Last Stop Auschwitz

by Eddy de Wind

  Friedel was overjoyed to see him. A transport of women had already left and they had searched for her everywhere, but she had hidden in the attic because she still wanted to say goodbye to him. He had only been there a moment when the Rottenführer had someone call him. The Dutchman had to come immediately. There was a coke oven in the attic that needed to be taken to the laundry.

  Hans swore, but didn’t dare object, and got the oven from the attic. It was an enormous weight, but when Hans was angry that was something he liked. He carried the oven to the laundry in one go and threw it down on the floor. He was standing there catching his breath for a moment when he saw the Rottenführer arriving with the other lads, who weren’t carrying anything at all. He’d only made Hans carry it so he couldn’t stay there with his wife. That Rottenführer was the bane of his life. But now he’d outsmart him. The Rottenführer went into the Schreibstube with the lads to get all of the paperwork, which had to be burnt.

  In the meantime Hans disappeared. Back with Friedel, he was at a loss for words.

  “Do you really not want to try to stay?”

  “No, they’ll finish off everyone who’s sick.”

  “But that journey will be terrible. Are we up to that?”

  “We don’t have any choice, Hans. Promise me you’ll go too.”

  He hesitated. Then he promised, but at the same time he felt that he was being dishonest with her for the first time, because he was scared to death of that journey. In the same instant the door opened. It was Colet.

  “I told Sara she had to stay, but she’s too scared.”

  Hans said he didn’t understand the women, but there wasn’t anything they could do about it. Then yelling sounded through the block: “All line up!” The farewell was brief. Friedel was scared of looking weak. As always she couldn’t face the feelings that assailed her.

  Hans turned at the door, but she raised her hands as if begging him to leave and not make it even more difficult.

  The rest of the day was uneventful and Hans felt numbed. For two years they had fought together. They’d had many close calls, but they had never let themselves be parted for long. First at the train—the selection. Then the frightening month he’d spent in Birkenau and, later, after Block 10 had been moved. They had always found each other again. But now?

  The next morning the Kapo from the kitchen block came with a letter from Friedel.

  Hans, I’ve been in the women’s camp since yesterday. I think you were right. It would be better to stay. That’s what everyone here wants, but it won’t be possible. If only Sara hadn’t been so stupid! They just cleared the block next to ours, beating the girls out with their rifle butts. Anyway, I’ll do my best, darling. Be brave. One day we’ll see each other again. They’re already on their way.

  Bye, sweetheart.

  He read and reread it. What did she mean, “If only Sara hadn’t been so stupid”? He went to see Colet.

  “Yesterday I took three sets of men’s clothing to Block 23. For Friedel and the two Saras. But my Sara was too scared.”

  Hans could have kicked himself. That would have been the solution: dress them in men’s clothing, then do or die together.

  “What are you going to do now, Alfonso?”

  “We’re not leaving, not under any circumstances. You’ll see that the rest of the camp will leave today, except maybe the sick. But we’re going to hide. We don’t want to die in the snow on the side of the road.”

  “Where are you going to hide?” Hans asked.

  “If you keep your mouth shut, I’ll show you.”

  Under the enormous pile of dirty clothes in the disinfection cellar, they’d made a concealed hiding place. The cellar was concrete and the building above it was made of wood, so even if it collapsed, they’d still be safe. Alfonso turned out to be well informed.

  Around eleven o’clock the Lagerältester ran through the camp like a madman: “All turn out!” Even the kitchen staff left. The Krankenbau was the only place nothing happened. There were virtually no SS left. They had gone on the marches with the transports and their departure signaled the start of the plundering of the camp.

  They fetched clothes from the Bekleidungskammer and tore open the bags in the Effektenkammer, with everyone picking out the best things they could find. The storerooms under the kitchen had been broken open and the patients, who had hardly been able to drag themselves that far, were now sitting down to stuff themselves from tins of meat and barrels of sauerkraut. And what was worse: they’d found vodka in a cellar. Polish vodka that was almost pure alcohol: burning your throat and without the slightest taste.

