Читать книгу The Brothers of Auschwitz - Malka Adler - Страница 15

We were born Czechoslovakians. Sent to die Hungarians.

In 1944, my family was taken to a concentration camp. Father Israel was forty-nine. Mother Leah was forty-two. The children were between fifteen and twenty.

We lived in the village of Tur’i Remety in the Carpathian Mountains, near the town of Perechyn. A small place, maybe six hundred families. Maybe thirty Jewish families. Our village was known for horse racing.

People from the area would come to us with their beautiful racehorses. I didn’t buy a ticket to the races. I had no money. I sat on a platform near the mountain. Ate an apple, played my harmonica with a phoo phoo phoo. Phoooo. Phoo. Phoo. Phoo. Phoooo. Phooah. That’s what came out and in the meantime I speculated on the horses’ chances. The races were in the time of the Czechs. The Hungarians put a stop to the races. War was already raging in Europe but they didn’t talk about it in the village, we were far away in the mountains.

The goyim – Jews – in our village were farmers. The Jews were merchants. Butchers, grocery, bakery, a flour mill, things like that. Jews always had money in their pockets.

In the village we’d gather in the evenings to peel corn with the goyim. Let’s say the corn in the Korol family’s corn field was ripe. The Korol family cuts the corn. The Korol family brings the corn to the storeroom. The village youngsters gather together in the evening to peel the corn.

The youngsters work, sing, eat hot corn. Sometimes two youngsters, a boy and a girl, yes, would peel the corn with a scrap of shirt, or trousers; and, unintentionally, yes, we’d soon start throwing peels at them, lots and lots of peels with hairs at the end, like a blanket, so they shouldn’t get cold, God forbid. By morning we were in vecherkas, as we called the gatherings with the goyim. The next day we’d go to another farmer and start the vecherkas and the fun all over again. Everything ended when soldiers came to the mountains and forced us to wear yellow patches.

Father Israel was a butcher.

We had a butcher shop next to our house. Father was also an animal trader and away from home three nights a week. We had a cow shed in the yard and we had geese and chickens. Mother raised the children. Mother milked the cows, helped in the store, ran the home, mother was an expert baker, her cakes tasted like the Garden of Eden. Mother worked and worked, didn’t rest for a moment. When we were hungry we took food for ourselves. We only sat down to eat a meal together on the Sabbath. When I was a year old my brother Yitzhak was born and I was sent away from home. My sister Sarah was five. My brother Avrum was three. Mother couldn’t take care of everyone at once. I was sent to Grandmother and Grandfather. They lived in another village, maybe thirty kilometers from my village. When I was three they brought me back home. My sister Sarah said I didn’t stop crying.

Our village was near a huge forest in the Carpathian Mountains.

What I loved most was walking in the forest. Always with a stick, because of the wolves. I loved swinging from branches and climbing trees. I would climb almost to the top of the tree and look out over fields, over houses. I only ever felt safe in trees. I knew no one would find me up there. I had my own private hiding place in the forest. I hung up a hammock made from a blanket I took from home and I ate fruit from a hoard I collected, all according to season. In the forest I knew where to find pears, mushrooms, berries and nuts. I was the first to know when the fruit was ready to eat.

In winter I suffered.

In winter I waited for the snow to melt so I could throw off my shoes and run barefoot to my forest. Mother embarrassed me. She’d run after me, shoes in hand. She’d call my name aloud in front of the neighbors, worried that I’d catch cold, shouting Avrum, Avrum, Avrum, to help her with me, but he’d go off with father. I’d hear, Sarah, Sarah, leave your book for a moment, nu, and go and look for your brother, put his shoes on and bring him home.

Sometimes I’d come back with Yitzhak, shoes in hand. Sometimes with Sarah. I liked feeling the cold earth. It was a nice tickling feeling in my back, right up to the hollow in my neck. Maybe that’s why my feet didn’t hurt when I walked in the camp with paper-thin soles.

Yitzhak and I went together to cheder – a traditional elementary school teaching Judaism and the Hebrew language. We started there at the age of four. We left home every day at five-thirty in the morning. In winter the temperature was twenty-five below zero. We’d hold hands and walk in the dark. We wore a coat, a hat, a scarf and gloves and woolen socks with shoes. Despite this my face hurt, like an iron stuck fast to my skin. I couldn’t feel my feet in that frost. Our legs were like planks bent in the middle. Our ear-locks were like barbed wire. We didn’t talk so our tongues wouldn’t fall out and stick to the snow.

We’d study for two hours in cheder and then go home. At the age of six, after cheder, we went to the Czech elementary school. We studied until 13:00 and went back to cheder in the afternoon. For at least another two or three hours.

