I Am a Victor: The Mordechai Ronen Story - Hardcover

Ronen, Mordechai

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 1459731786 ISBN 13: 9781459731783

Publisher: Dundurn Press, 2016

Synopsis

A man’s journey of triumph over unspeakable evil and the powerful impact of the choice to survive against all odds.

Mordechai Ronen was born in a peaceful town in 1930s Hungary. By the time he turned eleven years old, the world had gone mad. He became one of the millions of Jews to be shipped to a Nazi death camp. How he survived that ordeal and what followed is the incredible story told in these pages.

That Mordechai is alive today is nothing short of a miracle. His is an incredible story of triumph and unwavering determination to survive, which is what he did against all odds in the Nazi death camps. The journey that began in the Holocaust carried Ronen through the establishment of Israel, immigration to Canada, and finally to an emotional return to Auschwitz, this time as a guest of Canadian Prime Minister Jean Chrétien, who called that moment one of the most extraordinary he had seen in his four decades in politics.

About this title

About the Author

Mordechai Ronen survived the Holocaust as a child from Hungary. He became a fighter in the underground, and an eighteen-year veteran of the Israel Defense Forces. He now lives in Toronto with his wife, children, and grandchildren.

Steve Paikin is anchor of TVO’s flagship nightly current affairs program, The Agenda with Steve Paikin. He is chancellor at Laurentian University in Sudbury, an officer of the Order of Canada, and recipient of the Order of Ontario. He lives in Toronto.

Mordechai Ronen survived the Holocaust as a child from Hungary. He became a fighter in the underground, and an eighteen-year veteran of the Israel Defense Forces. He now lives in Toronto with his wife, children, and grandchildren.

Steve Paikin is anchor of The Agenda with Steve Paikin, TVO’s flagship current affairs program since 2006. He has written four previous books on politics, including Paikin and the Premiers. Paikin has spent more than 30 years in journalism, 20 of them at Ontario’s provincial broadcaster. He lives in Toronto.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

