With an impulsive gesture I tore the Commander’s unopened envelope into shreds and let them drop out the window. I enjoyed seeing the baffled expression on the Militz man’s face. I smiled in triumph. It was wonderful to feel so important.
As the train started up, Ilse and I sat next to each other, glad to leave Sosnowitz, even though we were uncertain about our future.
The day must have quickly grown warm, for people we saw from the train moved slowly and with effort along the roads. Cattle were lying lazily in their pastures. We did not feel the heat because our window was open, letting the wind blow in.
I almost enjoyed the journey. The two old SS men who accompanied us looked into our compartment every so often, but as the hours passed they no longer bothered to come, perhaps because they had fallen asleep in another compartment. Our group occupied a whole car. When we stopped at stations, our doors were locked. People stared at us curiously through the windows.
Ilse kept complaining of a headache. I noticed a tall, lovely girl in the corner of our compartment looking through all her pockets. She finally found what she was searching for and offered Ilse an aspirin tablet. After thanking her, Ilse introduced herself and then told her my name.
“I am Suse Kunz,” the girl replied with an accent that to me seemed Viennese.
When I asked her about it, she told us that she had been born and raised in Vienna, but that the last few years she had lived in Czechoslovakia with her grandmother. She had a wonderful matter-of-fact cheerfulness about her.
“I am not worried a bit,” she said. “Everything will be all right–much better than living in a ghetto, for sure. We are young and strong, and we can take a lot. What have we got to lose, except our lives?”
Suse was young and looked very strong. She had a healthy, tanned complexion, flaming chestnut hair, and sparkling eyes. As I looked at her shyly, I wished she would become my friend.
Ilse fell asleep, lulled by the motion of the train. Suse moved up to the window and leaned her elbows on the ledge beside me.
“You know, I feel pretty good, in spite of everything,” she confided.
I knew exactly what she meant. The thing we feared most was done. We each had only ourself to worry about. There would not be any more decisions to make.
We spoke easily and understood each other. She asked about my parents, and then she told me that she and her father had been separated in Cieszyn. Her mother had died when she was born. She was an only child.
The train puffed on. It became cooler as we approached the mountains. We talked away like old friends.
“Won’t it be fun when we make the journey back?” Suse said dreamily. “We will be free. Can you imagine how wonderful that will be?”
“Yes!” I was eager to agree.
“It may be longer than we imagine,” Suse said, her gaiety vanishing.
“No, no. It won’t be!” I spoke quickly.
“Let’s bet on it,” she challenged. “It will be longer than a year.”
“Shorter than six months.” I was confident. “Let’s bet a quart of strawberries and whipped cream, payable after the war.”
“I hope you win!” Suse shouted over the clatter of the wheels.
Somewhere in the mountains of Silesia we made a bet of strawberries and cream and solemnly shook hands. I lost that bet, but I never paid it, for gay, laughing Suse died on the very morning of liberation day … .
My new friend and I remained at the window, thinking of liberation. Away from the Dulag, I could believe that my parents were well, and that it would be only a matter of time before we were reunited. I wished the journey might never end. There was safety in motion.
We seemed to be traveling in a southwesterly direction through eastern Germany. Late in the afternoon, after having covered perhaps two hundred kilometers, the train stopped at a tiny, spotless station. The sign read “Bolkenhain.”
The two SS guards got off and lined us up on the platform. A woman of about forty briskly walked up to the SS men and in a barking voice identified herself as the Lagerführerin, or camp supervisor. Her first command to us, “Achtung!” thundered through the station. We snapped to attention and looked into the face of the woman who would be in charge of us. She appeared grim and forbidding, with the face and jaws of a bulldog. Her brown hair was tightly curled and she was dressed in mourning.
Looking at her uncommunicative face, I could feel fear creeping into me. Her harsh appearance turned out to conceal a kind heart, but we did not learn this until much later.
