SURVIVORS

SURVIVORS

Isaac entered the darkness of the store hut, glad to be out of the freezing snow that was falling heavily, casting a white blanket across the entire camp. Isaac stamped the snow from his poorly clad feet, creating a puddle on the wooden floor before pushing the door closed with difficulty against the swirling wind.

Pulling down a blanket from one of the many racks that filled this rough hewn, timber shack, each containing a plethora of tools and other stores, he draped the thick, woollen coverlet over his shoulders and hugging it tightly around his thin, striped uniform, he shuffled to the one window and opened the shutter just enough to allow a sliver of daylight to illuminate his haven; a sanctuary that, each and every day, he gave thanks for. Long may it last.

For some reason, fate had decreed that he, Isaac, would be designated the job of maintaining stores. Where others were exposed, daily, to the elements, chopping trees in the forests, labouring on the construction of this hell on earth, he could hide away here through the working day, safe from the barbarity of guards and shielded from this fierce Polish winter.

His body warming, thanks to the blanket, Isaac made his way along one of the aisles that separated the rows of racking and settled himself on the floor, listening to the howling of the wind outside.

“Are we alone?”

Isaac jumped, alarmed, at the sound of this voice coming from behind him in the adjacent aisle. Turning, he stared across the racking but, in the dimness, could only make out the shadow of a man, like him, sitting on the floor with his back against a rack.

“Who are you?”

‘Relax. I ‘m just another Jew like yourself, doing what I have to in order to survive”.

“But how did you get in here? How did you evade the guards...?”

“ I can go wherever I choose. Tell me, how did you land such a cushy number as this?”

Still disconcerted, Isaac took his time before answering.

“I guess I was just lucky. Every day, I ask myself: why me?”

“Ah, the good, old Jewish guilt, huh? I think we’re born feeling guilty. My advice? Forget it, you are just surviving. Nobody can condemn you for that”.

“And you? Do you not feel guilty for surviving?”

The stranger hesitated, seemingly considering this question in depth. Finally, he replied.

“I cannot sleep at night, my friend, if that’s what you mean. I am consumed with two emotions: guilt and self loathing...”

“Fear and I are well acquainted”, Isaac responded. “Guilt is ever present... but self loathing? I have never felt this”.

‘Then you are a very lucky man...”

Isaac is perplexed momentarily but the man continued.

“You see, I have one advantage over most Jews. Our Berlin apartment building was raided, one evening. It was the stuff of nightmares; the sound of jackboots on the stairs, the pounding on doors. By the time I reached home, the raid had been in progress for some time. The Gestapo brutes half pushed, half dragged my father down the staircase and my instinct was to run to his aid but I was frozen to the spot and shrank into an adjoining doorway. When I saw my poor mother being dragged by her hair, I almost cried out but jammed my fist in my mouth lest I betray myself. That’s when she looked up and saw me and mouthed the word: Max, my name. A sharp-eyed officer noticed this gesture and dragged me from my shelter to where my mother and father were being held on their knees. He asked: do you know these people? As they stared at me pleadingly, I answered: No.

I will never forget their looks of betrayal as they were dragged away, tears in their eyes”.

Isaac is stunned at hearing this tale.

“But, surely, they wouldn’t have wanted you to be arrested also? You did the right thing...”

“There’s more, unfortunately. Earlier that same evening, sick of living with the pervading fear, I had taken the cash and jewellery that my parents had secreted in our apartment and I had deserted them, determined to take a train across the border but, consumed with guilt, I could not go through with it and returned home but not, alas, before my parents had discovered my theft. They knew I had abandoned them and, also, they saw the look of relief on my face; relief that they were being taken and I had survived”.

Max begins to sob.

“I’m a coward. I know that. Any other man would have stayed with his parents but, after the coast was clear, I fled back to Anhalter Banhof and carried through with my original plan. In Austria, I paid for new ID and, in time, sought work as far away from Berlin as possible and, here I am. And they? For sure, ashes in an oven or bones in a mass grave. You understand, now, the reason for my guilt”.

Max rises causing Isaac, too, to stand. As he makes his way to the front of the shack, Isaac follows though his heart is pounding and comes face to face with the tall figure, dressed in the imposing, dreaded black uniform of the SS. He gasps.

“I told you I had one advantage over most Jews; I don’t look Jewish. I’m very tall and have, as you can see, blonde hair. With my new ID, I joined the Party and, eventually, the Schutzstaffel and here I am in charge of an Einsatzgruppe in Poland; a true Jewish chameleon. Now you understand the reason for my self loathing”.

Isaac stares, terrified, at sight of this officer.

Max throws open the door of the hut but turns, once more, to address the store keeper, his black uniform contrasting greatly with the whiteness without.

“Remember, friend: survival is everything”.

He trudges out into the deep snow and, within seconds, disappears into the flailing maelstrom of swirling snowflakes.