We Are Here

  We Are Here

  Fiona Harari is an award-winning journalist, and the author of A Tragedy in Two Acts: Marcus Einfeld and Teresa Brennan.

  Scribe Publications

  18–20 Edward St, Brunswick, Victoria 3056, Australia

  2 John Street, Clerkenwell, London, WC1N 2ES, United Kingdom

  First published by Scribe 2018

  Copyright © Fiona Harari 2018

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publishers of this book.

  9781925322651(paperback edition)

  9781925548464 (e-book)

  A CiP record for this title is available from the National Library of Australia.

  scribepublications.com.au

  scribepublications.co.uk

  Tomorrow I must begin a new life. How could I do it, with nothing but death behind me?

  Władysław Szpilman,

  HOLOCAUST SURVIVOR AND AUTHOR OF THE PIANIST

  Contents

  INTRODUCTION

  Annetta Able and Stephanie Heller

  Zygmunt Swistak

  Mala Sonnabend

  Shmulik Moses

  Lena Goldstein

  Josef Hellen

  Marianne Schwarz

  Michael Matz

  Rina Schuldiener

  Eddie and Flore Jaku

  Jack Greene

  Kuba Enoch

  Marianne Van Der Poorten

  Sam Gelber

  Hella Wilk

  Phillip Maisel

  AFTERWORD

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Introduction

  This is a book about time, its passage, and its stagnation, as much as its distortion. It is about a future that extended longer than anyone imagined, and a past that is always present.

  Tens of millions of people died during World War II, more than in any other war in history. Among its victims were six million Jews. Their murders, by Nazi Germany and its collaborators, were part of a systematic plan, which came to be known as the Final Solution, to exterminate Jewish people.

  By the time Germany surrendered in May 1945, two-thirds of European Jewry was dead. So were tens of thousands of Romani, Jehovah’s Witnesses, and German male homosexuals, among the many who had been systematically brutalised under Adolf Hitler’s regime.

  For those who outlived Nazism’s worst intentions, surviving did not of itself inspire joy. Across the continent, cities had been destroyed, homes demolished, communities displaced and all but eradicated. As Europe was slowly rebuilt, those liberated from its concentration and forced-labour camps, and from its hidden corners where they had cowered silently for seeming aeons, emerged to a depleted and dramatically different life. Unfed, unwashed, and often close to death, some still clothed in the flimsy striped uniforms that marked them as concentration-camp prisoners, many were the sole survivors of once vast families. Now, having been deprived of a normal life for years, their education often stunted, they had to resume living, often alone, with some financial and practical support from aid organisations but little emotional sustenance, and with no idea where to go or what to do next.

  Some headed for homes that no longer existed, or into hastily erected displaced-persons camps from where they slowly found other places to live. Within months, the first of thousands were making their way across the world to Australia. Despite restrictive government policy — with a quota of just 3,000 survivors allowed to enter in the immediate post-war years, compared to 9,000 in the pre-war period — the nation became second only to Israel as a haven for Holocaust survivors on a per capita basis. From 1946 to 1961, 27,000 Jewish survivors migrated to Australia, more than doubling the size of the country’s pre-war community, and irrevocably infusing it with a Central European character. In addition, 170,000 displaced persons who were not Jewish had arrived by 1951.

  But distance was no counter to history. So many had been killed, and so many families and cultures decimated, that even moving as far away as Australia could not displace the past. Liberation was loaded, tinged with the guilt of surviving when so many others had not. Lives that had once been an inherent continuum were suddenly split into pre-war and post-war years, and what-had-once-been became a shadow that would accompany survivors for the rest of their lives — even as their outward responses varied.

  Some shared their experiences with partners, less often with their children, and frequently found the closest approximation to comfort by swapping memories with other survivors. Some opted to be silent about a recent past that was too traumatic to contemplate, a belief that was strengthened whenever they learned of other survivors being met with disbelief upon sharing their stories with those who had been shielded from Europe’s death camps.

  Instead, they concentrated on constructing their post-war lives, often marrying quickly to erase loneliness, learning English and working, creating new families. The past continually hovered, but beyond a smattering of memoirs published soon after the war, mostly in Yiddish, a long silence descended. Few wanted to look back on their recent gruesome histories. And even if they did, who else was interested?

  It was not until 1961, when Nazi Adolf Eichmann, who had masterminded the mass deportations, was tried in Israel and hanged, that the curtain of silence started to open. Eichmann’s Jerusalem trial attracted international attention and belatedly stirred a wider public interest in the Holocaust.

  Events that had been too traumatic to discuss privately started to be portrayed on television and increasingly at cinemas. Associations of survivors, and of their descendants, were formed. With the establishment of historical Holocaust centres in Melbourne and Sydney, survivors began volunteering to retell their stories to outsiders.

