I Have Lived a Thousand Years by Livia Bitton-Jackson

Author:Livia Bitton-Jackson
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Simon Pulse

TATTOO

AUSCHWITZ, AUGUST 8, 1944

The motorcycle stirs up dust as it roars past us. Mommy has barely enough stamina to straggle along. The train ride from Krakow has drained her of energy. And of determination. She has lost her will to live. As we stagger into marching formation on the Auschwitz platform, she seems unable to grasp the mechanics of survival. She wants to stay in the wagon with those unable to walk. She is indifferent to the implication of this. She just insists that she is unable to march, and pleads with me to leave her behind.

In my alarm, I grab her arm and shake her violently. “Stop that! Do not say that! You can walk. Come. Walk!”

I pull and drag her along. Like a puppet on a string, she starts to move her legs involuntarily and keep pace. When the selection officer appears on his motorcycle alongside our rows on the road to camp, and asks straggling women whether they could work, Mommy whispers to me, “I cannot work. I cannot even walk. I will not even reach the camp.”

“Yes, you can walk. In camp we will get food. And water. And you will feel better,” I hiss between my teeth.

Now the motorcycle is coming back again. It comes to a sudden halt. The tall, heavyset SS officer in gray uniform approaches our row. My throat tightens. My heart pounds so loud I am certain he can hear it. God, let him pass us! Let him drive on! God, save us! But I can feel his gaze. We march on, stoically dragging our feet in a desperate effort at speed, not even glancing in his direction. His scrutinizing stare pierces my awareness. He keeps pace with our row. Our row. There is no mistake about it. He is watching someone in our row!

Suddenly, his stick reaches into the middle of our row. His stick taps Mommy on the shoulder. “Hey, Grandma, can you still work?” To my astonishment, he speaks Hungarian. A Volksdeutsche from Hungary! An ethnic German from Hungary; a volunteer in the SS army. They were worse than the Germans.

Mommy crashes on, ignoring the question. As Mommy’s silence confirms his suspicion, the SS officer is about to reach for her arm and pull her out of the marching column. I poke her sharply in the rib and whisper under my breath, “Say yes. Say it, for God’s sake!”

She turns to the SS officer. Her voice is the thin, high-pitched screech of a bird, barely audible. “If I must, I will. I will work.”

For one awful moment time stands still. Then the officer swings back on his motorcycle and drives on. My legs tremble. Thank God. My dear God!

Mommy marches on like an automaton.

When we reach camp, we are handed slips of paper. A number is written on every slip. We are lined up to have the numbers tattooed on our arms.

The lines are long. The sun burns the top of my head. Through veils of fatigue persistent thirst penetrates.

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