Scheisshaus Luck: Surviving the Unspeakable in Auschwitz and Dora

by Pierre Berg; Brian Brock

  My ears began to buzz strangely. I sat up and saw a man looking toward the sky as he placed an empty cement bag over his head.

  Shit, how could I have forgotten about the splinters of anti-aircraft shells and the planes’ errant machine gun bullets? Someone cried out and crumpled to the ground, holding his head in his hands. The lethal shower fell thick and fast. Not far away was a section of cement sewer pipe. With my mess tin as a helmet, I sprinted and dove inside. Fragments peppered the pipe. Outside, Ha¨ftlinge were running, screaming, and dropping. The fog machines were depleted and the wind had swept away any remnants of the plant’s cover. I peeked out. The sky was sprinkled with little silvery stars, a second wave of Allied bombers out of reach of the anti-aircraft cannons.

  All at once the earth trembled and heaved, and the air filled with a terrible roar. My shelter began to roll and skip. I felt myself lifted into the air and savagely dashed to the ground. In a panic, I pressed my arms against the pipe to prevent myself from slipping out. I caught glimpses of buildings erupting in flames. The air was choked with dust and smoke. A bomb exploded next to me and gravel cut into my face as the pipe spun like a top, then rolled into the bomb’s crater. My body twitched from the concussion of the blast. My hands, arms, and face were covered with blood, but I felt no pain. Because everything sounded muted, I thought the crater 142

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  was incredibly deep. When the tinkle of anti-aircraft shrapnel stopped, I dragged myself out of the pipe and discovered that the crater wasn’t that deep at all—thirteen feet at the most. Everything sounded muted because the blast had ruptured my eardrums.

  Crawling out of the crater, I found myself in a new world. A firestorm was sweeping through a complex of warehouses. Thick clouds of black smoke rose from the butane reservoirs. Steam from the boilers hissed from broken pipes. Train tracks were flayed from their ties, and the remains of boxcars were scattered along them.

  The sight of all this destruction filled me with joy. I knew that soon much of Germany would look like this.

  You would have thought that everyone lounging in grass around me perished during such devastation, but only two Ha¨ftlinge didn’t get back up. It was the hardships in the days that followed that dropped us like flies. The camp’s kitchen ran on steam produced by the factory, and with the pipes broken we received neither soup nor coffee for three days. No bread, either, since the trains couldn’t run. Seventy-two hours without anything to eat. We were starving, but nevertheless they made us work, clearing away the rubble.

  Every night we carried back scores of dead Muselma¨nner, and each morning the pyramids for Birkenau grew higher. The camp’s band should have been playing Chopin’s ‘‘Funeral March’’ as we went out the gate. I was sure that the Allied raids were helping to bring a quicker end to the war, but with all the added misery, I couldn’t help but wonder how many of us would be left to see it.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  I stabbed the earth with my spade, being careful of the heels of the Ha¨ftling in front of me. Tossed the dirt, took a step, and stabbed where he had just dug. The man behind me did the same just as the man behind him did and the man behind him and the man behind him. I felt like an oarsman on a Roman galley. Ten of us in single file moving in unison; one full shovel, one step forward. We moved very smoothly, digging a narrow, shallow ditch for a single pipe.

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  We were digging not far from our entrance into the plant. I wasn’t sure but it seemed like our ditch was going to be part of a pipeline running to either our camp or the British P.O.W. camp.

  The rest of the Kommando, ninety men and our Kapo, were exca-vating for a larger project. A red triangle Vorarbeiter followed us with half-hearted demands to put our backs into it. If his voice rose, it wasn’t because we weren’t working hard enough, but because there was an SS guard in earshot. When one of us had the urge for number one or number two the Vorarbeiter grabbed the shovel and joined our chorus line. We had no Scheisshaus, just a Scheiss trench, a six foot pit with a wooden plank laid across it that you could hang your ass over.

  The Vorarbeiter stepped in for the man in front of me. Lunch would be coming soon, I thought. A smart Ha¨ftlin g made sure to empty his bowels before the Buna soup arrived, never after. You wanted to give you body enough time to absorb everything it could from the gruel before saying adieu. That’s if your bowels were stout enough to have a say in the matter.

