Scheisshaus Luck: Surviving the Unspeakable in Auschwitz and Dora

by Pierre Berg; Brian Brock

  The Ha¨ftling who explained to me that it was only die Bibelforscher had a good laugh when I told him what I thought they were up to.

  A few weeks after the young woman’s suicide, I was emptying a piss pail on a moonless night when I spotted a prayer meeting. I felt guilty that I hadn’t memorized her number, but I was pretty certain that they had heard what had happened and didn’t need any of my ugly details.

  One September morning the Orthodox Jews in my Block stayed in prayer a little longer and didn’t get in line for bread after they were finished. During our lunch break at the plant, two Jews in my Kommando refused their soup, explaining that it was their High Holy Day, Yom Kippur. Amazed, I stared at them. It’s foolhardy and counterproductive to your survival is what I wanted to say, but I kept my mouth shut. What was the point? I thought about the Orthodox Jews in my Block. Why the hell couldn’t they have observed their holy day by giving their unwanted bread to a starving atheist like me?

  Once the evening count was over I hurried to Hubert’s Block to make sure he wasn’t refusing his soup.

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  ‘‘I don’t give a shit,’’ he told me. ‘‘I’ve been starving long enough. The way I figure it, I have credit coming for the rest of my life.’’

  I was thankful that Hubert was smart enough not to be a slave to his religion. Why? The next morning a couple of yellow triangles in my Block didn’t get out of their bunks, and that evening we carried an unusually high number of corpses back.

  Since I was among those in my Block who had survived the longest, I was often able to nab the choice chores. This had very little to do with seniority. We ‘‘old timers’’ knew how things in the camp were run and what was expected from us, and no screw ups meant the Stubendienst and Blocka¨lteste were secure in their posts.

  The morning chores were mopping and sweeping the Block and ensuring that the beds were properly made. Each Ha¨ftling was responsible for making his bed, but one Ha¨ftling was in charge of seeing that the bunks would pass the sporadic SS inspections. The SS had ludicrously stringent rules on how the beds should appear.

  The Ha¨ftling assigned to create these masterpieces would use two wooden planks that looked like oversized trowels to iron the wrinkles or creases from the blankets. Then he would have to position all the pillows so the SS officer could look down the row of bunks and see that all the pillows were aligned. If our beds couldn’t make

  ‘‘the god with a moustache’’ happy, everyone in the Block would go hungry that night.

  Evening chores included washing the Block’ s three or four thirteen-gallon soup containers. This was the most treasured task.

  Where most other chores paid with an extra half ladle of soup, the Ha¨ftlinge who washed the soup containers had the right to whatever remained in the bottoms and clung to the sides. Up to four ladles of soup would be left in those barrels, and there was an unquenchable demand for it on the camp’s black market.

  Another evening chore was doing a stint as night watchman. It took a good deal of fortitude and endurance to stay awake for that two-hour shift after twelve hours of labor, but the loss of sleep got you a full ladle of soup.

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  When I was the night watchman, I sat underneath the night-light, where I had a good view of the door and the night watchman’s clock hanging on a bedpost. I was also within earshot of the men filling the piss pail. In our Block there had been many fights over who would be the one to empty that pail. Many times I took it out myself to ensure quiet during my shift. Peace would be a better word—the Block was never quiet. When everyone was awake, there was coughing and spitting and swearing and arguments, and snoring and pitiful moans when they slept.

  One night I heard men swearing in French outside the Block. I went to investigate and found two men scratching, biting, and claw-ing each other by the latrine. They were enraged beasts, and I had difficulty separating them. One brawler was a Parisian and the other had a southern French accent. They were real Muselma¨nner and had spent what little strength they had in their fight. On hands and knees, their chests heaving for air, they sobbed like children. The fight had been ignited by a culinary difference of opinion. The Parisian preferred to cook with butter while the southerner swore by olive oil. I stared at the sad fools and wondered if they realized that they would never taste food cooked in either fat ever again.

