Prologue
Edith DAVIDOVICI, prisoner number 80661.
Is writing one's memories not the same as writing history?
For a former deportee, the choice and tone of memories differ according to one's mood and the moment. Those who have not lived through this experience will never truly know. It is difficult to imagine that Auschwitz meant total and absolute death. The death of an entire people, of its language, its culture, and even its spirit.
Only the survivors know — they and no one else. A great many of them are overwhelmed by feelings of guilt and despair. Their testimonies inspire horror, but also humility. And even if the subject is still often considered taboo, they alone are able to speak of it. As for me, the only truth I can offer myself is to attempt to bring the account of my memories to completion, knowing that time is striving to tear them from me.
War was declared on September 2, 1939. During the German occupation of France, the anti-Jewish measures first enacted by the Vichy government and then by the German authorities made our daily lives increasingly precarious. France was divided in two: one zone occupied by the Germans and another, called the Free Zone. The city of Lyon was part of the latter. We decided to leave Paris in order to reach "Free France," despite the prohibition on traveling without a permit. The entire family crowded into the only means of transport available to us: my brother-in-law's car. The trains were stormed by crowds. On the roads, multitudes of people dragged their luggage and their children behind them, making travel extremely difficult. We moved at a crawl. Wandering from one town to the next, we lived in apartments that grew more and more unsanitary each time — grateful still to have a roof over our heads. After countless misadventures, we finally arrived in Lyon in December 1943. Lacking a haven of peace, we hoped at least to have found refuge. It was in this city that we celebrated my wedding. My husband and I lived in an apartment under the false name of SAULNIER. My parents, as well as my sister and her family, lived in hiding in the outskirts of Lyon, in Caluire. It was my sister who took care of obtaining food. My parents risked drawing attention to themselves because of their Hungarian accent — especially my father, who refused to cut his beard. In April 1944, shortly before Passover, our Pâques, the milice, acting on numerous denunciations, carried out many raids on people with false papers. On that day, my husband, his brother, and about fifteen friends were among those caught. They first came for my husband, claiming it was merely a routine check. But he knew it was not true. He struggled, 4
but in vain — there were four of them against him. Stunned by his arrest, I grabbed my bag and my white rabbit fur jacket and went out to warn my sister-in-law and brother-in-law so they could leave their apartment as quickly as possible. As I neared their street, I ran into my other brother-in-law — the unmarried one — who told me they had already come for his brother. I then told him about my husband. Together we went up to warn my sister-in-law, but the apartment was empty and in indescribable disorder. We had barely recovered from our shock when the militiamen returned. My brother-in-law just had time to escape by climbing up to the sixth floor. I made it to the second floor, knocking frantically at every door in the hope that one of them would open. But in vain. The militiamen arrested me and took me immediately before the Nazi chief, a man named Barbie. I later learned that my brother-in-law had managed to escape across the rooftops, despite the warning shots and bullets fired at him. My sister-in-law, for her part, was arrested at my apartment. She had come to warn me that her husband had been taken away by the milice... And so fifteen people were arrested that day. Given away by informers. Paid 5,000 francs of the time for each person denounced. It must be said: these informers were French. I found myself face to face with Barbie. To me he was just a German officer, one SS man among many others. He looked me over and said to an officer: "She doesn't look Jewish, and Saulnier is not a Jewish name." He carefully searched my bag until he found my real identity card, hidden in the lining. I then realized I had taken the wrong bag. Upon reading it, he had no further doubt, and signaled to the officer to take me to the prison at Fort Montluc.
CHAPTER 2
On the way there, I offered the officer to let me go in exchange for my ring, a solitaire diamond I wore on my finger. He refused. He explained that he risked being sent to the Russian front for such a thing. And so I was imprisoned at Fort Montluc. I could at least consider myself fortunate not to have been mistreated by the despicable Barbie, as was the case for so many other detainees. I was handed over to the jailer, who shut the door of freedom behind me; anguish and emotion gripped my throat. In a pale light, endless rows of bars stretched out before me. I heard screams, howls, and moans coming from the cells. I was brought before one of them, and once again a door closed behind me. The cell was approximately four square meters. There was a bunk, a straw mattress, blankets, and a bucket. A small enclosure sealed by a heavy bolt, and a blinding light that only went out in the early morning hours. I was completely dazed by everything that had happened to me, and above all by the fact of being in prison for the first time in my life. The Gestapo came to take resistance fighters away for interrogation, and screams of pain then filled the prison. When they were brought back, they were unrecognizable, disfigured by the blows they had received. Alone in my cell, I tormented myself over my sister-in-law and the others. Where could they be? I paced back and forth all day, endlessly asking myself questions. How had I ended up here, and why? Why had I failed to save myself? It was no use — I could not gather my thoughts into any coherent order. I was still in shock from all these events. On the eighth day, I was taken out. I climbed into a truck. There I had the bittersweet joy of being reunited with my husband, my sister-in-law, my brother-in-law, and the others who had been imprisoned along with us. We were taken to Drancy, in the suburbs of Paris. It was an assembly camp for prisoners. In this place, many Jews traded goods under the orders of the Germans; and so 6
we were able to obtain small comforts for very little money. What mattered was that we were together. But alas, this was nothing more than a stratagem on the part of the Germans to better deceive us about what lay ahead. We felt a heavy threat looming, but we could neither name it nor stop it. We knew we were inexorably moving toward our fate. Rumors of deportation circulated through the camp. But we refused to believe them. Regularly, a list of names appeared — people who were to leave to work in a jam factory. But we were far from imagining the grim reality. There was no point in trying to escape. All the doors were closely guarded. Some years later, however, I heard from the lips of a former detainee that she had managed to escape by the greatest stroke of luck. On that particular day, the camp's entrance gate had been left open during the visit of a German officer. With her long blond hair, she had not been noticed. Had they taken her for a German? Whatever the case, taking advantage of the confusion, she found her freedom. Tragically, her mother did not return from the camps. Every two weeks, a list informed us of those who were to leave the camp, bound for some unknown destination. With relief we noted that we were not on the current list. But one day our turn came. The descent into hell began. We comforted one another by trying to believe in the jam factory.
CHAPTER 3
On April 29, 1944, there we were, with our suitcases, in a truck heading toward a disused platform at the Gare de l'Est. There we were loaded onto a freight train, into cattle cars used for transporting horses. We were indeed packed in like livestock. We barely had room to sit, let alone stretch our legs or approach the small window — the only opening that let in air and light. Anguish began to grip our insides. We said nothing, afraid of bursting into tears. How naive we had been! The train started. No one on the platform. We were on an unused track, guarded by SS men in uniform with police dogs and weapons trained on us. Within a few hours, the horror began. We were hot, we were suffocating, hunger and thirst began to gnaw at us. To keep from succumbing to panic, we organized ourselves as best we could. A blanket brought by one of us served as a screen to partition off the improvised bucket. We placed the elderly at the back of the car so they could lean against the wall. Some prisoners planned to escape by cutting through the floorboards. It was no use — they were far too hard. We could just barely slip a few banknotes through the gaps, which might perhaps reach our loved ones and inform them of our disappearance. Indeed, I would later learn that my brother-in-law, who had managed to escape, received some of those notes. The train rolled on — ventilation was out of the question. They only opened the wagon doors for a few moments each day to clear the nauseating smell that was suffocating us. We had to live, to survive, in the crush and the closeness. Among us, there was a family: a father, a mother, and their five daughters, ranging in age from 6 to 19. A beautiful family, with beautiful young girls.
Where were we? People were no longer speaking French, but German. They shouted, they screamed. We were afraid, and we fantasized about what tomorrow might hold. One must have something to dream about! We quickly returned to reality. After three days and three nights, some of us were still alive — but not all. The old men had died of heart attacks. It had to end. The train stopped. Four in the morning, pitch dark, cold and damp. The wagon next to ours was unloading. Shouts, blows. Nothing reassuring about any of it. Why the blows? Where were we? In Silesia. AUSCHWITZ. HELL. What mattered was that we were together. But alas, this was nothing more than a stratagem on the part of the Germans to better deceive us about what lay ahead. We felt a heavy threat looming, but we could neither name it nor stop it. We knew we were inexorably moving toward our fate. Rumors of deportation circulated through the camp. But we refused to believe them. Regularly, a list of names appeared — people who were to leave to work in a jam factory. But we were far from imagining the grim reality. There was no point in trying to escape. All the doors were closely guarded. Some years later, however, I heard from the lips of a former detainee that she had managed to escape by the greatest stroke of luck. On that particular day, the camp's entrance gate had been left open during the visit of a German officer. With her long blond hair, she had not been noticed. Had they taken her for a German? Whatever the case, taking advantage of the confusion, she had found her freedom. Tragically, her mother did not return from the camps. Every two weeks, a list informed us of those who were to leave the camp, bound for some unknown destination. With relief we noted that we were not on the current list. But one day our turn came. The descent into hell began. We comforted one another by trying to believe in the jam factory.
We had vaguely heard about all the horrors taking place there, but we had not truly believed it. Now that we were here, we had no time to think. It was our turn. "Raus, Raus, get out!" We were confronted by terrifying SS men and menacing dogs. But also by emaciated men dressed in striped clothing. As soon as we descended, they climbed into our wagon and removed the lifeless bodies. They were, or at least appeared to be, completely indifferent, and did not say a single word to us. Our suitcases and packages — so precious to us — were unloaded from the wagons. We were utterly distraught, not knowing what was happening to us. The dogs barked, the SS screamed, and — oh, the cruelest irony — an orchestra of men in striped uniforms played waltzes. In the chaos, the SS ordered us to leave all our belongings on the platform. Even so, we clutched our bags to our chests. "Leave everything here, you will not need it, we will give you everything you need," an SS man shouted. And before we could make sense of anything, we were separated from our husbands; mothers were separated from their older children, keeping only the smallest ones close to them. The sinister Mengele shouted, as did the officers commanding us: "Those who are able-bodied will enter the camp on foot. Women with their children and the elderly will go to the camp by truck." In truth, we did not yet know that they were already carrying out the first selection among the many we would be forced to endure. 10
CHAPTER 4
Tossed between ignorance and horror. We felt we were at the ends of the earth. And the orchestra played on... How could anyone organize such a hell, such horror? We were separated from our husbands, fathers, and grandfathers, without being able to say a last goodbye. The pain was intense, but the fear was greater, and we held ourselves together so as not to scream. My sister-in-law, who was twice my age, asked me to enter the camp by truck. Her feet, numb from the long immobility of the journey, were causing her great pain. I agreed. I would have preferred to walk into the camp, to breathe a little fresh air, but I stayed by her side — at least we remained together. The family with the five daughters was separated: the father with the men, the mother and her three young daughters in the line for the truck, and the two older girls in the line going on foot. Their separation was heartbreaking, as were so many others. The women cried out at being separated from their husbands, the older children from their mothers, and the able-bodied from their less able mothers and grandmothers. The orchestra did its best to drown out all these agonized cries. Meanwhile, the SS hurled insults at us — "Schnell, verfluchte Juden, faster, cursed Jews!" — followed by a whole vocabulary of abuse. There we stood, waiting — waiting for what? To be led to the slaughter! Each of us in our own queue. My sister-in-law and I tried to catch a glimpse of our husbands in the men's line. In vain — too many people to make out anyone at all. We said nothing, afraid of bursting into tears. The air was icy, as cold as our hearts were becoming. What would become of us? What did the future hold, if there was a future at all? I was wearing my white rabbit fur jacket — a highly prized garment at the time. It was also the last gift from my brother before my arrest. He used to make slippers from them for the soldiers sent to the 11
front. In the panic before my arrest, I had grabbed it to go warn my sister-in-law. That jacket would prove to be a crucial element in my survival. I am 20 years old, my cheeks flushed from the cold, and that white fur coat stands out strikingly against this grim landscape. I spot an SS officer at the far end of the platform walking toward me, no doubt drawn by the brightness of my jacket. "You — go with the pedestrians," he says in German. Fortunately, I have a solid grasp of that language, which I had learned in school and which resembles Yiddish. I tell him I would rather stay with my sister-in-law. It is true that, being 40 years old, she had not weathered the three-day transport well, and she did not look her best. The SS officer looks at her and asks her age. I answer before she can: "Thirty," I say. A sardonic smile crosses his lips. He studies her for another moment, and after a brief pause says: "All right, both of you go into the other line." And so, in a matter of seconds, our fate shifts. Later we would learn that the line of trucks went directly to the crematorium. Thus we witnessed one of the first miracles — though we were not yet aware of it.
