As do several others I have come to know, I have vivid memories of the Holocaust (Shoah) that I can only make sense of through the lens of reincarnation. As we mourn the loss of over six million Jews and honor those who survived the Third Reich's judenhass, another group of victims goes essentially unacknowledged and unmourned: We who died and yet remember. Since 1969 when they reemerged in my consciousness, these memories have profoundly impacted every aspect of my life.
As a religious Jew, my understanding of these memories incorporates the doctrine known as gilgul neshamot (i.e., "the rolling of souls" from life to life). Much of Judaism has always accepted the idea of reincarnation, yet my memories are not dependent on religious teachings. They arise from memories I have experienced since I was 12 years old. I could no more deny these experiences than I could reject the air I breathe. In this piece, I seek to share these personal memories. Doing so is not entirely possible, but I hope you will catch a glimpse of the horrors of judenhass or Jew-hatred, all the more as we are seeing its global return as we have not since the conclusion of World War Two.
I was reborn twelve years after the war ended. I was twelve years old in 1969. In the spring of that year, I had a horrifying and life-defining experience. I woke up in a cold sweat screaming from a nightmare in the early dawn hours. Over the years, the dream's frequency and sense of 'realness' have only intensified as it returns to haunt me. I no longer think of this as a recurring dream but as a memory. What follows still awakens me at times with terrifying dread. What follows is an experience, not a dream. It is more concrete in my memory than most of the early years of this life.
The memory never changes in any substantial way. Minor clarifications have occurred over the years, but these have merely filled in missing pieces as I remember and understand the experiences more fully. For instance, I recount hearing someone reciting Kaddish at one point. For the first few years, I understood that this person was reciting comforting prayers but not their significance. When I later listened to the Mourner's Kaddish, I immediately recognized it. I wept bitterly at the implications of the prayer. Hence, I added the name of the prayer to the retelling.
If I tried to rewrite the memory from my childhood point of view, it would be less faithful to the experience than sharing it as it is now perceived. My recollections of these memories have developed gradually over the years. Here I seek to share these memories as I experience them today. While I am presenting this material for your consideration, doing so jogs my memory, helping me remember and understand the experiences more fully, much remains forgotten.
The dream/memory takes place in two distinct segments. For a few years, I thought these were separate dreams but have come to understand that there is a point in the experience where I often wake up, frequently in a cold sweat and sometimes crying out, kicking, and shouting in a German-sounding language. When I can return to sleep, the memory often continues from this point. It seems almost as though the action had paused for a time of reflection. At other times I recall mainly the second portion. There is a clear time break in the dream following that point in all cases. Practically all the events during this interval have been lost to my memory thus far.
This telling began as notebook entries as I tried to understand this disturbing dream. Shortly after I started to use the internet, in the 1990s, I posted it to my initial Geocities site and have updated it a few times since. The major updates are as follows:
If the following is "only a dream," I'm at a loss to explain why it has haunted me for the past 50 plus years. I find no other answer to how so many elements of these memories, those shared here and those not shared here, have been confirmed as accurate beyond my knowledge when these memories began in 1969. Likewise, why do so many people who have heard or read this account affirm that it rings true; this includes several knowledgeable rabbis and Shoah scholars with whom I have shared it. I am not a Shoah scholar by any means; I merely know what I recall. I present this retelling without further explanation or apology (although with an admittedly long preface). It is what it is. Baruch HaShem.
As a religious Jew, my understanding of these memories incorporates the doctrine known as gilgul neshamot (i.e., "the rolling of souls" from life to life). Much of Judaism has always accepted the idea of reincarnation, yet my memories are not dependent on religious teachings. They arise from memories I have experienced since I was 12 years old. I could no more deny these experiences than I could reject the air I breathe. In this piece, I seek to share these personal memories. Doing so is not entirely possible, but I hope you will catch a glimpse of the horrors of judenhass or Jew-hatred, all the more as we are seeing its global return as we have not since the conclusion of World War Two.
I was reborn twelve years after the war ended. I was twelve years old in 1969. In the spring of that year, I had a horrifying and life-defining experience. I woke up in a cold sweat screaming from a nightmare in the early dawn hours. Over the years, the dream's frequency and sense of 'realness' have only intensified as it returns to haunt me. I no longer think of this as a recurring dream but as a memory. What follows still awakens me at times with terrifying dread. What follows is an experience, not a dream. It is more concrete in my memory than most of the early years of this life.
The memory never changes in any substantial way. Minor clarifications have occurred over the years, but these have merely filled in missing pieces as I remember and understand the experiences more fully. For instance, I recount hearing someone reciting Kaddish at one point. For the first few years, I understood that this person was reciting comforting prayers but not their significance. When I later listened to the Mourner's Kaddish, I immediately recognized it. I wept bitterly at the implications of the prayer. Hence, I added the name of the prayer to the retelling.
If I tried to rewrite the memory from my childhood point of view, it would be less faithful to the experience than sharing it as it is now perceived. My recollections of these memories have developed gradually over the years. Here I seek to share these memories as I experience them today. While I am presenting this material for your consideration, doing so jogs my memory, helping me remember and understand the experiences more fully, much remains forgotten.
