I looked down at my throbbing finger. Puss was oozing through the bandages. I had gone to the HKB the day after my visit with the Arbeitseinsatzfu¨hrer and had my finger dressed, but the fingernail still turned black. On my return visit to the HKB, they yanked it off. The pain had yet to subside and it had definitely become infected. Sometimes the rotten finger would be under my nose when I ate my morning piece of bread, and I would swear I was enjoying a Limburger cheese sandwich.
I decided to play things smart and use the loading platform encircling the red brick warehouse on my return trip to the train yard. Then, at least, I would have firm ground for half my jaunt back. I climbed up the steps and made my way slowly along the platform. The wind pushed me from behind. I heard a door banging. Turning around, I asked myself what could be inside the warehouse. Something I could eat? I shuffled toward the flapping door.
At least on the other side was a true reprieve from the wind and rain.
PART II | AUSCHWITZ
91
I peeked in. The vast warehouse was filled with sheets of glass.
I looked over my shoulder. There were no eyes, so I stepped inside and closed the door.
The warehouse was a labyrinth of crated and uncrated ship-ments of glass. The floor was littered with straw and packing material, and sheets of glass leaned against the walls. Not far from the entrance was a stack of tall, unpolished glass with a gap large enough for me to crawl behind. It won’t piss off the Vorarbeiter if I dry out here for a few minutes, I thought as I made myself comfortable.
A slamming door startled me awake. What time is it, I thought?
My clothes are nearly dry. Shit, I must have slept for hours! By now the Vorarbeiter had surely noticed that I was missing. I heard footsteps. Someone had come in. Had the Vorarbeiter reported me to the SS already? Were they searching for me?
I glanced out from behind the glass. Under the only light stood a man in a brown leather jacket, thumbing through an inventory.
He wasn’t SS, but that was hardly comforting. I had no way out.
The I.G. Farben employee was between me and the door. He looked around, apparently searching for some particular item.
Frowning, he looked in my direction. I froze. Did he see me? He moved slowly toward my hiding place. I heard him unroll a tape measure. No, he hadn’t seen me.
He grabbed the first sheet of glass and leaned it against another pile. He measured the next sheet, counted, then swore in German.
He moved that sheet, scraping it along the concrete floor. My only salvation would be if he found his desired specs before I became visible through the unpolished glass. He kept searching, swearing, and stripping the stack.
Suddenly I could see his legs through the glass. He would have spotted me if he had glanced down, but he was busy measuring the tops of the sheets. The man measured the second to last sheet, then took it away. I pressed my body against the wall in a desperate attempt to make myself as small as possible. He unrolled his tape measure along the final sheet.
92
SCHEISSHAUS LUCK
‘‘ Na, endlich doch’’ (Well, finally anyhow), he sighed.
I watched terrified as his two big hands lifted the glass. It was then that he discovered me. Startled, he let go of the glass and took a quick step backwards. The sheet balanced for a second, then fell against the wall. With the sound of a plucked harp string, the glass shivered into a thousand pieces. The civilian stood as if rooted to the floor as the shards rained down on me.
As fast as my wooden-soled shoes would allow, I shot for the door. I opened it as his hand fell on my shoulder. He swung me around. The boche was in his fifties and wore thick-lens glasses that he pushed back up his nose with one hand as the other kept me anchored to the floor.
‘‘What are you doing here?’’ he screamed.
‘‘Just drying out a little,’’ I said.
He pushed me outside. The rain was still unrelenting.
‘‘Where’s your Kommando?’’
I pointed, and without a word he dragged me toward the railroad tracks. The swastika button on his jacket told me that begging for mercy was pointless. I tried to break away, but he was strong, lifting me off the ground with one hand. We rounded the corner of the warehouse.
The columns of Ha¨ftlinge were still working, but the train cars were almost empty. I must have slept for a damn long time. A Kapo spotted us and rushed over with my group’s Vorarbeiter. I was going to get it good.
‘‘I found him in the glass warehouse,’’ my captor informed them.
