A day later a Kapo escorts me back to my barrack. The Blockälteste greets me like a long-lost friend.
“How are you feeling?”
I nod my head and shrug.
“We know who carelessly dropped the bar of soap on the ground. It will never happen again.”
I dare not wonder what hapless individual paid with her life for this casual accident. But I missed roll call twice. Whoever it was would have been the feature of the moment and either hung, shot or, if it was just the single culprit, clubbed to death for the benefit of all.
My silence is taken as approval for the punishment meted out to this individual. I feel sick; maybe I was careless for not seeing the bar on the ground? But when you are exhausted, freezing and rushing to appear at roll call to spare your life, a bar of soap on the ground can go unnoticed. I want to yell at this cretin and expunge all the anger, hatred and pent-up revulsion from within me. But I know that someone else will pay for my insurrection. I’m the same as the man on the train; too valuable. They will track down the person in front of me who failed to notice the bar of soap and feed them to the smokestack.
I am tempted to ask who it was, not out of any macabre interest, but in the ardent hope that it was not Sarah. But it is best for me not to know. Because if it was Sarah and she was executed I will lunge at this Blockälteste and gouge her eyes out. If I do, these sick lunatics will probably promote me to work directly under the camp commandant: You are too valuable to us, plus you demonstrate willpower, or whatever that silly Jewish word was.
So I maintain my stony silence and remain standing at attention.
“Anyway, you are not working at this camp any more. You are being transferred to a smaller camp nearby making munitions. Your rations will increase to two meals per day and you will work less hours.” She nods at the Kapo, who leads me back to my bunk.
He looks curiously at me. “Don’t you have anything to take?” Imbeciles.
After I can’t remember how many years at this camp, I am finally leaving, being driven by a motorcycle with a sidecar to the munitions factory housed within the satellite base. The man driving the motorcycle is a German soldier, perhaps just a little older than me. I must be just turning sixteen - if I can remember my age without celebrating my birthday. He looks over at me with a lascivious smile. Even though I am at the age where boys would ordinarily arouse interest in me, the feelings associated with that yearning are so remote now that they are lost and forgotten. If I ever outlive this nightmare I will have to excavate deep within my soul to rediscover them under the rubble.
As we pass under the infamous slogan I can’t help but look back. I can still recall that fateful, overcast day when I was almost beaten to death for stating a harmless truth. I was trying to save myself, but in this world of perverted logic it would have cost me my young life. I should feel relief for having survived this place despite the daily threats and exposure to death. But I don’t. I lost too much, and the shards of dignity and humanity that I have retained are so few that they don’t give me a breath of freedom, just more incarceration, albeit with better conditions. Doubtless any serious infraction deemed by those in charge will end my life. That will never change.
We enter the woods. I like nature. But here is the place where fourteen human beings ultimately paid with their lives for capturing and eating a pig. Thirty others had their escape curtailed by being shot for attempting it. I can only wonder what other horrors happened here.
My escort brings the motorcycle to a halt. He clambers down from the seat and comes around to the sidecar. He leans in and starts kissing me. I would normally be shocked, but that sense has become jaded, so I am merely startled at the sudden turn of events. I instinctively repel the attack, but that only provokes him more. With one hand he holds the nape of my neck firmly so that I cannot escape the thrusting of his tongue, while with the other he is forcing his fingers into my private part.
Modesty is not an affectation that is maintained for long in the camp after being constantly asked to strip and searched by both women and men. But my virginity is a part of me that I have retained in the silent promise to myself that if I ever walk away from this horror physically unscathed, I will treasure it as the sole part of me that is unmolested. It appears that that promise is about to be violated.
I struggle valiantly but he is young, well fed, physically robust and in heat. He lifts me out of the sidecar with ease and flings me onto the soft ground. With two swift movements he rips the sheer underwear that I fashioned from loose cloth and lifts my dress over my waist. The thrust is deep and sharp, like a knife. My head falls back in surrender.
“I like girls that fight back,” he boasts as he is thrusting.
For the first time I feel like crying. But instead I bury my shame and wretchedness in my madness locker and commit his face to memory. I am acquitted of this violation in the knowledge that I did not invite or permit it. Like my incarceration, it was involuntary.
He thrusts some more, jerks with relief and stands up.
“I am good. Huh? You Jewish bitch.” He spits down at me.
I wipe my face and want to tell him that I am German just like him, with one key difference: I am a human being and he is a perverted, sick creature. He clambers back onto the motorcycle, kicks the engine to life and waits for me to re-enter the sidecar.
I rise, staggering, pull up the strips of fabric that are left of my knickers, straighten out my dress and get back into the sidecar. Our journey resumes. He no longer looks at me, leeringly or otherwise. I could delude myself into thinking that he is ashamed, but that would be a benevolent thought on my part. It is more likely that I have served his immediate urge and he is now eager to dispose of me. He would probably shoot me and leave me in the woods to die, except for the obsession with numbers. I am being transferred from one camp to another. If I don’t arrive there will be a shortfall in the count. Sometimes the most infinitesimal, petty predilections spare your life.
