The Virtual Historian

They would inspect our clothing in order to kill the fleas and keep the lice under control. One rainy day, all the doctors were called out and accused of not doing a good enough job. They were punished by being forced to run in the rain and do pushups in the mud. My encounter with fleas was dramatic. I had a warm, bulky sweater assigned to me when winter came. It had such a beautiful design with white, red and grey diamonds. I don’t remember how it came to me; it was probably just thrown at my frail body when my turn came for the allotment of winter clothing. The winter of 1943 was severe and my sweater gave me comfort. It had long sleeves and a turtleneck. Some grandmother in Poland or Hungary had probably sat patiently for many hours knitting it for her grandson.This boy most likely did not need it anymore. I wore it all the time. Day and night. It had broad shoulders and the wool was so soft. It hung loosely over my once chubby but now thin frame. I slept in my sweater. After a few weeks, my whole body started to itch. I scratched a lot. However, other people also scratched. There was little water to wash in and it was always cold. One day, I noticed a large ugly bug on my sleeve. I squashed it, but out came another and another. Horrified, I tore off my sweater. I looked closely. To my horror, I saw hundreds of small animals crawling and carrying eggs. There were hundreds of them — lice— every inch was full of them! Tiny eggs were set deep in the wool. With a vengeance inspired by my rage towards my Nazi tormentors, I pounded at the lice with my fists and I squeezed them with my nails. I stomped all over the sweater with my feet. Kill those creatures! They did not deserve my venom, but then, what had I done to deserve being taken from my home at the age of twelve and thrown into this hell? I could not afford to throw away my sweater so I shook it out, washed it and used my fingernails to kill most of the beasties.