  Late in the afternoon, the first victims: ill, critically ill, vomiting and diarrhea, deeply miserable, with others rolling over the street or lying stupefied in the gutter, so terribly drunk. The start of an eventful evening.

  At eight o’clock the Rottenführer appeared with a few henchmen. Everybody who could walk had to get ready. Almost all of them wanted to go. Only the Poles were willing to stay. They all said they were too sick for a transport, evidently pinning their hopes on the partisans. There were endless discussions about who was in the best condition.

  A couple of doctors had to stay in each block. In Block 19 it was Akkerman, a non-Jewish Dutchman, and Hans, who preferred the dangers of the camp to those of the transport. Hans was counting on Colet with his Spaniards.

  At ten the Rottenführer bellowed that everyone had to come outside. Then came Sepp’s miraculous deed. He locked the door on the inside, took up position in front of it with his feet planted firmly, and snarled at anyone who tried to get out: “You idiot, with your sick body out in the cold, where do you think you’ll end up? If the Romanian comes to get you, it will be soon enough.”

  But the Romanian didn’t come to get them. He only had a few men with him and wasn’t equal to the situation. Fully armed, wearing a helmet, with a rifle on his back and a torch in his hand, he still felt unsure of himself now that his cushy life was over too. He didn’t even notice that nobody from Block 19 had turned out. Sepp’s moment of boldness had saved hundreds of lives.

  Once the Krankenbau had marched off, it was very empty in the camp. There were only a few hundred bedridden patients who hadn’t been able to leave the three hospital blocks, plus the overcrowded Block 19, full of patients and a wide range of other camp inmates who had gone to Sepp’s block to lay low.

  Late that night, maybe around eleven, there was an incident. Akkerman had gone out to the kitchen block with a few men to get some food. An SS man was standing in the front square. He must have thought they were looters and opened fire without warning. Akkerman was shot in the stomach. An hour later he was dead. When Hans heard what had happened, he realized the camp could burst into turmoil at any moment. The time to act had come. He went to disinfection.

  The Spaniards were in the middle of a heated discussion. Some of them were in favor of hiding in the cellar; others, Colet among them, preferred to flee. They had found a submachine gun in one of the warehouses and if they encountered small groups of SS along the way they would defend themselves.

  They decided that Hans and Colet would scout out the situation. In Block 15, which had a view of the gate, the lights were on. It was the fire Kommando, who had been ordered to stay behind. They had dragged a piano out of the concert hall and it was sheer pandemonium. It was like a little boy who is afraid of the dark and hides his fear by singing at the top of his voice. They admitted that their situation was precarious, but didn’t have any new information. The Russians hadn’t even entered Krakow yet; anything could happen before they reached Auschwitz.

  When Hans and Alfonso went outside they heard voices near the gate. It was German—some incomprehensible dialect. They crept past the kitchen block and then, looking around the corner with a small mirror, saw that it was two Wehrmacht soldiers, old men on sentry duty. They slipped back to Block 15, then simply walked down the road to the gate.

  “Good evening,” said the soldiers.


  “Good evening, are you on sentry duty?”

  “Yes, our company’s stationed in a building close by.” One of the soldiers wanted to buy Alfonso’s watch for some bacon. Alfonso began haggling with him in the hope of finding out more, but a car suddenly drove up. They tried to leave but it was too late. The man in the car called them back. It was Sturmbannführer Krause, the one who had just shot Akkerman.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “We’re Pfleger,” Hans said, making up a story. “We’re doing a round. Every hour we have to do a circuit to make sure there’s nothing out of the ordinary, no fire in the blocks or anything like that.”

  “Leave the surveillance to us and don’t leave the blocks anymore. I’m arranging wagons for the sick who are still here. How many are there approximately?”