We were counted and marched out of the station and through the little town. It was hilly and reminded me of Bielitz. So this was the homeland of Nazism. People looked at us as though they had not expected us to be human. Children were called into houses. One young blond woman stood at an open window watering flowers in the window box as we passed. She interrupted her task and looked at us wide-eyed. The thought came to me that she had probably never seen a Jew in her life. Brought up under the Nazis, she expected us to be monsters. What a shock it must have been to find us looking very much like herself, some of us quite pretty.
One woman stood in front of her home, broom in hand, and glared at us with cold hatred. Perhaps, I thought, she had lost a son in the war. Their propaganda told them the Jews were responsible for the war–so she hated us. I saw an old man on a porch, smoking a long-stemmed pipe. We passed close by. There seemed to be pity in his eyes, and I noticed a slow, almost imperceptible shaking of his head.
As we approached the factory, we turned off the road where it widened, and marched into a paved yard before the long, modern, well-kept buildings. I read the firm’s name in large gold letters over the entrance: “Kramsta-Methner-Frahne,” and under it, Weberei–weaving mill. After we lined up, one of the SS men disappeared into the factory. He soon reappeared, bringing with him the man who had picked us in the Dulag in Sosnowitz. I heard the Lagerführerin address him as “Herr Direktor.”
The director handed the Lagerführerin a roster and told her to read off our names. We were to reassemble in alphabetical order, he said. When he handed her the list he called her Frau Kügler. Frau Kügler read off our names. We were all present. Then the director signed a sheet of paper handed him by one of the SS men. The merchandise was delivered. The SS men clicked their heels, lifted right arms. “Heil Hitler,” they boomed. “Heil Hitler” echoed the director and Frau Kügler.
Without wasting a moment, Frau Kügler marched us alongside the factory. At the end of the long building we came to a stop. A high gate with barbed wire strung along the top stood open and we marched through into another courtyard which ran along the end of the factory. I was one of the last in the column and behind me the gate of our prison clanged shut. Frau Kügler locked and bolted it.
Locked up … I felt deprived and helpless.
Beyond our high wire fence stretched beautiful gardens, reaching far into the pine-wooded hills. There, against the slopes, stood the stately white villa of the director.
Presently, the director appeared in our enclosure. I watched him as he stood near me, a tall, handsome man in his early forties, with sleek dark hair and a small, carefully clipped mustache. He smiled a bit ironically as he let his eyes wander about our group.
“Let us pick the personnel,” he said to Frau Kügler. They conferred a while, scanning the roster for suggestions that must have been made in the Dulag.
“Malvine Berger,” Frau Kügler barked, and a tall red-haired woman, much older than the rest of us, stepped forward. “Judenälteste!” We knew that there always was a senior Jewess in charge of a group like ours, and that she would be directly responsible to the Lagerführerin. The cook was chosen, a slender woman of about thirty with light blond hair drawn back into a bun. Two girls for kitchen help were next, both wearing glasses, then the Sanitäterin, or nurse. There were two girls among us who had been nurses. Both were told to step forward but only one was chosen. Although I did not catch her last name, I made out that her first was
Litzi. I liked her; she had jet-black hair, smiling eyes, and dimples. Her appointment made me glad: apparently they cared about our health.
The director announced that we would be taught to weave. If we behaved and worked hard, all would be well; if not, we would be sent back to the Dulag.
“And I can get enough replacements from the Dulag,” he observed with a smile on his lips. “You are to obey your Lagerführerin and your Judenälteste!”
With that he turned and summoned Mrs. Berger. He spoke to her for a moment and I saw Mrs. Berger nod assent. Then she stepped in front of us and said, “Girls, I hope you know what our position is here. How we feel is beside the point; we have to please the people here. Whoever breaks the rules will be punished by me personally, in addition to all other punishment, since one can do harm to all of us by her behavior. I will be stern.” Her speech was clipped, her German excellent. She made it clear where we stood. She dared to say, “How we feel is beside the point.” At that remark I saw how the director knit his brow. Thus, she made our captors understand that we were no fools. Nor was there any humble begging in her manner. Whatever else she might be like, I could tell that she possessed intelligence, integrity, and courage, and I liked her very much. In the months to come, when in the course of our trials I got to know her better, I was often annoyed by her pettiness and her desire to shine, yet the qualities I had first recognized in her never fell short of my estimate. She had daring and she often baffled people so that they could not refuse her requests. I am convinced that in part, at least, we have to thank Mrs. Berger for a relatively easy time at Kramsta. Bolkenhain soon gained a reputation as one of the best labor camps for women in Germany.
