On the train, he’d been spurned by the other Jewish prisoners, called names. They’d even spat at him. But he hadn’t cared. He was too busy contemplating the scheme he’d already put into motion, and trying to figure out what he would do to survive once he arrived at his final destination. As a Judenrat, he knew better than the others what was in store at the end of the journey. So, he knew that he had to find a way to save himself. Koppel was aware that they were on their way to Treblinka, and Treblinka was a death camp.
At a death camp his chances of survival were slim. So, although he’d been unable to find any way to escape, he’d done the next best thing. As a Judenrat he had become friendly with one of the guards in the ghetto. Not a true friend, Koppel didn’t delude himself into believing that the bastard was sincere. Koppel was too smart for that. But at least he and the Nazi were on speaking terms, familiar enough for Koppel to use his wits to convince the Nazi to have him transferred to Auschwitz instead of Treblinka.
It all began late one night when one of the Judenrats was sent by the guards to leave with the rest of the Jews on a transport to Treblinka. Koppel saw that happen and decided that he must do something to save himself quickly. Until one of his peers had been included in the transport, Koppel had hoped that his work for the Nazis would save him from sharing the fate of the other Jews. Now he knew better.
With his heart pounding out of his chest, Koppel had searched the entire ghetto, then waited until one of the other Nazis left and the guard he knew well was walking alone. Koppel called to the Nazi from an alleyway between two buildings. The guard gave him a puzzled look, but he walked over. That was when Koppel sprung the trap. Koppel told the Nazi that he had buried a two karat diamond ring somewhere in the ghetto. First Koppel tried to offer the ring as a bribe for his escape, but the Nazi refused.
“Sorry Koppel,” the guard said, smiling. “They know how many of you Jews are left here in the ghetto. I cannot let you go because it could cost me my job. But about that ring.” The guard lit a cigarette. “I could torture you and make you give me that ring. You realize that don’t you?”
“I realize that, but you still would not have the ring because I would die before I gave it to you,” Koppel said, trembling as he stood in front of the man who would decide his fate. Koppel’s mind was like a runaway freight train moving at one hundred miles per hour. His heart had leapt out of his chest and was threatening to pound right out of his throat. This was his only chance. He had to come up with something quickly, before the moment passed.
“If you send me to Auschwitz instead of Treblinka, I will tell you where to find the ring.”
The guard smiled and took another puff of his cigarette. “Of course, I will have it arranged for you. So, now that we have gotten that out of the way, tell me. Where is the ring?”
“Not now, not until I arrive at Auschwitz safely.”
“And how will I get the information from you then?” the guard asked, raising his eyebrow.
“Send one of your friends to find me,” said Koppel. “Someone you can trust.”
The guard bit his lower lip. “What a fool you are Jew to challenge me,” the guard said, shaking his head.
But Koppel had expected this, and his answer to the Nazi was simply, “I am worth more to you alive than I would be dead. If I am dead, you will never have the diamond. It is worth a lot of reichsmarks. What difference does it make to you where I go, or what happens to me once I am gone from here? Think it over. If you can arrange for me to be taken to Auschwitz instead of Treblinka, I will direct you to where the jewel is buried.”
Koppel had more inside information than most Jews, and he knew that if he could not escape his fate altogether, Auschwitz was still a better option than Treblinka. At least at Auschwitz, if he was strong enough and lucky enough, he might be used for slave labor. Laborers had a better chance of survival than those who served no purpose to the Nazis.
The guard studied Koppel for several moments without speaking. Then Koppel saw a quick flash in the guard’s eyes. Koppel recognized the flash, it was pure greed. Taking a deep breath, Koppel knew that he had hit his mark.
“Very well. I will have someone meet you at the end of the line in Treblinka and send you on your way to Auschwitz. You will find that it is not much better there, but who knows, maybe you’ll survive. I don’t care what happens to you as long as you live long enough to give the information about the ring to my friend. And know this, Jew; if you are lying and there is no diamond, I will see to it that you meet a more horrible death than you can ever imagine.”
“You will have the diamond,” Koppel said.
