It’s a heavy smell, the smell of human meat grilling. Very heavy, day in and day out!
Near the crematorium, the corpses are heaped in a warehouse. After the moonshine brewers burned down the warehouse, the corpses had to be unloaded into a massive heap right in the yard, which was very inconvenient.
The crematorium’s incinerator was adapted for liquid fuel and the corpses burned for about two hours. In 1944 there was no liquid fuel to be found, so coke was used instead. In a coke fire the corpses burned for about six hours. At this slower rate, there was no way that the crematorium could ever manage to burn all the corpses, but there was no material left to build another one. The corpses couldn’t be buried either, because the camp stood on a swamp. Water stagnated near the surface, just two shovelfuls down. After a downpour a buried corpse would rise up out of the ground and would have to be dealt with all over again.
The crematorium workers always took the top layer of corpses, the most recent additions, to the incinerator. So the bottom layers rotted. If it weren’t for the repugnant reek, a rotted corpse would have been more convenient to stick in the incinerator. As soon as a fresh corpse was fed into the furnace, it immediately raised up its arms and legs, as if consciously warding off another corpse from entering the oven. But of course it could not be incinerated alone; others had to be shoved in, too. The uncooperative corpses caused a lot of grief: their flailing legs and arms had to be wrestled down before their neighbour could be jostled in. Decayed corpses didn’t thrash, but that smell of theirs was horrendous.
In December of 1944 and January of 1945, quite a sizeable daily surplus of corpses would accumulate – up to one and a half thousand or more. Every day two to three hundred people died. The crematorium was helpless to deal with them all. The chimney fractured from overwork and threatened to collapse from being kept so hot without respite. The dead, waiting so patiently to be burnt, were silent but hardly unnoticeable. When the weather was cold it wasn’t so bad, but when a thaw set in the camp’s mood grew foul. The stink of the corpses crept into every corner. Even boiled potatoes had a questionable flavour. Worst of all, this feckless smell had the temerity to permeate certain official abodes. Consequently it was determined that a serious battle with the corpses must be undertaken. The authorities deliberated at length but couldn’t come up with anything better than to order prisoners to dig holes in the forest, dump in the corpses, douse them with tar and burn them.
Corpses smouldered slowly in these ditches. More tar had to be frequently applied and the prisoners had to play the chef, using a pitchfork to flip the corpses like hamburgers until they were cooked to a turn. In daylight this sight was dramatic enough but at night it became an operatic spectacle!
So the little corpses smoke and smoulder, shrouding the whole camp with the fumes of frying rubber. The stokers jump around the pit with pitchforks like devils tussling with witches on Walpurgis Night!1
Serious problems cropped up here, too. As soon as night descended alien airplanes would begin to circle the camp. They didn’t actually toss bombs at the corpses but their buzzing was still unpleasant: you never knew – would they drop a bomb or were they just harassing us? Or maybe the beasts were photographing everything? It’s impossible to extinguish corpses quickly and besides, tar can’t be wasted! But due to these intimidating airplanes night work had to be halted. The burnings could only continue by day. Winter days are short. The population explosion of corpses carried on.
The corpse situation hadn’t always been so disastrous in the camp. From August to October of 1944, there were 50,000 to 60,000 prisoners in the camp, but daily deaths numbered between just three and fifteen. There were even days when no one died. No fresh corpses! The authorities were displeased with this meagre showing, naturally: how can capital invested in a crematorium remain inactive?! So the authorities manufactured corpses by artificial methods. They’d take a truck or two filled with the aged, the sick, the crippled and other weaklings, and then ‘Rat-tat-tat-tat!’ – there’s your corpses! The Jews, who had grown quite numerous in camp at this time, were heavily relied on for this project.
They weren’t always shot – bullets are made of metal after all, significantly more valuable than a corpse. The authorities more frequently resorted to gas. Of course, those being herded into the trucks were not told where they were being taken; they were lulled by an announcement that they were on their way to jobs where the food would be better. But they soon realised in what direction the gears of fate were grinding. They refused to board the truck, they wouldn’t enter the chamber; the SS had to manhandle them to get them under control.
