His Haunted Eyes

Today is Holocaust Memorial Day.

The Second World War and the horror that went with it is such a distant memory to some people. To others that horror is with them to this day, it haunts their dreams , often their waking hours and will continue to do so until the day that they die. This year and this day marks the 60th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz.

I was a baby during the war, content to depend on my Mother for sustenance and to lie happily gurgling in my pram. I had no knowledge that in Europe, other babies and children were being ripped from their Mother’s arms, herded like little frightened animals into trucks, onto trains, never to see their families again.Thousands of children, just like me, met their ends in the gas chambers of many concentration camps and in medical “experiments”. People were destroyed not just because of their religion. Some were chosen because of their nationality, others because they were mentally ill or physically handicapped. Some because of their political beliefs. They did not have to commit a crime, they met their ends simply because of who they were. Across all of Europe and even in the Channel Islands people were treated like just so many pieces of trash to be disposed of. Beatings, torture, slow starvation and then the gas chambers and the crematoria.

I thank the Lord that I never had to experience anything like that. However, we were very privileged to know a man who was touched by just these experiences. I mentioned him in a previous entry and how he laughed so hard at Mike being dressed as a woman. Peter was a little man, in fact we always referred to him as “little Peter” in the nicest possible way.

Peter is on the far left

He barely came up to my shoulder, but he had the heart of a lion. He had to learn to be strong. He could laugh most heartily and yet I always watched his eyes. His eyes never smiled, his eyes were haunted and he had this aura of sadness about him. This is his story in brief. Peter was Austrian. Until the Nazis came to power he had a good life style, went to a decent school and lived in a comfortable home. His mother was a very well known concert pianist in her own country. That all changed when Hitler came to power and they lived under Nazi domination. Peter was no longer allowed to attend school. He and his family had to wear the yellow symbol of their religion - Jewish.

Then the round-ups began. People began to be transported away never to be seen again. Rumours spread of what was happening. Peter’s mother had influential friends and somehow she managed to either buy or beg help to get Peter smuggled away. He was passed from one safe house to another, always fearing discovery, always having to hide. Ripped away from his family he was totally alone. I do not know all the details because I never liked to raise the subject with him. I do know that he eventually made his way to England where he was safe at last. He had nothing, no money, only the clothes on his back, his family all left behind, a mere child, longing for his family and with a deep ache in his heart.

What happened in the intervening years, I do not know. He grew to adulthood here in England and eventually married his dear wife, Joan. But before that, as soon as the war ended and he could get permission to travel he returned to his mother country to try and trace his family. He was hopeful that with his Mother being a concern pianist, she had survived. Musicians were often the lucky ones if you can call it “lucky” as they provided entertainment for the camp officers and also drowned out what was going on all around.

Peter made endless searches for his family, going from one official to another. Eventually he tracked down a cousin who had somehow survived.

The dreaded news came - Peter’s Mother and all his remaining family had died in the gas chambers at Auchswitz. One can only imagine his feelings. Through this cousin he was eventually able to retrieve a photograph of his mother and that was the only thing he had left of his family and his childhood. He kept that photograph proudly on his wall. She had been a beautiful woman, his Mother - and she was seated at her beloved piano.

Peter and Joan had a very happy marriage. I never heard Peter raise his voice and he never lost his temper. He was a gentle man, gentle and sweet. Was he bitter? I cannot answer that question as Peter, like so many survivors, kept it locked inside himself and did not like to speak of it.  I only know that I would have been. We were very proud to call him friend for over thirty years. Alas, he is no longer with us but I always think of him when I read or see anything about the Holocaust and I will never forget his haunted eyes.

Just one little story in an ocean of millions of stories, just one little man among millions of men. So many murdered, so many families destroyed. So many still living who have to bear this unbearable pain. May all those who died know external peace now. May all those who carry the burden of loss and the guilt that they survived achieve tranquillity of soul.

Many terrible things have happened in the world since then but let us never forget what can happen when national, political or religious ideals run riot. Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it.

I shall be saying a prayer today for all the victims of the holocaust and for those who still survive. I shall also light a candle and pray for a world where hatred and discrimination will become a thing of the past and we can all live as one global family.

Jeannette