So after the train arrived at Treblinka and the other prisoners were herded like cattle from the train into the camp, Koppel was pulled away and taken by one of the guards who said that he had been instructed to meet Koppel at the train. Koppel felt a glimmer of hope that maybe things really had gone his way when he was taken to the Lodz ghetto, but that hope was smashed immediately when he was shuffled on to another train. This time he was fairly sure that he was on his way to Auschwitz. Well, at least the Nazi had not lied to him, yet.
He knew if he survived the transport, at some point he would be approached by an arranged connection and forced to divulge where to find the ring. Then, once he’d given up his hold on the diamond, if the guard threatened him, he would explain that he had buried jewelry all over the ghetto and that this was only one of many pieces. If need be, he would use the rest slowly to entice them for as long as he could to stay alive. These heirlooms and expensive trinkets were pieces that he’d received in exchange for bits of food, and now they were his only hope.
The train he was now riding to Auschwitz had the same horrific conditions as the one he’d taken to Treblinka. He’d escaped certain death, but from what he understood about his new destination, Koppel knew that he must appear healthy when he arrived. He knew Dr. Mengele would be standing at the station, as the train was unloaded, pointing at each person, directing each one to the left or to the right. Those headed left were destined to live, but those going right would die. It was as simple as that. If a prisoner looked as if he could work, he would be sent to live; if he were too weak or too old, he would be sent to the gas chamber right away, the same day he arrived.
Koppel had stepped off the train, and from where he stood he could see Mengele’s white coat and the two lines forming. His heart pounded in his chest. He began to pray, but secretly he feared that God was angry with him for everything he’d done to the others in the ghetto. Still, he begged and pleaded.
After he had gotten closer, he felt as if his heart would burst through his chest, shooting his blood all over Mengele’s starched white coat. Koppel’s vision had clouded and the earth began to spin, but he had willed himself not to pass out. As he had approached the Nazi who would decide if he would live or die, he could not help but plead with God for forgiveness for all that he’d done to his fellow Jews. Then, by some miracle, he’d been sent to the left.
When he heard the words, “To the left,” and saw Mengele‘s long gloved finger pointing to the line for the living, he almost fell to his knees with gratitude. But he knew he must resist. At any moment, and for any reason, Mengele could change his mind. Instead, Koppel had thanked God silently and repeatedly for sparing his life. His mother had not been as fortunate. He had watched helplessly as she was sent away to the gas chamber. His heart and mind conflicted, he had felt a strange mixture of pain and relief.
Once he’d made it through the initial ordeal of changing into a gray striped uniform and endured the shaving of his head, his forearm had been tattooed with a number. The needle and ink burned as they entered his flesh. For the rest of his life, this number would serve as a reminder of where he’d been, what he’d endured, and also what he had done. In those first days, his fingers had grazed the angry red skin surrounding the tattoo often.
It was a week later that he was approached about the ring by a Nazi officer who was visiting the camp. K
oppel gave the officer the location of the diamond. Although until the day he was liberated Koppel feared that the Nazi officer would return, Koppel never saw him again.
Now in his hotel room he looked at the numbers on his arm. Because of them, even in the heat of summer, he wore a long-sleeved shirt.
In the camp, Koppel knew he had to keep a level head if he was going to survive. He had to make himself useful. After he had been branded like an animal, he’d studied the workings of the place, carefully watching until he found a way to make himself indispensable to the Nazis.
Then, like in the ghetto, he had begun to work for the Third Reich, this time as a Kapo. The Kapos were the Jews that had been assigned to keep the other prisoners in line for the Nazi guards. Once again, he had traded his fellow Jews for a few extra crumbs of bread. And of course, once again, he had been hated, had been branded as a traitor, a brand even stronger than the tattoo on his arm. Everyone saw Koppel as the Jew who had helped the Nazis kill his own people.
Well, it had not been easy, but at least he’d survived. Not only had he survived, but he’d earned the trust of the guards also. This had given him the opportunity to steal some tiny pieces of gold that he’d found among the ashes of the burnt Jewish bodies. In the teeth of prisoners, it was gold that had been overlooked as the Jews had been sent into the gas chambers or burned in the crematoriums. Once even, he had found a ring.
