grandmother, four sisters, and Aunt Serena and Uncle Abraham.

The face of an Ethiopian woman tugs at my belly. A gentle, fragile face, her mouth stretched outward as if she was about to weep, her eyes dark with sadness, a sadness from another place, distant, a sadness arranged in layers according to height, on her forehead a fresh, upper layer, her face strong. If Yitzhak and Dov were here, that face would probably make them weep. But Yitzhak never visits anyone and no one visits him. If Dov came, he’d probably give her a cookie and juice, tell her to sit down, sit down on a bench and rest a while.

Another train pulls in. The platform empties, only the man in the long coat and the beret are left. The Ethiopian woman boards the train. She knows there’ll be pushing but she gets on. The cashier said she was also a regular on the train. She was going to get a telling-off from the head teacher of the boarding school. That daughter of hers has behavior issues morning and night. She makes the teachers mad; wants to go back to Ethiopia; wants to live among her people; runs off to town on a Friday night, fools around at a Reggae Club. All she wants is to rap. She goes off in a long skirt and a long-sleeved blouse. In her bag she hides a small pair of shorts and a short, colorful blouse that shows her belly. She doesn’t want to be in boarding school, doesn’t want to! Her mother shouts, you are not coming back with me, you’re staying, understand?

Yitzhak would say, she’ll get used to it, in the end she’ll get used to it, and why does her mother get on the train every Friday, once every two or three months is enough, and she can go by taxi, didn’t they tell her? Dov would say, why insist with kids, it never works, best take her home, that’s all, right?

A white sun pushes through a narrow crack. It peeps out from behind the backs of the eucalyptus trees, creating a huge, shining kaleidoscope. The loudspeaker announces: attention, attention. The sun disappears. The train leaves the station.

I’m on my way to Nahariya.

Yitzhak won’t receive me. He might. On the telephone, Yitzhak said – we’ll see. Yitzhak has no patience.

Dov will sit with me. Dov keeps his word. Yitzhak too. But Yitzhak makes no promises. Yitzhak says – call on Thursday and we’ll see.

I call every Thursday, and he says, we’ll see. Finally, he says, yes, you can come.

Dov waits at the station with the car. Dov takes me to Yitzhak.

I’m not certain of anything. Will they agree to talk to me? Come again once or twice and we’ll see. That’s how they talk on the phone.

No “we’ll see”. They must.

Right.

Will you let me tell your story?

We will. We will.

We’ll take it slowly, slowly.

Maybe quickly, in case we regret it, ha. Ha. Ha.

Separately or together?

However it works out, but I have a cow farm to deal with.

So more often with Dov.

Sure. I’m willing to talk to you whenever you want.

Only on rainy days, come when it rains.

Okay, Yitzhak.

I can’t leave the cow farm in the middle of the day.

No need.

I have to feed all the calves, and I also go away sometimes.

I’ll come when it rains.

That would be best, I’m only home when it rains.

So when it rains.

All right.

But call first, and we’ll see.

Chapter 1

I am Yitzhak: The State of Israel gave me the name Yitzhak.

The Nazis gave me the number 55484.

The goyim gave me the name Ichco.

My Jewish people gave me the name Icho.

In Yitzhak’s Living Room

The hardest thing of all was being evicted from our home.

We woke as usual. I got up first and wanted to go with father to the market.

I forgot it was a holiday. Father came back from the synagogue. He was black-haired, medium height. Even with his coat on, he looked thin. Father sat down on a chair. Called us. Leah, come here. Sarah. Avrum. Dov, call Icho as well. We gathered around father.

Father’s face was the color of tin in the sun. Sickly. Our eyes looked for mother.

Father said, we have to pack. We’re leaving the village. We jumped, what? Where are we going, where, don’t know, the Hungarians are sending us away from here. Where, father, where. They didn’t say, we have to be quick, pack some clothes and blankets, he coughed. Leah, a glass of water please, take some cutlery, a few plates, socks, don’t forget socks, father, where are they sending us, where, asked Avrum.

To die! said Dov. Enough, Dov, enough, they’re sending all the Jews in the village somewhere else, to the east, to work in the east. Why are they only sending Jews, asked Sarah. So we’ll die and they’ll finally be rid of us, get us out of their lives once and for all, don’t you understand?

Father covered his face with thick, dark, strong fingers.

I heard the sound of choked weeping. We looked for mother. Mother was tiny with brown hair and a gentle face, like a flower wary of the sun. Mother was chewing on the fingers of both hands. I told her, tell father to explain to us, I don’t understand, tell him, tell him. Mother sat down on a chair. At a distance from father. She was silent. Father rubbed his face as if wanting to peel off his skin and ordered: Enough! And then he got up, stretched, held onto the chair, his fingers white, almost bloodless. He looked at mother, saying hoarsely: Hungarian soldiers came to the synagogue with rifles. They told us to prepare for eviction from the house. They said within the hour. They said only to pack a suitcase with what we need. They said to go to the synagogue. To wait. Orders will come.