The dream/memory takes place in two distinct segments. For a few years, I thought these were separate dreams but have come to understand that there is a point in the experience where I often wake up, frequently in a cold sweat and sometimes crying out, kicking, and shouting in a German-sounding language. When I can return to sleep, the memory often continues from this point. It seems almost as though the action had paused for a time of reflection. At other times I recall mainly the second portion. There is a clear time break in the dream following that point in all cases. Practically all the events during this interval have been lost to my memory thus far.
This telling began as notebook entries as I tried to understand this disturbing dream. Shortly after I started to use the internet, in the 1990s, I posted it to my initial Geocities site and have updated it a few times since. The major updates are as follows:
- August 4, 2006: I am beginning to remember pieces of the 'interval.' These hazy reflections are added in brackets at the appropriate place in the dream below.
- September 10, 2009: This dream section has gradually become more precise, and I have added a few new insights in this update. I will continue to include these in brackets because they are later memories.
- March 25, 2013: The realizations mentioned above have become seamlessly interwoven in my remembering, so I have removed the brackets. Ahuva and I are currently preparing to go to Israel for six weeks. We hope to make aliyah.
- April 18, 2013: I am convinced that on Thursday morning, April 18, 2013, I reached the end of the path referenced in my memory at Bergen-Belsen as I first placed my hands on the Holy Kotel (the Western Wall of the once and future Jerusalem Temple). With this experience, a new phase in my has life begun! I can never be the same!
- April 22, 2013: We visited Yad Vashem in Jerusalem today. It was one of the most horrific experiences of my life! In the Warsaw Ghetto exhibit, I found (and handled) one of the carts we used. I was shaking like a leaf and sobbing the whole time we were there. Ahuva went back alone a few days later because, worried about me, she could not focus on the exhibits and complete the halls. I visited Chut Shel Chesed and spent the rest of the day mourning at the Kotel while Ahuva was at Yad Vashem. I doubt I could go through that again without breaking down entirely.
- May 07, 2013: Added the Bergen-Belsen sign, added locations, and updated the text to correct inconsistencies in tenses, etc.
- September 02, 2014: We are preparing to make aliyah on December 29! We're so excited to go Home for good! I updated this piece, removing a few extra points and this note. Not a significant update. We can hardly wait to get to Israel!
- February 04, 2015: Aliyah did not work out. We have not managed to find a way to live in Israel financially. We're both saddened by this, but we know it must be HaShem's will, so we say B"H.
- We'll continue trying to find some way to go Home.
- I tightened up the section above, made a few minor clarifications for language, and added a link to my poem and video Shoah Child.
- I made a video version of this retelling (available on my website: https://learnemunah.com).
- April 11, 2018: Slight grammatical updates before broadcasting a live retelling on Facebook Live.
- July 09, 2018: I received my Yoreh Yoreh semicha (ordination) as a rabbi.
- January 24, 2019: My Yadin Yadin semicha studies began
- August 14, 2019, and on Av 13, 5779, I received my Yadin-Yadin Yoreh-Yoreh smicha.
- January 27, 2022: A Lot has happened; I returned to Israel shortly before Chanukah in 2019 and spoke with friends and rabbis about us making aliyah. After a few well-intended conversations, it is clear that aliya simply is not a viable option for us given our financial realities and health.
- In January of 2020, a couple of weeks after I left Israel, the Covid Pandemic hit the US and the rest of the world.
- January 27, 2022: I did a major update of the account concerning language and grammar. The content is otherwise the same.
If the following is "only a dream," I'm at a loss to explain why it has haunted me for the past 50 plus years. I find no other answer to how so many elements of these memories, those shared here and those not shared here, have been confirmed as accurate beyond my knowledge when these memories began in 1969. Likewise, why do so many people who have heard or read this account affirm that it rings true; this includes several knowledgeable rabbis and Shoah scholars with whom I have shared it. I am not a Shoah scholar by any means; I merely know what I recall. I present this retelling without further explanation or apology (although with an admittedly long preface). It is what it is. Baruch HaShem.
Location uncertain, somewhere in Germany
Location uncertain, somewhere in Germany
It is very dark. I am alone, terrified.
Stray beams of yellow tainted light filter in through slats of wallboard once covered with white stucco from a broken window near the bottom of the rickety wooden stairwell. The stench of urine permeates the chill air, piercing frigid air whistles in through exposed slats running along the outside wall. The smell mercilessly assaults my face and senses. I want to keep my head covered under what was once a jacket, but the stench is too intense; whether mine or the jacket's, I can not say. I must uncover my face and bear the assault of the urine-drenched stilettos of frigid wind.
We huddle on the wooden landing, wrapped in rags and old yellowed newspaper, seeking the escape of unconscious oblivion. I am not alone, yet I am -- utterly alone.
It's been months since any of us experienced the simple bliss of a night's sleep, a bed. Each night we huddle together like mice on this accursed landing, hoping to renew our strength for the next day's tribulations and, most of all, to remain unnoticed.
Most of the time, I exist as if out of my body, drifting as it were in a stupor. There is no time in that state. Yet there is only time, endless, relentless time, and I am again drawn back into this accursed reality. Whether it is dark or light, it is always night for us, and they are constantly feeding, feeding, and we are the vermin they most crave to fulfill their voracious appetites. Please don't ask me why. I have long since stopped pondering such things, but I know they are out there and that they are searching for us to consume us.
I doze again but soon awaken as a bony knee jabs into my already aching back. The man grunts; I shift, we both continue to doze. Will this interminable night never end?
It will.
