Angel of Auschwitz (16 page)

We came to a row of three one-story concrete buildings bordering a dirt road. The middle one was camp headquarters, the office of Herr Commandant. The guard knocked on the door, then beckoned for us to enter.

Heinrich Schuller sat behind a big desk, reclining in a black leather armchair. His sharp-heeled black boots rested on the corner of his desk. His face was long with a high brow. His hair was straight and shiny black. Dismissing the guards, he ordered his servant, an SS corporal, to draw the drapes to shut out the light. Then he lit a cigarette extending from an elegant silver holder.

“Aha, rebel child, we meet at last,” he taunted.

I hesitated for a moment, as I wanted to assess his character. My father had taught me how to read a person’s character while measuring the size of his shoes. He had an aura of intellectual arrogance, of the prowess of the mind. He was eager to begin our duel of words, confident that he would win. It was part of our agreement, so this story could be told.

He had the power of the Reich behind him, the authority to judge and condemn. He could put to death those who uphold the Truth, but he had no power over Truth. The Truth itself is invincible. The Truth cannot be moved. The Truth is indestructible and immutable. The Truth is forever free.

“Be my guest, Natasza.” His tone was friendly. He pointed to a silver tray of chocolates. Then he poured schnapps into two waiting glasses and handed one to me. “A toast,” he proposed. Then he stood up and
tapped the bowl of his glass against mine. The clink reminded me of the clinking of the heels of the boots of the iron men.

“To world domination,” he said.
“Heil Hitler!”

“To Freedom!” I countered. “May all people be free.”

He drank his schnapps and then poured another glass. I reached for a sweet. Candy was a fantasy for the children of the Holocaust. As I sucked on the candy, I looked around the room.
Where is Boris when I need him most?
I wondered. I supposed he wanted me to find my inner strength, without depending on him to rescue me. I looked back at the Commandant.
How shall I relate to this ambassador from hell?
I asked myself. To my surprise, the ghostly form of Boris coalesced in front of me.

“Have you forgotten my teaching?” he scolded. “Realize that Herr Schuller is not the enemy. There is only one enemy, which lies within the self. That enemy is ignorance: ignorance of love, ignorance of the Truth.”

As I pondered the words of my mentor, I reached for another square of chocolate.
I must not stand in judgment of this man
, I realized.
Even those we call evil are the children of God
.

Schuller gestured for me to sit down in a wooden chair by the window. As I sat, my mind raced forward.
I must devise a plan of action, a strategy of confrontation
, I told myself.
I see that we are about to play a game of mental chess. I must take the offense and make the first move. That will give me an advantage. If I can checkmate the Commandant, I can save my life
. I got up from my chair and stood up as straight and tall as I could. I wanted to look big and powerful. Like a proud red rooster, I puffed up my feathers.

“Who dares to act as the arbiter of Truth?” I asked, daring to challenge his authority. Then, locking my eyes onto his, I drew Archangel Michael’s Sword of Truth. Holding it above my head, I boldly stepped forward in front of his desk, confronting him face to face. As I lowered the sword and pointed it toward him, sparks of blue fire spat out from the blade.

The Commandant could not see my sword. He was blind to the Truth. “The state controls the Truth,” he proclaimed. “The state decides what is real, what is right, and what is true. Submit now to the authority of the Reich.”

“My allegiance is to the Truth,” I replied. The power of Truth overcame my fear. Knowing the Truth gave me the courage to speak it: “The Truth cannot be compromised. It cannot be amended, revised, or updated. The Truth is whole unto itself. Those who tamper with the Truth are prisoners of illusion. Those who live the Truth are free.”

I hoped these words would penetrate his defenses. Perhaps they would open a window in his mind to let in the light.

T
HE CRUEL DEATH OF
her dear friend Rosetta broke Jezra’s spirit. The shock afflicted her soul. The fire of grief consumed her. To escape her suffering, Jezra courted death. She danced with death, flirted with death, and played stone games with the grim reaper. The angels of mercy circled around her, watching, waiting for her final moment to escort her soul from this world to the next.