  A shriek and a loud splash jammed a cog in our motion. The Vorarbeiter stopped and looked over his shoulder. So did I. So did everyone in the work party. The Ha¨ftling who should have been sitting over the shit trench wasn’t there and neither was the plank.

  The Vorarbeiter went over and we all followed. The flimsy board had broken at a knothole. Our comrade was treading in the ooze. I didn’t remember the stench being so offensive when my ass hung over the plank. His thrashing had churned the brown pond too well.

  ‘‘Idiots! Don’t stand there! Get him out of there!’’ the Voribieter ordered.

  A couple of recent Ha¨ftlinge lowered their shovels but the shit covered figure couldn’t get a good grip. No matter how much the Voribieter screamed and threatened, none of us were going to reach our arm down to help pull him up. He tried to claw his way up the side of the pit, but it was just too slimy. Shovels were lowered again.

  ‘‘Back to work, you dirtbags. The creep is not worth cleaning.’’

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  We were so engrossed and repulsed by our comrade’s predicament that none of us had noticed the SS guard who had walked up.

  He stared at us with pistol in hand. We stepped back as one.

  ‘‘You heard him!’’ the Vorarbeiter yelled. ‘‘Back to work.’’

  POP! One shot. We moved, fast. Some of the newcomers were flabbergasted. Old timers like myself weren’t fazed. He could have just as well shot into the air instead of the trench. Maybe the Boche thought he was doing us a favor. Maybe he hadn’t fired his pistol in a few days. Whatever his reason, he had just made our day shittier.

  Alive or dead, dripping in human waste or not, that man had to come back to camp with us to be counted.

  When the Vorarbeiter was confident the SS brute wouldn’t be strolling back, he ordered two of the new arrivals to get pickaxes and retrieve the body. It was not an easy task. We must have dug for thirty minutes before the two men reported that they had snagged him. The Vorarbeiter promised Nachschlag, an extra ladle of Buna soup, to whoever cleaned up the mess. My workmates were ready to throw up their meager breakfasts. I raised my arm. After my coronation as Roi du Chateau in Drancy no sight or smell fazed me.

  There was no water faucet with a hose, but luckily for me there was an abundance of steam valves all over the plant. With some doing, I got the body into a wheelbarrow and pushed it over to a valve, which was to a steam pipe that provided heat to our camp. I draped the body over the wheelbarrow’s handles, which were resting on the pipe. I turned the body as if roasting a side of beef. As I cleaned him, the steam warmed up the shit and the stench almost overwhelmed a Scheissmeister like me.

  Trying to clean him with his pajamas on wasn’t working, so I stripped them off. He was a yellow triangle. I was sure he was one of the recently arrived Hungarians. He was still in good shape for a Ha¨ftling.

  The Vorarbeiter, a red triangle Prussian, looked over my shoulder.

  ‘‘Throw his pajamas back into the pit,’’ he said in German, then PART II | AUSCHWITZ

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  grinned. ‘‘Although, it would be fun to dump it at the doorstep of the SS barracks.’’

  I chuckled in agreement. ‘‘What a waste. He was worth three Muselma¨nner.’’

  ‘‘And now I’ve got to write an accident report.’’ the Voribeiter said as he left.

  By the time I shoved the body into two cement bags it was bleached and well done.

  When the Kommando arrived at the camp’s gate that evenin
g, the Kapo announced to the guards, ‘‘Ninety-nine and one dead.’’

  The man’s body was on a warped plank shouldered by four Ha¨ftlinge. I wasn’t one of them. I had gotten my extra ladle of soup.

  As luck would have it, on a late summer Sunday I was again assigned to Kommando 15. Because of my screw-up that rainy Easter, I tried to wiggle my way out of it, but my Blocka¨stester wasn’t passing out favors that day. It was four months ago, a near lifetime in Auschwitz, I consoled myself. Kommando 15’s Kapo and Vorarbeiter could easily have been demoted or died. Lining up in the Appelplatz, I saw that was not the case. I hoped that they wouldn’t remember me. My ribs couldn’t withstand another round of their soccer kicks.

