Sala — More than a Survivor
WRITTEN BY
Marsha Casper Cook
AS TOLD BY
Sala Lewis
Smashwords ebook edition published by Fideli Publishing Inc.
Copyright 2008, 2012 Marsha Casper Cook
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ISBN: 978-1-60414-467-3
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank my family, friends and clients, for supporting me in my endeavors. It has always meant quite a lot to me that you knew I could do this. And to Sala, I thank you for sharing your story with me and for teaching me the true meaning of courage.
PREFACE
I was only ten years old when this all began, losing all the innocence of youth but gaining strength with each breath After all the evidence that exists there are those who feel the Holocaust never existed. I hope in my lifetime I will never have to face anyone who tells me it didn’t happen. It’s certainly unbelievable what a person goes through. Who can explain or even try to understand why I am here to tell my story and millions of others are not?
I have been taking on speaking engagements, difficult as they are for me, to help all of us who have suffered through the tragic events of the Holocaust. As a member of the last generation to have gone through the Holocaust, I feel an obligation to expose the truth for what it was. Don’t my parents, brothers, sisters, aunts and uncles deserve at least this much?
As I have stood before strangers and opened my heart to them, I feel a sense of accomplishment .I don’t use notes and I don’t prepare speeches. What I speak are the words of truth that are in my heart and can never be erased, even by time.
There is nothing stronger than a person or weaker than a person. We may be tested many times over and we may at some times want to give up, but when we are pushed against a wall and forced to make that choice, each time we must choose life.
“TO LIFE...L’CHAIM....
TO LIFE
The question is to be curious
To be curious is to care
To care is to love
To love is to forget
But if we forget
Who will answer the questions
Who will be there
To make sure
The deaths of our loved ones
Will have not have been in vain,
So please don’t ask us to forget
The pain and the sadness
The outburst and
The tears
They belong to us
They are dreams,
They are the sparks of light
That survive in us
To remind us
Of love and honor
And of being who we are
We have been spared by G-d
To hold in our hearts
All that is dear to us,
For we as a people have
Survived
We are not just Jews
We represent honor
And courage
We are the inspiration
We represent love,
We are not only survivors
We are teachers
We are friends
We are the assurance that
The Holocaust did happen
We are here to repeat
The facts
So it can’t happen again,
Yes, we are the reminders
But you my children
You are the future
You have the power
To say no
We didn’t …
IN THE BEGINNING
I was ten years old when the Germans separated my family. It happened so quickly we didn’t even get to say goodbye. We lived in Sosnowicz, Poland, and all we were told was the Germans needed workers. There were no choices. When the Germans came to get you, you went. If you didn’t go, you were killed. That was the beginning of the end.
I never dreamt that I’d never see my family again. It wasn’t supposed to happen that way. My parents were going to grow old together. We were going to share our lives together, the good times, the bad times and everything in between. Then in a flash, everything changed.
The Germans took my family away from me, one by one. I never quite understood why, but they told me it was because we were Jewish. I was taught not to question, so I didn’t.
Then the day came, the final separation. I had gone out to play for a short while but when I returned, I came home to an apartment that had been sealed off and I wasn’t allowed in.
I never did see the inside of that apartment again, but I can still remember the joy we shared every evening at dinnertime. We sang songs and told jokes. Sometimes we didn’t sing that well or tell terribly funny jokes, but we had each other. That was the feeling I liked best.
Salucia was my birth name but everyone called me Sala, the name I prefer.
I was born on a snowy, cold Christmas day. My father, Simon, was a butcher and my mother, Eve, was a wonderful homemaker. I was one of eight children three girls and five boys – Karl, Phillip, David, Kamek, Hanusz, Toby and Dora. Dora was the light of my life, and as the years passed she was the one who got me through it all. Without her, I never would have survived. She was my lucky penny.
THE LONELINESS
Long ago, I learned never to take anything for granted. That’s how I got through the hard parts, especially the loneliness. At the very beginning, they told us the work camps were just places to work, nothing more. When Dora left, she promised she would write, and she did just enough to let us know she was alive. When her letters came, mother was so happy and so was everyone else. We took turns reading the letters over and over again. Usually on those days, dinner was special and mother didn’t seem as angry. But then there was the next, and there were no letters. Those were the bad days. The very, very bad days.