The SS had an especially difficult time with the old jewesses. They had to be lifted into the wagon – they refused to climb aboard themselves – and then lifted out of the wagon again. Most annoying was that once they were seated in the wagon, they shouted and screamed so that the whole camp resounded: ‘Wir sind auch Menschen! We are people too!’ The SS, it seems, was of a different mind, however. Not once did the shrieks of the jewesses convince them.
The jewesses seated in the wagons weren’t the only ones who shrieked. Those left behind on the other side of the electric fence also yelled – daughters, sisters, mothers. They all shouted and screamed – some louder, some softer. SS nerves had experienced everything, but even they couldn’t tolerate this screeching for long. The SS ran out of the jewesses’ block. The prisoners, of course, had no place to run. The prisoners listened and ruminated. What they underwent while listening was their personal affair. There’s no reason for outsiders to butt in.
To stop the jewesses from ravaging any more SS nerves with their shrieks, a new means for coping with them was conceived. The jewesses would be herded on foot to a small train, so they’d believe they really were being taken to work. Next to the train stood a husky commandant’s official wearing a railroader’s uniform. He invited them most politely:
‘Please take a seat on the train, dear ladies!’
Once the jewesses were stuffed into the train, the doors were locked. As soon as the train began moving, gas was released into the cars.
This method was used only once – nothing was gained by it. The jewesses, sensing the fumes, started screeching inside the train, too. They hammered against the doors and knocked on the windows; they frightened the civilian residents along the way.
These hastily created corpses weren’t considered officially deceased.
The officially deceased were marked with the letter T in the record books – for Tot, dead – and were crossed off the list of the living. Those who voluntarily hung themselves got the emblem FT – Freitod, suicide. Others were noted with an Ex – Exekution – performed in accordance with some Gestapo court decision.
The corpses that had been rushed off to death in special trucks, trains and chambers were denoted in the books by the initials S.B. This must be read, Lord save me, not as Sruoga, Balys, but Sonder Behandlung – special treatment. Those unfamiliar with the Gestapo’s special language might make what they wished of this delicate title!
Sometimes a grieving woman would show up at the gates of the camp, wishing to possess at least the ashes of an only son, a dear brother, a beloved husband. This wish was always complied with. Money was demanded for the ashes, urn, packing and postage – this came to about 230 marks. The authorities would then give an order to scoop out a couple of kilograms of ash from the common pile of ashes, which were mailed to the grieving woman. Of course the authentic ashes of an individual were never sent out; this was impossible. Everyone’s ashes got mixed in the furnace. And by the time a request for ashes arrived, the dearly beloved had long since been strewn the devil knows where. How would you gather him up? But you don’t want to upset the woman. Isn’t it the same for her? Ashes are ashes.
Ashes were frequently requisitioned. To get 200 marks for a few leftover kilograms of ashes wasn’t a bad deal, but there had to be corpses!
1945
First published in Balys Sruoga, Dievu
miskas, Chicago: Terra (1957).
Translated by Ausrine Byla.
Balys Sruoga (1896–1947) was a poet, symbolist, dramatist, critic, essayist, translator and one of the most colourful figures of inter-war Lithuanian cultural life. A professor at Vytautas Magnus University, he was the founder of the country’s first university theatre department and created the tradition of theatre criticism in Lithuania. His own dramatic works most often examined historical themes, delving into the decline of the political might of the Grand Duchy. During the Second World War he was arrested and incarcerated in Stutthof Concentration Camp, along with several other academics, for anti-Nazi resistance. This experience was the basis for his nonfiction work Forest of the Gods (Dievu miskas, written in 1945 and published in 1957), which, due to the interference of Soviet censors, was only published almost ten years after the author’s death.
* * *
1 During the Medieval and Renaissance period Walpurgis Night was an occasion when witches congregated to celebrate the coming of spring.