As healers, we recognized when a person had lost their will to live, when they believed that life was vacant of hope and meaning. Death was busy honoring these calls, arranging for a timely exit from this world, whether by starvation or sickness, accident or torture. The fact that Jezra was caught in the crossfire was not a coincidence. It was her way out of her misery, her method of suicide.

T
HE DAY AFTER THE
massacre, clouds of black smoke billowed from the tall chimneys of the incinerators. An acrid stench permeated the air. Our lungs burned as we inhaled the blood and bones of our brethren. The incinerators were located in a far corner of the camp, distant from the barracks where we lived. Only once had I seen them, but I never forgot.

At least cremation was a more sanitary method of corpse disposal than burial. The healing sisters took risks by sneaking out to the long trenches where the gravediggers worked. With them they carried rags and scraps of cloth for the men to cover their noses and mouths, to protect them from contracting the diseases of human decay.

“W
HY DO INNOCENT PEOPLE
have to die? Is there justice in the world? If God is love, why does He permit these atrocities?” I demanded answers from my mentor.

Boris heard my words, but did not answer right away. My grief from Jezra’s death had overwhelmed me. “Take a deep breath and calm yourself, my child.” He waited a moment for me to regain my composure. “Realize that we interpret life according to our belief systems, yet our beliefs are not real; they are only constructs of the mind derived from our life experience,” explained the professor.

“Oh, Boris, don’t be so scholarly when my heart is broken. Speak plainly.”

“What I mean is—there are no victims. Jezra chose her life and death,” he answered.

“How can you say that?” I screamed at him, speaking out loud. My blood boiled with righteous anger.

“Before a soul incarnates on Earth, it makes many choices about the nature and circumstances of its new life. The soul meets with its spiritual advisors and discusses its options. During these counseling sessions, the soul asks questions and receives guidance. Then it makes agreements, arranges to meet other souls, and sets up experiences from which it can learn and evolve. This is how destiny is manifested.”

“Why would anyone choose to suffer? Wouldn’t everyone want candy and cake rather than sickness and poverty?”

“The soul has karmic debts to pay off before it can be free,” he explained. “When people act out of harmony with God’s Law of Love, they accrue a karmic debt. At some future time they will reap the consequences of what they had sown, and the account will be balanced. During these prebirth meetings, the soul maps out plans for its next life. It is advised concerning its karmic record and chooses the lessons to be learned that can resolve the karma.”

“That means we are not victims,” I exclaimed.

“Now you understand,” he answered. “When we are born, we forget the choices we made. Then it appears that things happen to us without justification.”

“But what about the death camps, genocide, and mass extermination? Who would choose to come to Auschwitz?”

“Decades ago, a clarion call was sounded in the heavens. Millions of souls heard and answered the call. They lined up at the Karmic Gates, volunteering for this mission. They said, ‘We will sacrifice our lives so the world will choose a higher way to live. All people are one. No race is superior to another.’

“Karma is the cosmic fire that purifies the soul,” explained my mentor. “Through intense and prolonged suffering, millions of souls are freeing themselves from huge karmic debts.”

“Can races and nations create karma?” I asked.

“Yes. Groups of souls make agreements and learn lessons, but on a larger scale than individuals do. Many wars result from the karmic fire of races and nations in confrontation. The friction of differing cultural beliefs and values explodes into violence. Ideals of racial destiny and superiority provide the justification for killing.”

“Why does history repeat itself?” I asked.

“Because humanity has not learned from past experience. The same lessons come to us in new packaging until we learn to practice compassion, forgiveness, and reverence for life.”

“What is the cause of war?” I asked.

“Limited thinking,” he answered. “People fight over territory and natural resources because they believe that there is not enough for everyone. Justice in the world is necessary for peace among the nations. When people come from the heart, humanity will begin a new era of global cooperation. The rich nations will willingly share their resources, and hunger and poverty can be eliminated.”

