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Eucalyptus Oil, Death Camp's Christmas
A true story by John Kercher
Einmal werde ich liegen ins nirgendwo,
Bei einem Engel, irgendwo
(Paul Klay)
Once I will lay nowhere,
With an Angel, somewhere.
(Paul Klay)
In December 1988 I was invited to give a lecture on Aromatherapy at a Southern Branch of the Netherlands Housewives Organisation, which at first I declined for the following reason. At the time I had a very busy schedule, sometimes speaking for three different groups in one day. Organisations like the Christian Women's Association, The Catholic Women's League and many others, had heard about the lectures, which apparently they liked, and by means of mouth-to-mouth advertising, got to know about me.
It didn't take long for all of my spare time to be taken up by these lectures and it became necessary to make a selection of where to go and for whom to speak. I liked some Organisations better then others, and the Netherlands Housewives Organisation was not one of my favourites. The average age of the members was about 70 and although they were usually attentive listeners, I preferred to speak for younger groups from which I got a better and more enthusiastic response. Then, after having politely declined to the invitation, the secretary called me by phone. She asked me to reconsider because one of their members, a survivor of the Ravensbruck Concentration Camp, often told the story of how an essential oil had saved her life and it was especially at her request, they had approached me for the lecture.
How could I decline now after such information? I rescheduled my program and on a cold winter-evening I found myself in the auditorium of a small theatre. There I stood in front of about 100 elderly ladies to deliver my talk and let them sample essential oils. The lecture was very successful, the response warming and after being given a customary bunch of flowers for my wife, the meeting closed.
As was always the case after my lectures, some ladies came to me to talk about the use of oils for minor health problems. After giving them my answers, one woman who had stood somewhat at the side approached me. She introduced herself and told me that she was the one who had requested their President to call for the lecture and how much she enjoyed it.
"You know" she said very seriously, "my life was saved by an essential oil". With obvious delight I told her that it was for precisely that reason, that is because the League's secretary had told me about her having been in Ravensbruck, that I had accepted.
She blushed, she passed away in 1991 but I can still see her face in my mind today, a friendly old face with eyes that were surprisingly young and sparkling, then she asked me if I'd like to hear about it.
This is her story.
"I was born in 1914 as the eldest daughter of a veterinarian who had a practice in one of Holland's prosperous rural districts near the Belgian border. Although I was asthmatic, I had a very happy childhood and together with a sister and two brothers, we grew up in a very Catholic environment. I liked to sing and together with some friends from school I joined a choir, which really was my only hobby. My sister became a nun, both my brothers veterinarians, at the time of the German invasion in Holland in May 1940, still studying.
After having completed my education I became a secretary at our local City Council, a job I held until I was arrested in 1942. I had never been politically active but like many of the Dutch people, I hated the invaders and what they did to our Jewish community. Being employed at the town hall I came in daily contact with the Major appointed by the Germans. All majors appointed by our Queen, as is the practice in Holland, were replaced by members of the National Socialist Party, which collaborated with the Germans.
Soon after the beginning of the war the Germans requested lists with names of people who were of Jewish descent, and early 1942 many were deported from our city. It was soon after that I was approached by a study friend of one of my brothers, who as it turned out to be, was very active in the resistance. His question to me was straightforward, could I assist by helping with phoney identity papers and permits? After all, in my position I had access to all sorts of identity documents and stamps. I didn't hesitate at all and it was not long after that I was 'up to my neck' in resistance work. On my birthday the 12th September 1942, I was arrested in front of my parents home and taken to the police station. There I was interrogated by both German and Dutch Police during eight days.
I don't know till this day who betrayed me, but fact was they showed so much proof against me, that to decline would not only make matters worst for me, it would also endanger my friends. Because that's basically what they were after, my contacts in the resistance. I decided to admit to everything and impress upon them that I was just a foolish young women who had found it very adventurous to be active in the underground. When asked who my contact were, I made up a story of having been approached months earlier by a man of about 35 years old, who had asked for permits and papers. I gave an imaginary description of him and with the help of a police artist, a composition drawing was made. During that time they never physically beat me, but the strain and my asthma, were having a disastrous effect on my health.
My father in the meantime, had pulled all sorts of strings to get me released, all in vain because in October 1942 I was deported to Ravensbruck, near Berlin, were I arrived on the 1st November of that year. My only possession was a small suitcase my parents had been allowed to get to me with some clothes, medicine for my asthma and a small bottle of eucalyptus oil. Whenever I used to have an attack, I took a bowl of hot water and to it added a few drops of this oil. Then I put a towel over my head an sniffed at the fumes, this simple remedy always brought me relief.
Ravensbruck was a concentration camp built in 1939 for women, near the Village of Ravensbruck on the Havel River. It is situated 90 km north of Berlin, the nearest railway station is at Furstenberg, about 1 km from the camp.
