IN MEMORY OF My dear Parents
All my relatives
And the millions of Jews who perished during the Holocaust
IN MEMORY OF
My loving and devoted Daughter Sara (Sue) who fell victim to cancer
at the age of 38
AND IN MEMORY OF
My dearly departed Brother Misha (Moyshe) who was like a Father to
me during my long period of physical rehabilitation, and remained my best friend forever.
AND LAST BUT NOT LEAST, IN MEMORY OF
My big brother Isaak, my childhood hero who in 1936 was arrested and
sentenced to a month in prison for daring to resist an attack by anti-semitic hooligans.
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
To my dear daughter Ella, for her patience and skills in
transforming my hand-written memoirs into a viable, properly typed manuscript.
And to my loving wife (of 48 years), Ann, for her patience and
support.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Foreword
Some reflections about the title of my memoirs
Ch. 1 The Years before W. W. 2
Our apartment - the school years - the turbulent thirties -
anti-semitism - the government - lies and scapegoats - an improvement in our living
conditions - a not too memorable excursion - on our way - on the train back home - back
home at last.
Ch. 2 The German occupation of Lodz (The Ghetto)
The bridge.
Ch. 3 The Soup Kitchen (Winter Of 1940-41)
Ch. 4 On Charniekiego (The Ghetto Prison)
Ch. 5 Fathers Departure (The
"Sperre" 1942)
The Sperre - sealed cattle wagons at Marishin -the aftermath of
fathers departure.
Ch. 6 My Mother
The departure of aunt Rachel - Sept. 1939-Aug. 1944 - a case of
guilty conscience.
Ch. 7 Mordechai Chaim Rumkowski
My personal encounters with Rumkowski = Rumkowskis apparent
search for a remedy - Rumkowskis second concept - an attempted short strike at the
fur factory - Rumkowskis return to the fur factory - my personal thoughts about
Rumkowski.
Ch. 8 The Final Days Of The Lodz Ghetto
On the way to the rail station - in front of the cattle wagons -
Auschwitz-Birkenau - Arbeit macht frei - on the way to the bath house - a second selection
inside the bath house - Tadek our block eldest - leaving Auschwitz-Birkenau - inside the
cattle wagon
Ch. 9 Arrival At Munich, Germany (Then Camp 4
Kaufering)
Dachau-camp 4 Kaufering - the official welcome - block eighteen - a
meal fit for a king -again some help from an unexplainable source.
Ch. 10 Camp 1-Landsberg Dachau
Twenty-five lashes - help from a highly unexpected source.
Ch. 11 Christmas Of 1944 At Camp 1 Landsberg
The tragic effects of the holiday feast - a hot welcome by my newest
block eldest - a newly erected showcase hospital - at the bath house - the new place - a
taste of apple peelings - a very important visit - the beginning of the end of the good
life.
Ch. 12 Back At Camp 4 Kaufering
One days work in the camp kitchen - reunion with my twin
brother - a small food parcel from the Red Cross.
Ch. 13 Camp Kaufering (Passover 1945)
The first confrontation with my block eldest - my second and last
confrontation with Zulty - expelled from the hut.
Ch. 14 The Last Week At Camp 4 Kaufering, Dachau
Evacuation - my guardian angel at work again - the last voyage -
alone at the end - liberation - liberated but still not free - finally liberated.
Epilogue
At last a reunion with my twin brother.
Appendix
FOREWORD
It is a well established fact that for many years after liberation
most Holocaust survivors with very few exceptions talked very little about their ordeal
during the horrible years under the Nazis.
There were of course many reasons for that voluntary silence.
Although those reasons did not differ much from one survivor to the other, they were
nevertheless quite personal. It all depended in the character and attitude of each
individual.
It took several decades to finally break down that deafening
silence. All of a sudden it seemed as if everybody started to talk at the same time. The
reason for that sudden awakening was without doubt the emergence of scores of Holocaust
deniers. Those self-styled so-called historians were obviously supported by various
Neo-Nazi groups and other far-right organizations all over the world. To counter that
shameless trend, many Holocaust survivors started to publish their memoirs which were
telling the whole truth about the crimes against humanity committed by Nazi Germany.
That was the time when I decided to do my part in helping to spread
the truth. I wrote my memoirs which I'm hoping to publish soon. I had also submitted two
personal accounts through video tapes, one at the Montreal Holocaust Memorial Centre, and
the other to Stephen Spielbergs, "Survivors of the Shoah Visual History
Foundation."
I am convinced that with better writing skills, I would have, been
able to produce a better and perhaps a more understandable account of my experiences
before and during WW2. However, I do believe that even with my limited skills, I am in a
position to offer a truthful and detailed account of the terrible horrors and sufferings
endured by hundreds of thousands of innocent and helpless Jewish men, women, and children.
And indeed the suffering of my immediate family and myself.
Before I decided to put my story on paper, I realized that it won't
be easy for me to re-live again the horrors of the Holocaust. However, I overcame all the
hurdles without special difficulties.
Still blessed with an excellent memory, I wrote my memoirs without
any or very little actual research. All my experiences up to the smallest details during
the Holocaust are still clearly and vividly engraved in my mind and will remain there till
the end of my days.
I sincerely hope that my graphic description of certain events will
not unduly disturb the readers of my memoirs.
SOME REFLECTIONS ABOUT THE TITLE OF MY
MEMOIRS
Ask any Holocaust survivor how he or she managed to survive those
terrible years of confinement in ghettos and concentration camps, the most probable answer
you would hear would be "Just pure luck." And indeed, they all are right.
My twin brother and I were fortunately among those (not too many)
lucky ones. It was a matter of luck, of course, that my family had lived in the area where
the Lodz Ghetto was later erected. This provided us with a luxury of living in
the same flat until the final liquidation of the ghetto in August of 1944.
Besides a few more strokes of luck, the greatest of which is without
doubt our extreme luck to have been blessed with a loving and devoted mother during all
those terrible years.
However, as you will learn while reading my memoirs, many extremely
unexplainable events did happen to my brother and I which I can not simply dismiss as
simple luck.
I am quite convinced that some of those events during my
incarceration, especially the mysterious circumstances of my eventual liberation were much
more than plain luck. I leave it however to the discretion and intelligence of my readers
to arrive at their own conclusions.
It is well known that during the Holocaust some very religious Jews
who were forced to witness the indescribable horrors committed against their people in
general and their loved ones in particular became so disappointed that they openly turned
against their beliefs in God. At the same time we learned that the opposite also occurred,
although on a smaller scale.
Although as I said before, I had experienced instances of
supernatural last minute rescues which only touched me personally. I did not however see
any signs of that sort of help arriving for the thousands of innocent men, women, and
children who perished in the gas chambers of Auschwitz and other death camps. Witnessing
how many piously religious Jews and especially the thousands of innocent little children
were being tormented and murdered by the Nazis without seeing the slightest sign of help
from above, I kept on asking a still unanswered question: "What did I ever do in my
young life to deserve such an exceptional treatment?"
While pondering a fitting title for my memoirs I also considered:
"My incredible guardian angel." However, being brought up in a modern but
traditional Jewish home, I tried to remain that way. Although at times during the
Holocaust I sincerely believed that I was being taken care of by some sort of guardian
angel, I nevertheless decided to stay away from choosing one of the two extreme positions.
I decided therefore to adopt the more logical and more fitting
title: "My long road to freedom."
And since I am far from being an expert in matters of religion and
spirituality, I decided to leave this aspect of my survival to people with more experience
and more knowledge in these matters.
There is also another important phenomenon which was never too easy
for me to fully comprehend. Namely the despicable problem of collaboration with the Nazis.
There were of course voices which tried to dismiss that painful
problem with simple explanations, like for instance: "They were forced to do
it," or "they tried desperately to save their lives and the lives of their
families." However, I personally never believed in those utterly simplistic
explanations.
Of course there must have been some cases of people being forced to
do things against their will. But those in my opinion, were very isolated cases.
However I was fortunate to have seen many exemplary and human
behaviours of countless Jewish policemen in the Lodz Ghetto as well as by decent capos in
the concentration camps.
Therefore I am inclined to consider the few (thank God that there
were only a few) bad cases of vicious behaviour of individuals dehumanized by the
circumstances, including some in highly powerful positions, as sick people.
Therefore I sincerely believe that also this problem should be left
to be assessed by trained professionals, like psychiatrists, and psychologists.
Chapter 1
THE YEARS BEFORE W.W.2
Shortly before the outbreak of World War 2, I had finished my
seventh year of public school. This particular period, I consider the best years of my
young life. Not to forget, of course, the many happy memories of my early childhood, which
are still solidly engraved in my mind.
I vividly remember my first Hebrew lesson while sitting on my
teachers lap. I must have been only four years old at the time. when a private
teacher, a relative of our landlord taught me the first letters of the Hebrew alphabet.
I was born, raised, and lived in the same one room apartment on the
Zydowska street, Number 25, until the final liquidation of the Lodz ghetto, in August of
1944.
Although the correct translation of the street name was the Jewish
street, to the Jewish population of Lodz, it was simply known as
"Mordechai-Gabos" street, fondly named after the late beloved Gabay of the great
old-city synagogue.The synagogue, a large highly impressive structure, stood majestically
on the Wolborska street, a short walk from our residence.
I still remember the saturday mornings leaving my father inside the
crowded sanctuary, and running outside with a bunch of friends, to watch with pride the
arrival of groups of Jewish soldiers from the twenty eighth Kaniowski infantry division
which was stationed in Lodz. In order to keep them from leaving the synagogue on their
own, they were usually escorted by a non-Jewish corporal or other non-commissioned
officer.
Moshe, my oldest brother was not yet ten, and Isaak, about seven
when my twin brother and myself were born.
When I was old enough to ask why I was named Benjamin, I received an
answer which was not fully understandable to me at the time. "Having already two
sons, your mother and I were actually aiming for a girl, but instead God blessed us with
two more beautiful sons. But since I was officially the youngest (by only fifteen
minutes), I was named Benjamin after the youngest son of the patriarch Jacob.
Unfortunately at that time my father had lost his job at the textile
factory due to automation, and the additional two mouths to feed surely became quite a
burden to our parents. My mother being an experienced worker in the comforter trade was
forced to take in contracting in order to compensate for the loss of fathers weekly
salary.
To raise four children, taking care of a household, while putting in
a regular days work was surly quite a burden on mothers shoulders, even with
some help from my father.
The fact that all that had to be done in a one room apartment
(literally one single room) must have made my parents lives unbearable. Even under
existing depressed economic conditions in the young independent republic of Poland, to
live under such poverty was far from normal. However to the overwhelming majority of the
Jewish population of Lodz, especially in the old city area, this standard of living was
indeed considered normal. Adding to the misery, was the absence of sewers (and of course
any sort of plumbing.)
OUR APARTMENT
I can still remember and vividly visualize each piece of furniture
and each item in our apartment. I am also able to place each piece of furniture at the
proper place exactly where it was located at the time.
To state that the single room apartment of ours was overcrowded
would be an understatement indeed. Only the clothing cupboard, the parents double bed and
the large table with six heavy chairs, have already taken up about seventy percent of the
available space. Mothers kitchen credenza, the wood burning stove and a corner space
to store some coal and wood took up almost the entire thirty percent which was left.
The two folding beds on which the boys were sleeping were during the
day placed near a wall and neatly covered up. On Saturdays and holidays, when mother was
not working, the so-called "frame" on which she used to make her comforters was
also folded, covered up and placed at another part of an empty wall. Since we had no
running water, a sort of cabinet stood at the left corner next to the door on top of which
two buckets filled with fresh water were placed.
Another bizarre thing about our apartment was, that although
we had no running water, a sink was attached to the wall, next to
the water cabinet, this quite important appliance was used mostly to
dispose of dirty water. The other important use of that sink was to brush our teeth and
wash our faces.
No matter how drab looking our apartment was during the six work
days, the transformation for the Sabbath and holidays was quite remarkable. The spotlessly
clean room, the large table covered with a beautiful white tablecloth and the candlestick
in the centre, brought a distinctive look and festive atmosphere not only to the apartment
but to everyone present.
Every Friday afternoon in order to properly welcome the Shabbat,
father took my twin and myself to the famous "Offenbach Shwitz" (bath house).
When I reached the age of nine or ten I began to realize how
difficult my parents lives were. To bring up a family under such conditions was
surely no picnic. But for me as well as my older brothers these were indeed times of joy
and happiness. The closeness and love among all of us and the respect for our parents and
their respect towards the children added a lot to that happiness.
THE SCHOOL YEARS
My twin brother and I were not four yet, when my father introduced
us to our first teacher. Of course we were not exceptions because most Jewish children at
that time. started their education about this age. Our teacher, a brother-in-law of the
owner of our building was a frail, slim young man, who at the age of thirty was already
completely grey. His long beard added substantially to his odd appearance. But he was
gentle and kind.
In order to win my confidence the "Rebe," as we used to
call him, held me on his lap and with a bright smile on his pale face, taught me the first
letters of the Hebrew alphabet.
Apparently having no other skills, or perhaps physically unfit to do
any hard labour, Reb Mendl gave individual Hebrew lessons to beginners. Being aware of the
financial problems of his students, the teacher charged a minimal fee. This job, however
provided a measure of self respect to this proud man and ample proof, that he was capable
of making a living like any other married man.
A couple of years later, when I was already attending regular Hebrew
school, my first-ever teacher passed away. Although he had no children the tragedy for his
immediate family was enormous. He was loved by everybody, and even as I was still a young
child I felt a kind of pride to have been among a large group of students to escort the
funeral procession and offer special prayers. The whole neighbourhood attended and paid
homage to this unfortunate young man. Although I overheard some people talking about the
Rebes heart condition, I did not really comprehend what it was all about. However
the passing of my young teacher was the first real tragic event of my young life and the
beginning of my actual growing up.
At that time I also began to understand the difficulties my parents
were experiencing and how hard it must of been for them to provide for four growing
children and give them at least the minimum what they needed. So, I used to comfort myself
with the fact that my parents were not the only ones with financial problems. Most people
in our neighbourhood lived under the same deplorable conditions and many were even poorer
than we were. The shortages which we had to endure during the weekdays were handsomely
compensated with delicious Shabbat and holiday meals.
Although our mother was working very hard, being for a long time the
only provider, she never neglected her duties as a wife and mother. She did everything
with love, devotion and compassion.
The unlimited love of our parents for their children and the
closeness among the siblings made it much easier for all of us to endure the hard times
while sincerely believing in a brighter future.
Some better times for our family eventually did come. But with the
rapidly approaching disaster, the better times soon became overshadowed by total darkness.
THE TURBULENT THIRTIES
When I started public school, in the early thirties, my oldest
brother Moshe was already working as a furrier and Isaak began his apprenticeship in the
same trade. Since three of my mothers brothers were in the fur business, it was
normal at that time for members of the family to follow in their footsteps. Moshe as well
as Isaak were already contributing some money to the household, lessening a bit the burden
of my parents.
Although a lot easier than before, my parents struggle to make
ends meet, did not entirely diminish. The boys kept growing up, and with it a more urgent
need for clothing, and shoes, not to mention larger food orders.
So even at my age, my outlook on life was already influenced to a
great extent, by the economic problems of my family, as well as by the struggles and
frustrations of the families of my school friends. I was also wondering why so many men in
our neighbourhood were unemployed. Another important influence on my premature growing up,
were the several daily newspapers in Yiddish as well as in Polish which were never missing
on the table along with the morning coffee.
At the age of nine, I was already reading the papers in both
languages, while teasingly nick-named by my brothers "the politician." My
favorite school subjects in the higher grades were history, geography, and the weekly
roundups of current events. This interesting class was conducted by the school principal
himself.
The most important event which remained engraved forever in my
memory, is without any doubt, Hitlers coming to power in Germany. I vividly remember
that fateful, cold January morning of 1933 when getting ready for school, the door slammed
open with an unusual bang. Father, pale and visibly shaken stepped in as if to avoid
collapsing, grabbed the nearest chair and sat down. After relaxing for a few seconds quite
upset and still pale he showed us the headlines of the two morning papers printed in large
and bold letter: "Hitler became the new chancellor of the third reich".
Knowing already quite a bit about this infamous German monster and
being aware of his vicious hatred towards the Jewish people, I felt as if someone had hit
me over the head. My little heart must have stopped beating for a moment and then racing
uncontrollable. It became clear to my whole family that something very bad took place not
just in Germany, but was also going to effect the Jewish people all over Europe.
On that terrible day, in all the neighbourhood shops, markets, small
work places and factories where people were working the air was filled with anxiety and
fear. A creeping feeling of an unavoidable approaching disaster was also felt at schools
among the teachers as well as the students.
ANTI-SEMITISM
Roughly ten percent of Polands population was Jewish. Taking
into consideration the high percentage of Jewish academics like lawyers, doctors,
architects, scientists, well-known writers, artists, and especially educators, the Jewish
influence in Polands political life was next to nill. Even the several industrial
giants, owners of large factories (Israel Kalman Poznanski and Asher Kohn of Lodz ) who
employed tens of thousands of workers and contributed immensely to the welfare of the
Polish population, were dwarfed by the power and influence of the many ethnic German
textile tycoons and rich entrepreneurs.
Although the Jewish presence in Poland goes back to 14th century
when Polands king "Kazimir the great" opened Polands gates to the
homeless and persecuted Jews of Western Europe, their vast contribution to their new
homeland was hardly recognized.
According to the Polish constitution, every citizen, no matter of
what religious persuasion was supposed to enjoy equal rights and privileges. The Jews
however, who were Poles for over five hundred years, were at best only second class
citizens.
On the surface however Jews were considered equal. Jewish political
parties from the far right to the moderate left sent democratically elected members to the
"saim', (lower house), and senate, (upper house).
All Jewish political parties operated legally, as other parties did,
except of course, since the early thirties, the outlawed Communist party. Several
independent Yiddish papers and magazines were published.
So, why was there a so-called "Jewish problem?" For
starters the Jewish parliamentarians of both houses had no power at all. Not only were
their proposals and suggestions completely ignored but most of the time they were
personally ridiculed by many right-wing members of parliament.
After the passing in 1935 of the moderate Polish leader Joseph
Pilsudski, the right-wing parties had an overwhelming majority in parliament, as well as
in government.
The other very important problem, was the total indifference of a
great sector of the Polish intelligentsia toward the real Jewish problem. At a time when
several openly anti-semitic parties were supported by upper-class Poles as well as
enjoying massive support by the conservative Catholic church, Jews were left without
reliable protection.
It became quite clear that the poor masses of unemployed Poles and
their families had to be fed, so they were provided with heavy doses of hatred towards the
Jewish neighbours, who were blamed for their sufferings.
The ever-stronger viciously anti-semitic party, the so-called
national democrats', (N.D.) became the main source of the anti-semitic propaganda,
especially among the poor, the unemployed and ignorant.
After Pilsudskis passing, even the following governments and
the prime ministers were not hiding their anti-Jewish feelings by ignoring an open boycott
against Jewish businesses. In the late thirties the then prime-minister Slavoy
Skladkowski, in one of his speeches to both houses of parliament endorsed the boycott
while mildly expressing his opposition to violence: "it will give us a bad name
around the world", was his given reason for opposing violence.
Violence against Jews in Eastern Europe, especially in Poland, was
not a new phenomenon, but after the passing of Pilsudski, whom the anti-semites considered
and named the grandfather of the Jews, violent incidents became a daily
occurrence in Polish cities and towns.
Violence seemed to have multiplied after the rise of Nazism and
Hitlers coming to power in neighbouring Germany.
It became quite dangerous for an elderly Jew to walk the streets
especially at night, and for school children, to walk to or from school.
Many small towns experienced organized pogroms which occurred mainly
after unfounded rumours of Jews killing Christian children. Such pogroms occurred in towns
like Minsk Mazowiacki and Przytyk in 1936 which resulted in several deaths and scores of
badly injured men, women and children. Not to mention destruction and torchings of Jewish
homes.
The tragic part and most irritating to the Jewish communities was
the fact that in the aftermath of such horrible violent acts, not the attackers but the
innocent victims, were arrested and prosecuted. In Przytyk for instance, many Jews who
dared to defend themselves, among them Mr. Leyzer Feldberg a seventy yearsold man, who
received a life sentence for supposedly injuring an attacker who allegedly later died of
his wounds. Mr Feldberg was defended by an honest Christian lawyer Mr. Wazlaw Szumanski,
without success.
Violence against the Jewish population kept on increasing steadily.
Smashing windows of Jewish shops and homes became some kind of a sport for young
hooligans. Leaving the churches after Sunday mass seemed a favorite time for many of those
brainwashed young men to demonstrate their hatred towards the Jews. Even more dangerous
than the regular Sundays was the Easter holiday. On that day the conservative priests were
officially accusing the Jews of murdering Jesus Christ.
The national democrats and their followers, encouraged
by the events in Nazi Germany became ever more vocal and openly professed more violence
against the Jewish citizens. They also organized and supported a more extended boycott
against Jewish enterprises while urging non-Jewish store keepers to display in their
windows signs in big letters informing the passerby that they are a Christian firm.'
THE GOVERNMENT
The government in Warsaw pretended to be blind to the increasing,
suffering of its Jewish citizens. Ignoring the protests from the Jewish parliamentarians
and partly by the opposition,"Polish socialist party," the saim and senate kept
on introducing new anti-Jewish laws. At the time, the Jewish population was already used
to the fact that our government as well as the parliament, will do their utmost to make
our lives as miserable as possible.
