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  Four Scraps of Bread

  FOUR SCRAPS OF BREAD

  (Quatre petits bouts de pain)

  MAGDA HOLLANDER-LAFON

  Translated by Anthony T. Fuller

  University of Notre Dame Press

  Notre Dame, Indiana

  English Language Edition Copyright © 2016 by

  the University of Notre Dame

  University of Notre Dame Press, Notre Dame, Indiana 46556

  www.undpress.nd.edu

  All Rights Reserved

  Translated by Anthony T. Fuller from Quatre petits bouts de pain: Des ténèbres à la joie by Magda Hollander-Lafon, published by Albin Michel. © Éditions Albin Michel – 2012

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Hollander-Lafon, Magda, author.

  Title: Four scraps of bread : (quatre petits bouts de pain) / Magda Hollander-Lafon ; translated by Anthony T. Fuller.

  Other titles: Quatre petits bouts de pain. English

  Description: Notre Dame : University of Notre Dame Press, [2016]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016023973 (print) | LCCN 2016024285 (ebook) | ISBN 9780268101220 (hardback) | ISBN 0268101221 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780268101237 (paper) | ISBN 9780268101244 (pdf) | ISBN 9780268101251 (epub)

  Subjects: LCSH: Hollander-Lafon, Magda. | Holocaust, Jewish (1939-1945)—Hungary—Personal narratives. | Jewish children in the Holocaust—Hungary—Biography. | Birkenau (Concentration camp)—Biography. | Jews—Hungary—Biography. | Holocaust survivors—Biography. | BISAC: BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Personal Memoirs. | HISTORY / Holocaust.

  Classification: LCC DS135.H93 H64813 2016 (print) | LCC DS135.H93 (ebook) | DDC 940.53/18092 [B] —dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016023973

  ISBN 9780268101251

  ∞ This paper meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992

  (Permanence of Paper).

  This e-Book was converted from the original source file by a third-party vendor. Readers who notice any formatting, textual, or readability issues are encouraged to contact the publisher at [email protected].

  CONTENTS

  Translator’s Preface

  THE PATHS OF TIME

  Looks

  Departure

  One Day

  Lice

  Bread

  Feet

  Man and Bread

  The German Shepherd

  Thirst

  Edwige

  My Blanket

  How?

  The Call

  The Good Guard

  Auschwitz Concerto

  To Live

  Christmas 1944

  Waiting

  The Final Marches

  To You

  The Smell of Bread

  A Real House

  The Smile

  To Die

  The Suitcase Full of Holes

  FROM DARKNESS TO JOY

  The Meaning of My Life

  The Last Minute

  Hungary

  Crisis

  Intuition

  My Tree

  Remembering the Sky

  What the Heart Remembers

  What I Have Gone Through

  Saying Yes, Saying No

  Being Born Again

  A Jew Without a Face

  Unexpected Reconciliations

  To Witness and to Pass On

  Encounter

  The Face of God

  The Source

  The Grace of Fragility

  Joy

  You

  Devotees of Hope

  My Well

  In Time

  My Fears

  My Family

  Love

  (no title)

  Historical Note

  Notes

  TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE

  Magda Hollander-Lafon was born in Hungary on June 15, 1927 near the border with Slovakia. Her family was Jewish but not practicing. Nevertheless as a result of the racial laws introduced in Hungary between 1938 and 1941, her father was taken away for forced labor, and eventually Magda herself was denied schooling.

  Together with her mother and sister, she was among the 437,403 Jews deported from Hungary between May and July 1944. After a three-day journey in a crowded cattle wagon she arrived at Auschwitz-Birkenau, where she was immediately separated from her family. Because she claimed to be eighteen when in fact she was only sixteen, she was considered fit for work and thus avoided being sent straight to her death. Her mother and sister were not so lucky.

  It was in Auschwitz-Birkenau that a dying woman gave Magda four scraps of bread, telling her: “Take it. You are young, you must live to be a witness to what is happening here. You must tell others so that this never happens again in the world.”

  This act of generosity would provide both the inspiration and the title for this, her best-known book. Hollander-Lafon remained silent about her wartime experience until 1977, when she published Les chemins du temps (The Paths of Time). In this early work she directly addressed the horrors she had witnessed as a deportee as well as her recovery and attempt to resume a normal life after the Liberation. But a now-notorious interview with Louis Darquier de Pellepoix, commissioner for Jewish affairs in the collaborationist Vichy regime, published in a popular French magazine in 1978, reignited her irrepressible sense of duty toward the memory of Jews killed in the Holocaust. This led her to write a prolongation of her earlier text, subtitled Des ténèbres à la joie (From Darkness to Joy). Both works were combined and published as Quatre petits bouts de pain (Four Scraps of Bread) in 2012 to significant acclaim, including winning the Panorama-La Procure prize for books on spirituality.

