Birkenau or Brzezinka
Pauline Zamoyski kept her counter clean and sterile, an invisible barrier between the butcher’s wares and the rest of Spain. Every morning she cleaned the counter with a damp sponge to renew the uniform transparency. Every night too, when all the lights had extinguished on her street except for the sallow fluorescents flickering softly over each counter she would begin the process again. Night was the only time when every smudge, every imperfect smear could be rubbed out. The morning lights, the street lights, even the sun light created a glare to cover the smudges but the counter lights diffused only ugly, honest illumination.
When she finished cleaning the counters she would trudge into the back and lie on her yellowed cot in the corner of the room. Opposite the cot was the meat locker where huge slabs of frozen meat hung from metal hooks waiting to be cut up and displayed primly in her counter. The specimens on display were the highest grade; strongly marbled and glistened slightly from the oil and fat of each piece. She despised the whole place because it reminded her of the concentration camp. The meat locker reminded her of the freezing cold train car. People would take icicles off the barred window to melt into drinking water. Then when they got out of the car they were lined up just like the rows of meat in her counter under the yellowing light. At night, she thought she could hear coughing and groaning from inside the locker.
For ten years she lived a quiet life in Madrid behind her counter. For the first seven her husband had been beside her by the counter. She hadn’t been happy then either but she wasn’t alone. Tadeusz, who had been an honest and loyal husband, had left her the shop without instructions on what to do with it. He had intended that she sell the shop and retire somewhere less expensive and that had not hated Jews for four centuries. Of course, people hated Jews everywhere so the intention was moot.
Instead she had kept it and ran it herself. They had lost everything during the war even the few pieces of gold jewelry she had smuggled into the camp as bribes, this store was the only thing left of her husband. They had fled Poland, her hometown, to Hungary leaving everything behind in order to hide with Tadeusz’s family but they were captured there and sent to concentration camps. The Nazi soldiers seized the rest of their belongings. Tadeusz had smuggled in a gold-plated pen at great pains but Pauline did not understand why. They had other more valuable possessions: diamond earrings, pure gold necklaces, even deutsch marks that could have been smuggled more easily.
She had asked him on the train why he was bringing that and he said, “I think we will need it.”
When they made it to the camp they were put on separate sides of the camp divided by two barbwire fences and the railroad tracks. Being without Tadeusz had taken all the hope from her. She depended on her husband for strength. Without him she had no hope. But they had escaped. Tadeusz had somehow bribed a delivery truck driver with her gold jewelry. They had escaped even knowing that ten other people would be killed by starvation because of what they did.
During the war, Spain became an unlikely haven for several thousand Jews. They were mainly from Western Europe, fleeing deportation to concentration camps from occupied France, but also many places from Eastern Europe, especially Hungary and Poland, where Pauline and Tadeusz had been deported from. When the moon was out, they traveled smuggler’s routes to arrive in spain where they would be granted protection.
Life here in Madrid was better-but not much better. The war had ended leaving Europe in ruin. Spain had already been destroyed by its own civil war but had survived the second Great War intact due to their relative neutrality. There were signs of recovery. The few stores that remained no longer had boarded windows and people walked freely down the main streets. Tadeusz had bought an empty store with money from a friendly Sephardic usury at only half the normal rate. After the repairs had been made Tadeusz would proclaim, “We have been truly blessed!” To which Pauline would quietly reply, “Yes, Tadeusz. We are two of the lucky ones.” But even when business was good and they could afford a small apartment room. She never thought they were blessed but it made Tadeusz happy to think so and she loved him.
One evening an old man in a green vest and black pants walked into her story.
“Hello, how are you doing? I’m wandering performer and do you have scraps for my dog.” He said in stilted Spanish.
Pauline regarded him hesitantly. People did not come into the store at this time of night.
“We’re just about to close but I think I can spare you some meat I was about to throw out.” She said. She removed her knife and a piece of meat she was going to throw out and began to cut and quarter the meat to remove the grizzle. The man gave a startled smile and exclaimed, “Ah, that’s wonderful! Where are you from?”
“I’m Hungarian.”
The man gave a wide smile as he switched to Hungarian and said, “No, no, you don’t have to do that, I’m sure my dogs won’t mind a few pieces of fat.”
“You know Hungarian. Where did you say you’re from?”