A city rabbi would come to bless the village on two fixed occasions twice a year. The city rabbi was an important and respected man. He had a black coat, a hat, and a thick beard like steel wool. The rabbi would comb his beard with two fingers, stopping only to spit into a handkerchief. The rabbi didn’t say they’re throwing Jews into the Dnieper. The rabbi didn’t say they’re throwing Jews into the Dniester. The rabbi didn’t say they’re shooting Jews in forests. People in the village asked him as they had always done over the years, rabbi, what should we do. What should we do, rabbi, on the radio they speak against Jews, there are rumors, rabbi. They send families far away, where is far away, rabbi, what do they do to us there, does it hurt? And there have been whispers, rabbi, passing by word of mouth, whispers about mass graves of hundreds, thousands, danger is coming, rabbi, what is waiting for us, rabbi, tell us what is waiting for us, is this the end?

The rabbi would think and think, and in the meantime a woman with an enormous belly pushed two Jews with beards and hats who stood in the aisle, and approach the rabbi from the side, punching him, boom! in the middle of his back and the rabbi jumped and the two Jews with beards and hats fell on the woman and she rolled about like a full barrel, shouting, hooligans, leave me alone, and they wouldn’t leave her alone, but rolled her out of the synagogue, and three old women with covered heads would call out in unison, she’s crazy, she’s from a goy family and she’s crazy, and the rabbi would arrange his hat, pull his coat and bend down to us with raised eyebrows, asking the nearest man, tell me, Jew, do you light candles at home?

Yes, we light candles, and you, tell me, have you checked your Mezuzahs?

I’ve checked them, and you, Jew, do you remember to put on tefillin, we remember rabbi, we don’t forget a single day.

And then the rabbi would say, nu, good. There’s a God in the heavens, open the Siddur, say Shema Israel and the Messiah will come.

The village people said, very well, and looked down at the ground. The rabbi requested a chair. The rabbi took off his hat and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. The rabbi put his hand in his pocket and played with coins. Chink. Chink. Chink. People stole glances at one another but refused to buy the rabbi’s medications. A few minutes later they continued to badger, what should we do, rabbi. Should we run away, answer us, rabbi. They had the voice of a hungry chick. Many chicks that weep and weep.

The rabbi would frown, saying: Certainly not, Jews. Forbidden! Forbidden to leave the village!

People said, very well, but immediately longed for Eretz-Israel, rabbi, Palestine, you know, the Jews are studying Torah there, maybe we’ll escape to Palestine?

The rabbi shouted: Forbidden! A boycott on anyone who goes to Palestine. Boycott! Boycott! Boycott! We must wait for the Messiah!

The people said very well, but until he comes, rabbi, what must we do?

We have a strong God, He will help, shouted the rabbi banging his hand on the Ark.

The people said very well. Men and heavy coats, and women with head coverings and handkerchiefs in their hands, crowded in front of the synagogue Ark, weeping and shouting in unison, help us, our Lord. Save us from Hitler, damn him, bring the Messiah, and then they went home. On the way, if they saw a priest or a white horse, or a chimney cleaner in black clothes and a black hat, they’d grab a button on their clothing, against the evil eye, not letting go until they reached home, believing that this would help them get through Hitler. Some kissed the Torah morning, noon and night, some wept. Small children rushed around the synagogue yard with sticks in their hands. They cursed Hitler and beat the ground.

The rabbi wanted to go back to his city. They lined up the children to say goodbye and shake his hand.

I didn’t like the rabbi and didn’t want him to ask me a question about the Torah or about Jews. I didn’t want him to speak to me about anything. I was ashamed when people laughed because I didn’t understand a thing about what I studied in cheder. I was most ashamed at farting in my trousers from the stress, because in cheder we read Hebrew letters that looked to me like sticks with a lot of mosquitoes, the rabbi translated the sticks with mosquitoes into Yiddish, and I knew Yiddish from home, but I couldn’t remember the Hebrew letters, not even one. I had no head for letters. My brother Yitzhak had even less of a head for letters. Yitzhak escaped from life in cheder. I suffered more. Every day I farted on the way to cheder. I squeezed tight but they got out, phut. Phut. Phut. I’d often whistle so my friends wouldn’t hear and, hopefully, wouldn’t smell before I had time to reach the hole in the shithouse. I’d sit above the hole in the plank to pass the time, I’d whistle melodies quietly. I’d play my harmonica in my mind, or draw on the wall with a piece of chalky stone I had in my pocket. I was an expert on butterflies with huge wings. I made enough room on the wings for me and my brother Yitzhak in case we decided to fly far away.

