1944: The Russians at the Front

We were all very surprised at the accommodations in the blocks. This was indeed a luxury hotel compared to Birkenau. The block had an entrance hall with a fireplace. At the end of this large hall were our Block”ltester's private quarters, while the two Stubendienst each picked a corner in the two large "bedrooms" on each side of the hall. Each bedroom contained row after row of neat, clean, three storied bunks. I picked the upper one, my father, not able to climb, picked a lower one in the same unit. We were given a piece of soap and of all things, a towel! Each bunk had a straw mattress and a blanket. Sorry, no sheets or pillows.

It was not so much the comfortable bunks, nor the soap and towel, which certainly were of great importance to our hygiene, that made us feel important. We now had a feeling of some security. We were brought here to do some useful work. Why would they otherwise bother providing us with more humane accommodations? Our block leader, Willy, a German prisoner, an old-timer in camp, told us that this was definitely an Arbeitslager, not a destruction camp. He congratulated us for having come here and not being annihilated in Birkenau. We looked around, and not seeing any chimneys or suspicious looking buildings, we spent our first night with lighter heads.

We did not get any meals that day. Subsequently, we learned upon arriving in a new camp that rations were distributed to new arrivals only the next day, as the supply unit did not receive an order for additional rations until the following morning. In fact, we received our first meal only the next evening. The bread and liverwurst from Birkenau were consumed long ago and most of us had not eaten for two days or more. The situation was critical.

The first full day in Warsaw started around 4:00 a.m. This is only an estimated time, as no one had any watches and there were none that we could see anywhere. We were awakened by the ringing of a loud bell, heard all over the camp. There was no time to be wasted. There was no trying to stretch out for a few minutes, as two helpers were upon us with rubber hoses, hitting anybody in their way and yelling loudly, "Raus! Raus!" (German for "Out! Out!")

The beds had to be made to perfection, blankets stretched out neatly. As in Birkenau, the washrooms were near the fence, which consisted of electrified barbed wire. In addition, there was a low fence, no higher than two feet, about three yards from the other two fences. This was the so-called neutral zone. Signs proclaimed in several languages: "Entry forbidden. Anybody entering this neutral zone will be shot." The watchtowers were just beyond the walls and quite close to one another. This was not only to guard the camp, but to be able to defend against a partisan attack. The Germans did not realize that the Poles would never attack a camp in order to liberate Jews.

After an Appel, lined up five deep, we were counted and divided into groups of about one hundred men each and led out of the gate for our first day's work. Our Capo was Willy and the Vorarbeiter was Ali, both criminals with green triangles. A green triangle meant the prisoner was there because of some criminal offense. A red triangle meant a political prisoner, purple, a homosexual, red and yellow triangles placed in the form of a Star of David, denoted a Jew. Our Lager”ltester (Camp elder - the leader of our side of camp) was Paul, a political prisoner since 1933. After returning from our first day's work we finally ate our first meal in our new "home". The distribution was orderly and efficient. You were given a half-loaf of bread, a square of margarine and a piece of liverwurst as you entered the door of your block. This was the ration for the next day. We also received a cup of soup. This evening, it was a potato soup, cooked in skimmed milk. It was edible. At this point, we were ready to ingest just about anything.

My work unit was one of many assigned to work in the former Jewish ghetto, now in ruins. Not one single house was standing, except the Paviak prison on Dzielna ulica. It was now used exclusively for members of the Polish Resistance, or politically suspicious individuals. Anybody arrested and incarcerated in this prison had zero chance of ever getting out. I worked with my unit nearby and had an excellent opportunity to observe many acts of both cruelty and heroism. We were assigned to work on the site of a demolished building. We cleaned the bricks of any excess mortar stuck to them, and piled them in a certain way, so that each pile contained 250 bricks. The quota was 750 bricks per man. But in reality, it turned out to be considerably more, for several reasons.

