Edek couldn’t help himself. His shoulders began to quiver with laughter. “With all due respect, milady, you’re the furthest thing from a damsel in distress I’ve ever come across.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“And from what you’ve told me, your household was the furthest from a typical patriarchal household.”
“You’re quite right there as well. My father raised me to be a self-reliant harlot who thinks for herself and whose tongue is too long for most people’s liking.”
“I like your long tongue. I only have one question: does the stallion have to be white?”
“Only white, or the marriage is off.”
“What if it’s a brown mare but it has a rope attached to it, from which one Nazi or the other dangles?”
Mala pretended to consider. “Make it two Nazis and it’s a deal.”
“As a wedding present?”
“Yes, as a wedding present.”
“How about I make it three Nazis and you kiss me right now, to seal our engagement?”
“I don’t know; I haven’t seen the Nazis yet.”
But she kissed him all the same, breaking her act at last. It began slow but soon grew into something wild and desperate, leaving both of them gasping for breath but refusing to let go of one another all the same. Skin tingling, hearts beating one hundred beats per second, fingers in hair—sheer madness and eternal salvation all blended into a night to be remembered and cherished, in which the death camp itself had no power over them for a few heavenly hours. It had been the beginning of January when she had asked him to stay the night for the first time. By the end of February, he didn’t want to wake up anywhere else but in Mala’s arms.
Twenty-Two
“I’m being transferred.”
Lost in his dreams of Mala, still feeling her lips on his, her caramel-colored hair in his hands, Edek didn’t quite grasp the meaning of the very distressed-looking Wiesław’s words.
“What did you say?” He stared at his friend in astonishment.
The morning had dawned gray, shrouded with mist. He had just made it in time for the morning roll call to discover Wiesław staring blankly into space as he stood outside the block, waiting to be counted.
“I said, I’m being transferred,” Wiesław repeated, his trembling lips scarcely moving. He appeared stunned, as though he, himself, couldn’t quite believe it. “You were already gone last night when the SS came with the inspection.”
Edek frowned in confusion. They had stowed the Ausweis together with their gold under the board next to Edek’s bunk. Each time, after hiding another portion of goods under it, Edek personally nailed it back. There wasn’t a chance in the world it could be discovered, even during one of the thorough SS searches.
The block elder came out of the barracks, his Schreiber in tow, holding the list of the inmates assigned to the block in his hand.
“We ought to tell them it’s a mistake,” Edek whispered. “You didn’t have anything illegal on you.”
He felt himself grow cold with suspicion when Wiesław didn’t reply at once. For some time, the only sound was the block elder’s hoarse voice and their fellow fitters shouting Jawohl back at him whenever he called their respective numbers.
“Remember Szymlak offered to smuggle something edible for us?” Wiesław’s words emerged as a whisper.
Slowly, Edek shut his eyes, refusing to believe such stupidity.
“Well, long story short, just yesterday he smuggled an entire parcel for me,” Wiesław proceeded, his voice betraying him with a slight tremor. When Edek stole a glance at his friend, he saw guilty tears ready to spill from his eyes. “I opened it but didn’t touch it; I was saving it until you came back, so we could share it. Needless to say, the SS pounced on it at once. ‘What?! Eating like a king when our soldiers are starving on the front, you Polish swine!’ And just my misfortune, I had silk underwear stored under my pallet as well…” He glanced at Edek tragically. “You know it’s not out of vanity or anything; lice don’t cling to it as much as they cling to cotton underthings…”
Edek knew. Only, he couldn’t quite talk just then. He would say something driven by anger, something that would be impossible to take back and break the friendship that had seen them through the most brutal of times.
Why would Wiesław ask Szymlak for food? Edek left him his own dinner each time he went to see Mala; he smuggled whatever goods she gave him and split them evenly in half with his best friend. They didn’t starve by Auschwitz measures, and besides, the women in the sickbay where he occasionally worked supplied him with all sorts of extravagant treats and even booze. Why? Risking it all for a few homemade sandwiches? He felt like raging, screaming into the fog but could only stand to attention and wait for his name to be called.