No One’s to Blame
Romualdas Lankauskas
The woman was truly beautiful and her children, a fair-haired boy and a graceful girl, were like their mother – cheerful and glowing with good health and a youthfulness that had not yet reached its end, although she must have been about thirty-five, if not more. Her husband was obviously much older – a small man with a tired face, yet nimble, good-humoured and full of the joy of life, which he wanted to share with everyone. I quickly became friends with Benedict. He was open and talkative.
‘It’s great here, isn’t it?’ he asked me, arranging his fishing poles. ‘And what peace!’
‘The lake is wonderful, but still, it’s not the sea,’ I said. ‘Nothing compares with the sea.’
The house where we were spending our holiday stood on a hill. The lake sparkled below – a blue jewel in a ring of green trees.
‘No, don’t say that,’ said Benedict as he sharpened his fishing hooks. ‘Of course, Palanga is a nice resort, but I don’t like it. Too many people, too much noise. You can only really relax beside this lake. This is already our third year holidaying here. And the perch! Good Lord! Early yesterday morning, I caught three. And one weighed more than a kilogram.’
‘You don’t say,’ I doubted.
‘You don’t believe me? Then ask my wife. I’ll call her.’
He shouted.
A window opened and a woman’s beautiful face appeared.
‘Good day,’ I greeted her, bowing my head.
The woman smiled at me.
‘You’ll be spending your holiday with us?’
‘Yes, I’ve already made arrangements for a room with the landlady.’
‘Will you stay long?’
‘Perhaps the entire month, if the weather is nice.’
‘Lucia, he doesn’t believe that I caught three perch yesterday, each about a kilogram,’ Benedict said in a slightly offended tone.
‘Yes, he caught them,’ the woman assured me. ‘Benedict catches something every day. I’m tired of cleaning them. I give the smaller ones to the cat.’
‘You see, and you didn’t want to believe me,’ Benedict said triumphantly. ‘So get your fishing poles and let’s go to the lake. I’ll show you a spot where there’s perch aplenty. You won’t catch anything if you don’t know where to look. At first, I’d come home with very little. But now, I’m thoroughly convinced there are many fish in this lake.’
‘So what if there are a lot of fish,’ the woman shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’m bored. We must go to Palanga next year.’
‘Lucia, you know that the doctor advised me not to go to the sea.’ Benedict turned to me and said: ‘You see, I’ve been sick with TB. I worked very hard, I was exhausted, and I caught that cursed disease. I was afraid I might kick the bucket, but I was treated at the sanatorium and recovered somehow. I feel reasonably well now. The air is good here among the pine trees. My lungs will get better and I’ll be able to go back to work.’
‘Lord, but it’s boring here,’ the woman sighed. ‘You won’t be able to tolerate it for long. What are you going to do when you grow tired of fishing?’
‘I’ll go sailing. It’s my favourite sport.’
‘Ah, sailing,’ she smiled. ‘Perhaps you’ll take me along.’
I remained silent, disconcerted by her request.
‘Of course he will,’ Benedict said cheerfully, ‘if you fry him some fish. He’ll go fishing with me and won’t come back empty-handed.’
We walked to the lake, carrying our fishing poles, cans full of worms and nets to hold the fish in the water. As we walked down the hill, I felt the woman’s eyes following me. I was tempted to turn around but didn’t, and I quickly began pushing Benedict’s rowing boat into the water. There was a wet rope on the bottom, coiled like a snake; one end was tied to a heavy stone. Benedict used it as an anchor.
I rowed and Benedict sat on the bench opposite me, his bare feet thrust forward, his old pants rolled at the ankles, talking about himself, his wife and his children. You couldn’t help but think he was one of those rare people fortunate to have a happy family. Many would undoubtedly have envied him.
We rowed out to the other side of the lake for here, according to Benedict, was the kingdom of the perch. We dropped anchor, cast our fishing lines, and before long, my bobber submerged. I pulled out a small perch.
‘Perca fluviatilis,’ I said.
‘What?’ Benedict didn’t understand.