We shouted in unison, but father, the war is over, we can hear the Russian cannons in the distance, tell them the war is over. Father said faintly: They know. Avrum shouted, so why are they taking us, father, what do they want to do to us, what?

They want to burn Jews. I heard it on the radio. We’ll all die, said Sarah, almost crying.

That’s exactly what Hitler planned, said Dov, putting an apple in his pocket.

Father stamped his foot, enough. Go to your room, go on, go, we have an hour to pack. Mother said, but we don’t have any suitcases or bags, how can we pack?

Father said, put everything in sheets, or even tablecloths, we’ll make bundles and tie them with rope, Avrum, run and fetch ropes from the storeroom, help the children tie the ropes, Leah, you’re in our room, I’m in the kitchen. Mother fell silent. Motionless, she folded her arms very tightly.

Sarah wept.

She said, I have to wash the dishes left from Passover night, I have to put them away in the cupboard, father shouted, never mind the dishes, they’re not important now.

Mother rose from her chair, stood at the sink, opened the tap full force, grabbed a dirty plate and quickly began to soap it. Father beat his hands against the sides of his pants, as if drawing strength, stood next to mother, turned off the tap. Mother turned round, threw the plate on the floor, drying her hands on her apron, straightened up and said, we’ll go and pack. Sarah bent down and picked the pieces off the floor, crying harder, but the plates will smell by the time we return, they’ll have to be thrown out. Dov said, don’t worry, they’ll make us all smell. Mother lifted Sarah, hugged her, brushing her hair away from her forehead, stroking her head and said, we’re going. Mother and Sarah went into the rooms. Avrum returned with rope. Followed mother. Dov stood at the window. Father collected cutlery in the kitchen.

I put on a woolen hat and went to the door. I grabbed the handle. My legs felt weak.

Father called, Icho, where are you off to?

The cowshed, I have to feed the cows, I’ll get them ready to leave.

Father was alarmed, no, no, that’s impossible, we’re going without the cows, just clothing and blankets, put your clothes in a bundle. Father stood opposite me.

I asked, what about the cows? Who will take care of the cows?

Father gave me a long hard look, said, don’t argue.

I couldn’t leave our cows. The cows lived in our yard.

The cowshed was behind the house. I enjoyed milking cows. We’d talk sometimes, as if we spoke the same language. The calves were born into my hands. I looked at Dov. The curls on his head seemed small. He looked as if he’d just had a shower.

Dov signaled me, drop it, drop it. I said to father, and who will milk our cows, the cows will die without food. Father didn’t know anything, believed the neighbors would take care of them, maybe one of the soldiers with a rifle, he wasn’t sure of anything.

I remembered my cat. I wanted to know what to do with my cat that had caught cold on Passover night. I had a large cat with black and white fur. I went back to father. He stood with his back to me, opening cupboards and he looked like a grandfather. I begged, at least the cat.

I’ll take my cat, it won’t bother us, all right?

Father spoke from inside the cupboard, leave the cat, Icho, don’t go outside. And then he straightened up, gripping his back, went over to the window opposite the road and said, come here. Look out of the window. Do you see the soldiers? They will come in soon and throw us into the street without our bundles, now do you understand?

I felt as if a sickness was spreading through my body and taking away my life. I wanted my cat. The cat that came into my bed with its purrrr purrrring. It loved having its belly tickled and a spray of milk straight from the teat on its fur. Loved licking itself, for hours. Avrum, my older brother stood in the doorway. Avrum was tall, thin and gentle like mother.

He said, come on, I’ll help you, Dov is also waiting for you. Just a minute. I wanted to hug my sick cat. Sarah stood beside me. Took me by the hand. We heard a noise outside. Sarah rushed to the window.

Her bony body leaned out and she called father: Father, father, the neighbors are in our yard, they’re calling you. Sarah was also thin. Father didn’t turn round, said, not now Sarah. Sarah called more urgently, the neighbors are coming to the door, father, go out to them. Dov came into the room, put an apple in his other pocket and then some matzos inside his shirt. He had brown eyes and muscles like a ball in each arm. He’d tossed a sweater on his back.

A knock at the door made me jump.

Father went to the door. I heard our neighbor asking, where are you off to, Strullu? It was Stanku. He always wore a peaked cap; he had a red-tipped wart on his cheek.

Father said, you tell me, maybe they said something to you.

They said nothing to me. It was you they spoke to.

Father fell silent. Stanku straightened up. And the children?

Father said, they’re leaving with us. The old people too.

Stanku took off his cap, you need bread. Father didn’t. He said, we’ve got matzos.

