THE SURVIVOR

This is a true story.

The flight had been long and I was exhausted but looking forward to meeting this special man, with whom I had been corresponding about his life for some while. I picked up my suitcase from baggage reclaim and made my way to the exit, where I hoped my host and his family would be waiting.

When I reached the arrivals hall, I soon realized that there had been a crisis since my trip was first agreed upon. Firstly, it was his daughter alone who greeted me with the words: “Why have you come? Didn’t you know he was ill?” Having travelled thousands of miles, I was in no mood for a cross-examination. He had suddenly been taken ill, and it was expected that I would immediately cancel my journey. Not being able to do so and get a refund, I decided to take a chance and go anyway.

Little did I know that I was in for an experience that I would never forget. The daughter very reluctantly took me to her father’s house, which was located in the suburbs of San Diego. As soon as we arrived at the house, I was taken to meet her father, who sat, or should I say, lay on a couch, looking pale and feverish, but still able to speak in a venomous kind of way, as though the entire world was conspiring against him, and his family had been living in this bubble of resistance to all things on the outside.

He spoke with a thick East European accent, in contrast to his daughter, who, being Californian-born, was all-American in her speech. He told me Polish was his mother tongue but he refused to utter a single word in that language, because the Poles had been responsible for helping the Nazis hunt down the Jews in their neighbourhoods, and he could never forgive them for that.

He had written a book about his harrowing wartime experiences - in particular, that of witnessing his whole family being murdered by Nazi thugs before his very eyes, while he hid under a bed, as well as the full horror of no less than six concentration camps, including Auschwitz, where he was forced into the Sonderkommando, which was composed of special units of prisoners, who did all the clearing up after the gassing of so many people, and other unspeakable tasks, which no sane person should ever imagine doing.

The first word in the title of his book was that of the name of his older brother, whom he idolized, and who fought with the resistance until he was brutally tortured in front of his family and murdered along with all bar the one, who now glowered at me on my first evening.

He had had his book published and then gone on speaking tours of schools, colleges, universities and other venues, telling his story in such a way, that his audiences would be overwhelmed with such emotional distress which left them completely shattered. He and his family kept on reminding me of the effect his talks had on his hearers, as though that was a mark of some kind of achievement. As far as I could see, it just had a negative impact with no redeeming features in terms of bringing any kind of search for peace. He was completely broken as a man, and so unable to offer anything but a deep well of unfathomable grief, which had been emptied of all the tears of countless families, caught up in the slaughter.

I was out of my depth. I knew that. His pain was more than physical. He had mental and psychological scars which he would carry for the rest of his life, because only death would grant him peace, on which he had all but given up. No-one could get near to comfort or support him. His response was one of rage - intense outbursts of uncontrollable rage.

On one occasion his son, his only son, called him on the phone. “So what is it this time? You want money? Well, you won’t get any? You sonofabitch, I’ll never forget your disgusting behaviour at my wedding, how you came downstairs with nothing on and proceeded to insult my wife. You must have been drinking as usual. You and your cronies are the scum of the earth. So forget about calling me again. I have nothing but contempt for you. You are not my son. Your mother was a w***e anyway.” And so it went on. These words of hate spewing out of this sick man’s mouth.

I sat there, mesmerized and shocked. I could not believe that a man could speak to his own son in such an uncaring tone. However, it is not surprising. Love was a word which had been torn out of him when his family were killed, and no longer had any meaning whatsoever.

I remember us watching a video about a religious ceremony which concerned reconciliation. He almost spat at the TV screen and screamed: Hypocrites, they are all hypocrites! What do they know about suffering?”

Even though these events happened some time ago, they are still vivid in my memory. I felt sorry for him, but I also wanted to shake him, and at the same time I was fearful of doing more damage to this frail old man. His daughter always accused him of over-acting, but I suspect that was her way of coping with an extraordinary situation, which only those who have gone through the holocaust will really understand.

It is a bit like saying that you tell someone who is grieving for a child, who has recently died, that you understand, when you yourself have never undergone that experience. You mean well, and sometimes just being there for someone is better than any words you can conjure up, thinking they could be of benefit, when in fact the opposite is the case.  

I spent a week in that fraught atmosphere. I remember after a day or two of the constant barrage I beat a hasty retreat for the sake of the family, and took myself off to see the sights of the city during the rest of my visit.

I left San Diego, knowing that I had made a mistake.