  Hollander-Lafon’s story is not a simple memoir or narrative, nor does it follow a straightforward chronology of events. Instead through a series of very short chapters, many no more than one or two pages, she invites us to participate in a reflection on what she has gone through. Often the subject is very specific, naming a person or a place, and the chapter is full of naked, brutal description. Other times the subject is more ethereal, the elements vague or anonymous, and external details give way to an inward focus. “Meditation,” “poetry,” “a kaleidoscope of fragments”—all of these have been used to describe the path along which Hollander-Lafon leads us in Four Scraps of Bread.

  The journey through extreme suffering and loss to rebirth and radiant personal growth is of course a recognizable spiritual archetype. However, although at times she uses an explicitly religious language, more often Hollander-Lafon remains grounded in the description of her own lived experience and whatever meaning she believes it has. For example, she attributes her survival at Auschwitz-Birkenau to a combination of intuition—recognizing, for example, when the physical condition of those around her indicated that they were most likely the next to be killed, and immediately moving away to join a different row of prisoners—and the fact that, due to the sheer volume of Hungarian Jews arriving in a short period of time, quite a number “slipped through the net” without being tattooed or registered. She does not lean on a post hoc spiritualization of her experience, a reassuring faith that throughout it the Almighty was sparing her for some special mission. Indeed she never denies the immense role that chance and opportunity appeared to play in her life at that time. If it was a blessing for her to survive, it is also a responsibility: to tend to the memory of those who did not survive, but also to seek meaning from what she herself has gone through.

  Several words, expressions, and themes recur in Hollander-Lafon’s writing. For example, although she describes only a few faces in detail, she frequently speaks of the look on people’s faces—the real, ineffable, living expression of human emotio
n, as opposed to the depiction of a person’s features. Hollander-Lafon believes that the look on a person’s face has immense power and can be the precious bridge from death to life; hence her desperation to find a smile on the face of a stranger after the war ended. Another important set of images is related to working with nature, such as the idea of digging into or tilling the metaphoric soil of her identity and her memories. This notion of tending to the soil of her innermost being suggests a patient but active engagement with the specific circumstances of her personal history. The uniqueness, the reality, and the responsibility of each person is a core principle in Hollander-Lafon’s writing and in her life. By sharing her path to wholeness with us, she invites us to start our journey from where we are.

  THE PATHS OF TIME

  LOOKS

  My memory opens up, painfully, at the sound of persistent calls. I am emerging from the long tunnel where I have lain low.

  Thousands of faces disappeared

  Without knowing why. They call out to me

  They are full of distress

  Humiliation

  Blazing with hunger

  Snuffed out by thirst.

  The tense look of a friend whose flesh bore the marks of a dog’s bite

  With each step she was losing her life.

  The overwhelmed look of another woman beaten to death.

  Hundreds of fading looks, exhausted from long hours of roll calls.

  On thousands of lost faces, the dejection of a life terminated too soon.

  Trucks come and go down their long lanes of despair

  Filled with lives, packed tight, their eyes looking into the distance.

  Holding out their emaciated hands, clinging onto life with wasted screams.

  The smokestack crackles.

  The sky is low, gray and yellow.

  We breathe in their ashes as the wind blows them away.

  Thirty years later

  I tremble as I push through the thick wall of my memory.

  So that all those looks begging for hope

  Do not vanish

  Into the dust.

  DEPARTURE

  I remember a journey of three days cooped up in a cattle wagon. For Mom, my sister, and me, it was the last journey we made together. Just like birds hiding their heads beneath their wings when threatened, I sensed danger with my eyes shut.

  With a massive jolt and the piercing screech of a whistle, the wagon doors opened onto thick fog and an icy yellow light. All of a sudden I was plunged into a sea of dogs and men barking. “Hurry up! Los, schnell!” “How old are you? To the right!” “Your mother? To the left!” “Your sister? To the left!”

  I blindly made my way to the right and within minutes death had visited the left.

  Very quickly a different me was born, one that great black beasts with fangs would hustle toward a fragile fate.

  The air smelled of burnt flesh. The paths were littered with sharp stones. Feet dragged ahead and behind me. The convoy came to a halt. I looked up and saw a group of huts. Without realizing it I was already sitting on straw. We stared at each other in silence, not really sure if it was a man or a woman in front of us. Looking into the dilated pupils of the women around me I realized how shocked I was to be sitting opposite a stranger. What are you doing here? Can this be real? Unbelievable!

  This was already everyday life in Auschwitz.1

  ONE DAY

  A whistle screeched. We were chased off our wooden planks in a brawl of elbows, whips, and shouts. Hustled toward the steaming flasks, it was pure luck if we managed to gulp down any of the warm juice before the departure roll call. Pushed outside in all weather, we would wait for the first of these tedious headcounts that gave measure to our days. The columns moved off at daybreak.

  As we made our way to the great exit gate, our throats were knotted up with fear. Fear of revealing that we were exhausted or sick, or simply fear of being noticed, singled out from the herd. Companions who were worn out stayed behind, and we would not see them again.