As the days passed, I missed Dora so much more than I thought I would. There was nothing very different about our relationship. We were sisters. We fought a little, yelled a bit and sometimes we even had fistfights. We were rather ordinary, so I guess it was normal to miss even those fights. And I did.
We lived in a very small apartment, which even in the best of circumstances made for some pretty rough times. But all and all, I think we all started to miss the squabbles and the “he said this,” and “she said that” after Karl, Phillip and David left for the work camps.
Our family was getting smaller, and day by day, my mother and father were growing older. They didn’t say much, and maybe that was part of the problem. The Gestapo came, they took and we suffered, but we didn’t talk about it.
Every night at the dinner table, our conversation was less and less. In fact, what used to be such a special time of the day became my least favorite. Sometimes I pretended to have a stomachache, just so I wouldn’t have to sit there and look at the empty chairs.
Late at night, I used to lay awake and think about the good times. There was one particular evening that was right up there with the best of the memorable times. It was Chanukah.
Mother had just brought the last batch of latkes to the table. Phillip looked at David, Dora looked at me and we all looked at Karl, hoping he would get the message. In a minute or two, we knew our message had been well received. Karl walked over to the gramophone and looked at Mother. She could read his mind as well as any one of us. She nodded to Karl and he turned on the music. One by one, we all got up to dance and sing, all except Father. He just watched.
Then, as always, Mother grabbed his hand and tried to get him up to dance. Usually he said no, but not that night. That night he danced. I watched Mother and Father holding each other tightly as they danced, hoping someday to have someone love me the way my father loved my mother.
I overheard my father as he whispered to my mother, “Eva my dear, we may never be rich but look ... look at our children. This is what we posses. No man could ever want more.”
The next night, the Gestapo came. That was only the first visit. There would be many others to follow, as well as reminders of what each day might bring. It was the constant fear of the visits that upset my father the most, especially the night before Dora left for the work camp.
I can still feel the pain as I remind myself of Dora’s last night at home. My family thought I was sleeping, but after overhearing their conversation, I didn’t sleep a wink.
My father watched as Dora packed a small bag. “When you come back my child, I will not be here,” he said. “So you go tomorrow and remember to do whatever you have to to stay alive. I promise you life will offer you more, much more, but never give up what you believe in. Never.”
Dora’s voice quivered as she spoke. “Don’t say that. You will be here when I return. I know you’ll be here. You just have to.”
“Dora, listen to me,” my father said. “I’ve had my life. When I stand back and take a good look at all my children, I can ask for no more. I have no right.”
“You have every right,” Dora said, as she put her arms around Father and gave him a great big hug. “Of course, you have every right, we are family. We belong together, and we will be together again. G-d will have it no other way.”
All night I tossed and turned, wondering why I wanted so much more than anyone else. My dreams were of acting and performing on stage. What if the Gestapo took me? I wouldn’t go. I would tell them no way and ask them to go. Why didn’t Dora do that? She should have done that.
As the days and nights passed, our entire community of Jewish friends was slowly being taken away. It was a slow process with quite an effect on everyone. Father didn’t smile as much as he used to and Mother kept herself busy. She cooked and cleaned and cleaned and cooked, and when she heard bad news, she cleaned some more.
We didn’t talk about what was happening, but it was quite evident to me we were no longer the happy family we used to be. Every time I looked into my father’s eyes, they were red and swollen. I knew he had been crying, but he never admitted to it. It was becoming more difficult to pretend our situation wasn’t critical, but as long as my family pretended, so did I. I had become very good at pretending. We all had.
Days would pass without changes. However, when my older brother Karl’s wife Lusia and their son Jurek came to live with us, things did change. Father talked a bit more and Mother sometimes even smiled. Having a baby in the house eased the tension a bit for us, but not for Lusia. Every day we waited for the mailman, hoping to hear from Karl, but there were no letters. There were never going to be any letters.
As if enough hadn’t happened, Lusia had gone out to get some milk and never returned. After three hours of pacing back and forth at the window, my father went out to see if he could get anyone to tell him what happened. We knew it was getting worse.
When he finally did return and my mother saw the look on my father’s face, she cried out to him, “They took her. The Gestapo, they took her. Oh my G-d.”
It was horrible watching little Jurek standing at the door, waiting for his mother to come home. It was days later when we finally found out Lusia wouldn’t be coming back. That’s when I began to write letters to myself. I needed to feel as if I was doing something that mattered.
