Bringing Hell
C.G. Banks
bringing hell
C. G. BANKS
Bringing Hell
Copyright © 2015 by C. G. Banks
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One
To Bring Hell
I know what you’re thinking. Another lonely old Jew come in the hope of still belonging. And maybe you’re right. I’ve been alone now for the better part of twelve years, dear Gerda gone with the cancer, and I have been adrift. But don’t think the irony is lost on me. I am finally come to the end, as if I half-expected after escaping the Fire, we would have somehow made ourselves immune to death, but oh well.
There is another part of the mystery for me, too, the more incredible coincidence that two classmates sent to different camps: her to Madjanek and me to Sachsenhausen should have both lived, and then found each other. And then, unbelievingly, gone on to continue fruitful lives, or at least as fruitful as one can believe after the things we lived. But Gerda always had that little spark. Just enough to wrap ourselves tight around the other as desperately as two victims of a shipwreck loose on the sea. And I can see it in your eyes; you look at me and see only another old man, you feel only pity. You, a scholar, a Jewish scholar at that. That’s why I’ve come. I understand you’ve attempted to dig through the shit of the Holocaust for knowledge, for some vestige of understanding. I can see it in your eyes just as well as the pity. It is a great, blossoming certainty in every line of your face.
But you look like a good man, despite your profession, and with every step I feel less and less of my life around me. As if I’m walking an infinite stretch of emptiness, vague shadowed tombs on either side. And the path between skinnier and skinnier, coming to a vanishing point somewhere close in the distance. But, of course, that has nothing to do with you. You wish simply to dismiss yourself, but the professor’s urge is too strong to simply turn away from some poor old man with the telltale number still tattooed on his forearm. Don’t fear. I won’t be long, and I think this thing I have to say, this thing which I’ll show you, will make you…see.
Please, step just over to the doorway, out of the general press of people. I’ll breathe better, my thoughts become clearer. Because the claustrophobia is still pervasive, you see. I’ve never been able to escape the stink of the barracks, the ice-shard cold, all those shriveled, bug-ridden bodies constantly pressing in from all sides throughout the interminable nights. I still hear the groans, the cries, just like you intimated in the lecture. You are right, you have learned many things that go deeper than the simple truth.
But you haven’t seen.
I know, I know. Grant me a moment. Please, just a moment. Remember I spoke of Gerda, of her little spark. Well, sir, I possess the Fire. Perhaps only we who have been through It can truly take possession of It, but nonetheless, it’s true. Your hand, please, give me your hand. You said you seek the truth. You say it and I believe you. Maybe it’s because I have reached the curtain of my life, and have this last thing of worth.
Please, take my hand, only for a moment.
*
Underneath the glare of the arc-lights we stand in razor sharp lines of ragged hopelessness. –3 degrees Celsius and daylight still more than an hour away. A rolling Polish storm front promising little relief, if any. Many of us are shoeless, bloodied feet frozen to the cobbled Appelplatz arena. Smoke from the ovens even now beginning to mix with the steel-gray sky as the SS snipers finger the triggers of their Mausers.
Adolf Hitler is due within the hour and this demon is known for punctuality, regardless of his bizarre schedule.
