A DISTANCE FROM THE HOLOCAUST Nelly Miriam Akavz'a Translated by feaaerre Goldman elly was the queen of the barrack. There was no one like her in this barrack where six hundred women lived together side by side. From where I lay, I spent every Spare moment gazing upward with longing at Nelly and her kingdom. The barrack in which we lived could perhaps be com- pared to an enormous long warehouse with three tiers of wooden planks along its walls?and in the center, row upon row of planks with two narrow passages be- tween them. And on these planks the ?merchandise? was displayed horizontally and vertically, body next to body. I was lucky: I was on the middle tier, between my mother and my sister. Here, in this spot, where my right side touched my mother?s body and my left side my sister?s, here was ?my home.? My heart ?lled with love and gratitude toward my mother and my sister for placing me between them. A small bundle of personal possessions served as a pillow for each of us. Our coats were our blankets. Beyond my mother?s right side and my sister's left side, across their bodies, was reality: terrifying, bizarre, insane. But Twas not part of it. Twas between them. in addition to the endless rows of bunks running the length of the barrack, there was one short row arranged across it. On these bunks lived ?privileged? women: The Blockalteste (woman in charge of the block) and her helpers lived on the bottom and middle tier. Above them, on the top tier, lived Nelly. There was nothing above her save the ceiling, which she had decorated with whatever came to hand. Nelly?s quick, graceful body; her smooth, shiny skin; her reddish, soft hair; held me enthralled. As nimble as a rabbit, she would scramble up and down, carrying pots of clean water to her ?apartment? and bringing down the refuse. Along her walls hung a rope with a few pairs of underpants, still hearing some resemblance to clean laundry. Her reddish curls danced as she climbed up and down energetically, so that, at least in my eyes, her beautiful head resembled the sun. I marveled at the difference Mam: Akaw'a, 170m in Poland, lives and writes in Ti?! Ayn). Her novel, My Vineyard, will be punks/56d 1990 in Poland and Starker-[and "Nelly" appears in The Price, public/Jed in He?rew [2y Srj?ivai? Poalz'iir. 52 VOL. 4, No. 3 between Nelly?s hair and that of the other women. Their hair was faded, lifeless, and oily from the constant use of kerosene, the only preparation available to us in our hopeless war against lice. Nelly did not live alone. During the safe hours, when we were reasonably sure that our barrack would not be visited by the Germans, three small heads, those of her sons, would peek out. During all the weeks I observed Nelly and her family, I never once saw the children leave their bunk. Nelly looked after their every need, like a mother bird who takes care of her ?edglings. She had three half-empty sacks ready in case of an emergency. Whenever she was warned of approaching danger, she would hurriedly stuff each child into'a sack half??lled with rags. She would then arrange the sacks next to her in the shape of an adult body and cover them with a blanket, as though another woman were lying beside her with her blanket over her head. When the danger passed, she quickly pulled the children out, fondling them to compensate them for the suffering they had endured. The children had biblical names: Samson, Noah, and David. ?Samson the hero,? she would turn to her oldest son; little David earned the nickname ?David my king?; and to Noah, the middle son, she would often say: ?Noah, you are truly nae/9, a comfort, like your name.? Nelly had a burner on her bunk on which she cooked potatoes for her children. Sometimes she would prepare porridge or corn. While the food was cooking, Nelly and her children sat beside the burner, cross-legged, observing the cooking process, becoming intoxicated with the aroma, savoring the anticipation of their feast. Nelly would then divide the food equally, lest she deprive one of her children. In the evening, when men visited the Blockiilteste and her assistants, Nelly had a visitor too. He belonged to the jewish militia, which was in charge of order and discipline in the camp. w0uld bring Nelly potatoes and bread, sometimes even a piece of soap. She was happy to see him and gave him a place of honor on her bunk. She would ?nish taking care of the children, empty the pots, kiss the three children good night, making sure that they lay with their faces to the wall, with their backs to her and her friend. The children never turned to spy on their mother. . . Who was this Nelly? How had she succeeded in bringing her three children here, into a barrack full of women, each one either a bereaved mother or an or- phaned daughter? Sometimes, when calm settled on the barrack and the women felt tranquil, they would ask her: Nelly, how did you do it? How did you manage it? And Nelly, smiling with satisfaction, would answer willingly. In simple, straightforward words, without lowering her voice, she would tell her story with pride. My attentive ears caught only