To Me —
Maybe if I were a little older or a little smarter, I would understand just what was happening. Sometimes late at night when everyone was sleeping, I would get up and look outside. All I ever saw was darkness. I didn’t see the soldiers marching and I couldn’t hear the cries. I don’t know if it’s just the beginning or the very end. Why doesn’t someone tell me something?
Me
WITHOUT A GOODBYE
It was a day like any other. As I raced up the stairs, I waved goodbye to my friends. When I got to my apartment, I knew something was wrong. Our apartment was sealed off and I couldn’t get in. My family was gone and no one knew where they were.
I tried not to panic, but I was scared. I didn’t understand what had happened and why they didn’t wait for me. I didn’t know what to do, so I ran outside and into the street. I knocked on the neighbors’ doors, but no one knew what had happened to my family.
Finally, I ran to the schoolyard after someone on the street said my parents would be there. I had to keep wiping my eyes as the tears kept falling from my eyes. When I walked around the back, I could see my mother in the window.
As she waved to me, I moved closer toward the window. I called out to her, “I want to be with you. Take me with you Mother, I’m afraid.”
“Salusia, my child,” Mother said as she called back to me. “Do not be afraid. I will wait for you up here. But first you must run to your aunt’s house and get some money to buy candy for the children.”
I looked up at my mother and shouted. “Please don’t do this to me. I want to be with you.”
“You will,” she said, as she called down to me.
“Where’s father?” I asked.
Mother shrugged her shoulders and motioned for me to go. As always, I did as she asked. While walking away, I couldn’t help but wonder why my younger brother, sister and Jurek were with her but I wasn’t. I looked back and waved goodbye.
Mother waved back and said, “I’ll be here when you return.”
But she wasn’t. No one was. That was the last time I ever saw them.
That night I wandered the streets, hoping Father would be out there somewhere. When I got tired, I walked back to our apartment, where I sat on the steps hoping my father would come back to find me. Somebody should have, but nobody did. Instead, I woke up sitting on the stairs alone. I couldn’t help but feel abandoned. I was.
Finally, I realized I was on my own. Even my aunts and uncles wouldn’t take me in. No one wanted the extra burden. One time, my uncle sent me out some scraps of food to eat, to be eaten outside only. They were afraid I would bring in unwanted germs. The hell with the germs, I thought. What about me? Doesn’t anybody realize I’m still a little girl, a scared little girl?
The hours turned into days and the days turned into weeks. I never slept in the same place twice. As I roamed from place to place, I heard bits and pieces about the Germans and the horrible things they were doing to my people, just because we were Jewish. None of it made any sense, but it did make me cry a lot. I tried my best not to think of my family being tortured or worse than that. Word of the death camps left me sleepless and afraid to close my eyes. I tried to have faith in G-d, but sometimes I wondered if there really was a G-d. I was certain if there was one, how could he let this happen? And more than how, why?
To Me —
Maybe if I could have kissed my mother and father goodbye, I wouldn’t feel so empty. Maybe if I were with them, I could close my eyes at night and not see their faces. Maybe if I didn’t love my brothers and sisters so much, it wouldn’t hurt so much not to see them again. Maybe if I would stop crying, I would feel better. Maybe this and maybe that. Maybe if I closed my eyes and pretended I wasn’t me, I wouldn’t be. Yes, I think I’d like that a lot.
Me
MY TURN
Sometimes I would imagine myself kicking the German Gestapo when it was my turn to go. I thought myself stronger than most and certainly able to defend myself. But when a Nazi soldier holds a gun to your head, you weaken. I certainly did.
Then the inevitable happened. It was my turn. I was part of a large Jewish cleanup. The Nazis took both the young and the not so young. Men, women and children were ordered to march. Despite the pouring rain, we did as they said.
At a distance, I could hear the chanting of other kids. Those that chanted were referred to as Hitler’s kids. “Kill the Jews. Kill the Jews. Jews are no good.” Even when they weren’t calling out to us, I could hear their voices bellowing in my ears.
Everything about that evening will never leave my mind. The Gestapo treated us horribly. We weren’t allowed to sit or lie down. We had to stand the entire night. Several times that night, I wanted to scream out at the top of my lungs, “Please dear G-d don’t do this to us,” but I didn’t.
When morning came and the rain stopped, I looked around at all the men, women and children who had made it through the night. I couldn’t help but wonder if they were as afraid as I was. We never spoke to each other, but at that moment I knew I might never know their names but would never forget their faces.