“Oh, all around,” he winked, “I had a few Hungarian girlfriends when I was stationed there, at least, when their husbands weren’t around. But now I’m just a wandering performer. Maybe you should come to the Plaza Guadaverde and see my performance. I think you would enjoy it.”
“Thank you. I’d love to go but I don’t have the time for that. Wait, did you say you had one dog or two?”
The man hesitated for a moment and then said, “Pardon me, I’m a horrible liar. You see I just can’t afford to buy any meat for myself right now. Times have been tough since the war ended. But since you were going to throw that meat out anyway, why don’t you just give it to me?”
Pauline knew no decent person would make such a request unless they were desperate and she didn’t know anyone who would try so desperately to feed a dog. She took a white piece of paper and wrapped the cuttings as she said, “Where were you stationed?”
“Just Birkenau”
Pauline furrowed her brow. Birkenau was the German name for Brzezinka, the Polish Auschwitz. Now that the war was over, there would be the occasional German passing through to Morocco and then further to Brazil, some dangerous, most fearing for their lives. But there was something familiar about this one.
“So you’re a German soldier.”
“Yes, I was a soldier there, in Birkenau. I recall in spring the perfume that the air would bring to that indolent town. But here in Spain I am a Spaniard. I’ll probably be buried with my marionettes.” The man looked around the store as he said, “You seem well.”
In fact she had not been doing well. The Sephardim that she and her husband had borrowed the money from had gone bankrupt trying to restore the city. As a result, his brother was now responsible for their loan and fearing for he had raised the rates for all loans. Before her husband died of a heart attack, they had sold everything in the apartment and now even that was gone. Tadeusz was a strong man but the hardship of the camps had diminished his strength and all of his hair had turned white. By the time his death came, he was enfeebled and defenseless.
“You were a soldier. You were a soldier at Birkenau, my Brzezinka,” Pauline said and then with an eruption of anger that surprised herself, “You’re not fit for those dog scraps!”
“I can’t-I can’t forgive myself. I have to drink every night to wash the ghost faces of all the people I saw dead out of my eyes. I’ve come all the way to Spain and I still see thousand faces, their mouth open in an eternal silent scream. I was only 16 then, a young boy who wanted to defend his country. But those faces! They had mouths that never closed even when you shoveled dirt on them and all around there was screaming but none of the soldiers heard it. One man began to laugh uncontrollably as he was shoveling and two other soldiers took him away. I felt that if I kept shoveling I would go insane. So I yelled to the other men, ‘Do you hear it? Do you hear them screaming?’ But they just looked at me, some surprised, some angry. The soldier next to me, Klaus came over with a wry look and whispered, ‘What are they saying to you, Dieter?’ ‘How long must we go undefended?’ I said. I looked at Klaus’ face tighten but he didn’t say anything afterwards. I left that day and became a deserter.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think I’ll pity you?”
“No.”
“Get out of here. Have your dog scraps and be gone with you.”
“Do you want to know why I came here?”
“No, but I’m more than just a little curious how you’re planning to go about making your amends to the dead.”
“I know I can’t. The voices my head have told me that more than enough times but I came here to give you this.”
It was her husband’s pen.
“He gave me this pen the night I got him civilian clothes. You see, I couldn’t bear their faces anymore and I applied for a new position. They made me a truck driver. I wouldn’t have cared to keep it but he told me this: They didn’t want you to just die; they wanted you to give up the will to live. And many people did, succumbing to life as a beast of burden to toil for the Nazis until they died of hunger or exhaustion. He kept this pen to write everyone’s names and what happened to him, even if he was going to die. He told me that to not do so would be like off the stool and into the noose. He didn’t know I would help him escape then. I’ve been looking form him since then.”
Then Pauline realized her betrayal. She did not weep for her tears were long gone. She was too ashamed to weep not because of how she had treated the soldier but because she could not now remember a single prisoner’s name.
Pauline Zamoyski kept the meat displays clean and sterile, a transparent barrier between the butcher’s wares and the rest of Spain. Every morning she cleaned the counter with a damp sponge to renew the uniform sheen. Every night, too, when all the lights had extinguished on her street except for the sallow fluorescents flickering softly over each counter she would begin the process again. Night was the only time when every smudge, every imperfect smear could be rubbed out. The morning sun, the street lamps, even the sun’s rays created a glare to cover the smudges but the counter lights diffused only ugly, honest illumination.