  Another evening, I noticed that the night watchman’s clock was gone. My heart stopped. How did it disappear right from under my nose? Did someone steal it when I emptied the piss pail? Had I fallen asleep? Regardless, I absolutely had to find it before the Blocka¨lteste woke. The clock was his prized possession. Every morning he locked it up in his makeshift quarters. If I didn’t find it, I might as well count my bones.

  Like a man possessed, I scurried from one end of the Block to the other. I tiptoed up and down the rows of bunks, hoping to hear it. It had to be in the Block since no one had gone outside. Finally, my ears caught a muffled ticking. I was ecstatic and at the same time boiling mad. The thief was going to pay for this. I stole up, then unclenched my fists. The clock was in the Stubendienst’s bunk.

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  of his buddies could have my job. You’re not going to make me look like a fool. Gingerly I lifted his pillow, retrieved the clock, and hung it back in its place.

  While I was in line for my bread the next morning, the Stubendienst smugly asked if I had slept well.

  ‘‘Oh, very well, thank you,’’ I smiled.

  ‘‘Slept during your watch?’’

  ‘‘Oh, I never sleep then.’’

  ‘‘Then how could I’ve taken the clock?’’

  I pretended to be astonished. ‘‘What clock? Nobody could’ve taken it since it was there this morning.’’

  ‘‘You took it out from under my pillow.’’

  ‘‘Pillow? I would never dare do that. You must have dreamt it,’’

  I said, staring at him innocently. He threw me an incredulous look and walked away.

  After that episode I applied for a different chore, washing the Blocka¨lteste’s laundry. I had a cordial relationship with Wilhelm, whose dignified air clashed with the green color of his triangle. He had been imprisoned for embezzling funds to pay for his mistress’s lavish lifestyle. He was still grieving for his only son, who had died in the battle of Stalingrad and hadn’t ever visited his father in prison. Wilhelm enjoyed practicing his knowledge of foreign languages with me and seemed to treat me better than most. Washing his laundry got me access to soap and warm water in the shower room, some extra food, and a bed of my own whenever possible.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  As I was licking my bowl clean of the tasteless evening soup, I noticed a bored SS officer standing just inside the doorway. Wilhelm yelled orders for us to undress. It was a ‘‘selection.’’ We were hustled into one corner, and the boche handed out the green cards that we had filled out on our arrival. One by one we filed past the Nazi.

  He took my card, looked me up and down, then examined my back-side. Why was he dragging this out? I’m no Muselmann. I just turned nineteen. On September twenty-sixth, to be exact.

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  ‘‘ Der Bengel ist noch ganz kra¨ftig’’ (The rascal is still strong), Wilhelm said.

  I turned around. The SS officer gave me another look, then shrugged indifferently. He took my card out of his pocket and put it on the table with the others. ‘‘We’ll wait until next time,’’ he told Wilhelm.

  I rejoined my companions on rubbery legs. I ducked the reaper again. But did I have any real reason to be thankful? With a frigid winter almost on top of us, there was no possibility of putting on weight and regaining strength before the next SS officer looked me over. I was a condemned man who had
been given only a short reprieve. If my ‘‘selection’’ was inevitable, then wouldn’t it be better to get it over with than endure another month or two of pain and suffering before they pulled my card?

  A few days later they rounded up the ‘‘selected.’’ Dressed only in their tattered shirts, the chosen from the Blocks piled into the back of a truck. They had been told the same old lie—‘‘You’re being taken to a rest camp to recover’’—even though the Nazis knew that every ‘‘selected’’ Ha¨ftlinge was well aware of the truck’s destination.

  They weren’t going to take a chance of anything disrupting the steady flow of traffic into their gas chambers. Sitting on the truck bed, silent and shivering, most of the men didn’t care anymore what was going to happen to them.

  ‘‘Don’t worry!’’ a Kapo yelled as the truck pulled away. ‘‘Soon you’ll be warm, even too warm!’’

