5:30 a.m., December 30, 2005
I jump out of bed, not sure if I am awake or in a nightmare. My senses are overwhelmed—explosions, thick smoke, the rattling of fire raging mercilessly and engulfing my universe. In an instant I’m back in the war zone of my youth, reliving the ferocity of explosions, fire, bombs, and smoke. Although I am half asleep, my thoughts come quickly: “Run, run for your life. Get out.” I feel panic, like a trapped animal looking to escape to survive. My breathing is shallow. My heart is beating fast.
I am jolted back into the present. I look over to the bed. Jerry does not move. The mayhem failed to arouse him. I am fully awake now. It is not the war of my youth. Our home is engulfed in flames; there is no time to waste. I try to open the bedroom door facing the hallway. There is no passage. The fire is raging toward the bedroom, the last room to fall prey to the unleashed hungry monster of nature. I slam the door closed.
“Jerry, wake up! Wake up; we have to get out of here. Hurry.” It seems it takes him forever to get out of our king-size bed. He looks bewildered, clumsy, searching for his shirt and slippers. He is so slow! “Jerry, there is no time! Hurry, hurry up, let’s get out of here!”
I run through the back door of our bedroom and into the garden. I am out! I see the spectacular fireworks raging mercilessly through the entire length of our beautiful ranch house. I look back. Jerry is not behind me. I turn back and run inside, literally dragging him out. He’s still sleepy, unaware of the danger.
As we exit, the roof over our bedroom collapses, charring our massive bed to ashes. Later, the fire marshal says that had we not run out when we did, had we been in deep sleep in the middle of the night, we would have burned to death. Just like in the crematorium I had avoided as a child in the concentration camp.
Barefoot and half naked, we stumble toward the front of the house, where our neighbors, awakened by the terrible sounds of a home being consumed by fire, try to comfort us, offering shelter, shoes, blankets, and coffee. It is early in the morning and cold, very cold.
I stand in front of the house, watching, mesmerized, as the fire envelops our entire beautiful home and its precious contents, collected over a lifetime, and turning it all into debris in minutes.
Similar to people’s reports of near-death experiences, I see all my furniture, dishes, pictures, and other treasured memorabilia pass before my eyes, succumbing to the fierce force of the devastation. I can do nothing. I’m immobilized, helpless.
All I can do is stand silent, a witness to the inferno.
Suddenly, the survivor in me kicks in. It is not I who is burning. Jerry and I are safe, truly safe. These are things that are burning, just things. “Things, things” is the refrain of the song of my thoughts. The Nazis did not get me then; the fire did not get me now.
To think that fate has it that twice in my life, I almost burned to death! I can see newspaper headlines: “Spared by Nazis, She Avoided Gas Chambers Only to Burn to Death in Own Home.”
I am so lucky to have the gift of life a bit longer. We are alive. That’s all that matters. Remember, things are just things. You enter the world naked and exit the world in kind. I Am Alive!
It’s all about fate, destiny, or beshert (the Yiddish word I like to use). I was meant to survive once more, saved from the rage of burning hell. I shall continue celebrating life, and I will spread optimism and goodwill in my world until I die. I have this vision: I close my eyes, and in the embrace of my family—children and grandchildren—I peacefully cross the threshold, ready to join the universe and its mysterious splendor. “Thanks for my journey,” I am smiling. I feel peaceful. I feel safe. I am transcending above and beyond toward my eternal journey. “Poof” goes my soul to never-never land.