In the distance, I hear sounds. I cock my head and listen intently. The sound of scratching and whimpering drifts into our "Palace" (that's what someone called our hallway, and the name fits as well as any other, certainly better than words like "home" or "safe place"). The dogs are searching, sniffing, and scratching. My body emits cold perspiration that soaks me to my soul. I shiver in the dark, afraid to make a sound. My companions begin to stir. A voice whispers, "You OK?" Pause. Then, "Moshe!" Then nothing, nothing except the dogs drawing ever closer and my fear becoming frantic: Be quiet! I order myself. But I want to scream. This is madness. Then another voice, one of the yeshiva teachers, I believe, but can't be sure, whispers without emotion: "He's gone."
People come and go in the Palace; mainly they go. Although I could never say these words out loud, sometimes, I envy them.
Then erupts the metallic scream of squealing brakes and men marching, feet running and women crying. All of these sounds are growing louder and drawing closer. I don't move. I dare not. My body is trembling almost uncontrollably; sweat is streaming down my face. It burns my eyes, but I will not move. I must not! Now I hear the soldiers' gruff shouts and commands, and my heart is pounding. HaShem! I silently scream. But He does not reply.
I've always hated the Germans. They act like they are so civilized, but they are not. At least not anymore -- this thought is in my memory, I can't deny it. I no longer questioned why they were doing this to us. Monsters just do such things. My heart was set firmly against them. If there is such a thing as evil, the Germans are its embodiment! This was my thought.
Primal communal terror abounds as we instinctively draw closer together, carefully avoiding a shaft of light at the top of the stairs for some reason, as the dogs surround our building and the crunching pavement silences for a moment just below us. Silence can be terrifying more than the noise of approaching death.
Again I fight the need to scream. The dog's scratching and the sniffing drives me nearly mad. The creatures bark fiercely, but it is their relentless snuffling and the whining frustration that they can not quite get to us vermin to eat us up that drives both them and me nearly insane. Canine whining turns my spine to ice still today. There is something quintessentially evil about the sound.
My body is shaking uncontrollably despite my determination "to be a man." I am, after all, a man now, I remind myself. I am thirteen years old, a proud son of Bulgaria. Oh, how I wish I were there! My bar mitzvah is six months past, and yet I am terrified. I silently quiver and cry and pray to HaShem like a lost child. Yet somehow, I know that neither He nor anyone else will hear me, let alone help me. I no longer ask why, but it seems apparent that He hates me, or worse, that He does not care if I live, die, or even exist. But because I am a man, I tell myself, I will hold such feelings inside where only G-d can see and hear if He is so inclined. I know that G-d would forgive me if I cried, but I will not! I tell myself, wiping away my tears. I will be a man!
Suddenly, a fist bangs like a machine gun at the door below us. "Open up!" Bam, bam bam. What good is a door? Nothing can stop them! Our shivering ball of humanity tightens like a python too frightened to strike. The demanding fist is banging, demanding, pounding: "Open up in there!" I note to myself that the voice is odd. It sounds angry, yet there is an unstated sense that this is nothing personal to the soldier. I sense his resignation even as we are resigned to whatever will happen next.
Nothing can be done about any of this. For the soldier, this is just another door in just another town in just another country, behind which slithers more vermin without end waiting to be exterminated. Not humanity, no, only pests. Yet there is also a bestial bloodthirst in that harsh voice, and the dogs concur with their incessant whimpering. They want blood, our blood. For us, there is unspeakable dread. For the soldier, there is excitement like that of a priest in a mythical Kali temple preparing the ritual slaughter of a young virgin. I have read such tales in books, but I never understood that I would one day play the role of the virgin. This manic priest was now in a state of religious ecstasy to his G-d, Adolf Hitler. He would not allow these latest sacrifices to escape. Nor would the dogs snarling and whining behind him, ready to strike and to devour us completely.
It is strange how contradictory feelings can sometimes merge and make insanity seem rational. To the Germans, it was just another day in the Third Reich, to us just another day in Hell. HaShem had abandoned us. I don't know why.
Next, a darkened figure arose: one of us. The man struggled onto trembling legs, emerging from our pile of quivering flesh. No! I want to scream. But the words won't escape my mouth. He moves toward the stairs bracing himself on the wall to his left. No one says, please don't go, but we are all horrified by the prospect that he would. There was no choice, of course. We knew that. But still.
They had come for us as we all knew they one day would. But why today? The man, I never knew his name, braced himself against the darkened stairway on shaky legs and began his descent. He moved in slow motion down the stairs to the door below.
The dogs are going crazy now. They can smell the rotting stench of our flesh as it wafts down the stairwell with our compatriot. They can hardly bear the torment of waiting the moments before the door will open and our emaciated flesh becomes their feast!
"Maybe they will listen, and it will be alright," one of us said. No one responded. It would not be alright.
"Open this door!" the soldier again demands, moments before it crashes open with a thundering, splintering of wood, light, and cold fire. The madly flickering beams of their torches flood the lower stairwell now. The greasy light illuminates the man who had gone down to grant them access. I will never forget his face! One of the snarling dogs lunges forward towards him but is jerked back by a thick leash held by its handler. The beast yowls a tortured reproof as if demanding, this is our meat!