But a bill introduced in parliament by a right-wing member,
demanding a complete ban of kosher meat, became the straw which broke the camels back.
Arguing that ritual slaughter is inhuman Mrs. Pristorowa, a well known anti-semite was
aiming direct at the heart of Jewish religious life.
I must add that many Christian liberals were voicing their
opposition against that bill, finally showing open support for the oppressed Jewish
population.
Mrs. Pristorowas proposal prompted for the first time ever a
united front of all Jewish political parties, partially supported by the Polish
"socialist party"and a handful of other moderates. This time the entire Jewish
population recognized their numerical power and in full solidarity followed a call by
their leaders for a general boycott of beef and beef products.
This action caused an obvious panic in the countrys meat
industry which realized that they could not afford to loose their Jewish customers who
represent a close to ten percent of the overall population, but uses proportionately more
beef than their Christian neighbours. Mostly because the others were consuming more pork
and less meat.
Mrs. Pristorowa and her supporters did not give up easily. But after
a protracted fight on the floors of parliament the bill was finally shelved. In spite of
this obvious set-back the anti-Jewish bickering continued unabated.
LIES AND SCAPEGOATS
My experience with anti-semitism probably goes back to the day I was
able to walk out to the street on my own. The abuse and harassment by older Christian
children remained among my first childhood memories. This was the time when I heard for
the first time the slogan "Jews to Palestine."
Later when I started public school my mother sent me to school at
least a half an hour earlier in the morning in order not to meet up with the Christian
boys. I also left school about a half an hour later for exactly the same reason. Sometimes
however groups of those little hooligans were already waiting for us on the way to school
turning our usual pleasant way home into sheer hell. They seemed to find pleasure in
kicking and hitting the younger kids while their accomplices tried to block our escape
routes.
All sport activities like soccer games, volleyball, or ice skating,
were scheduled for us at times when the Christian children were already in their homes. In
order to avoid harassment, the teachers picked sides for those activities in strictly
Jewish areas. Even the weekly showers we took in the Jewish area, escorted by a Jewish
teacher.
In time I also experienced acts of violence by adult bullies. These
characters to camouflage their true intent, most of the time pretended to be drunk. My
brother Moshe was not yet seventeen when during a walk on a busy street with his
girlfriend was assaulted by such a character. The man, who as the others, pretended
drunkenness, (and according to my brother did not smell of alcohol) embraced him in a
friendly manner
uttering words like "How much he loved Jews."
In only a few seconds this so-called drunk managed to inflict
a deep cut to my brothers skull. He apparently used a razor blade because Moshe only
noticed the assault after the man had already disappeared. With blood streaming down his
neck, he ran to the nearest police precinct. Knowing well that violence against Jews was
openly tolerated, he refused to press any charges. After being given the necessary first
aid he left the precinct, amid loud laughter by several policemen who seemed to have
enjoyed the spectacle.
After this unfortunate incident Moshe was not the same any more. He
started to get involved in leftist activities, believing that socialism will eventually
bring equality among nations and also eradicate the scourge of anti-semitism.
To his great disappointment however, this dream of his soon
evaporated. After his escape from Nazi occupied Lodz in 1939, hoping to find a haven in
the Soviet Union, he found instead a regime no less ant-semitic than the fascist
governments of western Europe.
After the incident with my brother, although still a child, I began
asking questions about the reasons of anti-semitism. Although my father felt that I was
too young to absorb the proper answers he nevertheless told me things which began to open
my eyes. He told me that the Jews who had no homeland of their own were the perfect
scapegoats for all sorts of corrupt regimes and for corrupt leaders of various political
parties. This situation was also aggravated by a conservative Catholic church.
To cover up their own weaknesses, their corrupt and even criminal
acts against their own people, these regimes blamed all evil on the helpless Jews.
Innocent Jewish men, women and children were being discriminated against, abused and
murdered for as long as two thousand years. During the Crusades and the Spanish
Inquisition thousands of Jews were killed in the name of God. Later on Jews were being
killed by different regimes who accused their Jewish populations of being disloyal and
through lies and innuendos instigated Christians to kill their Jewish neighbours by
accusing them of being spies and traitors to their own countries.
My father explained to me in simple words that according to those
regimes, Jews were at the same time capitalists, socialists, communists, zionists, bankers
and even beggars. They created for their masses a stereotype of a person unworthy of
living among them. Jews were held responsible for unemployment, for poverty and even
natural disasters. Those vicious libelous lies resulted in tragedies like the Dreyfus
affair in France and many trials of Jews who were accused of killing Christian children
and using their blood to bake passover matza, a good example was the infamous Bailis trial
in the Ukraine and other trials of that sort.
All those vicious accusations turned out completely groundless and
the accused were eventually released and in many cases rehabilitated. Even in my time I
have heard many of the same accusations in our supposedly democratic country of Poland.
Knowing well that all those allegations were pure lies, I was still unable to dismiss them
as harmless. I got angry and disgusted when reading or listening to such dangerous
accusations.
What made me most angry was the often repeated shameless assertions
by the anti-semitic press and leading right-wing politicians that all Jews of Poland are
rich. The sad part of this propaganda, of these lies and innuendos was the fact that many
perhaps too many of Polish Christians believed in them. The real truth was that very few
Jews of our city were rich. Their numbers were so small that they constituted a very small
percentage of the overall Jewish population. The fact was, that a vast majority of the
Polish Jews, especially in a large city like Lodz, lived in a sort of poverty unparalleled
in any country in Western Europe. Families of six (like my own family), and of more, were
living in one room flats. Those so-called apartments mostly in unheated dilapidated
buildings were without running water or any sort of plumbing.
The public latrines were mostly situated at the rear of the usually
large backyards and were most of the time overflowing and so were the large garbage
containers. No wonder that those places were breading grounds for rats, which were roaming
the area as free as birds. Although these conditions were later improved and the rodents
exterminated, the air around those places was poisoned with an unbearable stench
especially during the hot summer days.
Most of those impoverished slum dwellers were self employed,
actually contractors, who were doing work for larger manufacturers. These workers were
paid so little, that they could not afford to keep extra space for their workshops, and
most of them did their work inside their already overcrowded living quarters. These were
mostly tailors, shoemakers, furriers, weavers, etc.
Due to the very strong trade unions, Jewish workers could not get
employment in large factories, even in the predominantly textile industry. This was part
of the reason for Jewish weavers to do contracting in their homes. Most of these
contractors work was seasonable, so many of them had to go through many months of
unemployment and unbearable hardship.
Freezing during the cold winters and sweltering during the hot
summers, the children of those poor, hard working Jews had never enough food to satisfy
their needs. Many mothers kept pots of hot potato soup to feed their children, as a
substitute for bread, which was much more expensive.
At school these kids were provided with some sort of lunches
donated by parents of more affluent students, but mostly by Jewish charitable
organizations. The so-called affluent people were mostly struggling small store keepers
and small manufacturers. But the overwhelming majority of the Jewish working class, and
the masses of Jewish unemployed were living under those deplorable conditions, I described
above.
I must add that in spite of all the difficulties and prevailing
poverty Jewish life in general seemed to flourish. In the relatively young Polish
republic, Jewish institutions, religious as well as charitable, had full freedom of self
governing and growth. A democratically elected Jewish committee (kehila) with a president
who was the leader of the winning party. This committee was overseeing all activities of
various Jewish institutions, like charitable organizations, medical and dental clinics,
welfare, and so on. All religious affairs were handled by a rabbinic assembly, a so-called
Rabbinate.
All athletic clubs were supported by various political parties, and
partially by dues from the membership.
In general, Jewish life, with its self-supporting institutions was
thriving amid an atmosphere of undiminishing anti-semitism.
AN IMPROVEMENT IN OUR LIVING CONDITIONS
The year was 1936. The economic situation in the country reached
crisis proportions. The results of mass unemployment especially affecting the small
contractors. My father was still jobless, and for mother to obtain contract work became
ever more difficult. The manufacturers understandably had first of all to provide work for
their own labourers.
My two older brothers were already working as furriers, but also
began experiencing the general squeeze, with much shorter seasons than usual. They
actually needed for their own expenses more than they were able to contribute to the
household. The situation turned from bad to worse.
What was really hard for me to understand.was how under such
extremely difficult conditions, my father was able to spend some money, no matter how
little, to buy lottery tickets. Fathers faith and hope that someday he might win
some money, kept him going. For him and for millions of others like him, this was the only
way out, and the only way to turn his life around. All he dreamed of, was for the day he
would be able to provide a decent living for his wife and children.
Finally, at a time when he needed it most, his prayers were
answered, and the dream came true.
Fathers number on the so-called "dollar lottery" won
a staggering hundred dollars. Since this money was being paid in gold dollars, father
collected a for us astronomical sum of close to one thousand Polish zlotys. Although we
all knew about fathers possession of such a lottery ticket, the only one who
actually knew the number by heart was Isaak. On that fateful day, he happened to read the
paper during his lunch hour, when he noticed among the winners fathers number.
Isaak of course immediately left his work place and came running
home with the great news. The tremendous joy and happiness we all experienced at that
moment is indescribable. But most memorable were mothers tearful thanks to God for
his kindness and mercy. As usual she found that this was the time for her favorite
expression: "The light never comes on before you experience total darkness."
Soon after obtaining the money my parents established, on a small
scale of course, a comforter factory, starting with only two employees.
Although the general economic situation in the country did not show
any visible improvement, my parents venture became quite successful. After only
several months in business, the sales were going up to a point, when they were forced to
employ about six to eight workers.
After a while they rented some separate space for the factory,
because it became impossible for them to continue working in our over-crowded one room
apartment. Although economically we were fast reaching the middle class status my parents
were working harder and more hours daily than ever before.
Mothers work load as head of production, plus the burden of
taking care of the household, became much too much for her fragile personality. She seemed
constantly to be on her feet never taking a bit of time to relax. The only benefactors of
our newly acquired prosperity were my brothers and myself.
Amid the uncertain political situation in Europe in general and in
Poland in particular, we finally began to enjoy life; although we fully realized that
there might be little precious time to enjoy.
Sometimes I'm not really sure if the people at that time did not
foresee a fast approaching disaster, or they simply refused to face reality. The signs
were bold and quite obvious. Ever more groups of former Polish Jews expelled from Nazi
Germany were being brought to the border crossing near the town of Zbonshin. Those
refugees told stories of horror and disaster which befell the German Jewish community.
At the same time Jewish life in Polands towns and cities was
going on in a relatively normal way, with all local institutions functioning in as normal
a way as possible under the circumstances.
My older brothers and myself were busy with our own activities.
Meyer and I were still attending school and quite busy with extra curricular activities.
We were also members of the well-known athletic club "Morgenstern" where we took
part in all sorts of competitive sports. Reading books I usually obtained at the school
library, and I also found a large variety of interesting books at the Jewish library.
Belonging then to the more affluent students, my brother and I began to take part in many
school outings and even went on a three day trip to the capital city of Warsaw.
I had friends who were members of various Zionist youth
organizations ranging from the extreme right-wing "Betar" to the far-left,
"Hashomer Hatzair." Although we were urged on by our friends to join one or the
other of these groups, we actually never did. Being by nature a moderate and ardent
believer in a Jewish homeland in Palestine, I was not yet inclined to choose political
sides and never officially joined a specific group.
For me, however, the most important thing in those days was school.
Starting at grade one, up to finishing grade seven, I was always among the small group of
"A" students. Since studying came very easy to me, so besides helping my twin
brother with whom I was always attending the same class, I was also able and quite willing
to help others with their studies and homework.
This, in addition to my being "the resident artist",
turned me into one of the most popular students in school. Starting in grade five and
onward I was the elected president of the class council. I was never considered a
"geek" because of my being a good student and not too big in size, but was
respected by all, even by the official school bullies who listened to my advice and
judgement.
I very well realized that most of that respect had to do with the
help I provided with their homework and in the art class but nonetheless I felt pretty
good about it. Of equal importance for me was also the respect and friendship I got from
all my teachers especially from the distinguished principal, Mr. Tabaksblat. They all
appreciated my active involvement in all sorts of school activities which also included
collecting funds for poor children.
At the time I was quite convinced that I am destined to pursue a
higher education, which was also the opinion of my teachers and principal. During the last
couple of years before W.W.2, I became dissuaded and discouraged by the ugly display of
anti-semitism of Polish institutions of higher learning.
The degradation of Jewish students and their humiliation by
ghettoizing and forcing them to sit separately became a factor in changing the minds of
many Jewish boys who decided to take the safer road by learning a trade.
Soon however all plans and dreams for the future became worthless
indeed. Nevertheless the school years remained my best and most memorable time of my life.
A NOT TOO MEMORABLE EXCURSION
A year or so before Germanys invasion of Poland the public
school board organized a special excursion to the Baltic port city of Gdynia. This trip
which was supposed to last three days with an addition of four weeks at a summer camp was
offered for a lowest fee possible. So there was no surprise when we learned that some
strings were attached to this fabulous deal, namely that only "A" students were
eligible.
The excitement diminished quite a bit when we found out that
although each Christian school will be able to send about twenty students, Jewish schools
were allocated a quota of only three. Again a blatant example of government sponsored
anti-semitism.
When notified that my name was among the three students chosen for
the trip, I was overwhelmed with a feeling of euphoria unknown to me before, plus of
course a tremendous feeling of pride.
After a while however, I realized that this is going to be the first
time in my life that I'll be forced to be separated from my twin brother for such a long
time. I felt sad and confused and was even contemplating some excuse to drop my
participation. My parents however swiftly changed my mind by convincing both of us that it
might be to our advantage to finally become less dependent on each other.
This trip was sheduled for the end of the school year, which was
about the 25th of June. But at the beginning of the month, the three chosen students were
summoned to the principals office for a short briefing. Two of us, Kempinski and
myself, were truly top students, but the third one, a very close friend of mine, was
pretty average. His mother however was for many years a hard working head of the
parent-teacher association, so it became quite obvious why he became the third
participant.
The meeting with the principal became quite a traumatic experience
for all of us when Kempinski declined the exceptional honor and chance to participate in
this important venture. This gentle fourteen year old boy who was nicknamed
"grandpa" was tall, slim, with a pale sad face. But worst of all his hair was
completely grey. He himself stubbornly refused to talk about it, and surprisingly I could
not recall a single instance when anybody would ever make fun of him or teased him because
of this affliction. There were many versions about the cause of that utterly unique
tragedy, but the most probable version and most believable was as follows: The Kempinski
family of five was living in a very poor district of our city. Once during a dark and cold
winter night they were viciously attacked by a couple of armed bullies and were robbed
them of whatever possessions they owned.
While his parents were brutally assaulted this then ten year old boy
was hidden under a bed with his two younger siblings, witnessing their poor parents being
stabbed and beaten unconscious. This apparently was the time when because of an unbearable
fear his hair started to turn grey.
The principal seemed to realize that Kempinskis refusal to
take part in the excursion was a problem of financing and offered to pay all expenses from
the schools petty cash reserves. Our friend however was adamant with his assertion
that his refusal had nothing to do with money and insisted that he had to stay home with
his ailing parents who are not able to take proper care of his younger siblings. All our
pleading and attempts of convincing him to change his mind, were in vain.
Kempinski left the principals office visibly swallowing his
tears. There was no doubt in my mind that the question of financing was his main problem
and his decision was made because of youthful pride. This gentle youngster was too proud
to accept charity. This was obvious indeed to everyone present.
When I told my parents that one of the boys is unable to take part
in the excursion, dad dropped a hint, that perhaps I should ask the principal if it could
be a chance for my twin brother to take his place. At first this idea hit me as
preposterous. How can I act so selfishly on somebody elses misfortune?
On that night I could hardly shut my eyes, my thoughts were racing
in many different directions. The next day at school I was still undecided how to handle
my peculiar dilemma. I was ready to go home without settling anything. While on my way
home I passed the principals office and I was hesitant of what to do next.
The office door was wide open and the principal seemed to have
noticed my hesitation of whether to stop or continue on my way out. "Do you want to
see me Benjamin?" he asked with his usual pleasant voice and with his familiar smile.
I stopped. Confused and totally unprepared, I slowly walked into his office. "Sit
down Benji," he pointed to a chair on the opposite side of his desk. His friendly
manner completely disarmed me. I calmly went directly to the point.
First I expressed my very sincere regrets about Kempinskis
problem and that my parents would be ready to pay the full cost of his trip. If only he
would be willing to accept. But since this proud boys decision seemed final.... I
did not finish my sentence while pondering how to continue, the principal finished it for
me: "So perhaps your twin brother could take his place".
I was overwhelmed with the intelligence, sincerity and frankness of
our beloved principal. He stood up and again with a pleasant smile, he assured me that in
a couple of days he will let me know about his final decision.
The next day, to be entirely sure about my friends stand, I
asked him again if he wouldn't change his mind. Looking at his always pale face and sad
eyes, I pleaded with him to reconsider. With visible pride, he looked at me and as before
insisted that his parents can easily afford the fee for the trip, but as the oldest son in
the family, he could not and will not leave his sick parents without proper care.
Being fully convinced that his mind was made up I told him about my
idea of replacing him with my twin brother. To my surprise Kempinski, with a straight face
even with a hint of a smile wholeheartedly supported my plan. "I sincerely
hope," he said "that the principal will come up with a positive decision.
As promised it took only a couple of days to be called into the
principals office.
It was a beautiful spring day, with a bright sun penetrating through
the window of the principals office. The sun totally blinded me for a moment.
Politely as always, I heard the principals voice asking me to sit down. This time he was
in the company of a couple of my favorite teachers.
Mr. Tabaksblat immediately came to the point. "As you probably
know, your brother does hardly meet the criteria of being part of this project, but we
nevertheless decided in your favor." As in a daze I heard him continue, "the
vice principal, Mr. Smolenski, and your class teacher Mrs. Hendler were both instrumental
in that decision. "We did it mainly because of your closeness with your twin
brother" were his final words.
"Today the sun did truly shine on us," I thought when I
left the office with a several times repeated "thank you very much."
Needless to say that my parents as well as my brother were delighted
with the outcome.
The excitement around the house was indescribable. Even our older
brothers had the pleasure in helping us with the packing of our knapsacks. Our apartment
was constantly visited by well wishing relatives and neighbours. The festive atmosphere in
our place could easily have been compared with families where a son or daughter was in the
process of emigrating to Palestine or the U.S.A.
After all, I had to recognize the fact, that people in our
neighbourhood seldom ventured very far outside the boundaries of the city.
Until the end of the school year, all the three candidates for the
trip to Gdynia, understandably became the envy of all our school-mates. Unfortunately most
of the youngsters were destined to spend their summer vacation inside our terribly
polluted city of textile factories and slums.
ON OUR WAY
We met in the late afternoon because we had a scheduled overnight
train direct to Gdynia. The June sun was still shining when we arrived at the central
station with our heavy knapsacks. At a predesignated place in front of the station our
supervisor, a public school teacher, was already giving instructions to a small group of
Jewish boys and girls.
While the plaza and street outside the station was crowded with
hundreds of seemingly happy and noisy youngsters our small group didn't seem to get much
larger. We were standing separated from all the others and before entering the station, I
estimated the group of Jewish youngsters at no more than twenty.
So right at the start it was easy to notice that while the other
supervisors were having lively conversations with each other, our teacher, apparently the
only Jew, was completely ignored. Our teacher, a handsome dark-haired man in his late
thirties or early forties pretended not to notice the snub, but his sad face said it all.
We were outsiders, and the stench of obvious anti-semitism was clearly in the air.
Not being able to conceal my feelings of despair, I whispered to my
brother while walking in the direction of the wagon designated for us: "The Jewish
population of Lodz numbers close to a quarter of a million, which makes it one third of
the overall population, so why in Gods name are we so few among so many non-Jewish
children"?
It turned out that the amount of Jewish students chosen for this
well publicized excursion, was no more than about two percent of the overall number of
participants. But I could hardly have expected that this so eagerly anticipated trip will
turn into an unforgettable nightmare.
Just minutes after settling down into our seats, this nightmare had
started. To use a toilette, we had to cross into the next wagon. Unfortunately we had to
pass a wagon full of hostile youngsters. The first one of us who tried to reach the
toilette soon returned limping and crying.
With tears running down his cheeks, he told our supervisor, that he
was verbally and physically abused by some bullies who refused to let him use the
facilities. Asked by our supervisor if none of their teachers tried to intervene on his
behalf, the crying youngster told him that the supervisor apparently pretended not to
notice the incident while enjoying a good laugh with the happy crowd. One of the girls who
took a chance to visit the toilette, was allowed to enter, and although not physically
assaulted, the girl was harassed, verbally abused, and made fun of.
Unwilling to take further chances, the boys decided to use their
teacups when needed to relieve themselves. The unpleasant consequence of such a way out,
was an unpleasant return of your own urine. While trying to get rid of the content through
the wagon window, the wind returned most of the fluid straight into your face. This
unfortunate situation continued until we left the train at the Gdynia station.
The moment we started breathing the fresh air of the Baltic sea, we
also began to experience a totally uncontrollable harassment and physical abuse by the
hands and feet of our Christian peers. This appalling behavior of the not very supervised,
youngsters lasted uninterruptedly and with the visible approval of their supervising
teachers, the entire three days of our tour of the port city of Gdynia.
A venture which was supposed to be stimulating, educational and
pleasurable, turned into one of the worst experiences of my pre W.W.2 life. Although our
supervisor did his very best to keep us separated from the main crowd, it was nevertheless
very difficult to avoid the seemingly well organized harassment. Besides sleeping in
separate quarters and many times taking separate site-seeing tours of the port, our time
in Gdynia could at best be described as miserable.