‘It’s the Latin name for perch.’
Benedict laughed.
‘You must be a naturalist, since you know the Latin names.’
‘Yes, you’re right.’
‘I may be uneducated, but the fish like me better,’ he chuckled as he pulled out large perches and mullet. Meanwhile, I had to satisfy myself with rather puny specimens. ‘But, don’t be discouraged. Tomorrow we’ll get up at sunrise and catch some roaches… What is the Latin name?’
‘Rutilus rutilus.’
‘Indeed, we’ll catch some roaches and then we’ll get the perch.’
‘From your lips to God’s ear,’ I said.
The next morning, Benedict woke me very early (the sun had not yet risen) and by six o’clock we were on the lake, which was covered in a greyish mist. The morning was foggy and very quiet. Not even the smallest wavelet disturbed the surface of the lake and only once in a while did a fish hunting its prey splash in the reeds or a duck screech upon awakening. The air was filled with the scent of water. I washed my sleepy face and then suddenly I felt the first demure rays of sunlight. In my heart I felt at peace and contented. Beyond the noise of the city, beyond the heat and humidity, I was once again where I wanted to be, a place where you could feel the wonder, the mystery and the infinite vitality of nature from which we sometimes so foolishly distance ourselves, drowning in the smoke of diesel and tobacco, losing ourselves amid stone walls and strange and indifferent people. My efforts at fishing were not as successful as Benedict’s, whose fishing pole had already twice curved down and twice I saw and heard a heavy perch, flat as a slab of silver, fall into the bottom of the boat. I had snagged a large perch myself – both of my bobbers had shot like bullets toward the bottom – but I was unable to pull it out; it escaped right at the side of the boat and dived into the depths. Benedict tried very hard to console me, for I was very upset, and pointed out the mistakes I had made.
Perhaps I misunderstood his instructions that morning because I didn’t catch anything. The roaches died and I threw them back into the water. I sat in the boat in a sour mood.
Benedict pointed the tip of his fishing pole at the largest of the perch.
‘This handsome predator is yours,’ he said.
‘No, keep it for yourself.’
‘I said it’s yours, and not another word. I’ll tell my wife to cook it for your dinner.’
Benedict’s family was already up by the time we reached the shore. The children were playing in the orchard. His w
ife, seated in a wicker chair, was embroidering a silk handkerchief. She wore a dress with a deep neckline and I noticed that she was wearing lipstick and had done her hair differently. Now she looked even more beautiful, and Benedict’s homely and unhealthy countenance was much more conspicuous. His face was a matt grey, like the faces of those seriously afflicted with tuberculosis.
The woman looked at the fish with disgust.
‘I’ll have to struggle with those perch again. Cleaning them is miserable: my hair smells of fish and my hands look like they belong to a laundress.’
‘I’ll help you,’ I said
‘Do you know how?’ She laughed and rose from her seat. ‘Very well, bring the fish behind the barn. That’s where I clean them.’
Benedict went up for a nap.
There was a board in the grass behind the barn. It was covered with fish scales. I placed the perches on the board. The woman brought a knife and fork. She knelt down beside me.
‘Pierce the tail with the fork and hold it firmly.’
Fish scales flew in all directions and her strong, bare arms worked so close to mine that I wanted to touch them and feel the softness of her skin. A gold wedding ring glittered on her finger and she wore another with a precious stone. She smelled of expensive perfume and even the acrid smell of the fish did not smother its aroma. On one occasion she leaned against my shoulder and it smouldered for a long time as if it were sunburned.
She then threw the cleaned perch into a bowl, looked at her scale-covered hands, took off her apron and asked me if I could see what had fallen into her eye. Her eyes were large, blue and clear as lake water. My fingers trembled when I touched her eyebrow.
‘I don’t see anything,’ I said.
‘Oh, it’s all right now,’ and she gave me an enigmatic and curious smile. ‘Thank you. It must have been a midge. When I’ve cooked the fish, I’ll bring it to you.’
The Dedalus Book of Lithuianian Literature Page 9