Several daylight hours had passed before the Gestapo started to do what was referred to as a roundup, arranging groups depending on age and capabilities to be transported to Auschwitz and Treblinka, the known death camps.
The commotion caused unrest among all of us. Tears were shed and screams were heard. Then all of a sudden, the Gestapo started to randomly shoot at us, especially the young babies. I was sick to my stomach as I watched the Gestapo laugh as they tossed babies into the air and shot them.
A young woman with a small baby nestled in her arms was standing next to me, trying to comfort her baby as he cried. I closed my eyes in prayer, hoping the little baby would stop crying. Then from behind, a German soldier approached the young woman.
The soldier called out to the woman. “Keep that damn baby quiet.”
The woman responded with a nod. Then she stroked her son’s head as she whispered to him, “Shhh ... please don’t cry.”
But still the baby cried. I took a deep breath as I watched the soldier reach for the baby and grab him away from his mother. The guard looked at the woman in anger. “Didn’t I tell you to shut that damn baby up? Didn’t I?”
The woman cried as she held out her hands, trying to get her son back. The Gestapo pulled back, “Get away ... you stupid Jew.”
It all happened so fast. The soldier tossed the baby up in the air and nodded to another Gestapo soldier, who then shot the baby in mid-air. Seconds later, after giving one of the most blood-curdling cries I had ever heard, the baby fell to the ground dead. I tearfully watched as the baby’s mother fell to her knees, lying over her son’s torn-apart body.
Another soldier stood before the woman and kicked her in the belly. “You see Jew, now he’s quiet.”
As if that wasn’t enough, the Gestapo soldier who had shot the baby pointed his gun to the woman’s head and fired. I don’t know if I will ever be able to stop seeing the woman’s blood splatter all over her son’s.
What upset me most was the carefree way in which the Gestapo soldiers killed people. How they ever went home at night and kissed their own children will always remain a mystery to me.
Once again, the Gestapo began to count. A woman with slightly graying hair eased toward me and whispered in my ear, “Reach back toward my hand and take my bra. Hurry and put in on, you will look older.” Even though I didn’t quite understand why, I did exactly as she said.
Luckily, I had just enough time to wiggle the bra from my ankles to my waist, which allowed me to be chosen during the reselection to go to the right. There were only two ways to go, valid to the right, invalid to the left. Useful to the right, useless to the left.
I never got to thank the woman in the line, but she saved my life. Because of her kindness and concern, I was treated as an adult, which prolonged my life. Even though one might think death might outweigh life when faced with such horrible choices, it doesn’t. I chose life, and if I had to do it all over again, my choice would always be the same. There is no gift greater than life.
It was obvious to any of us who remained in line that the Gestapo was not there to please us. As luck was with me, I quietly listened to the faults of the others who waited in line for assignment. Begging didn’t seem to help, so I waited until it was just the right time to ask for what I wanted. Placement was everything.
“Please let me go where my family is,” begged the woman next to me.
“Now why in hell would I do that?” the Gestapo soldier said as he wacked her on the back with his gun.
As I watched the woman suffer as she tried to get up from the ground, I wondered if I would be able to get any satisfaction when it was my time to stand before those horrible Gestapo soldiers men and women who, with just one motion of their hand, could have us killed or shoot us themselves.
“I would like to be sent where my sister is,” I said in a straightforward voice when it was my turn to stand before the jury of horror.
The Gestapo soldier took a second look at me. “Did you see what happened to the woman before you?”
I nodded, realizing the less said the better.
“And you still ask to be sent to your sister,” the Gestapo soldier said with certainty.
With courage I quickly responded, “Yes I do.”
When the Gestapo soldier motioned for another soldier to come closer, I thought I had pushed a little to hard and would probably end up in Auschwitz or Treblinka. I was shaking inside, but on the outside I was cool as a cucumber.
That’s when I reminded myself of my mother’s words. “Salucia,” she would say, “If you were in a fire, you would not burn.”
She was right, because no sooner did I ask to be with Dora then a Gestapo soldier walked over to me. “Consider yourself lucky,” he said. “You’ve got guts.” I could still hear him laughing and mumbling to himself as he walked away. “How do you like that, a Jew with guts.”
To Me —
I don’t know if this horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach will ever go away. I don’t know if I will once again be able to laugh, sing or feel loved. I don’t know if I’ll be able to take a deep breath, smile or enjoy life, but if I do there will never be a day that I won’t thank G-d for helping me through this. Please G-d, hear me cry.
