A Twin's Tale

Part Three

Much later, let it be hours or weeks, I do not know, the train paused for the last time. Everyone from every boxcar was marched out in a line, standing beside the brittle tracks. A thin man with a petulant expression sauntered before me, looking Cordula and me up and down. Finally, he turned to my mother.

“They are zwillingen, twins, no?”

“. . . Is it good or bad if they are?” She asked earnestly.

“Good,” he replied. “Very, very good.” My mother kissed Cordula, then me, on both cheeks, and pushed us toward the strange man.

“They are twins,” she said quietly. The man yelled at a guard, who came and lead us into Auschwitz. I turned around, seeking a last glimpse of my mother, the last time I’d ever see her, on January 23rd, 1944.

I miss her. I missed her then, I miss her still. A mother is one thing that all creatures long for, human, snake, fish, or lion. Don't even the strongest men cry out for their mother in times of pain, or before their impending death? I suppose even evil itself was born of something.

A tall, clean-shaven man with gelled-back hair met us at the entrance. He introduced himself as Josef Mengele, though we were allowed to call him Uncle.

He took our hands and put us in a room with other children, most of which seemed healthy and well fed. They were frightened of him, though, and flinched away from his touch. I did likewise. I had no reason to trust this man, and I doubted I would anytime in the furseeable future. He was one of them. He was worse than one of them, I was soon to discover.

We were given clean clothes and sweets, allowed to sleep and rest. None of the chidren spoke to us, save for one boy who rasped,

"Don't go to the latrine at the end of the chirldrens' barracks. You'll regret it." He pointed to a corner. "It's safer to go there." Intrigued, I walked over a little ways to glance at the stalls, much to his horror. I peeked in, then backed up quickly, my eyes wide. Scattered on the floor were several decaying corpes of children. At that moment, I made a promise to my sister and myself that we would not end up in there. We would not end up bodies crusted with dried blood, rigid with rigor mortis.

A week later, Cordula and I were driven to "Uncle's" laboratory in his personal car.

At first glance, it seemed to be a typical doctor's office. White walls, white floor. Upon closer inspection, you could see the tools of the devil. Scalpels, syringes filled with murky liquid, knives of all shapes and sizes, scissors, bandages, and needle and thread.

It was there, in that awful lab, that I faced the most horrendous treatments imaginable. A phantasmagoria, of sorts, in the real world. I was subjected to the most nightmarish experiments possible – but was never forced into an unnatural Siamese twin state, or received sex change, fortunately, though many others were not as lucky. “Uncle” tried to turn my dark hair light, my grey eyes blue, attempted to twist my reality into a fearful spectacle, strived to make my Cordula into something accepted at an atramentous freak show. But he would not succeed with either of us. Cordula, my dear twin, and I survived. Of the three thousand sets of twins experimented on by the Angel of Death, we lived, out of the many that didn’t.

I have often speculated why, though I have never procured an answer, never obtained a reason, and I suppose I shall wonder for eternity.

~~~~~~~

For more information on twins who survived, search Eva and Miriam Mozes and the CANDLES Holocaust Museum and Education Center.

Please comment on this story and tell me your opinion of it. Constructive criticism is very helpful, and I would LOVE to become a better writer.

Thanks!

~ Eyes