The number four has been inexplicably entwined with my
destiny since the day I was born. I was born on 4th April, the
fourth day of the fourth month. I also happen to be the fourth offspring in my
family. Even my roll number at the Jewish Lyceum was four. I say ‘was’ because
I don’t go there anymore. Why, you ask? Well, it all started, not surprisingly,
on my fourth birthday.
It was the year 1934. The stark, cold April winds ushered
into our house, my father bearing my birthday cake and also rumours of Kaiser
Wilhelm’s despondency and Adolf Hitler’s rising popularity. Obviously, a four
year old mind cannot comprehend the ramifications this piece of news would
spell for Jewish families like us, who called Germany home. I thought nothing
of it and tucked into my cake, my only concern being winning the ensuing party
games against my siblings and friends.
It was only a matter of time before Kaiser fled the country
and the Berlin saw the establishment of the Third Reich under Hitler, the Swastika rising like the sun on the dawn
of a new era in Germany’s history. And the simple, carefree life that I had
known receded to the deeper recesses of my mind, like a distant memory,
conjured now in a desperate attempt to convey my plight to you.
I understand that my parents were only trying to shield us
during this tumultuous span but there’s only so much I can pretend not to see.
I was moved from my regular school to the Lyceum so that my social circle
comprised of children of my own kind.
Our Jewish acquaintances, in what I considered then a fit of religious
fanaticism, started sporting the Star of David and my family soon followed
suit, inadequately answering my queries as to why. I wish they had a little
faith in me and had given me at least an inkling of what was going on. It might
have prepared me for what was coming.
First, the disappearances. The number of students in the
Lyceum trickled down from a hundred strong to a dozen few and in the end,
including myself, only four remained. Our teachers pretended not to notice
these alarming developments. But I could see the way their hands shivered
slightly while writing on the board or exchange barely disguised baleful
glances with each other while walking down the corridors.
By now, I knew that I would be fed with lies again if I
asked my parents what was going on. It was as if they considered me unprepared
for facing the reality, by virtue of being the youngest. I wasn’t even that
immature! I’m twelve and I knew that the world was embroiled in a war which
would probably turn out to be worse than the Great War of 1914-1918. I
understood that no one was safe. But the way my parents behaved in a manner
akin to cornered animals, had me thinking that this was something more than
just general concern for well being in a war-torn state.
The announcement of our imminent relocation to Switzerland didn’t
come as a surprise to me. I could hear furtive whispering among my siblings and
parents the whole week but I wasn’t privy to the conversation as usual. And all
their conferencing distilled into this plan for our sudden departure. But on
the eve of our flight (I call it that for, to me it seemed like running away) a
jeep pulled up in front of our house.
Soldiers trooped in and dragged us out front and dumped us
into the vehicle along with the other families they had rounded up. Some sat
dolefully, as if they were resigned to their fate while others were in absolute
hysterics. I had heard whispers doing rounds at the Lyceum of something like
this being the reason for the increasing absenteeism of the students but I
didn’t know if I should believe it. I wondered what they must’ve felt like and
now Destiny, in a perverse way, had granted my desire for an empathic
simulation of the scenario.
At the train station, we were separated from my mother and
sister. They were loaded on a train bound for Bergen Belsen while we were
singled out for Dachau. You must’ve heard about concentration camps. Well, I
didn’t, in spite of being on my way to one. My father and brothers sat silent
and I had to piece together the vital information I needed to know from others
around me, who were to share the same fate as us. I hoped I could say that it
was all hearsay, but it wasn’t. Braver writers and more detailed accounts, if
they survive, shall emerge from elsewhere, for my strength fails when I try to
describe the horrors I see here every day and might have to see later on.
But I have a responsibility towards you, dear reader and
that’s why I shall try to hold out a little longer and divulge some more. Our
heads were shaved upon our arrival and we were given striped pajamas with
numbers on them. I am number four here and my residence is in the fourth bunker
in the fourth block of the camp. We were put to work immediately. I was put on
cleaning duty probably due to my age.
I saw new faces every
day and the old ones gradually vanish. I wonder if they were freed or let out and
hoped that maybe my turn would arrive soon to follow wherever they went. I hate
this place. It reeks of filth, grime, disease and decay. We’re treated worse
than animals. I think of my mother and sister sometimes and I cry. I pray that
they’re all right. I hope my father and brothers have realized the futility of
keeping the truth to me. My fate caught up with me in spite of their misplaced
feelings of protectiveness, didn’t it? I’ve asked them not to lie to me
anymore. They agreed. I believe them.
I must stop writing now. It’s time to take a bath. Once in a
while, batches of people are rounded up for a communal shower in a large bunker
which has vents in the ceiling through which steam and water is pumped. Or so,
my father says. In fact, this happens on the fourth day of every month.
Sayonee Ghosh Roy
I humbly profess to be spoilt, pampered brat with old-school upbringing. You could let me loose in a book-store and I'd never come out, except if you lure me out with coffee and Italian food.
I humbly profess to be spoilt, pampered brat with old-school upbringing. You could let me loose in a book-store and I'd never come out, except if you lure me out with coffee and Italian food.