“Where are you being transferred to?” he asked at last, after the block elder ticked his name off the list. His voice was robbed of all force. “Not the punishment Kommando?”
“No. Well… almost.” Wiesław let out a sad, ghostlike chuckle. “To Block 8. Where Soviet prisoners of war are.”
Almost, indeed, Edek thought grimly. The Soviets were infamous among the camp population for openly snubbing authority and even earning the respect of Lagerführer Schwarzhuber himself, however they managed that. Birkenau men’s camp leader Schwarzhuber, who was in charge of selections, took great pleasure in “ridding the Reich of the subhuman vermin,” as he called them. To everyone’s astonishment, the Soviet prisoners of war no longer fell under such a category in Schwarzhuber’s eyes. On multiple occasions, he was seen bantering with them through a translator about battlefields they’d marched through and weapons they carried and strategic points they’d fought over—all the things he dreamt of and didn’t have a chance to fulfill.
“What’s worse—” Wiesław began and bit his tongue at Edek’s look, who appeared positively homicidal just then.
“There’s worse?” he hissed.
At the accusation in his best friend’s voice, Wiesław hung his head entirely. “They’re making me into a block clerk there. So I won’t be with the fitters’ Kommando any longer. At first, I didn’t understand what sort of punishment it was, turning a guilty inmate into a block clerk, but then I realized what it meant. The Soviets are notorious for their tempers. They kill whoever they don’t fancy. I suppose that’s precisely the fate the SS have in mind for me.”
Edek stared with unseeing eyes into the breaking day that couldn’t possibly get any worse and, finally, released a heavy breath. “They won’t kill you. At least, they’ll have to get through me first.”
When Wiesław blinked at him uncomprehendingly, Edek dealt him a friendly blow in the ribs.
“Don’t fret. I’ll bribe someone to get into Block 8 with you. I won’t abandon you, I promise.”
First thing in the evening, Edek went to see the same Arbeitsdienst—the inmate functionary in charge of assigning prisoners to different blocks and work details—who had transferred Wiesław. Rather to Edek’s surprise, the old Pole, who spoke with a distinctive Silesian accent and introduced himself as Jozek, spread out his arms regretfully and explained that he had nothing to do with the transfer, that he had merely followed orders and that Edek’s friend ought to be grateful that the SS hadn’t assigned him to the actual punishment Kommando, where he wouldn’t last longer than a few days.
“Is it possible for me to transfer to his block?” Edek asked, already pulling a bottle of spirits from under his overalls.
Jozek stopped him with a gentle, apologetic smile. “Keep your bribe. I can’t help you with the transfer at any rate. Here, in Birkenau, all transfers are sanctioned either by Lagerführer Schwarzhuber and his underlings or camp Kapo Jupp. Are you friendly with either one?”
Needless to say, the question was rhetorical. Anyone who could avoid Schwarzhuber did so as much as possible; as for Kapo Jupp, he rivaled his SS counterpart in brutality. An old criminal who delighted in pouncing on anyone displaying wea
kness just for the thrill of it, he had climbed his way to the top of the camp hierarchy by killing and brutalizing the inmates under his charge. The SS valued such servants; they helped them save the gas by slaughtering the prisoners with their bare hands.
“Tell you what.” Jozek’s voice pulled Edek from his unhappy musings. “You go see your friend tonight—as a block clerk, he’s entitled to his own room in the barracks—and have a chat with him in private. Explain to him that he ought to make friends with the Russians. It won’t be easy; they aren’t particularly famous for listening to orders coming from our lot, but if he establishes himself as their ally, he’ll be in one of the most kosher positions in the entire camp.”
“How so?” Edek scowled uncomprehendingly.
