EXCERPT: The last trip to Auschwitz

The Ronens at the gates of Auschwitz: from left, Moshe, Ilana, Mordechai and Sari STEVE PAIKIN PHOTO
The Ronens at the gates of Auschwitz: from left, Moshe, Ilana, Mordechai and Sari STEVE PAIKIN PHOTO

What compels someone to return to the site of one of the most monstrous evils the world has ever known? What provokes someone to walk, once again, under that gate that offered the promise of freedom, if only you worked hard enough (Arbeit Macht Frei), but which actually led to an inferno built specifically to obliterate your family, your friends, and your neighbours?

In the fall of 2014, Mordechai Ronen would have to face those questions one last time. The government of Poland had decided to sponsor what would likely be the last ever gathering of Auschwitz survivors, on the grounds of that former killing factory. The occasion was the 70th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz, which would take place on Jan. 27, 2015. Ten years earlier, at the 60th anniversary ceremony, more than a thousand survivors were invited to attend. This time, organizers were expecting a fifth of that number to show up.

Mordechai decided to return to that place, along with his wife Ilana, his son Moshe, and his granddaughter Sari. In addition, I was humbled and honoured that the Ronen family wanted me to accompany them on the trip as well.

The morning after we arrived in Poland, Mordechai was his usual upbeat self over breakfast. He’d tell a joke, or tease Moshe about what he was eating. He didn’t betray a single hint of the pain that would emerge later that day. Even during the 75-minute bus trip to Auschwitz, Mordechai’s compartmentalization continued.

But when we arrived in the town of Oswiecim, near the confluence of the Vistula and Sola rivers, suddenly Mordechai got very quiet. The smile disappeared.

We entered what is now (in Polish) called the Auschwitz-Birkenau Muzeum. There is about a five-minute walk from the entrance to the notorious Auschwitz gate, and throughout the course of that walk, one could see Mordechai begin to tense up. Suddenly, this man who was marching swiftly through airports began to walk slowly, at one point, even limping, taking the arm of his wife or granddaughter for support.  His face was transformed. He began to cry.

Mordechai would be one of about 15 Auschwitz survivors to gather at the Arbeit Macht Frei gates. Waiting for him and the other survivors was Ronald S. Lauder, head of the World Jewish Congress. “Welcome,” Lauder says to him. Mordechai reached out and hugged him. The tears continued. There were perhaps twice as many journalists there as survivors, and I saw in them something I’ve almost never seen in more than three decades of covering public events: I saw respect. I saw tenderness. I saw cameramen and reporters accustomed to banging into each other and shouting out their questions to “get the story” showing these survivors a kind of deference they normally never demonstrate. You might not think that’s worth noting. But in this day and age, it’s an incredible rarity.   

“What are you thinking as you stand here,” a reporter gently asked Mordechai.

“Horrible place,” Mordechai replied, as Lauder puts his arm around him. “Things happened here that we can never let happen again.”

“Abba…Ima…,” Mordechai cries out, using the Hebrew words for “father” and “mother.” Sari is holding his arm, trying to give him strength, rubbing his back, and trying to keep Mordechai as calm as possible. “I’ll tell it to the world,” he continues. “I hope it’ll never happen again!”

Back amidst the barracks and wire fences, he dabs his eyes with a tissue. There are other survivors here. But Mordechai is centre stage. The cameras are almost all focused on him as he continues his monologue.

“I’m here, and I can tell the world what happened,” he says. “I went through this.” Then, referring to his wife, son, and granddaughter, he says: “They give me the courage to be here. I wanted to be here because I can tell what happened. To all the people denying it, you can see me here. And I can tell you, it happened.”

Sari continues to stay close to her grandfather. Moshe and his mother Ilana are also watching Mordechai carefully. They are torn. On the one hand, they support his decision to return here, and fully appreciate his mission. But they are both deeply concerned about the pattern these trips can manifest. Mordechai can quickly become deeply morose, descending into an increasingly agitated state, so much so, that it becomes nearly impossible to stop the tears from flowing. Moshe has learned that the key is to find just the right moment before stepping in, interrupting his father’s monologue, and stopping it all. It’s hard to know when. He knows Mordechai needs to get the deeply pent up emotions out of his system. It’s cathartic. And it’s part of the mission. But he also knows his father can tumble into an agony where he appears to be on the verge of a nervous collapse.

“I’m strong,” Mordechai yells through his tears, now crying with increasing volatility. “I’m a victor! I lived!”

Moshe and Ilana are watching carefully. They can sense that the moment where they’ll need to intercede is close at hand.

“They were murdered here,” Mordechai says of his family members. “I’m here to tell the world. It was difficult but I had to do it. I hope this will be my last time to say goodbye to my parents. My father, my mother, my two sisters….”  Mordechai is now absolutely sobbing. He appears on the verge of a meltdown.  “I couldn’t even say goodbye….” 

Ilana leans over to Moshe and says, “It’s enough, I think he’s had enough.”

“Come,” Moshe says to his dad, interrupting the soliloquy, putting his arm around his tormented father, and bringing the interview to an end. Mordechai is crying, but the rest of his family’s influence is calming him down.

One photographer has an idea. He wants all 15 survivors to pose for a picture with Lauder under the Arbeit Macht Frei sign. It takes some doing, getting all the survivors under the sign, and getting everyone else out of the way. But eventually, it happens. Mordechai has stopped crying and has a stoic look on his face. One female survivor even shouts out: “We should all return in 10 years!”   

“I agree,” says Lauder.

But unsaid, yet understood, is that this will almost certainly be the last time many, if not all of these survivors will gather here.


Adapted from I Am A Victor, by Steve Paikin and Mordechai Ronen and published by Dundurn Press. 

Steve Paikin is anchor of The Agenda with Steve Paikin.