The Brothers of Auschwitz

We’d study for two hours in cheder and then go home. At the age of six, after cheder, we went to the Czech elementary school. We studied until 13:00 and went back to cheder in the afternoon. For at least another two or three hours.

A city rabbi would come to bless the village on two fixed occasions twice a year. The city rabbi was an important and respected man. He had a black coat, a hat, and a thick beard like steel wool. The rabbi would comb his beard with two fingers, stopping only to spit into a handkerchief. The rabbi didn’t say they’re throwing Jews into the Dnieper. The rabbi didn’t say they’re throwing Jews into the Dniester. The rabbi didn’t say they’re shooting Jews in forests. People in the village asked him as they had always done over the years, rabbi, what should we do. What should we do, rabbi, on the radio they speak against Jews, there are rumors, rabbi. They send families far away, where is far away, rabbi, what do they do to us there, does it hurt? And there have been whispers, rabbi, passing by word of mouth, whispers about mass graves of hundreds, thousands, danger is coming, rabbi, what is waiting for us, rabbi, tell us what is waiting for us, is this the end?

The rabbi would think and think, and in the meantime a woman with an enormous belly pushed two Jews with beards and hats who stood in the aisle, and approach the rabbi from the side, punching him, boom! in the middle of his back and the rabbi jumped and the two Jews with beards and hats fell on the woman and she rolled about like a full barrel, shouting, hooligans, leave me alone, and they wouldn’t leave her alone, but rolled her out of the synagogue, and three old women with covered heads would call out in unison, she’s crazy, she’s from a goy family and she’s crazy, and the rabbi would arrange his hat, pull his coat and bend down to us with raised eyebrows, asking the nearest man, tell me, Jew, do you light candles at home?

Yes, we light candles, and you, tell me, have you checked your Mezuzahs?

I’ve checked them, and you, Jew, do you remember to put on tefillin, we remember rabbi, we don’t forget a single day.

And then the rabbi would say, nu, good. There’s a God in the heavens, open the Siddur, say Shema Israel and the Messiah will come.

The village people said, very well, and looked down at the ground. The rabbi requested a chair. The rabbi took off his hat and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. The rabbi put his hand in his pocket and played with coins. Chink. Chink. Chink. People stole glances at one another but refused to buy the rabbi’s medications. A few minutes later they continued to badger, what should we do, rabbi. Should we run away, answer us, rabbi. They had the voice of a hungry chick. Many chicks that weep and weep.

The rabbi would frown, saying: Certainly not, Jews. Forbidden! Forbidden to leave the village!

People said, very well, but immediately longed for Eretz-Israel, rabbi, Palestine, you know, the Jews are studying Torah there, maybe we’ll escape to Palestine?

The rabbi shouted: Forbidden! A boycott on anyone who goes to Palestine. Boycott! Boycott! Boycott! We must wait for the Messiah!

The people said very well, but until he comes, rabbi, what must we do?

We have a strong God, He will help, shouted the rabbi banging his hand on the Ark.

The people said very well. Men and heavy coats, and women with head coverings and handkerchiefs in their hands, crowded in front of the synagogue Ark, weeping and shouting in unison, help us, our Lord. Save us from Hitler, damn him, bring the Messiah, and then they went home. On the way, if they saw a priest or a white horse, or a chimney cleaner in black clothes and a black hat, they’d grab a button on their clothing, against the evil eye, not letting go until they reached home, believing that this would help them get through Hitler. Some kissed the Torah morning, noon and night, some wept. Small children rushed around the synagogue yard with sticks in their hands. They cursed Hitler and beat the ground.

The rabbi wanted to go back to his city. They lined up the children to say goodbye and shake his hand.