fragments of her amazing story. I put things together, until I knew the story of her life. hen general mobilization began in Poland, in the summer of 1939, Grisha, Nelly?s hus- band, concealed his wound from the Spanish Civil War during which he fought on the side of the Communists and enlisted in the Polish Army. Grisha was born in a beautiful resort town in the Tatar moun- tains, and there, among the mountains and gullies, among the forests and streams, he spent his youth. He infected Nelly with a love of nature whose beauty was capable of arousing people to heights of creativity and joy. Nelly was very happy with Grisha. Her marriage to him put an end to her many romantic and passionate involvements with both jewish and non-Jewish men. Soon Grisha became disenchanted with the commu? nism of his youth, and, in light of the Open anti-Semitism in Poland, Nelly and he planned to go to Israel. They were simply waiting for their young children to grow a little older. ?I?ll be back soon,? Grisha said to Nelly before he left for the army. ?As soon as we have defeated the Germans, we shall take the children and leave. Till then, you must be strong, Nelly. Take care of the children and yourself.? Grisha left. The Germans entered the city, and in less than a month occupied the whole of Poland. The depor- tatiOns began. Thousands of homes were abandoned in haste, the ovens still warm, the pots left standing on the stoves. Thousands tried to hide in remote villages, but with no success. The birds of prey caught them every- where. The people were torn from every wretched house, every barn, every attic and cellar, and they were con- centrated in the cities, in ghettos surrounded by walls. Nelly?s brother escaped into the woods to join the partisans hiding in caves. Nelly?s parents were deported, and Nelly was filled with gratitude that she had resisted her brother?s insis- tence that she go with them and leave the children with her parents. She would never leave the children, she decided. She would save them, come what may. The ghetto in the city seemed to her the lesser of the two evils. There, among the Jews, she would manage somehow. At first the overcrowding and the confusion in the ghetto prevented her from thinking clearly. She felt alone and helpless. She made inquiries about a family with whom she had lived while attending high school. When this family?s son, Kuba, her former admirer, heard that Nelly and her children were in the ghetto, he came to see them. Nelly was shocked to see him in the uniform of the Jewish militia. W/yea tbe ladders gbetto would be transformed into cm inferno, wbetz babies would be windows?bet cbz'ldrett would lie quietly in Boleb?s cellar; cbewz'ng on a slz'ce of bread. ?Have you lost your mind, Kuba? You? \X?hat pos- sessed you to join that riffraff, those collaborators?? Kuba explained to her briefly that he had done it to save his parents. He simply did not see any other way. ?If it wasn?t for the fact that I know what is going on,? explained Kuba, my parents would have been deported long ago. I also know something no one else knows yet," he added bitterly. know where they are taking the transports and what happens there.? Then, pointing to his shiny uniform, he added, ?All this is only to confuse the enemy. Believe me, I can help more this way." Nelly did not have the strength to delve too deeply into the signi?cance of his words. Her children were weak and desperately tired. Kuba?s eyes rested on Nelly and he said: ?You are still as beautiful as ever, Nelly.? She smiled at him, a little embarrassed, but with a provocative look in her tired eyes. He took her and her children to the room he shared with his parents. It was a small room, but, given the conditions of the ghetto, a room for only three? people was considered a great luxury. Twelve or thirteen people were crowded into other rooms. Kuba?s parents received Nelly and her Children kindly. They immediately set about rearranging the room so that a third of it was allotted to Kuba?s parents, a third to Nelly?s children, and a third to them, the two of them. Kuba took good care of all the Occupants of the room. He was able to obtain food unavailable in the ghetto. In the morning he would leave for his unspeci?ed duties while Nelly went with her three children to the orphanage, a few houses away from their room. Here, working hard among the many abandoned Children, she would silence her guilty conscience about Kuba and his connections with the Germans and about herself and her relationship with him. NELLY 53 ecause of his position, Kuba knew in advance that the liquidation of the ghetto was fast ap- proaching. All members of the militia knew perfectly well what was about to happen. They were requested to spread false rumors in order to avoid panic. According to the real plan, all men and women over the age of ?fty (that is, all those considered un?t for forced labor) and all children below the age of fourteen would be liquidated. They would be collected into enormous groups and machine-gunned to death. Kuba knew this. Other members of the Jewish militia knew