For the younger members of our unit, it was possible to accomplish the quota, especially after a few days' experience. But for our older brothers, this was no easy task as many were suffering some malady. Others were not used to physical labor and a third group was plainly too old to work having escaped selection by Dr. Mengele by sheer luck. Adding to our woes, the Capos and Vorarbeiter, our bosses at work made deals with the Polish "forwarders", who freighted the bricks to the Danzig railroad station outside the camp. The forwarders owned the horses that pulled rubber-wheeled wagons. Their job was to pick up the bricks and deliver them to the railroad station. But on the way there, they passed through the Warsaw streets and sold bricks to private people. In order to do so, they had to load 100-150 bricks over the quota. We were forced to produce more, allowing them to steal the extra quantity.

It turned out that while the Germans made our lives miserable at every possible opportunity, they had - for the time being at least - no intention of eliminating us. While we worked hard, we were punished with Strafarbeit (extra work after the regular work hours) for the slightest infraction and often just at the whim of any SS man. We were able to keep clean with primitive washing facilities and made sure everybody took care of himself.

We must have done a good job because we didn't get any lice, a common occurrence in other camps. The food was horrible, but we did receive soup in the morning and a thicker one at night with our bread rations. It was not meant to sustain us for long and we often thought aloud that the able-bodied ones could possibly last one year. Hopefully, all of us, including the older prisoners, would survive until the Russians liberated us. The news from the front coming through to us, compliments of the Polish "forwarders", was excellent. The Russians were continuing to advance toward Warsaw. All our hopes now rested with the advancing Russian Armies.

There were many excesses by the Germans and their faithful underlings in SS uniforms, including the Ukrainian SS and even some from Hungary and Croatia. The Ukrainians and Croatians excelled in cruelty, even more than their patrons. Except for a few words, none of them spoke German. They knew well that they were considered second class citizens, only a step above the Jews. Little wonder then that the uneducated, primitive ruffians that they were, took out their frustration and hostility on the Jewish prisoners. For "sheer fun," it was not uncommon for SS men to take a prisoner's cap, throw it beyond the low "neutral zone" fence and order the prisoner to pick it up. If the order was disobeyed, the prisoner was shot. If he ventured into the "neutral zone" to pick up his cap, it meant death from the watchtower. Countless of our people died in such a way.

I witnessed, with my own eyes, the execution of prisoners in the Paviak prison. While I personally do not have any soft spot in my heart for Poles--having been subjected to their anti-Semitic acts on many occasions--I did admire the heroic stand of many who were tortured and executed in the Paviak prison. After what they went through and knowing that their end was near, they managed to throw their last piece of bread out the windows, hoping that we on the outside would be able to use it. We never could, however. The SS would shoot anybody coming close, suspecting that the bread might contain some hidden message.

There were other Polish workers coming into the camp. They were the experts. I do not really know what their job entailed. There were few of them, and they were free to roam inside the workplace. I spoke Polish and on several occasions had a chance to talk to some of them. I was very careful not to dare ask about the partisan movement, nor how the war was progressing. But I made some vague remarks about the underground. To my surprise, a few days later, one of the Poles brought me a piece of bread, a chunk of bacon and "The Partisan News", an underground newsletter of the Polish partisans. To be caught with this paper in one's possession meant instant execution. It took much courage to bring it into the camp. In no time, the news got around the whole block. The Stubendienst offered me soup in exchange for the paper. I was really afraid, but it turned out that even prisoners with a privileged position were just as hungry for news as we were.

When we had first entered the old camp, one of our boys had asked a veteran prisoner, "Tell me, is it possible to survive here?" He answered, "Everything is possible if you have what to eat." So where do you get food?" Answer, "You must organize."

After a while, we figured out that there were ways to organize. The Polish workers and the "forwarders" could help us. For starters, we came to realize that there was no effective control over our production of bricks. In the ruins were iron "I" beams which sometimes took days to remove. They had to be piled in neat stacks. All of this threw the brick cleaning operation off-schedule. We also learned that there was no effective control on the other side--at the Danzig station--where the bricks and "I" beams were received for transport to Germany. The Allied bombings had made the need for building material extremely urgent. We also learned to cheat on work in many ways such as leaving some mortar on the bricks, piling two half bricks instead of full ones. This helped us to cheat on our daily quota and sell some material on our own account. The selling was no problem and the price was reasonable--a loaf of bread, salami, bacon, even marmalade. Of course, some preferred cigarettes, either for their own use or for sale to the Block”ltester, Capos and their helpers who received better food in larger quantities.

