Edek saw a few inmates quickly hide satisfied grins.
“I said, what?!” Lubusch looked positively homicidal just then.
Vasek mumbled something about sabotage and promised to produce evidence, if Herr Unterscharführer just helped him take the blasted thing apart.
“You haven’t the faintest idea how the machine works and yet you’re ready to state, with such absolute certainty too, that’s it’s the case of sabotage?” Lubusch drawled mockingly.
It occurred to Edek that it was Lubusch’s idea to keep the Kapo away from the machine by instilling the fear of God into him, but, oddly enough, it produced quite the contrary effect on Vasek. He began to dig through the parts like a man possessed and, just as Lubusch had feared, discovered a small part jammed into the construction after all. He held it before his superior’s eyes with the look of a child desperately seeking an adult’s approval.
Now, not even their Kommandoführer could save them. Having joined the line of his Kommando mates, Edek saw the illustrator regard his hands with tragic eyes. They were all well acquainted with Vasek’s punishment methods. They all knew he would go through with his threat.
“Now.” The Kapo turned to face them, victorious. The sound his wooden baton made when he slapped it into his palm made Edek nauseous. He already anticipated it smashing into his bones. “Will the guilty party show some decency and step forward voluntarily, so I can freshen up his principles or shall we do it the hard way? Twenty-five lashes to every second person? It’s all the same to me. Makes no difference how many of you, conniving stinkers, shall suffer for an idea.”
No one budged. All eyes were directed at the concrete floor. In perfect silence, Lubusch’s steps echoed loudly as he left the work detail, disgusted. With the Kapo, of course, not the inmates. Edek didn’t blame him one bit. If he were in Lubusch’s place, he wouldn’t want to witness what was about to follow either.
To be sure, Lubusch could have stopped Vasek. Could have told him not to punish the men. Vasek would look at him, wondering if Herr Kommandoführer was off his rocker, obey as he should, but then quietly report him to the Political Department and it would be the end of Unterscharführer Lubusch for them. They had already shipped off such sympathetic guards to the Eastern front to teach them how to love their enemy. Whoever still wore a uniform and possessed at least some sort of conscience was very careful in displaying their humanity from that point on.
“Each second one it is,” Vasek concluded amiably when no one spoke up, gesturing for the first “second” man in line to step forward.
Edek saw that it was the historian. The man walked over to the worktable with a resigned look about him and placed both forearms on the surface, exposing his thighs for Kapo Vasek’s whip—the prescribed position for an inmate about to be lashed. There was a commotion in the line, as inmates began to demand for the guilty one to identify himself.
Out of the corner of his eye, Edek noticed the illustrator clench and unclench his fingers in utter desperation. He was in great demand among the local SS population; they commissioned portraits of themselves or their beloved ones from him with envious regularity. Quite often he dreamt out loud of opening his own gallery when he finally left Auschwitz. He would do well, everyone agreed, with such talent…
Just when the illustrator made the slightest move forward, Edek rushed toward the Kapo and positioned himself firmly before the burly man.
“It was me. I jammed the machine.”
A malicious, dark grin spread slowly over the Kapo’s face. He advised the historian to get lost before anything happened, all of his attention on Edek now.
“Well, well, my brave little sailor. Twenty-five lashes it is, to tender you up a bit, and then we’ll get to the real business.”
Bracing himself, Edek placed his forearms where the historian’s had just been. The Kapo was already brandishing his whip with twenty-five separate strands.
“You know the deal. Count each strike. If you lose count, I shall start from the beginning.”
Aware of the agonized eyes of his Kommando mates on him, Edek took a deep breath and instantly felt it being knocked out of him after the very first vicious blow.
“One,” he called out, struggling to keep his voice under control when all he wanted was to howl as the whip’s strands sliced at his legs, one blow equaling twenty-five.
Hot, searing pain began to radiate from the back of his thighs.
Another blow. He winced, his eyes pooling with tears in spite of himself.
“Two.”