After Mrs. Berger had addressed us we were led to our quarters in a building joined to the factory by means of the fenced courtyard. I entered the low building with a prayer in my heart. I had expected another Dulag but was pleasantly surprised to find that everything was fresh and clean. We were obviously the first occupants. Our room was large, perhaps forty by fifty feet. Near the entrance stood several long tables flanked by benches. The remainder of the room was mainly taken up by rows of three-tiered bunks, with clean gray blankets and a straw-filled pillow on each, as well as a coarse towel. The far right end of the room was divided into two parts. One of these was the kitchen, the other a washroom with a row of faucets over a long trough, three toilets, and three showers. Near the entrance to the kitchen was a separate small room for Frau Kügler. At the far left end of the main room was a tiny cubicle which was to be known as Mrs. Berger’s room, and next to it was another larger room where Litzi was to sleep with three bunks reserved for the ill.
We called our quarters the Lager, or camp, and I promptly named our bunks the “Catacombs.” Somehow the name stuck. Ilse and I had adjoining bunks two up from the floor. Beneath us were two girls from Bielitz and I noted with pleasure that Suse Kunz was assigned the bunk above me.
We were given warm soup in new bowls and hunks of well-baked bread. If only we could be certain that our parents were in a camp like ours …
After supper we were allowed to wash. The water was cold. We learned that it was heated only once a week. After that we were free to go to sleep, for which we all were grateful. However, few of us slept. After the lights were turned out I heard girls toss and turn and here and there weep quietly. The night was starry and beautiful. From my bunk I could see the hills through a window. Slowly the full moon rose. I spoke dreamily to her. I asked her if she saw Papa and Mama. It seemed as if she said yes. In the years to come the moon became my loyal friend, my only friend that was free. Each month I counted the days until she returned, and often when she hid behind clouds of thought that she was avoiding the horror on earth.
That first night in Bolkenhain I whispered to her, “Say good night to my loved ones,” and went to sleep under her watchful gaze.
Chapter 4
A SHRILL WHISTLE SOUNDED AT 5:30 A.M. I SAT UPRIGHT IN MY bunk, rubbed my eyes, and had to think where I was.
We went to wash. When I returned to my bunk I saw Mrs. Berger slap a girl. I turned away; suddenly I hated her. There is nothing I despise more than physical violence. Later Mrs. Berger told me that she had to do it, to establish her authority. The girl had not gotten up when called, therefore she had to be punished immediately. I disagreed, but I must admit that in the next three years, she rarely used violence. That first morning she won respect, or rather fear, from us, but a great deal of hatred as well.
We were marched past the kitchen and handed a slice of bread with beet marmalade and a cup of “coffee,” a bitter brew made of wheat. After breakfast Frau Kügler handed each of us three yellow stars, each with the inscription JEW. One was to be fastened on the breast, one on the back, and one on top of a kerchief tied around the head, so that one could tell who we were from any angle.
Shortly before seven we marched to the factory with Frau Kügler, entering a hall containing about twenty-five looms. We lined up along a wall and waited. After a few minutes, Meister Zimmer, a man in a clean blue working uniform, entered. As he stood in the center of the room, his hands on a loom, he seemed grotesque; he reminded me of the big posters plastered on walls at every street corner: “The Men Who Turn the Wheels for Victory,” “The Pillars of the Reich.”
