Scheisshaus Luck

by Pierre Berg

  “Everybody line up with your shoes in your hands,” the guard commanded in German.

  We lined up and he flung open the door to an adjoining shower room. As men filed in, the guard inspected their shoes, armpits, and mouths. How was I going to get my ring past this boche? Tucking it into my belt and flesh was too risky, and I didn’t have a tuft of hair left to conceal it in. There was only one solution and it was one I truly didn’t savor.

  I stepped out of line unnoticed, then leaned my back against the frozen wall and tried to put the ring into my anus. I had never attempted anything like this before. Apprehensively I pushed it up.

  My muscles, taut from nervousness and the cold, resisted. My legs started trembling as I tried to work it in like a corkscrew. Luckily no one was paying any attention to me. I wasn’t shoving my grand-father’s heirloom up my ass for sentimental reasons. No, the ring, two crisscrossed snakeheads with a ruby and diamond for their eyes, was currency and could help make my imprisonment more bearable. Finally it slipped in. The muscles tightened around it, and I felt the ring slide up into my colon. With a deep sigh I slowly shuffled back into line.

  The SS guard looked me over and waved me in. I hung my shoes on a nail near the shower room door. Most of the others kept theirs on or in their hands, but I wasn’t about to be stuck walking around in soggy shoes. It was an odd-looking shower room. There were no showerheads hanging down from the ceiling, just a network of pipes with holes at regular intervals attached to the rafters.

  Someone bolted shut the sheet-metal door. Bouncing off the walls, our speculating and bitching dissolved into the hum of a beehive. The heat of our tightly packed bodies quickly warmed the room. Arms, bellies, backs, buttocks, and tufts of bristly hair brushed up against me. Repulsed, I would step away from one only to be more tightly pressed against another. Why didn’t they turn on the water? What the hell were they waiting for?

  “Water, water!” I roared.

  “Water, water!” Others chanted until it was like thunderclaps in a cavern. I don’t know how long we shouted, but finally the pipes began to tremble and hiss. A few yellowish drops fell, then a deluge.

  To hell with the HKB man’s warning, I thought. With eyes closed I swallowed as much of the lukewarm water as I could. It had a rotten, metallic taste and smelled even worse. Oh, well, it’s better to get ill than to suffer any longer from this burning thirst.

  Without warning, the water shot from pleasantly warm to scalding. Men howled. I clasped my hands over my head and tried to get to a wall, but I kept slamming into solid barriers of flesh. We were all hopping from one foot to the other as if performing some ridiculous native rain dance. I worried if I kept jumping about I would lose my ring. A dense vapor filled the room until I could no longer see.

  As quickly as it had gone up, the water temperature plummeted.

  The steam disappeared. The icy water had me gasping for a breath.

  It was futile to try to dodge the cascade, so I stood there shivering with my arms wrapped around myself. Thankfully the torrent stopped, then the door opened and we flooded out.

  I grabbed my shoes, which were now filled with water. So much for worrying about soggy footwear, I chided myself. As I went through the door, a prisoner tried to snatch my shoes.

  “Loslassen!” (Let go!), the man ordered.

  Thinking of the HKB man’s words, I hung on to them. The bastard raised his fist.

  “Meine Schuhen, meine Schuhen!” (My shoes, my shoes!), I pleaded.

  His kick sent me falling backwards. When I dragged my wet body off the floor, my shoes were lying in a growing pile. The same thing was happening to everyone. I was slowly learning that the instructions of the SS guards weren’t always followed and that there were prisoners in charge who made life more miserable than was even intended.

  I lined up with the others. Since no towels were given out, we were all squeegeeing our shivering bodies with our hands. If they wanted us to work in their factory, why were they grinding us down?

  The Prussian yelled, “Everybody take a striped uniform!”

  Next to the entrance was a huge pile of bundled striped uniforms—shirt, coat, trousers, and a beret-styled cap. Prisoners pushed us toward the door. I blindly grabbed a bundle and had only enough time to put on the shirt, which was old and came down to my knees, before I was shoved outside. On the way down the steps I was thrown a pair of canvas shoes with wooden soles. I never dressed so quickly as I did getting those rags over my wet body.

