Asylum

by Moriz Scheyer

  After this we were given water with our breakfast for several days–quite genuine water. To be completely fair it should be added that the water was heated. It wasn’t that our captain was malicious. He did what he could.

  In the hut next to mine was a Czech by the name of Prihoda, an ‘Aryan’ without blemish. He had apparently been arrested by mistake, although it is true that he had the misfortune to have been married for more than twenty years to a Jewess. In any case, the camp commandant had promised to try to have representations made to the military command through the Prefecture at Orléans. In the meantime Prihoda would have to wait. He had been caught with us, and he was stuck with us. His every conversation began with the prefatory question: ‘So, what has this all got to do with me?’

  During an inspection Prihoda had the bright idea of appealing directly to the German officer regarding the miscarriage of justice which he had suffered. He went up to the lieutenant, stood stiffly to attention and explained his case. When, however, further questioning elicited from him the fact of the ‘non-Aryan’ wife, the Nazi superior screamed at him: ‘And yet you still have the nerve to complain? Concentration camp is the very least you deserve for your crime of racial impurity.’

  Once the prefect came from Orléans on an inspection. Each hut had had a ‘hut chief’ appointed within it, who was responsible for seeing to it that all orders were carried out. In our hut, the holder of this thankless office was Ernst Friedezky.

  The prefect did no more than gather together the ‘hut chiefs’ and make a short speech to them. Above all he demanded of them the strictest discipline. Finally he added, in a sort of attempt at consolation: ‘There are French prisoners of war who are not much better off than you.’

  At this point Friedezky stepped forward. ‘Monsieur Préfect,’ he said, ‘to be a French prisoner of war–that is an honour. We, on the other hand… we are completely dishonoured–reviled. May I please ask you: why? Why are we here?’

  For a moment the prefect was taken aback, and said nothing. Then, with a gesture of embarrassment, in a muffled voice: ‘You are here because you were unlucky.’

  It also fell to the hut chiefs to divide people into groups for the various corvées, or work assignments. There was one corvée which was regarded by many as a special privilege, and this was the so-called corvée extérieure. What this meant was that particularly strong prisoners were sent with a barrow to a depot outside the camp, to bring back materials for the building of several more huts which were under construction. (The camp was being enlarged: we 1,800 were just the beginning.)

  It was very strenuous work; and naturally those on the corvée extérieure were escorted and guarded by gardes mobiles. But, at least for a few hours, they did not have that barbed wire in front of their eyes.

  In my hut there was a young Polish tailor, who continually pestered Friedezky to choose him once more for the corvée extérieure. Our hut chief, however, being a stickler for fairness, had a number of other candidates to consider, who had already been put down for the task.

  The tailor had noticed that I seemed to be on particularly friendly terms with Friedezky; and on one occasion he tried to get me to intervene on his behalf.

  I tried to mollify him. ‘Why are you so keen on the extérieure, in any case?’ I asked him. ‘All those heavy loads–you’ll only end up even hungrier.’

  He looked at me, and in his look was all the pity and contempt of youth for age. He then stretched out his arms in a gesture of ecstasy. ‘What does that matter?’ he said, ‘What does it matter if I end up hungrier? You have a chance to see a woman, at least in the distance–a woman: don’t you understand?!’

  There was also a young man in the camp whose appearance was much closer to that of a girl than to the masculine type. Platinum-blond, wavy hair, languorous eyes, swaying hips. He appeared to belong in one of those bars in Montmartre or Montparnasse that cater to a very particular clientele. He would certainly not have felt drawn to the corvée extérieure in the hope of seeing a woman, at least in the distance.

  It was curious how most of the Poles seemed to have no idea of the existence of homosexuality; in this respect Paris had not broadened their horizons.

  One day I was standing in front of the hut when the platinum-blond boy wafted past me. Two Poles were walking behind him. One of them pointed to the boy and said to his companion: ‘What on earth is he–what do you reckon?’ I was also able to hear the response, delivered in a tone of real admiration: ‘A female impersonator. A really good female impersonator.’

  The Germans had thought of everything–truly everything–that might bring our humiliation home to us with exceptional clarity, as well as functioning, from the physical point of view, as ‘increased punishment’.

  Originally there had been one covered privy for every two huts. But before our arrival these privies had been carefully sealed off, and a row of holes put in place a few paces from the front of our hut, which were for the use of the whole camp. These holes, and the queue of people needing to using them, constituted the view we had constantly before us. (In view of the small number of holes, and the consequent need to wait one’s turn, there was always a queue.)

  But this was not all. I have mentioned that these holes were not far from the front of Hut 8 and the neighbouring huts. This would clearly have made life much too easy for us. The Germans had therefore had the great foresight to put an extra barbed-wire fence around it, which could only be penetrated at a point a long way from our hut. Once one had reached this point, one had to turn round and cover the whole distance again, this time on the other side of the fence.