When she finished cleaning the counters she would trudge into the back and lie on her yellowed cot in the corner of the room. Opposite the cot was the meat locker where huge pendulums of cow flank hung from metal hooks waiting to be cut up and displayed primly in her counter. The specimens on display were the highest grade; strongly marbled and glistened slightly from the oil and fat of each piece. But, it wasn’t the meat or the blood or the grime she despised. She despised the place in its entirety because it reminded her of the concentration camp. The meat locker reminded her of the freezing cold train car. People would take icicles off the barred window to melt into drinking water. Then when they got out of the car they were lined up just like the rows of meat in her counter under the yellowing light. At night, she thought she could hear coughing and groaning from inside the locker.
The first ten years after the war ended she lived a quiet life in Madrid behind her counter. Her husband had been beside her by the counter. She hadn’t been happy then either but she wasn’t alone. Then in 1956, her husband died quietly but swiftly as if stolen from her by some unknown force. Tadeusz, who had been an honest and loyal husband, had left her the shop without instructions on what to do with it. He had intended that she sell the shop and retire somewhere less expensive and that had not hated Jews for four centuries. Of course, people hated Jews everywhere so the intention was moot.
Instead she had kept it and ran it herself. Before the war, they ran a kosher deli together. But then the war came. Slowly, her stable safe life developed cracks and instabilities. Time was being measured by the stomp of jack boots, each step a tiny tremor that unsettled her life in the most subtle ways. Pauline and Tadeusz clung to their simple life as long as they could but each moment they waited was another possession seized by extortion. They fled Poland, her hometown, to Hungary leaving everything behind in order to hide with Tadeusz’s family but they were captured there and sent to concentration camps. The Nazi soldiers seized the rest of their belongings. Tadeusz had smuggled in a nickel-plated pen at great pains but Pauline did not understand why. They had other more valuable possessions: diamond earrings, pure gold necklaces, even Deutsch marks that could have been smuggled more easily.
She had asked him on the train why he was bringing that and he said, “I think we will need it.”
When they made it to the camp they were put on separate sides divided by two barbwire fences and the railroad tracks. Being without Tadeusz had taken all the hope from her. She depended on her husband for strength. She was certain she would die in that camp. Tadeusz had somehow bribed a delivery truck driver with her gold jewelry. They had escaped even knowing that ten other people would be killed by starvation because of what they did.
During the war, Spain became an unlikely haven for several thousand Jews. They were mainly from Western Europe, fleeing deportation to concentration camps from occupied France, but also many places from Eastern Europe, especially Hungary and Poland. When the moon was out, they traveled smuggler’s routes through the Czech Republic and the Austrian forests sandwiched between the Axis powers-Italy and Germany-until they arrived somewhere they felt safe, Madrid. They were one of the few refugees to be granted asylum there but that only meant they wouldn’t kill you themselves.
Life here in Madrid was better-but not much better. The war had ended leaving Europe in ruin. Spain had already been destroyed by its own civil war but had survived the second Great War intact due to their relative neutrality. There were signs of recovery. The few stores that remained no longer had boarded windows and people walked freely down the main streets. Tadeusz had bought an empty store with money from a friendly Sephardic usury at only half the normal rate. After the repairs had been made Tadeusz would proclaim, “We have been truly blessed!” To which Pauline would quietly reply, “Yes, Tadeusz. We are two of the lucky ones.” But even when business was good and they could afford a small apartment room. She had never thought they were blessed but it made Tadeusz happy to think so and she loved him.
One evening an old man in a green vest and black pants walked into her story.
“Hello, how are you doing? I am wandering performer,” and, “Do you have scraps for dog?” He said in stilted Spanish.
Pauline regarded him hesitantly. She noticed he was staring intently at her even while I smiled. But who would rob a deli?
“We’re just about to close but I think I can spare you some meat I was about to throw out,” she said. She removed her knife from her apron and began to cut and quarter the meat to remove the grizzle. The man gave a startled smile and exclaimed, “Ah, that’s wonderful! Where are you from?”
“I’m Hungarian.”
The man smiled slightly as he switched to Hungarian and said, “No, no, you don’t have to do that, I’m sure my dogs won’t mind a few pieces of fat.”
“You know Hungarian. Where did you say you’re from?”