One day I was sitting in the shithouse and saw one of our boys approaching. I think it was Menachem, the shoemaker’s son. The boy pulled down his pants and sat down next to my ass. He and I begin to shove asses. Shove, shove, bursting with laughter. In the meantime the rabbi the melamed – teacher – arrived with a scarf around his neck and a smell of cigarettes. The rabbi, the melamed had a belt in his hand. The belt was five centimeters wide and at the tips of his fingers was orange colored fire. And then he threw back his hand and thwack, he brought the strap down on us. And thwack. Thwack. Thwack. The boy and I race away from the shithouse with our trousers down. On the way we step on our trousers and boom, we fall to the floor. The rabbi didn’t stop yelling and each time thwack on the ass. On the back. On the head. Left us in pain for a week with red stripes on the skin, each stripe five centimeters wide.

Our rabbi the melamed had another arrangement.

He would start the week with a game. He’d stand in front of us, one hand on his hip, the other scratching his head. Soon I’d see a shower of dandruff falling to his shoulders. He’d frown and ask, who knows which tree we can break on the Sabbath, eh? And I was an expert on trees. I was a professor on trees. There wasn’t a boy in the village who knew the forest like I did. I said to myself, I’ll find him a tree and impress him. I forgot it’s forbidden to break trees on the Sabbath. Nu! He broke my bones and I ran away from the cheder and sat in a ditch by the road. For two weeks I lived in the ditch. I brought planks to the ditch and I made myself a room without a roof. I brought a large stone and a blanket and water to drink, and cookies, and a catapult and I was content. I saw boys and girls walking along the road together, arms around each other’s waists, whispering into each other’s ears, laughing. As if they had no Hitler on the radio.

I frequently counted wagons of hay returning from the field. Wagons with humps of hay. Sitting on top were the farmers. They were usually tired and sleepy. Sometimes I’d flick a stone at them with my catapult. They’d jump in fright, raising their whip and looking behind. Then they’d fall asleep. I saw women on the road, dragging heavy baskets of apples. At noon, they’d return with baskets, cursing the bad day and bad luck brought by black cats.

One day my rabbi the melamed came to my room in the ditch. The rabbi held a hat in his hand. He stood above me, calling me. I didn’t answer.

What are you doing here?

Looking.

Aren’t you bored?

Interested, actually.

Children in cheder are asking about you.

What do they care?

They don’t understand where you disappeared to.

I like living next to the road.

I want you to return to cheder.

Not coming back.

Your parents want you to return.

I caught sand falling from the wall of the ditch.

Come back to cheder and you can have this hat as a gift, want it?

I went back, did I have a choice?

I put on a woolen hat with a small peak, a new hat.

Are you coming?

Coming.

I go into the room. See three children turn to the wall making a sound like chah. Chah. Quietly. As if they had a pile of mucus to throw up. The rabbi puts his handkerchief into his pocket and sticks his thumb under the belt of his trousers. He towers over me, tells me, read a verse from the book, and my throat constricts.

The children all look at me. At least two make faces at me from behind the book. I look down. The book is open in front of me, a salad of letters on the page. Silence in the room. I keep half an eye on the rabbi. His cheeks flush pinkish blue up to his neck, most of all at the ends of his ears. His hand rises and I go cold. Smack. He hits me with his belt. Smack. Smack. Smack. Tired, he left the room to smoke a cigarette. The children in the room jump on their chairs, call, na. Na. Na. Na. Na. Na. Some make vomiting noises, only one sits quietly, sticks his finger in his nose and then in his mouth, one slaps two next to him on the head, as if they were drums, they grab him by the trousers and pull hard, he shouts, stop, stop, bending forward, the two pay him back with a fast drumming on his back, he grabs their legs and bang. A heap of children rolling on the floor, the boy with his finger in his nose at the bottom.

I sat in the corner swallowing tears of shame and prayed to God that my rabbi the melamed would go blind. That my rabbi the melamed would limp and have a permanent stutter. No, no, may his tongue fall into the snow and stick there for eternity, I wish, I wish, that he’d come into the room, open his mouth wide, want to say Leiber, read from the book, and all that would come out would be mmmm. Mmmm. I wish, I wish. I know the rabbi decided I’d rebel against him. That I deliberately didn’t want to read, to make him mad. But I didn’t. I couldn’t remember the Hebrew letters.

I also got it from rabbi the melamed because of the Sabbath.

My brother Yitzhak and I agreed to bathe in the Tur’i Remety River on the Sabbath for a few candies. Older children said, if you go in the river on the Sabbath, we’ll give you all the candies we have in our pockets, want to? They showed us the nice candies in their pockets. We stripped quickly and waded into the river. We got no candies. One of them immediately ran to call our rabbi. The rabbi arrived in his Sabbath clothes and large hat. My brother and I decided to dive. We held hands, took a deep breath, and hop. Down we sank. One, two, three, four, five, we ran out of air. We raised our heads. Ah, the rabbi was waiting for us at the river. He shook his head, and I saw a belt hovering over me.

At home I complained about the rabbi.

I said, the rabbi hits me with his belt. Father, it hurts.