Me
DORA
There were about one hundred of us shoved into the boxcar on one of the trains transporting us to the work camps, or as the Gestapo referred to it, resettlement. After they squeezed the very last one of us in and sealed the doors shut, we were so tired we collapsed. Being cooped up in a dark boxcar with strangers was quite unpleasant, but as with everything else the Gestapo made us do, we said nothing. Fear is horrifying.
It might have been foolish, but I trusted that Dora would be waiting for me. I only hoped the Gestapo soldiers didn’t change their mind and not tell me that our destination had changed. Of course, a deception like that was easy for them.
They didn’t care if our hopes were up, being Jewish already meant one step into the grave. I didn’t know how far we traveled or if we had stopped, because it was easier to sleep than to worry about what came next. However, I do remember the rushes of daylight that blinded my eyes when the doors were finally opened. When I jumped off of the train and felt my feet touch ground, my heart was beating very fast.
At first, we were told to march in a line and not to try anything funny. If any one of us got out of line, they threatened to kill every last one of us. No one took the chance of testing them because we knew our lives meant nothing to them, just another dead Jew.
It was very warm that day, almost uncomfortable and very hard to move, let alone march. But I would have marched anywhere for any length of time to be with Dora. From the very moment I walked through those gates, I knew a guardian angel had taken me there.
Dora stood there among the hundreds of others waiting to welcome their friends, neighbors and family. The familiarity of Dora’s sweet smile eased my fears. My heart was now beating twice as fast as before, almost until I couldn’t breathe. And to think I had almost stopped believing in G-d.
With tears in her eyes, Dora took hold of me. We hugged each other and cried for the longest time, and when we finally did let go of each other, we cried some more. Despite the constant threat of death, I felt safe in Dora’s arms.
Then the questions began. Dora wanted answers and I sadly had to inform her of our tragedy.
“So where is everyone?” Dora asked. “Mother, Father, our brothers and sisters. Where, tell me where they have gone?”
I pointed to myself, trying to hold back the tears. “I’m the only one left.”
There was terror in Dora’s eyes. “I don’t understand. What do you mean everyone’s gone? This couldn’t be. G-d wouldn’t do this. No, he couldn’t.”
“But he did,” I angrily shouted back. “I don’t know if they’re dead or alive. All I know is that there hasn’t been word of them for weeks. They’re gone, I know they are.”
I couldn’t say any more. I had hoped Dora would understand that I couldn’t talk, at least not then. I assumed she knew, because for the longest time neither of us spoke.
From the moment I entered those gates, Dora took care of me. She was so wonderful. I couldn’t believe how my luck had changed. I didn’t feel afraid or lonely anymore. Dora was all the family I needed.
Later, there were endless introductions. Dora had made herself quite comfortable at the work camp. The women who shared the same barracks with Dora became her family. She was like a mother to the girls who needed one. She was a friend who they could share their thoughts and concerns with, but most importantly they could trust her. The day my family was taken away from me was the day I lost trust. Regaining those feelings certainly wouldn’t be easy.
Later, Dora showered me. Ironically, she sensed my needs and she attended to them. Happily, the green dress I had been wearing for days had been tossed aside. It was replaced by a dress that did not fit, but I felt clean. At this point in time, all I cared about was getting that filthy dress and all that it represented off of me.
“Follow me,” Dora said as she walked me over to a long wooden table where I sat down to eat a bowl of soup and a piece of bread. I don’t remember what kind of soup was in the bowl or if the bread was stale or fresh, but I remember feeling full.
For the next few days, I was Dora’s shadow. Wherever she went I went, and vice versa. Within a very short time, Dora and I were inseparable. I had finally begun to trust again. It was a slow experience, but I was coming along just fine. Naturally, Dora had everything to do with that.
Each night after the lights went out, the silence was unbearable. To help me ease the pain of remembering only terrible things, I tried to recall one of my most pleasant experiences. Remembering was painful, but forgetting would have been far worse.
Mother had always encouraged us to develop our natural talents. Every night after dinner, my brothers and sisters and I would sing and dance. I couldn’t wait for the day when I could perform on the stage and be a big Hollywood star. Who knew there would be no tomorrow? Who knew all our dreams would be taken away by a man they called Adolph Hitler? Who knew the worst of the humiliation was yet to come?