  By the 1990s, many had realised the need to preserve their histories for posterity, even if they sometimes appeared bitterly uncomfortable as they did so. Around 2,500 Australians recorded video testimonies with the University of Southern California’s Shoah Foundation, an international program founded in 1994 by moviemaker Steven Spielberg following his encounters with multiple survivors while filming Schindler’s List. Others recounted their experiences to Holocaust centres in Melbourne and Sydney.

  While some resumed silence thereafter, others were inspired to keep talking, sometimes to their wider families but also to students and educators and myriad visitors to Jewish museums, where they found late-life acclaim as volunteer guides willing to discuss the terrifying pasts they had kept hidden for so long.

  Speaking publicly became a delayed catharsis for some, just as others shunned the belated attention. As the twenty-first century dawned, the one thing that united the oldest of them was their longevity. They had survived longer than anyone might have imagined. But how had they lived?

  ‘I was educated at Auschwitz. I was three times next to the chimney.’ These are the first words uttered for this book, declared spontaneously by a nursing-home resident just before the start of the first of many conversations in multiple cities.

  The elderly man who proffers these observations is not preparing for an interview. He is sitting alone, along the route to someone else’s room. But time cannot contain an ever-present past from a stranger walking his way. ‘Have you ever seen a number,’ he asks next, and without waiting for an answer rolls up one of his shirt sleeves to reveal the crudely tattooed digits that have marked him, throughout his unexpectedly long life, as one of Hitler’s intended
victims.

  More than seventy years have lapsed since his arrival at the concentration camp Auschwitz, where his identity was replaced with this very number, and here he is, a long lifetime later, well dressed, well fed, and on the other side of the world with a past he has never managed to elude.

  Time has skewed his long years as a survivor, as it has for so many others, making some events seem like yesterday even as the once recognisable faces of long-departed parents and siblings fade.

  For many survivors, time has been a slow crawling curse, even as it has assumed a more recent element of urgency. ‘Don’t wait too long,’ the intended interviewee jokes days later, the first of many survivors to utter the same warning, as hours of conversation end with a promise to check back on his chapter as soon as it is written.

  Time was always going to stalk this book, given the advanced age of all its subjects, but it would become even more pertinent within months when a call about interviewing one possible survivor leads to an alternative recommendation.

  Rezi Ritterman gave her testimony to the Shoah Foundation in the mid-1990s, a two-and-a-half-hour-long description spanning her birth in Vienna, her privileged childhood in Kraków, and the terror of her early adult years when her parents were interred in Poland and then Russia. She spoke of a pogrom where every tenth person was sent to a concentration camp, and how she had survived because she was ninth in line; of having had her head shaved and her arm tattooed in Auschwitz before being marched towards a fire, and ordered in another direction at the last minute; of being forcibly sent on a death march through Germany in the freezing start of 1945, as the Allies approached and Nazi guards ensured their captives, who were being evacuated from multiple camps, kept moving away from the front or else were shot immediately.

  She talked about her ongoing regret at having been denied an education; about the enormous family she had lost to the war; of how she had spoken so little of her Holocaust experiences that she had cancelled the appointment to record her testimony three times before she finally sat down before this camera, in her comfortable Melbourne lounge room, to talk about a past she could not even surgically dislodge.

  There was a bitterness as she recounted her story in 1996, exhibiting almost physical discomfort as she did so. But now, twenty years later, she wishes to elaborate. She is on holidays when contacted a day later, and in a busy shopping mall where it is too noisy for introductions over a mobile phone. Could we talk when she returns in a few weeks?

  Time intervenes as other interviews are completed, and after she has been back for some days a date is arranged to speak at first by phone and then to organise an interview in person.

  But she does not answer at the appointed time. On her phone is a message from her son: she is no longer at home and can be reached at an alternative number. In her early nineties, she has been diagnosed with cancer.

  She is, however, still very keen to speak, says her stepdaughter soon after, even though the diagnosis is so new. ‘Just wait a little longer,’ she adds. ‘Please don’t forget her.’ And time intervenes again, and, not three weeks later, Rezi Ritterman dies, taking the burden of her lifelong memories with her. ‘It is really sad that she missed the opportunity to tell you her story,’ her stepdaughter emails later. ‘I think she was very ready.’

  Survivors are a fading group. There are perhaps a few hundred thousand still alive around the world, and many of them were children when the war ended. Fewer than 7,000 remain in Australia.

  The people interviewed in this book are part of an increasingly rare demographic: survivors of Nazism who have adult memories of the Holocaust. Born in 1926 or earlier, they were at least eighteen when the war ended. Percentage-wise, the war consumed a small fraction of their lives. But its legacy endures in their memories, their outlooks, and increasingly in their dreams.

  They are the last living voices of a generation that was not meant to be, men and women now in their tenth and eleventh decades who have defied not just the law of a nation that sought to annihilate them, but the law of nature that not so long ago would have dictated a much shorter lifespan.

