By Chance Alone Read online

  Birkenau at the end of the line. Photo courtesy of Ian Jones.

  Dedication

  To my beloved first family, who died in a fury of hate but prepared

  a map for me to travel by. They live on in my heart forever.

  To my dedicated and loving present family. Years ago, I could not

  have imagined I would live to know them. They are my beloved wife,

  Ivy; my two sons, Edmund Irving and William Larry; my grand-

  daughters, Amy Tzipporah and Julie Leah; and all my great-

  grandchildren. They surround me with love, stability, and great joy.

  To the numerous students who have attended my presentations.

  This book is a reminder to stand on guard against radical ideologies

  and never be bystanders. Their respect and accolades have been

  a great inspiration to me.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Maps

  Prologue

  1. Childhood in Czechoslovakia

  2. Summers on the Farm

  3. Big Changes

  4. Life under Hungarian Rule

  5. A Year of Death and Birth

  6. The Final Seder

  7. The Train

  8. Arrival in Auschwitz II–Birkenau

  9. Arbeit Macht Frei

  10. Draining Swamps

  11. Walking Ghosts

  12. A Piece of Bacon

  13. Selections, July 1944

  14. Land Reclamation Outside Auschwitz

  15. The Operating Room

  16. Surgeries in Barrack 21

  17. A Pot of Stew

  18. The Destruction of Crematorium 4

  19. Death March

  20. Melk, Ebensee, and Liberation

  21. Ebensee, After Liberation

  22. From České Budějovice to Moldava

  23. Emotional and Physical Healing

  24. Marienbad

  25. Prague

  26. Return to Košice

  27. Ebelsberg DP Camp

  28. Canada

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  Appendix

  Postscript

  A Note on the Author

  About the Author

  Praise

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Author’s Note

  In the summer of 2012, after two previous attempts, I began to work on this memoir with the editorial assistance of Dr. Amanda Grzyb, an associate professor of information and media studies at the University of Western Ontario and a scholar of comparative genocide. Together, we recorded hours of interviews, which were then transcribed. When we started to put the transcribed interviews together into a cohesive narrative, however, the story just didn’t sound the way I had envisaged. In the spring of 2014, we decided to set the interviews aside and start again from the beginning. The process was painstaking. I handwrote the chapters in pencil on 8 ½ x 11 sheets of paper folded in half, and then my wife, my son, or my granddaughter patiently typed them up on our computer. I gave each typed chapter to Amanda, and she edited them and returned them to me with queries and suggestions for additional revisions. Amanda and I met frequently over the next year, and by April 2015—nearly seventy years after my liberation from Ebensee concentration camp—I had completed a draft manuscript detailing my formative childhood years and my subsequent survival during the dark days of the Holocaust.

  The dates and places mentioned in this book are described as I remember them, and any factual errors are inadvertent and my sole responsibility. After a seventy-year lapse, I have written my memories as accurately as possible.

  Maps

  Maps designed by Larry Eisen

  With my granddaughter Amy for the March of the Living, 1998. This was my first time back at Auschwitz since the war.

  Prologue

  In the spring of 1998, I was asked to accompany a group of 150 Toronto teenagers on a trip to Poland, where they would participate in the March of the Living, an annual event that takes place on Yom HaShoah, or Holocaust Remembrance Day. Each year, ten thousand individuals from around the world gather at Auschwitz I and march together to Auschwitz II–Birkenau, where they attend a memorial service for the six million Jewish people murdered by the Nazis and their local collaborators. Amy, my eldest granddaughter, was a part of this group; at sixteen, she was nearly the same age I was when I first entered the camp, in 1944.

  As a survivor speaker, I was tasked with filling in the missing pieces: the sounds, the smells, and the feelings of this place. For the first time in fifty-three years, I was going to enter the extermination camp where the Nazis had murdered so many of my family and friends. With no gravesites to visit, this was the closest I could get to their spirits, and I knew it would be a difficult experience for me emotionally.

  My arrival at Auschwitz II–Birkenau in May 1944 was a terrifying experience. When I got off the train, I immediately noticed four huge crematoria very close to the platform and nestled among some birch trees. Although I didn’t learn their purpose until later, these ominous structures with their massive chimneys were belching flames and smoke, and the brickwork crackled from the heat of continuous use. I recall feeling speechless and short of breath, like something monstrous was going to engulf me. As I lined up on the platform, separated from my mother and siblings, I was helpless and alone, afraid of the unknown. The SS soldiers manning the platform had a brutal look about them, and the skull-and-crossbones symbol on their caps made me panic. When I returned to Auschwitz II–Birkenau in 1998, there were no immediate signs of the towering chimney stacks or the buildings that had once housed the gas chambers and crematoria. The SS destroyed them before they abandoned the camp in January 1945, and the structures now lay in rubble. The birch trees had grown taller, and where once there was mud, there was now green grass cover. Gone was the smell of burning flesh and the skinny prisoners in their flimsy attire, hounded by SS guards. The place looked strangely benign to me now, and I was struck mostly by the sheer vastness of the site, the ruins of the barracks, and the barbed wire. A few kilometres away at Auschwitz I, I saw the barracks where I spent so many nights, the places where I was forced to stand at appel for hours, and the spot where the orchestra played. I remembered the hunger, the terror, the constant exhaustion. But I also remembered a few critical moments of advice, small kindnesses, conversations with my fellow prisoners, and the camp hospital that became such an important part of my story.

