The two of us, my cousin Etta and myself, waited to be sent to a labor camp.
Without warning, before the transport to the labor camp they subjected us to another selection, in which our fate would be decided by the movement of a finger. Terrible chaos erupted. People became hysterical in the face of the impending disaster of the two infamous lines – the weak and the fit - who would be sent to the left and who to the right, who would be sent to the gas chambers and who would be assigned to the transport.
I saw my cousin Etta in the left line – the line of the weak. I decided that I wouldn't let them take her. In the space of perhaps 10 seconds, I ran to her, grabbed her clothes and pulled her slowly backwards to the line on the right. I stood her in my spot so that they wouldn't see a missing place, and retreated in measured steps to the back of the line.
Auschwitz, the Kingdom of Death, had its own laws of survival: to belong to someone, to be together. Togetherness was the power of the individual. Togetherness gave meaning to life, and to death. It meant that someone would remember us, that someone would care about us, and vice-versa.
We shared the daily bread ration, the room on the bunk, the place next to the water tap, and mainly we shared the vestiges of our strength to support one another; to support whoever fainted during roll-call, in the Appel after hours of standing up, holding them up so they wouldn't be shot…
The loss of my sister Elvira, and the memory of her eyes that burned within me, strengthened my resolve to preserve the only option of togetherness left to me: with my cousin. The Germans feared this togetherness. They tried to separate people wherever they could. And they could…!
The word "together" created an alternative reality in the labor camps. In Mauthausen -Lenzing. There, we were designated not for liquidation, but rather for exploitation. An exploitation of our strength for the war effort. Both of us worked in a factory manufacturing spare parts for German Army tanks using synthetic, toxic materials. Our being together took on extra significance there. We worked together, creating a small human cell against the powers of evil. The togetherness my cousin and I created gave us the strength to go on! To stay alive!
When one of us weakened, the other supported her. And in this way, we supported each other through everything we endured.
My cousin and I survived. We stayed alive. From the depths of hell, I raised myself back to the circle of life.
It took time for me to create my world anew. The love for Eretz Israel that had been imprinted on me at a young age awakened within me with full force.
I made my peace with the Creator, who hid His face from us during those terrible days. I was privileged to take part in the establishment of our State in the land of our forefathers, which became my home.
I tried to breathe new life into my reality, through sacrifice, volunteering and love. Here in Israel, my life took on significance. A new significance. A significance reaching beyond physical survival.
The "togetherness" developed from a tiny cell consisting of two girls battling evil, to a growing, supportive entity embracing family, society and state.
A normal life!
Today, having reached my golden years, I see my survival as a great privilege, but one that carries with it an obligation. The obligation to work together to maintain a society built on equality, humanity and Judaism, so that we can pass on the torch we received from those who remained 'there' to our children, grandchildren and the generations to come.
I pray that when the time comes, we will be able to tell our loved ones in Heaven that we did our utmost to justify our survival.
Esther Miron was born to Sara and Alfred-Abraham Eliezer Lȍwinger in Janoshaza in western Hungary. She was the eldest of four children in a religious family.
When the Germans invaded Hungary in March 1944, Esther was in Oradea. She was arrested for not wearing the yellow star and transferred to a jail in Budapest. In May 1944, she was taken to Kistarcsa, and from there to the Children’s Block in Auschwitz. “I lost my mother and sister in Auschwitz,” she recalls. “I underwent 17 selections by Mengele. He took my sister away from me during the ninth one.”
In the fall of 1944, Esther was transferred to Birkenau. In November 1944, she was sent to Lenzing, a sub-camp of Mauthausen in Austria, where she worked in a plastics factory. From March-April 1945, she fell ill from malnutrition and was hospitalized at the camp infirmary. Her bed consisted of sheets of paper on the ground.
When the US Army arrived on 8 May 1945, Esther was carried to a Red Cross hospital. After recuperation and a stay at DP camps in Germany, she set sail for Eretz Israel, reaching its shores in April 1948. She studied the History of the Jewish People at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, worked in the Central Zionist Archives, and researched the history of the leadership of the Zionist movement and Jewish settlement in the Land of Israel.
In the 1990s, Esther traveled to Hungary to conduct archival work for the Jewish Museum and the University of Budapest. She collected and edited Holocaust-era documents and photographs of the Jews of Hungary for display at the Simon Wiesenthal Center’s Museum of Tolerance in Los Angeles. She also published articles and lectured about the Holocaust, as well as the history of Zionism.
Esther has been the Chair of the Association of Hungarian Immigrants in Israel since 1996. To date, she has helped over 1,000 Holocaust survivors file claims for compensation and pension funds from the governments of Hungary and Germany. She is a member of an Israeli parliamentary organization to commemorate the Holocaust, the Hungarian committee of the Foundation for the Benefit of Holocaust Victims in Israel, and the Association of Israeli Archivists.
Esther and David z"l, a member of the Jewish Brigade who passed away 45 years ago, have two daughters, six grandchildren, and one great-grandchild.
