Tick Tock, a Holocaust Survivor's Testament

Tick Tock

Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
It runs through my head, never letting me rest. It shakes my bones with such ferocity I want to scream. It haunts my dreams, my every waking hours.
It is futile to try and attempt to make it stop. I’ve tried again and again and again, but it never seems to work. Maybe this is my punishment; my retribution for the one crime I can never repent for. Well, let it be noted, here and now, that I accept. I accept the eternal ticks and tocks of my dear sister’s gold watch and the old clock my grandfather cherished so. However, my mother’s pleasing voice singing to me and the ghastly screams and sobs of thousands upon thousands of victimized souls; I cannot say I fully accept those.
Once upon a time, oh, once upon such a lovely time, I was not haunted by the clock, the song, or the cries. Once upon a time, I did not have an ugly series of numbers proclaiming me as a being less than human running across my arm. Once upon a time, I never would have stolen from the dead.
Once upon a time, I felt worth something.
The American and British flags hung oh so proudly tell me the war, my suffering, is over; the thousands of the dead left behind constantly prowling my innermost thoughts tell me otherwise. The one thing you can never truly be taught is how long one will recover from such a dreadful and despairing experience. Physical wounds are easier to determine; wounds of the heart and soul are near impossible.
Earlier today, a small boy asked me if I am happy now. I stared at him, horrified. Regrettably, I ran away from him. The thing is, I am not horrified at his question; I was terrified of my inability to answer.
Do I, one who out of so many that for some unknown reason survived the living Hell we were being subject to, even truly deserve emotions? No, certainly not. I deserve Hell. I deserve the clocks ticking and tocking in my every waking hour. I deserve the screams, the sobs, the eternal nightmares haunting me every night. I deserve the guilt, for it is rightfully mine.
I wish I died sometimes. I wish that I had perished with my dear sister, for that would have been so much simpler. I wish that the beautiful children could have survived, for that would have been just. I wish that the elderly could have lived out their lives in comfort, not in agonizing horror; this would have been fair.
But, I survived? Why me? Why? It is a question that will haunt me, along with all my other sins.
I apologize, Lord, for speaking like this. But out of every one who could have, who should have, who needed to, why I?
Are You there, God? Are You truly there? How could You have let this happen, let us suffer. What great sin did we commit? I wish I knew. I wish I didn’t.
My sin is the greatest among the Earth, for I survived. I survived when so many others rotted and blew away like dust. So many others burned. But why did I survive.
It will haunt me.
It will haunt me along with the screams.
It will haunt me along with the cries, the sobs.
It will haunt me along with the voices that somehow found hope in prayer, yet perished anyway.
It will haunt me along with my mother’s singing.
It will haunt me along with the clocks.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.

*+*

“Because I remember, I despair. Because I remember, I have the duty to reject despair.”
-Elie Wiesel

*+*
       I am alive.
What strange words, such hopeful and uplifting words. I can only imagine what they mean to those who are in agony.
Do they mean that they will suffer even longer? Or perhaps that they have somehow succeeded in something?
I am alive.
I smile.
I dream.
I breathe.
I live.
Such beautiful words.
It is hard to believe that even though I had fallen into such pits of despair and suffered such horrors, I am alive. I am okay. I am even happy.
The world has changed since then, yet it’s all the same. Friends still see each other for movies and games. Family still supports each other. Miracles are still performed. Yet for each good similarity, there is a bad one. War still rages. People still fight. Genocide still happens under the noses of those who could stop it. Children still dream of a better life while they run in fear of death.
I learned a long time ago to stop questioning why I lived, though I will admit that now and then such questions still pass through my thoughts. I guess it just cannot be helped.
Are you there God? I thank you for my life. I thank you, for now stories as mine have helped many people live. I thank you for a second chance to help those in need.
This world is not a perfect one. Far from perfect, in fact. But I believe that our utopia is already here in the form of people. Those who try to change the world for the better; even those who do good things for the world, never realizing what they’re doing.
People have asked me how I got back on my feet after my experiences in the camps. Sometimes I’m not even sure. Though I think it was the pure hope which, if you decide to look, is always there. Hope was on my shoulder the entire time, whispering that I would be okay. That I could live. I could love. And I could forgive.
I still hear the clocks, the screams, the sobs, the songs, and I still see the agony and suffering. They push me onwards. Live. Breathe. I am a testament for those who perished. We were there. It happened. And we survived. Those who are no longer with us live through us. For every moment that we are remembered, we survive. We live.
I am alive.
I live.
I breathe.
I love.
I pray.
I smile.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.