Most inmates were part of the resistance to Nazi occupation in their countries who took a stand against fascism. Women who were part of the Dutch Underground (as the Resistance movement was called in Holland), or active in the French Resistance were among the first to be taken prisoners by the Nazis. Their "crimes" could be anything from smuggling messages for their movements, distributing illegal newspapers or assisting in the escape of shot-down Pilots.
Over 90,000 women and children perished in Ravensbruck, through hard work and little food, beatings and a low resistance. Sickness too took a large toll, a common cold could be lethal, to report to the hospital often meant death, either by lethal injection or in the ugly gas-chamber, which purpose the Nazis tried to hide but most prisoners knew about.
I can't describe to you the horror of the trip, in cattle cars, the memory even now is too much for me. We were all women, mostly from the resistance movement, the eldest about 60 and the youngest only 19.
It was bitterly cold and damp, by the time we arrived at our destination, the train having picked up more cattle cars with people on the way, we were cold, sick, filthy and very hungry. No one had bothered to feed us. Upon arrival at Ravensbruck our possessions were taken away from us, and when I requested my medicine and bottle of oil, I was told harshly by a hard faced woman guard, I can still recall her name, Monika, that I didn't need them.
I don't remember ever having been so lonely, afraid and desperate in my life. Issued a horrible camp outfit and a piece of stone cold, stale, hard bread, we were marched off to a wooden barrack. In charge of the barrack was a woman from Czechoslovakia, one of the most obnoxious persons I have ever met. She seemed to have pleasure in humiliating and pestering her fellow prisoners, gaining the approval of the ever present German woman guards. Our barracks had women from France, Belgium, Holland, Poland and even one from Luxembourg, Sabine, who became my special friend as did Bogena, a girl from Poland.
As the weeks went by in misery, I had been assigned to work a relatively easy job in a part of the camp were army uniforms had to be mended, my asthma became worst.
But, strange as it might seem though, we did have periods of happiness and even lots of laughter. The solidarity of the prisoners and the comradeship sustained many of us and gave us the power to survive. There was a very effective grape-vine of information about things that went on outside the camp. The war progress was followed eagerly by all of us, many hoped that the war would be over in a few months, as it turned out it would go on for another three years.
What really deteriorated my health was the continuos threat of becoming so ill, that an admittance to the camp's "hospital" would become inevitable. When that happened, we all knew, it could mean sudden death. People who became a burden to the camp's administration and no longer useful, disappeared regularly. I remember a beautiful young Polish woman of about 25, a friend of Bogena who fell down the frozen steps of the building and broke her leg. She was admitted to hospital, never to return. Weeks later we found out through a friend of Sabine, who had one of the most desirable jobs in the camp working in the administrative section, that she had died a few days after entering the hospital.
As the weather deteriorated, so did the temper of our guards. The camp was ran by male guards, but our immediate superiors were women. How a civilised nation like Germany which had yielded great people like Beethoven and Goethe, could create such monsters, is something that still amazes me. How was it possible that some of those very cruel women who were married and had children of their own, could go home to their loved ones, leaving us in misery because of some of their actions? Beatings, taking away the meagre rations of some prisoners were daily occurrences.
A particularly horrible form of punishment, was to make an unfortunate prisoner stand for hours in the freezing cold at the "appel-platz". The thin clothing we were issued hardly gave any protection against the cold winter weather and the risk of catching pneumonia and subsequent hospitalisation, was always there.
The hard-faced guard Monika was one of the worst. Often for no other reason than that a prisoner didn't follow up one of her commands quick enough, she would inflict the harshest punishment. It was therefore a welcome relief when in the beginning of December she was noticeably absent from the Camp. Everyone wondered why she didn't show herself for almost two weeks, but nobody cared. It was again the friend of Sabina who brought the answer.
Monika lived not far from the Camp in the Village of Ravensbruck, her husband had been conscripted into the German army and was serving somewhere in France. Monika had two teenage daughters and a four year old son she adored. Her widowed Mother in Law took care of the boy during the hours she was working as a guard. The boy was sickly, what exactly ailed him Sabina's friend couldn't tell, but she did know that the boys illness had taken a turn for the worst the week before, so Monika had been granted special leave.
As Christmas approached the pain in my chest started to get worst and often, during the nightly hours, I sat up coughing, unable to sleep. From our barrack people started to disappear, some who where there in the morning where no longer there when we cam back from work in the evening. Their bunks were quickly taken over by newcomers. My fellow inmates covered as much as possible for me at the uniform workshop but my health started to deteriorate further. Then, one day shortly before Christmas, I caught my normally optimistic friend Sabina, observing me with a very worried look on her face.
Asking what was the matter, she told me that I looked so bad that a trip to the hospital would almost be inevitable. I remember that I lost my composure and started to cry. You may hear stories of people being brave under the most severe circumstance, I for one couldn't bear it any longer. Deep down inside I knew that if hospitalisation was the case, I wouldn't survive it and I wanted so very much to stay alive.