His voice was harsh, precise, and well trained. He told us that we were here to work for Germany and the glorious Nazi party. If we did our share, we would be able to stay for the rest of our lives, and be well treated. If we failed, or did anything that would not conform to German ideology, we would be looked upon as traitors.
“And what is done with traitors, you know!” he thundered. “Those who cannot work for our victory are not needlessly fed. Those we exterminate.”
Our parents–useless, not worth three and a half Reichsmark any more … . Anger shot through me. I clenched my fists.
He kept on talking, repeating that we could stay for life. He was so positive, so reassuring, that I felt myself falling under the spell of his words. Not only would he teach us to weave, but he felt he should teach us decency and how to be a part of the program for the glory of the Fuhrer and the Fatherland.
Decency was a word by which my parents lived: used by this man, it became ugly. I tried to concentrate on what he was saying. He talks about staying here forever, I thought. He is at least thirty years older than I; he will die long before I do.
With pleasure I imagined how he would look dead, worms eating his ears. What strange, confused ideas crossed my mind! I must have smiled because Ilse poked my side.
“Are you crazy?” she whispered. “You smiled! Luckily he did not see you!”
Those first days in Bolkenhain were difficult. We worked in the factory classroom from 7 A.M. to 6 P.M. The heat bothered us, our ankles were swollen from standing, our eyes strained from watching the thousands of threads. I was afraid that if something went wrong with my loom I should be blamed.
Meister Zimmer watched us constantly, popping up in unexpected places. But though he was fairer than I at first thought he would be, I always hated him with all my heart.
Sunday came, the first at Bolkenhain. On Sundays we got meat stew and we were permitted to write one one-page letter.
I wrote to Papa at Sucha, in care of the head of the Jewish Community. I described our camp in glowing colors. I expressed my opinion that Mama might be with him or in a camp similar to mine. Somehow I believed it. I asked him to write to Abek and tell him where I was and I told him how wonderful Abek’s parents had been to me. I begged him to write to me right away, to tell me how he was, and to take good care of himself. And I think I closed the letter on a cheerful note.
Ilse and I washed our clothes, fastened the stars back on them, and cleaned around our bunks. Those were tasks I did not like and Ilse urged me to leave them to her. “Go talk to the girls,” she would say, “then tell me about them. You can’t clean properly, anyway.”
I loved to talk to the girls, to hear their stories, and
gladly I let Ilse spoil me.
After a week’s training in the classroom we began work on the factory’s regular looms. We were especially tense and frightened when Meister Zimmer told us that each mistake would or could be counted as an act of sabotage. He had been an excellent teacher, I had to admit, but I was sure that he had been chosen for his position as foreman not only for his practical knowledge of weaving, but also because of the fanatical way in which he loved to spread the Nazi doctrine.
We worked hard. At first each of us tended one loom, then we were assigned two, then three looms, and finally, we watched four. Experts who had spent their lives weaving never handled more than three looms. It was grueling work, necessitating constant running, and it caused severe eyestrain; the noise of the looms deafened us for hours after we stopped working. The material we worked with was bad. Sometimes we wove paper. It would tear and break constantly; in the heat it became dry and brittle, in damp weather it became moist and fell to pieces.
How I worked those first weeks I will never know. My fingers worked without conscious direction. I worked mechanically and watched the movement of the clock’s hands. I waited for the evening, for the mail call.
In time most of the girls heard from relatives in cities which had not yet met the fate of Bielitz. Ilse corresponded with an aunt who remained in Bielitz. Having been married to a Christian, the aunt had been allowed to stay. I waited anxiously every night when Mrs. Berger came in with the mail, but I waited in vain.
Our second Sunday came and this time I wrote to Abek. I thanked him and his parents for all they had done for me. I asked him about Papa and Mama, and begged him to write to Arthur. It took three or four days for our mail to leave Bolkenhain, for Frau Kügler censored it all.
The following week, I waited for mail from Papa, but night after night nothing came.
Then Saturday came.
“Oh God,” I prayed, as Mrs. Berger came out of her room with a pile of mail.
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