Another source of income, a very important one, was the former ghetto itself, now in ruins, after having been destroyed by the German Wehrmacht. The ghetto had been heroically defended by a small group of Jewish freedom fighters led by a young man named Mordecai Aniliewicz. Their heroic stand of about three weeks is amply described in many books. A bronze statue of Mordecai and his brothers-in-arms now stands in Warsaw at the entrance to the former ghetto. The Polish underground would not help, despite repeated pleas. The Poles refused to supply badly needed weapons and ammunition.

After being completely overpowered and its occupants killed or deported to concentration camps, the ghetto was looted of any valuables and finally demolished. Yet it was still able to provide many a Jewish man with an extra piece of bread, which sometimes was a life saver. As we worked in the ruins, we found silver cutlery, some individual pieces, some parts of a set. We even found pieces of jewelry--rings, one earring or a pair, brooches, powder boxes, cigarette cases--all goods exchangeable for food. Of course, it was a dangerous trade. All valuables had to be turned in. One lesson I learned: people with empty stomachs are willing to take risks. On the bright side of my stay in Warsaw was my continued contact with one of the Poles. We even discussed the possibility of helping me to escape to join the partisans. He had some ideas that probably would have worked. Of course, there was great danger for both of us, especially for the Pole. His whole family could have been exterminated in accordance with the established German custom. I was never really convinced that I could trust him. Maybe it was a trap. On the other hand, why was there a need to set a trap for me? I could have been shot without any excuses. Was it an attempt to show the Germans how faithful a sympathizer the Polak was by delivering a Jew who tried to escape? I will never know the truth.

My Polish contact kept delivering the underground paper to me, which I smuggled into camp and sold to Kurt, our block leader. I completely lost my sense of time, and believed that nobody was keeping track of the dates anymore. We had some idea of the days of the week simply by getting to know our soup in the evening. It was the same soup on certain days of the week. We must have reached the end of August, for the latest newspaper was marked August, but no date was noted. The news from the front was excellent. According to the paper, the Russian Armies were close to Warsaw. In the West, the Allies made progress in Italy and were also pushing forward in France. In Yugoslavia, the partisans of Tito, now a well-organized army, launched an attack on Trieste. The Rumanians surrendered and the Russians reached the Danube River. The capitulation of Rumania trapped the German Black Sea naval forces. Russian domination of the Black Sea opened up a new supply route for cargo from the U.S.A. to reach the Soviet Union.

We were hoping for an early liberation and started talking about what the Germans would do next. Would they run off and leave us alive, or would they exterminate us? Since there were no gas chambers in Warsaw, we hoped they would just flee. Wishful thinking!

In the meantime, our situation did not improve because of the generosity of our "hosts". Anything gained was through our own ingenuity and experience; we learned to avoid many pitfalls. We were able to "organize" better and our contacts with the Poles became more friendly as the front moved closer. You could see changes in the camp. The Capos and Block”ltester, with their helpers, were somewhat slower with their rubber hoses. One night, our whole block was awakened by the two Stubendienst, with an announcement that Kurt the Block”ltester would like to speak to us. He said, "My dear brothers, for that's what we truly are. You see this rubber hose? You will see it no more. In my block there will no longer be any beatings. We must all try to survive together and live in brotherly love. I wish you all to be liberated and live happily."

He kept his word.

Not so the SS. Most of them went to church every Sunday. I don't know what the priest told them in his sermon from the pulpit, but when they came back they were more vicious than ever. Sunday afternoon was our free time to clean up, shave and attend to our clothing. It was the worst time of the week with constant harassment and beatings from the SS. The arier (gentile) prisoners were allowed to play football.

The months of July and August were extremely hot. There was no shade at all at our work places. We suffered a lot. Water was not available until we returned to camp in the evening. The Appels were agonizing. In the morning, they lasted only a few minutes. We were counted block by block then led out of the gate where each unit was counted again. When we returned at noon, we were counted again and once more when we left. In the evening,, we were counted again at the gate and assembled immediately for Appel, which should have lasted only a few minutes. However, those minutes often stretched into hours. Either the SS did not show up to take the count or the numbers did not add up. We were often left standing in the pouring rain for no reason at all. In our opinion, it was just a sadistic act.