CHAPTER 5
We walk toward the camp, hearts heavy, unable to react. Even if we had the strength, there is nothing we can do against these armed SS men, ready to set upon us the police dogs that obey their every command. After ten minutes of walking, we reach the camp. We pass through an iron gate with an inscription on its arch: "Arbeit Macht Frei — Work Makes You Free." We must surrender everything we possess and go to the barber — or rather, to the shearing. It is a fellow deportee like us who is tasked with this work. Those with long hair cry out and moan when their heads are shaved, but it makes no difference. The barber does her job. She has no choice. Fortunately, my sister-in-law and I have short hair, which is an extraordinary stroke of luck — she lets us pass without touching us. The cold is such that a shaved skull, on top of the humiliation, is even harder to bear. Then we go to the tattooing. Like cattle, we have been turned into numbers — nameless, bearing only a triangle, half a Star of David, to mark us as Jews. The number is deeply etched, scratched in with a pen and indelible ink, so that it may never fade. How could we ever erase from our memory this nightmare that has only just begun? How could we ever forgive? There are several series of registration numbers — on the chest, on the left arm, some have even been tattooed in two different places. My sister-in-law and I are fortunate in our misfortune: our tattoos are of medium size and placed only on the outside of the left arm. From there we proceed to the disinfection. On the way to the shower, I see a drain into which I throw my ring — my solitaire — so that no German woman might benefit from it. A last remnant of my former life, which I know I can no longer keep. I 13
feel completely estranged from myself, as if split in two — without a name, without any belongings. Especially during this "disinfection." We are numbers: no more identity, no more personal possessions, treated worse than animals. For any item of value kept hidden, we risk death. Only a few photographs of my loved ones, which I manage to conceal in a corner of the shower, remain. The last thread connecting me to the outside world, they are of incalculable worth to me. After the shower, we are left without clothing for hours on end — hollow-bellied, humiliated, diminished. Nothing — we are nothing anymore. Mere working machines, which is the only reason they keep us alive. Their aim is to reduce us to the lowest level in order to secure our total submission. Their calculation is correct: we are already broken. During these long hours of waiting, we are completely silent. In the midst of this misery, I think that I must hold on to something — for fear of losing my mind and thus fulfilling their plan entirely. To keep our spirits up, I say to my sister-in-law: "We were lucky not to have been shaved, to have been able to keep those three small photographs, and above all to have stayed together!" Is it not said that in times of misfortune, happiness is measured not in absolute terms, but relative to the suffering of others? It is a terrible thing to say, but there are circumstances where that saying is true. We finally receive clothes — summer dresses in freezing weather, with no undergarments. We are given shoes that must be mismatched until you find a pair in your size. I end up with one heel — not too high — and one flat. At least they do not hurt my feet. My sister-in-law finds a matching pair in her size; I am glad for her. I tell her so, to lift her spirits.
CHAPTER 6
Around four in the morning, we make our way to the barracks. They have very low ceilings and are packed with stacked square compartments — wooden shelves with small raised edges, called "coyas" — essentially bunks where we must sleep three to a side, head to foot. One thin blanket for three, supposedly to protect us from the Siberian cold. And this in what is normally the most beautiful month of the year in France! The veteran prisoners come to hear news from the outside — but mostly to tell us of every horror that reigns in the camp. They are so cruel, those women we speak with... How can women be so sadistic, and how can they answer our questions so easily, without hesitation — questions such as: "Where are our families?" "In the sky — gone up in flames — your families are no longer alive." "But that's not true, it's impossible." "Oh, but it is..." We must believe them, and horror seizes us, because right next to our block stand enormous chimneys from which thick black smoke pours out, carrying a sharp, acrid smell. These prisoners tell us all this with a kind of hysteria. Later I would understand that after two years in that hell, the only pleasure left to them was revenge. How they must have suffered to reach that point! They add: "You see that smoke? What you see rising there — that is all your families, who arrived at the camp in trucks. They went straight there." Upon hearing this, two young girls whose mother and three little sisters had remained in the truck line collapse. We comfort them as best we can. But what can one say — my God, how is this possible? We are all devastated, utterly exhausted — morally as much as physically. Despite our empty bellies, we eventually 15 fall asleep pressed against one another, for lack of space, taking care that our feet do not touch the heads of the women across from us. Around five in the morning — barely an hour later — we hear shouts: "Raus, schnell!" — Out, quickly. The block leaders, called kapos, wake those who do not comply immediately by beating them with clubs. We must present ourselves for roll call in the yard, which can last up to two hours, depending on the SS officer's mood. This in pitch darkness and cold that makes our teeth chatter in our thin dresses. I struggle to grasp where I am, because during that hour of deep sleep, I had dreamed of home, of my parents, of my family. Waking to this horrible reality is not an easy thing. To avoid the blows from the kapos' clubs — the same women who had recounted the death of our families with such relish — my sister-in-law and I immediately report to roll call. We are given a speech warning us against any thought of escape, as the camp is surrounded by electrified barbed wire. And that it is in our best interest to work for the great Reich — or else... The threat hangs over us, unspoken but heavy with meaning. Every week, indeed, there is a selection, with the sole purpose of eliminating those unfit for work. It is clear: they keep us only for our productivity. After this welcoming reception, coffee is distributed. This liquid, which one must fight through the crowd to receive while still warm, has nothing of coffee about it but the name. We leave the camp surrounded and escorted by female SS guards holding enormous police dogs on leashes, alongside several armed SS soldiers. At noon, a half-hour break, during which we are given — in those same tin cups — a soup: warm water in which float cabbage stumps and a few rutabagas, leftovers from the SS kitchen. These tin cups have become part of us now; we must keep them hooked to our waists. This is
a condition of survival. Then work resumes until five in the evening. We return to the camp, where we are searched at the entrance. What could we possibly bring back from this work? And again, the evening roll call. We are exhausted, starving, and filthy — yet we must answer to our number. Those deportees who, unfortunately, do not understand the language of Goethe are exposed to beatings, as a way of instilling obedience and discipline. My sister-in-law and I are fortunate to be spared these abuses, thanks to our knowledge of German — and we help our companions as best we can. After this roll call, during which we can barely stay on our feet, comes the distribution of the evening meal and the next day's ration: two thin slices of nearly black bread, a small rectangle of margarine, and a small spoonful of ersatz jam. All of it laced with bromide to stop our periods and "calm our senses." This meal must sustain us until the following evening. On this diet, we are certain to drop below 40 kilos within a month. Food rations are calculated and distributed according to the work performed — just enough to keep us barely functional. My sister-in-law and I decide to eat only one slice of bread in the evening, to save the other for the following day. Most of the others cannot help but eat both at once. Come what may. It is not easy to keep hold of that precious slice of bread: on one hand, we are desperately hungry; on the other, we risk having it stolen while we sleep, even if we tuck it under our heads. The only solution is to place it under our stomachs. Those who have nothing to eat the next morning are wretched and promise themselves they will do as we do. But as soon as they receive their ration, they cannot help but eat it all at once again. We spend our second night in the camp. Barely have we lain down and fallen into a deep sleep when the four o'clock wake-up call comes. As for hygiene, 17
it is hardly a concern here. The toilets — if one can call them that — are three blocks away from ours, and in the night cold, with the ground soaked by melting snow and our bones frozen through, we struggle to make it there without incident. More than once we receive blows from the kapos' clubs, who watch for the slightest infraction and seize any opportunity to beat us. In their program, the Germans calculated that it would be useful to have Jews beaten by other Jews, thereby deepening our humiliation still further. As for washing ourselves, it is impossible. With no sinks available, we rub ourselves with snow gathered from the ground. In the early days, my sister-in-law and I, out of respect for kashrut, refuse to eat the soup because of its dubious ingredients. This lasted eight days, at the end of which, terribly weakened, we decided that we must stay alive at any cost and not play into the Germans' hands. A young Hungarian girl, very devout, was fasting on Mondays and Thursdays. I advised her not to, because in truth, on these meager rations, we might as well consider ourselves fasting every day. But she persisted, and the poor girl disappeared after a few weeks. We try to organize ourselves — which means surviving by whatever means necessary. Bartering with the little we have, trying to wash ourselves in one of the barracks housing non-Jewish Polish political prisoners. Hygiene is crucial to our survival, because during the weekly selections, one must not have any sores on the body — otherwise, it is the crematorium. But how to maintain hygiene without water, without any way to wash ourselves? Always that devastating German calculation to make our lives even harder. I have short blond hair. I braid two thin little plaits that I pin at the top of my head with small pieces of wood found during our work outside in the forest. With this hairstyle I look like an Aryan Polish woman. I suggest to my sister-in-law that she come with me
18 early in the morning, before roll call, to try to wash ourselves in the Polish women's block — but she is afraid.
So I take advantage of the early morning hours alone, slipping into this block where political prisoners, prostitutes, Communists, and common criminals are housed. I am careful to hide my tattoo and manage to wash myself there for several days. One morning, one of the Polish women notices my tattoo and asks: "Are you Jewish?" Without answering, I grab my meager belongings and run as fast as I can before any blows land. I do not go back there for some time.
