Angel of Auschwitz (13 page)

After praising the Commandant for the extermination statistics, they offered a toast to the mastermind behind the genocide project.
“Heil Hitler!”
they cried.

From lifetime to lifetime, Hitler was consumed by a drive to wield power. To the eyes of the world he was a conqueror of nations. In his private moments he bowed in fear to the gods that controlled him. He became a victim of his mania and madness.

H
IMMLER AND HIS ENTOURAGE
had completed their inspection. Commandant Schuller was praised for his extermination procedures. In the wake of the Gestapo’s departure, girls from barracks 12 were ordered to clean up the mess.

As our circle of sisters shared the secrets of our hearts, our conversation was abruptly interrupted. The door of our barracks flew open, and two armed guards burst into the room. Our intimate party ended suddenly as the male intruders took charge of the scene.

“Get ready, Jew girls! Prepare to work as maids and housekeepers,” the iron men yelled at us. The guards escorted four of us—Aniela, Klara, Jezra, and myself—to a waiting truck and drove us to a section of the camp that housed the officers and staff. They parked the truck in front of a two-story gray house on the corner of the street.

As I walked from room to room, I found piles of trash and garbage, cigarette butts, and empty vodka bottles—sordid evidence of the decadent lifestyle of the Gestapo officers. In the entryway to the house an assortment of cleaning supplies had been laid out for our use. Each girl was assigned to clean a different room in the house. As the girls began to clean the upstairs bedrooms, I prepared to wash the kitchen floor.

C
ARRYING THE METAL WASH
bucket into the yard, I turned on the outdoor spigot. Gleefully I watched as the clear running water spouted out in a steady stream, forming bubbles and white foam at the bottom of the pail. Cautiously I looked around to see if anyone was watching me. Then I formed my hands into a cup and drank as much as I could of the clean, cold water. Rolling up my sleeves, I placed my palms flat on the bottom of the bucket. Then I wet my face and splashed the water up high above my head. I felt like a little child at play. The water of life revived my spirits.

W
HEN THE BUCKET WAS
full I carried it into the kitchen. The water sloshed from side to side as I struggled to keep my balance.

Down on my knees, wash bucket by my side, I focused on my work. Around and around I made circles on the floor with the scrub brush, leaving behind a trail of suds and bubbles. I breathed a sigh of relief. The air felt lighter here. For a few moments at least I was free from the heavy weight of oppression so familiar to my psyche. These work assignments became a welcome escape from the squalor of the camp.

To my surprise I heard footsteps approaching. Suddenly the kitchen door burst open behind me, and I felt a hard boot kicking my behind, pushing me forward. I found myself sprawled out on the kitchen floor, lying in a puddle of mud and foam.

“Ha-ha-ha,” I heard a man laughing at me. As I got up onto my knees, I turned around and looked behind me. I recognized the face of the laughing man. I had seen him before, watching me. In that instant, our eyes met. We recognized each other. It felt like we had known each other forever. It was a mystical, magical feeling, a sacred communion of souls.

“Fraulein Natasza,” he spoke my name. My heart pounded with anticipation.
What unforeseen path am I going to walk down?
I wondered. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a note and handed it to me. Without another word, he turned around and walked away.

For a few moments I held the note between my palms, hesitating to open it. Then, slowly, I unfolded the paper. “Meet me at sunset. Stand on the corner by the gray house, and wait for me there.” Under this brief message was scribbled the signature of the man. Now I knew his name: “Captain Otto.”

A
S THE PINK RAYS
of evening light faded from the sky, I waited on the corner by the gray house, watching for Captain Otto. I felt a push-pull of emotions, between attraction for this man and apprehension as to the purpose of our meeting.

As Venus rose above the horizon, I saw him walking toward me. He stopped, motioned for me to follow him, and turned in the opposite direction. He led as we wove our way through the dark streets and alleyways until we came to a three-story wooden building. A rickety stairway climbed along the outside wall. I placed my hand on the railing and walked up the stairs behind him. The wooden steps bent and creaked under the weight of our footsteps. We reached a landing facing a door. He turned the knob and gestured for me to enter the room.

