Scheisshaus Luck: Surviving the Unspeakable in Auschwitz and Dora

by Pierre Berg; Brian Brock

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  fill a pail or bottle. Even though they were terrified and on the run, we stayed flat: anyone fleeing from the Red Army was our enemy.

  As night fell, the traffic on the trail tapered off. I stood up and was greeted by the rain. I felt strange. I never had so much energy coursing through me. I was free. I was finally free, and I told myself that no man was ever going to take that away from me again.

  Heading in the direction of the advancing Soviets, it took us the whole night to make our way through the forest. Toward morning we were at the woods’ edge, staring out at broad fields of asparagus. Past the fields, on a road bordered with poplars, were retreating Nazi convoys. A brick barn with a tile roof stood about one hundred yards in front of us. We would never be able to cross that much open space without being spotted.

  ‘‘If we have to spend the day here dripping wet, we will die of it for sure,’’ said Michel. Luckily, we didn’t have to wait long. The rain started coming down harder, reducing visibility. We dashed across the asparagus field and arrived safely at the side of the barn.

  There was a pile of potatoes, and I stuffed as many as I could into my pockets. We moved toward the barn’s gate, but stopped when we heard women’s voices and the crying of a child.

  Horses were pawing the ground and noisily shaking their harnesses. We were ready to beat a retreat into the forest, when the sound of squeaking hinges made me look up. The hayloft door was flapping in the wind. There is no such thing as a hayloft without a ladder, I thought, and before I could say a word, Jean found one half-buried in the mud.

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  The sweet smell of hay greeted us. A thick blanket of the loose fodder covered the loft’s floor. We moved about carefully and whispered so as not to attract the attention of the people in the barn below. Through a skylight we could see the woods we had trekked through. A window gave us a partial view of a nearby lake and the small town that sat on its far bank. Michel discovered a padlocked trunk in a corner that we were convinced was full of warm, dry clothes, but unfortunately we couldn’t break the lock.

  We stretched out our exhausted, wet bodies in the hay and attended to an extremely important matter—sleep. When I woke up it was dark. My companions were still snoring. The echo of a commanding voice from below made me stiffen. Alarmed, I pressed my ear against the floorboards. ‘‘ Diese Scheune wird von der Armee be-setzt. Alle Civilisten mu¨ssen raus.’’ (The army has taken over this barn. All civilians must leave.)

  ‘‘But we are refugees from the east,’’ an old woman pleaded.

  ‘‘ Alles raus, und schnell!’’ (Everyone out, and fast!) Someone lit a lantern. Rays of light came through the gaps in the floor. I could see men and women reluctantly picking up their multicolored bundles and shuffling out. An elderly man led a team 223

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  of draft horses out of the barn while cows mooed. Once they were gone, heavy, blue cigar smoke rose into the loft. Wehrmacht officers were squatting around a map. Couriers began to arrive with reports. The shattered German forces in the area were regrouping.

  I woke my friends.

  ‘‘What do you want?’’ Michel demanded, his eyes still closed.

  ‘‘Damn, my ribs hurt. What the hell have I been sleeping on?’’

  Jean began to swear.

  ‘‘Shh! Do you want to be caught by the boches down there?

  We’re sitting above their command post.’’

  Jean’s eyes widened. Michel peered through the cracks. ‘‘Shit,’’

  he whispered. ‘‘I was hoping you were having a nightmare.’’

  ‘‘What should we do?’’ I asked.

  From beneath the hay Jean pulled out a bottle a wine. ‘‘Look what I’ve been lying on. Someone must’ve forgotten this during the harvest.’’

  ‘‘Might as well get drunk. We’re not going anywhere,’’ Michel said.

  Jean handed me the bottle. I forced the cork down the neck and took a swallow. My mouth puckered and beads of sweat broke on my forehead. The wine had turned to vinegar. Jean and Michel choked back laughter.

  I was drawn to something one of the officers said and leaned my head against the floorboards. I couldn’t believe my ears. Jean and Michel drew close. ‘‘This is no joke. This barn is in between the lines. We’re right in the middle of this battle royal.’’

  ‘‘What are the odds of picking such a shitty place to dry out?’’