No, Strullu, you need bread and water for the journey. I don’t.

Take cakes, we have large cakes we made for Easter. We’ll give you the cakes. Hide them in your clothing. Who knows what will happen.

Dov said to himself, a tragedy is what will happen. A terrible tragedy.

Father smiled sadly at Stanku. He said quietly, that child is always thinking about tragedies. Don’t know what’s wrong with him. Stanku grabbed father’s hand. His hand trembled. His blue eyes were moist.

Stanku said, we’ll take care of the house, Strullu, we’ll look after the cows, and you’ll be back, you have to come back.

Father and Stanku hugged. I heard thumps on backs. I heard father say brokenly, I don’t think we’ll be back, Stanku, forgive me, I must go in. Father left.

I turned to Stanku, so you’ll look after the house, the cows too, and the cat, and you’ll feed it, yes, and if people come by and want to take it, what will you tell them?

Stanku cleared his throat. And again, holding his throat. I whispered, I have a small sum saved, I’ll give it to you, Stanku.

Stanku threw up his hands, stamped his foot on the path, said, no, no, no, and don’t worry, Icho, I’m here to take care of everything until you come safely home. We shook hands. I went inside.

Dov jumped out through the window.

I was sure Dov was escaping into the forest. I was glad he’d run away. Glad no one saw. Glad that at least one of our family would stay to take care of the house. Father, mother, Sarah, Avrum and I went to the synagogue with our bundles on our backs. Hungarian soldiers counted us. Someone snitched, said a boy from our family was missing.

Soldiers threatened father, shaking a finger at him: by nightfall. The boy must return by nightfall. Or we’ll stand all of you against the wall, boom boom boom. Understand? Father called Vassily from Dov’s class.

Vassily was Dov’s best friend. Vassily liked going without socks and hat. Winter or summer, the same. Vassily came at a run. He had a coat with one short sleeve and one long one.

Father hugged Vassily’s shoulder, saying, Vassily, bring Dov to us. He’s in the forest. Only you can do this. Vassily looked at father and was sorry, Dov, Dov. Father bent down and whispered to Vassily, tell Dov, remember Shorkodi, the young man from Budapest, he’ll understand.

Dov came back swollen from a beating.

That night he returned with Hungarian soldiers. His face stayed swollen for two days. He had a deep cut from forehead to ear. He had a crust of blood under his hair. He didn’t say a word. I was sorry, pity you came back, Dov, a pity.

Two days later, they took us by train to Ungvár, now Uzhhorod.

In the town of Ungvár they put us in a huge pit like an open mine. There were thousands of Jews there from that area without an outhouse or shower. Just a small tap and pipe. Rain kept falling. The rain washed out the mine. We were drowning in mud and a strong smell. First came the strong smell of people who were going to die. Then came the smell of human excrement. I couldn’t get used to the bad smells. I wanted to vomit even after I finished vomiting.

Our family was given a space the size of a living-room sofa. We slept on planks and wet blankets. We ate a bowl of potato soup after waiting in line for hours. One bowl a day. We were still hungry. We saw peddlers walking around the pit. They made signs at us with their hands. Signs of the cross, signs of slitting throats as if they held a knife in their hands. They grinned toothlessly, hee hee hee. I could have pummeled them with my fists. Mother spoke to me wordlessly. I pummeled myself with my fists until my leg was numb. People with important faces and wet jackets walked among us. They were known as the Judenräte.

They promised, just a matter of days and you’ll be in the east. They spoke of many work places.

We waited for the train that would take us east to many work places. The train didn’t come. People became impatient, at first a little, then increasingly so. After three days they yelled at one another for no reason. If they unintentionally touched an elbow in the line for soup or the tap, they yelled. They argued about where to place their head or feet when going to sleep. Or why they farted right into a baby’s face.

Poor little thing, he choked, a little consideration, Grandpa. They argued about rumors. Yelled, yelled, yelled, a day later, they repeated the rumors and reported new ones. There were no rumors about death, no words about death; about liberation, yes. Many words about imminent or distant liberation. We were ignorant about the news they reported, we just heard and waited. Waited almost a month.

Finally a special cattle train arrived on the track.

We were sure it was a mistake. Soldiers pushed us into the cars. They forcefully pushed entire families. Entire villages. Towns. Cities. I understood. The Hungarians wanted to cleanse the world of Jews. Didn’t want to breathe in a world a Jew had passed through. Wanted to look far into the future, ah, no Jews. None. Clean sky, sun and moon, too.

The journey by train was a nightmare.

