‘‘The dirty dog cheated us.’’
‘‘Tickle him to make him move.’’
Other Kapos chimed in.
‘‘Give the Poles some gum so they can chew on something more than their tongues.’’
‘‘Look how that one runs along.’’
‘‘Let’s hope he doesn’t escape altogether.’’
When the only things moving were the ropes, the Lagerkapo yanked on each man’s legs, and we heard the last cracking of their tendons. It was then that I realized that there was more than one way to die from hanging. The two Poles were pale and their tongues weren’t protruding from their half-open mouths. The drop had broken their necks and their thrashing about had been only reflex spasms. The young Greek had turned purple and his tongue jutted from his swollen face. This was my first death by strangulation.
‘‘It’s perfectly justifiable to hang a thief,’’ said a Kapo.
The others chortled in agreement. Assholes, I cursed to myself.
How can these bona fide criminals sit in judgment of one whose only offense was being hungry? If the Greek lost his life because of a few crumbs of bread, how many times had they deserved to die?
‘‘ Links, zwei, drei, vier!’’ We filed past the gibbets.
At my second hanging, the Kapo in charge of the gallows pulled me out of line as we marched past. ‘‘ Komm mit mir’’ (Come with me), he ordered.
I was in a panic. What did he want with me? Was he going to practice with my neck? I relaxed when I saw that he had already cut the rope. The stocky green triangle opened a small door at the base of the gibbet.
‘‘Get him out.’’
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on that platform and died without a whimper. I pulled him through the small opening by his legs. His coat slid over his head, straightening his arms in a gesture of surrender. I took the noose off his broken neck, curled the rope on his chest, and waited for the Kapo to return with a flat dolly. Staring at the Pole’s face, I decided that a broken neck was far easier than facing a trip to Birkenau.
When the Kapo arrived with the dolly, he pointed at the corpse.
‘‘Switch shoes. They’re better than yours.’’
I had noticed them, too, but didn’t dare take them on my own.
They were still warm.
‘‘ Abtreten! (Fall out!)’’ the Blocka¨lteste commanded, and we all rushed toward the Block’s door as the bodies of our three comrades gently swung in the cold wind. I elbowed my way to the front of the herd. I had to get to my soup before someone else did. Minutes later, ribs bruised and out of breath, I sat on my bed and greedily wiped out the last cold drops with my fingers. In Nice, seeing a dog run over would have taken away my appetite for a whole day, but here the sight of those three men had hardly moved me. I was still relatively new to the camp, but many of my civilized attitudes and emotional endowments were muted or gone.
I couldn’t condone the Kapos, but I was beginning to understand why they were so cold-blooded and cruel. Auschwitz was a world where brutality and inhumanity were rewarded with privilege and preferential treatment, and compassion and empathy only hastened death. The SS sure knew what they were doing when they assigned convicts—hardened criminals—to run things. The cold truth was that the Kapos, like the rest of us in the camp, were just doing whatever they had to do to survive. The only difference was that some of those bastards truly enjoyed doing it.
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New arrivals assigned to our Block forced us to double up in the bunks. My sleeping companion was Olaf, a twenty-one-year-old college student and soldier from Oslo, Norway. We quickly became friends. I was ecstatic to be able to converse in German with someone well educated. When the lights were turned off we carried on long conversations in low voices. He had been taken prisoner in the first days of the blitzkrieg on Norway. Whole battalions had been surprised and encircled, and the German paratroopers left few survivors. I asked him why he had been sent to Monowitz since he was a POW.
‘‘After my second escape attempt from the Stalag (POW camp) they shipped me here,’’ he answered with a smile.
Our principal topic of conversation, of course, was the war.
‘‘We wouldn’t be sitting here if the French army had gone after the Nazis when they marched into the Rhineland,’’ I proclaimed.
‘‘They had a chance to stop Hitler cold, but they fell for his bullshit.’’
‘‘Every prime minister, president, and monarch in Europe was a gullible idiot. ‘Peace in our time,’ ’’ Olaf spit sarcastically.
