The Boy Who Followed His Father into Auschwitz

by Jeremy Dronfield

  For Fritz, this was one of the most dispiriting periods in his entire time at Auschwitz. However, he had still not seen the worst.

  אחים

  In the late afternoon of Sunday 20 August, the first bombs fell out of a clear blue sky. One hundred and twenty-seven American bombers, flying from a base in Italy, drawing a comb of vapour trails five miles above Auschwitz, dropped 1,336 bombs, each one a quarter-tonne of steel and high explosive.7 They detonated in the central and eastern end of the Buna Werke.

  While the SS hid in their bunkers, the prisoners had to take their chances in the open, amid the titanic roar of explosions, with the concussions shaking their bodies. The flak batteries around the perimeter replied, thudding and hammering. Prisoners working in the factories threw themselves to the floor for protection, and rejoiced. ‘The bombing was really a happy day for us,’ one of them recalled. ‘We thought, they know all about us, they are making preparations to free us.’ Another said, ‘We really enjoyed the bombing … We wanted once to see a killed German. Then we could sleep better, after the humiliation never to be able to answer back.’8

  The bombs left the ground in and around the Buna Werke pocked with smoking craters. Most had failed to hit anything, but some buildings in the synthetic oil and aluminium plants had been torn apart, along with various sheds, workshops and offices. Some stray bombs had landed in the camps around the factory complex, including Monowitz. Seventy-five prisoners were killed in the raid, and over 150 injured.9

  Many Jewish prisoners were elated at seeing the SS terrorized, but some felt the opposite. The young Italian Primo Levi, who had arrived in Monowitz in February, believed that the bombing hardened the will of the SS and brought about a solidarity between them and the German civilians in the Buna Werke. Also, the bomb damage interrupted water and food supplies to the camp.10

  The resistance were disappointed. The appearance of bombers had prompted speculation that the Allies might start parachuting in soldiers and weapons. But although American planes were seen again high overhead on a few occasions, neither bombs nor parachutes fell; they were reconnaissance flights, carefully photographing the IG Farben works and the Auschwitz complex.

  What really occupied the thoughts and debates of the resistance was the relentless advance of the Red Army from the east. They had reason to fear that when the moment came the SS would carry out a mass liquidation of the whole camp, murdering all the prisoners before they could be liberated. They had done so at Majdanek.

  Escape attempts continued. In October four prisoners on an outside work detail overpowered their SS guard, seizing his rifle and destroying it before making their escape.11 Another man walked out of the camp disguised in a stolen SS uniform. He managed to get all the way to Vienna before the Nazis caught up with him, and he died in a shootout with the Gestapo.

  Individual actions were inspiring, but the Jewish resistance – including Fritz – wanted more. Now that relations with the Poles had been soured, it would be impossible to hook up with the partisans. Instead, it was suggested that they try to make contact with the Red Army. In order to do that, they would need to build a relationship with the Russian POWs held in a separate enclosure in Monowitz. They could be approached via some of the Russian Jews known to the resistance. It would be hard, because there were no loyal communists or Jews among the POWs – they had all been shot immediately on capture – so there was little common ground. Nonetheless, Fritz and the others had to try. Eventually, one of the Aryanized Jews succeeded in escaping with a handful of Russians. Everyone waited anxiously for developments, and when none came they guessed he had evaded recapture.

  This gave the resistance a glimmer of hope, but it was faint. Sitting in on their meetings, Fritz felt a growing impatience. His thoughts were still on fighting back when the final massacre began; hoping for Russian help felt vain and inadequate; ‘If we were to be slain, we should at least take a few SS men with us,’ he reasoned. He turned this thought over and over in his mind but, with no idea how to accomplish it, he kept it to himself.

  אבא

  In September the American bombers returned, aiming for the oil plant in the Buna Werke. Some went off course and dropped their bombs on Auschwitz I, where by chance they hit the SS barracks; another fell on a sewing workshop, instantly killing forty prisoners. A few hit Birkenau, slightly damaging the rail tracks near the crematoria and killing about thirty civilian workers.12 Only slight damage was done to the oil plant, but around three hundred prisoners, who as always were barred from entering the shelters, were injured.

