Angel of Auschwitz (15 page)

My mother was clairvoyant. From her I learned to see through the masks of personality and to recognize the light of the soul. These practices of observation and discernment became part of my arsenal of survival tools. My intuitive grasp of the human psyche helped me make fast and accurate decisions in dangerous situations.

Attitudes and beliefs about life either enhanced a person’s ability to survive or hastened their death. The prisoners at Auschwitz questioned the will of God. “Has God abandoned us?” they asked. “Is there justice in the world? What have I done to deserve this? Why us? Why me?” Their answers to these questions shaped their beliefs about the meaning of life. Sanity was a lifeboat tossed about on a sea of troubles. Their attitudes about life either added ballast to the boat or poked holes in the hull so it would slowly sink.

Positive beliefs about the purpose of living helped the mind cope with reality. The will is empowered by a sense of life purpose. The combination of a strong will and a positive mental attitude vitalize the immune system. Those lacking inner power would succumb more readily to disease and starvation, and they were more prone to accidents.

M
Y CHILDHOOD BELIEFS ABOUT
the meaning of life were shattered that fateful day when I was taken prisoner. The world I had known no longer existed.

Growing up under the protective wing of my parents, basking in the glow of their love, I felt safe and secure. My family life was my bedrock of stability. Life was predictable. My definitions of life gave my mind a sense of order. Every belief had a box to contain it, and a label to identify it. All of the boxes were stacked neatly on the shelves of my mind.

The steady pulse of village life contrasted with the shocks and jolts at Auschwitz. Here the rhythm of life was erratic. My life could end at any moment. Events occurred with no warning. A comrade would be taken from our midst, never to be seen again. Or she would return to the camp, covered with blood, bruised, and beaten. Perhaps one of the male prisoners had insulted a guard. Perhaps a woman had resisted the sexual overtures of a higher-up in the Nazi chain of command. The frustration of a guard or the whim of an officer was all that was needed for a person to be killed.

A higher knowing helped me to rise above. The light of inspiration helped me see through the darkness at Auschwitz.

S
TANDING IN LINE HOLDING
my metal cup and bowl, I looked forward to the morning gruel and stale bread. The thought of warm porridge was comforting to my battered psyche. It warmed my insides and made me feel strong.

Like a squirrel chewing on a nut, I gnawed on the hard bread. I tore off small pieces of crust, wrapped them in a handkerchief, and put them in my pocket. When I needed energy later in the day, I was able to suck on these dry crusts. On those days when there was more to eat, I stashed the dry bread in my secret hiding place next to my stones and feathers. My body hurt all over from the aches and pangs of hunger. When I was helping others, the pain went away.

I
CAN’T GO ON
. I can’t go on
, I thought every morning before opening my eyes.
I cannot make it through one more day
. My body was tired. I ached all over. I was covered with sores and bruises from beatings. I was hungry, always hungry.
How will I survive this day?
I wondered.
How many more mornings before I reach the end of my days?

“Father God,”
I prayed,
“Please give me the strength to carry on.”
I hung on by a thread of hope, by the power of my faith, by the force of my commitment.

As I opened my eyes, I looked around the room at the faces of the women I shared my life with. Then I knew why I was here. I loved these women dearly. I was willing to give my life to save any one of them. With true love there is no sacrifice. A sense of purpose flowed through my veins and filled my heart with courage. My life did not belong to me: I lived my life for the world.

F
ENCED IN BEHIND BARBED
wire, we lived in a cage, like barnyard animals, like cattle and swine. We were tethered and harnessed like beasts of burden as slaves of the Nazi war machine to man the factories and farms.

My animal instincts warned me of danger. My senses were keen and alert. Adrenalin gave me endurance. It was the body’s survival drug.

I was living among thousands of prisoners, not all of them Jews. Among us there were gypsies, communists, and intellectuals, as well as homosexuals and shamans, labeled either “enemies of the state” or “subhuman.” The policy of genocide went beyond race and religion. It applied to all those deemed inferior and considered a threat to keeping the bloodline pure.

Like a flock of birds or a herd of horses, we shared a group mind as a collective. Because we connected to each other at the gut level, we felt what others were feeling. A person in one section of the camp could sense what was happening in another quarter, far beyond the range of physical sight and hearing.

These were my people. We dreamed the same dreams and we feared the same fears. Daily I faced the temptation to merge with the group, so strong was the bond with my comrades. Then I heard Boris whispering in my ear, “Natasza, you are not like the others. Rise above. Rise above. Keep your head above the crowd.” His words strengthened my resolve not to be pulled down by the pervading moods of terror, grief, and despair. With Boris’s guidance I was able to attune to the group mind of the collective, yet not be controlled by it.

I thought to myself,
Our bodies are prisoners, but our spirits are free. Our captors are prisoners of their beliefs. Perhaps their cages are just harder to see
.

T
HE
G
ESTAPO ESTABLISHED THE
rules and policies for the concentration camps. Although the primary function of the camps was genocide, they also served the Reich in a variety of ways. Prisoners were used as guinea pigs for medical experimentation. They became a human resource of slave labor to manufacture munitions and the implements of war.

Personal servants and the favorites of the officers received special favors, including more food to eat. At times they even received medical attention, whereas the rest of the prisoners were left untreated.

If a slave laborer did not produce as expected, he or she was considered expendable. Factory workers were killed for not meeting production quotas. Farm laborers were shot on location for lagging in the fields.