CHAPTER FOUR TO THE CONCENTRATION CAMPS 
Whatever rumours we heard in the past were now irrelevant. Now we would find out our true fate. We walked from the ghetto to the train station, and no, there wasn’t a nice passenger train awaiting us. Rather, the guards loaded us into cattle cars, pushing and kicking us like animals, squeezing as many of us as possible into the trains. They told us at the ghetto to take as many of our belongings as we could hold in our hands or stuff into our pockets. But as soon as we arrived at the train station, they took it all away. Even without our belongings, we were all crammed in so tight, there was no room to move. That cliché about sardines in a tin was absolutely true. When the cars were fully packed, the guards closed the doors with a noisy thud, and then locked them with iron bars. There was another significant difference between the ghetto and the train station. It was Hungarian troops that escorted us out of the ghetto. But at the train station, we were handed over to German soldiers. We noticed the swastikas on their uniforms and guns in hand as they patrolled the platform. Once again, we were told that we were being taken to a labour camp. Which one and where? We had no clue. The journey by train took several days and it was excruciating. Try to imagine the heat, the hunger, the humiliation. There were no stops along the way. It was next to impossible to sleep. People had to urinate and defecate on the train, crammed up against others. For some, the conditions were too much. They simply died in their places. And there was no way to remove the bodies. People were screaming, crying, and groaning in pain. There were some small openings in the walls to allow in some light and air, but barely anything. On rare occasions, the guards would open the doors and throw in some food and water. It was utterly dehumanizing. After a few days, the train stopped. We still had no idea where we were. Were we still in Hungary? Then someone from outside screamed in German: “Juden, raus! Schnell!” (“Jews, get out! Quickly!”). Some people were unable to walk. They were dragged out, and taken away to God only knows where. A German officer told us to line up in front of the train. And it was at that point that I noticed a sign that read: “Auschwitz.” Today, Auschwitz is synonymous with cruelty and death. But to an 11-year-old boy from Hungary, it meant nothing. I had no knowledge of the frightening reputation of the place. Frankly, I didn’t even know what country it was in. (Auschwitz, or Oswiecim as it’s called in Polish, is more than 700 kilometres northwest of Dej, right near Poland’s southern border with what was then Czechoslovakia). We spent the next hour walking from the train station to the concentration camp. There were thick iron gates and German soldiers standing around with guns and dogs, which terrified us even more with their incessant barking. The dogs were huge and vicious. We would frequently hear soldiers tell the dogs in German to “fang ihm,” (“get him”) then unleash the dogs who would attack prisoners. The dogs often drew blood, oftentimes just for sport. Although I didn't see it at the time, I gather I was close to what has become one of the most iconic images of the Holocaust --- the sign over the entry gate, which held out the promise of freedom, provided we worked hard enough: Arbeit Macht Frei. Were we in a labour camp? Maybe the rumours were false and we would survive this horror if we worked hard enough? It was a small shred of hope worth hanging on to. At this point, my family was still altogether: my parents, my two sisters, and me. But then, a German official started to sort us into different groups. One of them had a baton in his hand, and directed us on which way to go --- women and children to the left, men to the right. Years later, I would come to know that man with the baton as Dr. Josef Mengele, the so-called “Angel of Death,” who with the wave of his hand decided who would live and who would die. My assumption was, we’re being separated into different groups in order to perform different tasks, no doubt harder labour for the men, easier work for the women. Even though I was only days away from turning twelve years old and was presumably still regarded by German authorities as a child, I held my father's hand tightly and never let it go. What I didn’t know at that moment was, that decision to stay with my father saved my life. Conversely, my two older sisters went with my mother to the left. The selection happened so quickly. Soldiers were screaming at us to move. It was such a chaotic situation, we didn't even have a chance to say goodbye to my mother and sisters. My father suspected this would be the last time we would ever see them alive again. And it was. After the selection process was complete, a group of Jews from the camp approached our group. Apparently, it was their job to inform us newcomers of the rules in Auschwitz. All the while, though, they were cursing us in Yiddish. “Farvos inem gehenem zayn`du kumen aher?” (“Why in the hell did you come here?”). One would ask. “Zayn nisht du hern der warnings? Du gants are geyn keyn oysgeyn aher.” (“Didn't you hear the warnings? You all are going to die here”). We were dumbstruck. They continued. “Du gants are geyn tsu dem crematorium. Dos iz nisht a labour camp. Dos iz a toyt camp keyner leaves dos arayngebn khay.” (“You all are going to the crematorium. This is not a labour camp. This is a death camp. Nobody leaves this place alive”). Then, pointing to the chimneys, they said, “Du vel nayert avekforn dos arayngebn fun ahin.” (“You will only leave this place from there”). Everything was happening too quickly. We were utterly exhausted after our train transport, starving as well, and barely able to comprehend our circumstances. So our minders explained it all as frankly and bluntly as they could. The selection we had just experienced wasn’t about determining who was appropriate for which job. It was a selection for life or death. All those who turned to the left were now on their way to the crematorium, they told us. They were being escorted to their deaths at this very moment, including our rabbi from Dej, who told my father to stay in the ghetto, as that represented his best chance at survival. Did we believe it? Even after everything we’d experienced, I think there was still a part of us that found it impossible to believe. Why kill us? Don’t they need us? But the reality of Auschwitz began to dawn on us. And there was an incident that took place as we got off the train that gave an indication of the hell we had just entered. As the guards were sorting people, some of those soldiers decided to have a little “fun,” no doubt bored with their circumstances. Or perhaps one of the little babies was crying too loudly, and its mother couldn't stop the child from sobbing. One soldier took the child from its mother, and began a “game” that every loving parent plays with their little kids --- tossing the child up in the air and catching it. If you’ve done it, you’ll know it can quickly turn tears into laughter. But the Germans changed the rules of the game. As one soldier threw the child in the air, the others --- all SS soldiers --- used the baby as target practice. (the Schutzstaffel or SS were Hitler’s protection squadron, responsible for most of the worst atrocities during the war). They shot the child in mid-air. It all happened before our disbelieving eyes. If we had any illusions about what lay ahead for us in Auschwitz, those illusions should have collapsed at that moment. And yet, we still wanted to believe --- needed to believe --- that somehow we would survive all this. As an aside, let me relate an incident that happened many years later with my oldest son. Moshe had to write an essay for school and the story of the SS officers killing this defenseless child was the story he chose to tell. Moshe had heard me speak of this event over the years. The teacher said the essay was fine but that there was a problem with Moshe's