The hissing of the whip slashing first through the air; then through his skin.
“Three.”
His knees began to tremble, threatening to buckle. Cold sweat broke on Edek’s face; he could no longer tell whether it was perspiration that was running down his cheeks, or tears.
Another blow.
“Four!” he cried out. It was impossible to keep his dignity anymore.
Hissing. Another skin-splitting strike. Blood running down Edek’s legs; through the mist of his own tears, he saw the crimson droplets land on the worktable as the Kapo raised his whip once again.
“Five…” It took tremendous effort to keep himself up when all he wanted was to surrender to the black abyss.
“That’s enough!”
Lubusch. His image swam in Edek’s eyes and, through the searing pain, he smiled at the man, who had come to his rescue. Lubusch could have stayed in the comfort of his office and closed his eyes to the entire business; pretended that it didn’t concern him, the fact that the Kapo decided to skin one of his workers alive. After all, Lubusch’s superiors had already shipped him off once to the Stutthof-Matzkau concentration camp’s penalty unit precisely for that sympathetic attitude of his. The second time, they could very well throw him to Auschwitz—and this time as a regular inmate, for the Political Department wasn’t famous for giving second chances for re-education. And still, there he stood, noble and stern-faced, Edek’s savior in the flesh.
The Kapo’s hand, with the whip in it, froze mid-air. He regarded his superior questioningly.
“Lashing is too nice of a punishment for him. I’ll take him to the Strafblock for the stunt he pulled,” Lubusch said, motioning Edek to follow him.
Summoning every last ounce of energy, Edek could barely drag his feet, but he did, like a dying sheepdog following its master.
“They’ll sort him out there; it’s their specialty, after all.”
Seemingly satisfied with such an arrangement, Kapo Vasek smiled broadly, tucking the whip back under his belt. It was Edek’s conviction that it wouldn’t remain there idle for long.
“Don’t fret,” Lubusch told Edek as soon as they stepped outside. “You’ll rest there for a couple days and then they’ll let you out. I’ll tell them you’re one of my best workers. They won’t harm you; you have my word.”
“Thank you, Herr Unterscharführer,” Edek whispered, inhaling greedily the sharp, frosty air.
As they trooped along the icy road, he kept throwing glances at his namesake, unsure of what had revived him more—the biting chill of the wind or Lubusch’s words that had once again restored Edek’s faith in humanity.
Nine
Birkenau
Mala gave a pause when, instead of Edek, she saw his friend waiting for her in the Sauna. He was a handsome young man with darker coloring than Edek’s, a high forehead and sensitive deep-brown eyes. His face brightened when he saw her; he even waved, but Mala had seen far too many people belonging to the local resistance swinging from the gallows for trusting whom they shouldn’t have to keep suspicion out of her voice.
“Whatever happened to your friend?” she demanded by way of greeting.
“Got himself into the Strafblock according to the note the Punishment Block Kapo smuggled for me,” he explained almost cheerfully and offered her his hand. “I’m Wiesław.”
At the Strafblock announcement, Mala felt beads of perspiration break on her temples. The blood drai
ned from her extremities, leaving her cold with fear, but her face betrayed nothing.
She shook his outstretched hand. “Mala.” Aware of every breath she drew, she managed to keep her voice cool and controlled. “What precisely did he get himself into the Strafblock for?”
“Oh, nothing to do with our business,” Wiesław rushed to assure her, lowering his voice despite no one paying any attention to them. “Stepped up for a fellow who had sabotaged one of the working stations.”
“Why?” Mala asked in genuine surprise. Such noble, selfless acts were a rarity in Auschwitz. Here, it was everyone for himself, a true dog-eat-dog world.
