after my eight-year-old sister who did not return from Auschwitz. When I learned about the name, I remember remaining silent, unable to control my tears.
There are now close to one thousand young people in these centers, and thanks to the help they receive from dedicated teachers, they pass the exams required for entrance to university, essential for a career in Israel.
• • •
All that I have undertaken in my life has been with her. Journeys, projects, dreams of yet more projects—we do it all together. But this time, that is not possible.
Marion attempts a smile. I know that she shares my doubts and fears. The door closes, and I am alone.
* This chapter was translated by the author.
5
“ IN A few moments, we’ll be ready,” announces a voice.
Eyes closed, I listen to my heart beating. How much longer? Has the rhythm of the beats slowed down? What about the palpitations?
My thoughts jump wildly; I am disoriented. Where am I? Ideas and images follow one another and collide in my burning head in a frenzied dance. In front of me, the cemetery; behind me, the garden of my childhood. The future is shrinking; the past is dying. And it all unfolds in a dark void. So, I tell myself, I was always told that the void is truly empty, with nothing inside: no flames, no ashes, no wind, no river, no breath and no pain. All nonsense.
I had not even hoped for it—but suddenly I sense the presence of the dead. Have they come to take me with them? Or just to accompany me? Or, why not, to protect me?
And yet, long ago, I did not protect them. I relive the last moments of our shared existence on the train. And then on the infamous ramp built expressly for the new Hungarian transports. I see my little sister, Tsipuka, so beautiful, so innocent. I see her from afar, clutching my mother’s hand. I was not with them, at the end.
I see my father at the camp. We were inseparable there. Never had we been so close, so united. Can one die more than once? One could, there. During the death march, the night of the evacuation from Buna. And then during the nocturnal journey in the snow. There again we were together. I protected him and he protected me. Our only disagreement? He wanted me to accept a portion of his miserable bread ration, pretending that he was not hungry. I used the same ploy. Each of us wishing to offer the other one more moment of survival.
And now I shall meet him again; I shall finally die. Absurd, is it not? Long ago, over there, death lay in wait for us at every moment, but it is now, eternities later, that it shall have its way. I feel it.
6
A VOICE penetrates my consciousness: “We are ready.”
So am I.
“Would you please count to ten?”
I panic: They are going to put me to sleep—and I shall never wake up again.
“Not yet. Give me another minute. Please. Just a minute.”
The silence around us is unreal.
“Why?”
They must be surprised. I don’t answer. Shall I explain to them that a practicing Jew, before giving up his soul, if he lacks the time to properly prepare himself, must at least recite a short prayer—a kind of act of faith—a prayer he has known since childhood? Too complicated. To tell them that countless dying victims, martyrs, repeated this prayer before closing their eyes forever: I cannot tell them that.
But I recite it to myself.
Shema Yisrael
, hear o Israel,
Adoshem Elokeinu
, God is our God,
Adoshem e’had
, God is one and unique.
“Now I am yours,” I say weakly.
“Count. To ten.”
I think I stopped before I reached ten.
7
IN THE operating room, I am floating in semidarkness. Hasty movements, muffled sounds, low voices: all sorts of whispered admonitions as well as encouragement.
All of a sudden, I am afraid. A name has come to my mind, a face: Aviva, a friend of Marion’s and the wife of our friend Émil Najar, former Israeli ambassador to Rome and Tokyo. She too had suffered heart problems, and she too underwent surgery. But she did not get up
There are now close to one thousand young people in these centers, and thanks to the help they receive from dedicated teachers, they pass the exams required for entrance to university, essential for a career in Israel.
• • •
All that I have undertaken in my life has been with her. Journeys, projects, dreams of yet more projects—we do it all together. But this time, that is not possible.
Marion attempts a smile. I know that she shares my doubts and fears. The door closes, and I am alone.
* This chapter was translated by the author.
5
“ IN A few moments, we’ll be ready,” announces a voice.
Eyes closed, I listen to my heart beating. How much longer? Has the rhythm of the beats slowed down? What about the palpitations?
My thoughts jump wildly; I am disoriented. Where am I? Ideas and images follow one another and collide in my burning head in a frenzied dance. In front of me, the cemetery; behind me, the garden of my childhood. The future is shrinking; the past is dying. And it all unfolds in a dark void. So, I tell myself, I was always told that the void is truly empty, with nothing inside: no flames, no ashes, no wind, no river, no breath and no pain. All nonsense.
I had not even hoped for it—but suddenly I sense the presence of the dead. Have they come to take me with them? Or just to accompany me? Or, why not, to protect me?
And yet, long ago, I did not protect them. I relive the last moments of our shared existence on the train. And then on the infamous ramp built expressly for the new Hungarian transports. I see my little sister, Tsipuka, so beautiful, so innocent. I see her from afar, clutching my mother’s hand. I was not with them, at the end.
I see my father at the camp. We were inseparable there. Never had we been so close, so united. Can one die more than once? One could, there. During the death march, the night of the evacuation from Buna. And then during the nocturnal journey in the snow. There again we were together. I protected him and he protected me. Our only disagreement? He wanted me to accept a portion of his miserable bread ration, pretending that he was not hungry. I used the same ploy. Each of us wishing to offer the other one more moment of survival.
And now I shall meet him again; I shall finally die. Absurd, is it not? Long ago, over there, death lay in wait for us at every moment, but it is now, eternities later, that it shall have its way. I feel it.
6
A VOICE penetrates my consciousness: “We are ready.”
So am I.
“Would you please count to ten?”
I panic: They are going to put me to sleep—and I shall never wake up again.
“Not yet. Give me another minute. Please. Just a minute.”
The silence around us is unreal.
“Why?”
They must be surprised. I don’t answer. Shall I explain to them that a practicing Jew, before giving up his soul, if he lacks the time to properly prepare himself, must at least recite a short prayer—a kind of act of faith—a prayer he has known since childhood? Too complicated. To tell them that countless dying victims, martyrs, repeated this prayer before closing their eyes forever: I cannot tell them that.
But I recite it to myself.
Shema Yisrael
, hear o Israel,
Adoshem Elokeinu
, God is our God,
Adoshem e’had
, God is one and unique.
“Now I am yours,” I say weakly.
“Count. To ten.”
I think I stopped before I reached ten.
7
IN THE operating room, I am floating in semidarkness. Hasty movements, muffled sounds, low voices: all sorts of whispered admonitions as well as encouragement.
All of a sudden, I am afraid. A name has come to my mind, a face: Aviva, a friend of Marion’s and the wife of our friend Émil Najar, former Israeli ambassador to Rome and Tokyo. She too had suffered heart problems, and she too underwent surgery. But she did not get up
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