  This morning, in Auschwitz, our group was directed toward the rocks. We would break them, move them left or right, at the whim of the organizers. In Ravensbrück2 I would go to the sand pit. In Nordhausen3 I would twist bolts in an aircraft factory. In Zillertal,4 I would snap yarns and shuffle bobbins in front of a loom. In Frankfurt, I would lay tracks toward an airfield. Dogs and guards saw to it that we stayed pointlessly productive.

  At noon we put down our tools to swallow a ladleful of clear gray soup while standing, dreaming that we could sit down. Our faces and gestures could not hide our exhaustion and suffering. Dry lips barely moved, and heaven was already opening in the looks of some seeking help or the end. Yet we could do nothing; our voiceless eyes were our only connection. It was painful and shocking to watch them die in silence. I clenched my teeth: “No, not yet!”

  Work ended when the day did. At the great entry gate, the same looks searched out our every weakness, and the same careless gestures pointed us toward death. We straightened ourselves up and looked forward to another tomorrow—one at least as awful as today.

  We stood, waiting endlessly for our evening soup and a morsel of bread. A long roll call, the last cracks of the whip as we got back into our hut, then we sank with the sun.

  LICE

  I remember those tiny, ingratiating, tenacious little bugs that teased me, nibbled me, and devoured me for many long months.

  They were of different sizes, colors, and families. There were the rather plump black ones who moved around so slowly but who stopped only to nip you in some choice location. The white ones were thin and transparent and huddled together in the seams of our clothes. Others were voracious and agile, with their yellow heads and black bodies, and sprawled around in our wounds, having a feast without giving a thought to their host.

  With them around I was never bored. If one group had had its fill, another would be hungry again and take over. The lice were there day and night. They became inquisitive with time and familiarity. They had the audacity to parade themselves right under the nose and beard of the SS,5 who, being elite souls and the epitome of cleanliness, could not bear to see them. A thorough disinfection was called for.

  Naked and trembling, we clutched our bundles of old clothes as a huge concrete belly swallowed us up. A vat for the clothes and a cold shower for us, then a procession in front of a bicycle pump that spat out some white mist. A puff on the right and a puff on the left then out we came laundered, shorn, frozen, and crying with impotence as the audience laughed at us. Each of these sessions was also a highly risky moment of selection. If we had the misfortune to let ourselves be overwhelmed by hunger or the smell, dogs were there to bring us back in line.

  At the end of the session, they would throw clothes to us over a small fence. Those rags were never the right size. As we waited for the others outside we tried to swap them with each other, an operation that itself had risks, what with the barbed looks that surrounded us. Sometimes I pulled it off. However, it also happened that I would come back at night wearing a dress with a train and with shoes the size of boats on my feet. Those who organized our stay took great delight in seeing us in such outfits.

  Our little black, white, or two-tone guests waited for us in the straw in our huts. They were angry that we had left them to fast for so long. Filled with desire they came back to us.

  BREAD

  The value of a morsel of black bread in the palm of my hand: a little bit of life that I stared at devouringly.

  Crumb by crumb I ate it, making it last. I closed my eyes like a newborn so that I could savor it and let myself be immersed in its flavor.

  If I were not vigilant, someone might take it from me, seize hold of my life, just like that, without warning: every man for himself. I needed to be willing to fast for many days if I wanted to survive.

  You had to know how to keep your eyes open to spot a peeling that had escaped from one of the bins, the way you would scoop up a drop of dew nestled in the
bottom of a shell.

  Hunger made me dizzy. I saw mirages, and stars flashed in front of my eyes. I spent all my energy chasing away visions of plates, cooking, and meals in an effort to calm my imagination. This was an enemy I fought against every day.

  For all that, I do not envy those who have never known hunger, because they will never know the joy of a crumb of bread.

  FEET

  My feet bore the weight of an entire life. I often begged them not to let me go. They went through every season of the year under a gray, forgetful sky.

  Our bodies walked on despite us, and thousands of feet made themselves move forward against all reason. It was better not to know why, or what fate they were dragging us toward. We were well aware that if our feet refused to walk, other feet in black shiny boots would be ready to finish us off.

  At the great entry and exit gate we had to run. It was an almost daily routine, to check if we were still fit for work. Icy robots stood on either side of the gate, armed with whips, dogs, and sticks. We ran, numb with fear. To lighten our run, and to avoid being bitten or beaten, we abandoned our shoes and clogs. If we slowed down or stumbled, a stick would immediately hook us and pull us off to one side—chosen for death. The women bringing up the rear of this long column would bump into lifeless bodies and trip over random obstacles.

  With wild and flailing steps we kept on running past the gate, breathless and driven by instinct, our faces stiff with fear.

  Our lives depended on our feet. They were painful and disturbed our short nights. At every daybreak we wondered if our shattered feet, bearing the impossible weight of souls stripped bare, would make it through another day.

  MAN AND BREAD

  Yesterday we were all warm and sheltered; our affections made us feel safe, and our possessions made us feel secure. We had a shared sense of who we were. Then the scaffolding collapsed. Stripped of our appearances, who were we? Beggars? Rich?