  Speaking in front of the surgery in which I worked at Barrack 21, in 2014.

  Sherri Rotstein, one of the organizers of the Canadian contingent of March of the Living, recalled seeing me that afternoon surrounded by the program participants. She said I was staring into the distance and she wondered what I was thinking about. She knew I had journeyed back—emotionally and physically—to a very dark place, but she was heartened by the fact that I was surrounded by Jewish youth, the Jewish future. It was true that being back at the camp filled me with sorrow, but it also gave me comfort as I watched Amy place a picture of my lost family members on the ruins of Crematorium II. I knew they were with us in spirit. And Amy represented the generations of children and grandchildren who’d thrived in the aftermath of the genocide.

  My first pilgrimage back to Auschwitz-Birkenau gave me the strength to see, feel, and transmit the horrific deeds that the Nazis had perpetrated there. It was on this trip that I recommitted myself as a Holocaust speaker and educator, work I had first undertaken six years earlier. I have since kept up a rigorous schedule of presenting at schools and other events, and I’ve travelled back to Auschwitz many times. On one of these trips, my other granddaughter, Julie, joined me. She told me t
hat she remembered hearing the stories of the death camps as a little girl, but it was not until she walked on the grounds of Auschwitz that she really understood the level of the Nazis’ deception and the extent of the destruction of human life. She described the impact of seeing my barracks, my bunk, and the places where I laboured. She had always regarded me as a strong, happy, energetic man unscarred by the tragedies that befell my family and me. She told me how much she respected my personal mission to educate as many people as possible about the fate of the Jews during the Holocaust.

  I made my very first public presentation to a group of grade 13 students at St. Joseph’s Catholic high school in Barrie, Ontario, in May 1992. I was nervous and felt myself breathing shallowly as I stood before them and rapidly told my story. I did not have the public-speaking proficiency to transmit my presentation with ease. After I’d finished, I told myself that I’d never do it again. But a few days later, the teacher sent me a thank-you note stating how much the students had appreciated my candour, and how much better they now understood the Holocaust. This feedback gave me the confidence I needed, and I continued to speak by invitation at other venues.

  From that day forward, I embarked on a lifelong journey of learning, and I honed my speaking skills for different age groups. Today I speak to grade 5 students and university students, and everything in between. I have travelled the breadth of Canada, from the Maritimes to British Columbia, on speaking engagements, addressing audiences large and small, from classroom size to almost two thousand high school students in a large auditorium.

  On one occasion, during a session with an elementary school in Sudbury, Ontario, I was greeted at the door by a group of grade 5 students, and I saw they all wore Star of David stickers on their chests. They asked me if I wanted one too. I put mine on and they escorted me to the classroom, where eighty students were assembled. The teacher informed me that they had read a book entitled Number the Stars and were sensitized to the sting of discrimination. I spent two hours with them and told them my story. They had written down several questions on pieces of paper, and I did my best to address them. When we finished, they all lined up and wanted me to sign their question papers and add a comment. Some of them even had extra papers for me to sign for their families. A few months later, a parcel arrived from the school. In it was a felt quilt with twenty panels portraying what the students had learned from my presentation. One panel depicted a locomotive pulling cattle cars. Another showed fishing dories carrying Danish Jews to Sweden. Yet another had an image of my family, including my two brothers holding hands. The quilt was truly a remarkable memorial project, and it reinforced for me the importance of fully engaged learning about history.

  Many of the students I speak to are in grade 10, because that’s the year when Second World War history is taught. I challenge myself to hold their attention for one and a half hours, as well as through the subsequent question-and-answer period. Often, students approach me after my talks to make comments, take pictures, or ask for my autograph. Teachers and principals have told me many times that they are in awe of how well the students concentrate when I speak. The many letters I receive from the students and their teachers attest to the fact that they really do understand the importance of Holocaust history. It puts their own struggles in perspective, encourages the protection of a democratic society, and helps them speak out when they see injustice.

  In addition to speaking at elementary schools and high schools, I have given frequent (sometimes annual) presentations at many universities and colleges, including Lakehead, Trent, Ryerson, Brock, the University of Northern British Columbia, the University of Alberta, the University of Manitoba, the University of Regina, St. Francis Xavier, Western, and Seneca. I’ve also addressed the York Region police cadets, the Ontario Provincial Police, and the Canadian Forces College in Toronto. I’ve made presentations at churches, synagogues, libraries, and community centres during Holocaust Education Week. My out-of-town engagements are very intense; sometimes I make as many as five presentations in three days. These trips can be physically and emotionally exhausting. But I feel they are necessary. And despite the demanding nature of the work, I’m always happy to meet diverse people across our country. If I am available, I will never refuse a request to speak.