Our compatriot reaches for the door latch, not realizing it is already gone. He falls back against the wall. His arms fly above his head, signaling his surrender as a single deafening point of blood explodes from the center of his forehead and bursts into the darkness, painting the filthy walls a bright crimson. The redness glitters in the light of the open door with a sickening appeal. The soldier holsters his weapon with a deranged grin and moves in toward us as our compatriot crumples lifeless to the floor. The soldier is clearly in a state of ecstasy due to his victorious discovery of our vermin cache. His superiors will be pleased.
Never close doors! I tell myself. Never close the doors, but if you do, never, ever open them! The soldier was screaming his anger at having to bust down the door. This imperative is still with me today. I dislike closed doors and curtained windows. One never knows for what's on the other side!
As one malevolent entity, they turn toward the stairwell and slither upwards toward us, again in slow motion, and yet with such speed that it makes me nauseous. Both are true. Perhaps it is the angle of the slanting ceiling, or maybe my unwillingness to look up at them due to the fear that had already caused me to soil my sweat-drenched pants, but my gaze focusses on their legs. Their shiny black boots are indelibly etched in my memory as they flow like a putrid and disgusting black tar up the shadowed stairs.
As they come, their inhuman forms are highlighted by the flickering of sinister torches as though they lacked definite form. They are more like wraiths than men. My teeth clench at their harsh commands; my head is pounding, spinning. Everything is surreal. The world spins and reels out of control. Perhaps this is why G-d abandoned us, I think. It's all chaos now.
If I could, I would leave too.
Fortunately for us, the dogs remain outside with their handlers. They are in near-feral hysterics now. If they were inside with us, oy, I don't want to think about that. Demanding the spoils of their efforts, our flesh, they want to enter our palace in the worse possible way. Just then, one of the beasts is struck with a thud and piteously yelps as its handler brings it into submission. The others become quiet as well. Oh, how I envy those beasts! I think. The dogs will survive; they have a purpose in their existence. They are essential workers, whereas I am of no value to anyone, neither G-d nor man.
Up the stairs, the soldiers come. We scooch back as one pressing our bodies against the cold walls hoping against all hopes that even now, we might somehow disappear unseen to their eyes. Time stands still as the ebony Nazi flow roils up the short stairwell vibrating the world around us in a resounding thrumming echo.
In that frozen instant, I become aware of my heart beating. How divine, I consider; how glorious, how wondrous is a beating heart! But then suddenly it stops!
All the world freezes in place and time, lost in this reality that certainly must be a dream, a nightmare, a horror story written by some sadistic G-d. The world itself has stopped breathing, and we stare blankly at our enemies, and they at us. With knees firmly pressed against my chest, I stare vacuously forward with my arms around people I don't even know. I realize that we can not survive this; nothing can help me. No one can or would, not even HaShem, but still, I hold onto the others desperately. It is what I can do, and I must do something.
I am utterly alone, abandoned by G-d and man. I am guilty of everything that is happening. I know this; I see it in the soldier's eyes. And they know it too! This is all my fault! I am responsible for all those who have suffered and died. I am to blame for all those unfortunate enough to be alive! I no longer care to act like a man. I am guilty; I am damned.
Where's my mother? Tears flow from my eyes like rivulets from a dead and wasted sea, the sea of my broken soul. I shake and whimper silently, not like the dogs, but silently so that no one can hear me. Not that I care now. But I still make not a sound in the hope that even now, they might not see me pressed against the shadows. I am no one, and I am not here.
Then there is a familiar sound. It draws me back and enfolds me in; could it be? Love? Timidly for sure, haltingly yes, but without a doubt, someone is whispering the Mourner's Kaddish (the Jewish prayer for the dead). I turn my head and see an elderly Jew with a long beard and payos holding the dead man's hands. I think his name was Moshe. I listen carefully to the words. They echo in my consciousness. The soldiers are frozen in place as our tattered minyan utters the ancient words in imperfect Hebrew. I remember our rabbi talking about how we often must die for being the Chosen of G-d. If this is our time to die, it is good that someone is saying Kaddish. I listen, my lips mutely mumbling the familiar words.
Yis'ga'dal v'yis'kadash sh'may ra'bbo, b'olmo dee'vro chir'usay v'yamlich malchu'say, b'chayaychon uv'yomay'chon uv'chayay d'chol bais Yisroel, ba'agolo u'viz'man koriv; v'imru Omein.
Y'hay shmay rabbo m'vorach l'olam ul'olmay olmayo.
Yisborach v'yishtabach v'yispoar v'yisromam v'yismasay, v'yishador v'yis'aleh v'yisalal, shmay d'kudsho, brich hu, l'aylo min kl birchoso v'sheeroso, tush'bechoso v'nechemoso, da,ameeran b'olmo; vimru Omein.
Y'hay shlomo rabbo min sh'mayo, v'chayim alaynu v'al kol Yisroel; v'imru Omein. Oseh sholom bimromov, hu ya'aseh sholom olaynu, v'al kol yisroel; vimru Omein.
Y'hay shmay rabbo m'vorach l'olam ul'olmay olmayo.
Yisborach v'yishtabach v'yispoar v'yisromam v'yismasay, v'yishador v'yis'aleh v'yisalal, shmay d'kudsho, brich hu, l'aylo min kl birchoso v'sheeroso, tush'bechoso v'nechemoso, da,ameeran b'olmo; vimru Omein.
Y'hay shlomo rabbo min sh'mayo, v'chayim alaynu v'al kol Yisroel; v'imru Omein. Oseh sholom bimromov, hu ya'aseh sholom olaynu, v'al kol yisroel; vimru Omein.
