September 18, 2005
By Charlene Schiff
I don’t remember the name of the displaced persons camp, or which country I was in, but I do remember that first day.
After a filling breakfast of chicory-flavored coffee and fresh bread and jam, we were directed to a long, narrow hall. There we waited our turn to enter a room. A middle-aged woman was sitting behind a large desk. She was neatly dressed, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled in a tight bun behind her neck. She had a faint smile on her kind face, but her large brown eyes reflected great sadness.
When it was my turn, I was invited to sit down in a chair in front of the desk. The woman looked me over, and I could sense the pity in her expression. This was not what I had wanted. I felt angry and embarrassed for looking dirty and disheveled. I felt out of place in a room so clean and orderly, so near a woman dressed with impeccable taste and looking so lovely. The woman asked me a number of questions. She verified my name, the place and date of my birth, and the fact that I was an orphan. To this last statement I objected strongly, saying I knew I would locate my parents soon. She looked at me with those sad eyes. She got up quickly, surprised me with a hug, and directed me to the end of the hall where a door led to a large garden. It was a well-kept garden with lovely flowers and old trees—only the far corners were messy and cluttered with hoses.
A woman in a white coat appeared seemingly from nowhere and told me to strip. I tried to object, but this no-nonsense woman pushed me impatiently into a corner and started helping me undress. I was completely bewildered. Soon I was naked, and a stream of white powder coming from a hose held by the woman was hitting my body. The spray was strong and felt like sharp needles pricking me all over. In addition, the foul odor of the powder was making me sick. It smelled like rotten eggs or sulfur. I vomited, and the woman stopped the spray. She was obviously annoyed with me. After a short while she resumed her job with a renewed vengeance. It seemed as if it lasted for hours. When it finally stopped, I opened my eyes and every pore of my skin, as well as my hair, was covered with a thick coat of white powder. I felt humiliated. The woman commanded, “Don’t just stand there—go to the showers.”
The showers were in the next building. I had to walk over naked, covered with the repugnant powder. My eyes were lowered and I did not see anyone—did anyone see me? I’ll never know. The humiliation was complete. I heard the rush of water. I entered a stall and tried to turn on the water; only cold water came out, but no matter, it felt liberating to cleanse my body and hair. Soaping myself vigorously, I scrubbed and washed myself for a long while, getting rid of the powder, the lice, and all the other filth. On the outside of the stalls there were towels. I dried myself, and for the first time in five years I felt really clean. First, while in the ghetto, and then running from forest to forest searching for my mother and trying to stay alive against unbelievable odds, personal hygiene had become nonexistent.
As I looked around, wrapped in my towel, a gentle-looking woman motioned for me to come closer. Around her were cartons filled with all sorts of stuff. She looked at me and rummaged in the cartons. She dug out some underwear, trying to find the right size. She pulled out several dresses and asked which one I liked best, then socks and shoes. She even found a cardigan sweater—“So you won’t catch cold when it starts getting chilly,” she said with a smile. I was overwhelmed with all these gifts, but there were more to come.
I was given a pillow, a sheet, a blanket, a small towel, a cake of luxurious soap, a toothbrush, and toothpaste—items I had not seen in five years. I thanked the woman, and she watched with pleasure as I gathered my new possessions.
“Your new home is Barracks Two, locker number 12,” she said.
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