A multiple honor today: we interviewed Yaakov Barzilai, who is not only a survivor of the train, but a prominent Israeli poet and author.
Barzilai has just turned 90, and is brimming with vigor and intellect. He spoke to us in Hebrew so we weren’t always sure what he was saying — but we all smiled when he was speaking about Holocaust deniers and said “Bullshit!” That word we understood.
He is enough of a celebrity that our interviewing him justified the event being covered by local news! So we made some new friends that way, too — including producer Talila Ironi, who volunteered to translate Yaakov’s entire interview for us. The resulting document is a treasure-trove of great comments and observations that we would have missed without her knowledge and hard work.
Naturally we recommend Yaakov Barzilai’s latest book, which you can get in English via Amazon …
One of Barzilai’s poems about the liberation, translated from Hebrew.
At Eleven fifty-five.
Return to the Place of Liberation, April 13, 1945
The train stopped under the hill, huffing and puffing, as though it reached the end of the road.
An old locomotive pulling deteriorating train cars that became obsolete long ago, not even fit for carrying horses.
To an approaching visitor, the experience was of a factory of awful smell – really stinking.
Two thousand four hundred stinking cattle heading for slaughter were shoved to the train cars.
The butterflies into the surrounding air were blinded by the poisonous stench.
The train moved for five days back and forth between Bergen-Belsen and nowhere.
On the sixth day, a new morning came to shine over our heads.
Suddenly the heavy car doors were opened.
Living and dead overflowed into the surrounding green meadow.
Was it a dream or a delayed awakening of God?
When we identified the symbols of the American army, we ran to the top of the hill as though bitten by an army of scorpions, to kiss the treads of the tanks and to hug the soldiers with overflowing love.
Somebody cried: “Don’t believe it, it is a dream”. When we pinched ourselves; we felt the pain – it was real.
Mama climbed to the top of the hill. She stood in the middle of the field of flowers and prayed an almost a silent prayer from the heart.
Only few words escaped to the blowing wind:
“Soon…Now
From the chimneys of death, I gave new life, to my children….
And this day-my grandchildren were born, to a good life.
Amen and Amen.”
— Yaakov Barzilai