I exhale with a sigh: Omein. Suddenly rough hands yank me upward by the right arm. The holy words flee as the German spits something at me that I don't understand, then adds Jetzt maden! "Now, maggots!" My left arm is locked tightly to the man huddled at my side. The soldier yanks hard a second time, and my grip gives way. My body is reeling to the right now, toward the stairs and the darkness below. I instinctively grab for support and catch a soldier's arm, only to steady myself, but—
I open my eyes slowly, tentatively. Am I dead? My head is throbbing; my eyes are puffy. Surely this is not the Olam Haba (the blessed World to Come)! I try to look around, but the world is moving. Everything is jerky and painted in shades of gloomy purples and grays. I can't focus my eyes. I close my eyes tight against the fog and the wind and the light.
I don't want to see any more!
Wait, am I alive?
I am being jostled and wedged uncomfortably in place. I can not move my arms. My legs feel trapped, held under some unseen weight, and I can't move them either. I smell bodies: sweat and blood and dung and other things I don't care to consider. I hear sheep bleating in the distance. I want to yell to them: Shut up! They will hear you! But no sounds come from my mouth. Saliva, however, is running out and dripping from my chin, and I realize my lower lip is busted open. Perhaps it's not saliva.
I've gone insane!
Just then, it occurs to me that I am traveling. I am going somewhere, from somewhere, but I don't remember how I got here or where I'm going. To freedom? I wonder. Not bloody likely. I'm in a wagon or an open-backed truck. That much I know. I hear what could be an engine, so it's probably a truck. A German transport vehicle, I guess with surprisingly little interest. Below me, the floor is pealing greenish-black slats.
Someone is talking. To me? I try to listen.
But then everything is gone.
I exhale with a sigh: Omein. Suddenly rough hands yank me upward by the right arm. The holy words flee as the German spits something at me that I don't understand, then adds Jetzt maden! "Now, maggots!" My left arm is locked tightly to the man huddled at my side. The soldier yanks hard a second time, and my grip gives way. My body is reeling to the right now, toward the stairs and the darkness below. I instinctively grab for support and catch a soldier's arm, only to steady myself, but—
I open my eyes slowly, tentatively. Am I dead? My head is throbbing; my eyes are puffy. Surely this is not the Olam Haba (the blessed World to Come)! I try to look around, but the world is moving. Everything is jerky and painted in shades of gloomy purples and grays. I can't focus my eyes. I close my eyes tight against the fog and the wind and the light.
I don't want to see any more!
Wait, am I alive?
I am being jostled and wedged uncomfortably in place. I can not move my arms. My legs feel trapped, held under some unseen weight, and I can't move them either. I smell bodies: sweat and blood and dung and other things I don't care to consider. I hear sheep bleating in the distance. I want to yell to them: Shut up! They will hear you! But no sounds come from my mouth. Saliva, however, is running out and dripping from my chin, and I realize my lower lip is busted open. Perhaps it's not saliva.
I've gone insane!
Just then, it occurs to me that I am traveling. I am going somewhere, from somewhere, but I don't remember how I got here or where I'm going. To freedom? I wonder. Not bloody likely. I'm in a wagon or an open-backed truck. That much I know. I hear what could be an engine, so it's probably a truck. A German transport vehicle, I guess with surprisingly little interest. Below me, the floor is pealing greenish-black slats.
Someone is talking. To me? I try to listen.
But then everything is gone.
Location: Auschwitz:
Some go to Auschwitz by train, some by motor vehicle. I don't know how I got there. Nor do I recall being processed, deloused, or any of the other myriad details involved. They were very meticulous there. What I do remember is the stench. Sometimes I get a momentary whiff of it, even today, and I want to vomit. They say you get used to it after a while, but I never did. The stench here is suffocating; the pounding noise is deafening. The heat and the flames billow, and I swallow bile.
It is as though my insides are becoming a liquid puss, and I am not quite solid—my nose burns and itches. My back aches; my legs work uncertainty, doing what must be done without thought or intent. I am here, but I am not. I am in Hell, yet the rabbis say it is only a myth. Dante's Inferno: a painting I recall seeing somewhere—I remember it. This is like that. It frightens me to think that I am there, but that I am here, I can not deny. Is this place Hell? I am not so fortunate.
I'm pulling a wooden cart. Sometimes I push it. The floor is uneven and slick. I must not fall, I tell myself as my right ankle suddenly threatens to buckle. The pain brings me back to fuller consciousness, Baruch HaShem. I start to wipe the sweat from my eyes with one hand, but the cart begins to tilt, and I quickly regain control. I need to pause, but my feet refuse to stop, and so I continue onward, ignoring my pain. Stopping is not an option in any case.
The cart contains wood. Some pieces are long and short, but they are all very thin. I am pushing or pulling the cart because it is to be pushed or pulled (pushing and pulling varies, but as long as the cart keeps moving, no one seems to notice or care)—Not being noticed is the way of survival.
How long have I been doing this essential work? A day? A week? A year?
Nothing matters except the cart being moved and maintaining my pace and the wood being delivered to where it must go. I have essential work like the dogs that discovered us. I am neither grateful nor resentful for this work. I am simply moving the cart because the cart is to be moved.
I am pushing or pulling the cart to its designated destination, and that is all. I care nothing for the wood and even less for the fire it feeds. My only care is for the cart that must be pushed. The cart makes me essential. And so I push or sometimes pull, as I must. That is all. That is my existence.
