Rena's Promise: A Story of Sisters in Auschwitz by Rena Kornreich Gelissen & Heather Dune Macadam

Author:Rena Kornreich Gelissen & Heather Dune Macadam [Gelissen, Rena Kornreich & Macadam, Heather Dune]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Biography & Autobiography, Historical
ISBN: 9780807070710
Google: L3oRDx9rADwC
Amazon: B00PP2ZVX4
Publisher: Beacon Press
Published: 1996-12-15T06:07:01.421184+00:00

Taube marches along our rows, but he is not counting us today. He seems excited, as if he has something else on his mind. “What we need are calisthenics! Yah, exercise is the key. Healthy body, healthy mind.” He turns to our row. “Do knee bends!” He orders.

“Down! Up! Down! Up!” We bend our creaking joints and stand upright, again and again, exactly as he demands. “Ten, and down! Eleven, and down!” We count in our heads, trying to focus on something besides our weakening legs and trembling thigh muscles, twenty, twenty-one . . . “Twenty-nine, and down! Thirty, and down! Knees to the ground.” We falter, not understanding his request. “Kneel!” He cracks his whip across a girl’s shoulder blade. She sinks into the mud. “Lie down! Heads down!”

I grab Danka’s hand, pulling her with me. “Put your face in it, Danka. Don’t move. Don’t look up,” I manage to whisper before my mouth is in the mud.

Taube stomps towards our row. Noses touching dirt, eyes staring into the ground. His black boots pass us. His boots stop. Trying not to breathe. A girl nearby raises her head. I can see from the corner of my eye her upturned face gasping for breath. The boot falling onto her face, pushing it deep into the earth. The crunching of skull bones sickens the air. I want to vomit. He moves on. I cannot help but listen for the sound. A few rows away it rises from our ranks—the crunch, the silence. I blink. I am leaving my body, fleeing the horror around us. But I cannot get far enough away. I cannot allow myself to leave Danka behind.

Finally the word “Dismissed!” releases us from our hold to the ground. Roll call is over. Timidly, those of us doing Taube’s version of calisthenics get on our hands and knees, turning our faces in horror at the smashed skulls of the girls who will never rise again.

“Don’t look, Danka.” I move my sister away from the girl next to me. Hand in hand, we find Emma, line up behind her, and march to work.

Weeks just . . . are years here.

If the war is going well for the Germans, once in a while we get a slice of meat in the soup or with our bread. And sometimes the very Orthodox girls will trade their meat for bread because they won’t touch unkosher meat. I don’t know how they can survive without meat for long. They have something that I don’t, though; they have their faith. I do not know where my God is.

They slap the portions on our hands. We lick our open palms slowly, savoring the smear of margarine or mustard; occasionally there is a bit of smelly Limburger cheese. I despise the taste of mustard after the first few months; still, I lick it up as the precious morsel it is. When there is margarine we rub the residue into our hands for moisturizer. The skin on our hands and faces cracks in the cold.

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