There was an endless demand for slaves to do the work of the state. With millions of Jewish people living in Europe, there was an inexhaustible supply of workers to replace the Jews put to death.

A
HEAVY CLOUD OF ANGST
hung low over the camp, a weight bearing down on the psyche. I walked about the yard, passing through crowds of suffering comrades. Looking into their eyes, I felt the pain of their sorrow, grief, and despair. Because of my empathic nature, I sensed the mood of the collective—somber and fearful, yet with a glimmer of hope.

Centuries of persecution had imprinted the psyche of the Jewish people with beliefs about life and the nature of reality. A scar on the consciousness that was unable to heal, these attributes were passed from generation to generation. The history of a race is recorded in the genetic code. The DNA contains subconscious programming for attitudes and emotional tendencies.

As I observed the behavior of my comrades, I noticed thinking patterns and emotional responses that seemed to predominate in Jewish people. On the negative side, I identified guilt, worry (especially among women), and distrust of non-Jews. On the positive side, I recognized intellectual prowess, creativity, and a sense of humor. A full measure of suffering in one’s life was believed necessary to shape a person’s character. The experience of suffering was used to define oneself. Purification through pain was the means to expiate guilt and atone for past offenses.

Through the crucible of suffering, we are redeemed in the eyes of God. Through the experience of pain, we are transmuted into our diamond selves.

O
N ORDERS FROM
S
ERGEANT
Kroger, I walked through the men’s quarters of the camp. Groups of men lingered in the dusty yard. As I made my way through the crowd I passed by a triad of men, intently engaged in conversation, recounting memories of the lives they had left behind. I heard the intonation of their voices, deep and sorrowful, as they told their stories with heartfelt woe.

One voice caught my attention. I saw a frail old man speaking to the others. His words were deliberate and succinct, punctuated by moments of silence. I turned to look at the face of the old man. “Oh, my God!” I gasped. It was my Uncle Jacob! I dared not speak nor make my presence known.
I must move on, and quietly so
, I thought.

My heart was bursting with excitement as I arrived back at barracks 12. “Old Mother,” I cried. “I just saw my Uncle Jacob. He is alive!”

Her eyes brightened on hearing the good news. She reached out her hands to hold both of mine. Her tender smile and loving touch calmed my racing heart. I told Old Mother about that fateful day at Uncle Jacob’s farm. “I discovered my gift of hands-on healing,” I exclaimed. “A talking bird told me, ‘Rise above.’ ”

Then I remembered the faces of all the men I had seen today. While my heart felt compassion for the men of Auschwitz, most men seemed to be a different kind of creature than women and girls. The iron men were the aggressors, the destroyers. The women were the victims of the brute force of the men. It was the duty of the women to be the caretakers and the healers, to teach humanity about peace and love.

“Old Mother,” I asked, “How can I love the men of this world? How could I ever marry one of them?”

“God has a plan for the sexes,” she answered. “Within every woman, God planted a male seed. Within every man, God planted a female seed. Each contains the kernel of its opposite. When you are able to love the male part of yourself, then you can love the men of this world.” Thus spoke the wise woman about men and women.

P
ART
S
IX
Debates with the Commandant

T
HE SUN WAS A
blazing ball of fire high in the summer sky. Sitting in the cool shade of my barracks, I observed the comings and goings of wasps from their mud nest under the eaves. The constant hum of buzzing wings seemed particularly loud and tempestuous.

Even the crows were restless, flying helter-skelter, this way and that, crosshatching the sky. There was a feeling of unease, a sense of foreboding that overshadowed the camp. Just as the creatures of the wild instinctively sense danger before a storm, the group mind of the collective was on alert. The crows were cawing and squawking, making lots of noise. They assembled into a V formation with nine crows pointing west.

S
PURTS OF MACHINE GUN
fire rang out and echoed through the camp. People fled in all directions, scrambling to escape the bullets of doom. The screaming, the sobbing, the horror. People gasped and fell dead in their tracks. Shockwaves of terror rocked everyone.

Hiding in the shadow of the barracks wall, I quickly surveyed the scene of the carnage. Bodies were piled in heaps. Only a few were breathing. Rivers of blood ran into pools, saturating the ground. With the power of intention, I created a DNA-specific shield. It enabled my Jewish comrades to see me, but I remained invisible to all others. Then I hid myself amid the pile of bodies, and tried to remain calm. Blood drizzled over me, covering me like a warm blanket. I did what I could to stop the bleeding, to lessen the pain. As I opened my heart, the flow of healing energy became stronger. The greater the love, the more powerful the healing.

I was in a state of constant prayer as I ministered to the dying. A man asked me to bless his soul. A child wept in my arms. Beside the child lay the twisted body of a girl. “Oh, my God!” My mind screamed. It was Jezra! In that instant my protective shield shattered like glass. A guard spotted me and leaped onto the heap of bodies. As I reached out my arms to hold my soul sister, he ripped me from my dear friend and threw me to the ground.

“We’ve got you now, fearless rebel,” he snarled at me. “We know who you are. You have been caught in direct defiance of official orders. Commandant Schuller has been expecting you.”

T
HE SKY TURNED BLOOD-RED
as the sun set and sank into oblivion.

Two guards grabbed me. One walking in front of me, the other walking behind me, the three of us went to meet the Commandant. I looked down at my bare feet as they stirred up the dust. I had dared to walk the path of Light in the shadow of the Reich. Now my moment of truth was at hand. Was I ready to confront a commander of the forces of Darkness?