What sets Bitton-Jackson's Holocaust memoir apart from the others is that it is simultaneously poetic and graphic. Also, the entire book is written in the first-person which gives it a startling immediacy.
It has garnered hundreds of deservedly glowing reviews, both here and on Amazon, so I won't take the trouble of summarizing it but the following sections hit me upside the head:
The joyful ethnic pride she discovers in the Jewish ghetto:
"For the first time in my life, I am happy to be a Jew . . . The cock-feathered policement who had trampled on our sofas and our self-esteem, the Gentile neighbors who were afraid to say good-bye, the Jancsi Novaks, the kind, gentle friends who have not attempted to send a note of synpathy, the peasant wagon drivers who dutifully accepted wages from us for delivering us to the enemy . . . they all are on the other side of the fence. A tall fence separates us. A world separates us because they do not understand.
"But we, on this side of the fence, we understand. We put up sheets around bathtubs in the yard in order to take baths. We cook on open stoves, We stand in long lines for the toilet. No friendship or love binds as this deep, spontaneous, easy mutuality."
The graphic description of concentration camp food is clearer than any I've read elsewhere:
"I snatch the bread from Mommy's hand (she had refused to eat it) and begin to eat. The dry, mudlike lump turns into wet sand particles in my mouth. . .
"When the bowl of food is handed to me, I am unable to take a gulp. It is a dark green, thick mass in a battered washbowl crusted with dirt. No spoons. You tilt the bowl until the mass slides to the edge, then gulp. The dark mush smells and looks repulsive. The edge of the bowl is rusty and cracked and uneven with dried-on smut. My nausea returns in a flash."
And to add fodder to the eternal question of how much did war-time Germans outside the SS really know about the concentration camps, there is an interesting chapter titled "This Must be Heaven." Some clearly astonished Wehrmacht officials running a Luftwaffe factory who have requested female laborers from Auschwitz don't recognize the arriving inmates as women, ask them where their luggage is (which causes much laughter among the inmates), and ask for their actual names. When one officer tells Bitton-Jackson's partially paralyzed mother not to worry, that "here you will get better. We will take good care of you" the daughter's response is "I am surely dreaming."
A stunning Holocaust memoir, simultaneously poetic and graphic.