Memories

I don’t recall what I thought as I was being carried away in the arms of a person I will never know but I do recall the feeling of being loved even though the person holding me was a total stranger. After surviving for 2 years in Bergen-Belsen, the last year alone as my mother had died in the camp, I was being rescued. I entered the camp at the age of 4. I left at the age of 6 but the camp has never left me. Now 75 years later I was returning to the place where so many died including my father and my mother. I have grown to be thankful that I was an only child as that meant at least one less person had to experience what I did over those two years. Time had faded my memory. Only shadows of that time would occasionally return to haunt my thoughts. Now I was preparing to face the reality I had for so long wished would disappear completely from my memory. When I made the decision to take this trip my wife and children pleaded with me to not go. Why face what will surely bring those shadowed memories into full light? I did not have a good answer other than the hope that this trip would place those clouded memories in a place where they would no longer haunt me.  

With trepidation and fear, I found myself at the front gate of the infamous Bergen-Belsen camp. The words overhead on the entrance gate looked evil next to a Nazi swastika. Almost paralyzed I was barely able to take the one final step that would place me back inside what was for so many a literal hell on earth and for so many more their final resting place. I closed my eyes, said a short prayer and with all the strength I could muster in my 82-year-old body I was back inside the fence that once held me in. At once the memories began to overcome me. Tears began to roll down my cheeks but I was not crying. I was too enraged to cry. I was enraged not at what was done to me but to my parents and all those that did not make it out alive. A pang of guilt came over me. Why was I fortunate enough to make it out and live a full life when so many didn’t. I thought about the women that cared for me after my mother died. How they sheltered me in the cold and gave me more of the crumbs they scavenged than they kept for themselves. I remembered how without a word another woman would take responsibility for me when the last one died.

As I moved toward the row of buildings that housed me for those two years I began to recall the sounds of the camp. The cries of children, the shouts of the guards, the wailing of mothers having their children wrenched from their arms knowing they would never see them again. I saw the plume of smoke rising from the building I now know was where bodies were burned. My mother and the other women that cared for me never once spoke a word about what was taking place in that building but even at that young age, I sensed it was evil. I walked directly to the building I lived in with my mother for a year and the other women for a second year. After 75 years I had no issue in recalling exactly which building it was. When I entered I recalled the exact wooden slatted bunk in which I slept. First with my mother than with my other camp mothers. The smells flooded my nostrils to the point I wretched on the floor. This was obviously a common occurrence as immediately a woman came to my aide with a glass of water while helping me sit down. Another woman, without a word, cleaned up the vomit. I could not stomach being in that place any longer and needed to retreat outside.

Once outside I found myself face to face with a person I recognized but could not immediately place. This man seemed to be years older than me so I was not sure why he seemed so familiar. Yet when our eyes locked on each other I knew this man standing in front of me was the son of a camp guard who I used to talk with through the fencing that separated the guards quarters from ours. Jonas was his name and to me, he was a friend while I was in the camp. I remembered how he had passed a cookie to me through the fence one day. I would see him almost daily and often wondered why he would not give me more food as he knew I was near death from starvation. But could this be Jonas? He looks so old and I know my friend Jonas was a year younger than I was when I arrived at the camp. I asked him if he was Jonas and he replied yes Frederick I am Jonas. He remembered me and my name. After all these years we were standing together but this time there was no fence between us. I asked Jonas how he recalled me and what he was doing at the camp that day. Jonas replied that he came to the camp every day, looked at the names on the visitor register on which we indicated if we were interned there and if he recalled the person he would find them and ask for forgiveness. I told him that he was just a child and had no responsibility for what took place. In fact, I told him that in the time I was there he was the only non-Jew who showed me any compassion and for that I was grateful. It is truly possible that if I had not been given that cookie I may not have made it another day. Jonas broke down crying and said that of all the people he had seen visit the camp over the years it was me he was most hoping to see once again. He said as he grew older and understood the horrors that were perpetrated all he could see was my face and sunken eyes behind the wire fence. He explained how that had haunted him all these years and that how now seeing my eyes filled with life gave him a peace of sorts.

I had never thought about how those involved on the other side of the fence could have been impacted. I thought they just went about their lives after the war forgetting those that died and those that somehow survived. But seeing Jonas I now knew that at least one person cared, one person from the other side of the fence has been impacted and scarred. I hugged Jonas and we parted without another word. I will never forget his eyes as I turned to walk away and I hope that him seeing my eyes now will replace the memories that haunted him for so many years. I walked out of the camp and took one last look from the other side of the fence. It was clear that no matter what side of the fence one was on during that horrific period in time, we were all impacted.

After returning from my trip I sensed the shadowed memories beginning to fade even further into an abyss never to be seen again. New memories of the face of my friend Jonas were replacing them. I never spoke to or heard from Jonas again until after he had passed when his son sent me a letter Jonas had written before he died. I read the letter from Jonas first. In the letter, he shared how thankful he was for the opportunity he was given to see me once before he died and for the embrace we shared. Jonas said he was happy to have the memory of my old eyes full of life as something he could cherish. He said he did not know how he could ever show me sufficient honor for the kindness I showed him when we met.  As I finished his letter and read the short note from his son, I realized how Jonas did indeed show me more than sufficient honor. The note was signed, Forever Thankful – Frederick.