it also, for they had been requested to cooperate. The Germans also demanded the cooperation of the leader of the Jewish community, a well-known lawyer. They demanded that he help organize matters in such a manner so that all would go smoothly, without excessive 'panic. He refused. ?Why do you refuse?? he was asked. ?You shouldn?t refuse,? they said. ?If you do what you are told, you and your family will fare better. You will be able to save a few old people and a few children, those particularly important to you.? But he refused, and, together with his wife and his two daughters, he went out to join those still left in the ghetto. Not so with Kuba. On the appointed day he hid his parents in a bunker in the hope that as a reward for his zealousness and obedience he would be allowed to transfer them into the camp, where the ?t were taken for work. Unfortunately, his friend, another militiaman, found the bunker, and in ?uent Yiddish, in a friendly, calm voice, told the frightened old people to come out because ?there was no longer any danger." They came out and were shot on the spot. When Nelly heard from Kuba what was about to hap- pen, she decided save her children. With Kuba?s help she slipped out of the ghetto and walked about the city, like an escaped murderer, terri?ed that one of her former acquaintances would recognize her. Toward evening she managed to slip a note to Boleslav, the Pole, who had also been one of her admirers in high school. He came, looking around suspiciously. In a strangled voice, he asked her: ?Why did you come, Nelly? You know that it?s terribly dangerous for you? and for me too.? Nelly looked at him in despair. Her lips stammered a few disconnected phrases. From these sentences Bolek understood her desperate cry for help. Her words awak- ened his compassion, as well as the dormant feelings of a man toward the woman he had once loved. They entered a dark boulevard, and Nelly told him brie?y about what was happening in the ghetto and about her three children. ?You must help me, Bolek. I beseech you.? Drops of perspiration covered Bolek?s forehead despite the chill of the evening. He heard her 54 TIKKUN VOL. 4, No. 3 words: ?You told me once that you loved me, that you wanted me; well here I am only you must help my children.? He was shocked at the humiliation she was forced to undergo. ?Do you think me such a cad?? ?It is I who am begging you,? she said, wishing to make it easier for him. ?Take me and my children.? Bolek sat tense and dazed. Then, quietly, he began to tell her about his life, his anti-Semitic wife who jeered at him because he was incapable of stealing from abandoned Jewish apartments. ?My life isn?t easy either.? Again they sat in silence. Time passed quickly, but neither of them could think of a suitable plan. From time to time they heard footsteps. From time to time they saw the shadows of passersby hurrying on their way. The ticking of Bolek?s watch shattered the peace- fulness of the evening. The loud hammering of their hearts disturbed the silence. ?Nelly,? Bolek said ?nally, ?if you will stay with me, I?ll leave my wife and my work; we?ll run away to some village. We?ll make a new start.? ?What about my children?? she asked. Bolek fell silent. They moved stealthin in the direction of a coal cellar, an airless, dark place, dank and ?lthy. Their eyes became accustomed to the darkness, and with their bands they cleared a small space by moving some blocks of wood and lumps of coal. ?Tomorrow, when my wife is out of the house, I?ll take some blankets and a little food and water and bring them here,? Bolek said. ?And tomorrow I shall bring my children here.? She clung to him. always knew that you were a good man,? she said. He stroked her hair and with his lips tasted her salty tears. She drew him toward her, tender and quivering. The next day Nelly brought her children there one by one. Three times she left the ghetto for the cellar, each time taking a different route, each time hiding one of her children against her body, beneath the large peasant scarf wrapped around her. Kuba helped her take the children out of the ghetto. Bolek helped her bring them into the cellar. When at last she had accom- plished the mission she had set for herself, her exhausted legs would no longer carry her and her tortured body was on the verge of collapse. But what did all this matter compared to the wonderful feeling of knowing that her children were safe? Tomorrow, when the luckless ghetto would be transformed into an inferno, when babies would be flung from windows, when mothers would be whipped systematically, when bodies would be trampled in pools of blood?her children would lie quietly in Bolek?s cellar, chewing on a slice of bread. (Continued on p. 127) let it, infect everything, paralyze every action?including, I should say, the act of writing this. Because if love or loss, direct emotional experience, cannot confer empathy and morality, what can we expect historical knowledge to do? Pol Pot was well educated; he probably knew all about the Holocaust. And apparently that didn?t stop him from staging one