We traveled three days without food or water. We traveled in a car with a tin bucket for the needs of a small town. The infant in the arms of the woman with cracked glasses cried ceaselessly. A yellow thread oozed from his ear. My mother cut a strip of fabric from a sheet and tied it around his head. Like mumps. The infant’s crying increased. The woman tried to give him her nipple, but he didn’t want it. He only wanted to cry. After two days the crying stopped and the woman began. At first she wept alone, then another five or six people alongside her began to weep, like a choir. Finally, she covered the infant’s face with a sheet. Refused to give him to the tall man standing beside her. She had a brown spatter on her glasses. I dug my nails into my leg, dug and dug, until there was a small hole.

Dov said, he was saved, the baby died in his mother’s arms. We will die alone.

We stood in line on the platforms at Auschwitz.

Trains were standing the length of the track. Like an enormous, long-tailed serpent.

Babies flew into the air like birds. Pregnant women were thrown onto a truck. One woman’s belly exploded mid-air, everything scattering as if there was a watermelon there, not a baby. Old people who couldn’t walk were smeared on the floor. Whole villages stood on the platform without room to move. In the air, a column of smoke and the sharp smell of burned chickens. That’s what I remember.

First they separated the women from the men.

I never saw mother or Sarah again.

We passed by an officer with a pleasant face, as if he liked us, felt concern. As if he cared about us. With his finger, he signaled, right, left, right, left. We didn’t know his finger was long enough to reach the sky. Then they asked about professions. Dov jumped first. We didn’t have time to part from each other.

The soldiers shouted builders, are there any builders? Avrum and I walked forward together. Father remained to choose another profession. I never saw father again.

They took us to a building where we were to strip.

A long, never-ending line. As if they were handing out candies there. And then they told us quickly, strip quickly. Naked women ran in the direction of a large iron door. The door constantly opened. Naked women were swallowed up into the black opening of the door. Like the large mouth of the sea. Men and boys ran the other side. Bearded rabbis screamed Shema Israel, Shema Israel.

Avrum and I stood trembling opposite the building that had swallowed the most people.

The building had a black door and another one just the same. My brother and I didn’t know where we should run. Naked and confused we ran from one side to the other, treading on legs, pushing with our hands. Around me I saw people spinning with their hands above their heads, beating their chests, pulling their hair from their heads, their genitals. I saw people weeping to their God, telling him, God, hear me, give me a sign, where is the Messiah, Master of the Universe. The was a sound there like a low hummmm, heavy as a snowstorm. Hummm. Hummm.

I called to my brother until my throat was hoarse.

I called, Avrum, Avrum, which door should we run to, Avrum, answer me.

Avrum caught my hand. Avrum sobbed, here, no, there, no, no, Avrum, what do we do, where, where, the first door, no, no, the second, Icho what are you doing, Icho listen to me, wait, liiiiisten. We were inside.

We were inside a huge hall with benches. A huge hall with barbers who shaved hair. Tirelessly, they shaved and shaved. Then they took us to the showers. And then, phishsh. Water. I called, Avrum, it’s water, water, we’re alive, Avrum, we’re still together, Avrum, we’ve been lucky, Avrum. I sobbed during the entire shower.

Chapter 2

I am Dov: The State of Israel gave me the name Arieh-Dov, Dov for short.

The Nazis gave me the number A-4092.

The goyim gave me the name Bernard.

My Jewish people gave me the name Leiber.

In Dov’s Living Room

I was sure they were taking us to die.

Father thought they were sending us to work in distant factories. I thought about death. My death had a shiny red color. Red like the blood oozing from the ear of the man standing beside me in the train to Auschwitz. This man had refused to board the train and the blood refused to stop streaming for three days, perhaps because of the crowdedness and the pressure, everyone was pressed against everyone else. We were like fish in a barrel stinking of fresh death, a new smell that came into my life and didn’t leave me for a long time.

The train to Auschwitz stopped.

The car door opened quite suddenly. Torches like projectors exploded in our eyes. The loudspeaker announced, quickly, quickly, schnell, schnell. Leave belongings on the train. We heard irritability in a voice that was sharp and loud, as if there was nothing but a voice there, no human being, just a voice, schnell, schnell.

On the platforms were soldiers with guns and voices like loudspeakers. Get down, quickly, quickly. They yelled as if they had a loudspeaker installed in their throats. To the side stood piles of striped pajamas, a head and arms sticking out of them. I saw nothing else of them. They stood to one side with bowed and shaven heads. They were more frightening than the orderly soldiers. They looked ill and suffering. The soldiers didn’t. The orchestra was also healthy. They played cheerful marches suitable for a victory parade.

Dogs on leashes barked wildly. Dogs with sharp teeth and runny noses, their hackles up like nails. Soldiers pushed an old bearded grandfather who didn’t understand, who said, excuse me, sir, to the commander, what should … Thwack. The old man fell. Soldiers beat up other frail old people. Smashed shoulders, belly, back. They didn’t let them die on the spot, they left them to sob. And they sobbed with pain. Others wept in worry or because of the orchestra. There was a good orchestra at Auschwitz. I could immediately hear it was good. I almost wept for the beauty of it, but the large pile of striped pajamas stayed in my mind, and I didn’t cry.