What was most painful, however was the verbal abuse we had to endure
during our joint meals at a huge hall at one of the citys high schools.
What I am going to describe was repeating itself at each of those
joint meals which were strictly supervised by a number of teachers and even principals of
Catholic schools. Each meal which normally supposed to be a restful break from the
uninterrupted tours, turned into an anti-semitic demonstration poisoned with hate by
supposedly Christian educated youngsters.
Before the start of each meal, and after saying grace, and under the
watchful eyes of their Christian educators, one of the boys in a loud voice wished
everybody "a good appetite." After receiving a loud unanimous "thank
you" he followed with "a good appetite to the Jews' for which of course the
reply was a deadly silence. The same reply he received after wishing a good appetite to
the Jewish girls.
Then, as a fully seasoned hooligan, the same youngster shouted on
the top of his lungs, "down with the Jews", to which the entire hall of hundreds
of youngsters replied in unison with a thunderous "down", followed with the old
well known anti-semitic slogan: "Jews to Palestine".
Those ugly and disgusting anti-Jewish demonstrations were performed
by youngsters in the presence of laughing and visibly proudly looking educators who by
their behavior and arrogance gave their full approval to such a shameless display of
hatred.
In addition, the utterly snobbish behavior of the so-called
educators towards the only Jewish supervisor, and by ignoring their only Jewish colleague,
they also gave tacit approval the young hooligans to harass and abuse our teacher. During
one of our joint meals, some kind of a flying object reached his forehead, causing quite a
nasty wound. Luckily it missed his black rimmed glasses, without which he would unable to
function. The out of control youngsters even composed a specific slogan against this
gentle supervisor of ours: "down with the enemy in spectacles."
ON THE TRAIN BACK HOME
As far as our relations with the non-Jewish youngsters, the ride
back home was not much different than the miserable experience on the way to Gdynia.
Except for one memorable event.
For some reason or another, the train from Gdynia to Lodz had to
pass the city of Gdansk. For another unknown reason, the train had to go on an elevated
track over the city of Gdansk, which gave us an excellent view of the citys centre.
To our dismay, this beautiful city which was internationalized by the "League of
Nations," did not look less German than Berlin itself. Huge Nazi flags with their
despised swastikas, were literally covering all the buildings of the streets and wide
boulevards. This display of Nazism was, especially for us Jewish youngsters, a terribly
scary experience.
Exhausted physically and mentally, most youngsters in our
compartment dozed off. I, however, although pretty tired was not able to close my eyes. I
kept thinking of why and how those Christian youngsters turned out the way they did. I was
quite convinced that their parents followed the example of their radical leaders.who were
not able or willing to improve the lives of the average citizen and instead blamed the
Jews for their own shortcomings.
So, those children were brought up in an atmosphere of hate, and at
an early age learned to blame others, especially the Jews who were their primary
scapegoats. At the same time, our upbringing was leading in just the opposite direction.
Our parents, and teachers taught us to respect and be tolerant to
anybody, regardless of their religion or nationality. The Rabbis in their sermons at the
synagogues were preaching the same values.
My thoughts were suddenly interrupted and so was the sleep of most
of the youngsters when one of us started to sing a Polish patriotic song, while the train
was still passing the city of Gdansk. Instantly others were joining him, and apparently
the loud singing was picked up by the adjoining wagons and spread to the entire train. It
became quite clear to me that while sensing a common enemy, we all became united at least
for the duration of this particular moment.
The song chosen for this expression of defiance was the unofficial
anthem of the Polish navy, in which the lyrics tell the enemy that the Baltic Sea shall
remain ours forever "even if we have to die for its defense and.... land at the
bottom of the sea."
This latent act of defiance by hundreds of youngsters made us Jewish
kids feel at least for a while equal citizens of our homeland.
BACK HOME AT LAST
With a sigh of relief we finally arrived exhausted at the Lodz busy
central station, happy to be home safe and sound.
In spite of all the difficulties and aggravations, the trip to
Gdynia could be considered a very important part of my growing up, and indeed an important
lesson of "intolerance". It provided us with first-hand knowledge of who we
really were. Finding out first hand of what an upbringing our Christian peers received, I
suddenly felt proud of my heritage. I felt a bit presumptuous to be proud of something
which was not of my own doing. But after my return from Gdynia I felt really proud to have
been born a Jew. It took only a couple of days after our return home to start packing for
our up-coming four weeks of summer camp.
This time we spent a truly unforgettable four weeks. Although the
camp was also sponsored by the public school board it was designated for only Jewish
students. The place was situated in a typical Jewish "Shtetl", surrounded by a
dense forest, and large meadows and farms. The town was split in two halves by a clean
small river called Pilica, one of the outlets of the Vistula River. The town was called
Sulayov, near Piotrkov.
Amid an already aggravated political situation and a fear of an
imminent approaching disaster, we enjoyed a pretty good summer vacation under the
circumstances.
Being among our own, I felt secure and content especially after our
disastrous trip to Gdynia. I could have had the time of my life if I would only be able to
erase from my mind the despicable behaviour of our non-Jewish peers, who were supported by
their arrogant supposedly Christian educators. It was also difficult for me to forget the
sea of Nazi flags displayed all over the free city of Gdansk.
Now six - decades later, living in a Canadian multi-cultural society
where my wife and I had raised children and grandchildren free from fear and prejudice, I
could only pity the mislead pre-war young generation of my former homeland.
Without really realizing the consequences of implanting prejudice
and intolerance into the hearts of their offspring they created a generation filled with
hate and bitterness. In a way the real victims of such an upbringing were, besides their
potential victims, the brain-washed youngsters themselves.
It still makes me wonder if many of those youngsters grew up to
become willing helpers to the Nazi murderers. Unfortunately such an assumption might not
be too far from the truth.
However, according to the numbers of Polish Catholics who saved some
Jews during the Nazi occupation it would be safe to assume that some of those youngsters
grew up to be decent human beings and were even helping their parents in that dangerous
task ... I sincerely hope that this assumption of mine is really close to the truth.
Chapter 2
THE GERMAN OCCUPATION OF LODZ (THE GHETTO)
Almost immediately after the entry of German troops, into the second
largest city of Poland, the war against the Jewish population began.
Perhaps the Nazis wouldn't have been able to start their dirty work
as soon as they did, if not for the local help granted to them by many of their
supporters. Thousands of ethnic Germans, proudly showing off their swastika arm bands,
were ready and willing to help their Nazi brothers in the war against their helpless
former neighbours.
Lodz surrendered to the Nazis without any actual resistance.
Evacuated days earlier by the Polish army, police force and the city administrators. Those
retreating "heroes", promised to put up a strong defence at the gates of Warsaw.
This promise prompted a mass evacuation of tens of thousands of men,
women, and children, many with their entire families, who soon became targets for the
murderous German pilots who bombed and mercilessly gunned down hundreds of those innocent
civilians. Many of those evacuees including little children, became the first victims of
Nazi brutality.
While the Nazis were busy with occupying the rest of Poland, the
occupiers of Lodz began their dirty work of harassing and abusing the Jewish citizens of
our city.
In addition to the help granted to the Nazis by their ethnic
brothers, they were also assisted by some Polish hooligans who for a small reward, and
many times just for pleasure, willingly denounced their Jewish neighbors or even former
close friends.
So, Jews were grabbed from the streets to perform all sorts of hard
labor. While many of them were fortunate enough to return home after performing their
days work. Others, especially young men were shipped off to labor camps, never to be
seen by their families again.
Religious Jews had their beards cut off forcefully, while many of
them were also forced to put on their prayer shawls. During those barbarous ceremonies,
the Nazis joyfully photographed each other, apparently to send pictures to their loved
ones in Germany.
Scores of different laws against the Jewish population, were posted
daily on billboards all over the city. Among the first outrageous proclamations were
against the Jewish religious life: "prayers in synagogues and assembling in groups
for any religious purposes was forbidden. Jewish stores had to be opened on the Jewish
Sabbath, holidays, and festivals. Jewish schools had to be closed until further
notice."
Other regulations included a ban for Jews to walk on sidewalk in the
presence of any German official, whether military or civilian. Jews were also obliged to
remove their hats and respectfully greet an oncoming German soldier.
Daily harassment of the Jewish population occurred unabated. Jewish
businesses were being closed, and their remaining stock looted and hauled away in large
trucks. Those looted goods were apparently transported to Germany. Smaller stores were
constantly looted by individual German soldiers as well as by ethnic Germans.
Finally the most degrading of all those laws was forced on us: Jews
must attach a yellow star of David on the front and back of each garment in their
possession.
During the initial evacuation of Lodz my two older brothers, Moshe
and Isaac, were also on their way to Warsaw. With thousands of others, they were
surrounded by the advancing German forces, and arrested somewhere between the two cities.
At the same time I became ill with an acute flu infection which
caused fluid in both of my knees. I probably contacted the flu while standing for many
hours in line-ups to fetch a loaf of bread for my family.
After a couple of weeks in detention, Isaac was finally released and
returned together with scores of other young men. Moshe, however, who at the time had no
proper identification, was kept as a prisoner of war.
Being back with his family, Isaac confirmed the tragic stories of
death and destruction, as a result of German low flying planes, bombing and shelling
indiscriminately civilian men, women and children.
The roads, byways and ditches were filled with corpses of innocent
people. In some places parents were found dead on top of their children whom they tried to
shield with their own bodies.
Moshe returned about six weeks later. Bailed out (or rather bribed)
by my father who together with a neighbor managed to bring their boys home.
Moshe, who was not twenty four yet, returned home in terrible shape.
Skinny after loosing at least twenty pounds, sick with a bloody diarrhea, physically and
mentally exhausted he told of atrocities at that time totally unimaginable.
Together with a large group of young men, Moshe was taken from one
temporary camp to another, sleeping on bare floors with very little food to sustain their
strength. There was no change of underwear or a simple shower during all that time.
Dirty unshaven with their clothing turned into rags, they were
dragged to the streets of the German city of Leipzig. During those walks escorted by Nazi
soldiers with vicious dogs. loudspeakers kept on shouting insults at those exhausted young
men, while introducing them to the passing-by German civilians as typical dirty and damned
"east Jews" who were the cause of all suffering in the world and the ones
responsible for the present war.
Soon after his return home and under the constant care of our dear
mother, Moshe recovered splendidly.
However, the situation in our city turned from bad to worse. On the
11th of November 1939, on the day when Poland was supposed to celebrate the anniversary of
it's independence, the monument of Polands historical hero Kosciuszko, was
destroyed. On the same day most of the synagogues of Lodz were blown up and some were set
on fire.
Jews were shedding tears and their hearts were bleeding. Especially
the Jews of my neighbourhood, could not bear the thought that their great old city
synagogue, where my family and myself were attending the shabbat and holiday services was
also destroyed. All that remained from that majestic world renowned synagogue was a pile
of rubble with it's concrete ten commandment tablets almost undamaged on top of the
debris. The nearby Beit Medrash (study house), was torched to the ground.
This was the day which prompted my parents decision to urge
their two older sons to escape to the east. My parents felt that their lives would be in
danger under the ever more brutal German occupation.
Soon after, amid hugs and tears, my two brothers together with
scores of other young men were on their way, with a promise to send for us if things work
out as expected.
Unfortunately things turned out worse than we expected. My brothers
never saw their parents again.
The economic situation, especially for the poorest segment of the
Jewish population became disastrous. Large families, without any means or without any
prospect of paid labor, were the first to suffer. An acute shortage of food products and
fuel caused the prices to sky rocket, making it impossible for most Jews to feed properly
or to keep their children warm.
The misery of the first winter under the German occupation was
devastating to a poorly prepared and mostly without means Jewish population of our area.
The death toll, especially among children and the elderly had reached unexpected
proportions. The main cause of this disaster was of course, cold and starvation. At the
same time the Germans started with their mass deportations which reduced the Jewish
population of Lodz at least by one third. Rumors of a soon to be erected ghetto, began to
circulate all over the place.
Through unexpected developments the economic situation in our
household improved immensely. An old customer of ours, a store keeper of German ancestry
and incidentally a decent person, recommended my father to a high ranking Wehrmacht
officer who ordered and paid for several comforters to be shipped to his family in
Germany.
This was the start of at least a couple of months of relative
prosperity, because several other German army officers followed with similar orders.
During this particular period, the Jewish population were struggling
with a shortage of yellow stars of David to attach to each one of their garments. The few
places where you were able to buy this very important, at the time, commodity were
producing fancy embroidered stars for which they were asking high prices, which were
unaffordable by most of the population.
Since my father had quite an amount of yellow satin material in his
stock, my brother and I decided to make our own yellow stars, and also some for our
relatives and close neighbors. As soon as what we were doing reached the streets, many
street vendors showed up at our apartment simply begging us to supply them with stars to
meet the demand of the Jewish population. They also indeed sensed a chance to make a
living. The demand became so big, that my brother and I had to work sixteen hours a day,
to meet the orders of ever more street vendors. Soon my father had to find more material
while my brother and I had to find new ways to double or even triple our production.
Although we covered the cost of our material, plus a decent return on our labor, we
provided the ghetto population with affordable stars of David and indeed a decent living
for dozens of street vendors.
"This enterprise," if I can call it that, lasted until the
end of June 1940, a couple of months after the closing of the Lodz ghetto. Although it
gave us a chance to survive a bad period by making a decent living, by hard work from the
four of us, I still feel that although our product was an obscene Nazi invention, we
nevertheless supplied the poor ghetto dwellers an affordable product instead of a highly
expensive embroidered yellow star.
It didn't take long for the face of the ghetto to change
drastically. This was still the transition period from a free market to official
rationing. The acute food shortage and astronomical prices at the black market, caused
mass starvation and together with ever more worsening sanitary conditions in the
over-crowded ghetto, the death toll kept on rising.
The streets were already full of walking skeletons, and during the
nights dead bodies were picked up from sidewalks and alleys. The vicious prophecy on the
billboard, which the Germans put on, on each of the ghetto gates, "SEUCHEN GEBIET
EINTRIT VERBOTEN" (Diseased area, off limits), unfortunately became reality.
All kinds of diseases prevailed, culminating in the devastating
typhus epidemic.
The terrible living conditions, of an average six to eight people
occupying a one room flat with no plumbing or hot water, and piles of garbage, in addition
to constantly overflown public latrines, became a breeding ground for this terrible
epidemic.
By the beginning of July 1940, 1 fell victim to this most contagious
disease. I don't remember exactly how long my hospitalization lasted, but two episodes of
this tragic period in the life of my family and myself I will never forget. They will stay
engraved in my memory as long as I shall live.
The first event occurred while my illness reached the apparent
crisis. My temperature was at its highest possible level which put me in a state of semi
consciousness. I felt like lying on a pile of burning coal, and at the same time I was
trembling viciously from a freezing chill. My lips were split open from dryness and
constantly bleeding.
Since this hospital was off limits to visitors the only recourse of
finding out about a patients condition was by appointment with a physician on duty.
On this particular afternoon my parents and my brother were sitting
in the doctor's office waiting for his assessment of my state of health.
Coincidentally a friend of mine, a youngster who belonged to the
same athletic club as I did, before the war, of course, happened to be present in the
doctors office. The ,pariser' as we used to call him, having already survived a bout
with typhus was now working in the hospital as a courier. He was of great help to me
during my illness, mostly by bringing me desperately needed bottles of water, supplied
daily by my father.
This time, however, his help to my family was priceless.
Doing or pretending to do something, my friend overheard the Doctor
telling my hysterically crying parents that my condition was hopeless. In an attempt to
soothe my parents fears the ,pariser' stopped them after leaving the doctors office
and tried to convince them that the doctor was wrong in his assessment. "I just saw
Ben and I can assure you that his condition is improving", he whispered to them.
"You just stay as always in front of the building and I will bring Ben to the window
and prove to you that the doctor was wrong", he assured them patiently.
Suddenly I heard my friends voice, like as if in a dream,
telling me that he will escort me to the window for just a minute in order to say hello to
my parents. With the help of a nurse, he put me on my feet covered with a blanket, and
without even realizing what it was all about, I found myself in front of a large window.
Like through a dense fog I noticed my brother and my parents waving in my direction. Then
I felt my friends hand lifting up my right arm helping me to wave to them. While I
automatically did that, he urged me to smile, and I did that too, this time fully
realizing what I was doing. I was gently put back to bed by those two angels, who covered
me with a warm blanket and quietly left the room.
The next morning, I woke up seeing a smiling doctor and nurse next
to my bed. They both seemed ecstatic, and for the first time in quite a while I felt
excellent. My temperature was almost back to normal.
THE BRIDGE
The impression that I felt excellent was so misleading that it
almost led to a tragedy of great proportions, to myself, and indeed to my poor parents.
Being over-anxious to go home and remembering rumors that being a
hospital patient in the ghetto could be quite dangerous, I tried with certain tricks to
keep my temperature as low as possible. The consequence of this behaviour was of course my
premature release. Which brings me to my second event.
It was about ten a.m. on this hot early August morning, when my
father and my brother came to the hospital to take me home. They were told by the hospital
administrator to go home by themselves while I according to hospital rules will be taken
home by ambulance. Soon after I was placed together with several other patients in a
makeshift horse driven ambulance, accompanied by a male nurse.
According to a Nazi devised plan, the Lodz ghetto was split into two
parts connected with several wooden bridges. This was done to accommodate the Christian
population who had to pass the area on streetcars. These bridges were erected over the
main artery which connected the Christian parts of the city.
Ghetto pedestrians had to cross those bridges daily on their way to
the factories and to other desired destinations. All kinds of vehicles had to pass through
the gates which were guarded on one side by German soldiers and on the ghetto side, by
Jewish policemen.
When the ambulance I was driving in stopped near the gate, which was
leading to my home, a male nurse told me that I was the only one of the whole group who
lived on the other side of the ghetto. He proposed to me that since I am the only one, and
already in good shape, I should cross the bridge by foot and walk home. Without realizing
in what condition I really was, I agreed and walked out in the direction of the bridge.
While walking the short distance to the bridge, I suddenly realized
the huge mistake I made by agreeing to take this outrageous suggestion of the male nurse.
Hardly being able to walk I found myself in front of the tall bridge, which I had to cross
into the Wolbarska street from where I would have to walk a kilometer to reach my home.
The moment I looked up to the close to three stories tall bridge, I
became fully aware that I am faced with an impossible task. In desperation I was searching
for a familiar face whom I could ask for help but all in vain. I was even asking for help
from total strangers, but without success.
Wearing a pair of terribly wrinkled pants and not better looking
jacket and being awfully skinny and pale, I obviously did not look different from hundreds
of other youngsters, starved and skeletal beggars who were already a familiar sight on the
ghetto streets. Hardly being able to drag my legs, I started to walk up the wooden stairs,
fully realizing that this is my only chance of reaching my home.
In order not to get additional discouragement, I made up my mind,
not to look up. I just took one step after another, rested for a while and continued at
the same pace. Every step seemed to take a lifetime, and with each little bit of progress,
my strength seemed to diminish. It took me at least two hours to reach the top of the
bridge.
Holding on to the rail, I looked down. I felt like standing on the
summit of a huge mountain. The people on the street looked like dwarfs, in comparison to
the ones walking next to me. The fast moving streetcar seemed like a toy train. I felt
dizzy, but slowly continued my walk towards the downward stairs.
When I finally reached the street below, the sun was already
beginning to hide behind some of the tall dwellings. I found myself on the "wolborska
street", from where I had to cross the plaza of the old city synagogue leading to the
street where I lived.At the end of the plaza the street numbers if I remember well,
started at number 9 and the building where I lived was number 25. Normally, to reach my
home would have taken me no more than twenty minutes. However, in my condition, it felt as
if I had to walk by foot to Warsaw.
Very slowly, with painful effort, I reached the corner of Wolborska
street just opposite the ruins of the great "OLD CITY SYNAGOGUE." This pile of
debris was probably left there by the Nazi tyrants as a reminder to the Lodz Jews of
their past glory.
Just across the street, there were still several abandoned apartment
buildings whose tenants were already deported to an unknown destinations. I managed to sit
down on the steps of one of the few padlocked stores.
The street was completely deserted. Exhausted, physically as well as
mentally, I figured I will just take a short rest and continue on my way home. To my
dismay and horror, I realized that this was nothing but the end of my journey. Not only
was I not able to continue walking, but I was lacking the strength of simply standing up.
In desperation I kept looking in each direction for a passerby, but
all in vain. Not even a sound of footsteps could be heard from a distance.
When the sun finally disappeared I realized in what grave situation
I really found myself in. What actually hurt me most was the obvious state of distress my
parents felt at that moment. There was no doubt in my mind that together with my brother,
friends and neighbours they must be searching for me all over the place. I also realized
that my remaining relatives must also have been alerted and are helping in the search. I
was also praying for the daylight to last a bit longer.
It was hard for me to keep my eyes open, I fought very hard to avoid
falling asleep. Through my almost closed eyelids, I looked across to the pile of rubble
and in my distress noticed the attached-together concrete tablets with the engraved Ten
Commandments right on top of the pile. For a moment, I thought that I saw the great
synagogue standing intact in front of me in its full splendor.
Like in the good old days, I also saw the commandment tablets on the
very top of the majestic building of that great synagogue.
Painfully I fully opened my eyes and tried to return to reality. I
looked again at the pile of debris and could not comprehend how it was possible for these
tablets to remain in tact, except for a few chopped-off pieces and remain on top of the
pile. Was it accidental or did the Nazis place them there after the destruction of the
synagogue, or was it a cynical act of defiance to show the Jews that their God is really
worthless?