In the first days, despite the thorough and regular searches, I had managed to keep the three photographs I had with me upon arrival — photographs that are precious to me beyond words. During a major monthly selection for which one must present oneself completely undressed, I entrust these photographs to a Hungarian kapo. Being from that country myself, I ask her in her language to hold them for me until the selection is over.
"They mean a great deal to me," I tell her. "All right," she answers. After the selection — during which a good number of us are sent to the crematorium — I search for this kapo for a week; she had changed blocks. When I finally see her again, I ask her to return my photographs. She answers that she never received any photographs, and adds, cynically, that even if she had, she would have torn them up. Why this gratuitous, cruel spite? But what can I do? The last thread tying me to the outside world and to my family has been severed. The evenings are unbearably harsh. We return from grueling work, exhausted beyond measure, and our trials are far from over. Every moment of our lives is regimented.
No right to medical care — and above all, we must never report being sick, because German doctors make their rounds through the barracks and designate the unfortunate ones for "transfer." Outside of the selections, such a transfer is equivalent to the crematorium.
It is around the fourth month that I realize I am pregnant. Since I had stopped menstruating anyway — because of the bromide and the starvation diet — I had not noticed sooner. We all have swollen bellies from the poison added to our food. I am careful not to disclose my condition to the Germans. To hide the pregnancy, I buy a pleated Slovak apron from a common-law prisoner. It costs me the bread rations of several days, during which my sister-in-law wants to share her portion with me, despite my refusals. Today I realize what a gesture of profound generosity that was — bread being our vital, primary food. I continue working as if nothing were wrong, and at the weekly selections I position myself in the last row. It is fortunate that I am not large — or at least, not too much so. It is a miracle that during the monthly selections, at which I must undress completely, my condition goes unnoticed. As for morale, we do our best to survive.
The unsuspected resources of human nature allow one to adapt to extreme circumstances — provided body and spirit hold out. But here, one must endure even in poor health, because the goal of the SS is to break us as individuals, to render us docile, incapable of individual or collective resistance.
Beyond that, the bromide added to our food literally stupefies us. Some of our fellow prisoners behave strangely — fits of rage, fits of despair. A few throw themselves against the electrified barbed wire to put an end to a life worse than a penal colony. The important thing is not to become like them. I am young, yet I feel aged by an experience that is unique and brutal — but I feel within me an EMUNAH, a faith; and with it, the chance to win the battle we are waging against death. That is our only support in emerging from this alive. The effort I make to reach a state of awareness gives me the certainty that I can salvage something of my
former system of self-mastery. The upbringing my parents gave me will be the fundamental foundation of my physical — but above all moral — resistance.
My religious faith will thus sustain me, even under these irremediably suicidal conditions of life, for we have been plunged into a routine of destructive existence, of deadly abuse, of exhausting labor — but above all, of deliberate, premeditated starvation engineered by the Germans to destroy us slowly. I therefore devote whatever capacity for thought I have left to fighting desperately, day by day, against the despair and depression that
surround us, thwarting as best we can the SS's relentless efforts to break us morally and physically. In the rare moments of respite, I try to understand what is happening inside me and in those around me, but above all I watch over my sister-in-law, whose age makes her more prone to despair. After a week, I begin reciting from memory every prayer I know. I silently thank my father, Rabbi STERN, may his memory be blessed, who taught me several prayers by heart in my youth, telling me: "Never pray by heart, except in extraordinary circumstances when you have no prayer book." In this frame of mind, I ask my sister-in-law whether she would agree to sacrifice a portion of bread in order to buy Shabbat candles — as a way of fighting our lethargy and restoring our moral strength.
With her agreement, I went to buy — or rather barter — a bread ration in exchange for a candle which, cut in two, would serve as our Shabbat light. Non-Jewish prisoners could receive almost anything from outside packages, except bread.
I therefore bargained this candle for one slice of bread rather than the two the other prisoner had demanded. Carrying out a ritual such as lighting candles on Friday evening held deep meaning for us. It allowed us to preserve our self-respect, to hope for the future, to hold on to the conviction — or at least the hope — of seeing our loved ones again.
The will to live, in spite of extreme exhaustion, the abuse, and above all the degradation we endured — none of that was possible without EMUNAH, faith in G-d. I admit that it was very difficult, especially when we saw around us women so depressed they were nothing but skin and bones, walking corpses known as "Muselmänner," who had lost the will to live and whose end was near. We were probably in the same state — fortunately, we had no mirror. In that hell, very little was enough for us to resist.
To keep from sinking entirely, we clung to the slightest glimmer of hope, such as the rumor that the Russians were not far away. News reached us through the men's camps, along with the dates of religious holidays.
We prayed that G-d would deliver us before the end came. I carried within me a flame, a hope that through the merit of my parents, may their memory be blessed, my sister-in-law and I would make it through. Of course, in those moments when hunger gnawed at me, I barely had the strength to think. That small, already flickering flame would waver, and then it would be my sister-in-law who lifted my spirits. Friday came, and the week's labor seemed less grueling because we awaited the evening with impatience. We barely felt the greater hunger caused by giving up our bread ration to buy the candle.
CHAPTER 7
That Friday evening, I cut the candle in two. Seated in the bunks, my sister-in-law and I solemnly each lit a candle and prayed. We were in such an emotional state that tears, held back for so long, blinded us, and we both wept like fountains, for a very long time.
We no longer even thought of eating. I recalled all the zemirot, the songs my father used to sing on Friday evenings, and the Shabbat table so beautifully set by my mother. How far away all of that seemed now... The candles burned down halfway, and we ate our half-slice of bread reverently — the spiritual nourishment helping us — and then we fell into a blissful sleep, our stomachs empty.
Alas, come morning it was roll call and the routine again — off to work. On the way, along the road, in a new place where we were to work, we saw scattered in the trenches, thrown in pell-mell, prayer shawls and prayer books, phylacteries, Torah scrolls. Our hearts tightened at the sight of all those religious objects, through which we could easily imagine how many Jews had been "selected."
I would have approached to take a prayer book, but that would have been suicide, a fatal gesture. Our helplessness in the face of this gratuitous violence overwhelmed us. It is written: "To commit violence against one's neighbor, to exploit his weakness, to violate in any way the rights that belong to him by nature and by his dignity as a human being — this is not only to wound his dignity, but also to outrage G-d Himself in the work He conceived and formed with such love, and marked with the seal of His greatness" (Tsenerene, translated by Maurice Stern).
The day those murderers forgot that lesson, their fate was sealed... If some are still alive, it is so that they may live in fear and anguish, hiding from place to place until Nazi hunters lay hands on them.
And so life in the camp went on, more or less — mostly less. But word spread of a transfer to another camp, and we were wary, because in that world, transfer meant the crematorium. After making inquiries, it turned out it truly was a transfer to another camp.
CHAPTER 8
The transfer was to be from Birkenau to Auschwitz, a camp located nearby, barely a ten-minute walk away. Apparently it had better hygiene — washbasins, cleaner blocks. For that reason, a strict and very important selection was to take place: they wanted only able-bodied, healthy people with no marks whatsoever on their skin.
How could anyone be without marks when there was no hygiene at all! Even that was calculated. This selection took place on the eve of YOM KIPPUR — Yom Kippur, the day of fasting, which most of the deportees observed. Our fate was to be decided that day. We went through disinfection, then the shower, completely naked, and then waited in that state for the "medical" examination.
It was an SS doctor who would judge whether or not we could be admitted to "paradise" — that is, Auschwitz. What a state of mind we were in, and what brainwashing we had undergone, to call Auschwitz paradise!!!
But it was cleaner, and that mattered enormously to us. For hours we waited for the doctor to arrive — this, too, was designed to increase our anguish. Five hours passed, and though our attire was hardly suited for prayer, my sister-in-law and I recited everything we knew by heart. In my ears I heard the Kol Nidre as my father used to sing it, along with all the other prayers of that day. It is said that "divine intervention must be aided by human action, as when the Hebrews crossed the Red Sea."
And so I refused to accept the reality of the situation I was in. I told myself that what I was living through was not real, and that what I was doing or what was happening to me did not count — only the effort to survive at any cost kept me going, for to faint would have meant my end.
That is why Emunah, the faith to which I clung with all my remaining strength, sustained me, and I held on to it with everything I had. My sister-in-law said nothing to me about how far advanced my pregnancy was, but she thought about it nonetheless. So did I, but I had faith... My turn came. I was then five or six months pregnant.
The doctor looked at me and asked whether I was pregnant. I opened wide innocent eyes and answered: "Me, no!" "Then why is your belly so swollen? You know, if you are expecting a child, you are entitled to extra rations, you can go to the infirmary to be cared for — you will be well looked after."
"Oh, I wish that were so, but it is not the case, what a pity," I answered him.
He looked at me and said, "Very well, if you say no, then it is no!" He examined my body. There were no marks on my skin, and he said: "All right, you may pass." What a close call. I was trembling inwardly in every limb, but fortunately I had encountered a man who was indolent and well-fed. He wanted to be done with his work, since we were the last to be examined. It was a true miracle, because he must have suspected something nonetheless. I am certain that this miracle — and it was indeed a miracle — was owed to the "Zechut," the merit of my parents who were praying for us, and to the "Mazal," the fortune that came from G-d. My sister-in-law also passed the inspection, despite her age.
This extraordinary, inexplicable luck... In any case, time was working both for and against us, because surviving six months of malnutrition, dysentery, grueling labor, and the brutality to which we were subjected every day was a physical impossibility, an impossible wager. As for being "looked after," Mengele — of sinister memory — did indeed look after pregnant women, observing — oh, the mockery of it — every rule of asepsis during the delivery, provided the woman survived that long. He would cut the umbilical cord, knowing full well that half an hour later, the mother and child would be burning.
in the crematorium. He did not want to lose his touch. Above all, he wished to conduct experiments on pregnant women, twins, and special cases. Under his command was an SS officer who identified pregnant women through barbaric methods. How could these people live at peace with themselves! To say that the prisoners walked passively into the gas chambers like sheep borders on indecency. It is scandalous and false. The deportees had undergone, on the one hand, a momentary transformation of personality, and on the other hand were compelled to obey, constantly surrounded by SS officers with weapons aimed at them, accompanied by dogs — in such conditions, disobedience was impossible.
