It's 2:30 in the morning. I can't sleep. Someone took the
pillow I like. I'll just add some hot water to my lemon tea.
I like it piping hot.
It's freezing outside and foggy. Who are all those people
standing at attention out there in the rainstorm? Thousands
of them, rows upon rows. Why don't they put their coats on?
It looks as if they are wearing rags and many of them are
without shoes. I see swollen feet full of cuts and sores. Why
don't they go home?
Oh, I see watchtowers with machine guns manned by the SS in
long overcoats and fur hats, warming themselves by a stove.
And down below are the Ukrainian guards in their warm hats,
trying to keep a fire going. Why, even the dogs are in their
kennels. No one is getting beaten tonight, or bitten by
savage dogs or pulled out of line and shot down by the SS.
It's a peaceful night in Auschwitz.
Those poor souls! They're after another day of backbreaking
labor in the freezing weather, running along, barefooted, on
sharp stones, trying to avoid a whip or bullet, at the same
time making sure not to drop the heavy rock on their back,
and then chased all along the two-hour run home. They've had
their meal, some murky liquid with a handful of sawdust
bread.
No, the bed lamp has not been fixed. It's going to be dark
again tonight. That's good. One can't see the snarling dogs
or the sadistic German smirks.
It's a good time to be with the family. From the small
window, one can see the chimney. Who will be coming out
tonight? The children? Wife? Parents?
Before they can enter the barracks, they must go through the
roll call. Not everyone will make it. But tonight is too cold
for the master race to play cat and mouse. So they'll just
leave them out there in the storm.
It's a peaceful night in Auschwitz, tonight.
How can I just stand here? I must go and help them! I'll make
a flask of hot soup. Maybe I can find my grandparents. I'll
bring them home for a rest!
The rain has stopped; the fog is clearing. I've been dreaming
. . .
But I still see people out in the cold. A group of mixed-up
teenagers who have left home, moved away from Yiddishkeit.
Now they are out in the cold . . .
A family with nine children in a two-room apartment. Their
father just passed away and they are cold and hungry.
And that baal tshuva who gave up his well-paid job in
order to move to a chareidi neighborhood. He's finding it
difficult to adjust, to place his children in schools. Or
maybe he needs help with his learning?
Then there's the lady with the numbers tattooed on her arm,
sitting by her window every day. Maybe she needs a `good
morning' or someone to fetch her some milk from the
grocery.
I'll go out with my flask of hot, nourishing soup. My tea has
gone cold, anyway. That will do just fine . . .