I continued to struggle to keep my eyes open, and again saw myself
inside the synagogue full of people. Among the worshipers I saw scores of Jewish soldiers
who were obliged to visit a house of prayer during the Jewish Sabbath. I remember well how
those handsome, young men in uniform usually escorted by a non-commissioned Christian
officer were brought to attend the shabbat services. I also saw myself with my twin
brother standing next to my father who was draped in his prayer shawl and feeling proud to
be inside this holy place.
"Benji, Benji" my thought were interrupted by a sudden
familiar voice. Hardly able to open my eyes, I felt a hand shaking my shoulder. Like
awakened from a deep sleep, I slowly opened my eyes. In complete disbelief I saw a man
bending over me, talking to me, again calling my name, "What are you doing here
Benji? Come I'll take you home", he kept on talking.... I noticed that it was still
daylight, and except for the young man who stood in front of me, the street was still
empty of any other human being. I finally realized to whom this familiar voice I heard
belonged: David Malinowski, a neighbor of ours, a young man in his early twenties, was
just on his way from work when he noticed me.
Tenderly David lifted me up, placed me on his out-stretched arms,
and carried me into the Zydowska street, where dozens of neighbors and relatives were
gathered in anticipation of some good news to convey to my parents.
We were almost half way to our destination when I saw my parents
running towards us, shedding tears of happiness and joy.
"How did you find him?" I heard my father asking David.
"I don't know", the overwhelmed with excitement David answered. "I never go
home this way, never, this time I somehow turned into the Wolborska street, as if someone
would have pushed me", and added, "I really don't know why Mr. Kujawski, I
really don't, I swear.
When I think of this episode, it is hard for me to determine if I
would have been able to survive a night sitting on the steps of this abandoned building.
Therefore I must assume that David, (Duvcie) saved my life. This young man, the
oldest son of a poor tailor, was later deported together with his parents and six
siblings.
They were part of tens and thousands so called welfare Jews who
became the first victims of the Nazi death camps, apparently in chelmno, Maidanek or
Treblinka.
So it is obvious that David will remain alive in my heart, as long
as I shall live.
When I look back to the countless other severely dangerous events
during my continuous struggle for survival, I am quite convinced that Davids route
home from work on that fateful day was guided by something much higher than pure luck.
CHAPTER 3
THE SOUP KITCHEN (WINTER OF 1940-41)
About six weeks have passed since my return from the hospital, and
was still unable to leave the house. The first couple of weeks, I was still quite sick. It
seemed that from a period of high fever and dehydration, my body had little resistance to
infections.
Painful boils invaded many parts of my almost transparent skin.
My parents, of course, did their very best to ease my suffering,
although there wasn't very much they could do. Everybody agreed, that time would be the
actual healer.
It is well known that after a bout with typhoid, a patients
appetite is usually returning with a vengeance. I however was not able to swallow anything
for at least two weeks.
When my appetite finally returned, my parents found themselves
facing some unforeseeable problems. Fortunately we were still able to buy enough bread,
and there was also an abundance of cereals, especially cream of wheat.
This was the time when the famous ghetto troubadour Jankele in his
song "Rumkowski Chaim" was lamenting that God is only sending to us
"Mannah" (cream of wheat), instead of real food.
There was, however an acute shortage of essential food items, like
meat, eggs, dairy products, and fruits. My parents, of course, did their best with little
savings, they still had left, to give me the best care possible. They even began selling
house items of any value to buy better food for me, while neglecting my brother and
themselves.
It was already the end of July, and I was still unable to get out of
the house. I was full of envy when friends were calling on me, and then together with my
twin brother left to enjoy the beautiful summer weather.
One morning, while still half asleep I heard my father telling
something to my mother. Since the conversation was conducted in a whispering tone, I
became quite eager to eavesdrop. It turned out that they were talking about me and my
prospects for a fast recovery. "Ben will not be able to get on his feet without some
meat", I heard my father saying. Although I was not able to understand every word of
their conversation, I realized that my father's point was to convince mother that it is
high time to put aside religious convictions and consider first of all the health of their
child.
"Ella-dear", I heard father address my mother, this time
in a louder voice, he continued "there is no other meat available than horse meat,
and if we want our son to survive, we must buy what we can get." When my mother began
to cry he tried to convince her that in this case she will not commit a sin because the
Jewish law allows for "pekuach nefesh," which means that you can break any
religious law when a human life is in danger. "O.k., o.k., I heard my mother
whispering through her tears. Then I heard a sound of a kiss. Apparently my father planted
a kiss on mother's forehead.
On the same day, father brought home a parcel of fresh horse meat.
Mother slowly took out piece after piece, and put it into her usual kosher meat pot,
filled it with cold water and began the familiar process of making it kosher, as if it was
beef bought at a kosher butcher. After soaking the meat for about an hour, she put it on
the meat board and salted: it all over, leaving it that way, for the usual thirty minutes
or so.
Having gone through the process of "koshering" the meat,
mother seemed to feel much better. pretty soon we had noticed a change in her general
attitude.
Only at the first time while frying horse meat hamburgers, I noticed
mother shed some tears, but eventually when she saw how I enjoyed her juicy burgers, she
seemed to feel much better.
When I started to gain weight, Mother's face was shining with joy,
she even started to serve some to my brother and my father, apparently, taking under
consideration the same law of "pekuach nefesh."
However, mother herself tasted her first piece of horse meat several
months later, when this important food item became rationed and a luxury in the Lodz
ghetto. (A hundred grams of horse meat was allowed to a person for a period of two weeks).
By the end of August, I took my first walk without anyones
assistance. The weather was warm and beautiful, the sun was shining through a clear blue
sky.
After walking a couple of blocks, I returned home deeply disturbed.
The atmosphere and the people on the streets have changed drastically since the day I
entered the hospital.
People I knew well have changed beyond recognition. Although there
was still enough bread and other food items available, people without means were starving.
I came face to face with walking skeletons, they were moving slowly as if they were dazed.
Many of them were probably survivors from the typhoid epidemic.
People who were still looking half decently nourished, seemed
depressed and worried. The sunny weather seemed to have little influence on most of the
ghetto inhabitants.
There were rumors that finally food will be rationed; an apparent
advantage for the poor and unemployed majority of the ghetto population who could not
afford the high prices of free market food.
The greatest fear however seemed to be the approaching winter.
Everybody still remembered the harsh winter during the first few months of the German
occupation. Obviously those memories were pretty disturbing.
Although there was still coal and wood available, for inflated
prices of course, many people were freezing inside their poorly heated dwellings.
By the end of 1939, most of the wooden fences and sheds, were
dismantled by desperate people searching for fuel to keep their children from freezing to
death.
But many did freeze. Mostly children, the elderly and the sick.
Those unfortunate souls were dying in the hundreds. I don't think that I have seen as many
funerals in all my life as I have seen in one week during those horrible winter days of
1939-40.
I myself used to join a group of other youngsters, equipped with a
shovel searching for small pieces of coal, especially on the grounds were previously sheds
were standing. These groups of youngsters became known in the ghetto as "Coal
Miners".
After a day of desperate searching and hard labor each of us
sometimes were lucky enough to accumulate several pounds of precious fuel.
The still existing house committees felt that it was their duty to
be prepared with any possible means to face the approaching winter of 1940-41.
Not being able to do anything about heating fuel, the consensus
among the committee members was at least to find a way to provide a hot meal daily for the
poor and needy. At that time the majority of the ghetto population already belonged to
this category.
The committees meeting on this still hot August day of 1940
took place in our apartment. My father, in his capacity as secretary opened the gathering
of about a dozen men. He tried to explain in simple and convincing arguments the urgency
and need to erect a soup kitchen. This he argued, must be done before the arrival of
winter.
At the time, I was just planning to leave the house to meet some
friends. Becoming intrigued by the topic of the overheard discussion, I decided to stay
until the end of that seemingly important meeting. Not to make myself too visible I
pretended to do something at a corner of the large room. Without anybody really caring
about my presence I stayed on till the end of the meeting.
After a heavily heated discussion, and a unanimous decision to build
the soup kitchen, it seemed that the stumbling block turned out to be a lack of money to
finance this daring project.
The meeting ended with each member expressing his readiness to help
in any way possible, but financially. One of the members, Mr. Blum, actually expressed
everyones thoughts by saying"I admit that I still have left a little of
my lifes savings, but who is going to help me feed my wife and children?
The meeting ended quietly without any concrete decision.
After everybody left, my father still remained at the table holding
his head with both hands. He looked devastated. Mother went over to comfort him, "It
will work out" she whispered, "with Gods help it surely will."
Suddenly a seemingly crazy thought went through my head: "A
show, some sort of a theatre." This was in my view at the moment the only way to
raise funds for this very important project. After all this is almost a full year since
anybody had an opportunity to see a movie or attend a theatre performance.
I left the apartment without telling anybody where I was heading.
While running down the stairs I met my twin brother who was just returning from a
neighboring backyard, where he was kicking around a soccer ball with a group of friends.
"Where are you in such a hurry?" Meyer asked. I took him
aside and told him about the meeting of the house committee. "So what?" he
asked, if there is no money, there is no money. He just brushed me off. "I am
hungry" he said, "I am going upstairs". "No you are not" I said
as firmly as I could, holding him back with both my arms.
In comparison to me, Meyer was still in good shape, and with only a
simple move with his arms could have pushed me aside, but he didn't. He looked at me in
bewilderment, waiting patiently for what I had to say.
Just in a nutshell I told him about my idea to create a small show
in order to raise the necessary funds to build a kitchen. "We must do it as fast as
possible," I argued, "so let us not waste any time and organize as many
teenagers as possible and start working."
Perhaps he was touched by my sincere excitement, that he agreed to
get in touch with as many friends as possible.
On the same evening with the permission of my parents, a small group
of teenage boys and girls gathered in our apartment. I told them what I overheard. They
all seemed very interested. After hearing about my idea, they became really excited.
Realizing the great importance of a soup kitchen in our area, we all agreed to make it our
goal to raise as much money as we possibly could.
Our friend Krawiecki, a nephew of the owner of our building promised
to convince his uncle to let us use the large basement in the rear building, one of the
two large dwellings he owned on the Zydowska 25.
The basement which was once a furniture workshop was abandoned in
1938, when the shop owner with his wife and three children emigrated to Palestine. If we
would be lucky enough to get this place, it would serve as a first class theatre, and
after as an ideal place for the proposed soup kitchen.
So Krawiecki's task was actually the most important one of the whole
project. The other assembled teenagers were handed different responsibilities, besides
taking part in the overall cleanup of the terribly neglected basement.
My brother and I took over the duties of decorating the place and
overseeing the erecting of a stage that would meet our needs. In addition to stage
decorations, we also promised to make and distribute posters and other necessary publicity
materials.
Three girls, all from our building, were in charge of finding as
many young talents as possible. Since the kitchens purpose was to serve the needy
from the whole neighborhood, everyone willing and able to help out was more than welcome.
Very soon several young men in their twenties, became interested in
our project. One of them, Alex Lenga, took over the duties of Master of Ceremonies, and
helping produce the show. He was also blessed with a pretty good singing voice. His
biggest contribution, however, was the fact that he knew very well a former professional
actor of the Yiddish theatre, by the name of Shefner, who was living all by himself. Mr.
Shefner must have been in his late fifties, very poor and very happy to have found, at
least for a while, some work in his profession.
It turned out that my parents remembered Mr. Shefner from the days
when he was performing in the old Yiddish theatre in Lodz. My father promised him three
meals a day during the time of the duration of the theatre, and afterwards a bowl of any
soup available from our soup kitchen, daily.
The moment Mr. Krawiecki handed us the key to the basement, our
project went into full motion. About fifteen teenagers were working several days just to
clean up the basement, a task which at first seemed impossible.
While a couple of neighbors, professional carpenters were busy
erecting a stage, Alex, Mr. Shefner and myself, were busy auditioning scores of teenagers,
the majority of them girls, who were eager to show off their hidden talents.
My brother with several other boys were cleaning the walls and
windows. Then we both , my brother and I became busy decorating the walls with colored
posters of known movie stars and theatre actors.
Soon the old basement which already became completely
unrecognizable, became known as"THE HALL".
Alex, with the help of his older brother had managed to engage some
unemployed musicians who were more than happy to help out. The continuous rehearsals were
beginning to show promise for a successful musical review.
Because of the approaching high holidays we were not able to set a
date for the show's debut. We also had to wait for the official permit from the ghetto
administration.
The permit from Rumkowskis office arrived one week before the
holidays. The main clause in the lengthy permit besides a strict time limit was that the
posters and any other publicity material must clearly mention that all the proceeds from
the stage performances were being designated to build a neighbourhood soup kitchen.
The time allowed, if my memory serves me well, was about only three
weeks. We were never really sure who actually insisted on these strict regulations, the
German or Jewish administration. The signature on the permit however was just M.CH.
Rumkowski.
Several days before Rosh Hashana, while putting up the finishing
touches to the hall, we received a very distinguished visitor: Reb Itzhak Krawiecki. Still
the landlord of the building was quite surprised by the transformation of his neglected
basement. His pale face, with a fiery red beard which was cut down to a minimum, (to avoid
harassment by German soldiers), suddenly looked as if he had found something he was
desperately looking for.
"This will be the right place", he told us with visible
excitement. We all looked at Mr.Krawiecki without a clue of what he was talking about. But
we waited patiently for Mr Krawiecki to make clear to us what he meant by the "right
place."
His proposal was blunt and to the point. As you know, it is
officially forbidden to use any halls or "other public places" for prayers
during the upcoming holidays. The neighborhood "Bet Midrash" is padlocked by the
German authorities. "So why couldn't we use this beautiful place for our holiday
services? The place is hidden in the back of the building, he argued, and with all of you
sharing guarding duties, we could conduct normal holiday services.
With the cooperation of the majority of our group, we provided
enough chairs to fill the hall, and a special group of boys were designated to become
look-outs during the services. To the great satisfaction for all of us the holidays went
through without any trouble at all.
The use of the cleaned up basement for such an important event
provided us with a feeling of pride. Even the several leftist neighbors, who never stepped
into a synagogue before, this time took part in the solemn services conducted almost
entirely by Reb Krawiecki.
Right after the holidays, posters announcing a three week run of a
musical review were placed in different points of the ghetto.
Each performance, one matinee and one in the evening was sold out.
Even standing room tickets were in demand and sold out days before the performances. The
hall could only hold approximately 80 to 90 people.
The success of the show was far above our expectations. Not only
have we earned enough money to build a kitchen, but a substantial sum was also left over
to stock up on coal, wood and important food products to last at least for a couple of
months.
The fact that we managed to stage a show almost entirely in Yiddish,
(except for some songs performed in Polish), was quite an achievement. But to conduct full
services on Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur under severe duress and most dangerous conditions
was considered an act of pure heroism.
I still think that what we accomplished by building a most needed
soup kitchen, did not diminish the importance of conducting the holiday services. There is
no doubt in my mind that both enterprises were acts of passive resistance to the Nazi
occupation, and open defiance of the laws of the Nazi occupation.
The kitchen was ready just in time for winter. In the beginning of
December of 1940, long line-ups started to build up in front of the kitchen, by people
eagerly waiting for their daily hot meal. To everyones pleasant surprise the orderly
behavior by the hungry masses of people was admirable. They just had to hand over their
own container which was filled up with a hot and dense delicious potato and vegetable
soup.
Heading the kitchen staff was Mrs. Baum, a mother of two who was
appointed by the tenants committee for purely humanitarian reasons. Mrs. Baum was the
first war widow in our building. Her husband, a quiet decent man in his late forties, was
killed during a merciless massacre at a checkpoint, while entering the ghetto on the day
before the complete closing of the Jewish area.
Food rationing was finally enforced, but the small amount of food
items was a death blow to the ghetto population. The amount of groceries for a period of
two weeks was not even sufficient for four days. A two kilogram loaf of bread for the same
period lasted at best for one week or even less.
The same problem was with the small coal rations, especially during
the harsh winter months.
Under those conditions the soup kitchen became an important source
of nourishment, especially during the second week of the used up rations.
The hardship of the ghetto population was rapidly becoming
unbearable.
People with no means to supplement their food rations with some
black market items were starving and freezing to death inside their unheated flats.
The group of youngsters who were active and instrumental in erecting
the soup kitchen were now helping out in the day to day running of this important
institution. Many of them were delivering a hot meal daily to the sick and elderly. Those
errands in time became so tragically disturbing, that it became very difficult to find
additional help for this important task.
It was of no surprise to any delivery boy or girl to find a dead
body in bed instead of the living person whom they expected to enjoy a hot soup.
Many doors were left open with a dead person inside a freezing
apartment. Others had to be broken into, when nobody seemed able to open the door.
On one of such a delivery to the flat of Mr. and Mrs. Leszczynski I
found the door ajar. Slowly I pushed it open. Hearing no sound whatsoever, I called out
for Mr. Leszczynski. There was no answer, so I tried a bit louder, this time for Mrs.
Leszczynski, again there was no response. The room temperature was surely far below zero.
I slowly walked over to the bed which was placed next to a solidly frozen-up window. They
both seemed to be sleeping; their sleep, however, seemed to me somehow too peaceful. There
was no human sound coming out of these two so familiar to me elderly couple.
Deep in my heart I knew that these unfortunate lonely innocent souls
were no more alive.
Calmly I decided not to panic.Perhaps I was already getting
used to these sort of tragedies. Slowly I left the room, quietly closing the door as if
being afraid to wake them up. Like in a daze I walked to our flat where my mother was
already preparing something for supper. "Don't you feel well my child?" mother
asked as if sensing some trouble, "you are white like the ceiling." She gently
helped me to reach the chair and asked me what had happened. I told her what I just saw.
We both cried uncontrollably for a while. The Leszczynski's were our neighbors for as long
as I could remember.
Do you know Ben, Mother said with her tears still running down her
cheeks, that Mrs. Leszczynski, besides being a good neighbor, used to be your favorite
babysitter.
The next morning several members of the Chesed Shel Emet (funeral
committee) came to pick up the two frozen bodies of the elderly couple.
I'm not certain if their three daughters, who were living abroad
ever really found out how their beloved parents had perished. Until the outbreak of World
War Two, the oldest daughter who lived in Switzerland, was the main supporter of her
parents. The second oldest who emigrated after her older sister and lived in Argentina,
also contributed to her parents upkeep. The youngest daughter managed to escape to
Palestine just before the outbreak of WW2.
It is hard to say if our effort actually helped save many lives. One
thing, however, I am pretty sure of is the fact that the soup kitchen we helped to build
made it easier for many ghetto dwellers to pull through the terrible winter of 1940-41.
I personally am very proud indeed of that group of teenage boys and
girls who took part in this noble endeavour.
The tragic part of all this is the fact that most of these boys and
girls, in one way or another, perished during the Holocaust.
Only a very few were fortunate enough to survive; Leo Krawieski,
with his younger brother, Laibel, who are living with their families in Ramat Gan, Israel.
Also alive are the two children of Mrs. Baum, Bina and Srulek, who live with their
families in Tel Aviv.
Another teenage survivor was our good friend, Frania (Berkowicz)
Wolkowicz, who is living since 1948 in the U.S.A. Plus of course my twin brother Meyer and
myself.
Chapter 4
ON CHARNIECKIEGO (THE GHETTO PRISON)
End of March 1942. Under normal circumstances, winter should have
almost been over, but not in Lodz Ghetto. The roads and sidewalks were either slippery or
still covered with snow or ice patches. Some heavy snow or just wet snow kept on coming
down from the eternally black skies.
People walking to and from work, were still bundled up, mostly in
worn overcoats, and many just in rags. "When you are hungry, the cold gets to
you" you would hear people complaining.
Inside the apartments, the situation was almost about the same.
Hunger and cold prevailed while people slept fully dressed. Under ever deteriorating
sanitary conditions the plaque of body lice continued to add more suffering to the Ghetto
dwellers.
On one evening of this miserable month after a "normal"
day of misery in the factory, my mother, tears streaming down her bony cheeks, handed me a
note from the Ghetto administration.
Even without mothers tears I realized that the note was no
"wedding invitation." I read only one short sentence and put the letter into my
pocket. "Please report immediately to the Ghetto prison on Charnieckiego"...
"Another deportation," there was never any question about
it, but I told my mother that it's "just a request to answer some questions"..
My father had just left for his night shift. The three of us, mother, brother, and myself
ate our soup in complete silence. Mother still had tears in her sad eyes.
The next morning on the way to the factory, I spoke with my brother
about my summons. We both agreed that there is no other way than for me to report as
requested. Otherwise the whole family would be in danger of deportation.
About one PM. I left the house without taking anything with me. I
said goodbye to my parents, telling them that as soon as I give to the authorities the
information they need, I'll be back home.
The streets were muddy and almost empty of pedestrians. From time to
time, a man-driven wagon with a barrel full of excrement from the always overflowing
latrines, was pulled by a couple of sickly looking men dressed in rags. When they passed
by, the air became contaminated by a unbearable stench. "How in Gods name are
those poor men able to handle such a terrible job"? I thought forgetting for a moment
my own predicament.
I kept on walking without fully realizing that I might never see my
family again. Deep in my heart, however, I had a feeling that also this time, I will
prevail.
Only one lonely Jewish policeman was standing in front of the prison
gate. A high wooden fence surrounding the prison prevented me from seeing any part of the
actual prison. The officer looked at my "invitation," handed it back to me, and
just by pointing, he directed me to the first building inside.