  The strip of land in front of the excrement holes was the only place where we were able to be outside for a few moments, and get a breath of air–and what fresh air it was! And yet, in a second article that appeared in Paris-Midi on the subject of the concentration camps, a report described with indignation how the Jews of Beaune-la-Rolande had virtually had a country retreat built for them.

  The German sense of humour even came up with a highly entertaining scheme whereby their own bodily functions could be employed to help us Jews behind the barbed wire feel the full force of Aryan contempt.

  Not far from the camp was a large country estate in which a section of the Wehrmacht had been billeted. Life was good there. They were all very well looked after–positively bursting with good food and high spirits. This was made very clear to us on a number of occasions. What happened was that on particularly fine evenings they would take a post-prandial stroll as far as the camp to have a look at the hungry Jews behind the barbed wire. Contentedly puffing their cigars, they would draw each other’s attention to particularly comical figures such as deaf mutes or cripples.

  And without fail, before leaving, they took up position and vied with each other in the sport of pissing at us through the barbed-wire fence. A true German greeting from the fearless Nordic warriors–who then proceeded on their way, cackling with delight at their tremendous joke.

  There came a time, though, when they left and did not return again. This was shortly after their Führer had declared war on Russia. They had been sent eastwards, these piss-heroes–sent to bring the great Swastika of German culture to the Bolshevik barbarians.

  Life in a concentration camp is rather like some kind of chemical reaction, which has the effect of bringing both the good and the bad in a human being to the surface, undisguised by the mask of conventional lies. We had been reduced to the most basic form of animal existence; and in this context the fundamental character of each individual became clearly visible. This complete laying bare of the person revealed riches of inner beauty–at the same time, naturally enough, as quite a lot that was not beautiful. When all sense of bodily shame is gone, many men lose all sense of spiritual shame, too.

  Behind the barbed wire you can get to know a person better in the course of a few days than you would outside in a whole life. You can find a sense of community that binds people together more closely, and lead
s them to a much greater commitment to each other, than ‘friendships’ that go on for years on the basis of mutual interest and social obligation. You learn the true nature–and the genuine, incredible value–of the word ‘comradeship’, this relationship whereby one human being is brought together with another human being, and not just with a business partner in the everyday business of life. And this comradeship, in the impoverishment of the concentration camp, is at the same time also a protection against that impoverishment: the only protection that one has.

  On the other hand life behind barbed wire can also teach one how truly incorrigible the incorrigible truly are.

  The concentration camp is not just a bitter school of humiliation, but also of humility. Yes: it really does teach the lesson of humility. It teaches you how meaningless are all the barriers erected between and against men by money, conceit, envy or prejudice. Suffering brings with it, to some extent, the brotherly bond that unites people in death. Besides, in this cage you can also see great men become very small and small men acquire a greatness that demands respect.

  In this state of humility you also learn gratitude. Not the gratitude of a troublesome debt; but that other gratitude, which for those bound by it becomes a deep inner necessity–even, a comfort.

  And in this state of humility you also learn to examine your conscience. You learn remorse. How many people did you pass by, in your previous existence, without a second thought; how much did you simply take for granted–or indeed take as your due; how much did you neglect, and how much wrong did you do, consciously or unconsciously. How often should you have helped, but did not, either because you had apparently more important things to do, or else simply out of emotional laziness.

  You think of all these things now. With remorse and with shame.

  Individuals such as Ernst Friedezky, Alois Stern, Dr Otto Seligman, the young Georg Pollak, gave me more than I can say. But many others, too, took the trouble to ‘spoil’ me, often in the most touching ways. Such behaviour does not come easily, even in normal life. What an extraordinarily great-hearted act to ‘spoil’ someone in a concentration camp.

  There were times when I said to myself that I was actually better off than my wife and Sláva, who were dying of anxiety over me, and who were so alone in that heartless, bestial Paris…

  For the first five weeks we could neither write nor receive any letters. Letters that had been sent to us on spec were destroyed on the orders of the Germans. We decided to try and find a way round this.

  Among those working on the building site of the unfinished huts were also some men who lived in the town. They were of course searched on both arrival and departure; but we nonetheless succeeded in smuggling letters out with them.

  It was not long before the Germans got wind of the scheme, and set up their own watch at the post office of Beaune. Our only solution now was to find messengers prepared to go to Orléans to post our mail. This, however, carried a price tag of 50 francs per letter. Every such messenger would take several hundred letters per trip–a nice little earner.

  We were finally given permission to send and receive one letter each per month–subject, of course, to the censorship of the camp commandant. It was a very small allowance; but in any case, the going rate for illegal letters fell to thirty francs.

  Even in the smuggled letters, discussion of war, politics and the Germans was carried on only by the vaguest paraphrases. One could not be too careful.

  One day Helfand, a splendid young Russian lad, rushed into the hut in a state of high excitement and showed us an illegal letter that he had just received from his wife. This is what she had written: ‘Uncle Joseph–the one with the moustache–has fallen out with the painter.’

  This is how we found out that Hitler had declared war on Russia. This, of course, did not change our situation in any way; but we did sleep better that night.