‘‘And how can you fight when you have traitors stabbing you in 81
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the back at every step? It makes me sick to think how many good Frenchmen are rotting in here because of those Vichy bastards.’’
‘‘Yes, you have Laval* in bed with the Nazis and we have that bastard Quisling**. The best day of my life will be when I see him hanging from a flag pole.’’
Ultimately, our empty stomachs steered our discussions to food.
‘‘How can you French eat frogs and those slimy snails?’’ Olaf asked with a disgusted face.
‘‘Snails are delicious. You just need to know how to prepare them. Someday soon I’ll be serving you escargot fattened on grape leaves.’’
‘‘You eat them raw?’’
‘‘Oh, no. You have to fry them first with some garlic and parsley butter. Oysters we slurp raw.’’
‘‘Well, we finally have something in common.’’ Olaf’s eyes lit up. ‘‘You know, when a girl likes oysters, it’s a good indicator that it’ll be a successful date.’’
I muffled a laugh.
‘‘That’s been my experience, too.’’
Returning from his work detail one night, Olaf seemed changed. He was cheerful like a lottery winner. There was a gleam in his eyes as if the future no longer worried him, which was abnor-mal for any Ha¨ftling. Despite my curiosity, I didn’t ask the reason for the sudden shift in his demeanor and Olaf didn’t volunteer an
* Once the Nazis occupied France in 1940, Pierre Laval used his media empire of newspapers and radio stations to support Philippe Pe´tain and the Vichy government. For his effort, Laval became the head of the French government. He enabled the Gestapo to hunt down members of the French Resistance in unoccupied France (southern France). He also created the Vichy Milice, a paramilitary force, which in conjunction with the French police rounded up many French Jews and left-wing activists and had them shipped to concentration camps.
** Vidkun Quisling was the leader of Norway’s Nasjonal Samling (National Socialist) Party, which the Nazis declared the only legal party after their invasion in 1940. In 1942, Quisling was installed as prime minister.
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explanation. In the nights that followed I realized that his bony frame was poking me less and less as we tried to sleep, and many times he would say his belly was full and give me his leftover soup.
One evening, as Olaf poured his soup into my bowl, I asked whether he wasn’t depriving himself with his generosity. I leaned in close, figuring that at last he would reveal his culinary benefactor.
Olaf raised his eyebrows in overstated surprise. ‘‘Are we not allies?’’
I left it at that, realizing that the reasons Olaf gave me his soup were unimportant. What was important was that my benefactor held onto his benefactor as long as possible.
Weeks passed, and Olaf became more confident and stout. I was beginning to gain back a few pounds, too. As we were sleeping head to foot one night, Olaf anxiously tossed and turned, waking me up every few minutes. He even picked my nose with his little toe. The next morning when the Blocks separated into Kommandos, Olaf stared at me, then shook my hand instead of waving as he n
ormally did. He didn’t utter a word, but I knew in my gut that I was seeing him in the camp for the last time. A good friend was leaving me.
That evening, before all the Kommandos had returned to camp, the bell for assembly was rung. When the rumor reached me that a Ha¨ftling had escaped, I knew it was Olaf and I silently wished him luck. After a half an hour of standing at attention, the Lagerkapo hurried along the ranks.
‘‘172649!’’ he called out.
My heart began to dance a polka. What did he want with me?
‘‘ Hier, ’’ I replied.
‘‘ Los schnell, zur Schreibstube.’’ (Come along quickly to the administration office.)
‘‘Why?’’
‘‘I don’t know,’’ he said pulling me by my sleeve.
Like a basset hound chasing a greyhound, I tried to keep up with the Lagerkapo’s long strides as he led me across the Appelplatz.
Gentle warmth greeted us as we entered the administration barracks. I took off my cap. The Ha¨ftlinge typing at desks didn’t dare look up at us. There was a contingent of SS mulling about, which 84
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made me extremely apprehensive. As a Ha¨ftling, one did everything possible to stay far away from the men in green uniforms. The Lagerkapo knocked at a door, then opened it a crack.
