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    No Longer Alone: My Intimate Walk with Jesus Christ
    No Longer Alone: My Intimate Walk with Jesus Christ
    No Longer Alone: My Intimate Walk with Jesus Christ
    Ebook133 pages1 hour

    No Longer Alone: My Intimate Walk with Jesus Christ

    By Felix Landau

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    About this ebook

    No Longer Alone tells the inspirational true story of the son of a survivor of Auschwitz and Mauthausen death camps who battled and conquered abandonment, mental illness, attempted suicide, imprisonment, and hopelessness through the coming of Jesus Christ into his life.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWestBow Press
    Release dateAug 30, 2011
    ISBN9781449725228
    No Longer Alone: My Intimate Walk with Jesus Christ
    Author

    Felix Landau

    Felix Landau was an attorney at law, high school history teacher, and coach. He holds a master of arts in history from the University of Northern Colorado and a juris doctorate in law from Gonzaga University. He volunteers at food banks and other public service organizations in King County, Washington.

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      Book preview

      No Longer Alone - Felix Landau

      CHAPTER ONE

      The Old Life Ends

      If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation;

      the old has gone, the new has come!

      —2 Corinthians 5:17

      Wednesday, June 17, 2009

      As I stepped into the fourteen-by-nine foot cell, I heard the turn of the lock. In front of me was another inmate, two cots, a metal toilet, and a sink. The cell had old, pale-green, painted walls and one slivered window with a view of the Oregon hills separated by five rolls of razor-sharp barbed wire. We were thankful that we could see whether it was day or night.

      Every day we were locked up for twenty-one hours. We were given fifteen minutes for each meal and two sessions out of the box for seventy minutes to walk, talk, shower, and watch television. We wore orange jumpsuits. Each group had its own tables and chairs for meals. I sat in the white men’s group.

      I was told that I would be sent directly to the camp. I reported voluntarily to the camp administration office as scheduled. But, they directed me up the hill to the detention center—a fortress, a bastille. An armed guard continuously drove around the menacing structure. For seven days and nights they kept me locked up in the cell—168 hours, 10,080 minutes. They told me I needed to be put into this box so I would appreciate the privileges of being in the camp.

      The nightmare of this living death began six years before my arrival. The sinking terror I felt radiated from my face. Stunned, bewildered, and emotionally destroyed, I stood in the general area, too traumatized to cry. In that totally alienated and estranged pit, the old-timers came and assured me that I would be all right. Bank robbers, drug Kings, men who had committed some of the most dangerous crimes brought me human acts of kindness. I did not yet emotionally know Jesus Christ. With an overwhelming abundance of love and comfort, He waited as a patient father for me to come to him soon.

      I had learned as a child that no one would take care of me. Throughout my life, I had relied on myself to solve all my problems and provide for all my needs. When I needed food, clothing, or other physical items, I worked for them. Whenever I needed emotional escape, I sidestepped my empty life through sports activities until I was exhausted. I ran the city streets and the school tracks for hours before it became popular. What pain was left, I suppressed. Fists to my face and to the back of my head had taught me that I could endure. Life made me tough. The truth is that I had been alone my entire life. I relied only upon myself. So as I sat in my cell, I relied on my past survival instincts to endure each moment. I had not reached my ground zero yet, but it would come soon… very soon.

      I lost ten pounds during those seven days. I ate what I could. We were fed subsistence-level food mashed together in concoctions not discernible by taste. The soup was warm liquid with an occasional piece of onion. I thought of my father often and didn’t complain. I knew that I still had it much better than he did. He was a slave laborer in Auschwitz and Mauthausen-Gusen for over two years. He watched thousands die, including his wife and daughter. He survived the slaughter camps, the starvations, the suicides, the cruel butchering of men, women, and children. He starved every day. My warm, watery soup with its onion oasis was a feast. How could I complain?