  Some prisoners were glad to take the risk. Selections for the gas chambers took place weekly now, with sometimes up to two thousand being despatched from Monowitz at once.13 The American bombs seemed to foreshadow liberation. How long could it be now?

  ‘We are coming to winter again – already our sixth,’ Gustav wrote as the first frosts began. ‘But we are still here, still our old selves.’ News from the outside reported the Russians at a standstill near Cracow. ‘I keep thinking that our stay here will soon come to an end.’

  How long could it drag on?

  בן

  ‘I want you to get me a gun.’

  Fredl Wocher was taken aback. He and Fritz often met up during the day; normally Wocher would pass his friend some food or, on rare occasions when he’d been to Vienna, a letter or a package.

  ‘Get you a what?’

  ‘A gun. Can you do that for me?’

  Wocher hesitated, but didn’t ask what it was for; he didn’t want to know. ‘I’ll have to think about it,’ he said reluctantly. ‘It’s dangerous.’

  ‘Remember all you’ve done for me,’ Fritz said. ‘This won’t be any more dangerous than any of that.’

  Wocher wasn’t convinced. A decorated German soldier smuggling guns for a Jewish prisoner? That wasn’t merely dangerous, it was insane.

  Despite his friend’s reluctance, Fritz kept pushing. If there was a final massacre in Auschwitz – as seemed increasingly probable – he wanted to at least be able to defend himself and his father. If he could get enough guns, he might even be able to arm the whole resistance.

  A few days later they met again in a quiet corner of the works site. Wocher looked excited. ‘Did you get it?’ Fritz asked eagerly.

  Wocher shook his head. ‘No. I’ve got a better idea. We should escape together, you and I.’

  Fritz’s heart sank, but before he could object, Wocher rushed on. He had it all planned out. Once free of the camp, they would head southwest, making for the mountain country of the Austrian Tyrol. As a Bavarian, Wocher knew the region and could find them a safe sanctuary among the peasant mountain farmers. The Tyrol was right at the nexus between the two Allied fronts: American and British forces were pushing hard into northern Italy, while Patton’s Third Army was driving towards the Rhine from the west. In no time, both of these advances would reach the Tyrol, and Fritz and Fredl would be liberated. ‘It’s better than waiting here and hoping to survive,’ Wocher argued. Having seen the pitiless violence of the Eastern Front, he knew the callousness of the Red Army matched anything the SS was capable of.

  Fritz was swayed by the strength of his friend’s argument. But he shook his head. ‘It’s out of the question.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m not leaving my papa behind.’

  ‘So we take him with us.’

  ‘He’s too old to survive a journey like that on foot.’ Actually, Fritz wasn’t at all sure of that, but even if it was physically possible, he doubted his father would agree to go; there were too many people here who depended on him, and he wouldn’t forsake them. There was another issue: if Fritz went without him, as Fritz’s kapo Gustav might be held responsible for his escape.

  ‘It’s impossible,’ Fritz said. ‘What I need is a gun. Can you get me one?’

  The German reluctantly gave in. ‘I’ll need money,’ he said. ‘Reichsmarks won’t do – it has to be American dollars or Swiss francs.’

 
בן

  The first person Fritz tried as a potential source of cash was Gustl Täuber, who worked in the Canada store. It was a haunting place, stuffy, filled with racks of coats and jackets, folded trousers, sweaters, shirts, bundles and heaps of unsorted stuff, shoes, suitcases, each with a name and address painted – a Gustav or a Franz, a Shlomo or a Paul, Frieda, Emmanuel, Otto, Chaim, Helen, Mimi, Karl, Kurt; and the surnames: Rauchmann, Klein, Rebstock, Askiew, Rosenberg, Abraham, Herzog, Engel; and over and over again: Israel and Sara. Each with a truncated address in Vienna, Berlin, Hamburg, or just a number or birthdate. Every aisle between the racks and shelves was redolent with their odours, their sweat and perfumes, mothballs and leather, serge and mildew.