  The pants were short and so tight that I couldn’t button them, and my arms were lost in the sleeves of the coat. I put on the shoes. One was too small and I was swimming in the other. My days as the

  “Shithouse Dandy” were definitely over. Looking about, I found some comfort in the fact that I wasn’t the only one with an ill-fitting uniform.

  “Los marsch!” commanded the Prussian, and two hundred and forty new Häftlinge (prisoners) followed him down a cinder path.

  Though everyone seemed to be stumbling, not walking, I could barely keep up with the group. The damn shoes were burning my feet. Despite the frozen ground, there were men carrying their shoes to walk faster. Soon I was, too. The cinders cut my feet, but at least I wasn’t lagging behind.

  A gray dawn was rising behind a range of snow-covered mountains. On one side of us was a long row of Blocks and on the other a barbed-wire fence. Hanging from it was a sign with skull and crossbones and a streak of lightning.

  In front of one of the Blocks a band of Häftlinge were loading one of the dump trucks with living skeletons. Half naked, these devastated souls laid on a wooden pushcart waiting their turn to be tossed like trash onto the truck’s bed. They possessed a nightmarish serenity that I had never seen before. Their bodies looked as if life had literally been wrung out of them. They had the legs of storks and their pelvic bones protruded like those of a bankrupt coachman’s cab-horse. They stared at us with eyes so sunk into dark-rimmed sockets that I wondered what kept them from falling into their skulls. We marched past and not a word was spoken. They weren’t being taken to any hospital—that I was sure of. You don’t treat a man like that if you want to nurse him back to health.

  “Worse than you can imagine.” It sure wasn’t an exaggeration.

  What hardships would we have to endure, and for how long, until we were heaved onto the back of a truck? Had I been stripped of a future along with my warm clothes? Thankfully I was distracted from my dread when we were swallowed up by one of the Blocks.

  CHAPTER 6

  The barracks smelled newer than the one we left. We were massed in a large, open area in front of rows of three-tier bunks, which were braced at the rafters. Against the wall to my left was a group of hollowed-faced Häftlinge and a couple tables and some wooden chairs. When the last of us was inside, the Prussian left without a word. A little man in his thirties walked over from the wall and stepped onto a stool in front of the rows of bunks. On his striped uniform were a green triangle and a yellow triangle forming the Star of David. It was a relief to see a man standing in front of us who wasn’t reeking of savageness.

  “Halt die Fresse!” (Shut up!) he yelled in a high-pitched voice.

  “I have important information for you. My name is Herbert. I am the Blockälteste (barracks supervisor). I am the law while you’re in quarantine. Do not forget it. I will give you a few minutes to swap your uniforms and shoes for something better fitting. This will be your only chance.”

  Somebody translated it into French so everyone understood that we were now human clothing racks. We eyed one another up and down, then the grabbing, swapping, pulling, and chasing began.

  I dashed from one man to another, sometimes trailing a potential fit from one end of the Block to the other while they, too, hunted.

  Somehow I managed to get a uniform that hung comfortably on my body. I even got my hands on a pair of shoes that were only a tad big before Herbert called off the hunt.

  “Everybody get a pair of Fusslappen�
� (foot rags), Herbert said, pointing to a tall stack of square rags in a corner. These were to be our socks. Snatching up a pair, I realized it was going to take some practice to fold the rags around my feet before they wouldn’t come apart in my shoes.

  “Now hear this!” he yelled. “It’s time to be processed and registered. You’re going to be given a serial number and a color triangle.

  They will be sewn to your coat and pants, and you will have the numbers tattooed onto your left forearm.”

  An alarmed murmur shot through the room.

  “Don’t be sissies. It only hurts a little. Your women are being processed the same way,” Herbert added.

  I could picture Stella whimpering and biting her upper lip while being tattooed, as she did when we started to make love.