These treasures had not been easy to acquire. He’d taken a huge risk going out in the dark of night and sifting through the gray mass of ash, stumbling upon bones and other human matter. His hands had trembled. He’d gagged, but he had continued lying face down in the pile of human residue, holding up to the light of the moon anything that looked as if it might be of value. There had not been a lot, but there had been enough . . . just enough for him to keep hidden until now, just enough for him to start his life over. What good would that gold have been to a dead man? They were just small pieces he’d stolen and had stuffed up into his anus, in case he had been caught on his way back to the barracks. He’d lain on the floor removing them quietly, had hidden them under a broken floorboard under his cot. Then, when nobody was around on another night, he’d gone out behind the barracks, had dug a hole, and had buried his treasure.
During the day, he’d watched that space constantly. His eyes darting as the prisoners had been lined up for roll call each day. If his treasure had been discovered the guards would have taken it. Then they would have killed the prisoners one at a time until someone had admitted to having stolen it.
He’d seen this happen once.
Two guards had found a half loaf of bread under a mattress. While the roll call was being read, one of the guards had held up the bread, demanding to know the name of the thief. Nobody would come forward and admit that they had stolen the loaf. So the guards had gone down the line shooting each prisoner who shook his head denying that the bread had been his until they had come to a young man, no more than seventeen.
They had held the bread in front of him. From where Koppel stood, he had seen the boy trembling. The adolescent had been about to deny that the bread belonged to him. Everyone had known that he would be shot, but before the boy had spoken a voice came from the end of the line. It had been that of a middle-aged man, perhaps forty. He had called out, “It is mine. I stole the bread.”
Koppel had heard a whisper from one of the prisoners: “That is the boy’s father.”
The guard had walked over to the older man and had called him out of the line. “No Papa,” the boy had cried out. “NO.”
“You say that you stole this bread?” the guard had asked the older man.
“Yes. I did,” the man had said. Everyone had known that he would protect his son with his own life.
“NO!” Again the son had wailed.
Koppel had wished this business finished. Koppel had reasoned, If they killed the older man, I will be safe. That will be the end of it. But if they don’t, there are only five more prisoners before the guards get to me.
“I stole it,” the father had said.
“Get down on your knees.” The guard had kicked the older man in the back while he was kneeling, causing him to fall forward. “Get back on your knees, swine. Now put your hands behind your head.”
The man had done as he had been told.
The son had rushed out of the line and had run to his father. “Please, it was mine. I stole it.”
The guard had turned on the boy, shooting him.
A wail had come from the father. Then the guard had turned the gun on the older man, shooting him in the back of his head, too. Blood poured from the two bodies and mingled on the cement.
“Let this be a lesson to all of you not to steal from the Reich,” the guard had said. Then the guard had pointed his gun at two prisoners, one of them Koppel. “Clean up this filthy mess,” he’d said.
As Koppel had wiped the blood off the ground, his eyes had never left the spot where he had buried the gold.
Well, that was behind him now. He’d sold enough of the gold to have what he needed to leave Germany forever. The rest was sewn into his coat, to be sold piecemeal. Koppel had paid his way, with the blood money, and soon he would board the ship Exodus and be on his way to Palestine. There he would do his best to shed the stigma of his past and become a part of the Jewish community. But, this was just a stepping-stone. He had bigger plans. As soon as it was possible, he would apply for a visa to the United States of America where he would go to start his real life. There he could disappear into the crowds and truly leave everything he’d done behind him.
He combed his thinning hair as he looked into the cracked mirror. He felt like a very old man. His fingers trembled, and he’d developed a condition whereby he produced too much saliva; often it dribbled down his chin. Above his left eye, he wore an angry red scar to remind him of the time a guard at the camp had hit him with his rifle butt.
