Even though I ordered Blaz and the other children to go back to the nursery barracks, they all followed me. I ran to the truck, which was trying to turn but was blocked by the rest of the convoy ahead of it. Some soldiers were shooing away those of us who were trying to reach the prisoners in the trucks, but most of the SS was retreating. When we got to the truck, it managed to turn and headed for the gate. The kapos formed a human wall so we could not get through, but the sheer force of the people knocked them down, and we ran toward the truck. I reached the side and could see my children. We were only about ten yards from the fence. The soldiers were lined up on the other side of the gate, ready to shoot anyone who tried to leave the camp. Then I shouted at the twins to jump. They looked at the eight-foot drop, but Ernest crawled up the wooden side and grabbed Emily’s hand. They leaped for the muddy ground and rolled for several seconds before coming to a stop. The truck passed through the gate, and soldiers quickly sealed the exit. Most Gypsies had managed to escape. Only a dozen or so had remained on the trucks.
People started running like mad for the barracks, afraid the Nazis would open indiscriminate fire with their machine guns, but there were no more attacks.
That night, all the camp’s children stayed with our group of teachers in the nursery and school barracks while the rest of the Gypsies prepared for a further attack on the camp. They emptied the first few barracks and raided the warehouse and kitchen. They erected a sort of barricade, and we spent the whole night on watch, waiting for an SS attack.
At ten o’clock that night, with all the children asleep, a tense calm reigned over the camp, and we did not know when it would break. The children were scattered over the floor throughout the barrack, and all the teachers were resting at the door. The wooden floor was freezing, and my bones ached. The twins had refused to leave me, and I had one on each side of me.
Zelma whispered to me, “So I guess this is the end.”
I did not know how to answer. I was thinking the exact same thing. Every day more and more trains of Hungarian Jews arrived, and it seemed we had become a nuisance to the Nazis.
“For some, their hour came right when they got off the train. At least we’ve been able to do something beautiful before dying,” I answered, though I was not at all convinced it had been worth it to draw out the agony of the children who had fallen into Mengele’s clutches.
“It’s been a pleasure to know you and a real honor to work with you.”
“Zelma, don’t think about things like that. The Nazis need young people to work their arms factories. Surely you and the other teachers will get out of here alive. I’ve had a full life. I’m sad for my children, but who knows what kind of world would await them after the war anyway. Maybe death is a mercy for us all.”
I had not given up; I was ready to fight to the last breath. It seemed to me that defending our lives was the last act of freedom that remained, yet death seemed so safe and secure that I was not opposed to the idea.
“Klaus, one of the boys, figured out that someone with a small frame can get out through the sauna latrines to the soccer field. From there they have to get by the crematoriums and then hide out in the forest,” Zelma said gravely.
“That’s madness. There’s no way anyone would get that far,” I answered.
“But some have over the past few months. Most don’t get very far, but some have gotten away.”
“We’re surrounded by soldiers. It would be suicide to let the children go out through the latrines,” I said, shutting the subject down.
She was quiet, and silence once again reigned. Auschwitz had become one gigantic crematorium, and we were souls in purgatory as yet uncertain of our final destiny.
I spent the rest of the night in an uncomfortable, light sleep. I listened to the breathing of the children who had managed to survive one more day in the camp. Then a sharp whistle awoke us at the first light of dawn, and we all went to the barrack doors to hear more clearly the voice that called over a megaphone from the front of the camp. People were standing in front of the buildings like groups of curious neighbors wondering what the ruckus was about.
I recognized the voice of Johann Schwarzhuber, the Gypsy camp’s Obersturmführer. We had not seen him inside the camp much, but his shrill voice was unmistakable.
“Roma friends, it is not our intention, as has been mistakenly reported in the camp, to eliminate the Gypsies from Auschwitz. You are our invited guests, and after the war you will be able to live in a good place. Yesterday some of the men and women were being transferred to other work camps to help Germany in its war against communism. So that the tzigane population sees our goodwill, no one will be punished for yesterday’s acts of rebellion. In the coming days, we will inform the elders of the community of the names of the prisoners we will transfer, with details about which camps they will be working in. Today the kapos will hand out a double ration of food, and tomorrow camp life will return to normal.”
We looked around at each other in surprise. We did not trust the SS officer’s words, but at least it seemed like the Nazis were calling a truce with us. Perhaps they feared the rebellion would spread to other parts of the camp. Two hours later, the kapos handed out food, and things did go back to normal.
Ten days later, the Nazis were true to their word and took more than five hundred prisoners. By the end of May, there were fewer than four thousand survivors from the over twenty thousand who had lived at the camp at that point last year, in May 1943.
As soon as the last group of prisoners left, conditions in the Gypsy camp grew even worse. Trains were arriving to the platform day and night. Thousands of people were being marched to the crematoriums and disappeared forever as that dark spring drew to a close. For once in history, death’s cold grasp snuffed out the life that the coming summer promised.