  Gustl Täuber was an old Buchenwalder, close to Fritz’s papa in age, a Jew from Silesiafn1 born in the high days of the German Empire.14 Fritz had never liked Täuber much; he was one of the very few who felt no bond of solidarity with his fellow prisoners, and wouldn’t put himself out for anyone. But he was Fritz’s best hope. They’d had a trading relationship for some time based on bonus coupons, which Täuber had used to buy vodka and (as an Aryanized Jew) visits to the brothel. Fritz knew that there was often money found in the clothing, and that Täuber pocketed whatever he could. Could he spare some? The old man shook his head. Fritz pleaded, but Täuber was immovable; he knew Fritz was connected with the resistance, and wasn’t willing to put his privileges in jeopardy. Fritz was disgusted; Täuber was happy enough to get involved in risky dealings when there was a brothel visit or a bottle of vodka in it for him.

  From the clothing store Fritz went to the main bathhouse. New prisoners were brought here for disinfecting and shaving, and cash and valuables successfully concealed from the Canada searchers were often taken from them here. The bathhouse attendant was another old Buchenwalder, David Plaut, a former salesman from Berlin.15 Unlike Täuber he was a decent friend. Although pickings from the bathhouse were taken by the camp kapo, Emil Worgul, Fritz reckoned Plaut, who did the actual work, must manage to sidetrack a little cash for himself. Fritz spun a yarn about needing to buy vodka with which to bribe Worgul to give some of his comrades transfers to easier labour details. It worked. Plaut went to his hiding place and came back with a little roll of American dollar bills.

  Fritz met Fredl Wocher the next day and gave him the money. There followed several days of anxious waiting. Then one morning Wocher showed up at their meeting wearing an expression of mingled fear and triumph.

  From under his coat he produced a pistol, a military-issue Luger. He wouldn’t say how he’d obtained it, but Fritz guessed it came from one of his friends in the Luftwaffe flak batteries. He showed Fritz how it worked – how to extract the magazine and load it with bullets, how to cock it and operate the safety catch. There were a couple of boxes of ammunition with it.16 Fritz handled it with foreboding and excitement, sensing the lethal power in his palm.

  Now came the problem of getting it back to camp. Contraband food was one thing; firearms were in a different league. Retreating to a hiding place, Fritz dropped his trousers and tied the Luger to his thigh. The ammunition went in his pockets. That evening he marched back to camp tingling.

  After roll call he went straight to the hospital and found Stefan Heymann. Beckoning him to follow, he led his friend behind a stack of dirty laundry and showed him the Luger.

  Stefan was horrified. ‘Are you crazy? Get rid of that thing! If you get caught with that it won’t just be you they kill – you’re putting our whole operation at risk.’

  Fritz was hurt. ‘You brought me up to be like this,’ he said indignantly. ‘You always taught me that I had to fight for my life.’

  Stefan had no answer to that. Over the next few days they talked again and again; Fritz explained his thinking – the ferocity of the battle that might take place here, the notorious brutality of the Russians, the likelihood of the SS massacring the prisoners – and gradually wore Stefan down. ‘I’m sure I can get more guns if I have the money,’ he offered.

  Stefan thought it over. ‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll do what I can. But the whole thing must be properly organized. No more going it alone.’

  He managed to scrape together two hundred dollars, which Fritz took to Fredl Wocher. Another period of waiting followed, then one day Wocher led Fritz to a discreet spot in the factory and showed him where he had hidden another Luger and two MP 40 machine pistols – the distinctive sub-machine guns used by German soldiers everywhere. There were several boxes of ammunition for all three weapons.

  This would be a much bigger challenge to smuggle into the camp. Fritz planned it carefully; it would take several trips. Obtaining one of the huge canisters used to bring soup for the prisoners’ midday meal, he built a false bottom into it, beneath which he concealed the ammunition. The Luger he strapped to his thigh again, but the machine pistols were a different matter. Having been tutored in their use and maintenance by Wocher, he dismantled one and tied as many of the parts as he could to his bare torso.

  With winter deepening and the nights drawing in, it was dark at the end of his shift, so there was little chance of the guards noticing his unusually bulky shape. All the same, it was stomach-churning, as was standing through hours of roll call with the heavy parts strapped to him.