As an essential worker, my head must always be bowed, and so it is. I am learning. Life is pushing or pulling, arms aching, shoulders screaming, head bowed, and the cart always moving. I am neither happy nor sad, but I am alive here in Hell. It is enough.
It is verboten, but sometimes I glance up and see other people pushing similar carts. Some of them are young like me, and some are older. Everyone here is male. There is so much wood to be moved that it takes many strong men, and I am a man. Of course, men like me don't matter, but the carts do, and men push the carts.
My stomach heaves, but I force the bile back down without missing a step. And it occurs to me that there is something wrong with the wood in the carts, something unclean. Don't look in the carts!
The wood must be delivered, I remind myself, and it must be burned, and that's why we push the carts to burn the wood. Good wood or bad, nothing else matters. I am an essential worker. They need us to push the bad wood, but that's not why I push their cart. I push it because this makes me an essential worker. I care nothing for the wood or whether it is burned.
Caring is the way of death.
We all dress in the same dingy clothing. We are all the same. We do not question this either. We push cords and cords of wood to the fires that never go out because that is to be done with the unclean wood.
I am deathly pale. I feel bloodless, like one of the undead. No! I shake away such foolish thoughts. I am essential. The cart is the way of life. I turn and resume pushing the cart. But as I do, another cart passes with a lifeless arm dangling from its side—and I know it isn't wood in the carts at all, and my insides gush out and, there is a scream (from me?) and then--
Everything is a haze of red and orange, vile filth, smoke, and flesh-searing heat, and I remember my mother. I wonder where she is now. What happened to her? I shrug. Caring is the way of death, and so I push my cart even though my cart is no longer there. My hands flex but grasp nothingness.
There is a large gray desk before me. I am so puny before it that I am embarrassed. I stare at the floor in front of the desk. I don't know why I am here, nor exactly where "here" is, nor what he wants of me, this giant of a man seated behind the big desk. I frantically think I should be pushing their cart, except I'm confused. I sense I am in trouble, fool that I am, oh what have I forgotten!
I try to remember but to no avail. I pushed their cart, yes, and then I remembered the bad wood, and there was a hand, and the man behind the desk, he's angry. He will demand to know, but I can not (allow myself to) remember what he surely already knows anyway. I only remember the wood that I pushed, and, no, it was not a hand. Surely it was unclean wood only. It deceived me. Wood does not have hands; it was not a hand, and yet I feel ashamed at what I will not know, at what I refuse to know. But, you see, if I knew, how could I ever remain alive? What will I tell him? What will he ask? Why is he is silent, staring at me with obvious disgust as if I was a piece of wood: A piece of thin, disgusting unclean wood. Say something!
I want to shout, but of course, I do not.
Truthfully, I know what I did: I did whatever they told me to do. I know that it was wrong to push the carts of bad wood. I feel ashamed for it, but— My heart is breaking, my clenched jaw is quivering, my throat is contracting. My inward parts are shifting upward into my throat. I force myself to stand still before the desk and be a man.
Oh, how can I ever be forgiven? By G-d or by man!
This much I know: I am damned.
There is no forgiveness for me. I stand condemned and unmoving before the grey desk awaiting the man's verdict. I stand, but he says nothing. He leaves, and I continue to stand. He returns and says nothing. I continue to stand. I can not say how long I stood there, nor can I tell what happened after my standing ended before the big desk. I don't remember it ever ending. But now, everything is darkness. Within that darkness, I think months surely passed.
I do remember a train.
How long have I been doing this essential work? A day? A week? A year?
Nothing matters except the cart being moved and maintaining my pace and the wood being delivered to where it must go. I have essential work like the dogs that discovered us. I am neither grateful nor resentful for this work. I am simply moving the cart because the cart is to be moved.
I am pushing or pulling the cart to its designated destination, and that is all. I care nothing for the wood and even less for the fire it feeds. My only care is for the cart that must be pushed. The cart makes me essential. And so I push or sometimes pull, as I must. That is all. That is my existence.
As an essential worker, my head must always be bowed, and so it is. I am learning. Life is pushing or pulling, arms aching, shoulders screaming, head bowed, and the cart always moving. I am neither happy nor sad, but I am alive here in Hell. It is enough.
It is verboten, but sometimes I glance up and see other people pushing similar carts. Some of them are young like me, and some are older. Everyone here is male. There is so much wood to be moved that it takes many strong men, and I am a man. Of course, men like me don't matter, but the carts do, and men push the carts.
My stomach heaves, but I force the bile back down without missing a step. And it occurs to me that there is something wrong with the wood in the carts, something unclean. Don't look in the carts!
The wood must be delivered, I remind myself, and it must be burned, and that's why we push the carts to burn the wood. Good wood or bad, nothing else matters. I am an essential worker. They need us to push the bad wood, but that's not why I push their cart. I push it because this makes me an essential worker. I care nothing for the wood or whether it is burned.
Caring is the way of death.
We all dress in the same dingy clothing. We are all the same. We do not question this either. We push cords and cords of wood to the fires that never go out because that is to be done with the unclean wood.
