Gary Sokolov
When I was asked to write an afterword for the book, it was a very daunting request. Memories at so many different levels kept flooding my mind and I was unable to get started.
Do I talk about food, which was a primary focus for both my parents but especially my mother who took pride in a fridge filled with chicken schnitzels, cold cuts and myriad cakes and fruit? I remember her devastation when in Year 11 I went on a major diet. On Friday night she served me my traditional three schnitzels and I’ll never forget the look on her face when I placed two of them back in the tray. ‘What’s wrong? Is my cooking no good anymore?’ she asked. It was very hard for her to register that I could no longer eat the quantity I used to. To compensate for this, when my friend came over he said hello to me and went straight to the fridge. This made her very happy. Our home was always inviting and accepting of everyone.
Both Mum and Dad were very supportive of any and all hobbies and activities that I wanted to try, and keen to introduce me to everything – skiing, travel, horse riding, parasailing and more. They felt they were robbed of their own youth and did not want me to miss out on anything.
Growing up, it was a very loving family life. The devotion my parents had to each other was total and uncompromising. When many in their circle of friends started getting divorced, I went to my mother and asked her how she and my father had managed to stay together for so many years. Her response was very simple: ‘Nobody is perfect. Your father has always taken care of me since the first day we met in Birkenau. I know he is not perfect, but I also know he will always put me first.’ The house was always full of love and affection, especially for me, and after fifty years of marriage to see them both cuddling, holding hands and kissing – I believe this has allowed me to be a very outwardly loving and caring husband and father.
Both my parents were determined that I should know what they went through. When the TV series The World at War started, I was 13, and they made me watch it by myself every week. They were unable to watch it with me. I remember when they were showing live footage of the camps I looked to see if I could spot my parents. That footage is stuck in my mind even now
My father was comfortable to talk about his adventures in the camp, but only on the Jewish festivals when he and the men would sit around the table and chat about their experiences – all of which were fascinating. Mum, however, said nothing of the details except on one occasion where she told me that in the camp when she was very sick her mother had come to her in a vision and told her, ‘You will get better. Move to a faraway land and have a son.’
I’ll try to give you some insight into how those years affected them both. When my father was forced to close his business when I was 16, I came home from school just as our car was being towed away and an auction sign going up outside our home. Inside, my mum was packing up all our belongings. She was singing. Wow, I thought to myself, they have just lost everything and Mum is singing? She sat me down to tell me what was going on and I asked her, ‘How can you just pack and sing?’ With a big smile on her face she said that when you spend years not knowing if in five minutes’ time you will be dead, there is not much that you can’t deal with. She said, ‘As long as we are alive and healthy, everything will work out for the best.’
Certain things stuck with them. We would be walking along the street and Mum would bend down and pluck a four- or five-leaf clover from the ground, because when she was in the camp if you found one and gave it to the German soldiers, who believed they were lucky, you received an extra portion of soup and bread. With Dad, it was the lack of emotion and heightened survival instinct that remained with him, to the point where even when his sister passed away he did not shed a tear. When I asked him about this, he said that after seeing death on such a grand scale for so many years, and after losing his parents and brother, he found he was unable to weep – that is, until Mum passed away. It was the first time I had ever seen him cry.
Most of all, I remember the warmth at home, always filled with love, smiles, affection, food and my father’s sharp dry wit. It was truly an amazing environment to grow up in and I will always be grateful to my parents for showing me this way of life.
Additional information
Lale was born Ludwig Eisenberg on 28 October 1916 in Krompachy, Slovakia. He was transported to Auschwitz on 23 April 1942 and tattooed with the number 32407.
Gita was born Gisela Fuhrmannova (Furman) on 11 March 1925 in Vranov nad Topl’ou, Slovakia. She was transported to Auschwitz on 13 April 1942 and tattooed with the number 34902, and she was re-tattoed by Lale in July when she moved from Auschwitz to Birkenau.
Lale’s parents, Jozef and Serena Eisenberg, were transported to Auschwitz on 26 March 1942 (while Lale was still in Prague). Research has uncovered that they were killed immediately upon arrival at Auschwitz. Lale never knew this. It was discovered after his death.
Lale was imprisoned in the Strafkompanie (penal unit) from 16 June to 10 July 1944, where he was tortured by Jakub. No one was expected to survive or be released from that unit.
Gita’s neighbour Mrs Goldstein survived and made her way home to Vranov nad Topl’ou.
Cilka was charged as a Nazi conspirator and sentenced to fifteen years’ hard labour, which she served in Siberia. Afterwards she returned to Bratislava. She and Gita met only once, in the mid-1970s, when Gita went to visit her two brothers.
In 1961 Stefan Baretski was tried in Frankfurt and sentenced to life imprisonment for war crimes. On 21 June 1988 he committed suicide in the Konitzky-Sift Hospital in Bad Nauheim, Germany.
Gita died on 3 October 2003.
Lale died on 31 October 2006.
For further resources, information, maps, photographs, video, documents, or to find out more about the author, please visit:
thetattooistofauschwitz.com
heathermorris.com.au
Acknowledgements
For 12 years Lale’s story existed as a screenplay. My vision always played out on a screen – big or small, it didn’t matter. It now exists as a novel, and I get to thank and acknowledge the importance of all those who stepped on and off the journey with me, and those who stayed the distance.
Gary Sokolov – you have my gratitude and love always for allowing me into your father’s life and supporting me 100 per cent in the telling of your parents’ incredible story. You never wavered in your confidence that I would get to this point.
Glenda Bawden – my boss of twenty-one years who turned a blind eye to my sneaking out to meet with Lale and others who were helping me develop the script. And my colleagues, past and present in the Social Work Department at Monash Medical Centre.
David Redman, Shana Levine, Dean Murphy, Ralph Moser at Instinct Entertainment to whom I was doing most of the ‘sneaking out’ to. Thank you for your passion and commitment to this project over many years.