I was met by a large and noisy crowd of young men, mostly in their
twenties, and some teenagers as myself. "Get in here" one of them called out and
pulled me into the centre of a large room filled with desperate young men cramped together
like canned sardines.
The room was empty of any sort of furniture, not even a single chair
was in sight. . .
"What is going on here?" I asked a guy next to me. His
answer was plain and simple "Who the hell knows?" Most of us are here since the
early morning, and nobody spoke to us yet.
Another one told me that we apparently have to wait for the arrival
of Commissioner Hertzberg, the head of the prison, who supposedly is going to select a
large group of able men to be transferred to a labor camp.
I also learned that so far there was no food or any kind of fluid
served. In spite of the large crowd, the place was freezing cold.
In the meantime many more men were filling up the already
overcrowded hall. I did not feel the floor under my feet any more, I was just hanging
between a bunch of bigger and visibly stronger guys than myself.
Darkness began to engulf the unlit place, but still no food or water
was in sight. Hungry and cold, without seeing a prompt end to this horrible ordeal, the
would-be camp laborers soon became irritated and restless.
A chaotic pushing, shoving and screaming, seemed to alarm the prison
guards, who arrived wielding their rubber batons over our heads. During all that
commotion, I thought that I heard my fathers voice. Desperately looking towards the
wide open door, I spotted my father calling and waving in my direction.
With all the power and energy left in my exhausted body I squeezed
myself through the mass of people. At the door my father pulled me outside.
While handing me a small container with some still warm soup, and a
slice of bread, he told me that the commissioner will soon arrive and start the selection.
Father urged me to do everything possible to avoid being selected. Do it for your
mothers sake he whispered, while leaving me helpless, probably hoping for some kind
of miracle... "I must make my night shift", he said sadly, and disappeared.
I became the envy of the whole unfortunate mass of young men.
"A big shot", I heard some of them utter in visible anger. But after explaining
to them that my father is just a night watchmen at a produce depot, they seemed to calm
down a little.
It became understandable that as a worker at this type of job my
father had a right to wear a yellow-white arm band. This of course, gave him the privilege
to freely enter any ghetto institution, including the jail area.
It must have been close to 10 P.M. when we were ordered to gather in
the huge prison yard. A couple of hundred young men were ordered to stand in a single line
facing commissioner Hertzberg.
Suddenly a burst of bright lights were turned on blinding the
already overtired and hungry prisoners.
The freezing weather added considerably to our overall misery. But
having in mind fathers plea before he left me, I knew that something must be done as
soon as possible. Without any more contemplating, and before the commissioner had a chance
to start with his actual selection, I found myself in front of him.
Like a trained actor, I limped over, bent in half, like Quasimodo in
the "Hunchback of Notre Dame" my left hand hanging down as if paralized, and the
summons paper clutched in my right hand.
Looking up to this giant of a man, by lifting up my eyes only, I
cried, and in a stuttering voice pleaded "Please, Herr Commissar" let me go back
home, I am sick and half paralized, please let me go home and have mercy on me.
Being bent as I was, my posture was completely dwarfed by the tall
and fat prison commissioner. I kept looking up in order to sense any reaction on the face
of the dictatorial head of the infamous ghetto prison.
The fat face of the commissioner seemed to turn into an ugly mask.
He looked down at me with total disbelief,screaming on top of his head "Take his
paper and get him out of here", he shouted at a policeman who stood next to him.
"Get him out of here", he kept on barking.
Slowly I limped away, being escorted by the scared to death
policeman. The guard who let me out the prison gate looked at me as if contemplating if he
ever noticed a hunchback as myself, enter the prison on this day...
I walked, or rather limped very slowly through the prison gate
without turning around.
The Charnieckiego street was dark, and the sidewalk icy and
slippery. I felt terribly cold, but I also felt free, free to go home to my parents and
brother.
The moment I turned the corner, and the prison became out of sight,
I finally straightened out and began walking faster and faster until I finally began
running as if Hitler himself. was chasing after me.
I continued running, even up the four flight of stairs to our flat.
Calmly I knocked at the door. "Who is it?" I heard my mothers familiar
voice. "It's me, it's me," I kept on repeating excitingly.
My brother opened the door, grabbed me and locked me in an embrace
like never before. "It's great to see you back", he whispered, tears of joy
filling his eyes.
Mother was standing next to the stove. Without turning around she
quietly told me to sit down at the table "I'm heating up some soup for you", and
added, "you must be very hungry."
I noticed her shoulders trembling. (She always did that when
sobbing). This time she cried for sheer happiness.
Father was doing his regular night shift.
Chapter 5
FATHERS DEPARTURE (THE SPERRE 1942)
Fathers job, which he obtained through my letter to Mr. Rumkowski,
the head of the Lodz ghetto, turned out to be a double blessing for our family. First, and
most importantly, we avoided the mass deportations of thousands of welfare recipients, and
secondly, it helped us to survive the devastating winter of 1941-42
At the time, however, we did not foresee the tragic consequences
that my dear father would have to endure.
Mother was still without a job due to the slow pace which plagued
the opening of a comforter factory. My brother and myself were still too young, and
without skills to obtain a factory job.
My father, though very reluctantly and against his principles, took
my brother and myself to his old friend, Max Fuchs, asking for his help in finding some
employment for the two of us.
Fuchs, who was the father of Rumkowskis executive secretary,
and whose son was the head of the employment department, bluntly refused any help. He told
us that he solemnly promised the head of the ghetto administration to stay away from any
sort of patronage. "All I can do, my dear friend, is ask my son to send your two
youngsters to a labor camp in Germany."
In disgust, we left his beautiful house, ignoring the tempting
homemade cookies and tea served on the dining room table. However, just before leaving the
nicely decorated room, my father could not resist to remind his old friend when in 1937,
he with his children were forced to return from Germany to Poland, my father was the first
to help them in their predicament.
The maid was just ready to shut the door behind us, when my father
with his head high, proudly put his arms around our shoulders, and without a proper
goodbye said; "My family with Gods help, is going to survive, without your
help, my friend Mathis"- calling him by his real name.
While stepping out, I managed to have a last glimpse into the room.
Max Fuchs, the Germanized Polish Jew, who just several years before became a refugee,
humiliated and poor, stood now without any visible expression of regret, heartless and
cold.
To me at the given moment, the former best friend of my parents
looked as if he would be a Nazi himself.
So, father was the only one in the family to hold a job, fortunately
a job with important privileges. Working in a produce warehouse even as a watchman was at
the time considered enviable. In addition to his daily soup, he was also permitted to eat
on the job vegetables like red beets, carrots, turnips, etc.
However to take out anything, even a frozen or spoiled potato, was
not permitted. For such a crime the punishment could have meant deportation of the
culprits entire family.
Meanwhile the situation in the ghetto kept on deteriorating. The
management of the produce warehouses, besides being corrupt were not skilled enough in the
art of maintaining and distributing perishable foods. So, tons of potatoes and vegetables
turned rotten and especially during the winter months, became frozen before reaching the
starving ghetto dwellers.
To avoid outbreaks of dangerous epidemics, most of those spoiled
produce had to be disposed of. This situation prompted many warehouse workers to fill up
their pockets with spoiled or frozen vegetables and bring it home to their starving
families. Without considering the consequences, my father became one of those
"dangerous criminals."
Although mother was terribly fearful of fathers involvement in
"stealing," she was nevertheless happy with the few frozen potatoes and some
spoiled vegetables that father brought home almost daily. My fathers excuse for
doing that was simple and quite logical: "If I would not take it, and my coworkers
wouldn't take it, the disposal dumps will be filled even more with those life saving
items'
So, the soup at our supper time became a bit better and denser and
much more nourishing with produce which would otherwise have been disposed of.
Soon my brother and I became factory workers. My brother with the
help of our neighbour, Mr. Feldman, who was production manager of a Nazi uniform factory
obtained a job a few blocks away from our residence. While I was hired as a helper at the
fur factory through the intervention of an uncle of mine, who was a master furrier.
Relatively comfortable under the prevailing circumstances our family
managed to survive the winter of 1941-42 in pretty good shape.
In general however, the ghetto went through a devastating winter.
Freezing, unheated dwellings, and mass starvation caused the death of thousands of men,
women, and children.
Spring arrived as it always did, but there was no rejoicing. Scores
of young men unable to obtain factory jobs or even some daily work, were lining up for
voluntary transfers to German labour camps.
At the beginning of spring of 1942, father abruptly stopped bringing
home the usual few frozen potatoes and spoiled vegetables. He became moody and seemed to
start again to lose weight. Obviously mother looked pretty worried, but didn't say
anything. Scared to hear any bad news and not wanting to irritate her husband even
further, she even asked my brother and myself to act as if nothing had happened.
We didn't have to wait too long to get a clearer picture of our
fathers peculiar behaviour.
On that unforgettable sunny April day of 1942, minutes before father
was supposed to leave for his night shift, he surprised us by letting us know that he
registered as a volunteer to a labour camp at the western Polish city of Poznan. Needless
to say that we were shocked, standing in front of him in complete disbelief. Mother
started to weep hysterically and the only word that she could bring out was
"Why?"and at the same time blocking the door with her slim body.
Father's timing to let us know about his decision was quite
diplomatic and understandable. He obviously did it just before leaving the house to give
us as little time as possible for unnecessary arguments. His tactics seemed to work. As he
immediately left to work, my brother and I, remained with ample time to calm down our
hysterically crying mother and calmly assess the situation.
Early the next morning, after father returned from his shift, mother
served him breakfast, a slice of bread with margarine and his usual cup of "ersatz
coffee." My brother and I were already getting ready for work. "What is that
nonsense about going to Poznan?" mother asked quite calmly.
Visibly tired, and hardly keeping his eyes open, father answered quietly
but firmly, "This is no nonsense, I am leaving very soon." Not waiting for our
reaction, he continued, "I don't want to share. the fate of most men in our
neighbourhood; don't you realize that most of them have died or are dying of
starvation." He tried to explain that according to his knowledge, the labourers in
those camps received enough food to survive. And while undressing to go to sleep he
assured us that the war is going to end pretty soon, and that he will return home and so
will Moshe and Isaak, and we will be a happy family again.
Needless to say, that there were more discussions and arguments on
that subject with lots of tears being shed, but all in vain.
At the end of April, or just the beginning of May, we sadly escorted
my dear father to the gates of the ghetto prison from where a large group of volunteers,
mostly younger men than our father, were soon going to leave for labour camps.
In the following days I tried hard to convince my constantly weeping
mother that dad did the right thing, and that everything is going to turn out as well as
he promised.
But deep in my heart I was very skeptical about fathers
so-called voluntary departure. It was very difficult for me to believe that our caring and
devoted father would voluntarily leave his family. This gentle man didn't have a selfish
bone his body and his love for his wife and children was indisputable.
Pretty soon after his departure we learned the truth about
fathers predicament.
Sometimes in May of 1942 we received same papers from the ghetto
prosecutors office which pretty much enlightened us about what had really happened.
We were informed that several workers of the warehouse including my father, were
apprehended while stealing potatoes and vegetables. The supervisor, apparently, to cover
up his own questionable activities, reported them to the police. To avoid certain
deportation for my father with his whole family, he somehow managed to reach a deal with
the prosecutor who let him voluntarily enlist for deportation to a labour camp without
involving his family.
Several days later we received by mail a routine postcard from a
camp near Poznan, which read, "I work and am very fine," with just his signature
at the bottom. This was the last time we heard from him.
To both my brother and myself, and later to my older brothers who
returned safely from the Soviet Union, my fathers heroic act of unselfish devotion
to his family and his own sacrifice will forever remain in our hearts and souls.
SEALED CATTLE WAGONS AT MARISHIN
It must have been no more than four weeks after fathers
departure, when we heard that a train full of inmates from a camp near Poznan, is being
held at the Marishin rail station. The wagons are sealed and the inmates not allowed to
enter the ghetto area.
Purposely withholding this piece of news from mother, my brother and
I decided to check out the story on the spot. When we reached the station, it became quite
obvious that something out of the ordinary is taking place. Scores of Jewish
policemen and Nazi soldiers with vicious dogs were patrolling the area putting the whole
surrounding streets off limits. A long train with dozens of cattle wagons was visible from
afar.
At first it seemed impossible to come near those wagons, but after
nightfall, when the soldiers with their dogs left the area, we decided to take a chance
and reach at least the nearest wagon.
My brother was waiting while I slowly moved past some dense bushes
and not even realizing how, I managed to crawl close to the train. Soon I found myself in
front of the very last wagon.
Lying on the ground I looked up to the little barred window on top
of the wagons front, but there was no sign of life. A dim light from somewhere cast
a bit of brightness around that small opening. Slowly I crawled over the rough ground and
started to whisper in Yiddish,"Friends, from where did you come" and a bit
louder I continued,"Did you by any chance know or heard from Shlomo Kujawski?"
There was no answer.
Suddenly, I noticed a pair of boney hands appearing at the window,
and then another pair. But instead of a reply to my questions I heard faintly crying
voices pleading for help. Gesturing with their skeletal hands, they kept on pleading for
water and bread. In low and horse voices they begged to help them to get released and a
chance to return to their families.
I asked them to show their faces, with the hope that I might know
one of them, but soon I regret my request. What I had seen after a few moments, became one
of my worst nightmares. Two skeletal heads of bearded creatures, hardly resembling human
beings tried to show their faces through that little opening above, followed by a face of
a teenage boy.
The light, although not too bright, gave me quite a clear picture of
those three faces. They were greyish yellow and their eyes were placed deep inside their
skeletal skulls. Their voices and gestures had more resemblance to monkeys than to humans.
I felt both faint and nauseous. Not being able and completely helpless to assist those
unfortunate people, and also being scared of getting detected by any of the security men,
I ran as fast as possible in the direction from where I came.
My brothers first question when he saw me was: "Are you
sick?" and holding me tight he led me away from this horrible place without even
asking further questions.
Sensing my state of mind, he waited patiently until I recovered and
told him what I had seen. After telling him only a part of my nightmarish experience, we
decided to keep this story from my mother, who suffers enough without knowing too many
grizzly details.
The next day it became known that the train with the condemned cargo
of innocent victims of Nazi terror, left the ghetto for an unknown destination. This was
the time when I truly learned first hand how well the Nazis treated their workers at the
so-called labour camps.
THE SPERRE
By the summer of 1942 conditions in the ghetto seemed to have
stabilized. The times of deportations seemed to belong to the past. But quite the opposite
was happening. Many young and middle aged men and women from all over Western Europe were
brought into the ghetto as an apparent substitute for the slowly diminishing labour force.
The many factories which produced items ranging from brooms to
military uniforms, furniture and even shoes including boots for German officers, were
working full speed. There were also rumors that important parts for the military were
produced under strict German supervision. Because of the approaching winter at the Russian
front, fur-lined winter coats and fur hats were in such a demand that they caused a severe
shortage of workers at the fur factory. Policemen and firemen who were known to be
furriers were forced to take jobs at the fur factory.
The knowledge of all that provided the ghetto population with a
feeling of confidence and security unprecedented before. A feeling that the Germans need
us was the general consensus of the ghetto dwellers. However, during all that imaginary
peaceful existence, the death toll from starvation continued to rise.
There was apparently an even stronger feeling of confidence in the
offices of the Nazi and Jewish ghetto administrations. Hans Bibov, the Nazi ghetto head,
supposedly kept on dispatching positive messages to Berlin, about the excellent work being
done at the Lodz ghetto and the importance of the many products being produced by his
Jews.
Obviously Bibov, who was far from being a friend of the Jewish
people, did all that in order to avoid a liquidation of the ghetto, which would lead him
and his large staff of loyal friends direct to the Russian front.
Also the Jewish ghetto administration with Rumkowski himself were
confident and pretty sure that they will continue their lives in relative luxury in
comparison to the average ghetto dweller and survive the war.
Unfortunately all those hopes and predictions were shattered by the
end of August 1942, when posters placed all over the ghetto proclaimed a start of a mass
deportation. This unique selective deportation will last approximately a full week and was
targeted toward the sick, children, the orphanages, the elderly and people considered by
the Nazis worthless.
The selections which started on September the 1st were conducted in
a typically Nazi orderly fashion. Every day a different area was surrounded by armed
soldiers with their dogs plus dozens of Jewish policemen. The selection was conducted by a
high ranking Nazi officer while trucks were waiting on the streets to swallow his selected
victims. During the selections all inhabitants of a chosen building had to leave their
dwellings and line up on the street in front of the Nazi officer who with a gesture of his
thumb decided whether you should live or die. At the same time a thorough search for
possibly hidden dwellers was conducted by soldiers and Jewish policemen.
When the time came for our selection, my brother and I put on our
best suits and mother who was still looking quite healthy dressed up as decently as
possible and calmly together we were walking down the four flights of stairs to face the
Nazi beast. During our walk down we were approached by one of our neighbours who suggested
that his wife and our mother should hide in a prepared by him hiding place. Reluctantly we
agreed.
The street was full of neatly dressed up people hopeful of passing
this dreadful ordeal.
The first tragic moment of that unforgettable day occurred when Mr.
Szeratzki, himself a member of the "Sonder Commando'"walked into the street
carrying his elderly, sick mother-in-law in his strong arms and placing her on top of one
of the waiting open trucks. Mrs. Feldman seemed quite calm, but tears kept streaming down
her pale wrinkled cheeks.
Even more tragic were the pictures of policemen pulling crying
babies from the hysterically screaming mothers arms. The intended purpose of this
barbaric action became clear to everyone present and chaos and panic replaced the till
then prevailing calm. However a certain degree of order was forced on us by the swiftly
intervening policemen and Nazi troops.
My brother and I were almost near the Nazi officer when I heard
behind us my mothers voice. "I could not stay hidden while you two were going
through this terrible ordeal," and in a whisper she continued, "whatever it is
going to happen, let us at least be together.'
Several steps behind us stood an elderly man whom I knew only by
sight. The man probably in his sixties with ash grey hair was one of the new arrivals from
Western Europe. A pharmacist by profession, he told us that he is still without a job, and
that he is the only survivor of his large family. He still looked in fair shape and
I told him so, trying to give him a bit of much needed confidence.
When mother suddenly appeared, the elderly man asked her politely if
he may join us during the selection. "You are a beautiful lady," he told her,
"and together with your two handsome sons, I might have a chance to pass."
Mother did not have a chance to tell the lonesome neighbour of ours
that it would be a pleasure to have him join us, when the Nazi officer with a move of his
thumb, ordered the four of us to return to the building. Needless to say how happy we all
were to have passed successfully the selection. It was also a sheer delight to watch our
euphoric neighbour who lived on the second floor of our building, walking back to his room
expressing his gratitude and thanks to our mother for being kind enough to help him during
this horrible ordeal.
Coming back into our apartment I tried a glimpse down the street.
What I saw was a picture of terror and devastation. Several trucks were already filled up
with human cargo. Screams and cries from the terrified unfortunate human souls reached our
fourth floor dwelling. Familiar faces of neighbours, young and old , sick and some quite
healthy were forced into the trucks. Some, who dared to resist were brutally beaten by
soldiers, and pushed into the trucks by shouting Jewish policemen. It was a picture of
horror, I could never erase from my mind.
When the "sperre" finally ended, several of my cousins who
resided on the other side of the ghetto, took the Wolborska street bridge and rushed over
to check if the three of us made it through the selections.
One cousin of mine who resided near the ghetto hospital had
witnessed scenes of indescribable brutality. She saw new born babies being thrown from the
hospital windows into the waiting on the street trucks. Since many missed to fall direct
into the trucks, the sidewalk in front of the hospital was splattered with blood and
littered with body parts. It was a blood bath of unbelievable proportions.
The scores of vehicles overloaded with elderly and sick men, women,
and children piled on top of each other went in the direction of the "Marishin"
rail station from where they were transported in sealed cattle wagons to death camps.
There was no doubt in my mind that this was the actual and official
start of the final solution.
On the very last day of this largest ever mass deportation from the
Lodz ghetto, the neatly dressed up youngsters of the ghetto orphanages, were placed on
horse drawn farmers buggies and driven through the ghetto streets in the direction
of Marishin, obviously on their last voyage. Not fully aware of what is really happening
to them many of the children were joyfully singing Yiddish songs.
Soon life in the Lodz ghetto slowly returned to normal. There were
however very few families who hadn't lost a member or two, during this horrible disaster.
An estimated twenty two thousand men, women and children were rounded up and shipped to
the death camps of Chelmno or Auschwitz.
THE AFTERMATH OF FATHERS DEPARTURE
Almost certain that our father, if he wasn't dead yet, had no chance
whatsoever to survive the harsh conditions of the camp at Poznan, I tried my very best to
spare my mother from knowing the truth.
She continued her daily routines as if truly believing that her
husband is alive and well and with Gods help will soon return to his family. There
were times however when I had a feeling that Mother hardly sees a chance for this ever to
happen, and that she herself is just putting up an act to ease the pain for my brother and
myself.
She continued to kindle the shabbat candles as always, making her
blessing and shedding her usual amount of tears by whispering a silent prayer for her
husband and children. She also continued with her traditional Friday night meal with
"gefilte fish", made from a piece of ground horse meat, and "chicken
soup," cooked from another small piece of horse meat. The table, as always, was
covered with a clean white table cloth, and my brother and myself had to take turns making
the Kiddush over two slices of bread.