Wiesław gave a shrug. “He is like that, our Edek. Can’t stand the sight of other people suffering. We are from the same town, but I only properly befriended him on the transport; we were in the same car. Out of us all, he was the only one with military training, so as soon as they put us all there, he instantly began to organize us with at least some sort of order. When we arrived in Auschwitz, he announced that the elderly ought to have better bunks and double rations. There were a few elderly men among us, doctors, clerics, and professors mostly—the real Polish intelligentsia—unlike us, who got arrested for being young and able-bodied. Naturally, someone—there are argumentative types like him everywhere—had a problem. To be honest, he’d been spoiling for a fight from the moment we’d got off the train; but it was when he’d refused to give his bunk to an elderly professor that Edek swiped him a couple on his snout. That put an end to the discussion at once.” He chuckled fondly at the memory. “We’ve become good friends since. He’s a first-rate man, our Edek.”
Mala discovered that she was smiling as well. “He was in the Army then?”
“Not exactly. He was a maritime school cadet when the war started. He always joked that the Gestapo arrested him for his handsome sailor’s uniform.”
Mala smiled wider. One had to have a sense of humor to make jests about one’s arrest and particularly if they had to deal with the secret German police.
“Did they beat him?”
“Naturally.” Wiesław looked at her as though it was obvious. “All of us got slapped about the face for a good few weeks before they shipped us all here.”
“I was rounded up by regular SS.” Mala’s eyes had a faraway look in them.
From the shadows, the past arose once again; the past, too painful to remember and impossible to forget. Mala always found it strange that her memories had a smell to them—railway steam and machine oil, her own French perfume, Chesterfields the traveling salesman who shared a bench with her chain-smoked, and the stale, sour sweat of the SS man’s woolen uniform approaching her with his hand on his holster. He had singled her out as soon as she stepped off the train at the Antwerp Central Station, and no wonder—the yellow star all Belgian Jews had been forced to wear as of the recent occupying forces’ order was enough of a giveaway. Her parents had implored her not to risk it, but Mala still went to Brussels, where, rumor had it, hiding places for the local Jews could be organized. Not for herself; Mala was certainly not the hiding type, but for her blind father and her gentle mother, who, Mala knew, wouldn’t last a day in the Gestapo’s captivity. As for Mala, she had planned to go underground with her old contacts from the Hanoar Hatzioni youth organization and fight the Nazis till the victorious end—or her own death, whichever came first. But the SS guard in his sweat-soaked tunic put a swift end to her plans with his, “Papers, please.” Instead of joining the resistance, Mala found herself working in the registry at the Dossin Barracks at Mechelen—a collection, holding, and deportation point for Jews. And when there weren’t any more Jews to process, they shipped her, along with the other registry workers, to Auschwitz—thank you kindly for your services; unfortunately, they’re no longer needed; you shall find the gas chambers to your right.
A story too personal and too painful to relate to someone she’d just met. Instead, Mala released a sigh and said only, “They didn’t beat us and didn’t charge us with anything. Simply put us all on the train for being Jewish scum that contaminated their Aryan air with our foul breathing. That’s a direct quote.”
Wiesław averted his gaze, visibly uncomfortable. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, hiding his hands in his pockets.
Mala shrugged indifferently. It’s life.
“Could we go someplace private?” he asked, glancing up at her. “I have something for you. From Edek.”
Mala retreated into the darkest corner of the Sauna, where the yellow glare of the lamp scarcely reached, and turned to face him.
“Step closer.” She caught his sleeve and pulled him toward herself. “I don’t want anyone to see.”
The deep blush that crept over Wiesław’s face betrayed the fact that he wasn’t used to the amorous business most inmates came here for. Mala found it almost endearing.
“Don’t fret. I’m not going to kiss you,” she teased him good-naturedly. “Now, what is it that you have for me?”
Wiesław wetted his lips nervously before fumbling with something in his pocket. “We made an agreement the day after he first met you that if something happened to him, I’d keep coming here and bringing you this.” He extracted a full palm of metal parts and shavings.
For a moment, Mala stared at it, speechless. Then, as if remembering herself, she quickly opened her pocket for him.
“I personally don’t understand the joke—” Wiesław chuckled in embarrassment, transferring the goods from his pockets to Mala’s, “I would expect for him to ask me to bring you something edible, but he said, ‘metal parts are what she wants. Must be something terribly important.’”