On the other side, soldiers were kicking a small child about like a ball; he was maybe three years old. The child hadn’t heard, move, quickly, quickly. The little boy had black curls, a short coat and a heavy diaper in his trousers. A diaper full of poop from the journey. The child had lost his mother and father and all he had left was a brown teddy bear that he held under his arm. The teddy bear was first to fall. The child followed. Another kick. Again he didn’t hear move quickly. It was a little hard to hear because of the music. The child’s head opened slightly. Another kick, and that was it. He remained on the platforms beside his teddy bear like a black stain on the road. The place grew very quiet. For a moment nobody spoke, not a word, just cheerful music.

I was dragged forward and the noise increased. It was a great weeping. The greatest weeping I had ever heard. The weeping of a large ocean, a stormy ocean. Weeping like waves breaking against rocks on the shore, whoosh, whoosh.

Soldiers screamed stand in line, quickly.

Soldiers divided, women to the left, men to the right. Men hugged young children. Children sobbed Mama, Mama, Grandma, where’s my Mama. A grandmother with a scarf hid her mouth behind her hand. She had no teeth. Grandmother made strange sounds, like a life-saver at the beach. A life-saver who shouts into a megaphone, not a big one, in the wind. Waaah, waaah, waaah, waaaaaah.

A grandfather with a cane took the hand of a crying child. Held him firmly, saying, sha, sha, sha, don’t cry, boy, and collapsed to the ground. Thwack. The child fell silent. Soldier seized a baby wrapped in a blanket from a mother’s arms. Soldier ripped the woolen hat from the baby’s head and smashed the bald head against the car door. I heard a scream like a calf being slaughtered in the village, before the knife.

Mother and Sarah grew steadily more distant.

Mother threw her hands up in the air. As if she wanted to chase off spirits and devils. Mother pulled the scarf from her head, pulled at her hair, shrieked: children take care of yourselves. Mother shouted more loudly: My children, take care of yourselves. Do you hear me? Mother’s cry made a wound in my heart. As if someone had put a nail on a nerve and hammered it in. To this day I ache when I remember mother’s tears and her last words.

Mother and Sarah were among the first four. They walked and walked until they vanished in the middle of the platforms.

Soldiers yelled to stand four to a line, quickly, and the orchestra played.

The loudspeaker continued to issue orders. The torches hurt less. People were running about like cockroaches in the dark. They forgot there was light. They were looking for relatives with whom to make a foursome. The noise was immense. An order from the loudspeaker momentarily stopped everyone on the platforms, then everyone began to run, call, Tibor, come closer, Solomon, Yaakov, come, come, we’ll make up a foursome. Shimon, who sold meat with them, came up without his glasses, tried to push in. You aren’t with us, Shandor-with-the-limp was alarmed, move back.

Cross-eyed Yaakov from our village said, that’s enough, we’re four, and you’ll stand behind us. Cross-eyed Yaakov began to walk.

Shandor-with-the-limp grabbed his hand, where are you going, stand next to me, here, one, two, three, four, five? No, no, move, no room, Yaakov, wait, what’s wrong with him, he’s throwing down his hat and pulling down his trousers, Shimon, come here, come back quickly, stand here, here, don’t move, no more room, you will all stand in front of us, so what if you’re cousins, nu, start another foursome.

The platforms loudspeaker changed station. Moved to dance music. We stood there, three boys and father, thin and beardless. Father raised his head, Avrum caught father’s arm, Yitzhak took two steps towards SSman.

Avrum forcefully pulled Yitzhak into the line. Whispered, what d’you think you’re doing.

I stood like a heavy stone thrown into an abyss. Spin, spin, spin, thump.

Like a stone that had crashed on a rock.

Father was silent, pressing my arm like hot pliers.

A calm German officer signaled with his finger, right, left, left, left, left, and right again.

The orchestra changed the dance. The officer had eyes like the crack of a window.

He wore white gloves. He had shiny buttons and a wine-drinking face.

We went right. Whoever went right went to work. Whoever went left, went.

I saw smoke traveling not far from a cloud. I remember it, a black cloud, special. The smoke came out of the chimney of a large building, a huge building, the smoke drew mushroom . I asked father, what’s that?

A steel factory, Dov.

Father, answer me.

It’s a factory, Dov. A steel factory for the war.

This is where they burn Jews, father, that’s the smoke of Jewish flesh.

Father jumped as if he’d trodden on a snake, no. No, of course it isn’t, it’s a factory, that smoke is from machines, Dov.

Soldiers called out, mechanics, any mechanics here?

I shouted, I’m a mechanic, me, me. I jumped out of the line. Jumped alone.