of his own. The second half of the stories in A Scrap of Time con- cern memory and its importance. In one story, set years after the war, a Jewish couple visits the Polish farmhouse in which they hid in a tiny bunker throughout the war. Out of gratitude they have ?nanced the remodeling of the farmhouse, which, they now see, includes a roomy hiding place so?as the Polish couple proudly tells them?the Jewish couple will be more comfortable should they need to be hidden again. In another story, a young Jewish woman, a survivor, leaves her American ?anc? who, wanting to love and save her, urges her to change her name and forget her painful memories. The irony is that while we were working on the translation, my cotranslator kept looking in modern German dictionaries for the meanings-of words in Nazi of?cialese?terms for speci?c army ranks, types of roundups, and ?actions.? And what she kept ?nding was that the words no longer existed; no de?nitions were listed for ordnunga'z'emt or au?eberz'n. The notion that memory and testimony are a moral and spiritual obligation goes beyond the queStion of what we expect them to accomplish. One burdensome by-product of a sense of evil is that some things seem wrong. Among them are sins of omission. It is wrong not to say: the Holocaust happened, and it was not glamorous or romantic. And it seems inexcusable to act as if no one will be changed by hearing these words, as if no one will be saved, as if evil cannot be struggled against. To say that evil is part of human nature, that the Dachau Kommandant went to work?why bother then to discuss it, better just to let it drop?is not only incorrect, but cowardly and dangerous. Whenever I hear anyone using metaphors of the barnyard to describe human behavior, I steel myself for something suspect to come. But once again I ask the dead to forgive me, because I want to be very clear. What I mean by the necessity of action in the face of some possibly ineradicable strain of evil is this: if you put a flock of chickens in the barnyard, sooner or later the rest of the chickens will start pecking the weakest one. This is the mystery of cruelty and evil. But to know this is no reason not to try to stop it, not to try to save the chicken from being pecked. I could nOt live in this world without saying: look, that chicken is being peeked. Stop, stop pecking that chicken. Because when you no longer say it, no longer feel the responsibility to say that it has happened and is happen- ing, the words you use to say these things mysteriously disappear, and soon no one is saying them. It is impor- tant not to let the words vanish, to remember, to keep repeating: the Holocaust happened. It was not glamor- ous or romantic. It was not abstract. Six million men, women, and children died horribly, and the very im- possibility of imagining so much needless, cruel death . is precisely the reason why we must keep pushing our- selves to imagine. El NELLY (Continued from p. 54) be next day, the people who were ?t left the ghetto and marched under armed German guard toward the camp. Jewish militiamen helped or- ganize the columns. They tried to calm frantic mothers by promising them that no harm would befall their chil- dren left behind in the ghetto. As a reward for their ef?cient help, the militiamen were entitled to the use of horses and carts in order to transport their possessions from the ghetto to the camp. They were even permitted to stop over in the city and make their ?nal arrangements before the liquidation. On the way, Kuba picked up Nelly?s children, wrapped like bundles, and hid them in the bottom of the cart, thus transferring them into the camp. Now they were there with Nelly, on the upper bunk, between the window and the door of the barrack?three small creatures alone among the adult population of the camp, which consisted of thousands of bereaved parents: the only males among the hundreds of women in the barrack. We, the women without special privileges, left each morning at dawn after the roll call to work for the Germans, in their factories. Those who were responsible to the Germans for the productivity and ef?ciency of the work, ruled their slaves mercilessly. From time to time the Germans would storm the factories and take away people for outdoor work. The most common out- door work in the camp was the digging up and desecra- tion of graves (the camp was situated on the site of an ancient Jewish cemetery). The Germans delighted in forcing their prisoners to dig up the graVCS, l?emOVe the remains of the dead, pile them up, and burn them- A heavy, overpowering stench enveloped the whole camp. Trained dogs urged on the enfeebled workers; Often, incited by their masters, the dogs would bite the living flesh of their victims. Those who could not continue would be removed, together with the remains from the graves, and burned. Weeks and months passed, and the heavens grew dark TIKKUN VOL. 4, No. 3 127 and wept long. But there was no salvation in the weeping heavens. We could not change our wet clothing nor warm our thin bodies wrapped in rags. One day the joints of my legs