Father said, Leiber, you study hard, d’you hear, and off he went.

I went to mother, mother, help me, it hurts. Mother was silent.

My sister, Sarah, put her book aside and said, Leiber is right, father needs to do something, mother, you tell him.

Mother took a candy from the drawer, gave it to me and said, the rabbi knows what’s good for you. The rabbi decides, Leiber, and you have to listen to him, understand? I was silent. Throwing off my shoes, I jumped outside and ran barefoot to the forest. I heard mother shouting, Leiber, Leiber, come back. I didn’t go back. I only went back when it got dark and I was hungry.

A few days later, the Czechs recruited the rabbi. Soldiers on horses were dragging a cannon. The rabbi sat on one of the horses. I sat in the ditch and he rode past me. His face was a whitish gray color, his body had shrunk, and under my woolen hat I felt happy, I called out, there is a God, there is. Because I didn’t want him to speak to me. I never saw him again.

Then the Hungarians came and life in the village was turned upside down. The Hungarians sacked the Czech teachers. Replacement teachers arrived from Hungary. Anti-Semitic teachers. They immediately separated Jewish and Christian children. Mainly for sports lessons. Christian children were given wooden weapons to train with before being recruited to the army. The children trained in the yard, right-turn, left-turn. They were known as Levente. They turned us Jews into servants. We had to cut firewood. In the meantime, the village was full of rumors.

The shoemaker whispered in the synagogue that they were taking Jews and burning them. Shooting them at enormous pits, spreading lime, firing, then another layer. The grocer said the Germans were putting Jews in cars, closing the door tightly and pouring poison inside. Then they throw them to the dogs. At home, around the table with a glass of tea, mother said God would help and Hitler would burn like a candle. Father said, Hitler will burn up like a feeble tree. The bald neighbor came in and said first they should pull out his teeth, one by one, with rusty pliers. Then the childless neighbor came in and said, the British will come soon, they’ll hang Hitler on a rope, damn him. They always killed Hitler at the table. Rabbis even came from the city, two I didn’t know, one plump, one short and not so fat, they said, Jews, there is nothing to worry about. The plump one said, we have a powerful God. He will take care of us. The short one wiped away the white crumbs at the corners of his mouth and said, very true, trust in God alone. But I was very worried and stuck to Shorkodi.

A handsome young man, he was from the Jewish Forced Labor Battalion. The Hungarians brought them from Budapest to cut wood for the Germans. Shorkodi ate supper with us on the Sabbath. Shorkodi said, listen Leiber, I have a large perfume store. When the war is over you’ll come with me to Budapest. I’ll teach you to work in the store. I didn’t know what perfume was but I waited for the day. Every day I waited. Even when they killed my best friend, Shorkodi, because he took the train to Budapest without permission. He wanted to visit his parents and return. I waited even after the men from Budapest disappeared. I waited even when I knew the end was coming for the Jews.

And we had a chance.

In 1943, a shaliach – messenger, came from Israel to our village. A young Betar man with velvety hair and shoulders a meter wide. He had a low thick voice, and he spoke as if Hitler was standing behind the door. He said he’d come to save Jewish youth from Hungary. He came into the synagogue and begged to take at least the youngsters to Israel.

Give me the children, the children. I approached the Betar shaliach, don’t know why, but I wanted to hang onto his hand and not let go. He smiled at me and put out a large, sunburned, scratched hand. I wanted to shake his hand.

Father stood between us. Father said, Leiber, go home. I ran home. I didn’t know what Israel was but I thought, first of all, we’re getting out of here. I banged the door and fell upon mother.

Mother, mother, I want to go to Israel. I want to go with the shaliach.

Mother pulled at her apron and pinched my cheek. Hard.

Mother said, is that what the rabbi taught you, huh? We go to Israel only when the Messiah comes.

I stayed. I knew we’d missed our chance.

I waited for the Messiah. First I sat with my left leg crossed over my right, an hour later I changed legs, crossing my right over my left, for twice as long, and changed. I sat on the steps behind the house. I opened my shirt, showed him my entire chest, I wanted to open my heart to him, I put my palm, fingers stretched, over my heart, I heard it beat, tuk-tuk. Tuk-tuk. I seized the beats in my fist, threw my hand forcefully over my head, then I opened my mouth and called him, come Messiah, come, come to me.

In the meantime I listened to the radio.

I heard Hitler on the radio. His voice was like the barking of the big dog in the neighbor’s yard. I heard heil, heil. I heard Juden, and Juden like cursing. I heard incredible singing from thousands of throats. I felt as if the enthusiastic singing on the radio wanted to fix me to the wall and squash me like a mosquito.

I was certain the story would end badly for Jews. As bad as it could be. Even though I didn’t understand the reason and I wasn’t yet fifteen.