The Ghost Executioner's Birthday Show

The commandant's birthday was 25 February, and to curry a shameless favor with him the guards were wont to assemble and organize minstrel troupes from the capos and prisoners to put on annual vaudeville revues, comic operas, and tragedies. Naturally, we were whipped generously so as to furnish us with sense memories and motivations as thespians in our various roles. That year [1944] we, that is Schlomo, Irving, Oskar, Jan, Ennio, Karlheinz, and I, staged Andrew Lloyd Webber's Cats and though few have believed me whenever I tell this story and come to this next frightening portion, I would eat my own mother's hair if I lie! When we came to my signature number of "Memory", which I, in the part of Grizabella, crept to the edge of the stage and poured out with a sensitive, piercing gusto especially for that monster the Ghost, who sat by himself in the empty theater, I declare that a solitary tear wet the back of his clicking electric monocle.

Invention of Pizza at Auschwitz

A singular circumstance that has received pitiably little publicity in the annals of culinary history, invention, and achievement is the invention at Auschwitz of pizza by a family of Italian Jews. Contrary to popular belief, the modern concept of the pizza pie is not an Americanization of an Italian tradition, but an improvisation of one Ennio G. L. C. Castanza, who, with the assistance of his wife Giulia and his son Stelvio, can alone be credited with the heartbreaking feat of the first creation of what might be termed, broadly, a pizza. What happened is that one day the commandant's wife decided to have Giulia hacked apart so as to have the poor wretch's pelvis bone fitted with wheels for use as a carriage by her obese cat, Herr Antonio. Ennio, catching wind of the cockeyed belching harpy's intentions, got hold of a pan from the scullery and ran back and forth along the vented wall of the torture shack within which the camp commandant's private carpenters, Horst and Jurgen, were quartering Giulia just like African cannibals, flinging pieces of her hither and thither to get at exactly the materials they needed. Fortunately, Ennio was able to catch on his pan several scraps of Giulia's flesh that landed on his side of the wall.

Well, Ennio and Stelvio naturally knew that without proper curing or refrigeration, these precious remains of their beloved Giulia would not last very long, and so they determined to eat them in order to keep something of her within themselves. Having the portion of flesh by itself hardly seemed sufficiently ceremonious, so a capital thing to do, they decided, would be to create a proper meal of the stuff by adding some cheese and sauce. Stelvio gladly allowed his father to slit his arm and squeeze a spritzing of blood onto the pie, while a few score of popped pustules on Stelvio's back furnished enough of a cheesy pique. The SS men, who gathered to watch and marveled at Ennio's inventiveness, even allowed him the use of one of the crematoria for the momentous baking of the pizza. It is one of my great satisfactions in life to remember that I, Benji Flakenfeld, was not only present at this major culinary event and triumph of perseverance and love, but was actually permitted to sample a slice of the world's very first cheese pustule pie. The name of the dish may have been altered to make it more palatable to American tastes, but the main thrust of the thing, I am happy to say, remains tastily unchanged.

Holocaust Deniers Strike Again

Hard to believe that even in this enlightened day and age the neo-fascist forces of Holocaust "revisionism" continue to peddle their ungodly trash through some hate-proliferating technology of mind control called "Your Tube". The "Tube" mockingly referred to is of course the passageway to the death chambers at the Operation Reinhardt camp Sobibor. Now this new, electronic "Tube" threatens to convey a whole new generation into a species of psychological extermination - the demise of everything that is good.

A Darling's Tooth

The body of a little red-haired girl, Grete Topel, who had been butchered by the Ghost, was tossed onto a 50-foot-high pile of dog carcasses that had been skinned for their fur that winter. Unable to contain my indignation, I went and retrieved her from the heap and dragged her into the shed where she could be with her friends whose bodies were marinating there. "There, Grete," I said to her. "Now you have some proper company." And as I spoke, the tiniest tooth tumbled out of her mouth and onto her belly. I picked it up, spit, and polished it, in awe at the innocence it represented, and determined then that I would keep it as a proof of the horrors of the Shoah. This tooth, of course, now resides in a place of honor in the Holocaust Museum in Houston, Texas, where it is used as an educational tool and presented to Mexican young ones who visit on school field trips. I received only $2,000 for it, but what is important is that it can now belong to the world.

The Ghost Executioner Makes His Debut

The new commandant glided into the room with a strange style of movement seemingly incompatible with the fact of the man's having only one leg unsupported by crutch or cane. He wafted along the queue of assembled inmates, his monocled eye piercing in turn each of us souls who trembled in our soiled trousers. Then, to our unutterable terror, having reached the end of the woebegone queue, he spun on his heel and glided silently back along our quivering rank, his eye having shifted and darkened slightly behind its telescopic monocle lens, one of many products of the Teutonic Satan-science that imperiled and continue to imperil humanity's plight on Earth. But, returning to our experiences then, try to imagine our jolt of surprise when the commandant swung his skull around and made an abrupt perpendicular turn and disappeared immaterially through a solid titanium door.

A Bird's Blood on the SS Man's Breath

Helmut, the ugliest SS man of the ones assigned to our group, was eating a duck as we trudged along. This was not simply a cut or a generous hunk of a duck, mind you, no; it was not merely a breast or a wing, but a whole, squirming duck that Helmut had seized from a pond by the side of the road along which we marched at flesh-crusted bayonet-point. The duck had been wounded through its head by a piece of shrapnel and swam lopsidedly in the gore-polluted water, easy prey for the hungry Helmut who waded into the pond and grabbed it, biting into its tender throat. Being one of the nicer Nazis I encountered during the Shoah, Helmut approached and offered me a bite of the plaintively flailing, still-quacking duck. Helmut's mouth, as he spoke, emitted a blast of bloody stench as glistening pieces of duck entrails wriggled and trailed from his lips and chin onto the Jew-murdering medals that adorned his soggy uniform. "No!" I cried, starving though I was, distended though my belly was beginning to get; "I shun your extermination not only of my Chosen People, but also our brother-fellows the fowl!" Stunned at the sentiment, Helmut reeled and fell into a ditch at the side of the road as the disemboweled duck dragged itself to safety in the brush.

1965 Self-Portrait by Benji

Construction paper, ink, and tape.

Football in Auschwitz

Our footballing team did especially well that summer [of 1944]. Our legs had grown terribly spindly by then; but, contrary to what people are wont to believe, an emaciated state can be singularly advantageous from an aerodynamics standpoint. Shocked you would have been, dear, to have seen us in those days, our bony little legs whirling around and around like the spokes of active wagon wheels. It became a point of pride with us and a matter for boast to see which among us had skinnier calves. Ideally, the curve of a fellow's calf had atrophied into a straightness like that of a stick, for the thinnest among us were always the first to be picked by the captains of the footballing teams.

About Yankel

This blog will be devoted to the remarkable life and experiences of Yankel "Benji" Flankenfeld, a Holocaust survivor. Yankel is a hobbling treasure trove of invaluable human heritage, and now that he is nearing the end of his remarkable residence on this planet, his friends and family have convinced him to share and publish his memories for the benefit of posterity. New posts will appear as Yankel remembers and allows his supporters to record and transcribe the inimitable richness of his words. In addition, occasional artworks of Yankel's creation and selection will appear as illustrations of his intermittent horrors and joys.