The SS cavalry regularly conducted roundups there. They would take the Jews from their homes and beat them up or kill them in the middle of the street. Her father was arrested in one of the first of these roundups. Iréna never saw him again. She and some friends decided to go into hiding in the country, at an uncle’s house, until everything, they thought, got back to normal and the violence ended.
After a few weeks in the country, where she wasn’t worried and ate particularly well, Iréna made up her mind to go back to the city, thinking the danger had passed. It was the feast day of St. Irène, her birthday. She was twenty-one and hoped her mother would give a party for her. Her mother wasn’t at home, but Iréna decided to make preparations for a party, anyway.
Her mother and sister were at the community garden, at the other end of town. Suddenly the SS burst into the apartment and asked her if she knew if her family was hiding Jews whose status was illegal. Iréna answered there was no one hidden in her house. The soldiers were furious. They proceeded to turn the whole apartment upside down. One SS man showed her some photographs and asked her if she knew these people. Afraid her family would suffer reprisals, Iréna chose to keep silent. The soldiers then decided to cart her off. As she went down the building’s narrow stairs ahead of them, she passed her mother and sixteen-year-old sister, who were just coming back. They both looked at her, wondering what was happening. Iréna discreetly signalled to them to ignore her. Her mother began to cry softly, holding her other daughter’s hand very tightly. They passed right by their apartment so as not to attract the soldiers’ attention.
The SS men took Iréna to their headquarters and tried to make her sign certain papers. Iréna refused, saying she didn’t understand their language. She was then sent to the town’s prison. Her mother came to see her a little later. She gave her a blanket and a cushion: “You can sit on it if it’s too cold on the floor or if you have a backache.”
Iréna stayed at another camp before coming to this last one. The first, Auschwitz, established in 1940, included two separate complexes: Auschwitz-Birkenau, the extermination camp, and Auschwitz-Monowitz, the labour camp, where she was taken. The first three days after her arrest, she cried a lot. She felt completely numb for a while, as though she were observing from the outside what she experienced within. We all felt that way at one time or another.
While there, she escaped death thanks to a woman prisoner from her hometown. An SS leader had decided on a whim to send all those Jews to the crematorium whose identification number tattooed on their arms contained the figure seven . Iréna’s number was 24215. The figure one had been tattooed with a longer line at the top, so that it looked like a seven . Consequently, Iréna ended up among the detainees who were going to be sent to the crematorium.
The woman prisoner who dealt with the registers of the camp’s inmates knew Iréna. She went to see the officer right away and proved to him that it wasn’t a seven Iréna had her on her arm because the figure lacked the little cross stroke it often has in Europe. The SS checked the register, saw there had been a mistake, and Iréna was spared.
When she arrived in our camp, she was rather distrustful. But little by little, as we showed her affection, her distrust disappeared. She was the last one to share her story and even let us see her official number tattooed on her arm. That was risky because it was due to a mix-up while being transferred that she had ended up with us. She became a treasure we needed to protect at all cost. We made sure her tattoo was always well covered up by a layer of mud, which we made with water, sand and any dirt we found under our boots. When a soldier came too near her, we would try to divert his attention in every possible way.
Mathilde became her
After a few weeks in the country, where she wasn’t worried and ate particularly well, Iréna made up her mind to go back to the city, thinking the danger had passed. It was the feast day of St. Irène, her birthday. She was twenty-one and hoped her mother would give a party for her. Her mother wasn’t at home, but Iréna decided to make preparations for a party, anyway.
Her mother and sister were at the community garden, at the other end of town. Suddenly the SS burst into the apartment and asked her if she knew if her family was hiding Jews whose status was illegal. Iréna answered there was no one hidden in her house. The soldiers were furious. They proceeded to turn the whole apartment upside down. One SS man showed her some photographs and asked her if she knew these people. Afraid her family would suffer reprisals, Iréna chose to keep silent. The soldiers then decided to cart her off. As she went down the building’s narrow stairs ahead of them, she passed her mother and sixteen-year-old sister, who were just coming back. They both looked at her, wondering what was happening. Iréna discreetly signalled to them to ignore her. Her mother began to cry softly, holding her other daughter’s hand very tightly. They passed right by their apartment so as not to attract the soldiers’ attention.
The SS men took Iréna to their headquarters and tried to make her sign certain papers. Iréna refused, saying she didn’t understand their language. She was then sent to the town’s prison. Her mother came to see her a little later. She gave her a blanket and a cushion: “You can sit on it if it’s too cold on the floor or if you have a backache.”
Iréna stayed at another camp before coming to this last one. The first, Auschwitz, established in 1940, included two separate complexes: Auschwitz-Birkenau, the extermination camp, and Auschwitz-Monowitz, the labour camp, where she was taken. The first three days after her arrest, she cried a lot. She felt completely numb for a while, as though she were observing from the outside what she experienced within. We all felt that way at one time or another.
While there, she escaped death thanks to a woman prisoner from her hometown. An SS leader had decided on a whim to send all those Jews to the crematorium whose identification number tattooed on their arms contained the figure seven . Iréna’s number was 24215. The figure one had been tattooed with a longer line at the top, so that it looked like a seven . Consequently, Iréna ended up among the detainees who were going to be sent to the crematorium.
The woman prisoner who dealt with the registers of the camp’s inmates knew Iréna. She went to see the officer right away and proved to him that it wasn’t a seven Iréna had her on her arm because the figure lacked the little cross stroke it often has in Europe. The SS checked the register, saw there had been a mistake, and Iréna was spared.
When she arrived in our camp, she was rather distrustful. But little by little, as we showed her affection, her distrust disappeared. She was the last one to share her story and even let us see her official number tattooed on her arm. That was risky because it was due to a mix-up while being transferred that she had ended up with us. She became a treasure we needed to protect at all cost. We made sure her tattoo was always well covered up by a layer of mud, which we made with water, sand and any dirt we found under our boots. When a soldier came too near her, we would try to divert his attention in every possible way.
Mathilde became her
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