I wanted to run as far away as I could. I wanted to escape the piles of flesh in the smoke to come. Father, Avrum and Yitzhak remained behind me.

I didn’t look back, I wanted forward, far away.

Soldiers in polished shoes and leggings like tarpaulins took me to a two-storey building. They put me on a storey with German political prisoners. German prisoners with blond hair, and one with a mustache. The prisoners had received food packages from home. They sat eating in a group. They had a wooden box at the end of the bed. A box with a lid and a medium sized lock.

I sat on the last bed and observed the mouths of the people in the room. I watched them take a bite with their teeth, gurgle, chew, swallow, chatting, offering to each other, saying thank you, sucking, wiping, burping, scratching, laughing, wrapping left-overs in a napkin, putting them back in the box, locking it and going to sleep. The German prisoners didn’t notice that I’d come, they were oblivious. For them, I was a bit of dirt on the wall.

The smell of food drove me mad. My mouth filled with saliva. I could smell sausage and cakes. Bread and smoked fish. And peanuts and chocolate. I heard sounds in my belly. I smacked my belly. The sound didn’t stop. I took off my shoes and lay down on my back. A Jew from Budapest came in to sleep next to me. A fat, older Jew, about sixty. He had drops of sweat on his cheek. He breathed heavily, like an old train engine. He told me about the enormous farm he’d left behind in Hungary. I was shocked. A Jew with lands? Yes, boy, lands the size of three villages. Really? Yes, boy, and what use is it to me now that I’m dying, dying of hunger. What’s your name, boy?

Bernard, that’s my Christian name. At home my name is Leiber.

How old are you, boy?

Sixteen and a bit.

The man caught hold of my shoulders, shook me firmly, staring at me, one eye healthy the other made of glass, and said: Bernard, look at me, I don’t stand a chance, you do. Steal, kill, live, do you hear me? You’re young, Bernard, you’re a boy with a good chance of coming out of this war, understand?

I made a small movement with my head, understand. The fat man fell back on his bed. We fell asleep in a second. The next day he was gone, in the way of Auschwitz, as I understood in time. One moment you’re talking to someone, the next moment he’s gone.

Chapter 3
Yitzhak

At Auschwitz, in the year 1944, I received a new name.

55484 was sewn onto the side of my trousers and this was my new name. I was given striped clothing. A shirt and trousers from the same fabric, like the pictures we see today. I was given a striped hat and plastic shoes with wooden soles. We stood in the dark, rows and rows of prisoners, everyone the same. Like a convoy of ants with numbers on the chest and side.

We were put in Bloc 12. In the bloc were three-tier beds. Not really beds, more like sleeping benches. We were ordered to stand in a line next to the beds. Avrum and I stood next to each other. Avrum was eighteen and asked where Dov was. I was fifteen and a bit, a year younger than Dov and didn’t know where he was. Avrum was at least a head taller than me. Avrum had broad shoulders and the bristles of a beard. I had room in my shirt at the shoulders and a smooth face with no sign of a beard. In the Bloc were other children my age. They stood among the older prisoners, looking down at the floor. I glanced at my brother, fiercely rubbing the thumb of my left hand. I couldn’t stop rubbing.

An SSman entered the bloc. He stood straight with legs apart and a hat on his head. He stood with one hand on his hip and the other playing on his thigh. He pursed his lips as if whistling and slowly passed from one prisoner to another. Advanced. Stopped. Went back. Stopped at a boy of maybe thirteen, maybe less.

The thirteen-year-old puffed out his chest and belly, made himself taller and taller and taller.

SSman beckoned with his finger.

Boy stepped out of the line. Boy cried quietly. Boy trembled.

SSman hit him on his thigh. Thwack. Boy fell silent.

SSman scratched his neck with the long nail of his little finger. Slowly scratched his bristles. I heard the scratch of sandpaper on a board. He scratched, scratched, scratched, stopped.

I stopped breathing.

SSman pursed his lips. Began to scan us again.

A boy opposite me pinched himself on the arms. I saw him stand on tiptoe. Fall. Stand. Fall. A boy beside me pulled his shirt away from his trousers, as if he’d grown fatter since standing in the line. Someone at the end of the line fell. They dragged him to the boy standing on the side.

SSman took three children and the one who’d fallen and they left.

I didn’t know the crematorium. But I did know I mustn’t go outside with SSman. I understood everything through the crack in his eyelids. I was fifteen and a bit, thin as a match, and it was my great good luck not to go out with them. That was my first stroke of luck. And there was a second stroke of luck. Two brothers from my village saved me. They were in the bloc, two beds away from me. Two large brothers, with swollen muscles in their arms, and bull like necks. The brothers lifted me onto the third tier of the bed.