  Again, a pathetic parade marched to waiting freight cars in the plant. We passed the glass warehouse, which was now nothing more than a heap of splinters and shattered glass. I felt a hand on my shoulder, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  ‘‘ Bonjour, Pierre,’’ whispered a familiar voice.

  Hubert was grinning from ear to ear and looking fit without the jaundice. I could have hugged him.

  ‘‘I’ve been looking for you.’’

  ‘‘And I’ve been looking for you.’’

  ‘‘Never at the same spot at the same time, I guess,’’ Hubert laughed.

  Mon ami told me his Block and Kommando number and how his survival had been going. ‘‘I’ve got a janitor job in one of the buildings that’s still standing.’’

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  ‘‘You’re lucky. Mine went poof.’’

  We lined up for a count next to the train cars. After giving his instructions to the Vorarbeiter, the Kapo retreated to the crudely assembled shack that was his office. The Vorarbeiter moved along the line, writing down our identification numbers. He stepped up to me. Gazing at my feet, I rattled off my numbers. He began to write them down, then suddenly stopped. I looked up to find him staring at me, nonplussed. His reaction puzzled me, but I kept a blank face. He quickly regained his composure and continued down the line. What the hell was going on? He looked scared, as if he saw me as a threat. Did he believe I had been punished for my Easter nap and was looking for vengeance? I sure wasn’t a physical threat to him. He was well fed. When he divided the Kommando into work gangs and left me out, I became concerned. Had he been punished for allowing me to wander into the warehouse and was now planning to even the score?

  As Hubert and the others started working, the Vorarbeiter grabbed me by my jacket. ‘‘The number on this jacket isn’t yours!’’

  His face was flushed red as he shook me, and his breath was pungent with garlic.

  ‘‘And who do you suppose it belongs to?’’

  His behavior frightened me, but strangely I felt I had the upper hand.

  ‘‘Roll up your sleeve.’’

  ‘‘Why?’’

  ‘‘Do what I say, Drecksack!’’

  I pulled my sleeve up. I remembered that he had copied my number from my arm. What was the big deal?

  ‘‘You have a nine on your coat and a three on your arm.’’

  ‘‘I beg your pardon, but I have a nine on my arm.’’

  He grabbed my forearm and examined it closely.

  ‘‘Goddamn! What cretin tattooed you?’’

  ‘‘He didn’t bother to sign his masterpiece,’’ I chuckled nervously.

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  ‘‘You dare laugh?’’ He shook me. ‘‘Don’t you know that someone was hung in your place?’’

  I was staggered.

  ‘‘What do you mean?’’

  ‘‘Because a three was written in the report. A three instead of a nine.’’

  ‘‘Are you sure?’’

  I had assumed that either he or the Kapo had failed to turn in a report or that it had been lost. ‘‘Go to the latrine and be quick about it!’’ he ordered.

  ‘‘Why?’’

  ‘‘Move before I bash in your skull!’’ He hissed, raining blows on my back. ‘‘If the Kapo sees you, we’ll both dangle from a rope.’’

  The latrine was deserted, but I took down my pants in case of an inspection. With my cap, I kept a swarm of big blue flies at bay.

  The stink was nauseating, but I barely noticed. The Vorarbeiter’s words kept ringing in my ears: ‘‘Someone died in your place.’’ It was my neck that was supposed to be stretched. I was the one who should have been fertilizing the cabbages, but I was alive, and all because of one wrong number. A three instead of a nine. What shithouse luck.

  I could imagine how he must have screamed his innocence and the sinister smirks and savage beatings he received in return. Had he been a young man, middle-aged, a father, a good man, a fair man? I squeezed my eyes shut. My temples pounded. No, I couldn’t allow myself to ponder who he was! This wasn’t the place to burden one’s self with such questions. Suddenly I saw Jonny. I hadn’t thought about him for a long, long time. I fought back tears. Was I cursed? Did my life depend on the blood of others?

  I looked up to find the Vorarbeiter walking slowly toward me.

  What now? Was he going to drown me in this stinkhole? He sat next to me without dropping his pants.