I was given a choice place to sleep, near the fire and oh wonder, the next day I felt somewhat better. By now it was 4 days before Christmas and the women in our barrack started to sing Christmas songs during the dark evening hours. Some had rather good voices, and on the spur of the moment we formed a small singing group. We decided to give a kind of recital on Christmas-eve. Because of my choir experience I was asked to act as conductor. We actually looked forward to those few hours we would sing, in close harmony, those melancholic songs which reminded us so much of home. Our joy only to be overshadowed by the return of Monika.
But had she changed during her weeks of absence! The woman looked terrible, thick black walls under her eyes and during her absence she had lost a lot of weight. If it hadn't been for her guards uniform, one could have easily mistaken her for one of the prisoners.
Not that she bothered us much, she was unusually quite and went about her guarding task without her usual shouting. As suddenly as she came, she disappeared again. Sabina's friend was again the channel through which we found out what had happened. Monika's little boy, after weeks of struggling, had died, leaving his mother heartbroken.
There were those among us that adapted an attitude of "good for you bitch", with all the death and suffering and agony the prisoners got through her actions, it was felt to be some kind of justice from above.
When Christmas-eve came, we had managed to save some bread and even some luxury food in the form of stale and wrinkled apples. We decided to start our recital at 8 that night and had chosen to sing, for the benefit of the different nationalities, songs in German, French and Latin. In that way all the women could join in singing at least one song they could understand.
As we were just about to start, having positioned ourselves around the stove, the doors of the barrack were pulled open and in marched 4 male guards followed by Monika. A sickly feeling erupted in my stomach and a horrible pain took hold of my chest. Some of the women were ashen faced and my friend Sabina started to shake like a leaf. Really, at that moment I thought that the Germans would pull of a horrible trick and march us out for some collective punishment or even worse, to the gas-chambers.
But none of this happened, instead the guards positioned themselves in front of us and told us to go on. They came to listen !
A bit shaken we started to sing, in German, the Christmas evergreen "Silent Night" followed by "Oh come all yea faithful" which we sang in Latin. After every song a round of applause was given and surprise, the German guards smiled and also clapped their hands.
For our last song we had chosen the beautiful German lullaby "Schlaff nun mein Prinzchen, schlaff ein" (sleep now my little Prince, sleep on). I looked at Monika and before I could let my mind take over from my heart, said to her : "this song we sing for you". I almost at once regretted it, afraid of her reaction, but as our small choir sang the moving lyrics, she shook all over her body, trying to conceal her emotions.
There was no applause after this song, instead everyone looked at Monika, now with tears streaming over her cheeks. Here was a woman, no one saw her as a guard at that moment, who was suffering with the loss of a child. Though she was one of our tormentors, I'm sure that everyone in our barrack at that moment felt sorry for her.
Perhaps it was the emotion of the moment that triggered it of, but the pain in my chest suddenly increased and I could hardly breath. I felt very dizzy and almost passed out. I remember that Sabina, Bogena and a few others put me on the bed while the guards left quickly without saying a word.
I don't know what worried me more, the pain or the awareness of the fact that I would have to report to the Hospital the next morning. I started to cry, feeling completely helpless. Sabina set next to me, wiping my face when again the door opened and Monika came in.
At that moment I thought she had come to take me away and an ice-cold feeling took hold of my body. Monika came up to us and without uttering a word handed Sabina my small bottle of Eucalyptus oil and some aspirins. Not waiting for any reaction she left quickly without saying a word.
Water was heated at the small stove and I was helped into an upright position. Then someone came with an bowl and a towel. A generous dose of the Eucalyptus oil was added to the steaming water in the bowl. I started to breath in the steamy fumes, at once I could feel my body react. Then, after having taken 2 of the aspirins, I fell asleep and the next morning felt remarkably well.
Yes, I am one of the survivors of Ravensbruck, Sabina didn't make it. She died early the following year. Bogena was taken away in January, never to be heard of again. I don't know what happened to Monika after the war, and to be honest I don't really care. But that act of kindness and the fact that, even in such a horrible place as Ravensbruck, human emotion could be shown by our guards, made it possible for me not to hate all Germans. It rather strengthened my belief that many of those we considered the enemy, were as much victims of circumstances as us prisoners.
With modern medicine and the good life I have had after the war, my complaints are under control. But I can't help feel that if it wasn't for that small bottle of Eucalyptus oil, we would not now be seen talking about what you call Aromatherapy."
Every year, at Christmas time I think of her story. Whenever I have a cold or sinus trouble and steam with eucalyptus oil, I think of this brave old lady. I took a trip with my wife a few years ago to Ravensbruck, now a museum. Because it is situated in former East Germany, for a while used by the Russians as a prison camp, it could not be visited. After the fall of the Iron Curtain, many have found their way to this place of suffering. Too little has been written about the heroic women that were interned there.
When my wife and I were walking through the renovated barracks, smelling the newly painted wood and noticing the narrow bunks, it was almost as if I felt her presence.
John Kercher
Mount Vermion, Greece
Christmas 1997
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