There was nothing I could say to this Kapo that would save my hide. Since I wasn’t in his regular Kommando, I was worthless to him. No excuse would appease him. In fact, it would only make matters worse. A well-placed uppercut blasted me off my feet, and I went sliding into the mud. To impress the civilian, the Kapo and Vorarbeiter punished me with soccer kicks. I slipped in and out of consciousness. When their fury died down, the Kapo profusely thanked the Meister for bringing me back.
PART II | AUSCHWITZ
93
The civilian left and the Kapo said to the Vorarbeiter, ‘‘Since they’ve been notified, we’ll have to make a report.’’
I played possum as the Vorarbeiter bent over me with a notepad in his hand. ‘‘It’s so dirty I can’t read it.’’
‘‘Get it from his arm,’’ the Kapo said impatiently.
The Vorarbeiter yanked on my left arm, pulling up the sleeve.
He wrote down my number, then gave the notepad to the Kapo, who talked out loud as he began to write.
‘‘The Kapo of Kommando 15 reports to the Lagerfu¨hrer that the prisoner . . .’’
I watched through my eyelashes as he made a few flourishes over the paper as if he was unsure what to write next.
‘‘Bruno, wake up the scumbag. I’m going to write up the report when we’re back in camp.’’
By the seat of my pants, the Vorarbeiter dragged me through a sea of cold, muddy water, then shoved me toward the railroad cars.
‘‘Where the hell have you been?’’ someone hissed as I groggily found my place back in line.
Cloudbursts came in welcoming waves, reviving me and washing away the muck my clothes had collected during my beating. I struggled to stay focused on the task at hand, but all I could think about was the thin line I was now walking between the Stehbunker and the rope. Would my Easter nap be considered an escape attempt, even though I hadn’t left the plant grounds? That would all depend on how the Kapo wrote his report and who in the Schreibstube read it. Every one of us had a foot in the grave, and now it felt like my other foot was on the way down. I fought back tears and reminded myself I had to be a fatalist. When your time is up, it’s up. A rail banged against the side of my head as if in agreement.
Apprehension and the pain of a battered jaw and infected finger tormented my sleep. The next morning I awoke with a fever and swollen glands under my arms. After a torturous day of digging a ditch, I arrived back at camp with my face on fire and my whole body trembling with chills. I dragged myself to the end of a long 94
SCHEISSHAUS LUCK
line of sick men waiting outside the HKB. An epidemic of ringworm had spread through the camp, and it was being treated with a tarry ointment that left the infected Ha¨ftling looking like a spotted leopard. When I stepped inside someone took hold of me, and before I could utter a word, my whole face was smeared with the black goo.
‘‘Next!’’ called the orderly.
‘‘But I have a fever,’’ I said.
‘‘Then what are you doing here?’’
‘‘Well, I saw the line . . .’’
‘‘Go through that door,’’ he interrupted, pointing over his shoulder.
The sign above the door he pointed to read Schuhe Verboten.
So with my shoes in my hands, I entered a big white room. From the distinct smell I could tell the floor had been cleaned with kerosene. A green triangle orderly wrote my number and the date on a card,
handed it to me, then pointed to a bench that ran the length of the room. There were at least fifty other ‘‘pajamas’’ waiting. The doctor was conducting examinations in an adjoining room. Those who came in after me had to stand or sit on the floor. The line scooted slowly along the bench, and I found some comfort in having a warm spot for my bony ass.
A Polish orderly came around taking temperatures. I pressed my tongue as hard as I could against the thermometer in hopes of getting a higher reading. There was no need—it was high enough: 102ЊF. Now, I began to worry. Walking over I relished a stay in the HKB, a chance for some needed rest and relief from the awful weather. Realizing that I was truly sick, I started to view my situation with dread. There was no medicine for flu, blood poisoning, or whatever it was that I was infected with. The HKB stocked only aspirin and charcoal for diarrhea. I was now running a real risk of becoming a Muselmann and getting thrown onto the back of a truck.
The doctor waved me in. He was a yellow triangle in his sixties who wore thick horn-rimmed glasses. His medical expertise was the only thing keeping him alive. He glanced at my card. Seeing that I PART II | AUSCHWITZ
95
had a fever, he gave me two aspirin tablets, told me to come back the next morning, and handed me a card to give to my Blocka¨lteste.