  The Häftlinge standing against the wall moved the tables and chairs behind Herbert; set stacks of green cards, pens, and inkstands on the tables; then sat behind them. Unlike others, I jumped quickly into one of the assembly lines. At the first table, a son of a Warsaw haberdasher sewed the number 172649 onto my jacket and pants. I sat down at the next table, where a German prisoner wrote my name and serial number on a card. From the corner of my eye I watched, alarmed, as the man next to me got tattooed. The bleeding numbers were taking up his whole forearm. The German processing me grabbed my left arm, dipped his pen into his white porcelain inkstand, and attacked my forearm with fast, little jabs. I clenched my teeth, but the physical pain was less than the realization that the numbers 172649 meant I was now officially the property of the Third Reich.

  “Will this ever come off?”

  He shook his head. “It’s permanent.”

  It took a few hours to complete our processing. I sat on a bunk across from the Block’s heating pipe, which ran the length of the barracks. I stared at the steel pipe in a futile attempt to keep my mind off of my predicament.

  Herbert climbed up on the stool again.

  “Those colored triangles next to your numbers aren’t there for decoration. They signify why you are here, because we are all in this camp for a reason. Red triangles are political prisoners, anti-fascists, communists, socialists, what have you. Black is for lazy, drunken bums who were sabotaging ‘the fatherland.’ Purple means you’re here for your religious beliefs. Yellow is for Jews and Jews only, and green signifies German criminals. I am sure you’ve noticed that I have a yellow and a green triangle. Take a good look, because you probably won’t see another one like it in the camp.”

  The only colored triangles I saw around me were yellow and red; mine was red.

  “Oh, and I almost forgot,” Herbert smiled. “Pink signifies homosexual, so it would be wise not to bend over when you are next to a ‘pinkie’ in the shower.”

  There were a few half-hearted laughs. I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not.

  “Soon you will be housed in another Block and assigned to a Kommando (work detail) depending on your aptitude and experience. Follow the orders of your Kapo (supervisor) and Vorarbeiter (foreman) or you will be punished. If you’re caught trying to escape you will be executed, and remember that nobody likes to stand in the cold while you are hanging. Stay in a perfect line when being counted and do not speak. Remove your cap in the presence of a German officer or guard or you will be punished. You will receive a meal in the morning and in the evening. You will also receive one at noon if you work in the factory. If you’re sick you may report to the HKB. Do not stay in there too long or you will be shipped to Birkenau and, trust me, that will be the end of you. If you get the crud or ringworm, you will stay at the Krätzeblock, where they’ll have you sleep in blankets soaked in kerosene. Again, do not stay too long. Every day check the seams of your clothes for lice. They carry typhus. Crack the lice between your thumbnails.”

  Someone raised his hand. “May I ask a question?”

  Herbert wrinkled his forehead. “About what?”

  “Are there any bedbugs?”

  Herbert managed a grin. “Oh, yes. And these little fellows are fast. Use a bar of soap to catch them on your mattress. Smash it down on them and they’ll be stuck to it. You’d better be quick with that soap, because the one you do not kill you’ll blow out your nose in the morning.”

  A few men laughed.

  “It’s not funny; they bite. All right, keep clean and good luck.”

  Herbert hopped off the stool and went into his private quarters, pulling the curtain closed behind him. His Stubendienste (barracks foremen) lined us up and doled out our mess kits, a spoon, and a new white-enamel bowl. We then received our first meal: a piece of brown bread, a small square of margarine, and a ladle of a warm, dark water they called coffee. Was that all? We hadn’t eaten for over forty-eight hours. Were the Nazis experiencing a food shortage? At least that would explain the condition of those skeletons on the truck.

  Everyone filtered through the four rows of bunks to stake out a place to eat and sleep. I went back to that bottom bunk and gobbled up my meal without tasting it. The man sitting next to me picked at his bread. He was distressed that the Stubendienst who had given him his mess kit snickered when he asked how he could find out where his family was. Silently I climbed up to the top bunk and stretched out on the burlap-covered mattress. I pulled the blanket over me. The mattress’s straw stuffing crackled as I tried to make myself comfortable. In spite of myself, I pondered where Stella was and what she was doing, and what would happen if I never saw her again. Thankfully, sleep spared me from torturing myself for long.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  I awoke in the middle of the night with gut-wrenching cramps. I should have listened to the man from the HKB. That shower water was hellishly potent. The Häftling on watch had fallen asleep, so I easily ducked outside unnoticed. There was an outhouse close by, but there was only one way of relieving myself and retrieving my ring. The cramps tore at my belly, and I barely had enough time to take down my pants. Lucky for me, the searchlight didn’t sweep where I squatted. Once I was finished I found a twig and after a little digging I had my ring.