SEVENTEEN
AUGUST 1944
AUSCHWITZ
The unbearable heat seemed to anticipate the inferno we were about to experience. Our already scant water supply had dwindled to intolerable levels, food had been reduced to the point that many prisoners moved about the camp like automatons, and the death rate among children was overwhelming. Near the end of May, the Nazis had transferred most of my assistants. The two nurses Maja and Kasandra were no longer with us, nor were two of the original Gypsy mother helpers. The only ones left were Zelma and Vera Luke, who had become my right-hand woman. Yet we had fewer and fewer children to care for. The school barrack had been closed, as had some of the hospital barracks. Ludwika was the only health-care attendant left on-site.
The nights were stifling. But the heat and humidity were not the worst part. The most intolerable aspect of our unlivable conditions was the choking smell of smoke from the crematoriums and bonfires that burned incessantly that summer. The whistles of trains that arrived day and night from Hungary were nonstop. Sometimes two or three trains were backed up, and the prisoners had to wait inside for more than a day before walking to the slaughterhouses the Nazis had prepared for them.
We did hear some good news arriving from the front: the Allies were retaking France, and the Russians were continuing to march through Poland. The bombings were so intense that we saw bomber planes flying overhead day and night. Yet those of us holding on to life in the Gypsy camp sensed that the good news would not free us from the clutches of our captors.
Mengele was hardly ever at the Gypsy camp anymore. I only saw him when he was on the platform doing selections of the poor Hungarian Jews who came to Birkenau in ceaseless waves. From that distance, he seemed calm and composed, dressed with the same spotless precision as always, as if the upending of the Third Reich and the rapid decomposition of Auschwitz were of no concern to him. He did occasionally send us food covertly. In some way, he continued protecting my family. It may have been the last shred of humanity left to the man. The guards, on the other hand, were simultaneously dejected and furious. They killed prisoners at whim. They spent most of the day drinking, drunk as well on blood and hatred,
like caged, rabid dogs lashing out as much as possible before being carted away.
Chaos reigned everywhere. The Nazis were overwhelmed at every hand, and we knew our camp was a headache, in a way, to Birkenau’s authorities. A few weeks before, SS soldiers had liquidated the one Jewish family camp in Auschwitz. Over the course of a couple of days, nearly all the camp’s inhabitants had been carted to the gas chambers in trucks. The Czechs had put up little resistance, though they were a much more numerous group than we were. In our camp, there were precious few young men left. Mostly we were children, women, and elderly. We were now easy targets for the Nazis.
That morning, the kapos and guards, who had hardly dared enter the camp in the last few weeks, did roll call and told us that one thousand prisoners would be transferred the next day to other camps. As we listened to the monotonous droning on of names, we were surprised to hear Else Baker’s name. The child had spent part of her time with us since the spring.
I went up to her, took her hand, and congratulated her.
“Else, tomorrow you’ll get to leave Auschwitz. I hope you’ll see your parents soon,” I said, stroking her hair.
“Thank you, Frau Hannemann,” she said, smiling. She looked so happy. After a few months in Auschwitz, getting to leave that brutal purgatory, even if it meant going to a different one, sounded like the best news in the world. Then Elisabeth Guttenberger, the camp secretary, came up to me discreetly. She asked if I could walk with her for a bit, and we headed to the nursery barrack. I was totally exhausted. Hunger was affecting everything I did. I was chronically tired, and apathy was my most constant emotion. The only thing that kept me going was my children and the camp’s children.
“It’s over.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, puzzled.
She took my hands and looked at me gravely.
“I cannot tell you everything, but the Nazis need all of these barracks for Hungarian prisoners. Gypsies no longer matter.”
“They’ll transfer some. What are they going to do with the rest of us? There will only be maybe three thousand of us by tomorrow.”
“Look around you. The only ones left are unfit for work. The hospital has been dismantled, and all prisoner camp workers have been ordered to be at the main gate this evening. Tomorrow there will be no kapo, guard, secretary, or cook in the Gypsy camp.”
We were at the edge of the camp by then and turned around. I looked at the crude wooden barracks, which were actually stalls built for animals. I studied the dusty road and the electric fence that ran the length of the borders of this forced Gypsy nation. We had been in Birkenau just over a year. In all that time I had only ever left my prison once; in some way that sick patch of earth was our home. I did not know what evil the Nazis had in store for us or why they thought we were so dangerous. Most of the prisoners held at Auschwitz had never committed any crime.
“I don’t think Mengele would just let us be killed. Even now he’s caring for my family in a way. Though he’s done inhumane, reprehensible things, I don’t think he’ll let a German woman and her five children be killed.”
I tried to act confident, but I knew that camp logic had no rhyme or reason. The most absurd orders were carried out with astonishing efficiency, though under any light they were clearly barbaric.
“Well, anyhow, I’ve sent a petition in your name to the commandant, requesting a transfer. I hope the answer arrives first thing tomorrow morning. I have everything prepared for you. We won’t leave you and your family here,” Elisabeth said, giving me a hug.
It felt like we were saying good-bye on a train platform, but we were not two old friends who had spent a lovely vacation together and now had to bid each other farewell; rather we were two castaways lost in the middle of the raging sea of war and human insanity. Hitler had declared total war. The Nazis had to do away with everything that did not aid or assist the march to final victory, and we were part of the war castoffs.
