Angel of Auschwitz (11 page)

O
LD
M
OTHER PAUSED AT
this juncture in her story. She wanted to hear our reaction to her message. Walking from girl to girl, she stopped in front of each one, speaking with her eyes, with that penetrating look that probed our hearts and minds.

When my turn came, I could not look into her eyes. I lowered my head in shame. How could I love my enemies? I could not love those men who raped, tortured, and murdered. They had stolen my mother and father from me. They were cruel and made my life hard. They caused pain for others, and they did not care. What did Old Mother mean when she spoke about love?

“I don’t care what Old Mother says,” screamed Aniela. She stood up straight on the tips of her toes and raised both fists to the sky. “I hate them! I hate them! I will always hate them.”

Klara was angry. “I want revenge!” She shouted. “I will
never
forgive them. They must pay for their crimes.”

Jezra was silent. She fumbled with a pebble in her pocket, rolling it around between her fingers. “I feel nothing. Nothing at all. I am cold like this stone.”

Pondering the message of love, I walked away from the scene of the noble story. Glowing with compassion the ghostly form of Boris, my mentor, appeared by my side. “Do you hate them too, Natasza?”

“Yes. It is my duty as a Jew to hate them.”

“I understand your pain,” Boris sympathized. “I too once hated them for their atrocities. I was outraged by their crimes against humanity, and blamed God for the injustice in the world. Then, after my death, I realized the healing power of love. From a spiritual perspective, all that matters is love. Giving and receiving love. I would not have chosen to remain on Earth in this living hell if I did not truly love my people. I could be in heaven playing the harp and singing hymns.” His eyes twinkled.

“Remember who you are, Natasza. Do not look to others for guidance or direction. Go within and listen to your heart. To be a true healer, you must learn to rise above. Do not sink and drown in the pain and the
anguish. Rise above. Rise above. Shine as a beacon of light. Be a light to guide our people through the night.

“Anger and hatred are like quicksand—you become stuck in a quagmire of emotions and cannot break free. You are a minister of God. Do not walk off your path. You must stand tall with your head above the crowd. Fortify yourself with your faith. Live by your faith, and it will grow like a mustard seed planted in fertile soil.”

A
BATTLE RAGED INSIDE ME
between the higher and lower aspects of my nature. In the courtroom of my mind, the judge of truth listened to my arguments. I presented my case before him. I defended my beliefs, but questioned them also. I wanted to be right, but was willing to be wrong. My beliefs were on trial, my view of my life. They were the building blocks of my world, the constructs of my reality.

It is my duty as a Jew to hate the Nazis
, I convinced myself.
How could it be otherwise?
Righteous anger burned like fire in my breast. I carried the pain of every soul like a weight in my heart. Their pain was my cross; their blood was my loss. Their agony became the source of my fearless dedication.

“Rise above your anger and your hatred,” a voice said, speaking into my mind. A glow of light coalesced and became the form of Boris the ghost, my teacher of Truth. “As a minister of God, extend love to everyone,” he said. “Transcend your judgments and condemnation. Rise above to a higher view. See life through the eyes of the hawk that soars high above the melodrama. He sees in all directions, beyond every horizon.

“Anger and hatred dam up the flow of your healing energy. They lower the frequency of your transmission.” His voice became stern. “An angry healer is a crippled healer.

“These soldiers whom you hate, whom you call ‘enemies’: do you know that their minds are programmed, that they are being controlled? They too are prisoners of the Nazi war machine. Who is more fortunate? They wield the power of the world; they command with muscle and might. But you have the greatest power, the universal power of love. Imagine how they suffer because they do not know love.”

These words caused a shift in my thinking. My heart opened. My vision expanded. I was able to look at life through the eyes of my enemies. I was surprised to find myself feeling empathy for the very men who had tortured and abused me. Boris helped me learn how to transcend my anger. It was a lesson I had to master to be a true servant of God. It was a choice I had to make in almost every situation. Was I able to love in the face of adversity?

As my spiritual teacher, Boris planted the seeds of compassion in the garden of my heart. Watered with wisdom, the flowers of compassion came to bear fruit, while the weeds of anger and hatred wilted and died.

“D
O YOU THINK THERE
could be another Holocaust?” Aniela’s eyes darkened as she spoke to the girls of our healing team. She placed her right hand over her heart. “At some future time, could it happen again? Would the world ever allow it, like they allow it to happen now?” Aniela asked.

“I hope humanity learns from our suffering.” Jezra spoke her truth. “I hope humanity will find a higher way to live.”

“When will there be an end to war?” Aniela frowned as she spoke.

“When humanity learns compassion and forgiveness and is able to release the past,” Gretta answered.

“When peace is born in the heart of every man, woman, and child,” said Old Mother. “When humanity meets in the heart.”

I
T WAS A HOT
summer day as our sisterhood of healers sat in the shade of my barracks. We had gathered for a lesson in prayer.

“Prayer is the breath of a spiritual life, infusing our soul with the sustenance of Spirit,” I explained. “Our prayers strengthen us and bring forth guidance, grace, and healing. Pray with fervor and gratitude, speaking the truth of your heart. Then release your prayer to God, trusting that an answer will come as you wait on His perfect timing and surrender to His will. Our love is the most precious gift that we can give to God. He yearns for our love and wants us to give it freely, without His asking.

“Although we have been stripped of our possessions and our bodies are held captive, spiritual power is inherently ours and cannot be taken from us. Prayer is spiritual power. We can harness the power of prayer to heal our pain and to cultivate courage and fortitude to endure what lies ahead. Our prayers shine the light of God into the hearts of our enemies. Our prayers make the difference that turns the world around.

“Dear sisters,” I asked, “how would you like to pray today?”

Aniela began, “Father God, teach me how to forgive. Help me forgive cruelty and injustice.”

