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Authors: Sharon Peters
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not blame those who lose hope or those who lose faith. Who will it be tomorrow? I donât know. Maybe me, maybe not. Can I do anything about it? I cannot. What is the use of believing? There is no use of even talking about it.â
Commandant Feix was reassigned, and the prisoners entertained a weak hope that perhaps the next commandant would be less vicious. But there was no perceptible shift in the level of cruelty.
On April 8, 1944, as Moshe was walking across the yard after evening soup, one man among many in the yard, two guards jumped him. They had no reason to pay him any special notice. Moshe was following the rules, as he always did, blending in, as he always did. Possibly they were bored, the usual motivation for a random beating.
Again and again they brought down their whip butts across Mosheâs head. Long after he had fallen to his knees they kept at it. Moshe felt flesh disconnect from bone. He could smell his blood as it filled his eyes. The last clear vision he had was of the two blond guards sneering as they kicked him.
Once the guards had clomped off and it was safe to approach, Zalmen ran into the yard. Moshe was incoherent, his eyes pouring blood, his face already swelling so much that he could barely make his lips move. His ears were raw, almost purple, and his nose was gushing. Zalmen hauled Moshe to his feet and dragged him to his bunk, elevating his head onto a pile of jackets and rags so the torrents of blood flowing from so many places wouldnât pool in his eyes or flood his throat. Friends gathered around, careful not to say too much about how he looked, offering small words of encouragement.
âThey are worse than animals,â Moshe heard one of them say.
Dr. Forster, who had been a physician in Austria before being imprisonedâ always respectfully called Herr Doktor by the prisonersâraced to the bunk to stanch the bleeding and assess the damage.
âHe will live,â the doctor finally said to Zalmen. âHeâs young, and he will mend. I am, however, very worried about his eyes. The left one has been completely destroyed. With nothing but my bare hands, there is practically nothing I can do for him. God only knows how much he will see with his remaining eye.â
Moshe remained on the platform bunk for two days. On the third he pushed himself off to go to work. He had no sight at all in his left eye, and just a small blurry wedge of vision in his right.
If he allowed himself, even for a second, to consider that he was all but completely blind, his stomach clenched into itself, and he knew full-blown panic was near. So he forced his energy into experimenting with positioning his head in various ways so he would know what angle permitted the maximum vision from his one semi-functioning eye. Once he had established that precise position, he practiced, swiveling his head back and forth again and again, assuming it so often that he knew exactly what to do to find it instantly, when a split second might matter.
Having mastered this skill, he decided to hope that as the healing process advanced, his sight would improve.
But the sliver of vision deteriorated day by day. He could recognize some items and some people if he turned his head just the right way and if there was sufficient light. That was the best he could coax from the one eye that still worked.
His friends took to sandwiching him between them when they walked or worked. No one dared wonder how long the charade would work. Moshe would be shot if his blindness was discovered.
Two months after the attack, in June 1944, as the Red Army advanced across Poland, Budzyn was summarily shut down.
The Edelman brothers and most of the other prisoners were taken to the train station, loaded into boxcars, and transported hundreds of miles to Wieliczka in western Poland. Here the Germansâ legendary skill for perfect planning failed. The High Command had developed an idea, never fully explained to the
Commandant Feix was reassigned, and the prisoners entertained a weak hope that perhaps the next commandant would be less vicious. But there was no perceptible shift in the level of cruelty.
On April 8, 1944, as Moshe was walking across the yard after evening soup, one man among many in the yard, two guards jumped him. They had no reason to pay him any special notice. Moshe was following the rules, as he always did, blending in, as he always did. Possibly they were bored, the usual motivation for a random beating.
Again and again they brought down their whip butts across Mosheâs head. Long after he had fallen to his knees they kept at it. Moshe felt flesh disconnect from bone. He could smell his blood as it filled his eyes. The last clear vision he had was of the two blond guards sneering as they kicked him.
Once the guards had clomped off and it was safe to approach, Zalmen ran into the yard. Moshe was incoherent, his eyes pouring blood, his face already swelling so much that he could barely make his lips move. His ears were raw, almost purple, and his nose was gushing. Zalmen hauled Moshe to his feet and dragged him to his bunk, elevating his head onto a pile of jackets and rags so the torrents of blood flowing from so many places wouldnât pool in his eyes or flood his throat. Friends gathered around, careful not to say too much about how he looked, offering small words of encouragement.
âThey are worse than animals,â Moshe heard one of them say.
Dr. Forster, who had been a physician in Austria before being imprisonedâ always respectfully called Herr Doktor by the prisonersâraced to the bunk to stanch the bleeding and assess the damage.
âHe will live,â the doctor finally said to Zalmen. âHeâs young, and he will mend. I am, however, very worried about his eyes. The left one has been completely destroyed. With nothing but my bare hands, there is practically nothing I can do for him. God only knows how much he will see with his remaining eye.â
Moshe remained on the platform bunk for two days. On the third he pushed himself off to go to work. He had no sight at all in his left eye, and just a small blurry wedge of vision in his right.
If he allowed himself, even for a second, to consider that he was all but completely blind, his stomach clenched into itself, and he knew full-blown panic was near. So he forced his energy into experimenting with positioning his head in various ways so he would know what angle permitted the maximum vision from his one semi-functioning eye. Once he had established that precise position, he practiced, swiveling his head back and forth again and again, assuming it so often that he knew exactly what to do to find it instantly, when a split second might matter.
Having mastered this skill, he decided to hope that as the healing process advanced, his sight would improve.
But the sliver of vision deteriorated day by day. He could recognize some items and some people if he turned his head just the right way and if there was sufficient light. That was the best he could coax from the one eye that still worked.
His friends took to sandwiching him between them when they walked or worked. No one dared wonder how long the charade would work. Moshe would be shot if his blindness was discovered.
Two months after the attack, in June 1944, as the Red Army advanced across Poland, Budzyn was summarily shut down.
The Edelman brothers and most of the other prisoners were taken to the train station, loaded into boxcars, and transported hundreds of miles to Wieliczka in western Poland. Here the Germansâ legendary skill for perfect planning failed. The High Command had developed an idea, never fully explained to the
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