Loe raamatut: «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.