  In a camp it is a complete impossibility, by day or by night, to have even a moment to oneself. Nor is there ever a moment’s silence. There are times when this perpetual presence of other people just feels like a more extreme form of loneliness.

  Even the night–when one would just like to cover oneself up, to disappear–even the night brings no respite. The fortunate among you, who have found sleep, snore, groan, sigh, or mumble. Others, who are still awake, put their heads together and whisper excitedly as though they had had no time to do so all day. And then there are many who lie motionless, with open eyes or with closed eyes; but one can still feel their sleeplessness like a tangible object. A nightly symphony of misery and sorrow, with the rustling of straw running through it like a pedal note on the organ. The air is thick with the vapour of neglected bodies and with the restlessness of unquiet souls.

  Everything here is played out in front of everyone’s eyes. Each, of course, bears his own secret, his own inner loneliness; but as far as the external world is concerned, nothing is secret.

  If, then, you try to remove yourself from this unchosen life of exhibitionism even for the shortest possible time, this is seen by many as a lack of solidarity, or even as arrogance.

  When I finally received the first sign of life from my wife, I wanted to read those few, precious lines undisturbed. I went behind the hut, waited a moment to make sure that there was no one in sight, and then began to read. Suddenly I became aware that I was no longer alone. I turned around and, sure enough, there were two Poles, reading the letter over my shoulder with the greatest interest. This time my patience snapped, and I shouted: ‘Is this letter addressed to you or to me?’

  The two men exchanged a look which was as much astonishment as disapproval. They turned to go. Before they did, though, one of them muttered a couple of words–a couple of words which for our Polish inmates represented the ultimate condemnation: ‘Grober jung!’ [‘Rude boy’]. This signifies the peak of tactlessness and bad behaviour. The word ‘jung’ has nothing to do with the actual age of the person; you might be as old as Methuselah, but you could still be a ‘grober jung’.

  Every day, even at first light, a group of women could be seen in the distance, gathered in a field adjoining the back of the camp, making desperate attempts to get nearer. At the same time the cries and whistles could be heard from the gardes, who had orders to keep them back.

  These women had travelled from Paris on the previous evening and spent the night in the open air. They had come in the hope of being able to exchange a few words through the barbed wire with their husbands, brothers or sons; to be able to throw them a little pack of provisions. Or to be able to see them, at least from far off… They made pitiable gestures to us, as though we might have been able to help them.

  The very thought that my wife might be among these persecuted creatures was unbearable to me.

  I later found out that she in fact had been–on two occasions.

  The same wretched pantomime was performed daily over a period of weeks. These gardes mobiles were, to be sure, not exactly imbued with the finer feelings; still, many of them at least showed a lack of enthusiasm for the task. One of them said once to a comrade: ‘You certainly have amazing wives, you Jews. I don’t know how many of our women would do the same for us.’

  Several of my co-mates in the hut had heard that I had the title of ‘doctor’, a fact which brought me the flattering nickname ‘Quartier Latin’, after the university area in Paris. It also, once we had been given the permission to write letters, brought me the post of secretary to those who could not write French, as it was stipulated that letters could only be written in that language.

  It was an activity that brought me an extraordinary glimpse into the souls, and the families, of so many. How shattering–and sometimes how entertaining!–were the things that I had to put down on paper. Although the last thing on my mind in those days was ‘literature’, it often struck me that these letters would constitute a book whose variety and originality were far beyond what any creative writer could hope to achieve.

  I remember one letter which bega
n with the following graded form of address: ‘My dearest child, my beloved wife, and you too, mother-in-law!’

  Another letter ran as follows: ‘When will God finally grant that we may see each other again, my darling wife? I think of all my favourite dishes that you ever cooked for me. But right now not even a stuffed carp or a goose breast would taste as good as you.’ I can still see before me the eyes of the poor fellow who dictated that to me–eyes blazing with hunger and longing, with longing and hunger.

  One other letter comes to mind, though I could not swear that the censor would have let it through. It ended with the following words: ‘And now stay healthy and be patient. You will see that with God’s help France will once more be a great country, and we will again be able to be Jews.’

  Perhaps the most shattering of all the letters, though, was one which was never written.

  I have already mentioned that among the inmates of our hut was a mentally retarded man, ‘little Herschel’. Before the attack of encephalitis which had robbed him of his intelligence and also, almost completely, his ability to speak, the man had been a perfectly competent leather-worker. He would proudly show us his letters of reference. This pride, however, was as nothing to the light that came into his otherwise lifeless eyes when he brought out the photograph of a boy of about six. His whole being was transformed, and he would babble the words: ‘My child, my child.’ All of us were called upon to admire the photograph.

  Once, when I was in the middle of writing letters for comrades, Herschel came and stood in front of me, brought out his treasure and gestured to me excitedly, indicating the act of ‘writing’.

  ‘Herschel,’ I asked him, ‘do you want us to write to your child?’

  He nodded eagerly.

  ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘Let’s start now.’