His living quarters were small but comfortable. Above his bed was a lifelike portrait of the Führer, dominating the room. On either side of the Führer was hung a brass musical instrument, a French horn on the left and a trumpet to the right. Across from the bed was an antique dresser. It was covered with memorabilia, medals, and mementos of war. I was immediately drawn to examine the photograph of a young woman. The frame around her face was tarnished gold like a halo that needed polishing. Her eyes were soft, and her hair was light and curly. She acknowledged my entrance into her domain.

By the window were a small table and two chairs. The captain motioned for me to sit at the table across from him. Following his lead, I resisted my impulse to speak. He looked into my eyes, and I looked into his. My anxiety subsided. I sensed a touch of kindness. He was a step above the iron men of the Reich.

Captain Otto filled the teapot and took out a set of cups and saucers. Not since my village days had I seen a set of real china. The teapot whistled, and he poured the hot water. The steam was soothing to my frazzled nerves. Onto my saucer he placed two round teacakes. I felt honored to be treated with this kind of respect. He took out a record and placed it on the phonograph. It was a medley of soldiers’ songs, dedicated to the
triumph of the Third Reich. I heard trumpets and French horns, accompanied by flutes and drums.

I tensed up again when he sat down on the side of the bed. He took off his heavy boots and dropped them to the floor. I was a virgin, just fourteen years old, emotionally unprepared to receive the male energy. He motioned for me to begin undressing. Shyly, I stood in the corner, carefully placing my clothes on the chair. I wondered why he had chosen me. Surely other girls were more mature and attractive. Then he stood up and unbuttoned his shirt. He went to the phonograph and changed the record. The military band halted its march and a woman with a deep voice began to sing romantic melodies. An accordion accompanied her.

I stood naked in the corner, my back toward him. He clapped his hands to get my attention and motioned for me to lie on the bed. He mounted me and held my wrists down with his palms. I felt pinned down under his heavy weight. When his male organ penetrated my innocence, I screamed. He slapped me across the face to shut me up.

The phonograph record went around and around as Captain Otto went up and down. My eyes wandered back to the photo of the young woman. I imagined that she was his sweetheart, or perhaps his wife. I gazed into her soft dreamy eyes as she looked sweetly at me.
My apologies to you, schön Frau. I’m sorry
, I thought. I hoped she would forgive me. The captain did not believe that he was unfaithful to his wife. Jews were considered less than human, so having sex with a Jewess did not count.

The silver moon lit the night sky as I descended the creaking stairway. Moon shadows marked my footsteps on my pathway into womanhood.

A
S
I
WALKED INTO
my barracks, I heard a cry of jubilation. All the women and girls were gathered around Klara’s bed, weeping tears of joy. Klara’s baby had been born alive. We reveled at the miracle of a live birth at Auschwitz.

The newborn babe was so tiny that he fit in her open hand. His heart was beating, and his tiny hands were clenched into fists. He was gasping for breath, struggling to grasp hold of life. He was not strong enough to cry out loud or to shed his baby tears. His right leg was twisted, the foot pointing to the side. Birth defects were commonplace for babies born to starving mothers.

As I stood watching this poignant scene, I thought of Captain Otto. I wondered if he would plant his seed in my womb, whether I was destined to bear his child.

Klara could not nurse. Her breasts were dry. How long could this child live? We must hide him night and day. Better for him that he not be heard crying. How could he survive until the Day of Liberation?

Our worries were short-lived. Early the next morning, two guards burst into our barracks and grabbed the tiny babe from the bosom of his screaming mother. How had they known?

That afternoon, several of the girls were ordered to the kitchen to prepare a dinner for visiting officials from the High Command. Klara was told to cut up onions and add them to a big pot of soup boiling on the stove. As she lifted the lid the steam gushed out, blurring her vision. She stared into the soup pot. Floating on the surface, amid carrots and parsley, was what appeared to be a bent knee with a tiny foot twisted to the side.