Block Number 10 consisted of ariers. They were separate from the Jewish prisoners, and enjoyed many privileges. Most of them wore green triangles, marking them as criminals. The block was predominantly German with one or two Dutch and Belgian political prisoners. They were brought in from German prisons. The criminals were told that for the duration of the war, they would be held in concentration camps because of the shortage in manpower to oversee the prison. Among their privileges, they received parcels of food and clothing, cigarettes and other goodies from home. Outwardly, they had to wear the striped uniforms, but were allowed sweaters, underwear, even rain coats.

I became an unwilling translator for my Capo Willy and the Vorarbeiter Ali. They spoke only German and many in our group spoke only Hungarian. Besides, they needed somebody to translate in their transactions with the Poles. Having learned Hungarian during the past five years in Hungary, and knowing Polish as a Slavic language, I had no problem translating into German or vice versa. The position did not carry any extra privileges nor did it exempt me from work. But it did enable me to work less and make some separate deals with the Poles. After each successful deal, Ali gave me some cigarettes or bread, even some soup in the evening. At first this caused some jealousy in our ranks, but later everyone recognized that having me friendly with the German prisoners, especially with Ali, helped us all.

I believe it was mid-September when we first heard gunfire to the east of us. At first, it sounded very far off. But by the next day, we could hear it clearer. We hoped the Russians were attacking toward Warsaw. Of course we could not be sure. The shooting persisted and grew even louder. The Germans were running around with long noses and talking seriously amongst themselves. On a moonlit night, from our camp, we could clearly see the Visla River and beyond the outskirts of Praga. But we could see no movement of any kind. All the bridges were standing. We figured the Russians could not be very close, otherwise the bridges would have certainly been demolished.

And then it happened. We were called back from our work places. This time, no Appel was held and we were not allowed to leave our block except to go to the toilet, and then only two or three people at a time. Something serious was afoot. But what? We could still hear shooting in the distance. I then remembered one of my friendly Poles telling me that big things would happen shortly. He had not elaborated. When I asked him the thousand-year-old question, "Will it be good for the Jews or bad?" he replied, "It can only be good for both of us." Now, I started wondering aloud about it with my father, Uncle Meir and a few wise people who got together. We knew something serious was taking place and attributed this to the shooting. But how far from us were the Russians, and what would the Germans do with us now?

On only one other occasion had the Germans called in all the work units from outside camp and held us for three days, cooped up inside. We learned only after our confinement to the barracks was over, that an attempt had been made on Hitler's life. It was organized by Colonel Graf von Staufenberg (Graf means Count) with the help of high ranking generals, among them, Rommel, the Desert Fox, and Kluge, commander of the Wehrmacht in France. During a military briefing, Staufenberg placed his attachÈ case under a heavy oak table, exactly where Hitler was standing. Staufenberg left after the briefing. Unfortunately, the whole group shifted to the right, around the table. Hitler was no longer directly in front of the attachÈ case. The bomb exploded, killing a general. Hitler survived but limped for the rest of his life from the injury he sustained. The price extracted by Hitler for this attempt was the execution of many generals and officers including von Staufenberg, Rommel, Kluge, even his brother-in-law Vogellein. Rommel was permitted to commit suicide.

It took three days for the SS in Warsaw to be sure of what had happened and figure out what to do. In the end, everything returned to "normal". They knew the coup had failed by a hair. The deep dissatisfaction with Hitler by so many formerly faithful officers must have left an impression on them.

Judging from our previous experience, we knew that something of great importance was in the offing and even hoped it concerned the advancing Russian Army. We didn't have to wait long. We could clearly see German vehicles retreating from Praga across the two bridges visible to us. This retreat lasted a long time. After about two days, all traffic stopped. We believed we could see Russian tanks at the river, but no attempt was made to cross the Visla. That night, we got word of plans to evacuate us to another camp. It would involve a short march. All those who could not walk well could report to a special transportation unit, which would follow the main body on foot. They would be picked up as soon as the marchers left. My father and Uncle Meir decided not to believe in the German generosity. They decided to walk with the rest of approximately 10,000 prisoners. It turned out to be a wise decision.