CHAPTER 9
We arrived at the new camp, Auschwitz. Indeed, the dormitories appeared cleaner, less grim. There were straw mattresses in the bunks and several washbasins in the block — all in the name of "humanitarian" concern, since representatives of the Red Cross were reportedly due to visit the camp. In fact, we never saw them. My sister-in-law and I were assigned to dismantle all the salvageable parts from shoes that had belonged to the deportees. At least we were sheltered from bad weather in a large hall. The work was filthy, but we could wash in the evening. In our block, I met two French women: one worked in the munitions block and had had her right index finger severed by one of the machines. Her name was Marcelle. She was a wonderful woman, always ready to help. The other was called Ida and worked with us. Marcelle worked next to a young man named Rosemberg. He turned out to be someone I had known in my youth — his parents and mine had often spent time together in Paris. His uncle, also a deportee, was assigned to the kitchens. That was the best position, since they had far more to eat than the rest of us. It was almost the dolce vita — so he sent us, via Marcelle, a little extra soup. It was quite dangerous, but she did it willingly; sometimes it was an onion or garlic, which we immediately traded for bread or margarine. One day she brought me a metal ring that the young man had made for me with my registration number and my first name engraved on it. It took courage both to make it and to give it to me. If either of us had been found with it, they would have risked the worst. It was the first time I had seen my name written anywhere. I was deeply moved. And all the while I was growing larger, and I always positioned myself in the back row at roll call; when I passed through the gate to go to work, I tried to walk briskly so as not to be noticed too much. In truth, it was nothing short of a miracle that no one ever spotted me.
CHAPTER 10
One day, as we were returning from work, a group of Polish prisoners — non-Jewish resistance members — stopped not far from us. While the SS guards were talking among themselves, one of those prisoners seized the opportunity to approach us. He came directly to me and spoke to me in Polish. I replied in German that I was French. He asked whether we had enough to eat. Out of pride, I told him yes. At that moment, my sister-in-law kicked me and told me to set my pride aside and tell him the truth. I then told him how things really were, and the following day, while the male and female SS guards were flirting with each other and we were standing in line, he brought me a slice of bread with real jam. I shared it with my sister-in-law and ate it on the way back. The next day, having seen that there were two of us, we each received a slice, and that went on for a week. We shared some with our companions Ida and Marcelle. This man was a lawyer arrested for his political beliefs, a non-Jewish Pole. It warmed our hearts — and the rest of us too... We were then transferred to packing work — sorting items confiscated from the new arrivals. My sister-in-law and I managed to set aside socks, underpants, or undershirts, which we traded for candles, jam, or margarine. In a sense, it was our own belongings we were retrieving. It was very dangerous to smuggle these things into the camp and we risked death. But hunger is a poor counselor, and in this way I was able to help a cousin I had found in the camp — who today lives in Canada — and a few other friends. Unfortunately, that "Eden" did not last, for we were put back to work on the roads. It was very hard, since we had barely emerged from the bitter cold when we were plunged back into it. Toward the end of the year, on December 24th, I felt that I was about to give birth. I made my way to the infirmary at around 6 in the evening, upon returning from work.
CHAPTER 11
At the infirmary, there was a Polish Jewish woman, a gynecologist by profession, who had also been deported since 1942. It was her profession that had kept her alive. She was very kind and reassured me that the delivery would go as well as possible. My sister-in-law stayed by my side for part of the night — that is, until four in the morning, since roll call took place at that hour. I spent the entire night in excruciating pain: the baby was very large, and I had very narrow hips. After twelve hours of waiting, broken by violent contractions, the child made his appearance at six in the morning with angry little cries, and for me a great cry of agony. He was a boy weighing four kilograms, drawn entirely from my reserves. A great sigh of relief, and I thanked G-d for my physical deliverance. But I was not yet at the end of my suffering, for these pains, as terrible as they were, were nothing compared to what awaited me. The gynecologist said to me in a maternal tone: "Listen, but listen to me carefully. In any case, your son will not survive — the SS will not let him live, except for the 'experiments' they will perform on him. And you yourself have nothing to feed him with. All you will gain is to end up in the crematorium with him after countless 'experiments' on you both. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about. Unfortunately, there were others before you — they are no longer here to bear witness. You are young, you are twenty years old, and with G-d's help you will have others, other children, if you get out of here. Perhaps they will let you live — I wish it with all my heart and will do everything in my power, though my power is very limited. So think it over..." I didn't have much time to think. She had to care for me. I was torn, and she had to stitch me up — without anesthetic, because there was none. I thought my last hour had come and prayed to forget my suffering. And so, without fully grasping the situation, broken
by a sleepless night, exhausted to the utmost by the pain, I said nothing in reply and nodded my head in acquiescence. In truth, it was through a fog that I heard her voice — I could barely murmur a thank you before falling into a deep sleep of two hours, which allowed me to recover a little strength. When I woke, I thanked her again for her devotion — something the other deported women who supervised us had not accustomed us to. It was fortunate that I was stupefied by exhaustion, for otherwise how could I have decided, in full conscience, the fate of my own child? Today I know with certainty that he would not have survived. But I would wish on no one to face such a dilemma. The pain of the raw stitches made me suffer terribly, and there was nothing to relieve it. But my cheeks were rosy. I begged her to show me the baby — a beautiful baby weighing more than four kilograms. She refused. I looked away, for bitter tears were blinding me. My sister-in-law, back at my side, wiped my eyes. I was fortunate in my misfortune, for the roll call of December 25th — a holiday for the SS — took place at ten in the morning instead of four as usual. This allowed me to be nearly composed when the SS woman entered the infirmary at 10 o'clock. She came toward me and asked the gynecologist: "What is happening here?" "Oh, nothing — it's a woman who has just given birth. The child is dead, but she is in good health and will soon be able to work again. Look at her, she is quite fresh, her cheeks are rosy..." The SS woman looked at me, then looked at the child, and replied: "Good — the child, you'll put it in alcohol for the experiments. As for the mother — she'll be able to go back to work soon." I thought with horror that if I had given birth on any other day, I would have been sent directly to the experimentation block, and then to the crematorium, or directly to the crematorium with my child. After the SS woman left, I glanced at the baby: my heart clenched. It was over. They had
given him an injection in the head, and he lay on the table. How had I come to this — I could not utter a word, so overwhelmed was I by sobs. What could be done? Nothing. Endure, and do nothing. The midwife said to me: "You'll see, everything will work out. I heard you praying, and that is what will save you — you will have many more children."
CHAPTER 12
Easier said than done. At the infirmary, I had time to think. Everything had happened so quickly that it was impossible to believe what had befallen me. There, my equilibrium gave way — I was in despair: to have carried a child, and to see him taken away so quickly, and in such conditions. I had a moment of rebellion: "How could G-d have allowed this to happen? It is too unjust." Then I dozed off, and in a dream I saw my parents — and my father said to me: "Gitèle" (that is what he called me), "come back to us quickly, for we need you. Your mother is ill and only your presence can help us." My dream was so vivid that when I awoke, I thought I would find my father at my side. But the bleak reality was still there. What could be done? I buried my despair and reacted in a more positive way. No, I told myself — I will not let them destroy me. They have taken my son, but they will not take me. I overcame my feelings — painfully, I must say — and my sensitivity, so as not to sink. I resisted as best I could, thinking of my family and of that strange dream. I remained in the infirmary for only a few days, but the gynecologist came to see me and advised me not to linger any longer if I did not want to be included in the next selection. I left therefore, four days after giving birth. One icy night, we were made to file outside to witness the hanging of a Polish Jewish woman — as an example. She had sent information outside the camp with the help of an SS man, and had helped some prisoners escape — who were, unfortunately, recaptured. She had been deported since 1940 and had survived by a miracle. Being well-placed, she had been able to help other inmates. She was part of the resistance. A chief SS officer, who I believe was Mengele — of cursed memory — approached her and asked her to confess her crimes. Her only reply was to spit in his face. What strength of character, what courage! A very beautiful woman who knew, in any case, the fate that awaited her. The SS man, mad with rage, struck her and ordered that she be hanged on the spot. I managed to position myself at the back of the ranks and was able to look away and weep. After that so traumatic delivery, I had become far more vulnerable. On certain days, we were terribly despondent. It took far more to stay alive than to decide to end it all. Some of our companions, unable to go on, threw themselves against the electrified barbed wire and took their own lives in this way. Hope — faint, it must be said — came to us from the bombings we heard in the distance. The approach of the Russians also troubled us, for what would happen before, during, and... after? If there was to be an after at all. Only those deportees with solid religious and moral convictions could survive all these horrors. Faith gave them the strength to endure the ordeal — my sister-in-law and I were among them. But it could not go on too long, for the strength and will to live in this penal camp had a limit that we feared we would be forced to cross.
On January 18th, three weeks after my delivery, we were made to line up in the yard quickly, before the arrival of the Russians, to be transferred to more distant camps. The collapse and rout of the Nazi regime accelerated this process. Only elderly SS reservists guarded us — the younger ones had been sent to the Russian front. These marches, often carried out on individual initiative, depended on the advance of the Allies. Only the sick who were unable to walk remained in the hospital, without medicine, without supplies, and without heat. I told my sister-in-law that I intended to go to one of the supply blocks to find something to eat for the road, as we had received nothing and who knew how long we would be marching. With her agreement, I made my way toward the abandoned hut and miraculously found a bag of powdered sugar, which I quickly wrapped in a dirty scrap of cloth found nearby. I carefully closed up this treasure. Hearing the SS and the dogs approaching, I left the hut in a hurry and returned to my group. But there — a surprise. My group had disappeared. They had all gone — my sister-in-law and my friends. The SS were searching everywhere with dogs, looking for any deportees who might have hidden in the blocks. I was alone. I wanted to hide too, but they were combing everywhere and shooting at anything that moved. I later learned that one of my cousins managed the feat of being hidden by non-antisemitic Poles. It was very risky — thank G-d, he was lucky and was liberated in January before that horrible death march. As soon as the column had left the camp, I saw on both sides of the road, in the ditches, the corpses of deportees who had preceded us. The reserve soldiers accompanying us wore long coats and fur-lined caps with the ear flaps pulled down to protect their ears from the cold, and woolen gloves on their hands, and they trained their weapons on us. They had been ordered to shoot anyone who stopped moving — hence the many corpses along the roads. One of the soldiers, whom I recognized as a Hungarian, said to me in his language: "Above all, do not stop — otherwise I will be forced to shoot you. I have received the order, and if I do not carry it out, I am the one who will be shot. That would be a shame for both of us." So soon after giving birth, it was very hard for me to walk like this, but I kept moving forward, and from time to time I licked the sugar I held tightly in my hand. I gave some to my neighbor as well — it was what sustained us a little, for we had practically nothing to eat. We sucked on snow that we scooped up as we walked. From the first hours of the march, gunshots began to crack at the rear of the column. Exhausted, poorly shod, barely clothed, starving, many of our companions collapsed and received a bullet in the back of the neck. We had to march, march! Behind us, growing ever closer, the sound of Russian bombardments rang out — all the more reason to make us march even faster. We marched for two nights and three days — until January 20th — with no halt, all the way to Ravensbrück. There, my neighbor, despite my support, collapsed. She was shot dead before my eyes. I had no more tears left to cry. We went on, thinking we had finally reached the end of our ordeal — but no. At this camp there was no more room, and we were loaded onto flatbed rail cars meant for transporting coal. We traveled through the entire night, without even a tarpaulin to protect us from the intense cold. We arrived at Neustadt, in Germany, utterly exhausted and very filthy. I was now alone — my sister-in-law and my friends had each been scattered in different directions. I missed her, and I knew she missed me. Two together, it had been easier for morale. I never saw my sister-in-law again. She did not return. I was told she had been seen in the Bergen-Belsen camp, where she must have died. May G-d rest her soul. Amen.