  “Two thousand,” Hans said, exaggerating to make the business with the wagons more difficult than it already was.

  “Fine, we’ll come and get you at dawn.”

  Back at disinfection the decision was soon made. They were going to break out. They split into three groups. One, led by Klempfner, would go to the building yard, where they knew of a bunker. The second group would hide near the town on the road to the camp, and the Spaniards would go to Raisko,13 where they would have a view of the road that ran west along the Sola.14 They were all more or less armed and, if discovered, would not surrender.

  The Spaniards were the last to leave, with them Hans and Van den Heuvel, Hans’s Dutch room orderly, who was allowed to go with them at his request. It was one a.m. They had cut the wires behind Block 28. On the watchtower was a prisoner, a member of the new camp police. Officially they were supposed to maintain order in the camp, but they actually stood watch on the towers and wandered the perimeter of the camp to make sure no dangerous groups of SS were approaching and that the coast was clear for those trying to flee.

  Everything was safe. Apart from Krause, they hadn’t seen any SS around at all. The soldiers at the gate weren’t interested. Outside it was deathly quiet and fine, misty snow was sweeping over the camp. The lads were as stealthy as possible and spread out so that each one could just keep sight of the man ahead of him. At the front was Rudi, one of the Spanish Reds, who had worked in Raisko and knew the way well.

  After half an hour they were in the village, which seemed completely deserted. They reached the small house Rudi had in mind. The door wasn’t locked. They went inside and up the stairs. Once they were all in the attic, Alfonso lit a small candle. The room was full of racks that were used in the nursery in the summer.

  “I christen this house No Pasarán,” Alfonso said solemnly. No Pasarán—they shall not pass—the slogan of the Loyalists in the Spanish Civil War. And they all repeated it as a vow.

  That night was damned cold. They had only brought a few blankets with them and didn’t dare light a fire in the stove. For all they knew, there could still be some Jerries left in the village. Hans couldn’t sleep from the cold. He kept thinking about Friedel and how she would be marching now, just marching the whole time, or maybe lying down somewhere in a barn or a factory. It could have all been so different. If Sara hadn’t been too scared, they would be together now. They were relatively safe here. But Friedel… What a trek. No, he didn’t want to think about it. He mustn’t. Then he would fall asleep for a few minutes, only to wake again with a start whenever one of the lads made the slightest noise.

  That night his fear gave rise to the vision that would take hold of him and not let go: the terrifying vision of Friedel in the snow. Sometimes she would be lying alone with a bullet wound in the back of her head, at others she was buried under a pile of bodies. Sometimes she lay with a resigned smile on her face, as if a sweet memory of him had come to her in that final moment, at others her face was twisted with fear and horror. But always that one constant: Friedel in the snow.

  He was overjoyed when day finally came and his companions—who were calm because they were so full of their approaching liberation and had mostly slept well—woke up too. They looked out of the attic window at the small houses and, across the snowy fields, the large sawmills and the road that followed the river. Nowhere was there any sign of life. Nowhere was smoke curling up out of the chimneys. It was all completely deserted. Their own tracks had been snowed over and they felt safe.

  The downstairs rooms were workshops with carpentry tools on the tables. They tossed them to one side and settled in a little, putting their baggage in the cupboard. Hans didn’t have much with him: a tin box with some bandages and food, which he added to their combined reserves.

  There was a good supply of briquettes in the cellar. For a moment they had a row about whether or not to risk a fire. The smoke would be visible for miles. But the longing for warmth won out over caution.

  As the day progressed they felt more and more at ease. At first they only went outside to look for ice to melt for drinking water. But later they began scouting out the whole village, up to the abandoned camp where the girls who worked in the market garden had lived. They were beautiful barracks; the market garden had been a good Kommando.

  Hans’s spirits sank when he saw the mess hall, with bowls of soup still on the table and the small possessions the girls had been forced to abandon scattered over the floor: a skein of wool, a keepsake, a comb or a handkerchief. What had become of these girls? The vision rose in him again.