  The moment it ended Fritz walked swiftly to the hospital laundry, where Jule Meixner was waiting for him. Fritz hurriedly stripped off his uniform, untied the gun components, and passed them to Jule, who hid them. For security, Fritz wasn’t told where – on the principle that you can’t give up a secret under torture if you don’t know it in the first place. Over the next several days, he repeated the dangerous operation until all three guns and their ammunition were inside the camp.

  Fritz felt pleased with himself; by bringing the Luger into the camp, he had forced Stefan’s hand. The resistance would never have done it without him. Now, if a repeat of Majdanek happened here, they’d be able to extract some blood from the SS in return.

  אבא

  Through December, Gustav’s workshop went on turning out blackout curtains and coats in parallel. With no direct involvement in the resistance, he had no idea of the dangerous venture Fritz had embarked on. Gustav was looking forward to Christmas, when Wocher would be making another of his trips to Vienna.

  One Monday afternoon, the workshop was running at its usual full tilt when suddenly, over the soft snickering of sewing machines, they heard the rising moan of the air-raid sirens.17 Within seconds, doors began slamming, feet running, voices shouting. The SS and civilians were making for the shelters. Gustav’s staff looked at him. He gave them permission to run off to whatever makeshift hiding places they wished. Gustav stayed where he was. Hiding places would be of little use if a bomb fell close.

  After a few minutes, with the last panicked footsteps dying away, the drone of planes and the thumping of the flak guns began. The noise rose in a crescendo, and with it came the first earth-shattering concussions of bombs. Gustav lay flat; this was no new terror for him: he’d spent months under bombardment in the trenches, and had learned to sit and wait for it to either pass or for a random bomb to find him and send him to oblivion. It was both useless and dangerous to panic. His great fear was for Fritz, who was out on fitting work. Gustav knew his son had a hiding place among the buildings where he would at least be sheltered from flying debris.

  Again the bombers were aiming for the synthetic oil plant, but a lot of the explosions seemed to scatter randomly – some far away, some uncomfortably close. Suddenly, the floor beneath Gustav was rocked by a titanic detonation. Windows shattered, and there was a cacophony of tearing metal and masonry. Gustav covered his head and sat tight. The shuddering died away. Dust floated in the air, and beyond the bubble of silence immediately around him Gustav could hear distant screams and yelling, the pounding of the guns stuttering to a halt, and the drone of the bombers receding. The all-clear began to howl.

  Climbing to his feet, Gustav found the workshop in di
sarray: sewing machines shaken loose and toppled from their benches, chairs knocked over, dust everywhere, shards of glass from the broken windows. The men and women who’d stayed with him stood up, coughing and blinking.

  As soon as he was satisfied that nobody was hurt, Gustav’s first thought was for Fritz. He went outside into a chaos of smoke and flame. Some buildings had been destroyed, and dead prisoners lay scattered in the open and among the rubble. Injured men and women were being assisted by their comrades.18

  There was no sign of Fritz. Gustav hurried through the smoke, heading for his son’s hiding place, consumed by a rising sense of foreboding. Turning the corner, he reached the place. It was gone. Instead just a hill of broken, tumbled rubble and twisted metal. Gustav stared in shock and disbelief.

  After a while he began wandering back in a daze of grief. His Fritzl – his pride and joy, his dear, sweet, loyal Fritzl – was gone.

  SS men and civilians were emerging from their shelters. Hardly any had stayed at their posts. The fences were down in a few places, and several prisoners had escaped. Gustav stood a moment staring as the SS tried to restore order. He was about to turn away when he saw two figures in stripes walking towards him through the smoke, one carrying a large toolbox and moving with a familiar gait. Gustav could hardly believe his eyes. He ran and threw his arms around Fritz. ‘My boy, my Fritzl, you’re alive!’ he sobbed, kissing the bemused boy’s face and hugging him, repeating over and over, ‘You’re alive! My boy! It’s a miracle!’

  He took Fritz by the arm and led him to the smoking remains of his hiding place. ‘It’s a miracle,’ he kept repeating. Gustav’s faith in their good luck and fortitude, which had helped keep him alive for so long, was again vindicated.

  אב ובן