The same "festive" suppers with the identical ceremony
were repeated on all Jewish holidays and festivals, without fail. On some Passovers the
ghetto received permission to bake matza which anybody who wanted to could have instead of
the normal bread ration. Although the amount of matza received was much less than the
usual bread ration, mother had at least half of our bread ration replaced with Matza.
So our Passover seder table was graced with matza, chicken soup with
several small matza balls, ironically made of bread with a small addition of ground matza,
instead of regular matza meal.
In addition to the deliciously made gefilte fish there was also a
kind of "tzimes"made out of a mixture of carrots and turnips.
As unbelievable as it may sound, we continued to conduct a Passover
seder in the ghetto, the same way as my father did all his years until his deportation. I
am quite sure that thousands of other families inside this horrible place were conducting
their own Passover Seders.
While reading the story about our eventual liberation from slavery,
thousands of years ago, we were all praying and hoping that some day we will also be free
and reunited with our loved ones.
It is also important for me to mention and remember the three young
girls, who after my fathers departure were living with us in our flat, and had the
opportunity at least a couple of Passovers to celebrate with us.
After the Bloom sisters, seventeen and ten, lost their parents to
starvation, my mother took them in to live with us. She also took in their cousin, Frania,
who at the time was already the only survivor of her family. By the end of 1943 the two
sisters were put on a list for deportation. Soon after their departure, Frania, then about
eighteen was sent to a labor camp in the city of Chestochowa where she survived the war.
In 1947 1 had the pleasure to attend Franias wedding which
took place in a village near the city of Landsberg.
However the two beautiful Bloom sisters perished in one of the Nazi
death camps.
Chapter 6
MY MOTHER
Throughout my memoirs I described in detail the many virtues of my
mother and father, (of blessed memory), and could state without exaggeration that they
were the best parents children could ever be blessed with.
In a separate chapter I described a most unselfish act of sacrifice
by my dear devoted father, and in this short chapter I will add a little bit more about my
mothers devotion to her children and a brief description of her own early years.
My mother was brought up in a strictly religious home. She lost her
father during some kind of an epidemic when she was only two years old. Her mothers
second husband who owned a small wool factory, was extremely religious in addition to
being a scholar in matters of the Torah and religious teachings, in general. All his free
time he spent learning Torah at the Bet Midrash (an extension to the Old City Synagogue).
Zaidy Mendel, as we used to call him, was no follower of any
chasidic sect or Rabbi. Those Torah scholars were known as Mesnagdim.
However none of my mothers five half brothers and sisters grew
up to be religious. My mother, however, although a working girl before marrying my father,
was the only one of the family to sustain her traditional Jewish way of life and
throughout all her life continued on the same path.
Although without a formal secular education, she was well versed in
the learning of the Torah and was equal to any Jewish man in reading and understanding of
the Hebrew prayer books. She was also educated in Yiddish, knowing perfectly how to read
and write in that language.
As long as I can remember she managed to keep a strictly kosher
household where the Shabbat and religious holidays and festivals were observed in a not
lesser way than at the home of her childhood.
While always working and helping her husband to support the family,
her duties and devotion to her family did not diminish.
Those double duties however, did not interfere with her thirst for a
good Jewish book and for her love for the Yiddish theatre. I still remember the several
photo albums and scrapbooks of actors and shows she collected since her younger years. She
used to show off with pride those mementos from the time of the great Yiddish theatre of
Lodz.
Having a perfect partner in these activities, my mother and father
used to tell us stories about those fabulous times. They also told us that after the
building which housed that great Yiddish theatre,was destroyed by fire, the Jewish
population of our city and even of most cities all over Europe, were in deep mourning.
Although always busy and most of the time without funds to buy
tickets, my parents managed from time to time to attend a Yiddish show or a new Jewish
motion picture.
Mothers only regret was not being able to obtain a formal
education while a youngster. Since she was growing up during the Czarist rule over Poland,
her knowledge of our countrys language was far from adequate and indeed another of
her regrets.
Although still a young woman, mothers main concern however was
always the welfare of her family. Because of her double duties, her time had to be
carefully planned. Her cooking and preparing for the Shabbat, as I vividly remember, began
Thursday night and lasted until the wee hours of Friday morning. I will always remember
the two miniature challahs mother specially baked for my brother and myself which we took
with us Friday morning together with our school lunch. She also never forgot to bake a
large twisted challah which she donated to the Rabbis wife who distributed the
collected food items to the poor and needy.
In her very limited free time, mother took on a kind of duty which I
always used to admire. Since many of our women neighbours were completely illiterate,
mother used at least twice a week to read to them the important news from the daily paper
and once a week she gave them a special treat by reading the continuations of great
romances and letters to the editor reprinted in our local newspaper from the New York
Yiddish "Forward." Judging by the way the ladies swallowed mothers every
word, those eagerly awaited weekly readings must have been among their most important and
very appreciated events in the lives of those poor ladies.
Mother also seemed to have great pleasure in organizing those
sessions and considered them a "Mitzvah" indeed.
There were of course times when mother had to do things which were
far above her strength. But at times like that there was always someone ready to give her
a hand, sometimes it was her husband and on different such occasions there was always one
of her sons.
At this particular time, some time during the latter half of the
1930's, my mother was almost without any help at all. My oldest brother was then serving
his second half of a ten months sentence in a prison for political offenders in the town
of Linczyce, and father was hospitalized with a severe case of jaundice. Isaak was doing
his apprenticeship at a fur factory, and my twin and I were attending school in the
morning and Hebrew classes in the afternoons.
Mother suddenly found herself in an impossible position of not only
having to care for the house and family, but also to take over full responsibility of a
thriving business. At once she turned into a tower of strength.
Without ever complaining or openly showing any signs of strain she
took full care of the business, without neglecting in any way her children and household.
In addition she also fulfilled a task previously done by father, namely arranging and
sending the periodic large food parcels to our brother in prison.
Realizing, of course, that the food she sent had to be shared by a
large group of inmates in Moshes cell, mother was nevertheless happy to be able to
send those parcels: "Even if he gets only a small fraction of what I send, it still
makes me feel good," she used to say.
Although I was just a kid at the time, I was quite amazed and really
proud of how mother managed to come through these extremely difficult periods, unscattered
and still in good health.
THE DEPARTURE OF AUNT RACHEL
The emigration to Palestine by mothers younger sister Rachel,
turned out to be quite a blow to both of them. The year was 1935. The Jewish boycott
against German goods was in full swing, especially among businessmen who used to deal
direct with Germany. So, Aunt Rachels husband, a successful fur merchant decided not
only to stop dealing with the Germans, but also to leave Europe altogether.
Being at the time president of the General Zionist party of Lodz,
uncle Abraham had no difficulties to obtain permission to enter the British mandated
Palestine. His ability to invest heavily in his chosen country must have been another
important factor in receiving the visas as fast as he did. So, Aunt Rachel with her
husband and three children left Poland several years before the great disaster.
With her sisters departure, mother also lost her dearest
friend and constant companion.
Although mother had five more siblings her bond with Aunt Rachel was
special indeed. Only the two of them were from the same father, while the others were
children from their mothers second marriage. For an unknown to me reason these two
little sisters were never formally adopted by their stepfather and never called him
father. Instead they respectfully addressed him as long as I remember as Uncle Mendel.
Being only about one and half years apart in age, it was quite
understandable that under those circumstances they both became not only loving sisters,
but extremely close friends. With an always busy husband, sharing his time between the
business and his activities in the party, Aunt Rachel spent a lot of time with my mother.
She really did her utmost to give her hard working sister a bit of pleasure and a much
needed change in her daily routine: "I can't look at the way you are constantly
working, while I do almost nothing," she used to say, while tenderly hugging and
kissing her oldest sister. So routinely once or sometimes twice during the week the two of
them used to spend a couple of hours together. Sometimes they enjoyed a show or a movie
together and on other occasions just a coffee and cake in one of the many coffee houses.
Although I was just a kid at the time, I still remember how deep in
my heart I was grateful to Aunt Rachel for being so good to my mother.
After her beloved sisters departure, mothers life was
not the same any more. Normally, time is supposed to be a great healer, unfortunately not
in this case. The longer their separation lasted the more difficult it became for mother
to adjust. Her suffering became so vivid, that it started to reflect on our entire
household. Especially sad were the days when the mailman brought in a letter from
Tel-Aviv.
When father used to ask her about her sister, her answer was short
and always the same: "she's fine, everything is fine." We all thought of course
that her sadness and all the tears were only because she missed so much her little sister,
as she fondly used to call her.
Finally, not being able to conceal it inside herself any more,
mother came out with the truth. "My dear sister is miserable," mother burst out
sobbing as if God forbid somebody in the family would have passed away. Not being able to
control herself, she told us how aunt Rachels life became miserable and almost
unbearable. Mother kept blaming her brother-in-law for his refusal to stay in Poland. What
we found out later, was the unfortunate fact that my uncle had lost most of his holdings
soon after their arrival in Tel-Aviv. He fell victim to a group of real estate swindlers
who almost wiped him out.
Being used to a life of leisure, with a steady housekeeper, and a
niece of my uncle acting as a nanny to their children, the reality of life in Palestine
seemed indeed quite miserable. Aunt Rachel instead of keeping that misery to herself did
not miss an occasion to convey her misery to my poor mother. However, at that time my aunt
could hardly realize that her husband with his "stupid Zionist ideas" as she
used to write, saved her and her three growing children from becoming victims of the
Nazis final solution.
SEPTEMBER 1939 - AUGUST 1944
During the entire period of the Nazi occupation, my mother was a
tower of strength. Of course, she was not immune to suffering, but always kept her pain
locked inside herself in order not to cause additional worries to her family. Without
showing emotions, she suffered silently when her two oldest boys had to leave home and
continued suffering until the last hours of her life thinking about them. It was easy to
sense her real emotions each time she was kindling the Shabbat candles with a tearful and
silent prayer. These sessions became more intense after my fathers departure in
1942. I fully realized that the events of the recent past kept on torturing her.
Her perseverance and exceptional determination to stay strong for
her childrens sake, must have been the main factor of her ability to go through all
that hellish period. Mother of course gave all the credit for her good health to God the
All Mighty. Also our fortunate avoidance of the many deportations during the ghetto years
and the survival of the deadly epidemics she gave credit to her unbreakable belief in the
mercy of the All Mighty. This sincere belief kept her going until the last minutes of her
life.
To truly describe the love and devotion of my mother will be
sufficient enough to describe an event that occurred in the spring of 1943. This was the
time when the bi-monthly food rations which usually were distributed with their German
punctuality on every second Monday, was for no apparent reason delayed by several days.
Most ghetto dwellers were normally using up those meager rations and
the two kilo loaf of bread during a period of mostly ten days, and workers managed to pull
through the remaining several days with the help of the daily soup at the factory. Very
few people however including my mother were painfully managing their households by equally
dividing the rations into equal portions to assure that some food, no matter how little,
would last through the full fourteen days. .
Needless to say it was very difficult to exist on such a small
amount of food, but at least we were not left even for one day without food at all, no
matter how little.
My dear Mother with her exceptional skills and some sort of
manipulation, always managed to keep some left over items for an extra day, in case of an
unexpected delay in the food distribution
This time however, the delay lasted for a period of three to four
days. People were literally collapsing on the streets. Every morning special squads were
collecting dead bodies of men, women and children off the sidewalks and from the
dwellings. The disaster reached the highest proportions. This enormous tragedy is
impossible to describe with simple words.
Mother still somehow managed to put on the supper table some sort of
watery soup, but the bread ration was already completely used up. On the third day all the
three of us were still going to work at the usual time, but we were so weak that the short
walk to the factories turned into a torturous venture.
I cannot recall how many coworkers were already missing, but on this
exceptionally warm spring day, those workers who were present, were just sitting around
without having the strength of doing any sort of work. The factory soup on that day was
almost without the usual few slices of potatoes, an apparent victim of the prevailing
shortages. Nobody on that day seemed to conduct any conversation with a friend or
coworker. They were just sitting at the tables or machines as if half paralyzed. There was
no intervention by a foreman or instructor.
The day was dragging on endlessly. Since the place had very large
windows, the warm spring sun, not having any restrictions, was generously warming the half
starved to death bodies of the young men and women present.
At about three P.M., I decided to go down to the backyard to get
some fresh air, something I would never be allowed to do during a normal work day. Since
our factory was located in a former school building, the backyard was nicely paved and
surrounded by an iron fence. Close to the fence, and all around the yard there was about
two feet of ground allocated for grass. Being terribly weak and more hungry than ever
before, I sat down on some freshly grown grass, and rested my boney back on the iron
fence. I didn't even realize that I took a place exactly opposite the small gate which led
to the adjoining factory where mother was working.
Trying as much as possible to forget my hunger pains, I desperately
attempted to get some sleep. Apparently with the help of the soothing warm sun, I somehow
succeeded. I apparently had a short nap without dreams or nightmares, so when I heard my
mothers voice calling my name, I swiftly opened my eyes. Surprised and even scared,
I asked her how and why she left her work in the middle of the day.
She tried her best to assure me with her soft voice full of love and
concern, that she somehow had a feeling that I found myself in a situation in which I
could need a little bit of nourishment. She handed me a small pot of soup, and kissing my
forehead, told me that she had to go home and cook a little bit of soup with a couple of
spoons of left-over flour. Assuring me that she still had a bit of flour left for
tonights supper. Putting the pot next to me I slowly stood up and embraced my dear
Mother while tears were streaming down from both our boney cheeks. This display of a
Mothers devotion, I will carry in my heart forever.
The regular distribution of rations after a delay of several days
resumed in a normal fashion, but the cost in human lives during that unexplainable short
period of time, was enormous.
A CASE OF A GUILTY CONSCIENCE
I am still not sure what caused Mr. Max Fuchs, my Fathers old
friend, suddenly to come to our rescue. This time he did it without our pleading or
asking. Who or rather what influenced this seemingly heartless person to turn into a human
being if only for one good deed.
If my memory serves me well it was in the late spring of 1942. A new
directive by the Ghetto administration posted all over the Ghetto and published in
Rumkowskis totally, irrelevant newspaper, (a paper without any actual news) stated
that everybody regardless of gender or age included children over ten years old are
obliged to acquire a working card. Needless to say that such a directive was taken very
seriously since it could have been considered a matter of life and death.
Several months had already passed since my Fathers deportation
and Mother was still without a steady factory job. Although my brother and I were fully
employed, the danger of all of us being deported in case Mothers name should be put
on such a list
Fortunately for us the manager of the so called cooperative (the
store which distributed the food rations) was Mothers old friend. This friendship
went back to the period when my parents were also friends with Mr. Fuchs before he
immigrated from Germany. Apparently Mother must have mentioned in passing about her
problem to the store manager who still continued his friendship with Mr. Fuchs. I'm quite
sure that this man, whose name I could not recall told Mr. Fuchs about our predicament. He
was probably convinced that this time through his son who headed the employment department
Max would be of some help. This, if I remember well, must have been by the end of March
1943.
It seems that Mr. Fuchs, my parents former friend, who in an
unforgettable cruel manner once refused to assist in finding jobs for my twin brother and
myself had gone through some unexplainable bout of guilty consciousness. This time he
apparently decided to do something for the family of his once best friend.
I vividly recall that nice sunny spring afternoon, while still in
bed after a night shift at the factory, I heard somebody calling my name from down the
street. As always on such a nice day I kept the window wide open. I looked down from where
the voice came and noticed a neighbours kid standing next to an elegantly dressed
handsome couple. "Yomin" the kid shouted "This man wants to see
you"... after a harder look down from my fourth floor window I was able to recognize
the tall lean body of Mr. Fuchs who waved in my direction signaling for me to come down.
I ran down, mostly sliding on top of the railings as I always did
since my early childhood. It didn't take more than two minutes for me to stand in front of
him. Mr. Fuchs greeted me with a warm handshake and a smiling face.
Probably being aware of my Fathers fate, he asked only about
Mothers health, while handing me a working card for her ... "Give this to your
Mother with my best regards and good wishes" he said while walking off without any
further explanation, holding the arm of an elegantly dressed pretty girl, half his age.
About two days later Mother began to work in a shirt factory,
When I returned to our flat Mother just came in from visiting a sick
neighbour. I excitingly told her what had happened, and persuaded her to look down the
window from where she could still catch a glimpse of her old friend.
"What is going on?" she asked with tears in her
eyes..."where was our good friend when Daddy was being deported?", and with a
move of her arm she dismissed his good deed as a disgusting and blatant act by a man with
a guilty conscience.
This was the last time I ever saw my parents old friend, the
father of Mr. Rumkowski's executive secretary and of a big shot son. As I learned later,
all the three of them survived the Holocaust and returned strong and healthy to their
"German homeland."
CHAPTER 7
MORDECHAI CHAIM RUMKOWSKI
We were told that shortly after the German occupation of the city of
Lodz, a high ranking Nazi officer visited the Jewish committee, (kehilah), and
accidentally bumped into Chaim Rumkowski. "Who are you?" the Nazi evidently
barked at the scared old man, whom it took a while to straighten out and give a proper
reply to the Nazi officer towering over him.
The officer in question, who turned out to be in charge of creating
a ghetto in Lodz, apparently liked what he saw in this distinguished looking elderly man.
Rumkowski with his full head of bushy white hair and black rimmed glasses seemed to be
just the personality the German was looking for. Without further questioning him, the Nazi
told Mr. Rumkowski that from now on he will be the head of the Jewish population of Lodz
and will be known as "der Aelteste der Juden."
Nobody really knows if this is what actually happened on that given
day at the Jewish committee. But what we know for sure is the fact that this frail old man
suddenly became strong enough to assist the Nazi authorities and maintaining the longest
lasting ghetto in all of occupied Europe.
On May the first of 1940, the gates of the Lodz Ghetto were
hermetically shut from the outside world with large billboards placed in front of each
gate proclaiming this area as a diseased district and strictly off limits. In German it
read,"Seuchen Gebiet, Eintritt Verboten."
THE KING OF THE GHETTO
I don't know and hardly believed that others really know how and
with whose help Rumkowski managed in such a short period of time to meet a deadline
submitted to him by the Nazi authority. I wouldn't even try to research this subject. The
fact however remains that on May the 1st 1940, Rumkowski had in place a complete
"Cabinet" of heads of all important departments, a strong unarmed, of course,
large police force, fire stations, and directors of numerous to be established factories.
With his unsurpassed energy the "preses" held meetings
with hundreds of former tailors, furriers and other craftsmen whom he appointed as
instructors and production managers in yet to be established factories. His favorite motto
during his many speeches to the Ghetto population and on posters with his signature was,
"survival through labor." The former tireless life long fund raiser on behalf of
Jewish orphanages, universally known as the "father of the orphans" gradually
went through a transformation from a gentle old man into a dictatorial despot who blindly
collaborated with the Nazi authority.
Among many harsh measures on the way to the establishment of the
Ghetto, were several mass deportations of so-called criminals. These first transports to
labor camps and death camps were filled with thousands of unemployed young men, among them
a small number of petty thieves and very few with legitimate criminal records. Also many
buildings near the Ghetto fence were being forcefully evacuated and their occupants
deported to the Lublin area which was supposed to have become a Jewish district.
Although it was quite clear that those deportations occurred to
assure a degree of smooth sailing for Mr. Rumkowski and his clique, it was never really
established who were in fact the initiators of these early deportations. My guess is that
Rumkowski was just an agreeable participant to the Nazi initiative.
Rumkowski who soon became known as the "preses" or the
King of the Ghetto, also established Ghetto money with his exclusive signature. His
signature also graced each order or directive to the Ghetto population.
The preses and all members of his family were living in relative
luxury, and so did everyone of his trusted cabinet members. Factory directors and ranking
civil servants received special food rations. In a bit lesser degree, special privileges
were also granted to factory instructors, foremen, and to all members of the Ghetto police
force and firemen.
While the whole existence of the Ghetto was based on the factory
workers, the only addition to their meager food rations was a daily soup at the factory.
However, most blue collar workers, laborers with part time jobs and the unemployed had to
live exclusively on their prescribed rations.
The ever-deteriorating situation in the Ghetto and the steady
increase in deportations, seemed not to soften Rumkowski's convictions. Unfortunately the
opposite happened. He became even more resilient. In his speeches before deportations the
preses urged Mothers to hand over their children in order to save the rest of the Ghetto
population."We are a sinking ship", he forcefully tried to convince his
distressed listeners, "so we must unload cargo to stay afloat".
It was hard to believe that this kind of argument came from the
mouth of the former "Father of Jewish orphans." He became the most despised and
hated individual next to our Nazi oppressors. His notoriety reached every town and hamlet
in occupied Poland. Inmates of every Ghetto and concentration camp soon became aware of
the "Mad King of the Lodz Ghetto."
Although Rumkowskis goal to turn the Ghetto into a network of
factories instrumental to the Nazi war effort,was indeed fulfilled, it did not deter the
Germans from conducting frequent deportations and small scale raids. Prisoners like petty
thieves were frequently being taken from their cells and deported.
Sometime in 1942, Rumkowskis exclusive leadership of the
Ghetto was challenged by David Gertler, the head of the Sonder Commando, a special police
force of exceptionally strong men. Due to corruption in the higher ranks of
Rumkowskis trusted cronies and mismanagement by the inexperienced head of the food
supply department, Mr. Szczesliwy, Gertlers star kept on rising. Gertler who
apparently cooperated with the local Gestapo, in the eyes of the Ghetto population was
considered some sort of a saviour. He became the official overseer of the entire food
supply department of the Ghetto. Instead of letting tons of produce especially potatoes
spoil and freeze inside the warehouses, Gertler with his staff of able managers increased
the rations, while distributing the perishable items right after their arrival into the
Ghetto.
