Rachel (R) with Sir Kenneth Olisa OBE (L) (Picture: Rachel Levy)
‘My name is Rachel Levy…’
As soon as I spoke these words to a table full of other Holocaust survivors at a luncheon in the 1980s, I immediately came over very ill and began intensely shaking.
Everyone was telling their stories of survival, but then it was my turn and I just froze.
I ended up being violently sick and was taken out to a first aid tent. Then the hammering in my head started – and it didn’t stop for months.
In the half a century since I’d been in Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen concentration camps, I had never once told anyone about it in any sort of detail.
I didn’t realise it at the time, but this physical reaction was my body’s way of trying to cope with processing what happened to me all those years ago.
I was born in a small mountain village called Bhutz in Czechoslovakia (which is now modern-day Ukraine) on April 30, 1930. As the second eldest of five children in an Orthodox Jewish family, our life was simple and we were happy.
Then the Nazis invaded around 1938 and everything started to change – especially for the 100 or so Jewish families in the village. I was around eight years old, so I didn’t really know what was going on at the time, except that no schools would allow Jewish children.
Our non-Jewish neighbours had no choice but to give us up, or they’d be tortured and killed (Picture: Rachel Levy)
Then in 1942, the Nazis came to our village and rounded up all the young men. I was at home and I just recall Dad being pulled out and marched off. I don’t know if I was even able to say goodbye.
I never saw him again. I’d later learn that he was taken to a forced labour camp, which is where he most likely died.
Over the next two years, Nazis came back to our village a couple of times to round up more Jewish people. We managed to avoid them the first time because our non-Jewish neighbours and friends hid us in the forest in the surrounding mountains, but we weren’t so lucky the second time in 1944, when I was 14.
Our non-Jewish neighbours had no choice but to give us up, or they’d be tortured and killed. You might think I’d resent them for that but I didn’t because it must’ve been an impossible decision.
My whole family was rounded up and taken to a nearby ghetto, which was in a big field. I think we stayed there for about a week, then they herded us into big railway trucks with no ventilation, sanitation or food – there were just buckets on the floor.
My siblings and I huddled around our mother while children cried around us. I don’t know how long this journey was but not everyone made it to the destination – Auschwitz concentration camp.
I saw a dear friend of mine who was a psychiatrist, who slowly encouraged me to talk about every detail of my survival story (Picture: Angel Li and BBC Studios)
As soon as the train stopped, the doors were flung open and Gestapo – the Nazi secret police force – repeatedly shouted ‘aus’, meaning for us to get out. Everything was intense and frightening.
They separated us so it was me with my older brother – Chaskel – to a line on the left, and my mother, two younger sisters and baby brother to the right. That would be the last time I ever saw them.
As Chaskel and I were pushed further down through the fences, we were then divided into men and women, so I lost sight of him then too.
Once we got into the compound, the first thing they did was shave our heads, take our clothes away and make us shower. When we came out, they gave us striped pyjama uniforms. We were then taken to cell blocks with rows and rows of bunks – no covers or pillows though.
I was relieved to see my friend Zeldie from a nearby village in my block – Block 8 – too, as well as my aunt and some cousins.
The next few months were incredibly tough. We weren’t forced to work like some other people, but they made us line up every morning in rows to be counted.
They’d randomly pick people out, take them away and you’d never see them again. I soon found out about the gas chambers and chimneys, the source of the smoke and smell.
After many months, we could hear the war planes getting nearer so they started emptying out the camp (Picture: Rachel Levy)
Sometimes we’d have sudden visits, including the notorious Schutzstaffel (SS) officer and physician, Dr Josef Mengele. He would examine us naked to see if we had blemishes and those who did, including me, were sent to the sickbay.
Luckily, I recovered and was sent back to the hut. Others weren’t so fortunate and they were sent to the crematorium. On another occasion, Dr Mengele sent Zeldie and I directly to the gas chambers but miraculously, we escaped and made it back to the hut.
We got food once a day so we were always hungry. The bread was as hard as bricks and there was gritty, watery soup too.
After many months, we could hear the war planes getting nearer so they started emptying out the camp.
Eventually, we were taken to a camp nearby and had to work in fields where we’d dig all day. Unfortunately, some didn’t make it back to the camp, as they’d fall over from exhaustion and then be shot and left.
Then in January 1945, officers started ordering us out of our blocks and we were just told to start walking. It’s now referred to as a Death March, where almost 60,000 prisoners were made to travel by foot for around three weeks. Some 3,000 prisoners died en route.
When we arrived at Bergen-Belsen concentration camp, it was an even worse hell – we were all crawling with lice and there was a heap of dead bodies right next to where we were forced to live. The sight and smell was horrendous.