  Having outlived in many cases almost all their contemporaries, their unexpected longevity has culminated in a quandary where the desire to record their histories has become for many just as intense as the desire to forget it.

  They are the last survivors.

  Annetta Able and

  Stephanie Heller

  BORN: Annetta Heller and Štěpánka Heller

  4 February 1924

  Subotica, Yugoslavia

  In their long and largely intertwined lives, Annetta Able and her twin, Stephanie Heller, have shared many achievements. They survived the Holocaust when their family did not. They endured most of those harrowing years together. And they withstood the macabre experiments of the Auschwitz physician Dr Josef Mengele.

  But it was only at 92, when they had reached an age that was once seemingly unattainable, that they learned of their inclusion in the Guinness World Records. While they had been diligently creating the second part of their lives in a quiet corner of Melbourne, the elders of a post-war family spanning four generations, to their great surprise they had been recognised as the world’s oldest co-twins to have survived Mengele’s misdeeds.

  Every life story is unique, but what makes the account of these sisters so unusual is their mutual experiences. Their survival is essentially one story, not two. At a time when being a Jew in Europe meant losing control over almost everything, they managed to endure World War II mostly together. And, apart from the ten minutes that separated them at birth, and the eight years in which they lived in different countries in the post-war years, that has been the pattern for close to a century.

  Happenstance has been a recurring theme of their shared lives. Although their family was Czech, they were born in Yugoslavia, where their mother was visiting relatives when she went into labour early.

  The twins grew up in Prague, with their younger sister, Alžběta, their mother, Terezie, and their stepfather, whose surname Heilbrunn they adopted when they were six, in a household that paid only moderate attention to religion. Their mother used the Ten Commandments as a code for daily living. She also ensured that they observed some of the main Jewish festivals.

  But despite their keenly Czech identities, the war had an immediate impact. As Jews, they were quickly banned from many public places. Midway through their education, they were no longer allowed to attend school and began living and working at an orphanage, their own childhoods having been abruptly ended.

  In 1941, as many families were separated on the basis of suitability to work for Germany, their mother, stepfather, and sister were deported to the Łódź ghetto in Poland. They never saw them again. Alone at seventeen, the twins remained in the orphanage as the tumult of their early adulthood accelerated.

  The following year, Stephanie married an engineering student, Egon Kunewalder, in a nondescript ceremony where even photographs were banned. A month later, Annetta was sent to the ghetto in nearby Terezín, which Germany had renamed Theresienstadt, and worked as a nursing aide. Stephanie and her husband joined her there six months later.

  Within another year all three had been transported to Nazi Germany’s largest concentration camp, Birkenau (Auschwitz II). Stephanie’s husband later died there. The sisters, meanwhile, were taken to the camp physician Mengele, who was conducting barbarous experiments on twins, dwarfs, and Romani.

  At twenty, their existence became a macabre mix of work and tests. At times, they were loading naked corpses onto trucks, a gruesome job for which there was never a change of clothes let alone a piece of soap to cleanse themselves. At other times, they were being tested by Mengele’s aides, and undergoing countless X-rays, injections, measurements, and gynaecological procedures, until it was clear that they were identical. Then they were transfused with the blood of Polish male twins they had never met.

>   The procedure was frightening in itself, but, when the blood types proved to be incompatible, the sisters became gravely ill. While they recovered, they never learned the fate of the brothers. Through a friend who had spoken to a German doctor prisoner working with Mengele, they later learned that they were to have been forced to have sex with the male twins. Mengele’s plan, which was stymied by the advance of Allied troops, was to see if identical twins could produce identical twins. All four parents and their babies would have been killed by the time the test was completed.

  Instead, the sisters were sent on a death march in the bitter opening to 1945, and then to two more camps, before they emerged from an unguarded barracks in March 1945. Sensing that the Germans had gone, they grabbed some bread and blankets, and walked out to freedom.

  Their joy at liberation, however, was soon dulled by the realisation that their family had been killed. They found their way back to Prague and studied nursing, and again their lives morphed rapidly. In 1948, Annetta married Jirka Able, a former Auschwitz inmate whom she re-met, post-war, at a dance. In 1949, Stephanie moved to Israel, followed later by her sister and brother-in-law. After a brief second marriage, in 1954, Stephanie married a cousin, Robert Heller, regaining her original family name in the process, and she moved to his home in Kenya until the independence war disrupted their plans to remain in Africa. By 1963, both sisters and their families were living in Melbourne.

  Since then, neither has moved more than a few blocks from the antipodean pocket that has become their world. Both widowed, they still live only streets away from one another in an established neighbourhood of spacious homes and well-tended gardens.

  They speak every day, often taking over one another’s sentences and laughing more often than you might expect. The most common phrase in their lively, lifelong banter is invariably directed to the other: ‘Let me speak.’

  Annetta

  We are very stubborn, both of us. We continually quarrel, but we couldn’t be without each other. That’s why I am in Australia; of course I wanted to be with her.