At Neustadt, a life of hell began for us in the truest sense of the word. Auschwitz, by comparison, was paradise. We stayed four months — the four most terrible months of my life. There was no crematorium, but the SS had no need of one. People died all the same, slowly. We slept on the bare floor, in completely empty dormitories — no straw mattresses, no water, very little food, since there was no work. It was for this reason that they no longer even fed us — just warm water called coffee in the morning, and at noon a soup consisting of water and a few turnip peelings. We deloused one another, for we were covered in fleas and lice, and had no way to wash. I believe they wanted to keep us as bargaining chips or as a means of rehabilitation in the eyes of the Allies. For we were no longer good for anything. One day, while the Jewish kapo had stepped a little away from the soup cauldron, seized by the delirium brought on by hunger — my morale at its lowest — I wanted to help myself to a second serving. The moment she saw me, she beat me with her stick everywhere she could reach, like a hysterical fury. The violence of the blows somehow shook me and brought my thoughts back into order, despite the terrible pain throughout my body. For several days I could not move. I never did it again. That I survived those four months is entirely a miracle. Had I known what awaited me, I would not have hesitated to hide at Auschwitz, even at the risk of being caught and shot by the SS. Anything would have been better than this. We had become barely living rags. And the true miracle finally arrived. One morning — no more SS, no more kapos. They had all fled during the night, leaving us there. They would have killed us had they had the time, but the Russians arrived by surprise in the neighboring town. We could not believe it, and I wandered about, dazed, for a few hours. Then, suddenly, a little strength and lucidity returned to me. I saw at the far end of the camp a hut, in front of which many deportees were jostling. It was the supply block. I wanted to enter, but in my state of extreme weakness, I stumbled. I was thrown to the ground in the crush. There are no words to describe the spectacle of those living skeletons rushing in the hope of finding food, starved since their arrival at the camp. Everyone was trampling over me without even noticing. A savage horde was tearing at my body. Not a single gesture to help me up. By instinct I shielded my head, not wanting to die disfigured. I began to suffocate — unable to rise, unable to speak, and even less to cry out — and I recited the "Shema Yisrael," believing my last hour had come. Suddenly I glimpsed the hem of a pair of trousers, and I clutched it with all my feeble strength. Those trousers were running very fast. Their owner was trying to hold them up with both hands and could not understand why they would not stay. I prayed to G-d to give me the strength to pull myself upright. I finally managed to stand. I too began to run. All that remained in the block was tins of pâté — nothing else. No bread, no sugar, no jam. The Germans had taken everything. I took several of these tins; there were large quantities of them.
CHAPTER 15
Returning from that hut with my spoils, I encountered in the camp a young woman I had already seen before — at Birkenau and also in Lyon. Her name was Myriam. She was 17 and I was 21. A girl from a good family whose father had been deported with her — not her mother. I suggested she stay with me until our repatriation by the Russians. She agreed. We settled in one of the blocks of the soldiers' barracks, where there were beds. I offered her something to eat and opened one of the tins. But she, starving, wanted to throw herself at it and eat the whole thing at once. I firmly opposed this, explaining that it was the surest way to come down with dysentery and die — as many others had done. It would have been a shame to die so close to the end, for lack of willpower. I was also very hungry and very weakened — one single small tap on my shoulder and I would have collapsed. Here again I witnessed a miracle. For that willpower, instilled in me by my parents through G-d, gave me the courage to resist the temptation of swallowing everything at once. But Myriam would hear nothing of it, and I had to threaten to leave her to fend for herself, not wanting to carry a corpse along behind me. I even had to raise my voice before she agreed to eat one small spoonful each hour — for without bread, it would have been suicide to eat more. Having fasted for so long, the body could not bear such a sudden intake of fat. At the beginning of May came the liberation of the camp by the Russians, and it was with an explosion of joy that we received the news. Yet we did not see a single one of them that day — nor any food. One day passed, then another, without anyone appearing. One morning, a Russian officer arrived on horseback. He dismounted and made his way toward our block. He entered and asked Myriam to bring him a glass of water. Myriam prepared to obey; I asked her not to move. If he wanted water, there was some right here. During our exchange, he moved dangerously close to me. I sprang to my feet and showed him my tattooed number on my arm, saying to him in German: "Don't you think we Jews have already suffered enough?" Tears were streaming down my face. My nerves were on the verge of completely giving way. He understood a little German. His eyes went wide; he looked at my number and said: "Ah, you're Jewish — deported. I took you for a German woman or a non-Jewish Pole. You look like one. But those women — I will find them and shoot them, after everything they have done and the horrors we've seen in other camps!" Then he left. Phew — I had had a narrow escape. Thank G-d. At each moment of danger, so close to death, G-d came to my aid — but so close to despair, I often wondered: why all of this?
CHAPTER 16
After that incident, I was frightened. We dressed ourselves in soldiers' uniforms — it was all we had found to wear. Armed with rifles to protect ourselves — or at least to intimidate, since neither Myriam nor I knew how to use them. We set out into the town of Neustadt, having sworn to shoot the first German we laid eyes on. We headed toward the villas — it was a resort town. All the houses were deserted. Everyone had fled. We settled into one of them to spend the night. But it was impossible to sleep on a mattress — quite simply, we fell asleep on the bare floor. We were too accustomed to sleeping that way. We woke at dawn — still out of habit — and continued our tour of the villas in the hope of meeting someone. Armed with our rifles, we found a family: elderly people, huddled in the corner of a room. And despite our promise, we were unable to kill. We just barely managed to frighten them with our shouting: "Filthy Germans, you killed our families, our children, and now we are going to shoot you in turn!" That was enough to ease our enormous frustration — we felt we had taken a measure of revenge. We left in haste. It had been enough for the moment. Having nothing more to do in that place, we set off, hoping to encounter Americans who would repatriate us. We had, beforehand, piled a few blankets and hand towels into a wheelbarrow — perhaps we could trade them for bread, since we had not yet had any. We walked with hearts full of resolve, at the thought of soon returning home. After an hour of walking, we finally encountered a person who informed us that just a short distance away there was a troop of American soldiers who would surely see to our repatriation. And indeed, half an hour later, we found them. They announced our imminent return — a repatriation by plane. At last we were given something to eat. Bread. The taste of that bread I will never forget. No dish, however fine or flavorful, could ever have that taste on the palate. We were given decent clothing. Then we waited. One day, then two. No plane. In the end, our patience exhausted, the whole group demanded to be repatriated by any means available. The Americans then offered us an open truck where benches would be set up for us to sit on, and we would be transported to the Belgian border. After an hour on the road, we encountered Russians who stopped us. They had received orders to let no one through. After heated arguments, we were allowed to continue — but with great difficulty. The American then explained to us that they had received orders to direct survivors toward the Russians, who were to handle their repatriation. We later learned, to our great astonishment, that the Russians were taking them to labor camps in Siberia... Yet another miracle. One day later, and we would have been back in a penal camp. We crossed Belgium, then the north of France, and there we took the train to Paris — a real train with compartments, not a sealed cattle car.
CHAPTER 17
Paris... Paris... PARIS! Freedom! Who truly knows what that word means... Only those who have been deprived of it can appreciate it at its true worth. To be free, to think, to dress, to come and go as one pleases. To suffer no more, and to watch others suffer no more. Paris, the station, the crowd. Several people were waiting at the exit, holding up photos of their loved ones, asking if we had seen them at the camp... The poor souls, full of illusions... Who could recognize in those photographs the shaved, skeletal, starving inmates without names — only a prisoner number? But we couldn't tell them that, and we simply replied that we hadn't seen them, but that surely they would return soon. In any case, they wouldn't have believed us, even if we had tried to explain. A car was waiting to take us to the gathering point at the Hôtel Lutétia, which had generously offered its hospitality to all the survivors. To this day, we remain grateful. Though desperately impatient to find my family, I had no choice but to go through the process, in order to finally reclaim the civil identity the Germans had stolen from us. The hotel placed its magnificent rooms at our disposal, along with a restaurant serving everything we had not seen since our imprisonment. After showering, Myriam wanted to pocket towels and other trinkets from the hotel, as we had been forced to do in the camp. I told her: "Myriam, now that G-d has granted us our freedom, we return to being civilized human beings. From now on, we will conduct ourselves as such — meaning we will take nothing that does not belong to us, and we will eat only food permitted by our law, that is to say, kosher." She herself came from an observant family and was entirely in agreement.
We went down to the restaurant, where an enormous table was set for everyone with delicious food — assorted hors d'oeuvres we had nearly forgotten existed — and at another table, all kinds of fruit were available to us. We ate, no more than that, and Myriam whispered to me: "Be careful, watch yourself!" I could see that my lesson had taken hold... Reintegration was not so simple! We had to complete several formalities. In that same hotel, several tables had been set up as desks, where our lost
identities were restored to us. Despite my growing impatience, we had to go through these formalities. We were happy to finally recover our identity. But we were not alone, and there were queues everywhere. In the meantime, we each received a metro ticket and 50 francs of the time. We went back up to our room, and I covered my head with a scarf I had brought from Neuschtadt, refusing to appear before my father bareheaded. I was certain I would find my parents again. Our apartment having been requisitioned, I did not know where to look for them. I then went to the synagogue on Rue Cadet, where my father had served before the war. As Myriam and I went down into the metro station to go there, the ticket-puncher — there were no machines yet — surprised by the color of our tickets, which were specially issued for us, asked where we had come from. "From the Auschwitz camp," I replied. He responded, dumbfounded: "Ah! You don't look so bad for deportees — it can't have been that hard there." As the train was pulling in, I had to forgo the pleasure of throwing the rest of the apple I was eating in his face, because Myriam and I weighed barely 30 kilograms. Arriving at Rue Cadet, I went straight to the synagogue caretaker and asked if she knew Rabbi Stern and where I might find him. She replied: "I don't know any Monsieur Stern, no rabbi by that name." Hearing those words, I fainted — I had been so certain of finding them that it was more than I could bear. My nerves gave way. She revived me with some brandy and then clarified: "There's no need to worry, my dear lady — I've only been here since yesterday..." At that, hope returned to me. She should have started with that! I made my way to the diamond merchants' club, which was on that same street. I approached the first person I saw, a man who appeared to be Jewish: "Do you know Rabbi Stern? Do you know where he lives? And his wife?" "Of course I know him," he replied, "I even know his address, and his wife's, his daughter's, and his family's. Might you not be the daughter who was deported? Ah, what wonderful news! If you wait a quarter of an hour I will take you there myself. What joy your parents will feel at seeing you again!" I took advantage of this fortunate encounter to ask him for news of all the members of my family. Thank G-d, they were all alive. I knew it. I was certain — something inside me had told me I would find them. I said to him: "I don't want to trouble you — just give me their address and I'll manage on my own." "Oh, for nothing in the world — I have a business matter to settle in a quarter of an hour, but given your impatience I will take you there right away. But promise me one thing: that you will never forget that I am the first person to give you the good news about your parents." And he led us to the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis. That was where my parents were living, near the Gare du Nord where we had arrived just a few hours earlier. As we entered the street, I spotted from afar my brother-in-law, my sister's husband. They had taken refuge in Switzerland during the war, also in a camp, but obviously not the same kind as ours — fortunately for them. The gentleman accompanying us, seeing that we were now in good hands, said: "Good — now that you've found at least one of your own, I'll leave you to your reunion. But don't forget me!" I never forgot that man — only his name... My brother-in-law walked us to my parents' home, and left us at the door. I asked Myriam to come upstairs with me to my parents'. I wanted her to stay with us for a few weeks before going on to Lyon, where she hoped to find her mother. I suggested she ring the bell and simply tell them she had news of me, so as to spare them too great a shock at seeing me appear suddenly. She agreed and rang... Those were interminable minutes of waiting...