From April 1944, when the Germans instituted the ghettos in Chust, to that very day, we had all gone through some horrifying experiences. But none was to be as horrifying as this march into the unknown. It is impossible to describe the suffering we all endured. Human endurance was pushed to the outermost limits. It takes a writer of exceptional talent to put down on paper the tales of the marchers from Warsaw to Zichlin, where we finally wound up.

Let me try to tell you something about our involuntary outing. It began in late September. As usual we lined up five deep. Prodded on by the SS and with the help of our Aryan fellow prisoners, we soon reached the outskirts of our former domain. All one could hear was "Los, Los" (fast, fast) and the cries of our people being beaten mercilessly by the SS and their eager helpers. While in the city, we were only allowed to use the sidewalks. The streets had to be open for the use of the German Army and their vehicles. The traffic was frantic. Every so often, we heard some shots behind us, but did not pay too much attention. The pace was brisk, much faster than expected considering that we were told this pace would have to be maintained for the duration of our march.

My father was getting tired. The sun baked us with its harsh, severe rays. The heat, the pace, and our thirst were excruciating. Our last meal had been the day before and most of us were out of bread. There seemed to have been no relief in sight. We heard more and more shots. Not knowing what was happening, we had no time to even think about anything but how to take one more step, and then another one, just to keep going.

We finally reached a highway. It was late in the afternoon. The sun was no longer burning our faces and dry lips, or maybe it was, but we had lost all sensations and sense of time. I noticed a well-kept highway, full of traffic, especially heading into the city. We were finally led to a meadow and were told to take a short rest before our march was to continue. We dropped to the ground with nobody making any effort to walk another yard. Water was our most pressing need. Our tongues were dry and stuck in our mouths. We could hardly speak.

I do not know how long we were allowed to rest. To me it seemed like fifteen minutes. It was probably longer. Again, we heard "Los, Los." There was yelling on all sides. The rubber hoses were swinging wildly. Some did not pay attention to the yelling nor to the beatings. They just lay on the ground, lifeless. That's when the SS took over. If a mighty kick did not help instantly, a shot was the final act. The bodies were just left there.

We were up and marching again. Our progress was hindered by the narrowness of the highways shoulders, as we were not allowed to walk on the paved road. Shots were heard behind us. This time, we knew exactly what was happening. The weaker prisoners fell further and further behind, finally winding up in the last row of the procession. Not being able to keep up the pace with the main body meant instant death.

It was dark when we were again led off the highway onto an open field with the SS forming a ring around us. They were not as exhausted as we were, marching only a few short hours and riding the rest of the way in comfortable buses with no shortage of food or water. Some of our boys noticed that the field was beautiful and green. Word got around that we should start digging with our spoons or the primitive knives most of us had. Water was not far beneath us, judging by the green grass.

Some were skeptical. Zanvel Hoffman, my old friend, and I started digging. We hit moisture after digging some twenty to twenty-five inches deep. We kept digging. Water kept accumulating in our dugout. We dug just a little more and the well filled up with dirty brown water. It would take time for the sediment to settle and the water to clear, but who wanted to wait? Dirty water was fine. By now, everybody was digging. The SS watched us in disbelief. Late at night everybody had drunk enough water. In the morning, the wells were full of crystal clear water. The sediment had settled down. We still hadn't eaten anything.

Our second day was not much different from the first one. The pace slowed somewhat but not enough to keep an even greater number of our comrades from falling back. Eventually we heard the shots. Everybody was giving his last bit of strength, knowing full well what falling back would mean. Around noon, judging by the sun, we stopped near a river, and were allowed to drink and wash up. Even there, we sustained losses. Some of our men who were trying to get to the cleaner water were shot when they ventured a meter or so from the shore. When we gave up all hope of getting any food, an army truck pulled up and we each received a loaf of bread and a piece of liverwurst. Of course, by then we knew that the liverwurst was the "specialty of the house". We were on the road again until late evening and then spent the night under the open sky, in a field. Not far from us, we could see small farmhouses, but nobody had any idea of escape and seeking help from the Poles. Throughout this long day I was very worried about father. There was not much I could do to help him except talk to him and encourage him. It was difficult for everyone. Naturally, the young people were better able to carry the burden. Many had to throw away their shoes, which had fallen apart, and walk barefoot. I saw prisoners' feet swollen to an unbelievable size, but they continued to struggle in hopes of making it to the next camp, and surviving.