“What is the lesson that war is teaching us?” I wanted to know.

“Conflict in the world is a reflection of the inner struggles of the human psyche. We are all at war within ourselves. We are all responsible. Since all people are one, one person at peace can save the world.”

“I
S THE
J
EWISH RACE
carrying a karmic debt from the past?” I wondered.

“That is true,” answered my mentor. “The karmic origins of the Holocaust date back to the time of Exodus. In the days of the Hebrew Bible, people were disconnected from their emotions. It was an accepted norm for one race to annihilate another without feeling remorse.

“When the Israelites invaded the Land of Canaan, they believed they had the right to conquer the region. Because they slaughtered all the people that lived there, they accrued a karmic debt. To free themselves from the web of karma, the Jewish people need to release their anger and blame and find compassion for those who persecuted them.”

“In the midst of our suffering, do you expect us to be capable of offering forgiveness?” I asked.

“That is the challenge that you face by being here, my child,” he answered.

I
PRAYED FOR DELIVERANCE FROM
the endless struggle and horror of my days. My deliverance was death. I longed to escape. “I am ready,” I told God. “Take me. Take me. I trust in You to find me a way out.”

I knew I would not live to see the bright smile of victory. I would not live to witness the Day of Liberation. My fate rested in the hands of God.

A
S MY FEISTY TONGUE
spoke words of Truth to open Heinrich Schuller’s mind, I realized that I was sabotaging my survival. A severe punishment would be forthcoming. My time to walk this earth was short.

Two days after my confrontation with the Commandant, a guard yanked me by the arm and dragged me into the yard. Unfolding a handwritten note, he read:

The guard took me to a waiting vehicle. The driver was a drone, a mechanical man at the wheel. To scare me he pushed down hard on the throttle and revved the engine, making it roar. Then he drove down one dirt road and up the next, then around the corner and down again.

We arrived at the maintenance sector of the camp—where the repair shops, utility buildings, and storage sheds were located. At the end of a long dirt road stood a blue concrete building. It was square in shape, perhaps six meters on each side. After parking the vehicle on the shaded side, the driver signaled for me to get out. He pushed open the heavy steel door and shoved me inside. Behind me, I heard the door swing on its hinges and clank shut.

My body began to quiver and shake as I realized where I was. Echoes of terror reverberated off the walls. Pangs of panic tightened my gut. A bully reached behind me and bolted the door. A second man pushed me into the corner of the room and ordered me to undress. I dropped my dusty clothes into a pile on the floor.

All at once, the three bullies pounced on me. They overpowered me with brute force and threw me down onto a long narrow table in the center of the room. I looked up into their faces, grim and grotesque, as they pulled tight the straps against my skinny naked body.
Clink
—one
cold metal buckle was fastened across my chest.
Clink
—a second metal buckle was fastened tight across my thighs. Electrodes attached to long wires were taped to my arms and legs.

Eager to begin the torture, a fat bully sat behind the control panel, puffing on an imported cigar. He blew smoke rings into the air and flicked the burning ashes onto my naked torso. He leaned over to check the readings on the big dials, then grabbed the end of a long metal handle.

Strapped down on the table, I felt vulnerable and ashamed. My tender pubescent body was being scrutinized by the eyes of evil. What wretched minds seek sadistic pleasure from the agony of their fellow humans?

Snugly gripping the electric throttle with his palm and fingers, the control man began to pull down the handle. The current surged through me as I tensed and writhed on the table. I was
screaming, screaming, screaming
until he pulled up the handle. End of the first assault. The second time, one of the electrodes was thrust up my anus. The pain was unbearable. I do not want to remember. The third time, an electrode was inserted into my vagina. I could not scream. I felt powerless and paralyzed, a prisoner of terror. One more time, and I could not see. During the last assault I passed out.