meaning witness . We, the Sonders, or some of us, will bear witness. And this question, unlike every other question, appears to be free of deep ambiguity. Or so we thought.
*
The Czech Jew from Brno, Josef, who is gone now, wrote his testimony and buried it in a child’s galosh under the hedgerow that borders Doll’s garden. After a lot of disputation, and a show of hands, we resolve to exhume this document (temporarily) and acquaint ourselves with its contents. I myself am instinctively and perhaps superstitiously opposed. And as things turn out it is one of the episodes in the Lager that I would least soon relive.
Written in Yiddish, in black ink, the manuscript consisted of eight pages.
‘ And there ’, I began, ‘ a girl of five stood and . . . Wait. I think it’s a bit mixed up.’
‘Read!’ said one of the men. Others seconded him. ‘Just read.’
‘ And there a girl of five stood and undressed her brother who was one year old. One from the Kommando came to take off the boy’s clothes. The girl shouted loudly, “Be gone, you Jewish murderer! Don’t lay your hand, dripping with Jewish blood, upon my lovely brother! I am his good mummy, he will die in my arms, together with me.” A boy of seven or eight . . . ’ I hesitated, and swallowed. ‘Shall I go on?’
‘No.’
‘No. Yes. Go on.’
‘Go on. No. Yes.’
‘ A boy of seven or eight ’, I read, ‘ stood beside her and spoke thus, “Why, you are a Jew and you lead such dear children to the gas – only in order to live? Is your life among the band of murderers really dearer to you than the lives of so many Jewish victims?” . . . A certain young Polish woman made a very short but fiery speech in the —’
‘Stop.’
Many of the men had tears in their eyes – but they weren’t tears of grief or guilt.
‘Stop. She “made a very short but fiery speech”. Like hell she did. Stop.’
‘Stop. He lies.’
‘Silence would be better than this. Stop.’
‘Stop. And don’t put it back in the earth. Destroy it – unread. Stop.’
I stopped. And the men turned away, they moved away, and slackly sought their bedding.
Josef, the chemist from Brno, was known to me here at the Lager, and I considered him a serious man . . . I am a serious man, and I am writing my testimony. Am I writing like this? Will I be able to control my pen, or will it just come out – like this ? Josef’s intentions, I’m sure, were of the best, even the highest; but what he writes is untrue. And unclean. A girl of five, a boy of eight: was there ever a child so fiendishly experienced that it could grasp the situation of the Sonder?
For a few moments I read on in silence, or I dragged my sight down the rest of the page . . .
A certain young Polish woman made a very short but fiery speech in the gas chamber . . . She condemned the Nazi crimes and oppression and ended with the words, ‘We shall not die now, the history of our nation will immortalise us, our initiative and spirit are alive and flourishing . . .’ Then the Poles knelt on the ground and solemnly said a certain prayer, in a posture that made an immense impression, then they arose and all together in chorus sang the Polish anthem, the Jews sang the ‘Hatikvah’. The cruel common fate in this accursed spot merged the lyric tones of these diverse anthems into one whole. They expressed in this way their last feelings with a deeply moving warmth and their hopes for, and belief in, the future of their . . .
Will I lie? Will I need to deceive? I understand that I am disgusting. But will I write disgustingly?
Anyway, I nonetheless make sure that Josef’s pages are duly reinterred.
It sometimes happens that when I pass the Kommandant’s house I see his daughters – on their way to school or on their way back. Now and then the little housekeeper accompanies them, but usually the mother does – a tall, strong-looking woman, still young.
Seeing Doll’s
*
The Czech Jew from Brno, Josef, who is gone now, wrote his testimony and buried it in a child’s galosh under the hedgerow that borders Doll’s garden. After a lot of disputation, and a show of hands, we resolve to exhume this document (temporarily) and acquaint ourselves with its contents. I myself am instinctively and perhaps superstitiously opposed. And as things turn out it is one of the episodes in the Lager that I would least soon relive.
Written in Yiddish, in black ink, the manuscript consisted of eight pages.
‘ And there ’, I began, ‘ a girl of five stood and . . . Wait. I think it’s a bit mixed up.’
‘Read!’ said one of the men. Others seconded him. ‘Just read.’
‘ And there a girl of five stood and undressed her brother who was one year old. One from the Kommando came to take off the boy’s clothes. The girl shouted loudly, “Be gone, you Jewish murderer! Don’t lay your hand, dripping with Jewish blood, upon my lovely brother! I am his good mummy, he will die in my arms, together with me.” A boy of seven or eight . . . ’ I hesitated, and swallowed. ‘Shall I go on?’
‘No.’
‘No. Yes. Go on.’
‘Go on. No. Yes.’
‘ A boy of seven or eight ’, I read, ‘ stood beside her and spoke thus, “Why, you are a Jew and you lead such dear children to the gas – only in order to live? Is your life among the band of murderers really dearer to you than the lives of so many Jewish victims?” . . . A certain young Polish woman made a very short but fiery speech in the —’
‘Stop.’
Many of the men had tears in their eyes – but they weren’t tears of grief or guilt.
‘Stop. She “made a very short but fiery speech”. Like hell she did. Stop.’
‘Stop. He lies.’
‘Silence would be better than this. Stop.’
‘Stop. And don’t put it back in the earth. Destroy it – unread. Stop.’
I stopped. And the men turned away, they moved away, and slackly sought their bedding.
Josef, the chemist from Brno, was known to me here at the Lager, and I considered him a serious man . . . I am a serious man, and I am writing my testimony. Am I writing like this? Will I be able to control my pen, or will it just come out – like this ? Josef’s intentions, I’m sure, were of the best, even the highest; but what he writes is untrue. And unclean. A girl of five, a boy of eight: was there ever a child so fiendishly experienced that it could grasp the situation of the Sonder?
For a few moments I read on in silence, or I dragged my sight down the rest of the page . . .
A certain young Polish woman made a very short but fiery speech in the gas chamber . . . She condemned the Nazi crimes and oppression and ended with the words, ‘We shall not die now, the history of our nation will immortalise us, our initiative and spirit are alive and flourishing . . .’ Then the Poles knelt on the ground and solemnly said a certain prayer, in a posture that made an immense impression, then they arose and all together in chorus sang the Polish anthem, the Jews sang the ‘Hatikvah’. The cruel common fate in this accursed spot merged the lyric tones of these diverse anthems into one whole. They expressed in this way their last feelings with a deeply moving warmth and their hopes for, and belief in, the future of their . . .
Will I lie? Will I need to deceive? I understand that I am disgusting. But will I write disgustingly?
Anyway, I nonetheless make sure that Josef’s pages are duly reinterred.
It sometimes happens that when I pass the Kommandant’s house I see his daughters – on their way to school or on their way back. Now and then the little housekeeper accompanies them, but usually the mother does – a tall, strong-looking woman, still young.
Seeing Doll’s
Similar Books