Apparently Rumkowski became ever more irritated and more abusive
even to his own staff. According to people who were working with him he apparently behaved
like a wild man, who sometimes in a state of rage physically assaulted his associates.
While Gertler became a beloved figure in the eyes of the Ghetto
population, Rumkowski became ever more disliked and hated. Even the "Ghetto
troubadour" and song writer Yankele stopped writing songs about the preses replacing
them with new songs of praise for David Gertler.
MY PERSONAL ENCOUNTERS WITH RUMKOWSKI
My first encounter with the preses was a indirect one, but fruitful
nevertheless. His designs for turning the Ghetto into a giant network of factories just
began to take shape. Great numbers of the population were already employed and ever more
were being hired. But there were still thousands of unemployed, who were living on
welfare. The amount of money received by a family each month did just cover the price of
the bi-monthly food ration. It was the beginning of 1941 and my Father who had no
necessary skills to work in one of the already established factories automatically became
a welfare recipient. My Mother who was hoping that a comforter factory will soon be
established had to wait a long time for that to happen. My twin brother and myself besides
lacking necessary skills were too young to be hired anyways. However, I did not consider
myself too young to understand and be quite disturbed
by the fact that my family is on the welfare role. To me it did not
seem logical and believable that the Nazis became humane and willing supporters of
unemployed Jews.
At the first occasion I told my parents about my concerns and laid
out for them a plan which crossed my mind recently. I was thinking of writing a letter
direct to Rumkowski pleading for his help to find a job at least for our Father. At first
my idea looked to them a bit far fetched. But after giving them all the details of what I
intend to write, they were in full agreement with me and urged me to do it as soon as
possible.
Being well aware of Rumkowskis pre-war activities and
connections to my uncle Katzberg, who was an important contributor and benefactor to the
Jewish orphanages, I decided to incorporate this part in my letter to him. I also decided
to mention the fact that Rumkowski was an invited guest at the festive banquet given by
the General Zionists in honor of my uncles aliyah to Eretz Israel in 1935. At that
time my uncle was the president of that organization. To make my letter even more
understandable to the old man I attached a photo of my uncle and his Tel- Aviv address.
No more than two weeks after I mailed my letter we received a
summons for my Father to appear at the employment office for an interview. Soon after my
Father was hired as a watchman at a large produce warehouse.
Automatically my family was taken off the welfare role and a short
time after one of the largest and cruelest deportations from the Lodz Ghetto took place.
Thousands of welfare recipients with their families were loaded into cattle wagons and
shipped to a unknown destination.
My second encounter with the "King of the Lodz Ghetto" was
a direct and personal one. We actually met face to face. Although of a lesser importance
than our first encounter, which involved the well-being of my whole family, this one
touched only me personally, but nevertheless became an unforgettable event which I believe
contributed to my successful struggle for survival.
It occurred to me in the early summer of 1943, just several weeks
after the Ghetto went through the terrible trauma of a delayed distribution of the
bi-monthly rations. The same as most Ghetto dwellers this period of extreme hunger left me
in an extremely week state from which I could hardly get out. I lost more weight than my
body could afford, and was pale and sick looking.
Since that tragic period of total hunger, the Ghetto population went
through a drastic change in their overall appearance. People changed beyond recognition
and the mounting death rate and the general condition of the labor force deteriorated to
the lowest level. Men and women who were just weeks before in pretty good shape became
unrecognizable. With their skeletal bodies they could hardly manage to walk with their
swollen feet and became completely unable to work. Besides my brothers and my weak
state, my Mother started to complain about her extreme tiredness and some swelling of her
feet and abdomen.
By exchanging a two week bread ration, (one two-kilo loaf), we
managed to obtain a small bottle of "vigantol," a miraculous remedy for acute
swelling. After taking daily drops of this medicine, Mothers condition improved to a
point of being able to return her factory job. In the meantime however due to the fact,
that for several weeks our daily intake of bread had to be drastically reduced, our hunger
pains became even stronger.
By the time we started to consume our normal bread rations, my
brother and I were already so weak that the strain of a regular days work became
almost unbearable to endure. But at the same time I started to notice some unusual red
spots on my neck and other parts of my body. Some of them became quite painful. Since we
did not experience any body swelling and fortunately my Mother took good care of us, we
were both continuing our jobs at the factory.
Although some of the red spots on my body slowly disappeared painful
boils on my neck were growing in size. The constant pain became ever more difficult to
endure.
At the beginning I did my best to keep Mother from the severity of
my condition, but the excruciating pain kept me from sleeping, I could not hide my secret
anymore. My condition became so serious that I was forced to stay home for quite a while.
My Mother of course did her utmost to ease my suffering, but realizing that all her
efforts were in vain, she took me to a near-by doctor.
The diagnosis was predictable: it was caused by a lack of vitamins
for which unfortunately the doctor had no remedy whatsoever. My Mother as always gave me a
lot of tender care and even larger food portions, at her own expense, of course. She
insisted that she could manage with smaller portions. Although I vigorously resisted her
generosity, she did not give in. She needed her rations to be able to continue her daily
work at the factory and her work at home. All my arguments of course did not change her
mind.
Without not too much complaining, I struggled through my days and
sleepless nights. I kept on losing more weight and walking up to our fourth floor flat
became quite a challenge.
In this condition I had to continue to work again at the factory,
hoping for the best. Amid Mothers help, care and devotion and perhaps some
intervention from my "Guardian Angel", my condition slowly started to improve.
At first the boils began to shrink and soon they slowly started to disappear.
RUMKOWSKI'S APPARENT SEARCH FOR A REMEDY
Sensing the gradual diminishing of the Ghetto labor force, the
"preses" with the apparent cooperation of David Gertler was desperately
searching for a remedy to improve the health of the Ghetto workers.
Sometime in June of 1943, posters on factory billboards were telling
us that by the grace of Chaim Rumkowski several so called "supper kitchens" are
going to be established exclusively for the working people of the Lodz Ghetto. Lists of
names will be provided by factory directors and the chosen workers will benefit from a
"special gift from me to you." And it continued with, "Each worker will
receive seven nourishing and delicious suppers"...signed M. Ch. Rumkowski.
Right after the opening of the first kitchen this worthy and very
important project became marred with the terrible Ghetto disease which we called
"Protekcja" (Patronage). Although some workers were lucky enough to receive this
precious gift of seven suppers, most of the recipients turned out to be family members of
factory directors, close friends of administrators, office workers, etc.
My brother became one of the lucky ones, simply because our
neighbour, who was at the time the production manager of the factory where he was working,
put Meyers name on the list. Through my Mothers intervention my twin brother
gave me a gift of one of his suppers.
The evening of that special event was truly extraordinary for me.
The moment I entered this heavenly place, the aroma of a real kitchen, the beautiful smell
of fried hamburgers and fried potatoes simply intoxicated me. When the food was put in
front of me on a large plate, filled with those delicious home fried potatoes, vegetables
and a huge juicy hamburger, I thought that I was just dreaming. This fantastic meal was
served after I already had finished a large bowl of a dense vegetable soup. After that I
was surprised by a large slice of chocolate cake and tea. Although I was really tempted to
consume that seemingly delicious cake I had decided to take it home as a gift for my
Mother. I sincerely felt guilty to have had such a sumptuous meal while my Mother had to
do with a watery soup for supper.
As I expected, my Mother was vigorously resisting my gesture.
However when I insisted that I am really not able to have another bite and that she would
make me happy to eat it, she finally gave in. My Mother however looked at me with an
understandable smile on her face, embraced me and planted a warm kiss on my forehead. Then
she turned to my brother thanking him for what he did for me. After watching my Mother
enjoy eating that special treat, I went to sleep fully content and as always I thanked God
for blessing us with such a Mother.
RUMKOWSKI'S SECOND CONCEPT
After launching of the supper kitchens, the Ghetto administration
must have realized that this enterprise was not enough to solve the problem.
Shortly after a new project, apparently proposed by the preses
himself and with the cooperation of the German administration started to take shape.
Rumkowski's main argument was the rescue of the physical as well as the mental health of
the Ghetto workers in order to sustain the Ghetto and avoid further deportations. The plan
which emerged was to erect several convenient places for workers to regain some of their
strength.
Sometime in June of 1943 several vacated buildings at the edges of
the Ghetto area, were converted into makeshift summer resorts. These dwellings which
became known as "Homes," with a capacity of housing about a hundred vacationers
each, supposed to serve only the working force.
Unfortunately again, as with the supper kitchens, the lists of
workers chosen for a seven day stay at such a home, were provided by factory directors and
administrators. After the initial excitement, it became quite clear that the procedure to
administer this new project did not differ from the first one. Again as before, very few
actual workers had the privilege to benefit from this very important endeavour.
The presence of several workers at each of the homes became a
calculated attempt to cover up the dirty practice of "Protekcja" by the greedy
and selfish factory administrators.
AN ATTEMPTED SHORT STRIKE AT THE FUR FACTORY
The "Project Home" like the previous attempt to help the
tired factory workers, became as futile and worthless as the first attempt to help the
labor force. Although "Protekzja" was already a fact of life in this hellish
place, it was still difficult for many of us to be reconciled with this incurable disease.
The fur factory which had among his laborers many former unionized workers and union
leaders was at the forefront of a protest against this horrible practice.
Since our factory already had an organized group, a committee to
protect as much as possible the legitimate rights of its workers, it took some action to
see to it that as many as possible of our workers should be included in that new project.
After a meeting with the factory director, it became clear that again just a handful of
actual workers were placed on the list of the chosen ones.
After a short debate with no opposition at all, the committee
chaired by its leader decided not to accept the directors list and to stage a work
stoppage in protest. This daring act of defiance was from the outset doomed for failure.
Fortunately by the end it turned out to benefit many of our workers and possibly scores of
workers in other factories.
I find it of importance also to mention that the workers committee
at the fur factory, besides looking after the interests of their workers, had also a
separate group of activists, who from time to time were holding clandestine meetings
during which we received reports about the developing political and military situation at
the time. In 1943 by recommendation of the head of my working group I was accepted to
become a member.
The next morning after receiving the go-ahead from the organizing
committee, the work stoppage began. Immediately condemned by the production manager and
instructors, the factory director tried desperately to persuade the workers to return to
their tables and immediately stop this "Terrible madness". When his pleading was
hitting a stone wall, the already quite irritated director contacted Rumkowski, informing
him about the turmoil at his factory.
It took no more than a couple of hours until the news of Rumkowski's
arrival began to spread like a wild fire.
Running like a young man from floor to floor and room to room,
wielding his ever present cane, the "preses" was shouting on the top of his
lungs. Like a mad man he kept on hitting anyone and anything standing in his way:
"Not only will you be excluded from my project, but you will work by pulling barrels
of excrement." Continuing screaming he repeated the same threats in room after room.
Nervously questioning our strike he shouted, "Do you really know what you are
doing?" And then in a hoarse voice he continued, "Do you really realize in what
danger you are putting us?"
Nervously continuing his diatribe and this time as if talking to
himself, he quietly said something which sounded as "if the Germans would find out
what you are doing, we will all be doomed." Flanked by his fat body guard and another
police officer, he demanded immediate return to work.
Realizing the gravity of the situation the committee decided to drop
the intended strike. With Rumkowski's threat to keep us out entirely of the "home
project" still ringing in our ears, resigned and disillusioned we all returned to our
work place.
Seemingly happy with the outcome of Rumkowski's visit, our director
was slowly walking in the direction of his office. While I was looking at his burly
stature and his full and rosy cheeks, I could not help comparing his looks with the looks
of my walking-past skeletal co-workers.
"What a contrast"...I could not help thinking.
During those hectic days, I had hardly enough time to think about my
own physical condition. The boils on my body and especially on my neck were almost gone,
but not my sleepless nights. This time the pain was replaced by a constant itching, a
condition which kept bugging me during the day time and still did not let me sleep at
night.
I was skinny and weak. My hopes to become a beneficiary of a
weeks rest and better nourishment seemed to have been dashed for good.
But not as far as my "guardian angel" was concerned.
RUMKOWSKI'S RETURN TO THE FUR FACTORY
As it turned out, the tremendous risk we were taking by our short
work stoppage was not in vain at all. Nobody knew then and we never really found out what
or who influenced the preses to change his mind. Just a couple of days after our abortive
strike, Rumkowski and his body guards arrived on the steps of the fur factory.
Without any previous announcement, he called on the director and
together they quietly visited room after room, personally picking candidates for the seven
days of summer vacation.
The director seemed like a casual onlooker, while the preses
conversed with each potential candidate. Each approved worker gave his name and other
necessary details to his body guard who kept filling out a list. This time Rumkowski was
calm and in full control of the situation. He spoke quietly to everyone concerned and from
time to time even flashed a smile.
The workers silently greeted the preses when he entered one large
room after the other. Actually working or pretending to do so, they did not lift up their
heads.
I was sitting by my machine pretending to do some work when I sensed
the preses stopping just behind me. "Stand up", I heard his voice with that
unmistakable Lithuanian Yiddish accent.
I stood up, turned around to face the "King of the Ghetto"
and without lifting up my eyes I waited for further instructions. "What is your name,
and how old are you?", I heard Rumkowski asking in a surprisingly pleasant tone.
Still pretty confused I lifted up my eyes and looking straight into the eyes of this
despised old man, I quietly and calmly answered all his questions.
When I told him that I was eighteen years old, Rumkowski who was
quite a bit taller than I was bent down to come close to my ear and whispered: "You
will be a good Jewish soldier."
When he told his assistant to write down my name on the precious
list, I thought that I saw a sign of satisfaction on Rumkowski's serious but still a bit
smiling face. On the other hand, perhaps it was just a figment of my imagination.
Again I took my place in front of the machine, and for a
while remained sitting like in a daze. While Rumkowski continued his interviews I kept
wondering what was really happening. "Was I simply lucky or was it again an act
committed with the help of my imaginary "guardian angel." How could it possibly
be normal for a known tyrant like Rumkowski to change so drastically? For a moment, while
in front of me he truly looked like an angelic figure taken out from pictures of famous
renaissance painters.
When he finally left the room, I became the centre of
everybodys attention. They all seemed to notice the preses whispering something into
my ear and were anxious to find out what it was all about. When I told them exactly what
had happened, word by word, they all seemed quite sceptical. It was hard for them to
believe that those words could have come from the mouth of this heartless and ruthless
Nazi collaborator.
I must admit that even to this day nobody whom I told about my
encounter with Rumkowski and about our friendly short conversation, is inclined to believe
what I actually experienced with the King of the Lodz Ghetto.
HISTORY WILL BE HIS FINAL JUDGE
There were different views and opinions about the person and
character of Chaim Rumkowski. It is quite normal that every individual who spent years
under Rumkowski's rule is rightfully judging the preses according to his or her personal
experiences in the Lodz Ghetto.
I am quite sure that survivors who during the five years of
existence of the Lodz Ghetto belonged to the chosen and privileged, consider Rumkowski a
fair person. But entirely contrary views were and are expressed by the majority of
survivors who went through the whole five years struggling constantly without help from
anyone. The overall Ghetto population who suffered indescribable periods of hunger and
cold who have lost most members of their families through starvation, all kinds of
diseases and deportations, Rumkowski was the personification of evil, who was held
partially responsible for all that had happened in the Lodz Ghetto.
There is no question that according to them Rumkowski deserved the
death penalty, if he would have survived of course.
Fate however took care of that desired sentence. Rumkowski together
with his young wife and all members of his immediate family perished in Auschwitz in the
same way as thousands of innocent men, women and children perished after the final
liquidation of the Lodz Ghetto in August of 1944.
Rumors were circulating in Auschwitz at the time that Rumkowski
himself didn't receive the privilege of being gassed, and was apparently burned alive.
So many questions still remained unanswered: Was Rumkowski a willing
participant in the German attempt to exterminate the Jewish people? Or was he really so
naive or perhaps already a senile old man who believed the lies of his Nazi bosses? Or
perhaps the most of many questions would be, that maybe, just maybe, Rumkowski was a
clever old man, truly convinced that by pleasing the Nazi authorities, providing them with
whatever they needed to protect their safe jobs, and avoid to be shipped to the Russian
Front, he would be able to save as many Jews as possible.
So far there is no proof or a simple way to answer these difficult
questions. It will probably involve many more years of research and work by psychiatrists,
psychologists, and historians to find an answer.
However of what we do have proof is the fact that the Lodz Ghetto,
considered to be the longest lasting Ghetto in all occupied Europe, had at the time of the
final liquidation an estimated population of about seventy-seven thousand men, women and
children.
MY PERSONAL THOUGHTS ABOUT RUMKOWSKI
From my experiences during as well as after the Holocaust I have
learned that each individual had seen the Holocaust exclusively through his own
experiences. The same formula of course can be applied to the survivors of the Lodz
Ghetto. It is quite normal that the thousands of pre-war poor tailors and others whom
Rumkowski appointed to lead the numerous factories have seen the Ghetto in general and
Rumkowski in particular with different eyes than the average Ghetto dweller.
This also applies to the many highly privileged heads of various
departments and other privileged positions which I had mentioned before. Therefore it is
quite difficult to reach a unanimous opinion about the character and personality of the
former head of the Lodz Ghetto.
As far as I am concerned there is no doubt in my mind that Rumkowski
with all his faults had no evil intentions.
The responsibilities thrust (by sheer fate) on him were much too
much for a man his age, especially for someone without any leadership experience. Without
that experience he delegated highly responsible positions to irresponsible people. They
were mostly former merchants or ranking members of different political parties whose main
goal during the Ghetto years was to protect and save their own families. This of course
they did mostly at the expense of the average ghetto dweller.
There is no question that there were times when I hated Rumkowski
with the same passion as any other average Ghetto dweller. However I am far from ready to
judge this highly complex personality. After all I am among the very few who had the
privilege personally to experience his softer and perhaps human side.
To conclude I must add another, perhaps a bit too far-fetched
thought, maybe, just maybe if the Red Army wouldn't have halted their advance toward
Western Poland, Rumkowski might have been acclaimed the saviour of close to eighty
thousand Jews of the Lodz Ghetto.
Unfortunately the Soviets decided to let the Germans first crush the
Warsaw uprising, which gave the Nazis ample time to liquidate the Ghetto of Lodz.
So, in my opinion we will have to let the professionals come to a
final conclusion and cast their final verdict.
CHAPTER 8
THE FINAL DAYS OF THE LODZ GHETTO
August 1944. Just a couple of weeks short of five years under the
Nazi occupation. I was informed during a meeting of our factory committee that the Germans
are already planning a final liquidation of the Lodz Ghetto, but for the time being to
keep this terrible news even from our own families. We were also informed during the same
meeting that the Soviet Red Army halted their forward incursion into Western Poland. It
became clear to anyone present that this strategic move was more political than military.
The communists apparently decided to wait until the Warsaw uprising and most of its
fighters will be crushed by the overwhelmingly stronger German forces and pave the way for
the Soviets to liberate Poland.
Moscow seemed to have lots of time. But by digging in on the east
side of the Vistula, the Soviets provided the Nazis with ample time to liquidate our
Ghetto. The tragic consequences of this unfortunate decision by the Soviets were at least
over seventy thousand Jewish lives from the Lodz Ghetto alone.
For several days I managed to conceal this terrible piece of news
from my brother and mother. But very soon it became common knowledge that the fate of the
Lodz Ghetto was sealed.
The main provider of that news became no other than Hans Bibov
himself. The Nazi head of the Ghetto administration started an intense campaign of deceit
and lies during his constant visits from factory to factory and also by organizing street
rallies.
In a obvious attempt to avoid another Ghetto uprising (like the
Warsaw Ghetto uprising of 1943), he tried desperately to convince the already exhausted
Ghetto population that there is nothing to worry about. "The Ghetto is just being
relocated to another more convenient and much nicer place as you can see" he tried to
act in a fatherly way, "we are doing it only for your own good .... after all you
have been working for the Germans for the last five years, and helped our government in
our War effort."... And, in an even more fatherly manner he quietly asked a sneaky
question: "Do you really think that the Soviets will like that?" "They are
going to kill you all," this time he was already shouting, and repeated that warning
several times.
To help him in this effort, Bibov engaged his loyal assistant Chaim
Rumkowski, who repeated these absurdities all over the Ghetto. Rumkowski even assured us
that the Germans are transporting all the machinery and factory equipment ahead of us, so
that everything will be ready in time for our arrival... this "promise" he kept
repeating with full conviction as if he would indeed truly believe the Nazi lies.
In fact, very few, if any of the Ghetto dwellers believed in their
promises, and at the beginning of the evacuation very few went voluntarily to the Marishin
rail station. Eventually realizing that time is not on their side, the Nazis began putting
on more pressure. Ever more German soldiers fully armed and helmeted, assisted by vicious
dogs, became involved in searching hideouts and forcefully transporting people to the
station.
The Jewish Ghetto administration with the hope that they are not
going to be touched by this disaster and the entire Jewish Police Force became willing
helpers to the Nazi effort to liquidate the Lodz Ghetto.
At the start of the final liquidation the number of Jews living in
the Ghetto was at a long time low, probably around the seventy five thousand mark.
Considering that on May the first of 1940 an estimated hundred and fifty thousand men,
women and children entered the Ghetto and the tens of thousands of Jews from the
surrounding areas which were brought in to the Ghetto during the five years of its
existence, the numbers kept on swelling. With the additional arrival of thousands of Jews
from Western Europe, including Germany and Austria, the number of Jews who perished in the
Lodz Ghetto must have been much over two hundred thousand.