From his own experience, Edek remembered the brutal attitude of the SS to the Soviet prisoners of war. When they had just arrived at the camp, the Nazis made it their business to turn their lives into virtual hell. Where a Pole might have received a beating for a slight misdemeanor, a Russian was shot. The worst camp jobs were reserved for the Soviets. It was them who were gassed among the first in Block 11. It was them who were constantly tortured, abused, lashed, starved, and subjected to the most horrific medical experiments. Some camp old numbers speculated that only the Jews had it worse. After what he’d witnessed in Auschwitz, Edek begged to disagree.
“Things changed after the Germans lost Stalingrad,” Jozek explained ponderously. “Now, they consider it better business to keep the surviving Russians safe.”
Edek was just about to interject when the old Pole raised his hand, stopping him with the same soft smile. “I know, I know. I arrived at Auschwitz with one of the first transports too. I remember very well what they did to the poor devils there. But here, in Birkenau, the ones who survived are treated like privileged inmates now. Lagerführer Schwarzhuber has his own sentimental feelings toward them, something to do with a soldier’s honor or some such, but the fact remains: he assigns them to the kitchen detail and different depots, where they occupy more than decent posts. Some of them chose to work in the Mexico Kommando, you know the one I’m talking about—the breakers’ yard that’s presently being built next to the men’s camp.”
After Edek nodded his acknowledgement, Jozek proceeded.
“I haven’t the faintest clue as to why they’d choose such a doubtful Kommando as the work in the Mexico is hard. Rumor has it, it has something to do with either ethyl or methyl they extract from downed airplane parts they disassemble, which they purify somehow and turn into drinkable alcohol. I personally doubt that’s their primary reason, but the true one is best known to themselves. At any rate, tell your friend to leave the Russians to their devices and keep to himself, at least in the beginning. They have their own hierarchy, leaders, and justice system there and sort all problems among themselves. If he manages to earn the friendship and respect of the men in charge, he’ll fare just fine. Kapo Jupp himself fears them as they’ve murdered a few of his inferiors who made a mistake of putting their nose in the Soviets’ business. Now, he steers clear of them. So, I’d say, if your comrade plays his cards right, he can turn his punishment into quite a favorable position. As long as he doesn’t antagonize anyone… dangerous,” he finished somewhat ominously.
After thanking the man profusely, Edek burst into a run and didn’t slow down until he reached Block 8. However, despite his haste, he appeared to be too late. The fight was already in progress.
In horror, Edek watched his best friend locked in a deadly embrace with his Soviet opponent, who towered over Wiesław with his powerful build, muscles bulging on his neck and shoulders. Cheered on by the rest of the block, they struggled right near the entrance of the barracks, punching and kicking each other in earnest. Their faces bloodied and torn, they were breathing heavily as they circled one another before tearing at each other’s throats with almost suicidal determination.
As though under some demented spell, Edek saw a semicircle of faces surrounding them, their eyes trained greedily at the fighting men, hearing them shout encouragement in their strange language, as he dreaded the outcome of the entire rotten affair. No matter who won the fight, Wiesław would have it. Either his opponent would kill him with a well-aimed blow to the temple or they would all pounce on him and murder him, the new, green-horned block clerk, right there and then.
A gasping, pale-faced block elder ran out of his room and pushed his way toward the two fighters. But his attempt to separate them failed as the Russians yanked him back by the scruff of his neck, demanding he let the pair sort their business themselves. No authority except their own martial law existed for these savage, battle-hardened men, it suddenly dawned on Edek as he watched the helpless block elder implore them to do something, only to be told to piss off with great disdain.
Dazed, his nerves strained to the utmost, Edek glanced around the block in the hope of finding something, anything, to stop the brawl. His gaze landed on a bucket of water that stood by the block entrance. At once, he grasped its metal handle, elbowed his way toward Wiesław and the Russian and doused them both with ice-cold water.
The effect was immediate. Sputtering and gasping, they cleared their eyes and looked around, suddenly confused. Quickly, Edek pulled Wiesław toward him, shielding him with his body. In his eyes was an open challenge to all four hundred Russians who occupied the barracks and whose sharp, hawkish gazes were directed at him from the depths of the dimly lit block.