Covered me with a straw mattress, saying, when there’s appel – counting – you don’t come down, understand, Icho? I stayed on the third tier for four days. SSman came to our bloc every day or two, took small thin prisoners. Avrum gave me bread. Avrum whispered the situation to me from below.

After a week they announced over the loudspeaker: Going to work, not counting. The two brothers from my village didn’t believe the loudspeaker. They told the group, they’re taking us to the crematorium. The two brothers climbed onto the bed and help me to get down. I get down from the third tier and feel my legs fold by themselves. As if they’d been filled with margarine. I held onto the wall and looked at my brother. Avrum grabbed me by the hips and stuck out his tongue. Dragged me to the door. We were the last to leave and I glanced at the fence. An electric, barbed-wire fence at least four meters high. I saw a sign with the drawing of a skull and several words.

Someone behind me whispered, careful, death hazard. I thought, a long time ago, ordinary people walked to and fro behind the fence. What happened to them, are they alive or dead, I had no answer.

SSman shouted, left, right, left, right, in the direction of the train tracks.

Again the crowding in the car. I calculated, if I kill the one in front of me, and the one behind me, and if I kill those to the side, how much room will I have, maybe the length of a ruler on each side, no more. I looked for my brother. I saw there was no point in calling him. He was pressed between two tall people. Pale. I saw his eyelids jumping like a broken automaton.

We traveled for several days. A quarter of bread per day, no water. People around me died without a murmur. They died a purple color, their mouths closed. They had purple under their fingernails. Like iodine poured on a wound. Someone died and we immediately searched him for food. Then we laid him down, while he was still warm, and took turns sitting on him.

There wasn’t enough air in the car for everyone.

Sour sweat dampened our clothing. We stood pressed against one another with our mouths open, we shouted, air, air. We beat on the door. Screamed for an hour. I lost my voice. Finally they opened a narrow strip above. We climbed over the dead and the frail in order to breathe. We climbed on them as if they were our staircase to life.

Through the window I saw we had reached Weimar. There was a prominent sign there. From Weimar they took us to Camp Buchenwald. I knew it from the sign.

We arrived at Bloc 55. The first thing a prisoner with a wounded hand said to me was: careful, they’re looking for children, and in a moment I threw myself onto the third tier of the bunks. The barracks door would open, and I was on top, just as I did at Auschwitz. My brother Avrum told me when to come down. After two days the loudspeaker called my brother Avrum to report. We knew by the number they called.

Avrum came to say goodbye but in the end he said nothing. He looked at me and trembled. His face was white as a sheet. I fell upon him, oy, oy, oy, it’s a mistake, they mistook the number, don’t go, Avrum, don’t leave me alone. Tears wet Avrum’s shirt. The trembling of his chin increased. His mouth stretched up and to the sides as if he was telling me many important things. He was breathing very fast, and his nose ran like a tap. The loudspeaker called Avrum’s number again. I was afraid. Avrum jumped and hugged me hard. I wept into his ear, I want to stay with you, what do we do, Avrum, let’s go together. Avrum refused. I felt as if both our ribs were breaking, and then he pushed me, breathing in and out, dried my face so I’d see him more clearly, left. I ran after him to the door. The guard at the entrance wouldn’t allow me to leave. He gestured, go back to your place or you’ll get it. He had a baton in his hands. A baton with an iron knob at the end. I wanted to shout, Avrum, Avrum, wait for me. I opened my mouth wide. Closed it. Went back to my place on the third tier.

I felt myself falling, falling, as if into a bottomless pit. As if they’d tied me to a heavy weight and thrown me into a dark place among strangers. I lay on my bunk and cried for an hour, until they brought a new prisoner to Avrum’s bunk. I immediately turned my back. Couldn’t bear to see someone else beside me. I got down. I knew I was angry enough to kill that prisoner. Two hours had passed and I still couldn’t calm down. A German from another Bloc came into the barracks. I didn’t have time to climb up.

We were ordered: Line up, don’t move. The German half-closed his eyes and scanned us slowly. Back and forth. Back and forth. He had a crooked smile and puffiness under his chin. Like a pocket full of food. His eyebrows were joined like a fence and he had a pointed belly under his belt. He held white gloves in one hand, tapping them against his other hand. As if the gloves were helping him to think. Back and forth, back and forth. I stopped breathing. The German put on his gloves and took me and four other children. I followed him, oblivious to anything.

Outside, the late-afternoon sun was warm, the beginning of summer. Bright light filled the spaces between the blocs. I searched for Avrum in that bright light. Examined the parade grounds. I saw trucks with tarpaulins. I didn’t know if there were prisoners inside or if they were empty. I never saw Avrum again, never saw him again.