Klara spoke next. “I pray for more food to eat, and for healing of the pains of hunger.”

Jezra took her turn. “Father in heaven, free me from hopelessness and despair.”

Gretta bowed her head and said, “I pray for my son Konrad, that he be alive and well.”

Old Mother spoke her truth. “I pray for wisdom, that I may guide these daughters of the Holocaust on their journey into womanhood.” Then she looked into my eyes, “Natasza, dear, what is your prayer?”

“I pray for an end to suffering, for peace on Earth, for the Day of Liberation.

“Listen, friends, to the Healer’s Prayer,” I said. “Use it as you prepare to embark on a healing mission.” I took out a slip of paper from my pocket and read to the group:

“T
HE GIFT OF HEALING
has been given to you so you may offer it to the multitudes. You are being called to alleviate the suffering of humankind,” Boris explained to me. “Those who receive the gifts of God are responsible to use them with integrity. Those who serve God are asked to come from the heart, to honor the Earth, and to respect all life. As a healer, you are asked to abide by the Healer’s Code. You are to treat all people equally, to be tolerant and understanding. You are to demonstrate the divine qualities of faith, patience, compassion, charity, and forgiveness.

“Be grateful for your psychic abilities and never use them for personal gain but always with love and in surrender to divine direction. Do not claim ownership of healing gifts or psychic powers, nor glorify yourself as special or superior because of them, or use them to manipulate or control others. These gifts are ‘on loan’ from the Creator and can disappear in an instant if applied with selfish intent.

“As a healer, you make a commitment with heart, mind, and soul. Your life does not belong to you anymore. You live your life for the world.”

I
KNEW THAT
G
OD HAD
not abandoned us because he sent His angels to answer the prayers of the people. Angels of healing graced the bedsides of the sick. Angels of compassion gave solace to the souls of the dying. Angels of mercy comforted the broken-hearted. Unlike humans who grapple with indecision and struggle with temptation, angels are steadfast and unwavering in their service to God. An angel is pure, like a virgin. An angel has devotion.

The Sisters of Light learned how to call on the angels for assistance. It is spiritual law that angels of Light cannot intervene in our lives unless we invite them to help us.

Working with angels brought joy to my heart. I vowed to serve the Light to the end of my days.

A
S
I
AWOKE EACH
morning, images of comrades in need flashed into my mind. They were calling to me, soul to soul, with anguished cries for healing. I saw the faces of the desperate ones. I heard their psychic pleas. Yet living at Auschwitz, I was not free to offer aid. The plans of our healing team were compromised by the vicissitudes of camp reality.

In the mornings, when possible, the Sisters of Light gathered at the rear section of barracks 12. I taught classes on healing and first aid, and we practiced on each other. We read the energy of groupings of people throughout the camp, sensing the mood, watching the crows, ever alert for signs of impending emergencies—the inevitable beatings, rapes, and shootings that blackened each day.

We separated or paired up to work with a partner in the afternoons. The girls carried flasks of clean water from barracks to barracks to quench the thirst of small children, the elderly, and the infirm. During this time I made my rounds of the camp, usually accompanied by an assistant. We assessed the needs and urgency of each case, identified new cases, and noted who improved, who worsened, and who died. Truly half of my ministerial calling was to assist the dying, to bless the departing soul.

By night I ventured solo (or with Boris as my shield) to the far reaches of the camp. Sometimes I worked all night, making two to three bedside visits before returning just before dawn. I yearned to answer every cry, every call for help. Yet I was faced with a dilemma that tore at my heart. At times, I had to shut out the cries of the world to honor my body’s need for sleep. I had to remain strong, to survive what lay ahead.

Misery’s woe came knocking at the door to my heart. Yet sleep I must, or I could not be of help to anyone. I felt so worn and frayed, exhausted from endless giving. I prayed for divine intervention, for comfort and healing for the people. In my stead God sent His angels to minister His love. Like a nocturnal tide of mercy, a host of angels flooded the bastion of the enemy.

Each angel brought its unique gift of healing. Archangel Michael was a warrior of peace, sent to conquer fear and inspire courage. Angel Daniel healed anger and rage, offering the sweet wine of forgiveness. Archangel Ariel balanced the emotions and guided the life path of the soul. Archangel Raphael brought comfort to the multitudes who prayed for relief. The angels were divine messengers offering grace to humanity. They were God’s devoted servants, evidence of His love.

A
NIELA FOUND A NEW
arrival to join our team of healers. She was broad-shouldered and strong, of hardy stock. Accompanied by Aniela, she came to our practice sessions and provided moral support for team members. The new girl told us her story. Her name was Iravana.

She came from a band of gypsies that had traveled far and wide. She had suffered a hard life, constantly moving from place to place, with nowhere to call home, no place to call her own. She lived the life of a refugee, fleeing from bandits and marauders.

She tasted her last draft of freedom on the west bank of the river, where her family had set up camp. During the night a surprise ambush destroyed the camp. Their horses and possessions were stolen; the women were raped; the men were shot; and the children were kidnapped.

After their tents were set aflame, Iravana and five of the women managed to escape. They hid in the countryside until they were captured by the Nazis.

J
EZRA SAT CROSS-LEGGED ON
the hard ground, engrossed in her game of fantasy. By arranging the stones into geometric patterns, she created a symbolic language. The act of placing the stones in a certain order served a ceremonial purpose, opening portals to other realms. She escaped reality and retreated to an imaginary world beyond the reach of the iron men.

With the point of her drawing stick she dug tiny round holes, making three rows of nine. Into each hole she placed a small treasure, a sacred stone from her pouch. As she held the last stone in her hand, about to insert it into the last hole, she heard the flapping of wings and the call of a bird flying overhead.
“Caw, caw.”