  Jean asked.

  As the Nazis prepared for their last stand, we resigned ourselves to fate and washed down bites of raw potatoes with the spoiled wine. As tractors and cargo carriers pulled heavy cannons into position, and foxholes and trenches were being dug in the asparagus fields, I fell asleep with a familiar worry: would I survive through tomorrow?

  The first Russian shells whistled over the barn around noon the following day. The officers below us screamed orders as their PART VI | WUSTROW

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  cannons came to life. The barn walls trembled, and large chunks of plaster broke from the bricks. I crawled over to the loft window.

  Spooked horses reared and stamped in a courtyard filled with Nazi vehicles, and a terrified ox and cow raced for the woods. The asparagus field was dotted with the white puffs of exploding mortar shells. Clutching their machine guns and Panzerfausts (antitank weapons), the boches waited for the Soviet troops gathered behind a hill. Red Army tanks would emerge over the crest, lob a blind salvo, then vanish. An immense column of black smoke rose from the town while the ripples from errant shells shivered the fire’s reflection on the lake.

  I slid back over to my friends, and we sat in a silent circle, our eyes darting toward each explosion. A blast disintegrated the far corner of the roof, and suddenly there was shiny silverware hanging from the rafters like icicles. My hip felt as if it were on fire, and I looked down to find that a fork had pierced the skin of my bony hip.

  Unscathed, Jean and Michel stared dumbfounded at the trousseau decorating the roof. I yanked the fork out of my hip. Blood was dripping from the prongs. I dropped my pants and poured the wine on the puncture holes. Michel pointed to the source of the projec-tiles: the padlocked trunk. The shell had split it open like a melon.

  Another shell came screaming through the air. Instinctively I ducked. A thunderous roar erupted and I found myself tossed into the air. Gathering my wits, I realized that I was now bathed in sunlight. There was a gaping hole in the roof above me, and another in the loft floor in front of me. Stunned, Michel stared at the hole while Jean was on his knees rubbing his ass. The armor-piercing tank shell had spared us and exploded below on the stable’s cobblestone floor.

  More explosions ripped through the air. Overcome with panic, I could think of only one thing: I have got to get the hell out of here! I slid down a grain chute, hoping the shell had killed the Germans below. Lucky for me I was surrounded only by eviscerated cows. Nitrate fumes choked my throat. There was a little door that led out to the asparagus fields. I opened it a crack and saw a German soldier running toward me. I slammed the door and looked for a 226

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  way to bolt it. A horseshoe was hanging on the wall. By the time I grabbed it, the Nazi was pushing the door open. I planted my weight against it, but it wasn’t enough to allow me to drop the horseshoe through the eyebolts. The door blew open and I found myself sandwiched between the door and the stable wall. Oh, how I wished I hadn’t come down from that loft.

  The panting soldier flung the door closed and fell against it, inches away from me. His eyes would adjust to the stable’s darkness in mere seconds. He took off his helmet and wiped the sweat from his brow. I slammed the horseshoe against his temple. To my relief, he dropped like a stone. I picked up his submachine gun. The weapon transformed me like a magic wand. I went from trembling fugi
tive slave to eager warrior.

  I cracked the door open. The field was littered with Nazis corpses. Ten breathing boches still manned foxholes. I poked the gun’s barrel out the door and pulled the trigger. As it barked, I realized what a foolish thing I was doing. I ducked into one of the pens, fully expecting the door to be shot to splinters, but there was no return fire. Puzzled, I peeked out a window and saw the remaining soldiers running toward the burning town. I was quite certain that it wasn’t my hotheaded cowboy shooting, but the rumbling of the approaching Soviet tanks that had sent them scrambling. Still, I felt pretty proud. I had participated, I had made a contribution to the Allies. Yes, it was miniscule at best, but I, a Ha¨ftling, had made it.

  With the shelling over, I slipped into the courtyard. Looking around, I realized this was no ordinary farm, but a country estate.