  While painful, my work as a Holocaust educator has also renewed my spirit. I believe that a new generation can relate to the Holocaust and its lessons with an understanding of how evil can operate when it remains unchecked. It is my hope that the students I meet will combat racism and bigotry wherever they see it, and that they will speak out and make a positive difference in Canadian society. After many visits back to Auschwitz, I can also see that the physical remnants of the Holocaust continue to deteriorate, and that the first-hand witnesses, like me, are moving on in years. I recognize how important it is for survivors to tell their stories, and to honour and remember the people and human potential that was lost. This volume is the final step in my journey as a Holocaust educator, and it stands as my own permanent contribution to this history and to the memory of my loved ones who were lost to this horror.

  CHAPTER 1

  Childhood in Czechoslovakia

  When I was born in Moldava nad Bodvou, Czechoslovakia, in 1929, my parents could not have foreseen the danger and destruction that would befall our family only a decade later.

  Our town had a population of approximately five thousand people, most of whom were Roman Catholic and Reformist Christian. There were also about ninety Jewish families, totalling not quite five hundred people. The town had a secure atmosphere and I had many friends, both Jewish and non-Jewish. At one end of the main town square there was the Roman Catholic church, and at the other end there was the Reformist church. Constructed during the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the baroque-style public elementary school and the post office were also near the main square. There was a high school located nearby.

  I lived with my immediate family—my father, mother, grandparents, uncle, and aunt—in a large dwelling; each segment of the family had its own quarters. The businesses of the town were operated mainly by Jewish owners, including the confectionery store, a large general store, two bakeries, two pubs, several stores for yard goods and materials, a glazier, and an herbalist. My father owned a pub called the Cellar, where people came to drink and socialize, and where he made and sold a variety of bottled liqueurs in mint, apricot, and chocolate flavours. There was a Jewish butcher and a family-operated bicycle shop that also had a Shell Oil concession to sell gasoline. The town’s medical establishment included two Jewish doctors, a Dr. Fried and a Dr. Laszlo, and two Jewish dentists, one of whom, Dr. Gertner, was our family dentist. Two other pubs and a butcher shop were owned and operated by non-Jewish residents. The town’s administration was overseen by the equivalent of a mayor, who was also the head of the district of Abaúj-Szántó. There was also a police station in the town.

  My mother, my aunt, and my grandmother, like the rest of the town’s Jewish women, were intelligent, well-read, capable, and contributing people. They all did volunteer work, such as crafting embellishments for the synagogue and helping the poor. We also opened up the orchards on our property to the needy, who could come and pick fruit in season. When knitted dresses came into style, the women took up knitting as well, making garments for themselves and their daughters.

  The wedding picture of my Uncle Jeno (Eugene) and wife Irene, taken in 1930.

  My extended family included my grandfather, Raphael; my grandmother, Malvina; my aunt Bella; my uncle Eugene, who was my father’s brother; and his wife, Irene. While they all shaped my early life, my grandfather taught me many life skills that I still use to this day, and I particularly respected him and valued his attention. My father had another sister who lived in a town called Almás with her husband and children. Their family name was Lazarovits. My mother’s helper, Anna, was another important person in my early years. Anna came to live with us when I was born, and she was a strong woman in both body and spirit.
Although she wasn’t Jewish, she knew our customs and could recite some of our blessings for food. In my mind, she was also a part of the family.

  I admired my grandfather’s strength and knowledge. He’d been a cavalry officer in the Austro-Hungarian Empire and had fought on the Russian front in the First World War. The Jews of Austria–Hungary (who were emancipated in 1867) revered Emperor Franz Joseph, and the elders in my town who were veterans and comrades of that period wore beards and side curls just like his. My grandfather and my uncle Eugene operated the lumberyard on our property. On market day, up to ten farmers parked their horses and buggies in our yard while they sold their goods at the marketplace. I loved horses, so it was a big event for me. Before the farmers left, they would purchase lumber from our yard, and my grandfather recorded the purchases in his big ledger. (After they brought in their harvests, they would pay for their purchases with either grain or livestock.) When they were gone, it was my job, together with my grandfather, to clean up the manure left behind with a broom that had a very long handle. The manure itself was used to fertilize our vegetable garden, and its natural odour didn’t bother me. In addition to the steady work of the lumberyard, my grandfather and I also pruned and grafted the fruit trees in our orchard. I always preferred these duties to school, no matter how hard the work.

  When my grandfather went to buy sections of forest to be converted into lumber, I was sometimes invited to go along with him. Once, we entered a copse of tall pine trees, and I could hear the wind in the canopy and smell the scent of the pine while my grandfather was checking for the size and girth of the trees to be cut down. In my mind, I wondered if he knew how to get out of the dense forest. But my grandfather showed me how to find the particular signs that would help us navigate our way. On the way out, he taught me about wild mushrooms that were edible and others that were poisonous.