The new camp does not have two barbed-wire fences, watchtowers or dogs guarding it. Not even a ditch to separate it from its surroundings. A mere chain-link fence, and a single soldier stands on guard at the gate. There is no slogan over the gate, just a cornerstone with the name of the munitions factory.
My rapist, Klaus (I find out his name from the guard that greets him), drives me to the quarters at the back of the factory. He kills the engine and comes around to the sidecar.
“Can I help you out?”
This person is utterly devoid of empathy and conscience. Fifteen minutes ago he raped me violently without the slightest remorse, called me a Jew bitch, spat on me, and now he wants to courteously help me out of the sidecar as though I am his date arriving at the ball.
His abrupt and obsequious turn of behaviour leads me to believe that this is another absurd example that exists in this benighted circle of hell, along with the obsession with numbers, the contempt for human life, the severe and harsh punishment for the slightest infractions: the code of conduct that prohibits the rape of munition workers. Not for any honourable reason other than we are valuable fodder for the Wehrmacht war machinery and raping transferees between camps is verboten.
I shake my head indignantly, climb out and stride in front of him. On some visceral level he has violated the last remaining vestige of personal dignity that I possessed, transgressing into the madness locker; that place where I compartmentalise the daily horrors and humiliations that I witness or endure so that I can paradoxically remain sane. My reaction transcends rationality, it is of a wounded animal, and as such I care not for the consequences.
I can’t resist my impulse. “You called me a Jewish bitch, you raped me and injured me with your violence. You then spat on me.”
He is turning red and beginning to lose his composure. “No one will believe you.”
“I don’t care if they don’t believe me! I am German just like you. I am not Jewish; not that that makes any difference. But you make me ashamed, not just for
what you did, but because I am German. You are a disgusting, vile savage.”
“Please. No good will come of it. I have parents in—” He is snivelling in a bleating tone.
Without a thought I fill up my mouth with saliva and spit at his face so that the glob lands like a burst balloon. “Why don’t you tell that pathetic story to your commanding officer, you sorry excuse for a soldier?”
With that I march off with more than a semblance of dignity and some of my honour, at least emotionally, restored. Physically I am violated; there is nothing I can do about that. I count myself fortunate that to this point I had not been molested, beaten or abused. It is ironic that, now that I have been elevated to work in a more skilled task with better conditions, this has happened to me.
In this dark and dismal world that I exist in, I count my blessings in small scraps that infrequently and sluggishly make my way. This was not one of them, but on the bright side, if one can see it that way, he didn’t murder me in the woods to cover his rape. He could have easily done so and lied that I tried to escape. The lunatics that preside over him would have believed it. Naturally my corpse would have been splayed over his sidecar like a trophy, otherwise there would be a shortfall in the numbers.
I literally stomp into the barrack. There are single bunks here stretching twenty across on either side. A grey striped mattress lies bare on each frame and a dark woollen blanket is neatly folded at the foot of the bed. Each bed has a small locker with a mess kit: metal cup, cutlery and a bowl. It is more like a spartan army barrack than the cattle shed I left behind.
It is empty. The workers are at the factory. I don’t have anything to unpack, so I walk back out and look around to see where I will be working. This camp is about a tenth of the size of the one I left. It doesn’t take me long to find the plant. A soldier is standing guard outside the entrance.
“Why are you not at work inside?” He signals with his head.
“I was just transferred here. So I am reporting to work.”
He nods and opens the door for me.
There are dozens of desks and tables scattered throughout the factory floor. Above each work area is a bright lamp. Each work station is surrounded mostly by women and the occasional male worker. They appear to be assembling units and then passing them down to a conveyor as it moves around the factory.
A female German officer approaches, striding in a military fashion to where I am standing. She looks me up and down. “You look rumpled and dishevelled. What happened to you?”
“I don’t have good clothes.”
“Follow me.”
At the back of the factory are the toilets and changing rooms. I am instructed to discard my clothing and slip into an overall and underwear supplied by the factory. I reappear shortly after, having showered the blood and grime and changed into new clothes.
“You will work there, assembling bullets and guns.” She points to a table three down from where we are standing.
The work is monotonous, the hours are long and, as in the other work barracks, there is no food or drink. Nor do we get any breaks. Ironically, the work that I found the most rewarding was being a sorter - I didn’t have time to think. But by the time they moved me to sewing I was at my breaking point. There are only so many live bodies that can stream, naked, by you before it guts your soul. Particularly when they walk past willingly anticipating a refreshing shower after their train ordeal.
Back in the sleeping quarters, I am provided with a warm meal that is more varied and better quality than the dregs I am accustomed to. For the first time in years I see green vegetables in my ration. Even a piece of meat, although I dare not enquire as to its origin. There is tea and coffee, and while we eat hungrily, there is not that all-consuming voraciousness that was customary at the other camp. It is a full meal and there will be another one in the morning. I don’t have to sequester a piece of bread for my breakfast.