I was now an Arztvormelder, which meant I wasn’t officially sick, but was exempt from work detail for one day.
Heading back to my Block, I realized I would have to find a new hiding place for my ring because, if I was admitted to the HKB, they would issue me new clothing on my release. My rectum was not an option this time. I would surely shit it out in there, and I couldn’t hide it in my pillow or mattress because there was no guar-antee I would get my bunk back. After everyone had fallen asleep, I hunted for a hiding place. I found a board in the rear wall with a deep knothole. My ring disappeared into it nicely. I slid back into my bunk with chills that made my teeth chatter.
I awoke with the need to urinate. The soup made everyone get up once or twice a night. In some Blocks it was the night watchman’s duty to empty the piss pail while in others the Ha¨ftling who topped off the bucket had to dump it outside. The latter was the law in my Block. With ice on the windowpanes and my body on fire, this wasn’t the time to go outside. Leaning on my elbow, I listened to the streams of urine going into the pail. I had heard that bucket fill up enough times to know the level by the sound. It was full. The pail’s handle squeaked, a door slammed, and a gust of cold air swept through the Block. Now was the time. I jumped out of my bunk and dragged myself to the other side of the Block. A line had already formed. We all used the same method. Shit, I thought, I might be the one topping off the pail after all.
Standing there, I regretted not wrapping myself in my blanket.
I was so wracked by chills that by the time it was my turn, I could barely keep a steady hand. To my great relief my bladder wasn’t holding much. As I made my way back to my bunk, I heard the next man swear as he began to piss.
In the morning, the doctor declared me sick and I was officially admitted to the HKB. I took a shower, was given a clean shirt to wear but no pants, then led into the sick room—a dormitory of the usual three rows of three-tiered bunks. The fetor of shit, puke, and 96
SCHEISSHAUS LUCK
rubbing alcohol made me shiver. If I hadn’t been so ill I would have dashed out of there without looking back.
‘‘ Bist du aus Frankreich?’’ (Are you from France?) an orderly asked.
I answered in German, and he asked if I was fluent in other languages.
‘‘German, Spanish, and Italian.’’
‘‘Are you able to climb?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Then take the upper tier over there.’’
I climbed up and found all three of my bedmates asleep. The second Ha¨ftling over caught my attention. He was close to my age, with red hair and a puffy, jaundiced face that made him look Asian.
He seemed to look familiar, but his swollen face made it difficult to say for sure. I crawled in with my head at the stinking feet of the man next to me and attended to a more urgent matter—sleep.
The orderly in my section woke me. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
It was the Pole who had shaved me on my arrival. He was distributing the evening soup. The bastard hadn’t changed. Hell, he looked a little fatter. He remembered me and was surprisingly friendly. He told me his name, Janec, and promised me an extra helping if I did translating for him.
‘‘What a luxury, young man, to be able to sleep through the whole day,’’ he winked. I nodded as I sat up; it certainly was. My joints weren’t as stiff and my fever had subsided some.
Only my jaundiced bedmate was awake and he was greedily slurping his soup. I knew that I had seen him before, but I had no idea where. He glared at me, with soup dripping down his chin.
‘‘ Pourquoi tu me regarde´?’’ (Why are you staring at me?) he muttered with a familiar Mediterranean accent.
I stared at him, dumbfounded. No, it couldn’t be.
‘‘Hubert? Is it you?’’ Hubert was a school chum whom I hadn’t seen since our graduation twelve months ago.
‘‘Do I know you?’’ he asked.
‘‘Of course, you do. It’s me, Pierrot le Moustachu.’’
PART II | AUSCHWITZ
97
That was my nickname. In my senior class I had been the only one able to grow a full mustache. Hubert’s yellowed eyes studied me. He had a hard time recognizing me, and that’s when I realized how severely my body had withered. His eyes began to fill with tears.
‘‘Yes, yes, it’s you, old buddy,’’ he choked.