I didn’t like the rabbi and didn’t want him to ask me a question about the Torah or about Jews. I didn’t want him to speak to me about anything. I was ashamed when people laughed because I didn’t understand a thing about what I studied in cheder. I was most ashamed at farting in my trousers from the stress, because in cheder we read Hebrew letters that looked to me like sticks with a lot of mosquitoes, the rabbi translated the sticks with mosquitoes into Yiddish, and I knew Yiddish from home, but I couldn’t remember the Hebrew letters, not even one. I had no head for letters. My brother Yitzhak had even less of a head for letters. Yitzhak escaped from life in cheder. I suffered more. Every day I farted on the way to cheder. I squeezed tight but they got out, phut. Phut. Phut. I’d often whistle so my friends wouldn’t hear and, hopefully, wouldn’t smell before I had time to reach the hole in the shithouse. I’d sit above the hole in the plank to pass the time, I’d whistle melodies quietly. I’d play my harmonica in my mind, or draw on the wall with a piece of chalky stone I had in my pocket. I was an expert on butterflies with huge wings. I made enough room on the wings for me and my brother Yitzhak in case we decided to fly far away.

One day I was sitting in the shithouse and saw one of our boys approaching. I think it was Menachem, the shoemaker’s son. The boy pulled down his pants and sat down next to my ass. He and I begin to shove asses. Shove, shove, bursting with laughter. In the meantime the rabbi the melamed – teacher – arrived with a scarf around his neck and a smell of cigarettes. The rabbi, the melamed had a belt in his hand. The belt was five centimeters wide and at the tips of his fingers was orange colored fire. And then he threw back his hand and thwack, he brought the strap down on us. And thwack. Thwack. Thwack. The boy and I race away from the shithouse with our trousers down. On the way we step on our trousers and boom, we fall to the floor. The rabbi didn’t stop yelling and each time thwack on the ass. On the back. On the head. Left us in pain for a week with red stripes on the skin, each stripe five centimeters wide.

Our rabbi the melamed had another arrangement.

He would start the week with a game. He’d stand in front of us, one hand on his hip, the other scratching his head. Soon I’d see a shower of dandruff falling to his shoulders. He’d frown and ask, who knows which tree we can break on the Sabbath, eh? And I was an expert on trees. I was a professor on trees. There wasn’t a boy in the village who knew the forest like I did. I said to myself, I’ll find him a tree and impress him. I forgot it’s forbidden to break trees on the Sabbath. Nu! He broke my bones and I ran away from the cheder and sat in a ditch by the road. For two weeks I lived in the ditch. I brought planks to the ditch and I made myself a room without a roof. I brought a large stone and a blanket and water to drink, and cookies, and a catapult and I was content. I saw boys and girls walking along the road together, arms around each other’s waists, whispering into each other’s ears, laughing. As if they had no Hitler on the radio.

I frequently counted wagons of hay returning from the field. Wagons with humps of hay. Sitting on top were the farmers. They were usually tired and sleepy. Sometimes I’d flick a stone at them with my catapult. They’d jump in fright, raising their whip and looking behind. Then they’d fall asleep. I saw women on the road, dragging heavy baskets of apples. At noon, they’d return with baskets, cursing the bad day and bad luck brought by black cats.

One day my rabbi the melamed came to my room in the ditch. The rabbi held a hat in his hand. He stood above me, calling me. I didn’t answer.

What are you doing here?

Looking.

Aren’t you bored?

Interested, actually.

Children in cheder are asking about you.

What do they care?

They don’t understand where you disappeared to.

I like living next to the road.

I want you to return to cheder.

Not coming back.

Your parents want you to return.

I caught sand falling from the wall of the ditch.

Come back to cheder and you can have this hat as a gift, want it?

I went back, did I have a choice?

I put on a woolen hat with a small peak, a new hat.

Are you coming?

Coming.

I go into the room. See three children turn to the wall making a sound like chah. Chah. Quietly. As if they had a pile of mucus to throw up. The rabbi puts his handkerchief into his pocket and sticks his thumb under the belt of his trousers. He towers over me, tells me, read a verse from the book, and my throat constricts.

The children all look at me. At least two make faces at me from behind the book. I look down. The book is open in front of me, a salad of letters on the page. Silence in the room. I keep half an eye on the rabbi. His cheeks flush pinkish blue up to his neck, most of all at the ends of his ears. His hand rises and I go cold. Smack. He hits me with his belt. Smack. Smack. Smack. Tired, he left the room to smoke a cigarette. The children in the room jump on their chairs, call, na. Na. Na. Na. Na. Na. Some make vomiting noises, only one sits quietly, sticks his finger in his nose and then in his mouth, one slaps two next to him on the head, as if they were drums, they grab him by the trousers and pull hard, he shouts, stop, stop, bending forward, the two pay him back with a fast drumming on his back, he grabs their legs and bang. A heap of children rolling on the floor, the boy with his finger in his nose at the bottom.