A tense stillness enveloped the barracks. Not a single person moved. For some time, they appeared to be contemplating something as the silent standoff continued. His breath hot and shallow in his throat, Edek was afraid to blink, not wanting to miss a sudden movement, an attack that could come from anywhere, a sharp blade stuck into his ribs in a split moment of negligence.
Wiesław’s adversary slowly turned his head, seeking someone in the thick, still crowd. As though on signal, it parted like a sea, and a rather nondescript man stepped forward. He wasn’t tall or powerfully built like the fighter himself, but he bore an air of that silent authority that only revered leaders who had earned it carried about themselves.
He said something in Russian to Wiesław’s opponent and, at once, the man obediently nodded and went inside the block, accompanied by the quiet cheers and back claps of his comrades.
The strange Russian remained standing before Edek and Wiesław, his spectacles reflecting the light in such a way that it was almost impossible to see his eyes behind them.
“That was rather foolish of you, making enemies on the first day,” he finally uttered in very good German. “We shall write it off as the hotheaded stupidity some of us are prone to whenever they’re appointed to a position of even the most insignificant power. However, I would strongly recommend curbing your enthusiasm as a servant to the Nazis. The second time, I won’t order them to stand down.” With those last words he left hanging ominously in the air, he turned to take his leave, the rest of the Soviets following him closely like a king’s entourage.
As soon as they were left alone, Wiesław allowed Edek to lead him back to his room—the only privilege that came with such a rotten appointment. It was small and scarcely furnished, very much like Mala’s, but there was a lock on the door, flimsy but at least offering some protection, and that was something.
“What happened?” Edek demanded, tending to his friend’s split lip that was swelling in front of his eyes.
“A curfew was announced for our few blocks for whatever reason earlier today, just after the roll call.” Wiesław sniffled and wiped the blood that was still dripping from his nose with his sleeve. “The block elder posted me at the door with explicit instructions not to let anyone out and retired to his room to put some papers in order. And then that bastard, Kolya I think his name is, he’s some big shot in the kitchen, decided that the rules didn’t apply to him and went right past me. I tried to stop him, but he shoved me roughly—you saw that bull’s size—and proceeded to the exit. Well, I grasped him b
y the collar of his shirt. He swung round and dealt me one on the cheek. I reciprocated by blackening his eye. The rest you probably witnessed yourself.”
That was putting it mildly. Edek rubbed his eyes. It was all too much for one day. And now, he couldn’t leave this poor sod alone with those beasts. They’d eat him for dinner, throw his body outside and report, with the smirks he’d seen on their faces, that the new block clerk had suffered an unfortunate fall from his bunk and broken his neck. How sad. They had just begun to genuinely like him.
No. That just wouldn’t do.
Edek placed both palms on Wiesław’s shoulders, looking him in the eyes. “Wiesław, you ought to go there and apologize.”
For a few moments, his friend appeared to be at a loss for words, staring at Edek in stunned amazement.
“Did you not hear what I have just told you?” he cried at last, his face twisting into a mask of indignation.
“I did. I heard everything.” Edek’s voice was grave. “And if it was a Pole you were fighting, I’d swipe him a couple on his snout myself. But these are Russians. Actual soldiers, who fought the Nazis while we were still building our own barracks here in Auschwitz. They’re warriors and survivors—one has to be to make it through the several years of annihilation the SS have been putting them through. These ones are the toughest of the lot. We can’t afford to have them as enemies. It’s much smarter to have them as allies. And that’s why you’ll take this bottle—” Edek produced the same liquor with which he’d attempted to bribe Arbeitsdienst Jozek, “and give it to Kolya as a peace offering. You’ll apologize to him and promise that the entire business will never repeat itself.”
Something in his tone must have influenced Wiesław better than the words themselves. Slowly, he nodded and took the bottle from Edek’s hands. “Will you come with me? In case…”
“Of course.” Edek clapped him on the shoulder, rising from the bed. “Do you need to ask?”
The Girl Who Escaped from Auschwitz: A totally gripping and absolutely heartbreaking World War 2 page-turner, based on a true story Page 19