Not Even a Number

Surviving Lager C ~ Auschwitz II- Birkenau

Edith Perl, Lindsay Preston

• Publisher: Authors Place Press
• Year: 2022
• eBook ISBN: 9781628658347
• Edition: 2
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: Holocaust History
• Index: History

Over a million people lost their lives in Auschwitz II - Birkenau. At the height of the selections, the murders would peak at 10, 000 a day. Surviving this hell would take more than prayer, more than luck...it was going to take a will to live, a desire to fight, and a need to keep a promise.

***

Rifchu and her family lived normal, happy lives in a small village in the Sub-Carpathian mountains. But that happiness was ripped away from them as anti-Semitism started running rampant like a disease. It began taking hold of everyone around them. Those who were once friends now became vicious enemies. Rifchu began to realize that her world was about to crumble.

On April 18, 1944, Rifchu and her family were ripped from their home and taken to the Mukacheve Ghetto by gunpoint. The conditions were harsh and virulent, but the entire family was alive and together. Their stay in Mukacheve Ghetto was brief. They were loaded into cattle cars and taken to Auschwitz II- Birkenau one month later. The family was torn apart, shoved in different directions. There were no last hugs. No good-byes. As Rifchu's mother and her youngest siblings were being pulled away, Rifchu's mother made Rifchu promise to take care of her sisters, survive the war, and go on to tell the world of the atrocities of the Holocaust.

Rifchu was going to discover that the conditions in the camp were more terrible than she could have even imagined. Survival seemed futile, especially after Rifchu caught the attention of the infamous Dr. Josef Mengele. It didn't' take her long to discover that her brains were her best weapon to survive; she would have to wield them wisely.

CHAPTER ONE

HOME

The sunset cast a golden glow over the rolling hills and lush valleys. Green grass and colored wildflowers blanketed the landscape as far as the eye could see. At the lowest point in the valley flowed the Latorica River. This rapidly running river wound its way around Sub-Carpathia, the far eastern province of Czechoslovakia.

On the outskirts of the Sub-Carpathian Mountains, at the edge of the tiny town of Vlachovice, was a small village; this was where I lived. There were less than thirty families in our village, with nothing more than a dirt path connecting us, and sometimes less than that.

My parents, my grandma, my eight brothers and sisters, and I lived a comfortable life on a farm that had a small onsite mill with a large waterwheel which helped produce the flour and grain. I loved our waterwheel. I loved listening to it at night, the water pressure collapsing paddle over paddle. I loved my home.

My Papa ran the lumber business, and my Momma worked at the mill attached to our house. My Momma had taught me how to make flour in the mill and to do all of the duties a girl should do around the house. I was her “big girl.” I was the one she relied on, and I was more than obliged to be her right hand. I would follow her around every day during the summer, cleaning, cooking, gardening, and tending the mill. I had the routine down so well that I knew what my mother would do or say even before she did. The only time I would leave her side was when the Drummer came to town. When the Drummer came to town, I would act every bit my eleven years. I didn’t care what Momma needed or how many younger kids were hanging on her.

When I heard the distant banging of the drum, I would rush like a whirlwind past Momma, who was typically tending the garden. But she knew me and knew I would be sprinting by, and without even looking up from the earth, Momma would yell, “Take your sisters!”

So, on a very hot and steamy August day, when I heard the banging in the distance and I started to run off, I was stopped by my Momma. “Not so fast, Blondie. Wait for Joli and Goldie.”

“I’m in a hurry, Momma,” I yelled back.

“You can wait,” Momma yelled amidst the flowers and tomatoes, her body bobbing as she worked. I wanted to protest, but I never did. That was not how Momma raised me. So, like I did every time, I waited by the garden fence for my younger sisters, Joli and Goldie, to join me for the walk into town. I tapped my foot impatiently.

“Joli, Goldie, hurry up! The Drummer won’t wait for us!” I called up towards the house.

“Have some patience, child,” Momma chirped to me.

I crossed my hands in a huff. I understood that I had to wait for my sisters, but I didn’t have to like it.

“Baby girl, I want you to uncross those arms!” Momma said. “You don’t have to show the world how you feel. Be stronger than that.”

I dropped my arms and furrowed my brow. Finally, my sisters came out.

“Be good. Hold Goldie’s hand. Don’t let Joli out of your sight. No running. Be home before dark, and be respectful to those around you. Do you hear me, girls?” Momma asked after barking her usual orders.

“Yes, Momma,” we said in unison.

We took off, walking down the dirt path hand in hand. Once we knew we were out of Momma’s sight, we dropped our hands and started running, the dust flying behind us.

When I was Goldie’s age, Momma would take me to the square to hear the Drummer announce the news. I didn’t always understand what he was reporting about, but I loved the excitement, the crowd, and the way the Drummer announced the news.

The Drummer was an old man now. His body was thin from the many miles he walked between villages to report the news. His long, pointy face reminded me of the rats that ran around our barn. When I was little, I would picture his elongated nose growing whiskers, and I would giggle.