I am deathly pale. I feel bloodless, like one of the undead. No! I shake away such foolish thoughts. I am essential. The cart is the way of life. I turn and resume pushing the cart. But as I do, another cart passes with a lifeless arm dangling from its side—and I know it isn't wood in the carts at all, and my insides gush out and, there is a scream (from me?) and then--
Everything is a haze of red and orange, vile filth, smoke, and flesh-searing heat, and I remember my mother. I wonder where she is now. What happened to her? I shrug. Caring is the way of death, and so I push my cart even though my cart is no longer there. My hands flex but grasp nothingness.
There is a large gray desk before me. I am so puny before it that I am embarrassed. I stare at the floor in front of the desk. I don't know why I am here, nor exactly where "here" is, nor what he wants of me, this giant of a man seated behind the big desk. I frantically think I should be pushing their cart, except I'm confused. I sense I am in trouble, fool that I am, oh what have I forgotten!
I try to remember but to no avail. I pushed their cart, yes, and then I remembered the bad wood, and there was a hand, and the man behind the desk, he's angry. He will demand to know, but I can not (allow myself to) remember what he surely already knows anyway. I only remember the wood that I pushed, and, no, it was not a hand. Surely it was unclean wood only. It deceived me. Wood does not have hands; it was not a hand, and yet I feel ashamed at what I will not know, at what I refuse to know. But, you see, if I knew, how could I ever remain alive? What will I tell him? What will he ask? Why is he is silent, staring at me with obvious disgust as if I was a piece of wood: A piece of thin, disgusting unclean wood. Say something!
I want to shout, but of course, I do not.
Truthfully, I know what I did: I did whatever they told me to do. I know that it was wrong to push the carts of bad wood. I feel ashamed for it, but— My heart is breaking, my clenched jaw is quivering, my throat is contracting. My inward parts are shifting upward into my throat. I force myself to stand still before the desk and be a man.
Oh, how can I ever be forgiven? By G-d or by man!
This much I know: I am damned.
There is no forgiveness for me. I stand condemned and unmoving before the grey desk awaiting the man's verdict. I stand, but he says nothing. He leaves, and I continue to stand. He returns and says nothing. I continue to stand. I can not say how long I stood there, nor can I tell what happened after my standing ended before the big desk. I don't remember it ever ending. But now, everything is darkness. Within that darkness, I think months surely passed.
I do remember a train.
|
Location: Bergen-Belsen:
|
The sun is much too bright. Its burns my flesh and blinds my eyes. It beats down on my bare head, shoulders, and back. Dripping sweat stings my eyes, but I dare not brush it away.
In the distance, I see a beautiful forest. So lovely and cool. I peer. There is a path there. I look longingly at it and imagine myself strolling aimlessly down it. Have I walked that path before? I think maybe I have. I remember it, but how could that be? This is not Bulgaria. It can't be the same path.
In the distance, I see a beautiful forest. So lovely and cool. I peer. There is a path there. I look longingly at it and imagine myself strolling aimlessly down it. Have I walked that path before? I think maybe I have. I remember it, but how could that be? This is not Bulgaria. It can't be the same path.
Perhaps the path goes everywhere, maybe even to my home. I consider this. But, how can I get there? That path is so lovely and cool. If only I could reach it, I would run forever and ever and ever, and no one would ever see me again until I reached the Holy Land! Indeed the path must lead there. But I can't get back on that blessed way. Even if I could, I am unworthy to walk on it. Even if I could walk on it, because of what I did, what I abandoned, what I have forgotten, because of the bad wood, and because I am damned, mostly that, the Path would reject me! I am beyond forgiveness. But still, I gaze at the forest and the path, and I sigh.
Much closer than the path is the soldiers. They would not allow such freedom to anyone, even if I could get there, which I can't, even if I hadn't done what I did. And I feel such remorse. I know I will never find redemption even through teshuvah and tehillim [i.e., repentance and prayers]. And I know that I will never again be able to walk that path or go Home.
My legs ache and tremble in the burning sun. I glance down at my right foot; it is inflamed and swollen. Most of my body has become dangerously thin, thinner, for I was never large. I notice without interest that I am naked. My ribs show through my skin, but at least I'm not hungry anymore—I have left such luxuries as hunger behind. Now, I am hunger itself. My ankle is bloated and throbbing, and I wonder why I am here?
Cautiously I glance to my left and right, careful not to move my head, for that is not allowed. They're still there: those soldiers. And so many people, I muse—all standing naked in the burning sun. Not the soldiers, of course, I note. The Jews. Are they all Jews? I think so. We're mainly men, but a few women are here too, mostly really old ones. How long have we been standing here like this? I don't know. My body is coated with brownish-red dirt, and my hands are stained with dried blood, mud, and— My hands burn fiercely, but not from the sun. At least it's a feeling I muse. It doesn't matter; of course, nothing matters.
Much closer than the path is the soldiers. They would not allow such freedom to anyone, even if I could get there, which I can't, even if I hadn't done what I did. And I feel such remorse. I know I will never find redemption even through teshuvah and tehillim [i.e., repentance and prayers]. And I know that I will never again be able to walk that path or go Home.
My legs ache and tremble in the burning sun. I glance down at my right foot; it is inflamed and swollen. Most of my body has become dangerously thin, thinner, for I was never large. I notice without interest that I am naked. My ribs show through my skin, but at least I'm not hungry anymore—I have left such luxuries as hunger behind. Now, I am hunger itself. My ankle is bloated and throbbing, and I wonder why I am here?