I found my aunt and I managed to stay in the same block, but she was getting very ill. One evening, I tried to get water for her because she was burning up, but I couldn’t find any.
It was an even worse hell – we were all crawling with lice and there was a heap of dead bodies right next to where we were forced to live
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I was so weak that I couldn’t walk myself, so I crawled to a dirty puddle. The next morning, she was dead and thrown on the massive heap with the other dead bodies. I had to see that every day until – thankfully – around a week later, the British Army came to liberate our camp in April 1945.
I had survived the terrible ordeal – with my friend Zeldie and my aunt’s two friends (they were sisters), the latter who promised they’d look after me. I had no idea if any of my family was still alive.
It took a few days to get fresh water and proper food to us, but the soldiers gave us their rations, including corn beef. It made us very ill.
Weeks later we moved to accommodation outside the camp and nurses set about delousing us, which meant some people had to have their hair shaved off again.
In the weeks after liberation, a Jewish organisation looked after us in a centre in Prague, then gave us free travel to go anywhere.
After some travelling around, I eventually ended up on a farm that was owned by the uncle of the two sisters who promised to look after me – I’d work and he’d pay me wages and give me food. But on the same day of agreeing to this arrangement, I heard footsteps and the front door opened to reveal my brother.
I was so happy to see him. He had asked around for me and retraced my footsteps to find me.
I thought we might be able to go back to Bhutz together, but he had already been and said that it was unrecognisable. There was also another family already living in our home and they refused to give it up.
Over the years, what I’d seen during my time in concentration camps haunted me (Picture: News UK/ARTHUR EDWARDS)
So after going back to Prague and finding an uncle, he arranged for us to join a group of orphans and travel to the UK under the auspices of a Jewish charity.
In February 1946, about 330 children arrived from Prague to a farm near Belfast and the first thing we did was run to the sea for a swim. We were not prepared for how cold it was!
Shortly after arriving, we were all taken to be examined in a hospital, which is where my brother found out he had tuberculosis. So he was shipped off to a sanatorium in Ashford, in the south-east coast of England.
It was treatable at the time, with a combination of rest, nutrition, fresh air, and exercise. He stayed there for years and even studied to be an accountant via a correspondence course, going on to marry and have two daughters after he got out.
Chaskel sadly passed away at the age of 48 in 1976.
As for me, I started English lessons and was offered counselling but no one really wanted to talk about what happened to them while in concentration camps. This is especially true for my brother, who never once told anyone what he went through.
In the years since coming to the UK, I ended up in London, where I eventually met my husband, Phineas, through a Jewish social club in Brixton.
We got married at Brixton synagogue in October 1953 and had two children – Martin in 1957 and Shelley in 1962. Before this, I did an apprenticeship and was trained as a dressmaker in west London.
I eventually met my husband, Phineas (Picture: Rachel Levy)
Over the years, what I’d seen during my time in concentration camps haunted me. I’d sometimes wake up from vivid nightmares, but I still wouldn’t really open up to Phineas about it. Even when we’d go for drives and I’d shudder from seeing the smoke from factories or chimneys, I felt like I couldn’t say a word.
Then the luncheon happened that changed everything. It was arranged by the Jewish committee and former politician Robert Maxwell, so I knew that it was a social event with hundreds of other Holocaust survivors from around the world.
What I didn’t know was that we were placed on tables and were expected to open up about our own stories. As we went around the table, I grew more and more nervous.
Then it came to me and I had that violent physical reaction.
For months afterwards, I had a hammering in my head that just wouldn’t quit – even with medication. Doctors couldn’t find anything wrong with me, so they urged me to see a psychiatrist.
After much persuading, I saw a dear friend of mine who was a psychiatrist, who slowly encouraged me to talk about every detail of my survival story. It took hours, but I got it all out.
Then remarkably, soon after this session, the hammering in my head stopped. I felt so relieved. Over many years and slowly, it also became easier to open up to my husband and children about my story, who were all really supportive.
A few years after this, I was approached to ask if I would share my story with school children. I was so nervous, but agreed.
Ever since, I’ve spoken at hundreds of schools around the country. Gradually, it became a little less traumatic to tell my story.
Sadly, Phineas died in 2005 at the age of 75. Then seven years ago, I moved to a retirement complex in north London, organised through the charity, Jewish Care. As for Zeldie, she moved to Israel and we unfortunately lost contact.
At 94 years old, I’m glad I have survived as long as I have because I believe it’s important for me to tell my story – especially now that antisemitism is surging.
At the end of the day, I don’t want history to repeat itself. To do that, we need to make sure we learn from the lessons of our past.
And that means opening up and having difficult conversations.
As told to James Besanvalle.
Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing James.Besanvalle@metro.co.uk.
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