“Move out! This way!”
Shivering with cold, the naked prisoners followed the sound of the voice to where a drum of the same bluish green disinfectant which greeted them on their arrival at the camp was waiting. Each man dipped himself quickly into the foul-smelling liquid, before lining up for a shave. Tony’s hair was scraped none too carefully from his head, and he was glad to lose the filthy locks. There was no home now for the parasites which had lived and bred in his hair for the past months. Freedom from lice would more than make up for the cold of the exposed skin.
“Get dressed.”
Tony looked in dismay at the pile of clothing on the floor. These were the same uniform, striped trousers and shirts and heavy wooden clogs. But where were the things he had taken off before the shower? His woollen socks, gloves and scarf? Most importantly of all, where was his blanket? As he helped himself to clean shirt and trousers and struggled into the wooden clogs, he plucked up the courage to address one of the Kapos.
“Where are our other things?”
“They were filthy and infected with parasites. They are being burned.”
Tony knew better than to complain, but his heart sank. He had worked hard and taken so many risks to acquire those things he had thought were essential to survival. And now they were being burned! Consumed to ashes, just like the people who were no longer wanted in Buchenwald. He wanted to cry in anger and frustration. Surviving the winter was no longer a foregone conclusion. He had been relying on the added warmth from the acquired clothing. Without it he, and especially Henri who was older and much more vulnerable after his bout of typhoid, were liable to take a trip in the death carts, long before the first flowers of spring pushed their heads through the thawing ground to reach towards the sky in a symbol of hope. Tony’s hopes were crushed. His necessities for survival were rising in smoke towards the heavens. He wondered why God did not see and do something to help those whose only future lay in the coke ovens of Buchenwald.
JANUARY – MAY 1945
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1945 dawned with the Allies convinced that this was the year that would see the end of the war. Although the Germans still fought on, they were short of men and supplies. They could not hope to hold out for much longer, neither could they dream now of the final victory being theirs. January saw the might of the Russian army pushing the beleaguered Reich from the east. Warsaw was liberated on the 17th. While Stalin, Roosevelt and Churchill met at Yalta to discuss how they would divide the inevitable spoils of war, the Germans planned and began a counter offensive. It was doomed to failure, as the Russians continued to push towards the German heartland, and Budapest finally fell to the communists. In the west, the Allies were impatient for final victory. To hurry matters towards a satisfying conclusion, a massive bombing raid against Dresden was launched on the 13th and 14th of February. It did little to hasten the winning of the war, but further crushed the spirit of a people who now stared defeat in the face as the Allies reached the Rhine, that all important barrier which the Americans crossed at Remagen on 7th March. Monty led the British across on the 23rd. It looked as though nothing could go wrong for the Allies. It was with deep shock and sadness that they learned of the death of President Roosevelt on 12th April, a man who had worked so hard during the war years, but whose body could not hold out for the few weeks necessary to allow him to see his forces victorious in Europe.
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As the long winter months dragged on, Tony felt his body weakening day by day. No longer could he find the energy to move around the camp in search of additional food and clothes. All he could do was watch those in his own hut, waiting for them to eventually succumb to the cold or starvation. He would rush to their bunk to see what he could salvage, hoping to get there before anyone else realised that the man was dead. He felt ghoulish, watching and waiting for men to die so that he could take their clothes, but he buried his hatred of his own actions along with his feelings of guilt. This was a matter of survival, and he was determined that he would survive. Often he took small portions of bread from those who had died during the night, and he would share these with Henri, to supplement their meagre rations. Sometimes he was lucky enough to strip the dead of their clothing. The first few times, he and Henri kept what they took. They soon had extra layers to fight off the bitter cold of the German winter, a cold that could kill them in their weakened condition as easily as starvation. Wooden clogs and extra clothing were also traded for food, though there was little on the black market. A quarter of a loaf of tasteless black bread could cost as much as three shirts, but Tony would not give in. Day by day he watched Henri slipping further and further away. His age and his weakened condition were too much of a handicap for him to fight the inevitable. By the beginning of March he numbered among the Muselmenn, who crawled from place to place because their stick-like legs, devoid now of all muscle, could no longer take the insignificant weight of their bodies. Tony knew that if the Allies did not arrive soon, Henri would not live to see freedom.
One morning there was a sound like thunder muted by distance. A storm was nothing new, so Tony thought little of it to begin with. But the sound continued and the sky stayed clear and bright. Slowly an idea formed in his mind. Was he hearing gunfire? Could the Allies be coming at last? He made his slow way on unsteady legs to where Henri lay in the comparative shelter of the hut wall.
“Do you hear that?”
“Thunder?”
“It could be. But I was in northern France at the beginning of the war. When I approached Dunkirk, I heard heavy guns in the distance. It sounded much like this.”
“Guns?” Henri’s voice was weak, almost a whisper, totally lacking in feeling as though nothing mattered to him now. His head rested on his chest, his neck too weak to hold it up for long. Tony felt a tightening in his chest. Would Henri make it?
“Yes, Henri. I think the Allies are almost here. We will soon be free.”
