The "A" Was For Auschwitz

Mon 21 Apr 2025 20:00

...through Sat 26 Apr 23:00 (See the end)

The incredible events of the past week are driving my ME-infused memories of certain times that still...in this case, 40 years later...are triggered in ways that are at once threatening, confusing, and angering while, at the same time, these triggered memories serve to calm my sense of self-guilt.

This episode happened in Stockton, San Joaquin County, in northern California. It was early summer in (I think) 1983. I had been living the “real life test” (RLT) for my gender change, and had just recently received the court order changing my name, and DMV was directed to mark me as female on the DL, with the note of “transitional” as I had not yet had surgery.

That’s another episode, though.

I had been recruited by the ED of a nonprofit that ran the singles and family shelters, as well as landing a contract to write an MIS, implement, and manage the Federal Shelter Plus Care & Supportive Housing structure in the county. There were 225 households funded, with several case managers that I supervised.

It was not an easy sell to find landlords for ex-convicts. Not by far. These were released felons; most had drug offenses, and a few had done some violent things. I developed and implemented a case management system that depended on a very special sort of person whose job was to oversee a client’s case, including an occasional in-home visit. That case manager would have responsibility for no more than 25 households. My guess was that to get the client to cooperate, and self-police their social behavior, would require direct interaction, face to face, and being available 24/7.

It worked. This was the early 80s, in Stockton. Rentals were tight to begin with; and I had a new client no one (in the housing market) wanted to work with, and so the guy was relegated to housing in the men’s singles shelter. I was told by another client that they knew this guy, that his PTSD was bad, but manageable if he was handled well, and while he did what he did, he was being straight now; he had also heard of a larger, well-kept complex of some 50 units, 1 and 2 bedroom, and the onsite manager was actually a part owner.

When I called the complex office to see if I could meet with the manager to make an arrangement for my client, the invite was immediate; she (the manager) was always looking for ways to help in just this manner, and she had heard good things about how I ran the program. I was favorably impressed with her conversation; she was older, well spoken, and had a bit of a German accent.

We met at her small office at the complex; it was her unit as well. She explained briefly how there were three co-owners, and the other two “had the hard jobs” of logistics and financing; due to her age, and being single by choice, she was “gifted” with the onsite management role. I had a deeply seated liking for this woman. Even in those days, my awareness of the empathic element wasn’t lost on the moment. I sensed she was actually feeling a sense of safety; as she pulled an accounting journal from the shelf to put on the desk, I could plainly make out a tattoo on the inside of her forearm. There was a sequence of digits, only a few millimeters tall. What grabbed my psyche in that moment was a burst of incredible feelings of sympathy and pride.

The first character of the tattoo was not a digit. It was an A.

It meant she was a prisoner of the Auschwitz extermination camp in World War II. The tattoo was her prisoner registration number...even for a young child. The letter at the beginning defined to which extermination camp the number belonged.

The “A” was for Auschwitz...more precisely, the Auschwitz-Birkenau complex of camps.

Her eyes met mine, and her smile was both warm and deep.

“I see you noticed my tattoo,” she offered. She made no effort to cover it.

“Well...yes,” I said as I returned the smile.

“I sense that you know its meaning,” she again offered, calmly, as she arranged the journal book to begin the unit registration.

“Yes, ma’am, I do,” I answered quietly as I got comfy in the stuffed chair; I sensed this could go a while...and I was just fine with that. “I’ve been there. I’m guessing you were maybe 20, and likely had a skill they needed. So, I’m also guessing it was Camp One, the main structures in Auschwitz. The Birkenau complex was exclusively an extermination center. If that guess is correct, I’d be honored to work with you.”

She then sat back in her chair, and offered me a cup of coffee; she had me wired already, it seemed. I’ll call her Sarah for now (not her real name...not even close, LOL) as it saves typing, and I need to get this damn episode “on the wire.”

Sarah: “When was it that you were there? I sense you were triggered by the recollection of something. I hope it isn’t unpleasant.”

Me: “Well, you’re right of course. I was 14, and on a two-month European ‘goodwill’ tour for the Boy Scouts of America. There were eight of us, and after doing the World Jamboree in Athens, we got the higher-end tour of some six countries. We took the offer to attend the camp memorials, and to have our tour of the facilities there guided by a survivor.”

Sarah: “You were very fortunate. Were your parents well off?”

Me: “No...they both worked, Dad for the railroad and Mom as a full-charge bookkeeper. They paid my tour fee. It’s part of how they would find ways for me to circumvent any educational roadblocks I might face. It was their savings for a new car. To them, my potential experience was more important.”

Sarah: “Something triggered you...I could sense it, but also see it...I’ve had a lot of experience in that, unfortunately.” Her demeanor became quiet, calm.

The comment struck me; I could not even imagine (even if I wanted to) the numbers of other prisoners she would interact with, and then log them off the books, so to speak, all while trying to stomach the stench of the ovens. She would also have the challenge of being an attractive 20-yr old with a good brain. She had seen a lot, and she also could see the similarity of what the trans community (which in the 80s in Stockton was small...another episode) had to deal with, and her own experience. My first sense when recalling the memory was the odor; no matter how hard one tries to scrub out the smell of death (“decomp”), it will find a way to linger for decades.

Ask any dog. Seriously.

I struggled a bit with the next part, as it wasn’t pleasant at all, “The odor...I mean, if my focus comes to that subject, I’m essentially ‘there’, and olfactory-based memories are the strongest of triggers.”

Sarah: “You’re for real, Elaine,” she said quietly, but firmly, “only someone who has stood on that ground, and still has a pulse, would know that particular fact on that level. Your client has a home now. I have five units coming up for occupancy over the next two months; your team can have all of them.”

After the medics got me off the floor (just kidding…), I expressed my thanks, and that I was available if anything came up...no matter the hour.

I need to stop here, methinks. This writing thing isn’t as easy as it might sound. Here it is, 23:00 (11PM for the uninitiated) and the entire day has been alternating between this, and cleaning the frig.

My point? I would hope it was clear, but that’s why I ask for input, ‘cuz some of the time (well, maybe a tad more) I’m not right about something. Right now, and for the past week or so, it’s been disbelief at how blatant this coup thing has become. It hit me as I watched (legit) reports of what DOJ, DOGE, and the rest have been doing to my group in particular in the most illegal, and unconstitutional, purge since the (less successful) “Reds under the beds” phenom of the fifties.

The triggered memory of the camp, and the incredibly reinforcing conversation with a complete stranger, ended in this somewhat bittersweet pounding of the keyboard. My disability drains my energy reserves a (noticeable) bit more each month or so, and much of my efforts go toward just housekeeping, let alone saving the world.

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