I Will Plant You a Lilac Tree (16 page)

It was the same for me. I didn't care if my hands were dirty or if the blood from picking off lice was still under my fingernails. All I worried about was if the ladle would go deep enough to come up with a turnip or a piece of potato peel for me. Then my worries increased when the pain in my back and abdomen returned as time went on. This made standing for hours at the place of assembly more difficult.

Our
Blockälteste
was neither gentle nor kind. I was therefore surprised to hear a softer tone of voice when she made an announcement: “I need ten volunteers this morning for a blood test. It doesn't hurt, and you'll get a cup of milk afterward.”

It was hard to resist a cup of milk. I was about to raise my hand when I remembered something Fella had said when we first met: “Don't
ever
volunteer. It's never anything that will benefit you. I did it once. They made me clean barracks all night long. I still had to go to work in the morning. It wasn't worth the little extra food they gave me that day.”

Still, I longed for that cup of milk. I could almost taste it.

The ten women who did volunteer didn't return for several days. When they came back, there was talk of sterilization, of being robbed of their womanhood.

Apart from being fed, the most important part of the day for us occurred in the evening:
going to the latrine. The open toilet with twelve holes cut out of a board was a privilege for which permission was needed. One night I was lucky. I made it in before the curfew whistle sounded, with time to spare to use the washroom. The absence of soap and a towel was no longer an issue. Such luxuries did not exist in Birkenau. I used the hem of my dress to dry myself.

The three hundred women who were on Oskar Schindler's list for Brünnlitz had thus far been untouched by the dreaded selections. But then came the morning when SS women moved us to a hut closer to the shower barrack. Huddled on my new bunk, I tried to make peace with my fate, for I knew moving could mean only one thing.

Then I walked over to Eva's bunk. I was glad to see her eyes didn't have that vacant look. No longer silent, as she had been ever since we arrived in Birkenau, she started talking. “No matter what happens, we'll be friends to the end,” she said.

We hugged and we cried, thinking our days were numbered.

•   •   •

When I heard children walking by the hut, whimpering and crying out for their mothers, I felt as if my heart were breaking apart. I rushed to the door wanting to offer a kind word. Unable to get nearer to them as they clutched their dolls and teddy bears, I listened as SS men spurred them on to walk faster, telling them they would see their mothers sooner if they did. I knew only too well where they were headed.

Later that night sickening fumes from the crematorium filled the hut.

•   •   •

New transports arrived daily, bringing Jews from Hungary and Greece who told tales of mass deportations throughout Europe. One day Birkenau was brimming with people; the next day it was nearly empty. I wondered why I was being kept alive.

Winter had come, this much I knew, for it
was very cold. Though what year it was no longer was clear. Hunger and sleep deprivation had wreaked havoc on my memory. Night after night I woke up in a cold sweat expecting it to be my turn for the gas chamber.

One afternoon I had diarrhea and was given special permission to use the toilet. When I returned, the entrance to the barrack was blocked by SS men. I tried running because I feared this meant selection. A guard saw what I was doing and pulled me back.

“This pig here tried running away!” he shouted.

I had been through selections before, but this one was far more serious. An SS man pointed left or right while his assistant entered names or numbers into a ledger. Quickly, I undressed while waiting in line. I pinched my cheeks to make them look rosy.

The SS man conducting the selections pointed to the left when it was my turn. My hands began to tremble; my back stiffened
into a cramp. I wanted to scream but let out a barely audible groan. Dazed, I dressed and waited to be led outside. Guards had their rifles on me as well as on other prisoners in this line, as if we had the strength to resist our death sentence.

The sun's orange glow merged with the smoke coming from the crematorium, creating a most unusual sight. It was as though the sun had been caught in a net of smoke. This was a sunset like I had never seen before.
My last sunset
, I thought:
I will never see another
. Soon they would come for me, tell me the lie that I was to take a shower—one with gas.

While waiting for the inevitable, I watched as other prisoners marched in rows of five, singing a popular camp song. They seemed to be strong and vigorous. That was the odd thing about Auschwitz-Birkenau: contradictions, contradictions.
They must work in the crematorium, getting extra rations
, I thought. That's why they looked so well fed.

The refrain of their song was always the same: “Never say this is your last walk.” I had heard the song before; I could hum it. However, this time it sounded as if the refrain was meant for me.

Soon another group of prisoners marched by, and while the guards were looking elsewhere, I slipped into the quickening flow of these marchers. If the women in this group saw what I had done, they did not betray me. I worked alongside them that evening, carrying stones from one place to another, not quite clear why. It was exhausting. It would soon be time for the nightly roll call, and that worried me. I had no choice but to march to the place of assembly.

Blockältestes
walked back and forth, consulting lists. There was something wrong with the count. “I have one too many,” I heard my
Blockälteste
say.

It took hours to tally the numbers. In the end we were dismissed. I went back to my barrack as if I still belonged. When Eva saw me,
she came running with outstretched arms. “Hannelore, thank God you are here. How did you do it?”

When the
Blockälteste
saw us, she cried out, “It was you who held up the count! I should turn you in.”

I shrugged my shoulders and walked away.

“It will cost you. You better be prepared to pay,” the
Blockälteste
shouted after me. But I already knew that I would have to part with my bread ration.

It was a small price to pay for my life.

In time my hair grew back. It wasn't as though I had a full head of hair again, but a little bit of stubble began to grow and there were even a few curls. Every time my hand went up to touch the curls, I smiled. Having hair would make me look and feel like a girl again.