became swollen. I could barely walk because of the excruciating pain. My body burned with fever. I presented myself to the Blockalteste, who announced at the roll call: ?sick one.? I was sent to the barrack for the sick. Here, not only did our doctors and nurses ?ght against diseases, but they also devised all kinds of ruses to save their patients from the ever-present German threat to ?liquidate? the hospital. Here, too, there were roll calls in the morning. When I stood on the parade ground, blurred images danced before my eyes and black spots seemed to separate me from the others. Leading the guards was an enormous, pathological being, in the uniform of an 35 female of?cef, a kind of androgynous creature, dressed in a skirt yet his face shaven like a man?s. His voice was masculine and on his head perched a female of?cer?s hat. This strange, disturbed creature delighted in slapping people indiscriminately. Once, toward evening, when a school friend arrived with a small pot of soup, for me, I wanted to say something pleasant to her, but my mind was completely blank. I tried to remember what we had discussed before the war. What had we talked about? I could not remember. One evening I was warned that the hospital was to be ?purged? the next day. My sister came and helped me escape. I struggled against the pain that had spread to the joints of my whole body. I crawled more than I walked. She led me to a different barrack, the one to which we had been transferred during my absence. They often transferred us from barrack to barrack, from place to place, each new place a hundred times worse than the one before it. Nelly and her children were not there. I asked about her, but no one could give me a de?nite answer although everyone knew that Kuba had perished. One day the whole camp had been ordered to pass a long row of Jewish militiamen lying dead and dis?gured on the ground. The Germans had grown tired of their Jewish helpers and had shot them all, and then?or perhaps before?they dis?gured them with knives. They arranged the butchered bodies in a single row and forced all the prisoners of the camp to look at them. That was how Kuba met his death. But no one knew what had happened to Nelly and her children. Finally, one day the war came to an end. Very slowly, unsteadily, damaged and marred, life acquired its civi- lized form. hirteen years later, I left the suburb of Neve Amal in Herzlia to catch the bus to Raanana. I was working at the neighborhood hospital on the outskirts of Raanana. Next to the bus stop was a kiosk where newspapers, cigarettes, cold drinks, bagels, 128 TIKKUN VOL. 4, No. 3 and pastries were sold. As I was waiting for the bus, deep in thought, a van stopped next to the kiosk. A woman dismounted from the driver?s 'seat and went quickly to open the doors of the van. She was dressed in a pair of casual pants and a sports shirt. My attention was caught by her red hair. She took an enormous pastry tray out of the van and handed it to the man in the kiosk. My bus arrived in the meantime, but I did not board it. I followed the woman, hoping it was Nelly. Her body was somewhat heavier, her hair a little thinner, her face less animated. But it was she?there was no mistaking her. ?Nelly,? I said. She turned and looked at me, startled. was there too,? I said. was one of those hundreds of faceless women, but you were different with the children up there, on the top.? I stopped, confused. We were silent for a long moment, examining each other. ?What happened to them? What'happened to the children?? I asked ?nally. Nelly shrugged her shoulders faintly and shook her head. ?Not even one?? ?Not even one.? We grew silent. Nelly came to herself ?rst. live not far from here. My husband came to Israel with Anders?s army. He organized everything for me. We have a little girl of four.? A sad smile lit up her face. ?Grisha always said that the fourth child would be a girl. And you?? work here, at the h0spital.? I pointed in the direction of Raanana. have a little girl of two.? We stood in silence. Children wearing green shirts and carrying knapsacks on their backs passed by us. Their chatter was swallowed by the noise of the bus as it stopped again for the passengers at the station. ?Only thirteen years have passed since then,? Nelly reflected aloud, ?and imagine?a new life, unbelievable.? Nelly was about forty years old, but for me these thirteen years were almost half my lifetime. ?Yes, it?s unbelievable,? I whispered. ?But all the same, there is no denying it." . After we parted, Nelly turned around and said: told my husband many things, but I did not tell him everything. I did not want to hurt him.? Her face wore an expression of uncertainty, a mixture of shame and remorse. But she looked me straight in the eyes, testing my reaction. ?You did well, Nelly,? I said. ?Who can possibly tell everything? There is no need. Anyway, people would be incapable of understanding.? She smiled at me, relieved. I boarded the bus. Through the window I saw Nelly climb into the van, start the igni- tion, and drive off to deliver the rest of her pastries. El