  From that moment I was determined to do whatever I had to do to make sure my card wouldn’t end up in that officer’s pocket again. My bones weren’t going to stoke their fires. And, I fantasized, if my goose was cooked, then I would make sure one of those SS

  pricks joined me.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  In the bunk below me slept Moishe, a yellow triangle from Yugosla-via who had been scooped up by the fascist Croatian militia. He was PART II | AUSCHWITZ

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  in his twenties with the face of an adolescent and was a big shot in the camp’s black market, thanks to his connections with Ha¨ftlinge in the Canada Kommando. His cohorts called him Moi. Because of his salesmen in Kommandos that worked inside the plant buildings, Moi was profiting handsomely from the civilian employees. He was also the Stubendienst’s assistant. The Stubendienst’ s cut insured his eyes were closed to the steady flow of visitors Moi had every night, since Ha¨ftlinge weren’t supposed to enter other Blocks.

  Word passed that we would be receiving new shirts. We were supposed to exchange shirts every month, but were lucky if we got fresh ones every three months. My Block was in a mild state of excitement. The exchange was a lottery. This late in the year, those trading in their heavy wool shirts stood to lose badly and those with light, cotton shirts had everything to gain. The unfortunate Ha¨ftling who had had his shirt stolen would simply be passed over. Shirts were a much sought after commodity on the camp’s black market.

  One could exchange a good shirt for an old, mended one and a loaf of bread with a Polish civilian factory worker because they had difficulty getting any clothing.

  After receiving my new shirt, a wool one, I went to my bed to put my cap under my pillow, as I did every evening before eating.

  To my astonishment, I found a roll of bills lying there. Someone must have put it there thinking it was Moishe’s bed. My heart pounded with excitement. I looked about. No one was paying any attention to me. I thrust the wad into my shoe. Not wanting any evidence that I had been to my bed, I stuffed my cap into my pocket and slipped into the soup line. Ordinarily I would have checked the levels of the barrels. You wanted to step up when the barrel was almost empty because you stood a greater chance of getting a potato or chunk of cabbage. That night I had only one thought—getting out of the barracks as fast as possible so I could count my loot.

  Somebody’s god continued to send good fortune the wrong way because I ended up with a full ladle of thick soup as well.

  After eating, I ducked behind the Block and counted the money.

  I was holding 580 marks, a treasure that could change my fate. But 158

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  there were problems. How was I going to change five one-hundred mark bills? Where would I hide the money? If caught with such a large sum, it was the Stehbunker for sure, and possibly the rope. I couldn’t keep the money with me. Moi or one of his cronies would surely search me.

  I ran to Hubert’s Block. He nearly fell over when he saw the bills. Hubert knew a pot-washer who was selling a ladle of thick soup for ten marks. I decided that for the next fifty-eight days Hubert and I were going to have full bellies. For the first time, I could truly envision a return trip to Nice.

  Moi was sitting on his bed buttering slices of bread when I returned. Obviously, he wasn’t aware of the screw-up yet. I stretched out on my bed, letting my legs hang down on either side. For 580

  marks, Moi must have sold an overcoat—and one in fine condition, at that. What would he do when he found out that the money had disappeared? I mused. No question he would come at me, but how?

  Like a sly fox or an enraged bear? I knew there was a chance he would send a crony to beat a confession out of me, but that would be his last resort. With no tracks leading to Hubert, if I played it right I could deflect all suspicion.

  A string of Moi’s furtive traders streamed in and out. ‘‘Moi?’’ a reedy voice called out in Yiddish from the Block entrance. ‘‘ Wie bist do?’’ (Where are you?)

  ‘‘ Komm hier,’’ Moishe ordered.

  A little Jewish fellow, slightly humpbacked and with the type of face the Nazis venomously caricaturized in Der Stu¨rmer, hurried over. He sat down on the edge of Moishe’s bed. They began to talk in soft whispers, but their conversation was quickly punctured with Yiddish curses. The visitor got up and stared at my bed as I pretended to sleep. It was hard to keep a smile off my face. He started to slip his hand under my pillow when the curfew bell sounded, which gave me an excuse to wake. The little fellow scurried out of our Block.

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  returned I could tell my mattress had been searched. Moishe had been thorough. I don’t think he slept at all that night.