It seemed to me that we were now a much smaller group than when we had started out. We all knew of our great tragedy. After only two days, there was hardly anybody who was not missing somebody. Where were we going? All the way to Germany? Without food, water and shelter? The days were still hot but the nights were cold. Most of us had thrown away our blankets. They had become a burden to us.

On the third day, very late at night, we arrived at what looked like a forest. We all dropped to the ground, no longer caring if they shot us. It occurred to me that the forest was an ideal place to accomplish the final liquidation. In the morning, we saw a little railroad station with the sign "Zichlin" clearly marked on the wall. No railroad cars, no locomotives, no life could be seen anywhere. We learned that we were to wait for a train to take us to our final destination. It started to rain. It rained and rained and rained for three solid days and nights, not stopping for a single moment. Even some of the SS got sick and the ariers lost their courage and strength to bother us. They, too, were trying to survive. We had no shortage of water now, but food was not forthcoming. The danger of starvation had become a real threat. In our weakened state, the danger point was rapidly approaching. As we later learned, we had marched over 110 kilometers from Warsaw to Zichlin.

Finally, the train with its cattle cars arrived. We were happy to get out of the forest where it was still raining. The "wagons" accommodated about one hundred of us. The middle of the wagon was reserved for the SS. We were lucky. No Capo or Block”ltester, nor any of their helpers honored us with their presence in our wagon. Thanks to this oversight, we suffered fewer losses. During the route, we received some food. I do not even remember what we ate, but it was certainly not enough to fill our empty stomachs. Pressed together as we were, with our clothes soaking wet, we did not even think of water and we got none. As our clothes started to dry on our bodies, they gave off an unbelievable stench, never experienced before nor ever afterwards. It was just absolutely overpowering. The SS cursed us and they kept the doors open almost all the way, despite regulations.

We finally arrived at the Camp of Camps: Dachau. After being led through a large gate with a sign, "Arbeit macht frei" ("Work liberates"), we were all registered. We gave our names and our numbers which we had received in Warsaw. We were led to a bathhouse and through showers. Our clothes were taken away from us and replaced with clothes made from paper. We were then led to a block where we received soup and bread with some margarine and liverwurst. Under the showers, most of us drank the warm water first, and then washed up a little. Thanks to that, we were no longer so dry inside that we could eat our soup and bread.

Marching from the showers to our block, some of us noticed a most interesting and unusual sight. One side of the street consisted of small "bungalow" type houses with gardens in front.

In one of those gardens, we noticed a gentleman in civilian clothing, sitting in a chair and reading the V–lkischer Beabachter. The man was none other than Leon Blum, former Socialist Prime Minister of France. He was liberated and rose to become Prime Minister again after the war.

We were not bothered very much for the next five days. We were pretty much left to ourselves. There was an Appel every morning, but this was done speedily. During the day, we could rest in our bunks. We slowly began to look around us, only to realize the tremendous losses we took in the few days' ordeal. There were no more than probably 2,000 of us left. Three to four hundred more were allegedly sent to a revir (hospital), if this could be believed. My Great-uncle Laci Pikkel disembarked with a head swollen, without exaggeration, to twice its normal size. I spoke to him. He responded to all my questions. He was in great pain but was able to walk without help. My great-uncle told me that he was repeatedly beaten by the ariers in their wagon. He was spotted and taken aside. That was the last time we saw him.

Of the 2,000 who survived, another 500 died shortly afterward as a result of the hardships and beatings during our transfer to Dachau. Only a small number lived long enough to be liberated.

I know but a handful of my fellow prisoners who survived this ordeal. None of them lives in Montreal. How surprised I was when by sheer chance, at a friend's party, a guest named Ehrman was telling me about his brother making a tape about his experiences during the war. In fact, the tape was being aired by a radio station in the near future. When asked where I was during the war, I mentioned Birkenau-Warsaw. As soon as I said "Warsaw", he jumped up and asked me, "Were you on that march to Zichlin?" It turned out that we were together all the way to Dachau. I knew Mr. Ehrman for the past twenty to twenty-five years, but never knew that we had been camp comrades.