So much had happened. He’d witnessed such atrocities, and his participation in many things still haunted him. But the memory that bothered him the most was sending the woman Zofia on the train toTreblinka. When he’d written her name and those of the two lesbians she lived with on the list of those being sent to the camp, he’d done so in anger. He remembered her turning to look back at him; her soft black curls cascading down her back. Their eyes had met, but only for a moment. He had been sitting at the table assigning the next group of Jews to be taken, and she and the two old women were being shoved into a boxcar. The strangest thing about it all was that he loved her, but because she loved another man, had taken that man to her bed, Koppel had needed to make her pay. When the door to the train car had slammed shut, it had struck such fear and pain in his heart that he had gone to the bathroom and washed the sweat from his face with cold water. By the time he’d returned, the train had been on its way out of the station to the dreaded camp.
Koppel doubted that Zofia or either of her friends had survived. Very few did. Very few were capable of doing what it took to make it through. Koppel knew how to stay alive. He survived because he traded everyone and everything to save his own life.
He clicked the closures on the suitcase shut. No use thinking about the past. It was time for him to start over. What he had done, he’d done because he had no other choice. Koppel stretched his back and heard the bones crack. A crash of thunder startled him and he jumped. Looking out the window Koppel saw that the sky had turned the color of burnt ashes and was streaked with silver flames of lightening. A storm had sprung to life out of nowhere.
It was time to go. Koppel had no umbrella, but he did have a raincoat. Slipping the slicker out of his suitcase, he threw it on. Then he picked up his bag, turned off the light in the dirty hotel room, and walked out, closing the door on Germany and all he’d witnessed there forever. Koppel had at least a day’s train ride to Marseilles. Then from Marseilles, he would have to travel by bus to the port of Sète where finally he would board Exodus and be on his way to Palestine. The Promised Land.
Chapter 3
Shlomie Katz knew that the time had come to leave the DP camp. He’d been wasting away long enough. It was certainly no paradise, dirty and overflowing with sick and grief-stricken refugees. Everyday more poured in . . . these poor, tortured souls were all that was left of Hitler’s plan for mass eradication of the Jews.
Even though Shlomie was at the camp day in and day out, the smell still bothered him, and the stories from those who’d traveled to this German DP camp from camps in Poland horrified him. They’d come to Germany because here they would be under the protection of the Americans who seemed to want to help them make their way to Palestine. Even though the Jews had been liberated, feelings of anti-Semitism in Europe had not decreased at all. One of the arrivals at the camp told a story of a small village in Poland where, following the liberation, the Jews who were still alive had returned to their homes. There they were subjected to a pogrom where they were murdered by their former neighbors.
Perhaps Zofia and Isaac were right when they said that the only choice for Jews was a homeland of their own, a Jewish state in Palestine. Shlomie would have preferred to go to America, however securing visas was almost impossible. Not that getting to Palestine was much easier. The British had promised the land to the Jews, but now Bevin, the prime minister of Britain was reneging on his word. It seemed that the Chosen People would never be at peace.
Shlomie washed his face with a bucket of cold water and thought about Zofia. He knew why she’d left early that morning before he’d awakened. He’d asked her to marry him, thinking that with Isaac missing, she might consider it. He had always loved her, from the first moment he saw her. But, she did not love him; she would never love him. Even when Isaac was gone, Zofia did not turn to him, a fact he had to come to terms with.
When Isaac had gone out to the forest to find food for the three of them, it had been just Shlomie and Zofia. In his mind he’d created a fantasy. He’d made believe that the two of them had fallen in love and planned to marry. Then, when the Americans had picked them up and taken them to the Germany DP camp, it had been the two of them again. Shlomie had accompanied Zofia to see her daughter Eidel. He’d held Zofia as she cried when she had decided that it was best to leave Eidel with Helen, the woman who had taken Eidel and raised her as her own while Zofia had been locked in the Warsaw Ghetto. It had been plain to see that Eidel thought of Helen as her mother and Zofia as a stranger. Shlomie had been proud of Zofia when she put her child’s feelings before her own and left Helen’s home without Eidel. He’d held her as she cried; he’d comforted her. Then he told her of his feelings, confessed his love, proposed marriage, but she’d refused him.
The Promised Land (All My Love, Detrick Series) (All My Love Detrick Book 3) Page 3