Henri closed his eyes as he slipped into sleep. He slept a lot now as his body sought to preserve its pitifully few resources. Tony sat down beside him, eyes closed as he listened to the sound of gunfire. Hope grew within him, taking flight like a heron rising.
The whistles blew for roll call at four a.m. as usual the next day. Tony helped Henri out into the compound. He was sure he could still hear the muted sound of gunfire, although maybe it was just his imagination. The wind was in the east, blowing any possible sounds from the Western Front away from him.
Roll call was over by seven a.m. but the prisoners were not dismissed. Trucks were driven into the centre of the compound and SS officers began to make their way along the rows of human scarecrows. Any Muselmann was carried away by the work party and placed in the trucks. Tony whispered desperately to Henri.
“A selection! You don’t look too thin with all that added clothing. Just stay on your feet and you’ll be all right. Do you hear me, Henri?”
Henri said nothing but his back straightened slightly, and he held his head a little higher as the SS officer approached. He looked carefully at Henri, then passed on taking another fifty from their hut to the trucks. Tony breathed a silent sigh of relief. They had survived! His relief was short lived. The selection took four long hours during which many succumbed to cold and fatigue and fell to their knees. These too were taken to the trucks.
By mid-day fully one third of the prisoners had been driven away. Each time a full truck left for the death compound, another arrived to take its place. Tony tried not to imagine what it must be like at the other end, as the endless lines of prisoners were killed and burned. The SS officers were seated around a brazier in which a fire roared, warming their hands at the flames, just sitting watching and waiting. Each time a prisoner fell, they would point to him, and the work party carried the unfortunate victim to the waiting trucks. Tony was aware of Henri struggling to stay upright in front of him. It was a battle he could not win. Eventually the Frenchman could hold out no longer, and slipped to his knees. Tony bent to try to lift him, but
a Kapo caught him across the back of the neck with a whip.
“On your feet, or you go with him.”
Tony looked at Henri, his mind a whirl of conflicting emotions. Could he let Henri face the terrible ordeal which lay ahead alone? Should he, for the sake of their friendship, go with him? He felt the hollowed tooth with his tongue. After all, he did still have his suicide pill. He could be with Henri to offer moral support, but end his own life before the agony of death by gas. Henri’s vision cleared for a moment. He seemed to see deep into Tony’s mind and heart. He shook his head, a weak movement which took tremendous effort.
“No, Tony. You’re too close to freedom. I’ll be all right.”
Slowly Tony stood and watched the work party drag Henri over to the waiting truck. It was only half full. The Frenchman sat so that he could see Tony. Their eyes met and held for the twenty minutes it took for the rest of the truck to be filled with its hopeless cargo. Henri drew strength from the comforting look of his friend, while Tony drew on the quiet courage of the man who knew what manner of death awaited him, and faced it boldly. At last the truck was full. As it and pulled away. Tony’s tears began to fall. He had held out for so long. Why the General Roll Call now? Why was Henri not to see the freedom that must be round the corner?
The long afternoon dragged on towards evening. The prisoners still stood in their depleted ranks numb with cold, weak from hunger, desperately thirsty. At six p.m., fourteen hours after they had first been called from their huts for the morning roll call, it was over.
Major Hase stood and addressed the remaining prisoners.
“You will run back to your huts. There are trucks waiting for those of you who cannot. Dismissed.”
Tony’s mind reeled at the barbarity of it all. Still more to go, still one final selection. He forced his stiffened muscles to move as he took one faltering step after another and broke into a shambling run. His weakened left leg dragged behind him. Much to his surprise he made it, and turned in the doorway to watch the other prisoners. They ran in slow motion, drawing desperate breaths as they forced their weakened bodies to obey them. Most made it, but some did not. They were taken, heads held low in despair, to the last of the waiting trucks, which carried them away to the place of no return.
Tony heard the sound of guns frequently over the next few days, but he thought little of freedom. If it came so be it. But since Henri was taken, he had lost all ability to hope for freedom in the future. It was as though some unseen force conspired to separate him forever from the people he loved. For the first time since his capture he allowed his mind to sink into despair.
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“What’s that?”
Bobby looked across to where an enormous fence seemed to stretch from horizon to horizon. From this distance it was hard to see what was going on. But there seemed to be people moving about beyond it.
“I’m not sure, Zach. It could be a prisoner of war camp. If it is, I’ll be mighty glad to get in there, and free any of our boys that have been captured.”
Zach nodded as they moved forward. “Yes. But it’s so quiet. You’d think they’d cheer or something. They must be able to see us coming.”
Bobby only then realised the unnatural silence which seemed to pervade the area, as though all living things had gone, no birds in the trees, no small animals. He shivered.
“This is eerie.”