“Oh, all around,” he winked, “I had a few Hungarian girlfriends when I was stationed there, at least, when their husbands weren’t around. But now I’m just a wandering performer. Maybe you should come to the Plaza Guadaverde and see my performance. I think you would enjoy it.”
“Thank you. I’d love to go but I don’t have the time for that. Wait, did you say you had one dog or two?”
The man hesitated for a moment and then said, “Pardon me, I’m a horrible liar. You see I just can’t afford to buy any meat for myself right now. Times have been tough since the war ended. But since you were going to throw that meat out anyway, why don’t you just give it to me?”
Pauline didn’t understand why this man would take up airs just for a few scraps of meat. Her suspicions grew when she took a white piece of paper to wrap the cuttings and asked, “Where were you stationed?”
“Just Birkenau”
Pauline furrowed her brow. Birkenau was the German name for Brzezinka, the Polish Auschwitz. Now that the war was over, there would be the occasional German passing through to Morocco and then further to Brazil, some dangerous, most fearing for their lives. But there was something familiar about this one.
“So you’re a German soldier.”
“Yes, I was a soldier there, in Birkenau. I recall in spring the perfume that the air would bring to that indolent town. But here in Spain I am a Spaniard. I’ll probably be buried with my marionettes.” The man chuckled and then walked to opposite end of the counter.
“You seem well.” he said quietly.
Pauline was surprised to see the soldier staring at her. His eyes emitted sorrow that she did not expect. In fact she had not been doing well. The Sephardim that she and her husband had borrowed the money from had gone bankrupt trying to restore the city. As a result, the Sephardim’s brother, Moab, was now responsible for their loan. Moab was not an altruist and opted to raise the rates of all remaining loans ignoring original charitable intentions of his brother. Before Pauline’s husband died of a heart attack, they had sold everything in the apartment and now even that was gone. Tadeusz was a strong man but the hardship of the camps had diminished his strength and all of his hair had turned white. By the time his death came, he was enfeebled and defenseless. The thought of her husband grew into a cold knot in her stomach.
“You...you were a soldier. You were a soldier at Birkenau, my Brzezinka,” Pauline said and then with an eruption of anger that surprised herself, “You’re not fit for these dog scraps!”
“I can’t-I can’t forgive myself,” he said. “I have to drink every night to wash the ghost faces of all the people I saw dead out of my eyes. I’ve traveled a very long ways and I still see a thousand faces, their mouthes silently screaming. I was only 16 then, a young boy who wanted to defend his country. But those faces! They had mouths that never closed even when you shoveled dirt on them and all around there was screaming but none of the soldiers heard it. I remember one man began to laugh uncontrollably as he was shoveling and two other soldiers took him away. Then suddenly, I felt that if I kept shoveling I would go insane. So I yelled to the other men, ‘Do you hear it? Do you hear them screaming?’ But they just looked at me, some surprised, some angry. The soldier next to me, Klaus came over with a wry look and whispered, ‘What are they saying to you, Dieter?’ I looked at Klaus and told him. ‘How long must we go undefended?’ I said. Klaus’ hardened but he didn’t say anything afterwards.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I can’t really say. That’s not why I came here. I guess it means something because that’s why I opted to become a delivery truck driver.”
“Do you think I’ll pity you?”
“No.”
“Get out of here! Have your dog scraps and be gone with you!”
Dieter, the Soldier, the Truck Driver, the Manipulator and Charlatan stared at her pensively and then broke.
“Don’t you want to know why I came here?”
“No, but I’m more than just a little curious how you’re planning to go about making your amends to the dead.”
“I know I can’t but I came here to give you this.”
It was her husband’s pen.
“He gave me this pen the night I got him civilian clothes. You see, I couldn’t bear their faces anymore and I applied for a new position. Like I said, they made me a truck driver. I wouldn’t have cared to keep it but one day your husband came to me. He wanted me to help him and his wife escape. I saw that he was a strong man. Even having the will to live was an act of resistance. The other men, they didn’t want you to just die; they wanted you to give up completely. Many people did, succumbing to a half-life of toil for the Nazis until they died of hunger or exhaustion. But your husband, he kept this pen. he told me it was to write their names, the ones who survived and especially the ones who didn’t, even if he was going to die. He said if I didn’t help I might as well push his head through the noose.”
Then Pauline realized her betrayal. She did not weep for her tears were long gone. She was too ashamed to weep not because of how she had treated the soldier but because she could not now remember a single prisoner’s name.