  The next morning, Herbert had us line up outside. At his side was his interpreter, Max. A severe beating hadn’t deterred him. I respected his persistence, but questioned whether it would ultimately pay off. Herbert stared at us with his piercing blue eyes as if to read our minds.

  “Wer hat hinter den Block geschissen?”(Somebody crapped behind the Block. Who was it?)

  While Max translated, Herbert’s fury drained the color from his face. We all stood in silence. I hadn’t breathed a word to anyone about the cramps or my ring, which was now hidden in the shoulder of my jacket.

  “Am I to believe that this shit fell from heaven?” Herbert’s voice trembled. “Stand at attention!”

  We did as he ordered.

  “You’ll stand here until whoever did it gives himself up!” Herbert stormed back into the Block.

  I couldn’t believe he was making an issue of this. If I had known, I would have buried my mess. Damn it! Shortly afterwards, our soup was delivered and Herbert had them leave the steaming cauldrons in front of the Block’s door. I was in a panic. I was hungry and freezing, and I knew the men standing around me were, too. What should I do? I wanted to come forward because of the suffering I was causing, but I was frightened of what was in store for me if I confessed. As time crept by, guilt devoured me. No, I couldn’t stand silent any longer. I took a deep breath and stepped out of line.

  Herbert was standing at the Block’s threshold. I climbed the steps as if mounting the hangman’s scaffold.

  “So it was you!”

  As he spoke I wanted to jump back, giving some excuse for having gone up there, but all I could do was stare at my feet. Herbert took my silence for an admission and his fist sent me rolling down the steps. He pounced on me, grabbed me by the neck, and with strength surprising for one that small, dragged me into the Block. I hardly had time to realize what was happening when a rubber hose came down on my ass. I gritted my teeth to keep from crying out. Each bl
ow straightened me up. It felt like an electric shock shooting through my body.

  “Bend over!” Herbert screamed.

  I jerked up again. A blow over the head knocked me unconscious.

  I awoke on the cold floor, unsure what had happened to me. I had dreamt that I was sitting on a hot stove, but the searing sensation had followed me into consciousness. How could that be? Hit with a blinding torrent of pain, I remembered. I rolled onto my belly, but that did nothing to alleviate the agony. Hot tears rolled down my face as I bit into the sleeve of my jacket.

  Certainly I hadn’t deserved such a punishment. I had never beaten my dog when he did his “doodoo” in my room. What gave these men the right to thrash us? They weren’t SS. Wasn’t it enough to be imprisoned, to have lost one’s freedom? Weren’t we all comrades in misfortune who should be aiding, not trying to kill each other? I passed my hand over my jacket. The ring was still there in the seam. At least it hadn’t been all for nothing, I consoled myself as I crawled to my bunk and slipped into a pain-induced stupor.

  “Why did you confess?”

  The man from the HKB[2] was standing over me.

  “Why did you confess?”

  I shrugged. “Somebody had to or we would’ve been there till doomsday.”

  “You foolish kid.”

  He shook his head and smeared a soothing ointment on my ass, which had swollen up like two balloons. He must have repeated my words to Herbert, because from that moment on he treated me kindly, giving me double rations and making a hero of me. Unfortunately those perks lasted only a week, at which point we were all transferred out of the quarantine Block and assigned to Kommando 136.

  CHAPTER 7

  I sat with twenty other Häftlinge of Kommando 136 around an oil-drum brazier inside a shelter of discarded planks and sheet metal somewhere on the Buna plant grounds. It was our lunch break. No one spoke while we ate. The sound of twenty-one famished men slurping up the brownish water the Germans had the audacity to call soup nearly drowned out the snowstorm howling outside. For the last four weeks the weather had been increasingly cruel.