  But this was no time for sentiment. They dragged straw mattresses back to the house, along with eating utensils and anything else they could find that was useful. The fire was burning well, they’d had a good meal, and while one of them kept watch from the attic window, the others fell asleep on the mattresses in the warm room. They had enough blankets now and when exhaustion and comfort unite to invite sleep, even the most horrific and terrifying visions pale into a soft sheen of melancholy. Hans fell into a deep sleep that lasted many hours.

  The next day was uneventful. Nobody appeared in the immense wilderness of snow. But on the third day they were shocked by a sudden pounding on the door. It was a Wehrmacht soldier. The lookout at the attic window hadn’t seen him approaching. There was one blind corner and he must have come from that direction.

  They consulted for a moment. “Just let him in,” Alfonso said. They put on their caps to hide their shaven heads and opened the door. The soldier said hello and didn’t seem the least suspicious.

  How had they ended up in such a remote hideaway?

  They told him they had been working on the other side of Krakow in a factory. They were foreign civilian workers. When the Russians came, they’d fled. They had walked for three days and were resting up here before continuing. The soldier took three of the lads with him. They had to help carry straw to the barracks, because a whole company was on its way.

  Once the soldier was gone, Alfonso exploded at Nase, a Spanish Red. He was still wearing his prisoner’s trousers: “You fool, you could have given us all away! There were plenty of civvies to be found in the camp.” Fortunately one of the lads had a pair of civilian trousers to spare.

  They lived together with the soldiers like that for a couple of days. Once, Alfonso and Rudi even went off with them in the truck to pick up supplies from the SS canteen at the camp. The lads got a share too. Tins of condensed milk, macaroni, preserves, meat, and bottles of champagne. The SS still had plenty left over! They even brought back a saxophone they’d found there for Hans.

  One afternoon a soldier came in who was a bit smarter than the rest. He began a story about some partisans they had been trying to hunt down and gave the lads a searching look. Hans started up a conversation with him to try to change the subject, but the soldier pointed at him. “You look kind of Jewish. Take your caps off for a sec.” They were shocked and an awkward silence fell in the room. “Ah, not that I give a stuff about that,” the soldier said, breaking the tension. “I’m not like the damned SS!”

  They could breathe again and Hans, who’d been in quite a stew about it, gave the soldier three tin
s of condensed milk. After he’d gone, the others all launched into Hans. Why hadn’t he stayed in the background a little more? Why had he been so idiotic as to give the soldier milk, a childish attempt at bribery? As if that would restrain him if his intentions were bad.

  Hans admitted that they were right. “Of course, I’m no different from all those Jews in hiding in Holland who get caught and sent here. It’s always a source of conflict. You have all kinds of Jews—intellectuals, who have never been involved in politics, as well as shopkeepers and hawkers who don’t understand the situation at all—in hiding with the Dutch resistance. Because of their complete lack of political education and their difficult attitude, they often betray themselves and their hosts, and end up here. But I’ll be more careful from now on.”

  The soldiers left the same day. That evening, as it was getting dark, Jacques and Rudi went to the camp to see if there was any news. No, nothing special. The camp was completely unguarded and doing well because of it. Most of the people there were seriously ill, but there were enough Pfleger and healthy people hiding out there to keep it all turning over. There was just one thing: they had heard that there were still many thousands of women at Birkenau.

  That news was especially interesting for Alfonso: “Many thousands? How’s that even possible? Birkenau was almost empty last week when the evacuation began, and some three thousand women left on the march. They went past our women’s camp. Maybe women have come back from the transports after all. Maybe it’s true that they’ve been cut off by the Russians. I’m going there tomorrow morning to have a look. I want to find out what it’s really like there. You coming, Jacques?”

  “Let me come too,” Hans asked. “Maybe Friedel’s there.”

  “You? You’ll just make a mess of things.”

  Hans didn’t answer. It would work out.