  The only things left of the Nazis were a few discarded guns, a couple of crates, and a two-wheel wagon with a horse dead in the harness. On the wagon was an enormous wheel of Swiss cheese. A dead German soldier was lying at the entrance of the courtyard. His boots looked like they might fit me, but the spray of bullets coming from four Soviet tanks kept me from retrieving them. There was no sense getting mistaken for the enemy, so I ducked back through the open stable doors.

  Jean and Michel were crouched beside the German soldier.

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  Michel looked up at me. ‘‘We thought you ran away. Say, you have a machine gun.’’

  ‘‘Did you shoot this one?’’ Jean asked. ‘‘I don’t see any blood.’’

  There was no time for explanations. One of the four tanks had pulled up in front of the stable doors. The turret hatch opened and the tank’s commander peeked out. Thankfully I had picked up some Russian while in Auschwitz.

  ‘‘ Nitchevo, tovaritch!’’ (Don’t do anything, comrade!) I cried.

  The commander ordered us to come out. When he saw what sorry specimens we were, he sat himself on top of the turret. He was young, unshaven, and had sweated through his tunic. ‘‘ Germanski?’’

  ‘‘ Tree Franzusie. Germanski.’’ I pointed in the direction that the Nazis had fled.

  ‘‘ Da,’’ he frowned and jumped down from his tank. He took large gulps of water from the pump, then without a word climbed back into the turret. The tank pivoted, its metal treads sparking on the cobblestone, then rumbled off, choking the courtyard with diesel smoke.

  Better get those boots, I told myself. As I started toward the courtyard entrance, the remaining tanks sped by. The first ran over the body, popping open the skull. The second tank’s treads crushed the legs and chewed up my boots. Shit! All that I could salvage was a bayonet and a pouch that contained a shaving kit and a few cigars.

  Soon after, the Soviet infantry arrived like a horde of locusts.

  On foot, on horseback, and on anything with wheels—Russians, Cossacks, Tartars, Ukrainians, Mongols, Georgians, men and women, swept by. Because of the warm weather, many of the soldiers had shed their coats and shirts. Even women stripped to the waist, their breasts bobbing with every step.

  With tears in our eyes and cigars in our mouths, Jean, Michel, and I cheered on our liberators, far into the night. When we finally climbed back into the loft, we realized our asses were peppered with wood splinters from the tank shell. Ecstatic that the war was over for us, we disregarded our pain and the fact that the Red Army had 228

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  confiscated our wheel of cheese, which left us only raw horsemeat to eat, and we dropped into peaceful slumber.

  The following morning I butchered the horse with my German bayonet. Growing up, I had cut up chickens and rabbits, but never an animal that large. Luckily I had done well in my zoology class.

  Stepping over a few Nazi corpses, I then gathered fresh asparagus.

  From the snickering of passing Soviet soldiers, I guess I was a real pathetic sight crouching there in the dirt. Since the kitchen in the manor house was still well equipped, I was able to boil the asparagus with a pot of potatoes. On the side of the house I built a makeshift spit and barbecued two beautiful horse tenderloins. The rest of the mare went to fill the ravenous bellies of the Red Army.

  After eating our first civilized meal, complete with white linen, crystal glasses, antique porcelain, and silverware from the trunk, I found Michel and Jean trying on fine tailored clothes in front of the master bedroom mirror. An armoire stood empty; the clothes that had been hanging inside were now strewn across the floor. Every pair of pants had its pockets pulled out. On a dresser stood a framed photo of an SS officer greeting the Fu¨hrer. Whoever lived here was definitely a big shot in the Nazi Party. In those custom-made clothes, and after a few more hearty meals, Michel and Jean could certainly pass themselves off as the heirs to the estate.

  ‘‘For the time being we better keep our ‘pajamas’ on,’’ I said.

  ‘‘The last thing we want the Soviets to mistake us for is three boches.

  At least I have a tattoo.’’

  Michel and Jean sadly agreed.

  ‘‘Forty-eight hours ago I would have been shot on sight walking around here in these putrid rags,’’ Michel murmured. ‘‘And now they’re going to keep me alive in this god-forsaken place.’’

  The next day we continued scavenging around the farm in between extended visits to the outhouse. There was a price a Muselmann had to pay for enjoying such a rich dinner.

