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In Sickness and in HealthBy David Ryerson He had never seen the streets so empty! It seemed as if everyone was hibernating, even though the clear summer evening was abnormally warm for a city so far north as Warsaw, Poland. “Today is not a holiday, and no one famous that I know of has died recently,” he thought as he hustled along the narrow cobblestone street. A lightly graying man of thirty-eight, he made an impressive sight as his tall, trim figure marched along the road. The sun shone down between the buildings on him, stretching his shadow out in front. “Hi, Mr. Fleinstein,” chirped a small, high voice to his left. Stopping and turning his head, he paused to let his eyes adjust to the shadows. Slowly, he made out the dark figure of a skinny little boy. “Well, hello there, Timmy. How are you doing on this fine Saturday afternoon?” “I’m doing great, Mr. Fleinstein. Bye, Mr. Fleinstein.” He watched as the boy disappeared around a corner. In his free time he volunteered at a local elementary school, reading to the children, and telling stories. He vaguely remembered Timmy from the fourth grade class. “How could someone looking so emaciated have so much energy?” he wondered. As he walked, his thoughts drifted over the current events. The Vietnam conflict was getting hotter, and President Johnson of the United States already had over 500,000 soldiers immersed in the jungles of that Southeast Asian hotspot. It seemed as if the war would never end! It had been going on for years now, and there was seemingly no end in sight. Every day more and more healthy young men were senselessly being killed, and for what? Baseball and apple pie? Motherhood? Freedom? Why, oh why did wars have to be fought? Oh too well did he know the horrors of war. Thinking of young men fighting old wars brought memories flooding through his mind of days he spent in a Nazi concentration camp, deep in the heart of Germany.
“Daddy, how long are we going to be on this train? Where are the soldiers taking us?” a frightened Peter begged his father, Otto. “I do not know, my son.” The bright German moon shined through the open doors on Peter, his sister Mary, his mother, and his father huddled in the boxcar with nearly 40 other Jews. Their faces were filled with apprehension. Where were they going? What would happen when the soldiers unlocked the doors of the train car? Many thoughts rushed through their minds, but failed to shield them from the frigid wind whistling around them. For weeks now the incessant air assault that the Luftwaffe had been raining down on their homeland had slowly been tearing at the fabric of their country, and their minds. The fuehrer, and his black-booted soldiers had finally marched into the city, and rounded up all the Jews. They were torn from their homes and families, and loaded into boxcars. These blond haired, blue-eyed foreigners had snatched their very lives away from them. Through the tiny spaces between the slats of the boxcar walls, they could see snow-covered fields rushing by. The snow sufficed to cover the devastation on the ground that the war had meted out upon the common people, but the remains of bombed-out farmhouses, churches, and businesses, were clearly visible in the bright blue light of the moon. The scene that lay before them gave no clues relating to location. The devastation was so complete across Europe that it all looked the same. Where were they? Poland? Germany? After traveling for what felt like an eternity, the train stopped, and the German guards herded the prisoners out of the boxcars into a camp surrounded by row upon row of barbed wire. The name over the gate sent chills down their spines. Dachau. The blocks of shacks stood out like rows of bleached white bones, neatly laid out in almost mathematical precision. The tiny buildings were clearly already filled to more than twice their maximum capacity, so the children stayed, while the adults went on to the next camp. As they were herded through the camp, various odors assaulted them. The stench of death blanketed the area, overriding all other sensations. Down at the end of the rows of living quarters there stood three red brick buildings. Large metal doors, which appeared to be the only opening in the entire building, took up much of the front. The red brick roofs tapered up into a chimney. Wisps of smoke slowly wafted out, taunting the young prisoners. You could almost hear them shouting, “You’re next!” Without being told, all the prisoners knew what transpired daily in these buildings. The silence that descended upon the group was deafening in its quietness. Peter was placed in block five, section c, room eight with four other teenagers. After being stripped and having his watch, heirloom rings, and all of his clothes, which weren’t many, taken from them, he was shuffled back to his room for the duration of the night. Mary