Every day after work, Dora would try to encourage my dreams, regardless of how bad a day we had or how much work the Gestapo pushed on us. Dora believed in my dreams and me. She helped me keep that part of my life alive and vital, hoping there would be an end to the terror and hardship we were going through.
I was luckier than most. I had Dora. Even at the workshop, Dora did what she could without getting herself in any trouble to make sure I could carry the workload the Gestapo gave me. After all, I was only a young girl. I was supposed to be strong and able to pull my own weight. Often, Dora would do my work if I got too tired. She was amazing.
I came to rely on Dora for everything, as did many of the women in the work camp. I would hear Dora whisper in their ears, “Do as they say ... this will pass.”
There was one night in particular when if I didn’t have Dora with me, I’m not sure I would have survived. I was feeling very low that day. One of the women in our barracks had been taken away in the middle of the night. The Gestapo said it was due to illness, but who knows? The truth was something the Gestapo changed.
I was in bed crying. Dora knelt beside me, stroking my forehead and trying to comfort me.
“Dora, please go back to bed. They’ll shoot you or hit you, please,” I begged.
Dora whispered. “It’s OK, the two women on duty tonight had one too many swigs. They’re drunk.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
Dora nodded. “And you are you OK?”
“I guess so,” I answered. “But I ‘m scared, very scared. Don’t you ever get scared?”
“Of course. Everyone here is scared, but what are our choices? We have none. So we do as they say and another day goes by and we’re alive, so it’s OK.”
After that explanation, Dora reassured me that soon we’d be in Hollywood, and of how beautiful the costumes I’d be wearing would be, and how the music would be just right for my entrance on center stage.
Once again, Dora had put my mind at ease and I slept a lot easier. I often wondered if Dora really did sleep when she went back to bed after our talks, or if she did have trouble as I did. When I questioned her she always said yes, but she never really convinced me.
Dora believed in my talents so much, she used to tell everyone about my singing and dancing and how proud she was of me. She promoted me as the child star who could sing like a bird and dance like an angel. And with all her promoting, she did what she set out to do.
The Gestapo women wanted me to entertain them, and in return they would give me extra food. Naturally, the extra food made it very appealing. Extra food meant extra strength for the other women and myself.
The first time it happened was very late at night, almost morning. We were all sleeping, but the guards were drinking and partying. After all, when we worked, they could sleep. They didn’t care if we were tired. A tired Jew still worked, and there were absolutely no exceptions.
I was awoken by a firm nudge on my shoulder. “Get up. It’s show time. You’re stretched out like a herring. We want to see you dance. So get your little ass up and let’s begin.”
At first I didn’t answer.
Again the S.S. woman shouted. “Did you hear me, little one?”
I slowly lifted my head up, only to be summoned by three large Gestapo women. One of the Gestapo yelled out, “We want to be entertained. Get up now.”
Dora stood up and answered for me, “She’ll be ready in a minute.”
With Dora’s help, I was ready in less than a minute. Then without much ado, I walked to the center floor of the barracks and began to sing and dance.
Everyone in the barracks was up watching me. As I looked around the room, I saw the faces of the women who in only a few hours would have to be awake and ready to march to work. They made me uncomfortable, but getting extra food for them made it feel appropriate.
From that night on, I had made a place for myself. It wasn’t my dream, but if it made it any easier on the women in my barracks, then it was all right with me. My dancing soon became the ultimate in entertainment for the Gestapo women.
It was from my dancing and singing debut that I began my survival training. I was learning to play by the Gestapo’s rules, always reminding myself of Dora’s repetitive instructions – “Keep your mouth shut and do as they say.”
I was not the only one in our barracks who had theatrical experience – there were many others. When the other women realized it would make a difference in our treatment at the work camp, they came forward and performed. Sometimes we performed together, sometimes solo. We also performed entire productions, costumes and all. Our costumes weren’t elaborate – mostly ripped sheets and scrapes of material – but we performed well. And yes, we were rewarded with food, which kept some of us a little more energized.
When we danced, we danced without tap shoes and when we sang, sometimes it was without music. Nevertheless, the Gestapo always applauded. Those of us who performed did some of the best acting I’ve ever seen, and it wasn’t only our on-stage performance. It was how we smiled at the Gestapo on the outside and cried on the inside. It was very hard for all of us to enjoy our shows, certainly because to us as Jews, we were only doing whatever we had to for survival.