‘‘ Herr Arbeitseinsatzfu¨hrer, der Ha¨ftling 172649 ist da.’’ (Labor Deployment Officer, prisoner 172649 is here.)
‘‘ Rein mit ihm.’’ (Get him in.)
As the Lagerkapo led me into the office, a Ha¨ftling brushed against me on his way out. Even with his face covered with blood, I recognized him—Olaf’s Kapo. Olaf had repeatedly told me he was a mean Schweinehund (pig dog). In escaping, the Norwegian had managed to kill two birds with one stone. The prick’s red Kapo armband was gone. He was now just another nobody.
The Lagerkapo closed the door behind me, and it sank in that the Kapo’s battered face was not a good omen.
The Arbeitseinsatzfu¨hrer’s office was small and his enormous mahogany desk made it seem even smaller. The officer was sitting behind it with his shirt unbuttoned and his forehead glistening with sweat. His baby-pink bald head was at odds with his deeply tanned face. I had seen him duck into my Block for perfunctory inspections and speed by in a motorcycle sidecar, but I had seen the officer this close only once before, and that was on my first day in the quarantine Block.
He leaned forward, his hairy chest touching the desk, and fixed his blue eyes on me. Like a mouse hypnotized by a snake, I stood motionless by the door. I was afraid to look into those transparent eyes, but I didn’t want to look down either, for fear of its being misconstrued as an admission of guilt. He grimaced, which was evidently intended as a smile, and waved me to a chair. I had never heard of a Ha¨ftling sitting down in the presence of an SS officer—or any SS, for that matter. He spoke to me in excellent French, but with a harsh German accent.
‘‘I have been to France, in Bordeaux, to be precise. I love French wine and have the highest respect for French culture,’’ he cordially told me.
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mused? I played meek, not uttering a word. One false move could cost me my life.
‘‘How’s the food in the camp? I hope the work isn’t too rough.’’
No reason to respond to that, since he knew as well as I did that the lice in the bunks were better off than we were.
‘‘What would you think of becoming a Kapo?’’
The Arbeitseinsatzfu¨hrer was underestimating me.
‘‘Well, there are prisoners who’ve been here longer. Wouldn’t they be more entitled?’’
‘‘It isn’t seniority, but aptitude that counts. Besides, I’m the one who appoints these positions. Think what it would be like to have better food and a warm Block to sleep in. But to become a Kapo you’ll have to tell me where Olaf went.’’
This was why Olaf never shared his plans with me. It wasn’t that he distrusted me; he had no idea how well I would hold up under interrogation and possible torture. Hell, the Norwegian did me a favor. Having knowledge of a planned escape and not reporting it would have been as damning as making the escape. I continued to play the fool that the boche believed I was.
‘‘Which Olaf?’’
‘‘You know very well, the Norwegian who shared your bunk.
Where was he planning to go?’’
‘‘I don’t speak Norwegian.’’
The Nazi’s face hardened, but he restrained his anger.
‘‘Olaf speaks perfect German and so do you. The job of Kapo doesn’t interest you?’’
‘‘Yes, it does, but I honestly do not know anything.’’
‘‘You cannot sleep in the same bed with someone for a month without knowing something,’’ he shot back.
The Arbeitseinsatzfu¨hrer got up and began to twirl a braided leather whip that had been lying on his desk. I jumped to my feet, but he pushed me back into the chair with the handle of his whip.
He paced silently. My eyes followed him like a cornered rabbit.
What now? He sat down in front of me on the edge of the desk and glared.
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‘‘And what would you think of a trip to the Stehbunker?’’
The Stehbunker was a solitary confinement cell no bigger than a coffin.
‘‘That wouldn’t bring Olaf back because I don’t know anything.’’
The veins in his forehead swelled. ‘‘I don’t know! I don’t know!
All the bastard can say is ‘I don’t know!’ ’’
He swung the whip down on the edge of my chair. I felt as if I had received an electric shock. My right hand began to burn terribly. The blow had crushed my middle finger. Drops of blood oozed from under the nail. Instinctively, I closed my other hand over the injured finger to ease the pain.