I sat in the corner swallowing tears of shame and prayed to God that my rabbi the melamed would go blind. That my rabbi the melamed would limp and have a permanent stutter. No, no, may his tongue fall into the snow and stick there for eternity, I wish, I wish, that he’d come into the room, open his mouth wide, want to say Leiber, read from the book, and all that would come out would be mmmm. Mmmm. I wish, I wish. I know the rabbi decided I’d rebel against him. That I deliberately didn’t want to read, to make him mad. But I didn’t. I couldn’t remember the Hebrew letters.

I also got it from rabbi the melamed because of the Sabbath.

My brother Yitzhak and I agreed to bathe in the Tur’i Remety River on the Sabbath for a few candies. Older children said, if you go in the river on the Sabbath, we’ll give you all the candies we have in our pockets, want to? They showed us the nice candies in their pockets. We stripped quickly and waded into the river. We got no candies. One of them immediately ran to call our rabbi. The rabbi arrived in his Sabbath clothes and large hat. My brother and I decided to dive. We held hands, took a deep breath, and hop. Down we sank. One, two, three, four, five, we ran out of air. We raised our heads. Ah, the rabbi was waiting for us at the river. He shook his head, and I saw a belt hovering over me.

At home I complained about the rabbi.

I said, the rabbi hits me with his belt. Father, it hurts.

Father said, Leiber, you study hard, d’you hear, and off he went.

I went to mother, mother, help me, it hurts. Mother was silent.

My sister, Sarah, put her book aside and said, Leiber is right, father needs to do something, mother, you tell him.

Mother took a candy from the drawer, gave it to me and said, the rabbi knows what’s good for you. The rabbi decides, Leiber, and you have to listen to him, understand? I was silent. Throwing off my shoes, I jumped outside and ran barefoot to the forest. I heard mother shouting, Leiber, Leiber, come back. I didn’t go back. I only went back when it got dark and I was hungry.

A few days later, the Czechs recruited the rabbi. Soldiers on horses were dragging a cannon. The rabbi sat on one of the horses. I sat in the ditch and he rode past me. His face was a whitish gray color, his body had shrunk, and under my woolen hat I felt happy, I called out, there is a God, there is. Because I didn’t want him to speak to me. I never saw him again.

Then the Hungarians came and life in the village was turned upside down. The Hungarians sacked the Czech teachers. Replacement teachers arrived from Hungary. Anti-Semitic teachers. They immediately separated Jewish and Christian children. Mainly for sports lessons. Christian children were given wooden weapons to train with before being recruited to the army. The children trained in the yard, right-turn, left-turn. They were known as Levente. They turned us Jews into servants. We had to cut firewood. In the meantime, the village was full of rumors.

The shoemaker whispered in the synagogue that they were taking Jews and burning them. Shooting them at enormous pits, spreading lime, firing, then another layer. The grocer said the Germans were putting Jews in cars, closing the door tightly and pouring poison inside. Then they throw them to the dogs. At home, around the table with a glass of tea, mother said God would help and Hitler would burn like a candle. Father said, Hitler will burn up like a feeble tree. The bald neighbor came in and said first they should pull out his teeth, one by one, with rusty pliers. Then the childless neighbor came in and said, the British will come soon, they’ll hang Hitler on a rope, damn him. They always killed Hitler at the table. Rabbis even came from the city, two I didn’t know, one plump, one short and not so fat, they said, Jews, there is nothing to worry about. The plump one said, we have a powerful God. He will take care of us. The short one wiped away the white crumbs at the corners of his mouth and said, very true, trust in God alone. But I was very worried and stuck to Shorkodi.

A handsome young man, he was from the Jewish Forced Labor Battalion. The Hungarians brought them from Budapest to cut wood for the Germans. Shorkodi ate supper with us on the Sabbath. Shorkodi said, listen Leiber, I have a large perfume store. When the war is over you’ll come with me to Budapest. I’ll teach you to work in the store. I didn’t know what perfume was but I waited for the day. Every day I waited. Even when they killed my best friend, Shorkodi, because he took the train to Budapest without permission. He wanted to visit his parents and return. I waited even after the men from Budapest disappeared. I waited even when I knew the end was coming for the Jews.