Hubert had been the captain of our volleyball team and was a real Casanova. His loyalty to friends could never be questioned except when it came to the opposite sex. Nobody’s girlfriend was safe when he was around. I had known Hubert since we entered high school. His parents grew carnations on the outskirts of Nice. Hubert got his red hair from his mother, who had the prettiest freckles.
He didn’t volunteer, and I didn’t dare ask about his parents, because Hubert was a yellow triangle.
That night, after the lights were doused, we lay next to each other and reminisced about school and our neighborhood. Remembering escapades and pranks had us giggling like the normal teenagers we should have been.
‘‘You know, Hubert, actually we were mean kids. All those dirty tricks we played on the teachers.’’
Hubert’s eyes lit up. ‘‘Yes, that math teacher with the bad ticker, Mr. Thiriad. He sure turned blue when we exploded that cherry bomb against the blackboard.’’
‘‘Remember how I would weave chewing gum across the aisles when we had that little substitute teacher with the thick glasses who dictated while walking up and down the room?’’
‘‘Yes, yes,’’ Hubert nodded, ‘‘he would have that whole sticky web wrapped all over him before he noticed. I think the idiot only had one suit.’’
‘‘I pulled that on him three times.’’
‘‘Do you remember Leggs?’’ Hubert asked.
‘‘How could anyone forget?’’ I said. ‘‘Leggs’’ was the nickname we had given our history professor, Miss Galand. She had been a beauty-contest winner and I used to drop my pencil to admire her thighs from the correct angle. After class one day someone inflated 98
SCHEISSHAUS LUCK
a condom in her inkstand, then filled it with ink. The next morning when Miss Galand dipped her pen, ink sprayed all over her new dress.
‘‘She was so angry she was demented.’’
‘‘I’ve never heard someone scream that loud and for that long.’’
‘‘When she transferred to another school I thought my goose was cooked,’’ Hubert admitted.
‘‘But Charles told me he did it. He always had a couple of condoms in his pocket.’’
‘‘Well, yes, it was him, but it was my idea.’’
‘‘How was that girl with the big tits?’�
�� I asked. ‘‘Marcelle. You used to date her.’’
‘‘Yes, yes.’’
‘‘Was she a good lay?’’
Hubert hesitated, then snickered. ‘‘That was only a front.’’
‘‘What are you talking about?’’
‘‘I was really screwing her mother. For two wonderful years.’’
‘‘Her mother?’’
‘‘She’s only thirty-eight.’’
We both burst out laughing, and for a brief second I thought I was back home.
♦ ♦ ♦
It quickly became apparent that the HKB wasn’t a hospital or an infirmary, but a way station to the crematoriums. The unsanitary conditions along with the garbage they fed us made our weakened bodies unfettered feasts for parasites and viruses. The stink of human decay hung like incense. The bunks were full of men who had no hope for anything except the end of everything. I had seen enough corpses in the camp, but I had never been a fixed spectator to the slow, ugly transition. Every couple of hours someone died, and most of the bodies just lay in the bunks, their bedmates too weak to call out. The bodies would finally be discovered by the orderlies passing out the rations, then they would lay there until a PART II | AUSCHWITZ
99
couple of orderlies felt like dragging them away. I was thankful for Hubert’s presence. Our conversations between sleep kept my heart light and my mind far from the nightmares around me. Our shared laughter must have seemed like the mark of insanity among the coughs, moans, and death rattles.
On my third day, the orderlies collected corpses after morning rations, and when they were finished, the bottom tier of our bunk was empty. Hubert and I climbed down and made it our bed. Janec informed us that we better not get comfortable.
‘‘You guys are going to get company. I have a French Jew who’s driving his Polish bedmate crazy.’’
Minutes later Janec returned with a hunched-over Muselmann who was hacking and spitting. He appeared to be in his sixties, but was probably no older than thirty. His shirt, which reached only to his belly button, was soaking wet. I greeted him in French, but he answered me in Greek. I tried Spanish and again he babbled in Greek.
Scheisshaus Luck: Surviving the Unspeakable in Auschwitz and Dora Page 10