The boche went around his massive desk and picked up a lavishly framed photograph that had overturned. He handled it like a sacred heirloom. I figured it must be a photograph of his family, but it was a portrait of ‘‘the god with the mustache.’’ The officer looked at me with fixed, dull eyes. He seemed to be deep in thought. Was he thinking up some refined torture or a better trick to make me squeal? I’ll never know, because the telephone rang. He snatched the receiver. I felt like a boxer momentarily saved by the bell.
‘‘Hello? Yes, it’s me. Where? Krakow? What? Dressed in civilian clothes. But the description and identification number corre-spond? Good. Tried to escape. Dead? Shot on the railway platform.
Excellent. Do I want to see the body? Certainly. Get it here as quickly as possible before it can stink up the place.’’
With a little smile on his lips, the Arbeitseinsatzfu¨hrer dialed three numbers. ‘‘August, you can stop the search.’’
He hung up the phone, lit a cigar, and puffed on it with smug satisfaction.
I couldn’t hold back my tears for Olaf. I hoped that he hadn’t suffered, that he wasn’t lying on that platform realizing that his carcass would be dragged back for the SS to spit on. His family, like countless others, would never know that he died a proud man. I would never have the pleasure of making him escargot, and I felt foolish believing that I ever could. It was painfully obvious how PART II | AUSCHWITZ
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dependent I had become on his friendship, a commodity as scarce as food and almost as vital. I was again alone with thirteen thousand men in a place where a bowl of soup could turn a pacifist into a cold-blooded murderer. And in this place where men spoke only curtly and swore at one another, it could be months before I would share a laugh with another human being again.
The Arbeitseinsatzfu¨hrer looked at me with surprise. In his jubi-lation he must have forgotten me.
‘‘ Raus!’’
He didn’t have to tell me twice.
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C H A P T E R 9
It
was Sunday, Easter Sunday, 1944, to be exact. We were supposed to stay in camp. Sundays were usually free days, but at the last minute a train arrived with a shipment of steel rails and concrete reinforcements. To help expedite the unloading, Ha¨ftlinge and Kapos from all the Blocks were randomly drafted into Kommando 15. In spite of my bandaged, smashed finger, I was among those given the glorious opportunity to work on a holiday for the Third Reich.
Hell, it wasn’t that I cared that it was a holiday. We worked on every holiday—Christian, Jewish, Muslim, and pagan. It was just too miserable a day to be breaking my back outdoors.
We marched to the Buna plant in rain swept horizontal by an icy gale coming down from the Carpathian Mountains. There were times I wondered if Mother Nature herself wasn’t a Nazi stooge.
Past an array of buildings under construction was a rail spur with two boxcars and a flatcar parked on it. In gangs of ten, lined up by height, we carried the rails on our shoulders and stacked them about a hundred yards from the track. Because the ground wasn’t level, the full weight of the rails would crush my shoulder one moment, then hover over my head only to come crashing back down.
After two hours of this punishment, and despite the cement bag I 89
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was using as a shoulder pad, I was battered and exhausted, and scheming for a way to get a little rest.
‘‘ Austreten’’ (I have to piss), I told the Vorarbeiter, a German red triangle with the crooked nose of a boxer.
‘‘ Nur fu¨nf Minuten’’ (Only five minutes), he grumbled.
The downpour had turned the ground into a quagmire, making my trek to the Scheisshaus a ridiculously daunting task. Mud threatened to steal my shoes at every step as I circled past a red brick warehouse. The rain came down harder and rusty brown water rolled down my jacket, obscuring my triangle and number.
Finally reaching the latrine, which looked more like a hunting blind than an outhouse, I sat down on one of the three holes, twice as tired as when I had set off. My drenched clothes were steaming from the heat of my spent body. The old boards making up the shelter were pitiful protection from the wind and rain, and the stench of shit, mold, and disinfectant were overwhelming. I would have been better off staying in line and lugging those rails. At least there I could keep my circulation stimulated.
Scheisshaus Luck: Surviving the Unspeakable in Auschwitz and Dora Page 9