It was 13th April 1945. Bobby and Zach, along with the rest of the United States 3rd Army, were advancing in the vicinity of Weimar. They soon came to realise that what they initially thought was a prisoner of war compound had in fact been built to hold prisoners who had committed crimes against the Reich. It held many dissidents and members of the resistance groups from countries the Germans had occupied at the height of their power. As they approached the electrified fence, the normally voluble Americans fell silent at the sickening sight which greeted their eyes. Men in striped trousers and shirts stood silent and listless, their heads shorn, eyes sunken, hollow cheeked, many of them too weak to close their mouths. It was like a scene from hell, yet without the hideous screams that scene evoked. This place was eerily silent. The gates were opened, and the numbed Americans made their way into the living hell. Their commanding officer stared in utter disbelief at the men, some weighing only fifty or sixty pounds. He wondered how they could still be alive. At last he spoke.
“Do what you can for them.” His voice was full of compassion. His men began to move past the wooden carts piled high with skeletal bodies and in amongst the suffering men, offering them water, food, blankets, feeling that their best efforts were useless in the face of the unbelievable suffering.
As Bobby and Zach made their way into Buchenwald, the smell hit them as an almost physical blow. There was a stench of excreta, of disease, of rotting flesh and of death. The two men looked around in disbelief at the pitiful remnants of humanity, who stared at them with eyes that echoed the horrors they had witnessed. As Zach looked at the yellow Star of David which many of the prisoners wore, he began to shiver uncontrollably. He turned his tortured gaze to Bobby.
“This is why my parents left Germany. They knew Hitler wanted to get rid of us Jews, but they never imagined anything like this. If they’d stayed, I could be one of these men. If I weren’t already dead.”
Bobby reached out and touched his arm in sympathy. “Come on. Let’s do what we can to help.”
They opened their packs and began to hand out their rations, saving nothing for themselves. It was an insignificant drop in the ocean. How could they provide relief for so many? As Zach did the best he could for a small group of prisoners, he noticed that one of them was watching Bobby, a frown furrowing his features. Finally the prisoner spoke, his voice cracked and hoarse.
“Bobby?” He looked at Zach, his haunted eyes questioning. “Is that man called Bobby?”
Zach was surprised to hear the man speaking English. His eyes widened in disbelief.
“Yes. Do you know him?”
The prisoner nodded. “Yes. I knew him in another life. Long before I came here.”
Zach laid a hand on the man’s shoulder, and felt the contour of his bones beneath the thin shirt. He shuddered.
“Don’t move, pal. I’ll be right back.”
Amongst all the men in Buchenwald, those newly freed and their liberators, Zach was the only man to move quickly. He rushed over to his compatriot, and pulled him round to face the wasted prisoner.
“That man over there says he knows you!”
Bobby looked hard at the man. His head had been shaved and the hair grown back sparsely in thin strands. The face was skull like, the body skeletal, with folds of skin hanging from bones which had lost all covering of flesh. The man stood rocklike, as though any attempt to move was a great effort. Bobby thought he must be quite old, at least fifty or sixty. He turned to Zach.
“How could he know me?”
The young Jew shrugged. “I don’t know. But he spoke to me in English, and asked if your name is Bobby.”
“In English?” Bobby turned and looked at the man again. Perhaps he was not as old as he first imagined. The sunken eyes were regarding him almost in desperation, as though pleading to be recognised. There was something about those eyes which struck a chord in Bobby’s memory. He took a hesitant step forward, then another. As he approached the wreck of humanity a wild thought took root in his mind. He whispered a name.
“Tony? Tony Kemshall?”
The prisoner looked back, the despair in his eyes turning to hope.
“Tony Kemshall! My God, it is you!” He crossed the intervening space quickly then stopped, unsure of how to proceed. It was Tony who spoke first.
“You can’t believe how glad we all are to see you Yanks.”
It was the same voice, though flat and unemotional, as though all feeling had been forced from this young man who looked so old. Bobby took him by the arm and helped him to sit down, conscious all the time of the bones which protruded from his translucent skin. He
knelt in the dirt before the Englishman.
“So this is what happened to you. Sarah wrote to say you had disappeared in France. She told me all about your work.”
Tony’s features brightened at the sound of her name. His eyes came to life again, radiating a love so deep that it tore Bobby’s heart to see it.
“Sarah!”
The whispered word was like a prayer, and Bobby felt tears spring to his eyes. A whole world of love and longing had gone into that single word.
The Englishman looked at the American, his breath escaping in a sigh.
“I suppose she thinks I’m dead.”
“No!” Bobby shook his head emphatically. “The officer who visited her said that she should assume that, but she didn’t give up hope. She said she won’t believe it until she sees your body.” As he looked at this ghost of a man who had suffered so much during the course of this war, Bobby knew he had lost Sarah forever. She had loved Tony for so long. She would never abandon him now. Though his heart was breaking, he forced a smile for the one who had endured far more than most people could and still survive. “She’s still waiting for you, Tony.”
“Waiting? For me?”
The words were little more than a whisper. Tony closed his eyes as the full realisation of his situation finally hit him. He was free! Somewhere the Americans were holding the Germans who had made Buchenwald such a hell on earth. There was no one to tell him what to do, and he could return home at last to Sarah. Tears forced their way beneath his closed eyelids. He wept unashamedly, unaware of the tears the American shed, which he wiped away roughly with the sleeve of his greatcoat. He said nothing for a time, allowing Tony to come to terms with the situation. Then he touched him on the arm.
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