“It is,” Mala confirmed very softly, feeling her cheeks grow warm. She still couldn’t believe that it was her little contraband Edek was so concerned about instead of his own affairs.
“What do you need these for?” Wiesław regarded her with curiosity.
“Same as what you need that Ausweis for,” Mala explained calmly. “To stick it to the Nazis one day.”
The same steel that was in her pockets now shone in her eyes. Wiesław nodded his acknowledgement with respect and offered her his hand once again with a solemn look about him. “One day.”
“One day,” Mala repeated, grinning, sliding past him and disappearing into the crowd.
Ten
Auschwitz
At first, it was darkness and intolerable pain. Then, the pain dulled, and soon, it was just darkness, cold and impenetrable and smelling frighteningly of wet earth and Edek’s own body. The punishing cells were so narrow that when Edek straightened completely, his heels and the top of his head were pressed firmly against the floor and the ceiling, and then, the eerie, disturbing illusion of being buried alive was complete.
Three times a day, an inmate functionary slid the hatch in the door open, placing a bowl with turnip soup or a piece of bread with some moldy cheese in Edek’s cell. It was by those feeding times that Edek could tell the time of the day and could count the days themselves.
He was grateful for the miniscule portions just then. He scarcely produced any body waste and, therefore, the bucket in the corner that served as his personal toilet didn’t emanate too much of a stench. The sympathetic inmate emptied it each evening so that Edek could at least sleep for a few hours without being tormented not only by the obliterating darkness, but by the sickening smell. It was the same inmate who shoved some old newspapers through the hatch so that Edek could insulate his clothes and feet with them. In addition, a straw pallet and a blanket soon made their way into his cell. Edek regarded the unexpected gifts with the utmost gratitude: at night, when the frost settled in, the walls of his cell were like ice to the touch.
“Your lady friend sends her regards.” The Strafblock Kapo, the same one who passed a note to Wiesław on Edek’s request, patted the blanket affectionately before passing it to Edek.
“My lady friend?” He blinked at the man in confusion.
“Of course. Do you think I’m giving all this
stuff to you out of the goodness of my heart?” The Kapo snorted with laughter. “You must be really something in the sack. She gave me a whole smoked sausage in exchange for accommodating you.”
He was about to slam the hatch shut when Edek thrust his hands out of it pleadingly, risking getting his bones crushed.
“Wait! Herr Kapo, what was her name?”
It was the Kapo’s turn to stare at him with a mixture of amazement and respect. “Why, you have several of them, you dog?” His belly was shaking with laughter. “I don’t know her name. She didn’t introduce herself, much to my disappointment.”
“What did she look like?”
“Like Goldilocks from the fairytale. Pretty as a picture. A regular princess,” the Kapo responded with a wry grin before signing to Edek to get his hands away from the hatch so he could lock it.
Mala. Just the thought of her name warmed him better than any blanket would. The angel. The savior. It was his profound conviction that without the newspapers and a woolen blanket wrapped around him, he would freeze to death on one particularly cold night.
Left to his own devices, Edek had plenty of time to think. He thought a lot of his past and dreamt even more about his future. Whenever he contemplated his past, he always saw his father first—a simple plumber with big dreams of his son becoming an officer, and paying all his meager savings toward Edek’s new uniform. The old man had teared up when he saw Edek wearing it for the first time. The very memory of it, of his father’s warm embrace and his selfless parental love, made Edek wipe his own tears with the back of his hand. Confined to that concrete sack, beaten and starved, more than anything, he longed for his home. He longed for his mother’s homemade meals and kisses on the forehead, for his dog’s wet tongue on his cheeks and the warmth of its body pressed against his legs at night. Only, Auschwitz was now his home, and instead of his father’s loving arms, he had Vasek’s fists to contend with.
The Girl Who Escaped from Auschwitz: A totally gripping and absolutely heartbreaking World War 2 page-turner, based on a true story Page 8