Stephen Shooster the liberators. It was easy to see smoke, and much harder to see the soldiers in their white camouflage against the white snow. As they got closer, however, I heard bullets whizzing by me -- ping, ping, ping. They were hitting my barracks and splintering the wood. Eventually, I heard Russian voices; they were very close. Carelessly, possibly deranged, I stood outside, unprotected, hardly reacting. I must have been dazed by the lack of food, or fever, or shock of my tribulations. It was probably a combination of all of these. After a final barrage of gunfire, I heard a joyful battle cry, “Hoorah!” The infirmary was the closest barracks to the action. It was located near the rear of the compound, which happened to be directly towards the fighting. At the very end, the battle became fiercest, and the artillery got so heavy that one of the barracks caught fire. The first Russian soldiers arrived in white camouflage battle gear. It was still morn- ing. I could hear their voices. When one approached me, he used his rifle to direct while speaking, “Go back inside the barracks.” I understood his motions better than his voice and did as I was told. Upon entering the krankenstube, I reported meekly, “The Russians are here.” Upon hearing the news of our liberation, I could only hear a few of my fellow pris- oners’ moans of happiness and relief. Not one of them shed a tear, including me, as we had all lost that ability long before our release. I think that is one of the side effects of malnutrition. Half of those liberated were comatose. Many lay still. The liberation came too late for them. They had lost the race. Even for me, if I wasn’t well-fed prior to the liberation, I would have been among them. At 11:00 AM the Russians formally entered the Buna compound, and their foot soldiers fanned out in front of two riders on horseback. What they saw must have been appalling, a mountain of bodies, starving prisoners, and a ghost town filled with blue and white striped zombies. Focused on the immediate threat, with voices full of urgency mixed with the anx- iousness of battle, one of the riders asked,” Who is a Nazi, show me?” Of course, this was said in Russian, but I did not need any translation; I understood. By this time most, if not all, of the guards in the foxholes and bomb shelters were already dead, and the camp was empty, except for us. We were close to death, too. So, the answer came in the form of silence. None of us knew. Interrupting the silence, a second rider approached. He was saying the same thing, but he said it in a familiar voice, one that gave me inspiration. It was in my native tongue: Yiddish. “Ver ist a Nazi? Is imizer da ver ut gi helfed di Nazis?” It was followed by something I longed to hear, “Du Bist Frie, Eri canst gayn haym.” (You are FREE. You can go
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