Cautiously I glance to my left and right, careful not to move my head, for that is not allowed. They're still there: those soldiers. And so many people, I muse—all standing naked in the burning sun. Not the soldiers, of course, I note. The Jews. Are they all Jews? I think so. We're mainly men, but a few women are here too, mostly really old ones. How long have we been standing here like this? I don't know. My body is coated with brownish-red dirt, and my hands are stained with dried blood, mud, and— My hands burn fiercely, but not from the sun. At least it's a feeling I muse. It doesn't matter; of course, nothing matters.
|
My eyes glance forward into the distance again. How I wish I could run to that trail and never stop until I get to the Kotel. Surely the trail leads there. One of the soldiers lights a cigarette, and another approaches him. He says something to him in that sound that they make, takes an offered smoke. They smile vacantly. |
|
How I wish I had a cigarette! (i.e., because real men smoke); perhaps if I ask respectfully.
The one with the shiny cigarette case looks at me and nudges his comrade, who looks at me with utter contempt. I look quickly down, thinking, they can't see me, they can't see me—the sweat in my eyes burn, and my fat ankle throbs, and my mouth puckers. Again I tell myself: They can't see me. They can't see me. They can't see me!
There's something that I know I know. What is it? If only I could remember, I could get away, but I cannot remember. I would tell them if I knew. But for the life of me, I can't remember. And this memory tortures me to this day.
And an eternity passes in the blink of a sweat-soaked eye. And the never-setting sun burns my blistered skin, and I hazard another glance up. The soldiers have moved on. No one is looking at me now, and I relax, just a bit.
Suddenly a hand grabs my lower arm and then releases:
"Shlomo! Don't fall!" It's the man on my left. "Live!"
I look at him briefly and try to smile. My foot feels like it's on fire. I note that it has turned purple. How odd, I think, a purple foot. I'm becoming delirious. My head is throbbing, and the world is reeling, but I am steady on my feet, I think. My empty gut is feeding on itself, and I am standing because standing is what is to be done—standing naked in the cruel sun with my purple foot burning hotter than my blistered back and shoulders.
I glance at the pit before us, between us and the forest and the path. And I realize why I am so dirty and why my hands are bleeding. I remember what I did for them before and now. What they made me do, but still, what I did, and I know that even HaShem could never forgive me now. He is gone anyway. He has abandoned the earth. Who can blame Him?
And I know that I can never walk that forest path because of what I did.
I accept my guilt. There is no hope for me. There is no hope for anyone who has been cast aside by G-d and humanity.
I am an outcast.
I am unclean.
I am guilty.
I sigh and look at the trail and the pit and then down at my purple foot. Guilt wells up within me from some hidden fount, and I think I will undoubtedly explode. "HaShem, this is more than I can bear." Silently I mourn for what I did. But no tears come. Not because I am a man, but because no tears remain for me to shed. Tears imply hope, but I am empty. There is no hope for me. For us Jews. For anyone.
The one with the shiny cigarette case looks at me and nudges his comrade, who looks at me with utter contempt. I look quickly down, thinking, they can't see me, they can't see me—the sweat in my eyes burn, and my fat ankle throbs, and my mouth puckers. Again I tell myself: They can't see me. They can't see me. They can't see me!
There's something that I know I know. What is it? If only I could remember, I could get away, but I cannot remember. I would tell them if I knew. But for the life of me, I can't remember. And this memory tortures me to this day.
And an eternity passes in the blink of a sweat-soaked eye. And the never-setting sun burns my blistered skin, and I hazard another glance up. The soldiers have moved on. No one is looking at me now, and I relax, just a bit.
Suddenly a hand grabs my lower arm and then releases:
"Shlomo! Don't fall!" It's the man on my left. "Live!"
I look at him briefly and try to smile. My foot feels like it's on fire. I note that it has turned purple. How odd, I think, a purple foot. I'm becoming delirious. My head is throbbing, and the world is reeling, but I am steady on my feet, I think. My empty gut is feeding on itself, and I am standing because standing is what is to be done—standing naked in the cruel sun with my purple foot burning hotter than my blistered back and shoulders.
I glance at the pit before us, between us and the forest and the path. And I realize why I am so dirty and why my hands are bleeding. I remember what I did for them before and now. What they made me do, but still, what I did, and I know that even HaShem could never forgive me now. He is gone anyway. He has abandoned the earth. Who can blame Him?
And I know that I can never walk that forest path because of what I did.
I accept my guilt. There is no hope for me. There is no hope for anyone who has been cast aside by G-d and humanity.
I am an outcast.
I am unclean.
I am guilty.
I sigh and look at the trail and the pit and then down at my purple foot. Guilt wells up within me from some hidden fount, and I think I will undoubtedly explode. "HaShem, this is more than I can bear." Silently I mourn for what I did. But no tears come. Not because I am a man, but because no tears remain for me to shed. Tears imply hope, but I am empty. There is no hope for me. For us Jews. For anyone.
In my mind, I hear the men at the Palace saying Kaddish: It's good someone is saying Kaddish, I think. But it's a shame I didn't die back then before I did what I did. 'Don't say Kaddish for me. It's too late.' I whisper to the universe. And the universe, like G-d, does not reply.
If only I could remember—but I cannot.
And suddenly, the ground beneath me is gone, and I am falling, falling, falling--
If only I could remember—but I cannot.
And suddenly, the ground beneath me is gone, and I am falling, falling, falling--
And at last, I am free.
~Baruch HaShem!
~Baruch HaShem!