There was little else to smile about. Although I was always hungry, it was impossible to eat the watery soup because it tasted funny, like it was laced with chemicals. And it smelled bad, too. Hella thought the chemicals were put into the soup to stop our menstrual periods.

Winter wouldn't end that year. Sleet and freezing rain fell on top of the packed snow.
Except for going to the place of assembly, we stayed inside the hut, where infectious diseases ran rampant. One day I developed a bad head cold. Earlier I had looked through a pile of garbage, hoping to find some potato peels I could eat, but I saw nothing except some rags, frayed strips from a torn blanket. I wrapped the rags around my head, making the icy-cold barrack just a little more tolerable.

Another day I found a shard of mirror in Hella's bunk. Unable to resist, I took a look at myself. What I saw was a skeleton whose wrinkled skin resembled that of an old woman.

Oh God
, I thought,
if this is what I have become, they are certain to take me away with the next selection
. I waited for it to happen.

Miraculously, Eva felt better again, but the endless cold days lingered like a dark curtain. The older women continued to huddle together, exchanging recipes, reminiscing about the past. Oskar Schindler's name was seldom mentioned anymore.

My suffering continued. Night after night I was wracked with pain in my back and belly. My skeleton-like body rubbed against the planks of the bunk. There was no comfort to be had except in my dreams. I made ample use of them—the only escape available to me.

One night in a dream I imagined I heard someone shouting, “Schindler women, up and out!”

What a delightful dream
, I thought, rubbing my eyes. To my astonishment I realized it was not a dream at all. Several SS men were standing in the center of the hut reading off names, not numbers. I heard Eva's name being called loud and clear: “Eva Suesskind.” This was unbelievable! How could it be? Anxiously, I waited for my own name to be called. At last I heard it: “Hannelore Wolff.”

I rushed down from my bunk to catch up with Eva. There was music playing as we marched outside. I recognized the lively tune of “Rosamunde.” It was too good to be true; we
had been addressed as “Schindler women”!

Overseers with yellow patches sewn to their striped uniforms, identifying them as Jews, hurried us on. There was no time for sluggishness. No words were exchanged. I tried hard to keep up the pace, but suddenly I stopped. The rosy reflections of the early dawn outlined an unmoving shape lying across the electric fence—the shape of a woman. Her right arm was raised upward as if in prayer, stretching toward the sky. Her head dangled backward. My body shuddered at the sight, a reminder of what I had contemplated many times myself.

The doors to the waiting cattle cars had been opened. The overseers worked with brutal speed, pushing us inside. One prisoner standing on the ground tugged at my dress as I went up the ramp, stopping me. He pressed a piece of paper in my hand and then spoke to me in rapid Yiddish: “You have a chance of staying alive away from this place. Please, if you do
survive, contact the people whose names I have written down. Tell them you saw me in Auschwitz, at the end of 1944.” Before I had a chance to tell him I would do as he asked, he was gone.

In spite of the joy at leaving Auschwitz and the promise of going to Oskar Schindler's camp, it proved to be a difficult trip for all of us. On our journey to Auschwitz we had not been as frail—we had been better able to cope with the horrid conditions inside the crammed cattle car.

Tears came easily now. Just thinking of Dick and my family started me sobbing. I still had a few crumpled photographs of my family hidden in my clogs. I remembered every detail of those pictures; even without looking I could conjure up the images. There were Mama and Papa at a resort called Bad Nauheim. Mama, beautifully dressed in a steel gray outfit that hugged her small waist and flared out into a full skirt. Her hair was piled on top of her head, as had been the
fashion. Papa, looking handsome, held a cane in his right hand. He stood behind Mama, one hand draped protectively around her shoulder. How stately they both looked! Mama had told me the picture was taken on their honeymoon.

Hannelore's parents, Karoline and Martin Wolff
.

The other photograph was of Wolfgang and Selly, both of them smiling, their eyes full of mischief. That's how I remembered my brothers.

But Papa was dead and so was Selly. I would never, ever see them again. And what about Mama and Wolfgang? If only I knew for certain what had happened to them . . .

I was so caught up in remembrances of times past that I didn't pay attention to what was going on around me until someone grabbed my arm. “You're the only one she will talk to. Do something.”

I turned and saw what all the commotion was about. Some women had tried to take a piece of bread away from Hella. Screaming at them, she guarded the chunk of bread ferociously. But they kept on baiting her.

“We don't want very much, just one bite.”

“It's mine,” Hella shouted. “Now get away from me!”

The women lunged at her and grabbed the piece of bread. Hella's face was ablaze. She let out a guttural sound and said, “I hope the Germans kill all of you.”

“I don't want to talk to her after what she just said,” I said.

A woman named Rosie, who had appointed herself our leader, was still fairly strong. Approaching Hella in a menacing way, she said, “You are one of us, whether you like it or not. If the Germans kill us, that means you will be killed too.”

Hella kept on screaming, insisting that her piece of bread be returned. Eva and I looked on in silence.

After what seemed like an endless trip, the train stopped.
God, let this be Brünnlitz
, I prayed.
I don't know how much longer I can hold out on this stinking train. I'm so thirsty, my tongue is sticking to the roof of my mouth
.

The Nazi who opened the door had a mean look on his face. Instead of ordering us to get out fast, as was the usual command, he pointed his riding crop at Hella.

“You. Empty the pail,” he shouted.

Hella froze. When no one else moved, I
stepped forward. Not obeying the Nazi's order quickly could have deadly consequences.