The most heroic way

I used to be really curious, always wondering about everything. Usually, after searching for a while, I would find answers to my questions. But there was one thing I could never figure out: what’s the worst way to die? I figured the easiest way to die is probably in your sleep, but what’s the worst? What’s the most horrifying death a person could imagine? I once read about a man who died from sleep deprivation in Italy. It must have been terrifying, but is that the worst way? I asked everyone, from my friends to my parents, and every single person gave me a different answer.

Some said tuberculosis or the plague, while others claimed burning to death was the worst. One of my teachers even said that dying from madness was the most horrible way. Back then, I didn’t even believe someone could die from madness.

Now, I know for sure that you can die from madness.

I even asked my rabbi what he thought was the worst way to die. He said that someone who is humiliated and stripped of their pride (he meant some kind of Jewish suffering martyrdom) before dying, no matter how they die physically, has experienced the worst death a person can go through. From a religious Jewish perspective, I guess he was right—if a person is sentenced to death and everything that represents them is used to destroy them, it really would be a horrible death. But the rabbi’s answer, wise as it was, didn’t satisfy me. The question of what the worst possible death is remained unanswered.

In 1939, the Germans invaded Poland. They had a much more advanced army than our cavalry. It’s embarrassing to admit, but the Germans turned our thriving country into a wasteland in just three weeks. The way they treated the locals was inhumane; they saw the Poles as nothing more than wild animals to be chained up before they could later be put to sleep. No matter how bad the Germans treated Poland, their treatment of us—of the Jews and the gypsies—was even worse.

They forced all the Jewish population of Lodz and the surrounding areas into a small square, just two kilometers wide and long. Almost half of this tiny prison wasn’t even meant for people. Can you even imagine something like that?

At the time, I couldn’t. And today… well, today, that’s my home. I guess I’ve come to terms with it.

The Germans forced us to wear yellow patches on our shirts. We weren’t allowed to leave the ghetto they built for us. It was bad, but bearable. What was unbearable under German occupation was the fact that we received food rations—rationed food, that is. More than two hundred thousand people were locked in the ghetto, and only a small amount of food was distributed. From what we were told, we were supposed to get about 1,100 calories a day, but even that small amount never came close to us.

As a young guy, I worked in a textile factory. Every afternoon, we got lunch: a plate of watery green soup with exactly four small pieces of potato floating in it. After we drank that “soup,” we had to go back to work. It was tough. We worked on big machines in the factory with barely any energy, but we tried to make light of it in any way we could, using humor to distract us from the one thing that was always on our minds.

Hunger.

Hunger never left our thoughts. It was always there, always close. I remember how people would count the pieces of potato floating in their bowls. Every time there were fewer than four, they’d ask the food servers to give them the missing pieces. Most of the time, they’d get what they asked for, but sometimes they wouldn’t.

Hunger.

It affected everyone. At some point, my family and I learned to make one slice of bread last eight full days. Just think about it. A two-kilogram slice of bread, divided between five people, would last us for eight days. Can you even imagine that? Because even though I was there, I couldn’t believe it. My youngest brother had it the hardest because of the lack of proper nutrition, so out of concern, I’d give him my slice for the next day, and the one for the day after that. When those days came, and I didn’t have any bread left, I’d go to the garden, pull out a few pieces of grass, and ask my mom to cook them with salt.

Hunger.

The lack of food drove us mad. Every time we ate bread or some plant people usually wouldn’t touch, we imagined it was something better—like salted fish or pierogi. Eventually, we convinced ourselves that each time we ate the same old bread or potato peel, we were eating some gourmet dish.

Hunger.

I once had a dog, a Labrador Retriever named Simani, because of his dark fur. He died of starvation a few months after we were moved into the ghetto.

We made sausage out of him.

Hunger.

We didn’t care. Not even a little. We didn’t care what our beliefs said about such things. We didn’t care about what our master would do to us for this sin. Honestly, it didn’t even cross our minds.

Hunger.

We were pushed to a corner, to a point where we turned our beloved pet into food, and screw it. That food was the best thing I’ve ever tasted.

Hunger.

We sliced that dog sausage thin and ate it with bread. We’d smell it, and it smelled better than anything in the world. We’d smell the dog sausage as though it were roses freshly picked from a beautiful garden.

Hunger.

When we ate those pieces, we’d take the sausage off the bread just before we bit into it. We saved Simani for the end.

Hunger.

I thought my dog had the best taste.

About a year after the rations began, the people in the ghetto grew thin and shriveled. People I used to see as fat were suddenly as skinny as me, everyone became thin and skeletal. No one could escape the effects of hunger. Our bodies became weak and crippled. I used to play soccer with my friends, but at that point in my life, I couldn’t muster enough energy for any kind of sport. Besides, I became distant from everyone. I became apathetic to everything and everyone around me.

We all became like that: cold, distant, nothing mattered. We only cared about one thing—finding some way to fill our stomachs. Ironically, one of the symptoms of long-term hunger is a stomach that looks bloated and swollen.

Do you see yourself ending up this way from malnutrition? No?

Well, that’s what was happening here. Once a person sneezed or coughed, it was only a matter of time before they left the hell we were living in and moved on to the next world, hopefully near the holy feet of the Almighty.

Hunger.

Everyone got sick and weak.

Hunger.

We all became shadows of what we once were.

Hunger.

We couldn’t walk, we were too weak, too scared. Once you fell, you couldn’t get up on your own.

Hunger.

I saw people fall in the middle of the street, hopeless, unable to pick themselves back up. Most didn’t even try to straighten up.

Hunger.

People just passed by those who fell, some throwing them a glance. Most were too scared to help, afraid they’d fall too.

Hunger.

The lack of vitamins and calcium got to me too. I felt my legs losing their strength.

Hunger.

I fell today, lost feeling in my legs, didn’t even try to get up. I just lay there, staring at the sky. The sky was so beautiful, full of shades of blue and white, the clouds made all these lovely shapes, the sun was shining as usual, unaware of the hell going on beneath its glowing rays.

Hunger.

Hunger hasn’t left my mind, even now as I lie here in the middle of the street.

At least now, I got my answer. God almighty, my chest feels like it’s being crushed from both sides. This is the first time in three years that my never-ending hunger isn’t the only thing I feel. Thank God…

Even if it’s this unbearable pain… thank God, I finally feel something other than hunger!

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha… it feels so good to feel something else…

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha… and finally...

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha...

I found out what the worst death is.