was taken to the other side of the camp and placed in the girls’ area. The weeks passed slowly, with 12 hours of daily work in the fields. The work was hard and backbreaking, consisting for the most part of manual labor in the nearby stone quarries. They managed to stay healthy, or as healthy as one can on the meager diet of one bowl of watered-down soup and one piece of moldy bread per day. This same routine continued for some time, and then suddenly one day Peter was put on the cleaning squad, under the supervision of a German guard named Hans. Hans was just like the other German soldiers. Mean. At least, that’s he was like on the outside. The weeks went by slowly as Peter cleaned the grounds. The only good thing was that he got to be with Mary, since she was also working on this crew. In that sense, he was glad he wasn’t working in the quarries. Then, one day, his life changed. After the shift was over, Hans, in his typical gruff manner, ordered Peter to come to the guardhouse immediately. Schnell! Peter wasn’t sure what he had done, because those who were called to the guardhouse were rarely seen again. Hans told him upon his arrival that he would no longer be in this camp. He was going to be taken to the infamous Auschwitz. Hans told him that he would be leaving in the morning. The night was both short and long. Peter was very scared of leaving the camp and his sister, but especially since he didn’t know if he’d ever be free, since that his destination camp was infamous among the prisoners. The new day dawned, and he was taken to the trains along with some other prisoners. However, in just a few short minutes his path was changed. He was separated from the rest and ordered to the office. There, Hans was waiting. Hans told him, much to Peter’s surprise, that he was not only a Nazi officer, but also a member of the German underground. If Peter wanted to be free, he would come to the office that night, and he would be taken from the camp, to a secret meeting place of the underground in the forest. Of course, Peter at first was wary of the German’s suggestion, because it could be a Gestapo trap. But after much thought, his homesickness prevailed, and he relented. Of course, Hans also told him that if he didn’t comply then he would be immediately “silenced.” That night, he went to the office, and Hans gave him the uniform of a medical worker, and they walked out the gates to freedom. Once out of the camp, Hans accompanied him to the nearest town, where he got on a train bound for occupied Poland. The trip was long, and the weather was still cold, but the thought of freedom kept him warm. Several times soldiers searched the train, but they did not uncover Peter’s identity. Once the train arrived in Warsaw, he got off and got some food from a nearby trash dump that had been rejected by the local stores. Although not very appetizing, it did suffice to fill their stomachs. He was forced to resort to that because he lacked the necessary papers to prove his identity to the now German-ruled shops. After a couple of days, he ran into a man on the street who said that his name was Franz. He took them to his house, and fed them. He also said that he was a part of the resistance movement and had been notified of Peter’s arrival and was told to give him shelter. That evening, he took Peter to a meeting of his group in the forest just outside of tow, where he saw a familiar face. “Father!”
As Peter walked, he fondly remembered that spring night, when he had met his father there in the forest. He had told him that the Germans had taken their mother from him a few days after they arrived at the next camp, and was never seen or heard from again. He also inquired after Mary. Unfortunately, neither of them knew of her condition. This afternoon, he was going to see that same man, who now lay sick with a fever. Finally, he came to it, Oak Avenue. After the war, his father had bought the house on this street. Peter picked up his pace, since his father was near death. He quickly climbed the porch steps and entered without knocking. Coming into the room, he saw his father lying in a hospital bed, motionless. Standing quietly around the bed were a woman, a man, and two children. They looked at each other, and then ran toward each other as they recognized each other as the lost sibling. They then turned their attention to their father, who lay dying. At first glance, he thought that his father had passed, but then he saw his lips moving. Peter leaned down to catch his father’s last words. What he heard was not what he expected: “Hear O Israel, the LORD our God, the LORD is One.”
ninetyandnine.com © 2002, David Ryerson --------- David Ryerson is a ministerial student pursuing a degree in Missions at Jackson College of Ministries, Jackson, Mississippi. His life motto is taken from Philippians 3:10, "...That I may know Him..." |
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