We were finally issued striped clothing, linen shoes with wooden soles (for those who had no shoes) and we were off again to another camp. This time we were headed to the nearby city of Kaufering in Bavaria. Only a small part of the transport was from the Warsaw camp. Kaufering Lager No. 7 was a new camp, built very cheaply and quite primitive. The block, half underground, was a dugout about seven meters wide and thirty meters long. It was covered with a reversed ·"·V-shaped" roof made of lumber and covered with the dugout dirt for camouflage and insulation.

Everything in this camp had the look of a speedily prepared facility, not geared to give the occupants even the most basic requirements to keep themselves clean and provide comfort after a hard day·'·s work. The work sites were far from camp, necessitating a long trek back and forth. That compounded our misery. It was late fall and the rainy season had begun. Our poor clothing made our lives miserable. The food was far from enough to sustain us for a long time, and we had no opportunity to organize anything outside the camp.

I was probably luckier than most, inasmuch as I befriended a Czech from Bohemia working in the camp office, who slipped me a piece of bread from time to time. I shared it with my father. We were now separated from my Uncle Meir, who had been sent to a different camp, as were Zanvel Hoffman and others from Volove and Chust The group of us, who had managed to stick together from the very beginning, was now separated.

We were constantly being shifted from one camp to another. From Camp #7 in Kaufering to Camp #4 in Landsberg, then to Camp #1 in the middle of nowhere and back to Camp #7. So it went to the very end. For the first time, we could all clearly see how starvation affected the human body. At first, one becomes very skinny, just skin and bones. Then the body suddenly blows up like a balloon and one's feet become swollen. At this point, the end is only a few hours away. Even in this condition, one had to continue the routine - go out to work and stand on one's feet like everybody else. The death rate was abnormally high. There were suicides, and people losing their minds. This was not a destruction camp with gas chambers and crematoria as in Dachau. But, there was no need to transport the ones no longer useful to the Reich, to Dachau. The Germans had learned the art of "Vernichtung·"· - destruction by various other means - hunger and overwork.

We were now able to get more news from the front. Some of our men worked for the SS, who had their families outside the camp in neat little houses. Attached to our camp was a women's section with about 250 Jewish prisoners. They worked just as hard as the men, and earned my greatest respect. They survived much better than we did, keeping themselves cleaner and, I am sure, their block neater than ours. Some of them worked for the German families in their houses, and managed to hear news on the radio and occasionally even bring out a part of the "V·"·lkischer Beabachter", the official newspaper of the Nazi party.

By now, even they had to admit the "planned retreat" of the German Armies. We knew of the approximate battle lines. But at this point, the news was of little importance to us. We were not sure if we would survive the day. Most of us, if not all, gave up hope of ever being free again. The camp population kept diminishing. New arrivals came from the ghetto of Lodz in Poland. To them, the camp was an improvement over the suffering they had endured in the Lodz ghetto. They all looked very pale and weak and their mortality rate was even higher than ours. At least that's what it looked like to me. I have no statistics to support my observations.

Eventually, one of my friends did manage to get a job as a potato peeler and was able to provide me with an added potato or a bowl of soup. This helped considerably. My father had been taken to a different camp nearby but managed to send word to me about where he was working. I knew of a work group from our camp that worked there and managed to get into that group so I could meet my father. His Capo was a notorious murderer, and I feared for my father's life. To my surprise, my father told me he got along fabulously with him, that he did not let him do any heavy work and even provided him with extra food. This Capo had to flee the camp soon after our liberation. So many complaints were lodged against him by the surviving inmates that he would have been arrested by the Americans.

My father and I were soon together again in Lager 7. Although we were in different blocks, we could at least visit each other every day. It was getting cold and we still had only our thin cotton uniforms. There was little hope that the Germans would supply us with warm clothing. It was to our great surprise that we received good woollen overcoats from the stockpiles in Auschwitz, which were accumulated from the Hungarian Jews. I received a good warm coat. A friend came running to me, showed me my own fur-lined coat, and offered to exchange with me. I refused.