CHAPTER 18
The door opened. Myriam entered, leaving the door ajar. Hearing my parents' voices, I could resist no longer and rushed inside. It is impossible to describe the emotion of that moment. My mother held me in her arms so tightly she nearly smothered me, and then my father took over, saying: "Gitèle, I knew that you would find a way to come back to us!" No comment. I could say nothing without immediately launching into explanations and details that were, at the very least, ill-timed. In fact, they almost certainly would not have believed me, or would barely have. I found my mother terribly aged by all she had been through. She told me she had often gone to the Gare du Nord with my photograph, just like the people we had seen upon arriving. Then came the turn of my sister. I introduced Myriam, who was deeply moved by this reunion. We asked her to stay with us, but she refused and left, promising to send word. I was so overcome at finding my family again that I did not think to ask for her address. She returned to the Hôtel Lutétia, which was to send her back to Lyon. I did not see her again until many years later, by chance in Israel, in Tel Aviv.
CHAPTER 19
It took me forty years to process what had happened to me, and forty years to find a certain moral equilibrium that would allow me to describe the horrors we had lived through at the camp. I only understood it all from the moment I was able to give it expression, and only on certain subjects. There were terrible moments during my imprisonment that my subconscious has mercifully suppressed, allowing me to live a more or less normal life. Yet I feel bound to be the voice of those men and women who are no longer here, and who suffered so greatly. I survived with my life thanks to the faith — the Emunah — that I carried before, during, and after the deportation. It is a gift from G-d, and to possess it is an immeasurable treasure. For what is a body without moral guidance? Nothing. This faith enables a person who has fallen from independence into submission and misery to rediscover strength and courage. Endowed with free will, one must first rely on oneself and pray with conviction that G-d will help. We have the example of this in the Exodus from Egypt, at the parting of the Red Sea. So too our father Abraham, possessed of an unequaled faith and devotion, emerged unharmed from the furnace. My convoy was Convoy 72, of 29 April 1944. This convoy carried 1,004 Jews — 398 men and 606 women, among them 174 children under the age of 18. Upon arrival, 48 men and 52 women were selected. By 1945, 37 survivors had returned, 25 of them women. (Documentation published by Maître Klarsfeld, whom I wish to thank, along with his wife Beate, for the tireless campaign they wage — often at the risk of their own lives — to track down and bring to justice the Nazi murderers and others who carried out this genocide. Thanks to their diligence, some have been caught. But they continue their pursuit, and we survivors wish them success in finding every last one while we are still alive and able to bear witness.) I also wish to thank Monsieur and Madame René Clavel and their team, who helped us in our reintegration into civilian life in all that it entailed, and who likewise fight to ensure that justice is done. The world must know what this genocide was, so that such horror may never happen again — never, anywhere. Auschwitz is the horrible, the inconceivable, the incomprehensible, and the inescapable event that remains forever present in the collective memory of the Jewish people and of all humanity. Some may perhaps forgive, but no one will ever forget. I hope, with G-d's help, that the generations to come will never again live through this nightmare. Amen.
EPILOGUE
My reunion with Myriam came many years later. During a stay in Israel, about ten years ago, I was at Colbo, a large department store in Tel Aviv, with my daughter and my granddaughter, doing some shopping. When my granddaughter disappeared, I became frightened and called out to her repeatedly. When BatSheva reappeared, a woman approached me, her head wrapped in a turban, and said: "Don't you recognize me?" (Forty years later!) "No," I told her. But I looked at her more closely. And there I discovered my Myriam. "I recognized you by your voice," she said, "it hasn't changed — and neither have you. I can still hear you shouting at me not to eat all the pâté or I'd fall ill." We fell into each other's arms. I asked her why she had never sent word. She told me she had found none of her family — her mother had died just a few days before her arrival. As for her father, deported at the same time as she was, he had not returned. With no ties left, she had registered with the Joint, the American Jewish aid organization, which had sent her to Israel. She had not written to me, for fear of darkening my joy at having found my own family. Today she has a family, four sons; her husband studies at the yeshiva, as do her sons. She works and is very happy. So am I, to have found her again... It is only in Israel that one can have such encounters! As for the gynecologist at the camp, I found her through an Israeli newspaper to which I subscribe: "Lamatril," a journal published for new immigrants, in which I had read that a gynecologist by the name of Gisela Perl — may her memory be blessed — had been decorated for her many years of work at Shaare Zedek hospital in Jerusalem. And so I recognized the woman who had assisted me during my childbirth. She had saved many lives. Having gone to America just after liberation, she later immigrated to Israel to do volunteer work. It was there that her soul left us, about two years ago. May she rest in peace. Amen. As for me, with G-d's help, I have a family of five children and many grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
CONCLUSION
It is clear that, in wanting to rebuild our lives and create a home where our children would be happy, we spoke of the Shoah and what we had endured barely at all, or not at all. This did not prevent us from attending various commemorative events whenever we were able. On the other hand, forty years after the Shoah, and at the repeated requests of Rebbetzin Shlammé, a teacher at the Yavneh school, and of the principals of various schools, I agreed to speak about the Shoah to students. Understanding my new pedagogical role, I take care not to traumatize them. The essential thing is that they learn to protect themselves by remaining vigilant. They are very interested, and their questions are often pertinent. This gave me the courage to continue, and I do so whenever I am asked. My own children, though grown and married, reproached me for it. To them I had never been able to speak in that way. Certainly because they were, precisely, my children. So I undertook to record a fairly summary account on cassette for them. Roselyne, my youngest daughter, surprised me by typing it out and begged me to publish it. For two years I let the project lie dormant, undoubtedly uneasy about plunging back into that past. I was not wrong to hesitate. Writing this account was a source of suffering — I would often stop writing, unable to comprehend that I had lived through all these horrors; it could not be true! That suffering, so present even fifty years later, finally persuaded me to keep writing and to bear witness, so that all of humanity might not take refuge in ignorance of this chapter of History — our history. If G-d granted us life a second time, it is precisely in order to bear witness. To survive is a privilege that carries obligations. I have never stopped asking myself what I could do for those who did not survive. To be their voice is the best way to keep their memory alive. Thus they will continue to live in the remembrance of humanity. That is our foremost duty. This account now exists. I leave it to institutions, to secondary schools, so that teachers may speak of it. And this, despite what the last-hour deniers may think or say. Now our children know the truth, but are not traumatized by it. We have been able to pass on to them that priceless gift — the Emunah, the faith — which allows them to face life on its bright side, with optimism but without naivety. They thank G-d for having granted us a new life, through which they have come into the world.
We wish for them, and for all present and future generations, that they may never know this nightmare. Amen. Be vigilant; never forget Amalek. After the Shoah, we adapted our way of life by taking as our model our ancestor Isaac — may his memory be blessed — who underwent the Akeidah, the binding of Isaac, and who teaches us that suffering confers no privilege. Everything depends on what one does with it. Isaac knew how to transform it into prayer and love, rather than bitterness and curse. That is what conferred upon him rights and powers that no one else possesses. His reward was that the Holy Temple would be built not on Sinai but on the Moriah, the site of the sacrifice. (A Midrash cited by Elie Wiesel in "Célébration biblique.") I believe that survival is measured, for some, by the faint eternity of History, and for others by those pangs of the heart that come less and less often, in memory of those who are gone. That is the CONSOLATION. Let us pray that G-d comes to our aid as quickly as possible. The holy Rebbe of Lubavitch said, before his passing, that it would not be long. Amen. The nations that were the instrument of this tragedy — those whom men have not been able to judge — will be judged by G-d Himself at the final reckoning. Antisemitism is a hatred so particular that it cannot be reduced to ordinary racism. Whereas the racist hates the other for his otherness, the antisemite hates the Jew for his similarity. Contrary to what one might think, there is no metaphysical criterion involved — hence the boundlessness of this hatred and the violence that flows from it. It is from this that the crime against humanity draws its principle, and this is what must be recalled ceaselessly to young people, who claim to be uninformed. This account now exists. I leave it to institutions, to secondary schools, so that teachers may speak of it. And this, despite what the last-hour deniers may think or say. Now our children know the truth, but are not traumatized by it. We have been able to pass on to them that priceless gift — the Emunah, the faith — which allows them to face life on its bright side, with optimism but without naivety. They thank G-d for having granted us a new life, through which they have come into the world. I have often asked myself what reasons led to my remaining alive after this horrible genocide. I have
I posed the question to a rabbi, and he replied: "It is so that you may bear witness, knowing that you would do so sooner or later." I gave a lecture during a holiday retreat. Rav J. Tolédano, Shlita, was in attendance. The following day, he told me he had not slept and had spent the night reflecting on my case. He discovered that the gematria, the numerical value, of my prisoner number — 80661, which reduces to 21 — is equivalent to that of the word "e'hié," meaning: I shall be. It was therefore evident, he told me, that I was destined to survive. How could G-d have permitted such a thing? That is a question that, unfortunately, many people ask themselves. A painful question, certainly, in the face of all those innocent dead. The great Torah scholars knew they were dying to sanctify the name of G-d. How many prayers passed through the walls of the gas chambers!