      Tuesday, June 23, 2009

      I was escorted to the holding cell where I exchanged my orange jumpsuit for a green shirt and pants. This signaled that I was being transferred to the camp. I left my cell, but I received daily reminders that any infractions would send me to the hole, a smaller cell where I would be held continuously in solitary confinement for endless days and nights. In the hole, food was delivered through a slot in the door. When taken to and from the box, one was handcuffed, with ankles shackled in chains. I had been assured that this would not happen to me. However, it did happen a year later when I returned to the Seattle halfway house. I cried during the second weekend and asked the guards for someone to talk to. They responded by allowing me to talk with a crisis counselor over the telephone. After thirty minutes, I was fine. On Monday morning, I met with two psychologists who found me to be no danger to myself or others. That evening, the Bureau of Prisons responded by taking me to the hole for seventy-two hours and then transferring me to another cell for an additional thirteen days—384 hours. I learned that there was no crying in prison or help from a psychiatrist, no matter how depressed I became or how much severe pain I suffered.

      When I was finally transferred to the camp, I was assigned my cot and met my bunkies. I walked around the camp and came to the recreation area. I stared at the jail fortress across the street. How had I ended up here? I had served a lifetime of helping everyone I could—teaching, coaching, volunteering for military service, representing clients for free, helping with charities. I was in the final years of my life on this earth and there I stood, an inmate in a prison camp. And I was alone.

      Every night, I waited until everyone else had gone to sleep, and then I prayed for the Lord to take me, to end it, to take away the pain. I wrote. I composed poems. I was obsessed with thoughts of suicide. I made a plan: I would escape around the fence to reach the ponds and drown myself. I would put stones in my pockets to keep me down in the water. I had reached the lowest point of my existence and felt I had no purpose, no hope, no love from my children, no justice—only shame and humiliation. I was as far from God as I could be. Although I had spoken of God, I had not come to know Him yet. Among a camp of five hundred, sharing a unit with twenty-eight men, I felt totally and starkly alone.

      The anxiety attacks continued. I was desperate. Although I did not have hallucinations or delusions, I sensed the spiritual forces of evil. The pain, the deepest emotional pain, knocked me to my knees. I sought the only one who could and would redeem and save me: Jesus Christ. I had reached my ground zero. I cried violently for hours. In tears and deep pain, I prayed, Dear Lord, into your hands I submit myself with all my heart, mind, and soul. Please come into my life.

      I had always known about Jesus Christ. I had studied the Bible, scholarly treatises, and learned opinions. I had taught comparative religions in high school. I knew Jesus Christ academically, but not spiritually. There had always been a giant, emotional emptiness in my life. Finally that emptiness was filled with a loving relationship with Jesus Christ. Only after I had been reduced to nothing and submitted to Jesus did I feel the reassurance of God. I read Romans 8:37-39 and Ephesians 6:10-18 which assured me that nothing can separate me from the love of God that is in Jesus Christ.

      There was no explosion, no trumpet sound, no white light or revelation. Rather, as I continued to pray, I felt more solid. I did not realize that I had become filled with the Holy Spirit. I did not feel alone. I was still shaken and wobbly in my faith, but I gradually became stronger. I prayed ten to fifteen times a day. Whenever I felt too emotional and feared that I would break down, I stopped, prayed, and trusted that Jesus would be with me. In my mind I heard, Be still, be quiet, slow down, and know that I am God and I am with you (Psalm 40:1-3; Isaiah 30:18).

      I broke down emotionally several times. Jesus Christ responded by sending me fellowship with other Christians at the camp. They huddled around me, put their hands on my shoulders, and prayed for me. I had never experienced such a unified concern for my well being. My ability to be aware of my surroundings increased dramatically. The Lord kept revealing His awesome power to me. Every day I had an epiphany! I became a spiritual being.

      I prayed to God for personal strength, courage, patience, and understanding. I had searching questions about my relationship with God and others, metaphysical questions about my purpose in life, and questions about the direction in which God was guiding me.

      Whenever I read Scripture, words jumped from the Bible directly on-point to my questions. I viewed a shelf of books and felt a force directing me to read specific books. Those books answered the questions I had that day. It was more than looking at titles or subjects; I felt directed by the Holy Spirit.

      One evening I read the book of Job. The next morning I went to Christian services and the pastor announced that he was giving his sermon on the book of Job. There had been no previously scheduled sermon. I realized that God had directed me to study Job in preparation for the sermon. This happened often.

      After I returned to Seattle, I stopped to worship at a Catholic church where I had never been before. I saw a statue in a chapel that I thought represented the holy mother Mary. I knelt

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