The afternoon dragged by in the camp. I gathered my children to eat something before we went to bed. I tried to keep a routine and structure each day to help them not be so anxious. The three youngest fell asleep quickly, and Otis soon followed. But Blaz was especially on edge that night.
“Tomorrow, most people are going to be leaving. Only a few of us will be left. People are saying they’re going to do the same thing to us as with the Czechs. The camp workers aren’t sleeping here tonight, and tomorrow they’ll come by just to pick up the people who were on the list.”
“I know, sweetie. Don’t worry. Elisabeth is fixing things so that we’ll be in the next transfer.”
“There won’t be any more transfers, Mom. We need to try to slip among the people who are leaving for other camps,” Blaz said, as if it were easy for a family of five children to disappear before Nazi eyes.
“That’s not as easy as you’re making it sound.”
“Maybe Elisabeth could get us put on the list.”
“They’ve chosen the strongest ones and those who were distinguished in fighting in the Great War,” I answered.
Blaz looked bitterly at the ground but soon resumed his argument. “We could get out through the latrines . . .”
“Your siblings are too little, and I’m too big,” I answered.
“Well, we can’t just sit here and do nothing.” He folded his arms across his chest.
“We’ll think of something tomorrow. Elisabeth might be able to get us out of here,” I said, stroking his hair.
When the even breathing of my oldest son assured me he was sound asleep, I went out to the main room. I tidied everything up as best I could. There would be no classes tomorrow, and I did not know if there ever would be again, but I wanted to leave things neat and orderly. I lingered to look at the pictures on the walls, the little tables, the remaining shards of colored pencils. I was pleased. I remembered Ludwika’s words from a few months before. All this work had not been in vain. In some way it had restored our sense of human dignity and our right to be treated as more than beasts.
I wrote my final reflections in my journal. I poured out my feelings more intensely than any other night of writing.
It’s all coming to a close like a Shakespearean drama. Tragedy is inevitable, as if the author of this macabre theatrical work wanted to leave the audience with their jaws on the floor. The minutes are marching inexorably toward the final act. When the curtain falls again, Auschwitz will keep writing its story of terror and evil, but we will have become souls in purgatory haunting the walls of Hamlet’s castle, though unable to actually warn anybody about the crimes committed against the Gypsy people. I miss Johann. I have no clue what has happened to him, but in the chaos overtaking Auschwitz, I fear that the Nazis will do away with every inconvenient witness to their crimes.
Soon I returned to bed, though not to sleep. Memories from an entire lifetime played out before me, one after another. I was happy I had married my husband. Some thought he was despicable because he was a Gypsy; to me, he was one of the world’s greatest treasures. I thought of my parents. They were old, and I doubted they would have survived the war. They had also had a full, happy life. My children were beside me, resting as the intense summer sun began to peek over the horizon. I felt deeply afraid. I prayed for God to chase away from my mind all the bad omens. I accepted his will, and with this assurance I fell asleep just as the day dawned.
It seemed that our bodies were trying to relax that morning. When I finally woke, it was almost ten o’clock. I had nothing to give the children, but I heated up some tea. We sipped it silently while listening to the noises of the people lining up for the selection.
Someone knocked at the door, and I went to open it. Zelma stood there with her children. She had her few belongings wrapped up in a semblance of a sheet and strung over her shoulder. Her face was sad, but she gave me the gift of one of her beautiful smiles.
“Frau Hannemann, I’ve come to say good-bye. It’s been an honor to know you.”
“And for me to know
you,” I said, hugging her.
“I’ll never forget your family.”
The children tumbled out to say good-bye, and she hugged and kissed each, one by one, as we did the same to her son and daughter. When she was finished, tears were welling up in her big green eyes. I felt so sad as I watched them walk toward the Gypsies lining up.
Ludwika came out of the defunct hospital barrack and made her way to where we were. She was much less expressive than Zelma, but she said good-bye in her own way.
“Elisabeth told me she’s getting an order for you all to be transferred to another camp. They never should have brought you here,” she said, fighting back tears.
“Why not? I’m no better than anyone else here. Blonde hair, blue eyes, German parents—it’s all chance. I feel like one of the Gypsies. I wish they would accept me as one of their own. They’ve lived so long like this, persecuted and despised by all, but there’s a greatness in their hearts, a nobility the world has lost.”
Ludwika wept against my shoulder. To the very end I was consoling those who wanted to help me in this impossible situation. As the children got distracted playing awhile, she and I recalled some of the things we had lived through together. It had not all been bad.
Then the Nazis ordered the prisoners who had been selected to get into the trucks that were parked between the kitchen and the warehouse barracks.
Most prisoners who were left went back inside their barracks before nightfall. The heat was stifling, but it somehow felt safer to be inside the wooden stalls. Yet I preferred to stay outside a bit longer, just looking and watching on that August day.
Around five o’clock Elisabeth came up to our barrack. She walked alone down the wide road of what felt like an empty, listless camp. As she approached, I remembered back to when the street was jam-packed with families trying to kill time by taking a walk before a meager supper.
Auschwitz Lullaby Page 17