It had been almost ten years since I first came with Momma to see the Drummer, and his routine had never varied: First, he took out his pipe, packed it, and lit it. He puffed and waited till the stragglers arrived. In the summertime, he might push his straw hat back off his forehead, take out a handkerchief, and wipe his brow. In the winter, he would rub his hands together and stamp his feet in the snow. His dark bulging eyes would scan the surroundings to ensure that all the townsfolk had gathered in and quieted. We knew the preliminaries were over when the Drummer spat on the ground. When the ground was iced with snow, the spit would splatter black, streaking the white covering around his feet. After he spit and banged on his drum one more time, he ceremoniously removed a long sheet of paper out of his pouch. For all that show, the news was rarely extraordinary.

We waited for the Drummer to speak. He wiped his brow, “A band of gypsies is passing through the area. Coyotes are killing the livestock just outside of town – keep a watchful eye. There will be a town meeting next week to discuss next year’s taxes.” When he was done with his report, the Drummer spat again and headed for the tavern.

While the news was never too exciting, the event of going into town was. Everyone was so friendly and happy. There was always some adult there handing out candy to the kids, which was a real treat for us. We would run around with the other kids, some of whom were neighbors, others that lived in town. The Drummer was an excuse for everyone to come out and enjoy the day.

We would return home, the evening sun low, our feet padding softly in the dust. When Momma came to listen to the Drummer with me, she would spend the journey home explaining the news and telling me that laws and taxes were necessary and that a citizen must respect the government’s wishes. Momma believed that laws must be obeyed. So, when I would take Goldie and Joli, I would give them the same explanation Momma would give me.

“You’re such a goodie two-shoes,” Jolie said, only half-kidding when I told her that we must all follow the rules.

“That’s why I’m the good girl,” I replied.

Joli stuck her tongue out at me, and I stuck mine out at her. Goldi, not wanting to feel left out, stuck out her tongue and started laughing. We all joined in. We laughed freely, without a care in the world. Before we headed home, we made a stop at our neighbor’s orchard to pick some apples. We knew that they wouldn’t mind. Life was sweet.

As we came over the hill, our home came into sight. “Race you!” Goldie yelled out.

We all took off, running towards our house. Our home and flour mill was an overwhelming structure, built by a Russian Czar a century ago. The stone walls were a meter thick, and the window panes were made of steel to protect the onetime ruler. The rear door of the mill was street level, so the farmers could unload their goods. The front of the house had eight steps leading up to the door of the house. While it was more functional than warm and cozy, it was our home. It more than did its job as a place to take care of us financially, physically, and emotionally.

Upon entering the house, I helped Momma with supper. Joli would always be my assistant. I would always take the job of putting the wood in the stove, so Joli wouldn’t burn herself. We would then divvy up the remainder of the jobs: stirring the pots, cutting the vegetables, cleaning, and doing whatever else we were asked.

Our kitchen was quite large given the time. The kitchen contained a wood burning stove and oven and an oversized farmhouse sink, where the dishes would often pile up. The kitchen also had a large wooden table that sat twelve and two couches where my three older brothers slept at night.

Momma was Hungarian, and until she had married my Papa, she had only spoken Hungarian. She learned Yiddish from my Grandma and Ukrainian from the farmers who came to the mill. We never knew what language would fly out of her mouth. Typically, it was Yiddish, the universal language in our home. However, when she was angry or spoke quickly, it would always be Hungarian. I had learned all of the languages spoken in the home, just to keep up with Momma.

Papa owned a lumber depot, and Labji and Moshe would work for him after school. After dark, Papa and Labji, the third eldest boy, would come home from the forest or lumber depot and immediately wash up for dinner. Papa and my brothers would gather in the living room and discuss the day and the ramblings about town. I didn’t like being in the kitchen when Papa and my brothers arrived home from their work in the forest or from the city; I wanted to be w...

Table of contents

• Dedication
• Introduction
• Chapter One - Home
• Chapter Two - Under The Hungarians
• Chapter Three - The Knock At The Door
• Chapter Four - Spring In Mukacheve
• Chapter Five - Passover
• Chapter Six - House Arrest
• Chapter Seven - The Road To The Ghetto
• Chapter Eight - The Mukacheve Ghetto
• Chapter Nine - Broken Ground
• Chapter Ten - The Long Kiss Goodbye
• Chapter Eleven - Go To The Right
• Chapter Twelve - Lucky To Be Alive
• Chapter Thirteen - Lager C, Block 24
• Chapter Fourteen - Roll Call
• Chapter Fifteen - The More You Know
• Chapter Sixteen - The Czech Camp
• Chapter Seventeen - And Life Goes On
• Chapter Eighteen - The Hospital
• Chapter Nineteen - Deep In Hell
• Chapter Twenty - Blood Drain
• Chapter Twenty–One - Clean-Up
• Chapter Twenty–Two - Only The Good
• Chapter Twenty–Three - Escape Plan
• Chapter Twenty–Four - Goldie
• Chapter Twenty–Five - Left Or Right
• Chapter Twenty–Six - Hainichen
• Chapter Twenty–Seven - Sasha
• Chapter Twenty–Eight - The Promise
• Chapter Twenty–Nine - The Plan
• Chapter Thirty - The Forest
• Chapter Thirty–One - En Route
• Chapter Thirty–Two - Terezin
• Chapter Thirty–Three - May 4, 1945
• Chapter Thirty–Four - A New Fear
• Chapter Thirty–Five - Reunion
• Chapter Thirty–Six - Sol
• Chapter Thirty–Seven - For Better Or Worse
• Epilogue
• Acknowledgment