Every individual is born with a mission to fulfill throughout their life, even if that life is, tragically, cut brutally short. As for the children who were taken, I am deeply convinced that their souls have today entered other children, who will benefit from this inestimable gift and this purity of soul, in order to elevate the world. Two of my granddaughters, Laurence and BatSheva, then eighteen years old, traveled with their class to Auschwitz-Birkenau. One of them, BatSheva, began to pray in front of a block — undoubtedly the one where I had been imprisoned — for my baby, who was killed at birth. When the visit was over, they returned to the hotel, where a phone message was waiting for BatSheva. Her mother had just given birth to her sixth child, a little boy, on the 27th of April — my birthday. The birth had taken place in all likelihood at the very moment she was praying for my child who had not been allowed to live, who never had a name. May his memory be a blessing.
Is life not an eternal new beginning?
REINTEGRATION AFTER THE SHOAH
I believe with perfect faith... In the days following the liberation, we were certain that the terrible nightmare, which had ended so miraculously, belonged to the past. Humanity was vaccinated forever against a return of the unspeakable crimes perpetrated in the middle of the twentieth century, in the heart of Europe, by a people so proud of its culture. But we were naive, for Nazism is increasingly showing itself in the open, and academics in the land of Descartes push their cynicism so far as to deny the gas chambers and the crematoria. (Preface by the Chief Rabbi Jaïs.) Nevertheless, one must hope. Standing before the Kotel HaMaaravi, the Western Wall in Jerusalem, I am once again overwhelmed by a surge of emotion before this awe-inspiring remnant of the Beit HaMikdash, the Holy Temple. How could I have imagined, imprisoned at Auschwitz with everything that entailed, that forty-eight years later I would have the privilege and the joy of praying before this Wall? And yet... It is very difficult to speak of reintegration after the Shoah. Even an ordinary reintegration in peacetime is not without difficulty. How much more so after this abomination. First of all, how does one explain our survival after so many ordeals endured — living witnesses to the massacre of our brothers and sisters, starved, tormented — if not through our faith: the Emunah, the trust in G-d and in our Torah? This faith, maintained and preserved across millennia thanks to our Sages who, above all else, continued to transmit it, is thus engraved forever in our hearts. How does one reveal to the world the full extent of the Nazi atrocities and their massacres — unprecedented in all of human history? What we witnessed is inexpressible, and the fear that others might doubt our words locked us even further into our silence, an unbearable prolongation, if such a thing were needed, of our suffering.
For years, nightmares pursued us regularly — images of the Nazis and their dogs. After the Allies discovered the horror of the camps, a world made guilty by the monstrousness of the crimes committed began to become aware of our existence. Yet it was difficult for us to recount our terrible experience. Even the most detailed accounts fell short of the infernal reality of the camp. To try to draw as close as possible to that reality was already to move away from it. We knew we were marked forever with an indelible seal, and that no one in this world could share our burden. But the deportation allowed us to put things in perspective, to rebalance our values, and to know how to recognize what truly matters. Mutilated in our flesh and in our hearts, accustomed to fighting against the most extreme adversity, our people survived. Such is the nature of man: confronted with the most extreme realities, his capacity for endurance and adaptation is such that it allows him to rise to every challenge. To master this energy of divine essence is the supreme goal of every individual. But first one must learn to be aware of it. This strength, drawn simply from trust in G-d — the Emunah — is what allowed me to survive the camp and to reintegrate into society. The survival of a people depends on its capacity and determination to galvanize this energy in the face of adversity; this will to survive appears only when the goal to be reached surpasses simple desire and mobilizes into a supreme purpose, inherent in every individual. It is the will to conquer, to live, to fight death, that has sustained humanity throughout its history. Only prayer can capture this energy, through an elevation of the spirit, which takes on its full weight in the face of immediate reality. Keeping the mind active therefore remained an absolute priority. Being in a state of acute awareness made it possible to escape certain death. Above all, one could not allow oneself to let go. Unfortunately at Auschwitz, the bromide regularly absorbed in what little food we were given — "to calm our senses," they said — made this task even more arduous. Thus at liberation, many people were unable to respond accordingly. The loss of their loved ones, the illnesses brought back from the camps, quickly extinguished their last reserves of strength. Suicide was one answer for some; for others, fifty years on, depression remains their only way of living. And yet one cannot dam the river of life forever without going mad. But sometimes it seems to me equally mad to live as though those corpses had never existed, and this only a few decades after the massacre. We, the survivors, must be like seismographs — sensing danger before others, not dismissing as harmless the early warning signs of a second tragedy. Vigilance is better than trust. For most survivors, the trauma remains even after fifty years. They live with it. Despite the silence observed by some in order to protect their families, the transmission has taken place in an insidious way. The children absorbed their parents' drama through what was left unsaid, through taboo words. They identified with their fears and their suffering without knowing the source, without being able to name it. This situation heightened their sensitivity. They are suffering beings, carrying a pain of living in which communication is synonymous with danger. And so they continue, like their parents, to wall themselves up in a nameless silence. What will become of the third generation, if the wounds and the words do not finally burst open, if the tears repressed for nearly a century do not come flooding out — salvaging this silence that slowly distills its poison into all of humanity? Must we resign ourselves to this horrible truth: that Nazism is still killing? At the liberation, LIVING was the watchword — to live without looking back, with the future as the only horizon, perceptible and tangible, it and it alone. To learn to live in the present and to build a future without a past.
That was the essential difficulty. To pick up one's life where one had left it, on the side of the road, and continue the journey together. How was that possible? The answer lay within the question: by blotting out that past. Never mind if the nights were still haunted by those dogs and those SS men pursuing us to beat us or shoot us down. But the battle was, unfortunately, not over. One had to relearn how to eat, to drink one's fill, to sleep in a bed rather than on planks, to overcome the fear of being recaptured, and above all to learn to live without loved ones gone forever — widows, orphans, parents without their children — to live with the grief of being unable to weep at their graves. That was our daily struggle. Having found my parents, brothers, and sisters again helped me greatly in my reintegration. But my grief was immense, and I could share it with no one. Strangely, the renewal of spring eased my sorrow. Was it because spring was the symbol of life? On that subject, I hold in memory a charming anecdote: "A man blind from birth sat under the porch of a church, with a begging bowl at his feet. Above him, a sign that read: 'Alone in the world, without resources and without shelter.' And yet few people paid him any attention, and his bowl remained desperately empty. One day a passerby asked his permission to write something different on his sign. The blind man agreed, and the passerby went on his way. From that day on, his bowl filled regularly. Intrigued, he asked a lady if she could read what was written on the sign: 'With pleasure,' she replied, 'it is very lovely — here it is: Tomorrow is spring: but I shall not see it.'" That passerby must have been a poet... Spring is a wonderful guarantor of hope. In a world that regularly sinks into horror, nature reclaims its rights — as does life itself, and above all our life.
Several people came to visit me at my parents' home, hoping for some piece of information that might allow them to believe that such-and-such a person was still alive. But what could I answer? How could I explain to them that there was no possible comparison between those photographs and those wandering, emaciated, shaved bodies, their gazes made vacant by hunger and misery, whose only identity was a prisoner number? How could I not feel, at that moment, that sense of guilt — guilty of being alive, guilty of having known how to resist, guilty of not having died. I read it in their eyes. They were searching for an answer; so was I. Too tormented, I asked my parents to put an end to those visits — I was still tired. I could not analyze these contradictory feelings. I spent most of the day lying down, still too weak to go out: I weighed barely 30 kilos when I returned. I, who was drunk with freedom, could barely stand on my feet. Material concerns worried me little. I had lost all sense of money. The Germans having taken everything from us — money, furniture, clothes, and above all our freedom — it was difficult for me to reclaim my former values. I still tasted the flavor of forbidden fruit. I remember a sad realization I had made upon my arrival at the camp: all the money and all the privileges in the world were powerless against that torrent of hatred directed at us. And yet, after a few months, I had to face the obvious: money was necessary to live. I was then becoming aware of my parents' financial difficulties, and even though they remained discreet on the subject, I began to worry. Thanks to the care lavished on me by my mother, I was beginning to find my legs again. She had known how to guide me gradually toward normal eating. Yet I remember that when I finished my meal at the table, I would gather up every last breadcrumb with a spoon to eat them. Those crumbs were a treasure to me. My parents would look at each other and think I was still hungry. But I said nothing. Even today, fifty years later, the fear of running out of food has never left me. When I peel vegetables, I avoid peeling them too thick... I cannot help but think that at Auschwitz, those peelings would have been a delicacy. The cruel nutritional deficiencies had left my skin parched. It cracked in every direction. My mother would massage my body daily with cream, minimizing the damage. I was conscious of the good fortune I had in having someone who cared for me with such selflessness and love, unfortunately at the expense of her own health. She had contracted, during those four years of wandering, a chronic bronchitis. Worn down by work and the hard toil of a lifetime, she had increasing difficulty fighting off illness. Despite everything, her face shone with the happiness of having found me again. And so I decided to take advantage of this newfound freedom and look for work. Dressed very simply, my stockings barely staying up on legs still too thin, I walked the streets nonetheless with an energy and a joy previously unknown to me but oh so comforting. This recovered freedom was the finest gift heaven could offer. Anything could still happen. Like spring, hope was reborn. Strangely, I had become sensitive to the slightest expression of joy, while misfortune left me seemingly indifferent. My usual behavior appeared to have changed. In the face of the most cruel adversity, it had become impossible for me to express my sorrow. My tears no longer accompanied my sorrows. I seemed frozen with cold before death, even the deaths of loved ones. Several deportees without families would often come to our home; my parents would invite them and offer them a little comfort over a meal shared together. One of them must have been carrying typhus without having contracted the illness himself. My little niece was living with us and, as all children are, she was fussed over by everyone, especially by those who had lost everything. She was infected. She died in my arms one night. I felt deep sorrow for my sister, whose first child this had been, but I was incapable of crying — I had no more tears. I was profoundly unhappy to be unable to share in her grief. My survival instinct in the face of horror was still deeply rooted in me. Having repressed my tears to the very depths of my soul had allowed me to confront the most total dehumanization and to make it through. It took time — a great deal of time — before I at last let my sensitivity reclaim its place, before I made room once more for what makes a human being exceptional: emotion. Some time afterward, I began to work, and above all to search for missing persons — among them my husband, my sister-in-law, and her brother. I had been married three months before my arrest. At first I was certain they would return. But the searches remained fruitless and hope diminished day by day. My parents were greatly affected by my distress. For them, after three years of waiting, the time had come to move forward if I wished to build a family. Of course, I wanted to hear none of it, and for several reasons. On the one hand, I was the sole bread-
