* My Heart is a Violin *

I'm a concert violinist, yet I find it strange that the instrument I play for people's enjoyment also figured in the most horrific time of my life.

As a small child I was consumed with a passion to play the violin. Papa found a child-size instrument and I practiced for hours every day. At age ten I played on Radio Bucharest.

At thirteen I was accepted to study at the Budapest Academy of Music. Then, just when life seemed most glorious, Nazi troops marched into Hungary. The Csendorok, local police who worked with the Nazis, rounded us Jews up in carts.

Cattle cars transported us to Auschwitz, and our nightmare began. I last saw my mother holding my nine-year-old sister's hand as they walked to the gas chambers, which were disguised as showers.

And there in Auschwitz I learned to shrink from the dreaded Kapos. These were vicious, hard-core convicts appointed by the SS to head work gangs. Though still prisoners, they were free to brutalize us. We were moved from one concentration camp to another, losing loved ones along the way. 

By the time we were enslaved in the Kochendorf salt mines in southern Germany, only Papa, my brother Zoltan and I were left. My sister Violet and brothers Emil and Adolf had been shipped elsewhere. But my father, a shining example of love and goodness, would not speak ill of the Nazis.

"Never be hateful toward anyone," he admonished us.

Hunger had reduced us to near animals. A Kapo eating an apple was watched fiercely. The instant he tossed away the core, a horde of inmates flew at it. Finally, I could not take the beatings and cruelties any longer. I was fourteen years old and I wanted to die. I looked at my father laboring next to me and staggered toward the electrified fence. Knowing my thoughts, Papa gently took my arm.

"Son, did you practice the Brahms violin concerto and the Kreisler composition today?" I shook my head.

"God has given you a wonderful talent and you want to throw it away?"

Reluctantly I turned back. While swinging my hammer at the iron-hard salt, I played the music in my mind, as Papa had me do every day. When I finished, I didn't want to die. 

One cold morning, my dear papa did not show up for roll call. "Find him!" roared an officer. Worn from hunger and hard work, he had overslept. As he was dragged before us, the officer bellowed:

"It took ten minutes to find this dirty Jewish dog. That was ten extra minutes Germany was kept from victory!"

Zoltan and I were forced to watch while guards ferociously kicked and bludgeoned our father. I pleaded for God to save him. But Papa crumpled into the snow, blood streaming from his mouth. His lips were moving and I leaned closer to hear his dying gasp:

"Shema Yisroel Adonai elohainu Adonai echod." ("Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one.")

All Zoltan and I could do was wail in anguish. Then my agony turned to anger at God. How could he allow this to happen to such a saintly man? We trudged to the mines, and I decided there was no God.

That night as I slept on vermin-infested straw, Papa came to me in a dream.

"Yitzhak," he said, using my Hebrew name, "God is real. Have faith, trust in him and you will survive!"

I awakened comforted. I knew Papa was right. But I wondered about his promise of my survival after we were moved to Dachau. Evil hung over it like a turbid cloud.

One evening an SS officer strode into our barracks holding a violin. I hadn't seen a violin in so long.

"Anyone who can play will be given food," he promised.

Three hands shot up, including mine. The others were older men, one in his 40s, the other about 25. We were hustled to a large room and pushed before the SS commandant. A tall, steel-eyed man in jackboots slouched in a chair. A menacing attack dog sat at his side. Three hulking Kapos, each one gripping an iron pipe, stood nearby. The commandant pointed his stick at the oldest prisoner, who was handed the violin.

"Play something," the commandant ordered in a bored tone.

The man tuned the instrument and began to play. His first notes were shaky, but soon he was playing Bach's Chaconne, Sonata No. 6 beautifully. When the final note died, the SS man barked, "Scheusslich!" ("Awful!") He waved at one of the Kapos, who lunged forward and viciously brought the pipe down on the violinist's head. I realized we were there for sadistic entertainment.

The body was dragged away and the second prisoner shoved forward. His face was ashen and the violin shook so in his hands that he could not play a straight note. The SS officer sneered,

"You want me to give you food for that?"

He motioned and two Kapos began kicking and beating him to death. In the commotion I bolted for the door, but another guard caught me and thrust the violin into my arms. I had never played a full-size instrument before. Trembling, I tried to focus. I had planned to play a sonatina by Dvorák or a composition by Kreisler. But my mind went blank.

"Spiel!" said the SS man, ordering me to play.

I lifted the violin to my chin, praying: Oh God, how does the sonatina start? How does the Kreisler piece begin? 

"Play, Schweinhund!"

My fingers were so weakened by starvation I could barely curve them around the fingerboard, much less press the strings. My body turned to water as one of the Kapos eagerly advanced, raising his iron pipe.

As I stood there waiting for the pipe to strike my skull, a powerful force took hold of me. My right and left hands began to move in perfect unison without conscious effort on my part. Beautiful music poured out of my violin, like the birds that had flown out of the Gypsy's that day long ago. I was playing Johann Strauss's "Blue Danube Waltz." The idea of playing that piece had not entered my mind. I had never played it before, nor had I ever seen the music.

I knew immediately God was protecting me; His angel was guiding my hands.

I continued playing. All eyes were on the SS officer. But instead of signaling to the Kapo, he began humming the melody and tapping its rhythm with his fingers. When my bow swept out the last note, the commandant growled:

"Sehr gut! Give him the food."

But I had already gained my reward: Whether I survived Dachau or not, God would always be with me, His angels guiding me.

~ The Author is Shony Alex Braun and the story is from his autobiography "My Heart is a Violin" ~ 

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