ENDURANCE – A HOLOCAUST SURVIVOR’S STORY

ENDURANCE
C 2008 JoJo

Her name was Micheline Pfeiffer and she was a French girl and Jewish. Her parents had immigrated to Brazil and lived in Rio de Janeiro, which is where I met her.

At the age of 14, Micheline’s parents had allowed her to go to Paris, to visit her French grandmother, and when the Germans invaded France and took Paris, Micheline was trapped there, unable to leave the country and return to Brazil.

She told me her story.

“When the Germans started rounding up the Jews in Paris, we went into hiding. We managed to elude them for weeks. My grandmother kept telling me to go, to save myself. She’d say ‘I am old and at the end of my life, and I am a hindrance to you. Please child, leave me behind. On your own, you have a chance – but with me dragging along behind you, your chances are slim, at best. Please cherie, leave me and save yourself,’ but of course I couldn’t do that. I loved my Grandmaman, so I insisted on taking her with me.”

“We hid in ditches, we hid in barns, we hid anywhere where it was possible to conceal our presence. Grandmaman paid a friend with all her jewellery that she’d hidden in her clothing, to allow us to hide in her attic, and that’s where the Germans finally caught us. They hauled the friend who’d given us shelter outside onto the street, and killed her by pumping bullets into her body, in front of those who were walking by, shouting ‘Jew lover! This is what we do to Jew lovers!’”

Micheline shivered as she recalled this terrible event.

“We were thrown into the back of a truck and driven to a French prison. I begged and pleaded with them to stay with Grandmaman, but they laughed in my face. I clung to her, but a soldier pulled me off her and threw me to the ground. He spat in my face. They dragged Grandmaman off, and I could hear her sobs and cries as she disappeared out of sight.” Micheline paused and wrapped her arms around herself. “I never saw her again.” She choked back a sob.

“They kept me in the French prison for about a month, where I was given very little food, some water and I had only a bucket in which to relieve myself. I thought conditions were pretty bad, but compared with what was to come, they were wonderful. One of the guards, a Frenchman, used to slip me an apple or another piece of fruit, every time he came to my cell to empty my bucket.” Her eyes misted over. “I didn’t realize that every time he did this, he was literally risking his life. I took it for granted that he’d bring me something every day.”

“One night …” she hesitated and stumbled over her next words. “One night the German Commandant came to my cell. That was the first time … I was raped.”

I was absolutely appalled. “The first time, Micheline? Are you telling me you were raped more than once?”

She looked at me, her expression hard and defensive. “You are such an innocent, Joanna – of course I was raped, many times. Later … in Auschwitz, some guards would give me food in exchange for … doing things to them. I was starving and would’ve died without that food, so I did whatever they asked me to do.”

I leaned over and squeezed her hand. “You don’t have to tell me anything else, sweetie, I understand.”

She sighed. “It helps a little to talk about it,” she said.

“When we got to Auschwitz, they shaved my head and tattooed my wrist – look,” she pointed to some numbers on her arm. “This is how they identified us – by numbers. They told us we weren’t human beings anymore, we were just numbers. We were treated like slaves, and worked long, hard hours, and starved of course.”

“After a while, I learned not to make friends. It was safest and best. You never knew who was a friend and who’d spy and rat you out to the guards in exchange for food.”

She paused, lost in thought and I remained quiet. “I did make one very special friend – her name was Rebecca. I loved her dearly, and at night in the cold winter months, she’d creep up onto my wooden bunk and we’d huddle together in an attempt to keep each other warm. What little bits of extra food I was able to … get out of the guards, I shared with her. I was always worried about her – she was small and frail, and I watched her get weaker and weaker every day.”

“One evening, while we were working in the fields, she collapsed on the ground and couldn’t get up again. A soldier stood over her and repeatedly ordered her to get to her feet. I begged and pleaded for her to get up, but she was at the end of her strength and just lay there, looking up at me, begging me to understand and to forgive her for her weakness. The soldier then shot her, and her body was dragged off.” Tears poured down Micheline’s cheeks and she rocked backwards and forwards, nursing her grief.

I walked over to her and put my arms around her, hugging her. She clung to me like a little child and we wept together. Wiping her face, she pulled away.

“I didn’t let myself ever love anyone again,” she said, choking on her sobs.

“Honestly Micheline, you don’t have to go on telling me,” I said.

“I want to,” she replied fiercely. “I’m tired of the nightmares I have about it and maybe telling you will make them go away.”

She struggled to control the rage I saw sweep across her face. “Hate kept me alive,” she muttered. “Mon Dieu, how I hated those bastards.”

“Rumours starting spreading all over the camp that the War was drawing to an end, and that liberation was going to happen at any time. We could hear the roar of the guns in the distance, so we knew it was true. The Germans knew it too, and they began slaughtering Jews by the hundreds every day. They were determined not to leave one Jew alive to tell the world of their atrocities. I knew I had to run away – I had to hide.

“What did you do?” I asked.

“I hid in one of the trucks that brought provisions to the camp every day. As you can see, I’m a very small person. The soldiers used to make sure no one was hiding in these trucks by thrusting their bayonets in between the packing crates and materials.” She pointed to an ugly scar on her upper arm. “See? I got one here, but I didn’t cry out. I quickly tied up my arm with a piece of sacking, so that my blood wouldn’t drip under the truck and give away my presence.”

“When the truck was outside the concentration camp gates and came to a stop some distance from the camp, I jumped out and ran into the woods. I was able to stay alive with wild berries, but I couldn’t find a source of water.” She hung her head. “I drank my own urine and that’s how I managed to stay alive.”

“One day, some trucks drove by on their way to Auschwitz and I heard them talking. They were Americans. I dashed out of the woods and waved my arms. One of the trucks came to a full stop and a solder rushed over to me and picked me up in his arms. I clung to him and sobbed my heart out. He took me to the truck, gave me water which I drank greedily, then he handed me a bar of chocolate.” Her eyes became dreamy. “That was the best thing I’d ever eaten.”

I was taken to the American Army’s health unit and treated. Eventually when I was well enough, I was released.”

“So how did you manage to contact your parents?” I asked.

I was given the address of a Salvation Army depot. I went there and registered with them. They gave me clothes and fed me – I’ll never forget that.”

“My parents here in Brazil had never given up hope that I had survived, so they made inquiries with the Salvation Army, who informed them I was alive and well. They flew over and we were reunited in Paris, where it all began. When Maman and Papa saw me, they burst into tears. ‘You are so thin,’ they cried. I didn’t have the heart to tell them I had put on weight and had been like a skeleton before.”

And so Micheline and her parents returned to Brazil, but the abuse and suffering Micheline had endured had left its mark. Every time she came to visit, something of mine would go missing and I knew she’d taken it. I couldn’t find it in my heart to blame or reproach her because I knew that the very instincts that had enabled her to survive the atrocities she’d been through, were still present, and she couldn’t help taking things. But I had no choice but to end my friendship with her and felt very sad about it because I truly cared for her.

I often think of Micheline and wonder what became of her. I doubt that she got proper treatment for what she’d been through, because back in those days, they didn’t know much about post traumatic shock disorder. But I hope with all my heart, that she was able to deal with her inner demons and live a happy life.

This then is my tribute her. I consider it an honour to be telling this story of a brave young girl who endured and survived what to most of us, would’ve been unendurable.

God bless her wherever she is.