imagination. The teacher appended a note to the essay, saying Moshe didn’t need to so dramatically embellish what was obviously a fictitious story. I guess I could forgive the teacher for her views. All these years later, it’s still hard to believe I saw what I saw. Can human beings really be that cruel to each other? To a harmless baby? I went to Moshe’s school to meet the teacher, not to chastise or criticize her, or even to justify what Moshe had written. Rather, I needed to tell the teacher that these things really had happened. I needed her to expand her understanding of history. To this day, I really don't know whether the teacher believed me or not. If you were raised in the latter half of the 20th century in peaceful Canada, why would you believe such stories? How could you not conclude that this parent was exaggerating. But as I tell people, just because something is too horrible to believe doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. In any event, the kapos took us into the Auschwitz concentration camp. I stayed close to my father and went into the barracks. We were ordered to remove our clothes, throw them in a pile on the floor, and put on the camp uniform, all the while wondering: is my mother still alive? Are my sisters still alive? Or have they already gone to the gas chambers? Are their bodies already en route to the crematoria for burning? Such horrifying thoughts. We spent several dreadful days in Auschwitz. They seemed to separate us into our ethnic nationalities. We were grouped with other Hungarians. Eventually, our uniforms would indicate why we had been sent here. Jews had one particular symbol on our clothes; political prisoners another; homosexuals another, and so on. And the selection for the crematoria wasn't over yet. While women and young children, especially daughters, were the first to go, next came a second selection for young sons who may have been unfit for hard labour. We received instructions that all children over the age of thirteen could stay, but that anyone younger than thirteen was to be moved elsewhere to a “special camp.” By now, we knew all too well what that meant: gas chambers and crematoria. My father and I started plotting how we could keep me alive. I simply didn’t look tall enough to pass for thirteen, so we searched for whatever we could, and stuffed it into my shoes to make me look taller. When the Germans were around, I kept my shoulders back, and my neck stretched up, again to convey the impression that I was older and taller than I really was. So far, it was working. At this point, I need to tell you about a bittersweet surprise we experienced at Auschwitz. Remember, we had no knowledge of where my two older brothers were. By being at the yeshiva, they avoided the Dej ghetto and subsequent transport to Auschwitz. However, I would later learn that the boys were sent from the yeshiva to a Hungarian labour camp with other Jews. That camp was established by the regime of Miklós Horthy de Nagybánya. His title was “His Serene Highness, the Regent of the Kingdom of Hungary.” Horthy remains a divisive figure in Hungarian history. His close relations with Nazi Germany allowed him to reclaim lands lost to Hungary through various treaties. But the Nazis eventually soured on him because they found him insufficiently committed to the Final Solution --- the extermination of European Jewry. By the spring of 1944, Germany lost patience with Horthy, invaded Hungary, and essentially took control of the country. In October, Horthy was placed under arrest, and taken to Bavaria, where he remained until the end of the war. To avoid one of Horthy’s labour camps, both Dudi and Shuli escaped to the bigger cities, to avoid the attention of suspicious neighbours, Dudi hid in Budapest and Shuli hid in Debrecen. For a time, they were relatively safe as the Hungarian authorities had not pursued Jews there. But eventually, their luck ran out and they were swept up in a round-up, taken to a ghetto, and then, like us, sent to Auschwitz. So, by the time my parents, sisters, and I arrived at Auschwitz, my brothers were already there, although because they came separately, neither knew the other was there. When Dudi heard through the grapevine that a transport from Dej had arrived at the camp, he began to look for us. Somehow, one day, he snuck out of his cell block, traversed the camp, and got access to our barracks. I have to confess, when I first saw Dudi, I didn’t recognize him. He looked so utterly different from how I recalled him. Remember, he left home in 1940 and I rarely saw him after that. Now, his formerly thick, long hair was all gone. His head was shaved as Auschwitz regulations required. Dudi recognized me and told me what I had to do to escape the crematorium. “Motke, du muzn oysbahaltn funem selections un alts blaybn mit tateh.” (“You must hide from the selections and always stay with father”) he told me. It was the only time I saw him in Auschwitz, but I followed his advice, and it saved my life. When the guards or kapos called us to line up in front of the barracks, I would hide and refuse to come out, or sneak into another barracks. I’d move from one to another, desperately trying to stay ahead of the authorities as they checked inside. I also scouted out other places where I could hide. During the night, I wouldn't stay in the barracks because you never knew --- there could be an unexpected selection, and then I would be caught off guard. The safest place I could find to hide was in the yard near the bathrooms, where all the dead bodies were brought and piled up, one upon another. As appalling as this sounds, I would get on to that pile, lie down next to the dead bodies and pretend I was one of them. It worked. Life in Auschwitz, if you can call it that, consisted of simply trying to stay alive for one more day. We had very little food and suffered from hunger all the time. Essentially, there was one evening meal a day and to call it a meal wasn’t quite accurate. It was a bowl of soupy mush, maybe some potatoes, and that was it. They usually gave us food in barrels, which was an advantage for a little guy like me. When the barrel was empty, it was thrown away, but it still contained some food left at the bottom that the adults were unable to reach. I could get inside the barrel, and scrape the leftovers from the bottom. In this way, my dad and I got some extra food. We were in Auschwitz for almost two weeks. My father and I worked in a cement factory with a few hundred other prisoners. I was basically the water boy. What I remember most from that time is the sense of horror and danger that haunted me every minute I was there. It’s impossible to forget the tall chimneys with dark, thick smoke rising out of them. And the dogs barking, always barking. But there were other absurdities that, for some reason, stay with me. I recall seeing two kids, probably about my age, being escorted every morning outside the camp to clean the officers’ houses. They were always escorted by a couple of armed guards. How bizarre it was to see those big guys leading two scrawny, small boys at gunpoint. With all of the death I saw in Auschwitz, why does that image stay with me? Who knows? Do you know what it’s like to spend every waking moment of your life simply thinking of how to stay alive? I hope not. No one should live under such circumstances. But that’s the way it was. I used all my wits and took advice from whoever would offer it to remain alive. And I prayed. Yes, there was prayer, even in Auschwitz. The first thing I did every morning was say the Shema, the Hebrew prayer acknowledging God's oneness. (“Hear O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one.”). I said it just to myself, never out loud. However, at least three times a day in the barracks, or when there was a spare moment, someone who knew the prayers by heart w...

About this edition

• Publisher: Dundurn Press
• Publication date: 2016
• ISBN 10: 1459731786
• ISBN 13: 9781459731783
• Binding: Hardcover
• Number of pages: 216