Read Online Rena's Promise by Heather Dune Macadam, Rena Kornreich Gelissen - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Heather Dune Macadam, Rena Kornreich Gelissen
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mistake. The earrings my Grandpa Zayde gave me when I was six years old are glistening from beneath my curls. I have worn them for so long that they are not jewelry but a part of me.
"I forgot about them," I tell her quickly, placing the last remnant of my life on a cold table, to be tossed into a box with everyone else's past.
"Take your clothes off and leave them here." They grab my
3. March 26 [1942] . . . 999 German women prisoners classified as asocial, criminal, and a few as political prisoners . . . receive Nos. 1999 and are lodged in the part of the main camp separated by the wall along Blocks 1 to 10 . . . 999 Jewish women from Proprad [near Hummene] in Slovakia are [also] sent to the women's section of Auschwitz. This is the first registered transport sent to the camp" (Czech, 148).
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clothes from me before I have a chance to fold them neatly or place them in a safe corner to be retrieved later.
" Raus! Raus! " We hurry forward. We have never stood naked in front of strangers before. Trying to cover ourselves with our hands, we look at the floor, hoping this will protect our modesty. Insensitive to our nudity, they prod us into a tub of disinfectant.
"They are filthy. Don't touch them." Their voices sting as badly as the solution against our bare skin. We stand for several minutes embarrassed to look at each other, staring into a green liquid that feels as if it will eat the flesh off our bodies.
"Get out! Get out!" Orders, more orders. The guards' words jump into our brains, dislodging free thought, exiling it to the nether regions of sanity. There are no towels to dry our shivering frames. Our clothes are not waiting for us, but the line is. Our lives have become one long line moving slowly from one horror to another.
I am held by the head and pushed abruptly into a chair. The cuss of electric shears moves closer to my ears as a tough hand pushes my head forward. "Don't move!" I am spoken to roughly, handled as if my skin were sandpaper. Running from the nape of my neck to my forehead, the clippers cut and scrape against my skin, tearing the hair from my head. Digging my fingernails deeper into my arm, I try to prevent tears from falling down my disinfected cheeks. Only married women shave their heads. Our traditions, our beliefs, are scorned and ridiculed by the acts they commit. They shear our heads, arms; even our pubic hair is discarded just as quickly and cruelly as the rest of the hair on our bodies. We are shorn like sheep and then ordered back into the vat of disinfectant. My flesh burns like fire. I wonder if I will get my jacket and skirt back now that the ordeal is over. They can't possibly do anything morewhat else is there?
A girl screams.
There is a long table where an officer is standing. He has rubber
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gloves on and there are other men holding the girl down. I hear her scream again. I have no idea what he is doing but I know I don't want him doing it to me. There are two lines, the one I am in, going to the table with the man and his gloves, and the line facing in the opposite direction. Blood drips down the thighs of the girl-women coming away from the man and his gloves. It only takes a second for me to weigh the consequences of action against the consequences of inactionI turn quickly around, stepping into the other line. This is my first accomplishment in Auschwitz: no one gives me a gynecological exam.
The German women prisoners, who are obviously superior, toss woolen uniforms at us. There are Russian insignias on the breasts of the uniforms. We fumble, then try them on, quickly discovering that they are too huge for most women to wear. There is a tall woman next to me whose pants are too short. "Here, try mine on," I suggest. We trade. Around us, other women do the same, trying to find something that won't fall off. I balk at pulling the trousers over my body without any underwear on. Sniffing my dark green woolen shirt, I am nauseated by the dampness
"I forgot about them," I tell her quickly, placing the last remnant of my life on a cold table, to be tossed into a box with everyone else's past.
"Take your clothes off and leave them here." They grab my
3. March 26 [1942] . . . 999 German women prisoners classified as asocial, criminal, and a few as political prisoners . . . receive Nos. 1999 and are lodged in the part of the main camp separated by the wall along Blocks 1 to 10 . . . 999 Jewish women from Proprad [near Hummene] in Slovakia are [also] sent to the women's section of Auschwitz. This is the first registered transport sent to the camp" (Czech, 148).
page_63
Page 63
clothes from me before I have a chance to fold them neatly or place them in a safe corner to be retrieved later.
" Raus! Raus! " We hurry forward. We have never stood naked in front of strangers before. Trying to cover ourselves with our hands, we look at the floor, hoping this will protect our modesty. Insensitive to our nudity, they prod us into a tub of disinfectant.
"They are filthy. Don't touch them." Their voices sting as badly as the solution against our bare skin. We stand for several minutes embarrassed to look at each other, staring into a green liquid that feels as if it will eat the flesh off our bodies.
"Get out! Get out!" Orders, more orders. The guards' words jump into our brains, dislodging free thought, exiling it to the nether regions of sanity. There are no towels to dry our shivering frames. Our clothes are not waiting for us, but the line is. Our lives have become one long line moving slowly from one horror to another.
I am held by the head and pushed abruptly into a chair. The cuss of electric shears moves closer to my ears as a tough hand pushes my head forward. "Don't move!" I am spoken to roughly, handled as if my skin were sandpaper. Running from the nape of my neck to my forehead, the clippers cut and scrape against my skin, tearing the hair from my head. Digging my fingernails deeper into my arm, I try to prevent tears from falling down my disinfected cheeks. Only married women shave their heads. Our traditions, our beliefs, are scorned and ridiculed by the acts they commit. They shear our heads, arms; even our pubic hair is discarded just as quickly and cruelly as the rest of the hair on our bodies. We are shorn like sheep and then ordered back into the vat of disinfectant. My flesh burns like fire. I wonder if I will get my jacket and skirt back now that the ordeal is over. They can't possibly do anything morewhat else is there?
A girl screams.
There is a long table where an officer is standing. He has rubber
page_64
Page 64
gloves on and there are other men holding the girl down. I hear her scream again. I have no idea what he is doing but I know I don't want him doing it to me. There are two lines, the one I am in, going to the table with the man and his gloves, and the line facing in the opposite direction. Blood drips down the thighs of the girl-women coming away from the man and his gloves. It only takes a second for me to weigh the consequences of action against the consequences of inactionI turn quickly around, stepping into the other line. This is my first accomplishment in Auschwitz: no one gives me a gynecological exam.
The German women prisoners, who are obviously superior, toss woolen uniforms at us. There are Russian insignias on the breasts of the uniforms. We fumble, then try them on, quickly discovering that they are too huge for most women to wear. There is a tall woman next to me whose pants are too short. "Here, try mine on," I suggest. We trade. Around us, other women do the same, trying to find something that won't fall off. I balk at pulling the trousers over my body without any underwear on. Sniffing my dark green woolen shirt, I am nauseated by the dampness
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