winner for my parents; my father, a rabbi at the Rachi synagogue, earned only a derisory salary. Only his passion for his calling compensated for his daily efforts: according to many, he was a wellspring of knowledge. However, that first reason alone was not sufficient. The second was that I could not imagine sharing my life with a man who had not lived through the deportation. Only a fellow survivor could understand me. My third fear was simply that of being unable to build a home. The terrible conditions under which I had given birth at Auschwitz gave me serious reason to doubt it. My parents had retained only one thing: that I was ready to marry a deportee. "That is no obstacle, my daughter," my father told me. Speaking several languages, they regularly received all those who had been deported and were so often disoriented. My father guided them as best he could. Until the day he suggested I meet someone. Knowing my father's discernment — may his memory be a blessing — I suspected this could not be an ordinary man. Respecting my wishes, he introduced me to a young man who had been deported from Romania with his family. Handsome in appearance, of tall stature, and above all a Torah scholar — I confess I was not disappointed. With G-d's help, we therefore founded a family. Yet we knew that it was not possible to build this new life upon misfortune, and so we promised each other not to speak of our past. And G-d in His goodness gave us an exceptional gift — consolation. It is not forgetting — far from it — but it allowed us to better suppress our feelings of pity. Overcoming our anxieties, setting aside our fears: all of this drove us to create a thousand occupations for ourselves. Material hardships were not spared us, nor were health concerns, for we did not emerge unscathed from that hell. But one must know how to persevere, giving thanks to G-d for having "only" this to bear. Of the 248 limbs we have, if a few do not function, one must adapt, and above all continue moving forward — for those five wonderful children whom G-d in His great goodness granted us. Of course we had to think of nourishing them, physically and spiritually. My husband spoke several languages, but his French was still hesitant, and professional prospects after the war were few. But G-d helped us, and we succeeded. Today my five children are married, we have many grandchildren and even great-grandchildren. I believe, in all honesty, that we succeeded in making them happy — it was not without difficulty, but our faith in G-d helped us greatly, sustained us, and accompanied every moment of our lives. In the meantime, my parents passed away — a loss I felt very deeply. My mother, may her memory be a blessing, preceded my father by seven years. I saw many deaths at the camp. In leaving this world, each person kept on his face a final expression of suffering. Yet my parents had an expression of calm and serenity on their faces, with the conviction that they had fulfilled their mission on earth and could depart in peace. My father had told me some time before: "It is not the quantity of life that matters, but the quality that one must seek." And I read somewhere that "one must add life to one's years and not years to one's life." We speak of living longer — but is the real challenge not to live one's old age better? Despite everything, I struggled greatly to suppress my emotions, and I was able to weep. I understood that tears are also a gift from G-d, and that no longer knowing how to cry is a great poverty of the soul. I would like to quote Edmond Fleg: "What is an end is a new beginning. Thus the end of the day is the beginning of the night. The months and years that close are the beginnings of those that follow. The disappearance of each thing is the renewal of another. So that what is said is true: that nothing dies of the things that have been created, but that, being changed and diversified, they take on another form." Such is the way of life. I believe it is the same for human beings — they never disappear as long as they leave behind children to continue their work; in that way they are always present among us. It is thus that I consoled myself for their passing. Our dear children gave us many grandchildren and great-grandchildren who, thank G-d, all follow the path traced for them by their great-grandparents. I told my story once to Rav Tolédano. The following day, he told me he had not slept the night. But he had noticed that the "Gematria" — the numerical value of my prisoner number, 80661 — was equivalent to that of the word "Ehié," meaning "I shall be." In other words, the number of infamy was like a promise from G-d that I was destined to survive all these events. Among the many motivations that led me to write about this subject is the desire to see more clearly within myself. During my imprisonment, I was absorbed by concerns of a material nature, of immediate survival. And so there remain troubling questions, such as: how was I able to endure all those humiliations without rebelling, almost inert? I could neither express nor, even less, find answers to the many questions I asked myself during that sinister period. During one of my lectures, given during a holiday retreat, Monsieur le Rabbin J. Tolédano (Shlita), who was present, could not sleep that night. He wished to answer my question: "Why had I had the privilege of returning from hell?" He said to me: "I found in the Gemara the Hebrew meaning of your registration number tattooed on your arm: 80661. It reduces to 21, which in Hebrew is EHYÉ — that is: I shall be. It is therefore evident that you were destined to survive." Now, thanks to this document, thanks to the lectures I give before students, thanks to the interviews published in newspapers and broadcast on the radio, I can say that I understand better what drove me to live, that I realize G-d was good to me in the midst of all that horror. And I try to use this life that He gave back to me in order to share my deepest convictions and my faith: yes, G-d exists, and the Jewish people will live forever. I would like to personally thank my daughter Roselyne König, who encouraged me, supported me, and made the realization of this document possible, as well as Monsieur Lachkar for his efficient assistance.
CONTINUATION OF LIVING AFTER THE SHOAH
It is difficult to speak of life after the Shoah. After fifty years. Nevertheless, I will try to answer questions posed during my lectures in schools — clearly and concisely, I hope. It is impossible to imagine and understand what happened to me, and the death of millions of Jews that resulted from the measures the Nazis wished to take to preserve the purity of their so-called racial superiority — "the Aryan Race." To that end, they meticulously implemented a deliberate organization of the Final Solution. It was the project of a madman, whom the world followed, to annihilate the Jewish people as well as others deemed different. Thank G-d they did not succeed to that end. This is why I consider it the greatest privilege of my life to have found my Parents again (long since passed away, unfortunately), my brother and my sisters; and if I returned, it was to be able to give these testimonies so that the world may know and counter the false claims of the deniers who maintain that none of this ever happened. I quote Monsieur Simon Wiesenthal: to survive is a privilege that imposes duties upon you. I never ceased asking myself what I could do for those who did not survive, and I thought of being their spokesperson, and I would keep their memory alive so that they might continue to live in the memory of humanity. That is our duty toward the new generation. We must transmit to them our experiences, however painful they may be, so that they may draw lessons from them. To be informed is to defend oneself, and we must pass on our testimony. We must speak to children and grandchildren and provoke questions. Memory survives only through oral transmission — but it is not easy to make someone understand, someone who has never truly been hungry or truly cold in their life, what a crust of bread and a sweater could mean in those times; just as it is not easy to make those who know death only through newspapers understand what one feels when one sees, close to one's barrack, the smoke from the crematoria, knowing that this sweetish odor is the odor of loved ones who, just yesterday, were still walking through the camp. How does one describe the pain of a mother from whom her child is torn to be sent to the gas chamber, or of a woman who gives birth and whose baby is killed the moment it is born, with the mother then sent to the crematorium? (End of quote.) I fully agree with him, being one of those examples, having lived it. One cannot convey the nauseating odor that filled those cattle cars where the dead remained for several days among the living, causing such nausea and the urge to vomit — though vomit what, since we had nothing to eat — it was the stomach itself that rose up. How does one explain what one feels beside a ditch strewn with several corpses, knowing that one day perhaps we too would be lying there? It is impossible to transmit this experience, and even if we speak of it and they hang on our every word, these facts cannot become reality in their minds — for what took place under that Third Reich defies our imagination. And yet for us, bearing witness is fundamental, so that young people may understand to what degree this genocide was unique, exceptional in its cruelty, and incomprehensible; and it is all the more difficult for them to believe in the reality of these events. I myself, when after forty years I resolved to speak out — and two years later to write the story of my deportation, at the insistence of my youngest daughter Roselyne — my pen stopped at the painful events I had endured; I could not believe I had lived through them, and yet!! So I understand that young people question the reality of our memories. Despite the incomprehensible, one had to resign oneself and go on living — without a doubt, unless one wanted to go mad. One cannot be constantly consumed by this horrible genocide in which six million Jews perished, murdered, along with the Roma as well. And yet it is difficult to live as though those corpses had never existed. Never mind if our nights are haunted by the dogs that the SS kept with them, which could bite us with full force. One must live — but never forget to draw lessons from our errors. To understand that we are always the first victims of all discord the moment a majority is incited to hatred against a minority — that in the end it is always the Jew who is to blame. Vigilance is better than trust. Let us never forget Amalek (of unhappy memory). Anxiety and terror mingle so easily with faith, even the most robust faith, for the human heart is so fragile. The painful setbacks of life and its anguishes drive even the most courageous to lose their footing — but the patient and progressive learning of this unconditional faith, which was the precious hallmark of the Patriarchs but which the inhuman servitude in the extermination camps had so deeply eroded, this faith must not abandon us; it is only with it that we can overcome the trials that G-d has given us — and through prayer, through that moment of surrender, of grace, and of hope that we are granted in life, we can keep our faith. Prayer is a dialogue with G-d. It is possible to live and to subsist without hope — but not without prayer. When one has known deportation, one learns to put things in perspective, to rebalance one's values, and to recognize what truly matters. The reawakening of religiosity in today's world is an undeniable phenomenon. Scientists wish to rediscover things of the spirit; nuclear scholars, biologists, and physicists have chosen to plunge into the ocean that is the Talmud, and at the end of their research have concluded that technology has solved false problems. Which proves, whatever one may think, that prayer is the solution to our problems. With the repressive methods we endured every day from morning to night in that universe of horror, our refuge was to think of loved ones whom we hoped were free and who were praying for us. That is what sustained me during our detention. I had to fight and pray to see them again. Then life continued with its highs and lows. My husband, killed at Auschwitz; my baby, to whom I gave birth there, killed at the moment of his birth; and my husband's family, who were deported and never returned. I was the only one to come back — skeletal, but alive. I repeat myself, but it is an unimaginable stroke of fortune to have found my Parents, my brother, and my sisters alive. Thanks to the devotion of my mother — who was herself ill — I was able to recover, as I recounted earlier in this book. Three years after my return, seeing that my husband was not coming back, my parents urged me to remarry. I was reluctant for several reasons. The first was that I was not ready to share my life with someone who had not been deported and who would therefore not understand — especially if I were unable to build a home with children as a result of my delivery at the camp. And for other personal reasons, which my parents quickly swept aside by presenting me with a young man who had also been deported and who resolved all the problematic questions. G-d helped me; listening to my Parents, I married this man, and G-d granted us five wonderful children who gave us grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I am very grateful to them. My Parents (may their souls rest in peace) were exceptional human beings — my father a wellspring of knowledge, and my mother a tzadeket, a saintly woman who, despite the financial hardships we had known before and after the war, having lost everything, raised us with dignity, propriety, and love. That is what we tried to do with our children, giving them the example we ourselves received from our Parents — in the education of children, example is what matters most. It is thanks to this that I was able to remain observant on my return and to keep the faith — it was not easy. But one cannot cast anathema on those who came back and whose loved ones had perished, and who remained alone; they lost their faith. I believe that with time they will return to G-d, but one must not rush them. I wish that G-d may give them the strength to fight so that they too may be able to recount this horrible era, so that future generations need not suffer the same fate — may G-d protect us from it. Some took their own lives, having lost their faith and no longer believing in anything. Others remain in depression to this day, making their own children depressed as well — a consequence of the bromide forced upon them at Auschwitz. Let us hope that peace will reign over the world through the prayers that we all offer. Amen.