And we had a chance.

In 1943, a shaliach – messenger, came from Israel to our village. A young Betar man with velvety hair and shoulders a meter wide. He had a low thick voice, and he spoke as if Hitler was standing behind the door. He said he’d come to save Jewish youth from Hungary. He came into the synagogue and begged to take at least the youngsters to Israel.

Give me the children, the children. I approached the Betar shaliach, don’t know why, but I wanted to hang onto his hand and not let go. He smiled at me and put out a large, sunburned, scratched hand. I wanted to shake his hand.

Father stood between us. Father said, Leiber, go home. I ran home. I didn’t know what Israel was but I thought, first of all, we’re getting out of here. I banged the door and fell upon mother.

Mother, mother, I want to go to Israel. I want to go with the shaliach.

Mother pulled at her apron and pinched my cheek. Hard.

Mother said, is that what the rabbi taught you, huh? We go to Israel only when the Messiah comes.

I stayed. I knew we’d missed our chance.

I waited for the Messiah. First I sat with my left leg crossed over my right, an hour later I changed legs, crossing my right over my left, for twice as long, and changed. I sat on the steps behind the house. I opened my shirt, showed him my entire chest, I wanted to open my heart to him, I put my palm, fingers stretched, over my heart, I heard it beat, tuk-tuk. Tuk-tuk. I seized the beats in my fist, threw my hand forcefully over my head, then I opened my mouth and called him, come Messiah, come, come to me.

In the meantime I listened to the radio.

I heard Hitler on the radio. His voice was like the barking of the big dog in the neighbor’s yard. I heard heil, heil. I heard Juden, and Juden like cursing. I heard incredible singing from thousands of throats. I felt as if the enthusiastic singing on the radio wanted to fix me to the wall and squash me like a mosquito.

I was certain the story would end badly for Jews. As bad as it could be. Even though I didn’t understand the reason and I wasn’t yet fifteen.

Chapter 6

Yitzhak: Maybe we deserved it, we were cheats and liars.

Dov: Don’t say that.

Yitzhak: Man-eaters. The Jew in the diaspora wasn’t honest.

Dov: Not true, don’t say that, it’s how traders are, it’s impossible

to buy for a lira and sell for half a lira.

Yitzhak: An ordinary goy was honest. A Jew looked for

ways to earn, make a living.

Yitzhak

I liked wandering round the market.

The noisiest place in town. I didn’t want to study. Didn’t want to sit on my ass the entire day in front of my teacher’s mouth. I liked wandering about the market, traveling to places I didn’t know with my father. I liked meeting the man with the vegetable stall. He’d say to me, Yitzhak, you’ve grown, grown, want an apple? I liked meeting the man with a general store. He had burners, lamps, a nut-grinder, a small saw with a special handle, a bird-cage, and work tools. He had an interesting story for me. Sometimes I’d sit apart on the stairs and learn how to buy and sell goods.

I’d see and couldn’t believe my eyes. Goy soldiers would come to buy a horse from a Jew. The horse is lame. The Jew hits the horse on the second leg and hammers a nail into the hoof of the healthy leg, the horse looks healthy. The soldiers pay good money for the horse, the Jew spins around them like a happy top, offering cookies and tea, chatting away as if to friends. The goy soldiers say goodbye, goodbye, set off on their way, and then, boom. The horse falls. The goy soldiers curse the Jew. The goy soldiers kick a stone, seize a stick and break it on the back of the poor horse. The soldiers say, we’ll kill you, dirty Jew, we’ll hang you from the highest tree, filth. Ah. Holding my head, I ran away. That evening I told father and he nodded his head and said nothing.

