Chapter 3: Instead of sleeping with my Mom, I wanted to die in her beloved Poland (3)
When our Polish guide, after a bunch of arrogant army-officers had passed our way, said silently to us “These are the masters of our land, but not for too much longer”, I nodded with a compassionate smile, demonstrating my democratic solidarity, but deep inside I hoped it will take a while until this liberation would take place, since I was so mesmerized with the charm of the abused and suppressed nation. When my travel-group-companions strolled with bowed heads through Ausschwitz I came up with this enhancing proposition, encouraging them to raise their heads high, making them astonished, that of all the group-members, this shy, tiny Shmulik Weissgold (which is my name, by the way) this obviously neither so bright, nor impressive group-member came up with such a great inspiration. And yes, I was sad and cried like the other females and those few wimpy non-females in my group. I tried oh so hard to emotionally collapse, confronted with the fate of those who perished in the gas-chambers, here on this dreary, desolate compound, which was doomed to become a death-camp-memorial-site for the coming centuries. Only because some German creatures had done what they did, in order to wipe out the Untermenschen. Only because within their hearts they were actually convinced that they themselves were the Untermenschen, therefore in a hopeless psychotic act of imbecile infantile defiance trying to get rid of god´s chosen people, the actual Herrenmenschen and playing this foolish and brutal and unconvincing game of them being the Herrenrasse. But back to me and my own little private misery: seriously and honestly – and I was serious and honest enough to myself, even in this weak fragile juvenile post-puberty years – actually I felt nothing. I just made this effort to be like the others in this “let´s see where they tried to gas our Jewish parents who live now in their land”-youth group. When I saw those impressive big ovens, where they burned the corpses after having gassed the life out of them, I got homesick and wanted to go back to my beloved huge Italian stone-oven pizzas I used to devour in my home-town Frankfurt at least three times a week, finishing the godly meal with a fine Coke and then burping the yellow cheesy acid out of my sensitive Jewish polish stomach. And I of course I hated myself for this oral fixation of my heartless mind, I wanted the others in the group to lynch me, I wanted the ghosts of the Nazi-guards to come back and gas me, thus being able to return to my mother’s womb and the garden of Eden.