  ‘‘Weren’t you there for the execution? A man hung for trying to escape on Easter Sunday? They rushed it because of the lousy weather.’’

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  ‘‘I was in the HKB.’’

  ‘‘I missed the whole thing, too. Never got a good look at the man’s face.’’ He turned to me with a smile. ‘‘I must’ve had a really silly look on my face when I saw you. Thought I was staring at a ghost.’’

  ‘‘I wish I could disappear like a ghost.’’

  ‘‘Why did you try to escape?’’

  ‘‘I didn’t.’’

  I recited the answer I had prepared that miserable Sunday. ‘‘I didn’t try to escape. I was being nosey, and when I looked into the warehouse, the wind slammed the door and I was locked in.’’

  ‘‘To be honest, you were so muddy I’m not sure now what I wrote and God knows what that illiterate Kapo put in his report. It’s no wonder Hans screws up all the time; he’s been in jail almost all his life.’’

  ‘‘How do you know?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘Like most communists I was arrested when Hitler came to power. I met Hans in prison.’’

  ‘‘Why is he such a prick?’’

  ‘‘Because he’s a thief and murderer. How did you come to speak such fluent German?’’

  I couldn’t believe that I was having a social hour with this man.

  ‘‘I spent a few vacations in Berlin.’’

  This really interested him. ‘‘Which area?’’

  ‘‘Charlottenburg at the Litzensee.’’

  ‘‘Your father must be a rich bastard.’’

  ‘‘Some of his friends are.’’

  ‘‘I’m from Wedding.’’

  The Wedding district of Berlin was a working-poor ghetto and a hot bed of communism. There had been years of vicious street-fighting and gun battles between the communists and the brown shirts of the fledgling Nazi Party.

  ‘‘How many languages do you speak?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘Four, and I understand a few more.’’

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  ‘‘You’re lucky. I can barely speak mine.’’ He stood up. ‘‘Get to work, and stay away from Hans or we’ll both be swinging.’’

  I pulled up my pants and followed the Vorarbeiter. He eyed me.

  ‘‘Kid, nothing is going to unhang that poor bastard now.

  Understand?’’

  I nodded. I understood. In the life I had known before I might have confessed and restored that poor man’s name, but in this world that would have served no purpose.

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  C H A P T E R 1 5

  Reestablishing contact with Hubert came when life in Monowitz was threatening to bury me.
I had been there for nine months and there was nothing I looked forward to anymore. When I was digging a trench not a thought entered my mind. I was an automaton.

  I had succumbed to the Nazis’ desired condition of a slave, a brain-dead machine working without question, detached from all needs except for those that would raise me from bed and send me goose-stepping out the gate. I was aware what was happening to me and didn’t like it; there was nothing I could do about it.

  I was a voyeur in my own nightmare. The only thing reminding me that I was still human was Hubert—his wave as we lined up in the morning, his nod as he shuffled back into his Block at night, his occasional smile. It’s amazing how the smallest gestures of camara-derie can resuscitate a depleted soul. There would be times—few and far between—after evening rations that we would meet behind the Blocks to ensure that the other wasn’t ready for a ride to Birkenau. We would share rumors on the Allied push, discuss SS activity in the camps, and bitch about what scumbags our Kapos were. We’d always finish with speculations on the welfare and whereabouts of 151

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  friends and inflated tales of past female conquests. Those nights I would have the most wonderful sleep.

  There were a handful of Orthodox Jews in my Block. Since their beards and payos (side curls) were long gone, the only reason I knew they were Orthodox was that they would sneak away to pray each morning and nearly every evening during the chaotic distribution of rations. Out of sight of the Stubendienst, they would sway back and forth facing the eastern corner of the Block. I was certain it was an abridged version of their prayers because they didn’t last more than a couple minutes. If caught practicing their religion, they would all be whipped—a high price to pay for a few words to a God who had apparently fallen asleep at the helm.

  The Jehovah’s Witnesses held prayer meetings behind the Blocks at night. When I first stumbled on one of their meetings, I was baffled and curious. What were these men whispering about in the shadows? Planning an escape, organizing a resistance group?