The lady in the bunk next to me asks me the usual questions.
“I am from Munich. I am not sure if I am Jewish. I think my father may have been.”
“How long have you been in the camps?”
I don’t have a precise answer for that, so I leave the question unanswered.
I lie back on a mattress that smells musty, but just the same is more comfortable than the wooden pallet and slats. My body actually finds the contours and sinks in.
Roll call is at nine. Same routine. I am wondering what entertainment we will witness here.
The camp commandant does not ride on horseback. Instead he strides through the quadrants in a chivalrous manner. He is handsome in an older-person sort of way, clean-shaven, with a sculpted face, strong jaw and a full mane of sandy-blond hair. His eyes, which I can’t fail to notice when he strides past, are deep blue. Away from here you could imagine him to be an actor.
“Our quota is enormous. We are at war with the world.”
This is definitely news. I am reminded of Oma’s refrain - Do we need another war? - in response to a Hitler diatribe.
“We are going to increase the shift time by two hours. But we will add a ten-minute break and some extra food and drink rations.”
He is strutting along, whacking the back of his thigh with a razor-thin leather switch. I am curious - where is his horse? That must be standard issue to all camp commandants. Maybe the horse tried to escape or ate hay without permission and they hung or shot it the previous day. I am reflecting on last night’s meal.
“You must meet your quota. If you don’t, the German people will fall under the heel of the Bolsheviks. You must not let that happen.” He accentuates each word, emphasising their significance and the unspoken consequence of failure.
I don’t think that he is making points here. We are all probably thinking that if Der Führer is quashed we will all get to go home and resume our normal lives. Or whatever can be considered normal after experiencing camp life courtesy of the Third Reich.
A large man two quadrants away snorts. The camp commandant quickens his pace to where the man is standing and glowers at him.
“What did you find amusing?”
The man mutters something I can’t make out. The commandant, apparently satisfied with the answer, turns to leave, but then with a swiftness that belies his suave demeanour swivels back and attacks the man with the switch, forcing him to the ground, his arms flailing over his head to shield himself from the incessant lashings. He repeatedly stomps on the man’s head with his hobnailed boots, then steps back to hurl kicks at his groin, abdomen and face. Blood pours from the injuries and the man becomes senseless. Without much ado the commandant pulls out his pistol and fires two shots at the presumed offender.
And I thought we wouldn’t be entertained here.
The commandant regains his pace if that was a distraction of no significance and resumes his speech. “Work harder. Work faster. Do not make mistakes. We can’t afford mistakes. A mistake here is a dead soldier in the field. And you all will be held to account.” He is poised at the front of the muster. He salutes Hitler. We respond enthusiastically and march off to commence our extended shifts.
The body of the dead man is left to fester in a pool of blood.
In the evening my interlocutor from last night, Gertrud from Westphalia, tells me in a confidential whisper that the large man had a respiratory difficulty. He wasn’t snorting mockingly, he was just clearing his nose so that he could breathe. He is not the first unwell person to die in my presence. There is no room for sickness in the Third Reich. I could have told him that.
With the extended shifts taking their toll, more bodies are left behind in the barrack each morning. There are no large, burly men to wheel out the corpses; we are forced to go back and collect our erstwhile colleagues, place them in a wheelbarrow - nothing quite so dignified as a wooden cart - and tip them unceremoniously into a mass grave nearby. We pour lime over the corpses to douse the stench of decomposition. Soon replacements arrive to replenish the denuded numbers. I assume I was one
for just such an occasion.
We don’t get any news in here other than exhortations to work harder and faster. But from the mood of the camp commandant I get the sense that the war effort is not going well. On a number of occasions the lights go out during the night shift and production is interrupted. We aren’t relieved of our shift, just commanded to sit and wait.
Whoever the enemy is, they must be making inroads. The ground has been shaking and the walls trembling from the relentless shelling. Each day the pounding gets worse, and yesterday one of the barracks was destroyed. We came out to see it engulfed in flames.
Roll call.
The normally suave camp commandant is looking ruffled and less debonair. “Due to the need to provide more munitions at a faster pace, we will be relocating to another factory. It will happen this month. There will be no change in your work schedule until you are commanded to move.”
No exhortations to work harder and faster, nor threats of death for each failed part that results in the demise of a Wehrmacht soldier. There must be a great many of those, too many to attribute to a single worker. The enemy must be exacting a significant toll. I have learnt to suppress any public display of emotion after my experience on the train all those years ago. Inwardly I am starting to hope again that my nightmare will end and I will survive my incarceration. But I don’t gloat.
The shelling is now constant, with a number of bombs landing nearby or inside the compound. Several barracks have been destroyed. Their occupants are moved into our quarters, so that now we have three rows instead of two and thirty bunks to a row. The food rations have been reduced. We are told that this is due to the imminent relocation. The real reason is obvious to all of us: the shelling is disrupting the supply lines, depleting not just our food, but raw materials for our munitions.
THE MADNESS LOCKER Page 21