“G
OD’S PLAN IS FAULTY!”
I cried out in anger. “All I see is suffering. Why does God allow this? I can no longer bear the pain.”

Boris was sensitive to my distress. As a healer, I took on the pain of the collective and carried it inside me. I was vulnerable to the anguish and emotional turmoil of my comrades. “Pain has a purpose,” explained the professor. “What appears to be evil serves a higher good.”

“What is good about bloodshed and violence, rape and torture?” I argued.

“The gift that pain offers is the opportunity to surrender. When the pressure of pain becomes unbearable, the walls of resistance collapse. A doorway opens, grace enters, and suffering is redeemed. The greater the pain one endures, the greater is the capacity for joy. The more pain you are willing to bear, the more love you can let in.”

Overcome by anger, I could not listen. “God is to blame! He created the world.”

“God is not responsible for the consequences of humanity’s free-will choices,” he answered. “The presence of pain is an indicator that we are not thinking or acting in harmony with God’s Law of Love. Our belief that we are separate from Him causes our suffering. If we could feel His infinite love, which is always present, if we could experience our oneness with creation, then we would not feel betrayed or abandoned.”

“Your words are like fairy flowers, blowing in the wind; they have no roots in the earth. Being a ghost you are far removed from blood and guts,” I said, insulting him. My anger burned inside my breast as my spirit rebelled against God. I stomped away from my mentor, doubting the perfection of God’s plan for humanity.

T
HAT NIGHT, AS
I lay drifting off to sleep, a vision played out in my inner sight. It was a scene from eons past, before time began, before the creation of the human race. I was witness to an auspicious meeting in the heavens. The grand council of Planners had convened. They were the founders of the Divine Plan for the spiritual evolution of humanity. Around an oval table sat the Council of Nine. Discussing and debating various proposals, the group divided into factions. Then the vote was cast. The counting favored the “mental majority” by a vote of seven to two. The dissenters advocated a heart-centered reality, but they were outnumbered. As a result, law and principle became the authority guiding human progress.

The dissenters continued to meet and petitioned God to bring divine love to Earth. The heart-centered group worked for centuries preparing the way for the birth of Jesus Christ. He made manifest in human form God’s perfect love, teaching humanity that the kingdom of heaven lies within the heart.

When I awoke the next morning I felt refreshed and renewed. My faith was restored, and my commitment to minister love was strengthened.

T
HE AIR WAS LADEN
with a heavy mist. A long afternoon downpour had ended. A respite of stillness followed the storm.

A telepathic call of distress commanded my attention. My psychic senses quickened.
Who was calling me?
I wondered. My eyes scanned the sea of faces in front of me. It was hard to see clearly. A gray fog shrouded the camp. Far in the distance I dimly discerned the silhouette of a young girl, weaving her way through the crowd. It was my beloved soul sister Jezra, staggering as she walked and came into view.

Quickly I walked to meet her, and she collapsed into my arms. I felt her frail body quivering and trembling as I held her tight. Her face was white, and her eyes appeared vacant. She looked dazed and stunned, as if she had met the devil and had escaped barely alive.

“What has happened to you, Jezra?” I asked. So great was her shock she could not speak.

Old Mother came to the rescue. She too had sensed Jezra’s call. Together we carried the grief-stricken girl to her bed. We covered her with a blanket and raised her feet. I sat by her side, holding her hand. Old Mother gently stroked her forehead. Together we prayed for her life to be saved. Then we joined our hearts as one and laid hands on the ailing child. We sat vigil by her bed. Hours passed as Jezra slept. Her shaking slowly subsided, and a hint of color returned to her cheeks. She opened her eyes, awake and alert. It was time for Jezra to tell her story.

“There was a big party for the guards, celebrating some German holiday. They had been drinking lots of vodka and became loud and rowdy. The drunken guards entered the camp and formed themselves into roving gangs of predators, like packs of wolves on the prowl, lusting after flesh. They were cursing and kicking anyone who happened to be in their path.