Goy comes to a Jew in our village. Goy asks, lend me ten agorot – cents – for a bit of tobacco. A Jew lends it to him. How many bits does he return? He returns a lot. Or, instead, a Jew says to a goy, give me some beans, potatoes, cabbage. Goy brings more and more and the Jew isn’t satisfied. Sometimes Goy went to market, wanted to buy a nanny goat. He has no money. He came to a Jew and asked for money. How would he give it back? He’d return two nanny goats. That’s how a Jew exploited the goy. Goy didn’t understand trading. Jew ran the market. Goy looked after the goods. Jew paid Goy at the end of the day. But the goy waited for evening. Yes, yes. He waited for the Jew on his way home. With friends. Five. They hid behind a hill with sticks, knives and an iron rod in their hands. Yaakov approaches in his cart. He has small, red ears and ginger hair. There are two other Jews on the cart. One an uncle, the other a neighbor. One snores loudly, another farts. Yaakov is happy. His bag is filled with money. He hid it under the hay. On the hay he placed a sack of flour, over the sack a blanket. In his pocket he has a little money. Suddenly, a fire in the middle of the road. A small fire, just a small one. The horse stops. Three goys jump on Yaakov, one catches the horse’s bridle. The fifth jumps on the uncle and the neighbor. They had no time to wake up. The money was gone.

Then there was lame Friedman. He brought a mill to thresh goy farmers’ wheat in the village. He’d make a noise throughout the entire village, turrrr turrr turrr. Half the village worked around Friedman’s mill. Farmers would bring their wheat, thresh it, and how would they pay Friedman? It was divided up – one third to him, two thirds to the farmer. Friedman wasn’t a cheat. Friedman had bought the machine, prepared it for the month of May, fixed it, threshed the wheat, he justifiably took percentages. But Jews also had a mill. The goy would bring a ton of wheat to the mill. The goy would go home with two hundred kilos of flour. Isn’t that thieving? A little.

The Jew was smart. The Jew lived at the goy’s expense. Jews always had money in their pockets, they bought a hat, boots, a good coat, fresh fruit, like this, as open as my hand. Maybe that’s why the goys hated Jews. They always called us, dirty Jew, go to Palestine, there’s nothing for you in our country.

We were an ordinary family. We weren’t rich. Father was a trader and a butcher. There was no scarcity of food, but life was hard. They didn’t always buy father’s goods. Sometimes father would go to market with a cow and return two days later with the same cow. And if he did manage to sell it, he didn’t return home alone because of the robbers. Father always walked around town with a brother, an uncle or a friend. He traveled in a group. Sometimes he traveled in an old taxi with five or six people. The taxi barely went thirty kilometers an hour, they’d crank up the car more and more, sometimes they’d spend half a day cranking it. In the meantime, they’d drink coffee, play some cards, and they stuck together. Because of the robbers. Jews were uneasy everywhere. A Jew either existed or not, depending on the desire of the goys.

Chapter 7

Dov

The goys always said: It’s the nature of the Jew to cheat the Christian.

And I tell you: The Jew had no choice. He had no land. He had to be a trader. The goy had land. The goy always had food in his hands. The goy grew pigs in the yard, cows, geese, he had vegetables in the garden, trees full of apples, a field of wheat and cabbage and corn. The Jew had no land, how was he supposed to live? The goy needed sugar, flour, oil, kerosene, clothing, so the Jew opened a grocery, a bakery, and a clothing store. Sometimes, in order to buy at the store, the goy sold a cow to the Jew. They’d negotiate, but not for business. The goy sold the cow to take products home.

The goys needed the Jews to advance in life. Without the Jews’ money they couldn’t have bought a cow or a horse, they couldn’t have bought a plow to plow the field, or wheat seed for bread. The Jews’ money rolled business forward, so what, did it help us? The Germans also needed the Jews for their business, before they decided to throw them into the oven.

Israel, 2001

14:18 at Nahariya Train Station.

I’m on the interurban to Binyamina. On the seaside. The change to the suburban train is in an hour and seven minutes. I look at the window and see a round face in the glass, a silly smile. Maybe because of the Arak in the grapefruit juice. Arak and grapefruit juice goes well with meatballs said Yitzhak and filled my glass for the second time. Dov smiled, saying, very true, drink, drink, let’s make a toast. To the life of the State of Israel. L’chaim. L’chaim. To life. To life.

Beyond the window high risers pass, country homes, a date avenue, a fierce green in tiny plots, diagonal furrows, and sea, sea, sea, sea. The froth on the waves is the color of mud. The Mosque and wall are a soft cream color. And again housing units, again the sea. The air-conditioning on the train is pleasant.