  Returning from the plant the next evening I discovered a neatly folded, red-and-white checkered shirt under my pillow. The shirt looked brand new and would have fetched a hefty sum from a civilian. Moi, that sly fox, sure set his trap with delicious bait. Obviously he figured I would store the shirt in the same spot I had hid the money. I left the shirt under my pillow and nonchalantly went to get my soup.

  While I ate I kept an eye on my bed, but no one approached it.

  Where was Moi? When my bowl was licked clean, I went looking for him. He was sitting on the steps of the Block, diligently cleaning his comfortable leather shoes. Why not have some fun with this schmuck, I thought, and headed into the latrine. Moishe followed at a distance. He sure figured me for an idiot. I sat in there as if I were constipated, and even pretended to sleep. It must have driven him crazy. I was struck with a masterstroke of an idea and quickly returned to the Block.

  Grabbing the shirt, I went to Wilhelm’s quarters. I pushed back the curtain that hung in his doorway. He was in the midst of playing cards with the Kapos. I swallowed hard. This wasn’t the most oppor-tune moment to disturb my Blocka¨lteste.

  ‘‘ Was willst du, Speckja¨ger?’’ (What do you want, bacon hunter?)

  ‘‘I have a present for you.’’

  ‘‘Show me!’’

  I unfolded the shirt.

  ‘‘How much?’’ he demanded suspiciously. In Auschwitz everything had a price.

  ‘‘I said it’s a present.’’

  I tossed the shirt onto the table and turned heels. A livid Moishe was standing by our bunk. It was an expensive backfire for him, and it got me clean off the hook.

  An hour later, Wilhelm gave me half a loaf of bread.

  ‘‘ Hier, Muselmann, du brauchst mir nicht dankbar sein, du wa¨schst 160

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  meine Hemden gut.’’ (Look Muslim, you don’t have to be grateful to me. You really wash my shirts well.)

  Soon, the whole Block knew about the gift, and my companions labeled me an ass-kissing idiot. I couldn’t have given a shit what they said or thought. I had a full stomach for fifty-eight days and wouldn’t have to worry about the next ‘‘selection.’’

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Christmas and the New Year passed with the Allies encircling Germany. Because of the constan
t bombing, the delivery of raw materials by rail was increasingly sporadic. Factory output plummeted.

  The Kapos struggled to keep us busy with meaningless, but still physically draining tasks. Rumors circulated that the Soviets had launched a new offensive and that their arrival was imminent. At night we could see a reddish luminescence on the eastern horizon and hear the distant thunder of heavy guns, but the only source for reliable information had dried up. I had not seen a POW at Buna for a while. I wasn’t even sure if they were still in Auschwitz. At the time of the first snowfall, all the Soviet Ha¨ftlinge were marched out of the camps. We heard they had been moved into Germany. A few days later, the Polish Ha¨ftlinge followed. Every passing day we wondered if we were going to be evacuated, liberated, or exterminated. The SS had destroyed the gas chambers in November, but we all knew they had other means to quickly rid themselves of us.

  After roll call one freezing morning, we assembled into our Kommandos as usual. But as the band launched into its first military march, news came that we weren’t going to Buna until the fog lifted. Surely it wasn’t the light morning fog that was keeping us from leaving, I thought. We had gone to the plant when it was much thicker. All morning we stamped around the Appelplatz, trying to keep warm. As the hours crawled by the most fantastic speculations took shape in our overheated imaginations.

  ‘‘We’re going to be evacuated tonight.’’

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  ‘‘The Soviets have Auschwitz encircled, and they’re going to shell this place until nothing stands.’’

  ‘‘The Boches are going to wipe us all out with flame throwers.’’

  ‘‘No, no, they signed an armistice.’’

  Toward afternoon, we were told to return to our Blocks. The next morning the assembly bell failed to ring. The sudden shock of change made me nervous. Twelve months of a strict, daily routine had created an odd sense of comfort—dare I even say, a sense of control—that had now been yanked out from under me. I walked aimlessly around the camp. The guard towers were still manned, but the Kapos were out of sight. They knew this idle time could spark one of the milling groups of Ha¨ftlinge into a vengeful mob.