To tell the full story of Kaufering and Landsberg would be better achieved by more competent writers. There were thousands of true life stories, mostly tragic. A book could be written about the underground, secret factories we were building, where dozens of our fellow inmates committed suicide by jumping from the very top. The story detailing the hanging of prisoners by the Germans, with all the camp forced to watch, could fill volumes. Another book could be written about the outbreak of typhoid.

This outbreak of typhoid was to be expected, with cold nights, when the water pipes froze, and even the most elementary hygiene was denied to us. The conditions were ripe for lice to spread with such rapidity that no one escaped. At first, we tried to kill the lice with our hands, squashing them by the thousands. There was no stopping their spread by such means. We would have to boil our clothes and blankets and burn the straw. The whole block would have to be disinfected. The Germans knew well about the problem. They solved it by not coming into camp, thereby not endangering themselves, but doing nothing for the camp residents.

The camp emptied rapidly. The death rate reached one hundred to one hundred fifty inmates per day. New prisoners arrived every ten to fifteen days, filling it up again for a few days. I survived, but just barely. Suddenly, I came down with Typhoid Fever. I do not know how many days it lasted. When my high temperature finally broke, it took me days to start walking again. My first attempt to walk was something to remember for a lifetime. My legs just would not hold me up. It took several days to learn how to walk all over again.

There was plenty of bread and soup now, for in every block more than half the inmates were sick and could not eat. Also, the rations of those who died during that day were still being received until the next morning. Those who could eat now had double and even triple portions. It helped those like me to recuperate.

It was the 1st of January 1945 when I finally felt strong enough to venture out. The first thing I intended to do was visit my father. I remembered that he visited me when I had a high fever. He spoke to me and I asked him whether he felt well. He assured me he did. I offered him my bread, but he had enough in his block. I do not remember seeing him afterwards. It took me a long time to get to his block. When I got to the entrance, I met a man I knew and asked him about my father. His reply was evasive, which gave me a premonition of bad news. I kept pressing him, and he finally told me, "You are a day too late. Your father died last night and was taken out this morning." The man kept talking to me, but I heard nothing, felt nothing but emptiness all around.

So ended the year 1944.

It was only after the war that we learned the truth about the Russian double-cross in Poland. The Polish government in exile, then in London, England, with a considerable army, fighting side by side with the Allies, was a thorn in the side of Russia. Its commander, General Anderson, a pro-Westerner, and the government as a whole, did not embrace the Communist ideology. They were hoping to create a democratic state along western lines. Russia had other plans. Its long range goal was to dominate all of middle Europe immediately after the war, with the rest coming into its fold as opportunity afforded. At the same time, the Russians nurtured a Polish "Comitet" in Moscow, preparing this group for eventual takeover of Poland, thus being assured of a government willing to follow the Russian line. Naturally, such intentions were not proclaimed publicly. On the contrary, the "Cominform" was officially dissolved, giving the impression that Russia was no longer interested in expanding its ideology.

The Polish government in London managed to organize an underground army in Poland called the "Home Army". They were well organized and supplied with weapons smuggled in by U-boats and air drops at night. Their members consisted of former officers and men from the prewar Polish Army.

In the summer of 1944, a plan for a joint military venture was submitted to the Russian High Command and the Russian government, under control of the dictator Stalin It was decided that on the day the Russians reached the outskirts of Warsaw, the Home Army would be ready for a popular uprising to facilitate their entry into Warsaw. A rocket signal would tell the Russians that the uprising had begun.

The Russians stood to gain easy entry into Warsaw and the destruction of several German divisions. The plan was approved. The uprising started the day we left Warsaw. That was the reason for the rush to get away before the Russians closed off the highways.

But The Russians did not make the promised move. It was not in their interest to let the government in London claim victory. It suited their purpose to have the Home Army and their pro-Western officers destroyed, paving the way for the installation of their own "Comitet" - now promoted to a full government - to take over the reins in Warsaw. By installing their own puppet regime in Poland, they made the London counterpart completely ineffective.

At the same time, we, the inmates of the Warsaw concentratdon camp, lost the chance to be liberated and escape further losses and immense suffering. In this way, they forged our destiny.