The German with the white gloves took us to Bloc 8. Things were good for us in Bloc 8. Food on time. Lights out. A shower every day. Beds with blankets, clean sheets. A place with discipline and the color white. Fifty or sixty children with Baba – Uncle Volodya in charge. A fat man with a fat nose and a fat voice, and a large handkerchief in his hand. He liked to travel with his handkerchief on his bald head, pat-pat-pat-pat, but also to wipe children’s tears with it. It was mainly at night that he wiped and fondled everywhere. I was quiet, almost unmoving, when he wiped and fondled. I barely breathed and my mouth was closed.

A doctor came into the bloc every morning.

Doctor had alert ears like an antenna. Doctor said hello, how are you, children. Doctor laughed with white teeth, and I saw the slight tremor of the antenna. Doctor would choose a child and leave.

In the meantime, Baba Volodya fondled children. Baba Volodya pinched cheeks and sent kisses to the ceiling. Children jumped on Baba. Children hugged Baba. Children said thank you, Baba, thank you. Thank you for the good food. The clean sheets. The shower and hot water.

And I saw method: children who went with doctor didn’t return to the bloc. Their beds remained empty. I didn’t understand. Healthy children leave with doctor. Plump children leave the bloc. Children with color in their cheeks don’t come back to sleep in the bloc.

I hung onto Baba Volodya’s shoulder, asking him, where do the children go, Baba, and why don’t they come back to the bloc to sleep, what’s going on here, Baba, huh? Baba didn’t respond. I felt knives in my belly. I felt I had no air left at the open window. Every time the doctor came in I would catch Baba Volodya’s eye. Catch his eye and hold it. As if I were hanging onto his shoulder from a distance, as if telling him, you’re my father, you’re my father, and you won’t leave me alone like my first father, d’you hear me? Only when the doctor left did I leave Baba Volodya and breathe in from the deepest place possible.

I started wandering around, asking questions.

I walked the length of the bloc. And back again. I walked back and forth, counting. I asked, where do the children go, where, and got no answer. I went over to stand near the older prisoners. I knew they were old-timers by the numbers on their clothing and their silence. They neither asked nor answered, just stood there staring nowhere. I said, tell me, where do the doctor and the children go, where is that building?

One said, there’s a special place for experiments on young ones and a place for experiments on grownups. Doctor and child go to a place for experiments on young ones.

I said, experiments, what are experiments, what do you mean, tell me, I don’t understand. He had an eye infection that leaked like a slug.

He looked at me without seeing me, as if thinking about me, then, finally, he said, go away, boy. My blood pounded fast in my veins, tam-tam, tam-tam. Someone else with a swollen belly who had heard me stuck to me. My blood pounded even faster.

My new friend said, be careful. I don’t go anywhere near that place. Every child goes into a pot with gas, they close the lid on his head, like with soup. There are other cases. They examine some children according to a clock: how long can they live without air. Some last for a long time, others not at all. They die the minute the clock is set.

I stamped my foot and ran back to the bloc. I grabbed a freckled boy by the neck, calling agitatedly, boy, wait. What does it mean when the doctor leaves with a boy and returns without. Tell me, is it true they cook him in a pot? Cut him?

The boy said, don’t know, and ran away as if I were holding a butcher’s knife. I didn’t give up. I ran outside. I caught a short prisoner with saliva on his chin.

Asked, what are experiments, and why do healthy children leave beds empty, huh?

He asked, where.

I muttered, in Bloc 8.

He sat down, are you in that bloc?

I hit him on the shoulder. Shouted, tell me, now, what’s going on in my bloc.

He rolled his tongue and said, they inject a needle with a substance into the boy’s vein, but first they talk to him nicely. Then they measure how long it takes for the substance to reach the heart. For some it takes three minutes. For others one minute. For some even less. But you should know it doesn’t hurt to die like that. They die well there, without a nasty smell.

I asked who talks such nonsense, the one who dies?

The man said, no. Not the one who dies, and he wanted to go.

I tugged at his shirt, the doctor says so?

No.

So who says it doesn’t hurt, who? The prisoner turned and walked off.

I decided to escape from Bloc 8.

I heard they were looking for a cook for the women’s camp. I told Baba Volodya I’m a very good cook. Get me out of here into the women’s camp. Get me out, Baba, please. As if I were your boy now. Baba Volodya stuck a match between his teeth and pressed hard. I didn’t move from him. Volodya wrote down my name.

Volodya said, wait. I waited. I watched him from wherever I stood. I pursued him and waited.

Achtung. Achtung. 55484, report.

My heart stopped. I didn’t know where they were sending me, to the gas chamber of the Jews, the experiments’ pot, or to cook in the women’s camp. Gas. Kitchen. Pot. Gas. Kitchen. Pot. Kitchen. Kitchen. My tongue went dry in moment. I felt a strong pain in my backside. I went out.

Soldiers took me to a petrol station. Soldiers put me on a train car. I moved from Buchenwald to Camp Zeiss. An entire day on a cattle train.