  We kept our distance from the bands of Soviet soldiers who would come and sleep for a couple hours in the house or barn, then leave with whatever they could carry. I never saw an organized PART VI | WUSTROW

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  regiment, battalion, or platoon that one would expect from a victorious army. The soldiers seemed to be no more than marauders, and many were surprisingly ignorant. They were expert marksmen who could shoot sparrows on the wing, but they behaved like children on Christmas morning when they had their hands on a bicycle or a discarded toy. They were mystified by the simplest household items. With one Georgian, I swapped a dented old alarm clock for a superb gold chronograph. They would discard their uniforms whenever they found something better to wear, even if it was an article from a German uniform. A Red Army truck driver discovered a tuxedo in the armoire that tickled his fancy, even though the coat wouldn’t button over his potbelly. With his helmet on his head, the strap buckled under his chin, and the tails tucked into his pants, he left ready for the ball.

  These soldiers were also not particular about what they drank.

  As soon as they saw that a liquid might contain alcohol, it went happily down the hatch. I had discovered a suitcase full of perfumes and eau de colognes in one of the bedrooms. At gunpoint, a female soldier liberated them from me and enjoyed a few sips. She offered me a drink from a heart-shaped bottle, but I respectfully declined.

  Shortly thereafter, a burly sergeant joined her. Once they had polished off the larger bottles, they drained the small-necked ones into a goblet. I guess that was their dessert cocktail. Later I found the couple asleep in the stable, nestled naked on a bale of hay.

  On the heels of the Red Army came Russian peasants, traveling in canvas-topped wagons drawn by horses or oxen. These muzhiks, whose ancestors had been the serfs of Russian aristocrats, had received parcels of farmland after the Russian Revolution, but Stalin took their lands and bunched them into large communes. When the Nazis invaded Russia, the retreating Red Army scorched the earth, forcing the muzhiks to roam like nomads for four years. Now they hoped to settle down again, no matter how or where. With their tools and kitchen utensils hanging from their wagons, they looked like the American pioneers I had seen in movies grabbing up Indian land. Their manner and their way of life, though, spoke 230

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  more of medieval times. They took possession of German farms; and if the properties weren’t abandoned, they would run off the owners or kill them.

  On the third day of our liberation, Germany still hadn�
��t con-ceded defeat. From the kitchen I heard explosions. German teens were making craters in my asparagus field with a discarded Panzerfaust. It made me uneasy, and I wished I hadn’t left the submachine gun buried under the straw in the barn’s loft. A little later, as I was smoking my last cigar, a Russian tank rumbled into the courtyard.

  Four young women with open shirts popped out and cooled themselves at the pump. I greeted them in broken Russian, which brought surprised smiles to their faces. Watching them climb back into their tank, I thought, if Russian women make a habit of pranc-ing around in open blouses, then Moscow is the perfect summer vacation spot for me.

  As the tank proceeded toward the village, one of the German teens emerged from a manhole and fired the bazooka at the rear of the tank. The base of the turret exploded and the tank shuddered and died. I couldn’t believe that the punk had disabled the tank, and neither could he, standing like a statue next to the manhole with the Panzerfaust still saddled on his shoulder. The turret hatch opened, but only one soldier jumped out, and she slid into a growing pond of fuel spewing out from underneath the tank. As she tried to pick herself up for the second time, there came a sound like a thousand gas stoves being turned on and fire sprang from the fuel. She yelled only once as the flames swept over her. The radiating heat told me there was nothing I could do. The teen disappeared back into the manhole as heavy, black smoke began obscuring the tank.

  A half-track came racing to the scene, but there was nothing they could do to save their comrades. I whistled at the driver and pointed at the manhole. He nodded, raised the manhole cover, and dropped in a hand grenade. He ducked as the cover flew up in the air, then glanced into the shaft and dropped another one. The ham-burger must not have been ground fine enough for him.

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  feeling that I had witnessed a pure waste of young lives on both sides. It was disheartening, and I questioned whether, as a society, we had the fortitude to ever overcome the bestiality so deeply em-bedded in our fabric. I went back into the kitchen and started cooking dinner. I had no stomach to ponder philosophical questions or watch those soldiers scrape the women out of that tank.