I Am a Star (9 page)

 

 

I
learned an old Czech folk song in Terezin. It speaks of the hope and the changes that come with spring. Would we ever be allowed to leave the winter that was Terezin, see the smile of spring, and feel the touch of May again?

The spring of 1945 was different from the other two I had spent in Terezin. Unknown to us, Hitler’s Third Reich was collapsing and the German armies were facing certain defeat. The Allied forces were closing in on Europe. Meanwhile the Nazis made their last attempts to kill all the remaining survivors in the death camps of the East.

As the Allies advanced, the soldiers forced their prisoners on death marches to places still under complete Nazi rule. I remember when these miserable people arrived at Terezin. They were barefoot, or their feet were covered with rags or torn sandals. Some wore blue and white striped uniforms, others only rags. Their heads were shaved. Many were no more than walking skeletons suffering from typhus and other diseases. In vain I searched the long lines, hoping to find Grandma among them.

During these last days of World War II, orders were given to build gas chambers at Terezin. The plan was to kill us either by poison gas or by drowning in a specially prepared area. Not one Jew in Europe was to stay alive. By the time we were freed, the gas chambers at Terezin were almost completed. It was only the rush of events that spared our lives.

Guards fearing capture by the Allies began to burn the camp’s records. Bits of partially burned paper floated through the air. The evidence of death and suffering had to be destroyed. Then, at the beginning of May, most of the guards living outside the barricades ran away. They made some last efforts to slaughter us as they left, by shooting wildly and throwing hand grenades into the camp.

We were finally liberated on the eve of May 8, 1945 by the Soviet army. The first thing we did was rip off the yellow star from our clothes. I had spent three years in this human hell. I can still see the boisterous Russian soldiers singing and dancing on their tanks. All of us felt joy, pain, and relief. Many questions remained. Who was left of our families? What would our future hold?

After liberation, the barricades were left up for a while, because a severe typhus epidemic was spreading quickly through the camp. Having survived the war, many prisoners died of the disease even after liberation. I remember climbing one of the barricades to accept a piece of black bread with what seemed a mountain of butter from a Russian soldier. I chewed it gently, allowing the butter to melt slowly in my mouth. Was I awake or dreaming?

Despite the typhus quarantine, my father and I went outside the camp walls in search of food. We walked to the fields and picked rhubarb, and in the surrounding towns we begged for food. Back in the camp we bartered the rhubarb for bread and potatoes.

I joined a few other children, and together we stole into the former Nazi living quarters just outside the camp compound. We found bullets lying on the floor and strips of movie film showing sea battles. To our surprise, we saw a swimming pool inside a beautiful park next to these quarters. How different life must have been on the other side of the walls! While we were starving, suffering, and living in fear for our lives, these people just a few yards away lived a life of luxury.

When the typhus epidemic subsided, a few of the survivors began to leave the camp on foot. Most of them did not know where to go or who would help them. Finally, in early July 1945, a bus appeared from Stuttgart, Germany, to pick up the small group of survivors from the state of Württemberg, Out of our original transport of about twelve hundred people, there were thirteen survivors. Three of them were from my family.

We set off from the camp and soon found ourselves passing through badly bombed German cities. The once majestic city of Dresden had been turned completely to rubble. Wherever we stopped, curious Germans gathered outside our bus. One little girl pressed a small doll into my hands and insisted that I keep it and remember her.

After a few days on the road we arrived at the displaced persons’ camp in Stuttgart. Here we received our first good meal. I remember the beautifully set table and the white tablecloth. I can still taste the noodle soup, which I ate slowly to relish every spoonful. Never in my life would soup taste as good again. We stayed only one week in this temporary facility, which had been especially prepared to house returning Jewish refugees. Our aim was to return to my grandmother’s home. We hoped she would still be alive and greet us there.

When we arrived in Jebenhausen, we faced the awful truth. Grandma had not survived. A total of thirteen people from our family had lost their lives during those awful years. Our only hope was to find our beloved Christian friend Therese. To our dismay, the war had claimed her life also. When the American soldiers entered the village, they searched many houses for ammunition. Therese heard the knock on her door, but did not open it, fearing for her life. She remained standing behind the closed door. Eventually, an impatient American soldier shot through the door. She died instantly.

The new owners of Grandma’s house prepared a room for us. When Grandma was deported to Riga in 1941, her house was taken away from us and we were ordered to move into the Jewish houses in Goeppingen. A Christian family received permission to occupy Grandma’s house.

Our return after so many years was greeted by a vase filled with field flowers which stood on the table. The Christian family tried to ease our pain. One day someone brought us a big bowl of whipped sweet cream. Mama and I gorged ourselves until we were sick from it. The years of hunger had taken their toll; our stomachs were not ready to digest this rich food.

We soon found more permanent living quarters in the neighboring town of Goeppingen. The mayor invited us to visit him at City Hall. As soon as we stepped into the Mayor’s Chamber, Mama noticed the Oriental carpet: it was ours. The mantel clock had a familiar chime; it, too, had once been our property. After our deportation to Terezin, all our belongings had been distributed to different Christian families. Some items had found their way to City Hall.