Those innocent people were victims of starvation, diseases,
despicable sanitary conditions in their overcrowded dwellings and of constant deportation
to death camps. Many of the incoming German Jews were already long time Christians and
some of them were also former members of the Nazi Party. Their only crime must have been
having a Jewish grandparent. Some of the younger men were detected as Jews while serving
in the German army and many of the youngsters were members of the "Hitler
youth." There was no wonder that this wave of German Jews had special difficulties in
adopting to the Ghetto life and perished in the thousands.
The liquidation of the Ghetto was being conducted in a way planned
by Mr. Bibov and his helpers.
Much too weak and exhausted to resist and obviously having no other
choice, masses of Jews carrying heavy suitcases and bags with their meager belongings on
their shoulders kept on walking in the direction of the rail station. There were already
dozens of cattle wagons ready and waiting to swallow them. While many were taking the
route voluntarily, others were escorted by armed soldiers after being taken out from their
temporary hiding places.
Being aware of the existence of death camps, a neighbour of ours,
who was a member of a special police unit, invited the three of us to share a hiding place
with his family. We spent our days in this long abandoned dwelling in an already
unpopulated Ghetto area and returned home for the nights. The actual evacuation was
conducted mostly during daytime.
We somehow managed to avoid detection for a short period of time,
but after several days of hiding we noticed some activity in the vicinity of our hiding
place which made us change our plans.
Running from one hiding place to another it was not too much of a
strain for my brother and myself, but for my Mother and the others who also had with them
a little baby, it was impossible to continue. On the ninth or tenth day of feeling like
hunted animals, our neighbour who took good care of us during the terrible ordeal sadly
informed us that our hiding from the Nazis is all in vain. With a visible effort to calm
us down by promising that no harm of any kind is awaiting us. he reaffirmed the rumors
that Rumkowski himself with his wife and relatives is also getting ready for departure.
At the same time I was also quite aware about the places where the
Nazis are deporting Jews. But we had apparently no other choice than the route forced on
the last remnants of the once large and vibrant Jewish population of Lodz.
All I have heard and learned about those places of death, I kept to
myself and as if preparing for a normal change of living quarters, I helped Mother pack
necessary household items for our imminent departure.
ON THE WAY TO THE RAIL STATION
Glad that Mother listened to my advice not to take too big a load,
with the promise that as soon as we are going to start working again, we will buy whatever
we will need, we carried much less luggage than the allowed by the Germans fifteen kilo
limit per person.
Others however did what people usually do during moves to new
places: They overloaded themselves without considering the size or weight of the luggage.
The result of such behavior was disastrous. The streets and roads were littered with
abandoned bags and suitcases left by people who could hardly walk without heavy loads on
their shoulders.
My brother and I were exceptionally calm and in full control of
ourselves while turning the key to lock the door of our one room apartment. We closed
forever the place where we were born and spent our childhood. No matter how many years of
poverty we experienced in this place, we had nevertheless lots of good and happy times.
Those happy times together with my parents and brothers were mostly on my mind while
closing our door. In sharp contrast to my eternal optimism, I was somehow convinced at
that time that we are leaving this place forever.
Our dear Mother however, was not able to control her emotions.
Hugging and kissing us both at the same time she whispered some unrecognizable prayer
while tears were streaming down her sad but still beautiful face.
The monetary value of what we had left inside the apartment was of
little importance. But the sentimental value was priceless. Especially the photo albums
full of family pictures and other mementos.
Through her tears and hardly able to talk, Mother assured us that
with God's help we will soon return to our home where we will continue to lead a normal
life together with our Father and brothers. This optimistic assurance she repeated several
times while walking down the stairs into the street. Without looking back we walked slowly
to the Franciskanska Street from where we took the Brzezinska on our way to the Marishin
Station.
Since those were already the final days of the evacuation most
warehouses and food depots were left open. So, many people over estimating their strength,
looted those places and carried heavy bags of potatoes and other produce on their
shoulders. Not being physically able to carry such heavy loads, they were forced to
discard their precious cargo on the streets and roads of the soon to be abandoned Ghetto.
So, only a short while ago priceless food items were littering the
Ghetto streets together with loads of pillows, comforters, linens, and other household
items.
All this was forming a clear picture of the tragedy of the being
evacuated Ghetto Jews and of the once vibrant Jewish population of Lodz in general.
As we came closer to the waiting trains, the streets became ever
more crowded with ever slower walking people. The struggle for survival was especially
visible on children eight or ten years old who were still carrying heavy loads on their
tiny shoulders. Apparently they were convinced that by bringing with them any kind of food
supplies, they will help their families during their relocation.
Besides the unlocked warehouses there was an additional source to
obtain freely some fresh produce. For the last two or three years, whoever was able and
willing to erect for himself a small vegetable garden could receive, by presenting the
families ration cards, a small parcel of land for that purpose. Many people who had
a bit of "Protekcja" were granted some clean and almost ready to plant parcels
of land. The vast majority however, received pieces of abandoned streets and alleys which
through extremely hard labour were turned into parcels of ground and eventually into
vegetable gardens.
My brother and I had received such a paved plot at a corner of an
abandoned street, and after several months of indescribably hard labour we started to
witness the fruit of our labor. Just before the evacuation we had visited our garden and
admired the beautiful cucumbers, carrots, beats, and some green salads which were almost
ripe.
Those precious little gardens that were supposed to supplement our
meager food rations were now being looted and trampled on by desperate youngsters on their
way to the train station.
Trying hard not to abandon my eternal optimism I was nevertheless
very worried about my Mothers fate. She was already fifty-three years old at the
time, frail and perhaps a bit too skinny, my heart was aching for her. Because of my
awareness about the existence of extermination camps, my heart was also aching for those
hundreds of food carrying youngsters the small children and the elderly among us.
I was walking side by side with my Mother and brother without
uttering a single word to each other. Each one of us apparently engulfed in ones own
thoughts.
No matter how much she tried to pretend, my Mother did not handle
very well the first phase of our upcoming long journey. Just the thought of losing our
dear Mother seemed to eradicate my ever present optimism. The luggage she was carrying was
too much for her to handle, but she vigorously protested when my brother and I offered the
slightest hint of help.
Before approaching the train station, Mother was talking again about
her husband and two sons in Russia, again expressing her hope of a reunion with her loved
ones. When we finally saw from a short distance a long winding train of dozens of cattle
wagons I became fully aware of the gravity of the situation.
Hundreds of men, women and children were walking in front of us and
many hundreds behind us. The weak and disabled were tenderly being helped by family
members and friends. The elderly were slowly and with visible difficulty dragging their
tired legs toward the waiting train.
IN FRONT OF THE CATTLE WAGONS
With little strength left in their exhausted bodies and only with
pure determination many of the evacuees were still clinging to their remaining
possessions. Many old suitcases were tied up with heavy string to avoid any loss of their
precious belongings. Others had managed to carry all the way their heavy bags with all
kinds of household items and bedding. They all apparently felt that in the new place all
this will be badly needed.
The ramp in front of the train was crowded to its full capacity and
the general chaos was indescribable. Children were holding on tightly to their parents
while others were shouting at their youngsters to stay together with their siblings.
Friends were sticking together with friends in order to continue to be together at the new
place ... neighbours hoped to be neighbours again and they promised each other to do their
best to stay together. The Germans on their part continued their deceptive tactics and did
their utmost to prevent any sort of disturbances or the slightest attempt of physical
resistance. Apparently the experience of the Warsaw Ghetto uprising and of the present
uprising by the population of Warsaw, were now of great help to them.
The hundreds of armed troops which were all over the place were
exceptionally polite, and even more so were the higher ranking officers. Some people were
asking questions to which they replied without the usual shouting. When my Mother asked an
officer if families are going to stay together, the Nazi answered with a bright smile on
his fat face: "Natuerlich Liebe Frau" (Naturally, of course dear lady).
Although I knew very well, that all this politeness was just a
sleazy put-on act, I nevertheless wanted to think that perhaps, just perhaps something did
change. After all the Nazis must have realized by now that they lost the war. However the
fact that the Ghetto is being evacuated at a time when the Red Army was already near
Warsaw, was not very encouraging.
Deceptively, loud speakers were urging the assembled crowd to take
all their possessions with them into the wagons: "Please ladies and gentlemen, don't
forget anything," the Nazi officers kept on dispensing advice to the confused
evacuees. Before entering the cattle wagons each one of us, even small children, was
handed a full loaf of fresh bread. This gesture was probably also done to show the Nazi
sincerity.
There is no doubt that the monstrous plan of deception by Hans Bibov
and his helpers was working brilliantly. Not only did nobody show the slightest sign of
resistance, but people were entering the cattle wagons voluntarily, many with full hope
for a brighter future.
Although I was one of the few who was aware of where those wagons
may take us, I nevertheless entered the wagon with a little bit of hope. I was too much of
an optimist to give up too easily. I still hoped that whatever was going to happen my
Mother and my twin brother and myself might have a chance to survive.
In a matter of minutes our wagon was filled up much over its
capacity. Most space on the wagon floor was taken up by literally mountains of luggage on
top of which families were rapidly settling their youngsters who were holding on to each
other. Cries of children and shouting by their desperate parents who did their utmost to
keep their youngsters near them suddenly turned into a deafening silence. The terrible
sound of slamming shut the wagon doors added to by shouting orders of Nazi officers to
their troops, and the horrible feeling of being shut in, gave us a sudden sense of
reality.
Our wagon was so over-crowded that we could hardly find a
little space for the two empty buckets, which were supposed to replace a toilette for an
estimated seventy and perhaps even more men, women and children. The hot August sun kept
heating up our wagon to an unbearable degree, and pretty soon the two buckets were filled
up with human refuse causing a horrible stench already mixed with human sweat. The little
bit of fresh air which managed to steal itself through the little barred window was not
enough to give even the slightest bit of relief.
While my Mother was squeezed in between a group of our neigbours, I
did my best to find a place near the little window and from time to time managed a look
outside with the hope that perhaps some good samaritan will take a chance to throw in
something to ease the already unbearable hunger and thirst.
After the second day there was very little left of the loaf of bread
which we received before boarding and a little bit of water which we managed to bring in,
was gone completely. The nights however were much easier to endure because of two reasons;
first of all there was no sun to heat up the roof of our closed up wagon and secondly,
because the train for some reason or other was moving pretty fast and with it more cool
air was able to come through the one and only tiny window.
It is very hard for me to recall exactly how long we were travelling
until we reached our destination mainly because during the daytime the train was hardly
moving. For hours we used to stand at some small stations as if the Germans had designed a
special system how to torture those innocent men, women and children. During the nights
most of these exhausted and by the stench intoxicated human souls, fell into a deep sleep
the moment night arrived. Being awake I could from time to time get a glimpse at some
faces of those sleeping people. They seemed to me then peaceful and relaxed, as if they
would dream of better days together with their families.
Next to me my brother was also engulfed in a deep sleep. My thoughts
were full of contradictions: Perhaps if I wouldn't be aware of places like Chelmno,
Auschwitz, and other death camps, I would have been much better off. At the time however
we had already travelled about two days which made it certain that we had already passed
Chelmno and might be going in the direction of Auschwitz.
So, what about the promises by Bibov and his helpers about
resettlement? How could anybody possibly believe in such promises after experiencing years
of numerous deportations, especially the great Sperre of 1942 when over twenty thousand
Ghetto dwellers in a most brutal way were shipped to death camps.
During the second day of travelling we stopped near a small station
in Czechoslovakia where the man who was chosen to be the head of our wagon managed to
stick out his hands through the little window and collected a bit of small food items
handed to him by generous and good hearted Czech people. I must add that during the first
day when our wagon was having several stops on Polish soil, not once such a generous human
act occurred. The little precious food obtained at a few other stations on Czech soil was
evenly distributed among all people in the wagon.
Needless to say that the extended travelling time (due to constant
stoppages) and terrible heat, made our situation totally unbearable. Children became more
restless and babies kept on crying. Many were vomiting while their Mothers who were sick
themselves were doing their very best to comfort them. Some of the elderly also became
sick. The man in charge with some of his assistants did an outstanding job in helping the
sick and comforting the others by telling some stories and even jokes.
I really admired the behavior of most of the people inside our wagon
during those treacherous days. After what those people went through in the last five years
they seemed still strong, if not in body, at least in character to behave the way they
did. Even the few families who were still intact, had already lost scores of relatives.
But there were among us many single people who were already the only survivors of large
extended families.
Amid this horrible mess, I noticed a couple of men with visibly
great difficulties, somehow managed to put on the Talith, and Tefilin, and performing
their morning prayer. So, the Nazi goal to dehumanize our people did so far not succeed.
The horrible situation in this closed-up hell, in form of a cattle
wagon, was turning from bad to worse. I don't really know how many nights we were locked
into this place, but after the third night nobody except the very small children, were
able to sleep. The stickiness and the unbearable stench plus the worries about our fate
kept most of us awake.
The longer the misery in our wagon lasted, the more people
especially children and the elderly became ill. I of course, was mostly concerned with the
well being of my poor Mother. She was not a youngster any more and her health, although
she never really complained, was not as good as she would have liked us to believe. During
these few agonizing days Mother had shown an unusual degree of determination and
perseverance, which helped her come through this merciless voyage in pretty good shape.
As I said, it is hard for me to determine the exact time we were
locked inside this cattle wagon. Nobody seemed to care anymore about our future fate. Our
only concern at the moment was to get out of this hellish place.
AUSCHWITZ-BIRKENAU
It was a bright sunny and warm morning when our train began to slow
down while approaching its final destination. I still had my priceless spot near the
little window, and a chance for a glimpse into the outside world.
Several people in grey, blue striped prison garb were already doing
some work on the rail tracks just parallel to our train. Besides their shabbily looking
uniforms I noticed their wooden shoes which some of them had covered with dirty rags.
While none of them seemed to openly look at our wagon, one who stood
the closest to the train, talked to us without lifting his head up in the direction of our
little window: "You are approaching Auschwitz," he was talking like to himself.
And then he followed with some peculiar questions: "Are there many children with
you?" and again quietly he was asking if there are elderly people with us. And
without waiting for an answer, the young unshaven and terrible looking young man moved on
to do his job, whatever it was he was doing before.
While our train kept on moving in the direction of the camp several
other of these working men kept asking the same questions without directly looking at us.
After one of them quietly said, "May God be with you", we received a clear
picture of the gravity of our situation. A little further away from this prisoner, I
noticed a much cleaner looking inmate probably one of the supervisors who didn't seem or
didn't care what his men were telling us.
I managed a glimpse at my brothers face. His eyes seemed wet with
tears as he looked back at me. Apparently we both had the same thoughts on our minds. We
automatically turned our heads in the direction of our Mother who was just awaking from a
few hours of sleep.
"May God help us", I whispered to my brother while also
looking at the excited men, women and children in our wagon, who were yet unaware of what
fate was awaiting them, while we apparently are entering the largest factory of death ever
known to mankind .
Although I had personally experienced some help from some
unexplainable source, I must say that it is very difficult after five years in the Lodz
Ghetto to believe in miracles. Even people who had spent their lives in praising the Lord
and praying three times daily perished from starvation, diseases and in gas chambers with
God's name on their lips. Hundreds of thousands of innocent children had perished the same
way, and no miracles occurred. "So how could we possibly expect any miracles
now?", I thought. I also thought at the moment about us being God's chosen people ...
and I asked a relevant question, "Were we really chosen to become sacrificial lambs
in this horrible place."
ARBEIT MACHT FREI (WORK MAKES YOU FREE)
In sharp contrast to the masterfully staged departure from the Lodz
Ghetto, the reception we received on our arrival at Auschwitz-Birkenau was an
indescribable and unforgettable picture of horror.
At the moment the wagon doors slammed open, the last hopes of so
many desperately clinging to life human beings, collapsed in waves of shouting, pushing,
and indiscriminate beatings, by stick wielding special commandos. The same Nazi officers
and troops who showed so much politeness and false understanding when we boarded the
wagons in Lodz, suddenly turned into wild animals, shoving and hitting young as well as
old, with a viciousness no normal human being would be able to comprehend.
While performing their unholy duty in the name of the special chosen
German Nation, they were shouting obscenities, and cursing the Verfluchte Juden (The
dammed Jews). "Raus, raus-shnell, shnell", (Fast, fast, out, out). They also
shouted to the scared and confused human beings to leave all their belongings inside the
wagons, not to touch anything. The special commandos of Jewish prisoners were doing the
job of pulling the people out of the wagons, while soldiers with their constantly barking
vicious specially trained dogs, surrounded the whole area.
Many of the forcefully removed people from the wagons, especially
the elderly and the sick were dropping to the ground. Many of them were already lying with
blood gushing from different parts of their bodies. Mothers with infants in their arms
received the same treatment while most had their babies pulled from them and thrown to the
ground. While the desperately screaming Mothers were trying to pick up their infants, they
were mercilessly beaten by the heartless commandos and kicked by the vicious soldiers with
their heavy leather boots.
The cries of children and the desperate pleadings by their helpless
Mothers, while the Fathers were already being shoved over to form a mens line. The
painful cries and groans of the elderly and sick were drowned by loud music coming through
loudspeakers from different directions.
A bright sun was shining on us, coming down from a clear blue sky.
But it did not seem in any way to warm those masses of suffering men, women, and children.
There seemed no help from anywhere. Not even when infants were forcefully being pulled
from the arms of their desperately pleading and wailing helpless Mothers.
When finally two separate lines of hundreds of already resigned men
and women had been formed, a high ranking Nazi officer appeared in front of us to start
his selection. With a simple move of his right hand thumb this Nazi monster made a quick
decision of whether you should live or die. And even while this executioner was performing
the job of the devil, and while the walking towards him men were silently praying and
pleading for God's help, the sun kept on shining.
The music coming from the loud speakers seemed ever louder while the
overwhelming majority of the men were being selected in the direction of the getting ready
for them gas chambers. Only a small percentage were lucky enough to get a temporary
reprieve, a chance to live a little longer.
The unbearable loud music kept on playing while the hundreds of men
were moving almost unsupervised but already fully aware of what gruesome fate awaits them.
Amid the indescribable situation before and during the selection,
many families managed a fast hug and some tearful kisses with their loved ones. Those who
did not manage to embrace each other were doing it from a distance.
My brother and I were fortunately among the small group of the lucky
ones. We were also fortunate enough, before we were separated to embrace and kiss our
Mother, while promising her that everything will be fine and assuring her that she looked
good enough to pass the selection. During these few seconds, my dear Mother managed a
smile but tears were streaming down her lovely face. She still waved to us while being
pushed into the line of waiting women.
As if an especially arranged way of Nazi torture, the women were the
first to go through the procedure of being selected. This way the Fathers, husbands, sons
and brothers were forced to watch as their beloved Mothers, wives, and siblings are being
mentally and physically abused by a sadistical Nazi officer whose biggest pleasure seemed
to be forcefully pulling some of the remaining babies from their Mothers arms.
What we were really forced to witness is impossible to describe. The
horrible scenes unveiled in front of our eyes were heart breaking. The crying, pleading,
and screaming of small scared to death girls, being forcefully separated from their
Mothers, must have been heard somewhere behind the blue skies above.
The most gruesome scenes were with no doubt, when desperate young
Mothers were resisting and struggling with all their remaining strength to keep their
infants close to their chests. Still with their infants in their arms, they were shoved
into the groups of hundreds of women walking in the direction of the gas chambers.
While very few young women had to give up their babies, and join the
ones chosen to live, many refused to give up and were ordered to join the overwhelming
majority destined to perish. One of those resisters was my Mothers younger sister,
Rivka. I noticed her in line a few steps ahead of my Mother. She was young and pretty, so
the selection officer ordered one his troopers to take her two year old only son from her
arms. Rivka resisted with all her might, and even with the intervention of another Nazi,
they were unable to pull the baby from her arms.
Proudly, but with a broken heart, I watched how my dear aunt was
shoved into the masses of condemned ones, clutching her beloved son to her chest. I
followed her with my eyes for several more seconds and noticed her constantly kissing my
little cousins face. But the sun kept on shining ... under the circumstances an
almost obscene happening.
I was still looking in her direction when a push by my brother
brought me back to reality. This time in front of the Nazi selector stood my dear Mother.
Her tall and slim figure, dressed in a beige trench coat which my Father bought her before
Passover of 1939. We could not see her face, but I tried to press a bit forward in order
to get a better view of what's going to happen. It seemed that the Nazi was talking to
her, perhaps asking some questions. I whispered a silent prayer. The Nazis thumb turned in
the right direction. Slowly but seemingly relieved, Mother joined the small group of the
chosen ones.
Needless to describe how my brother and I felt at that fateful
moment. A feeling of seldom experienced euphoria overwhelmed both of us. My prayers seemed
to be answered. As far as I was concerned, I felt quite sure that my brother and I are
going to pass the selection. Why I really assumed that we will pass, it's hard for me to
explain. Perhaps it had to do with my optimistic nature.
My brother who was in front of me passed first without the slightest
problem, and then without even looking into my face the officers thumb pointed me in
the direction of the small group of young men and teenagers gathered a short distance on
the right side of him.
While capos and Nazi troopers were busy transforming our group into
some sort of military formation, I managed a glimpse to the left, where masses of
condemned men, women and children were being shoved and even physically abused by armed
troopers and led in the direction of the death camp.
The selection officer was still busy performing his devilish job
with obvious monstrous pleasure. Ever more condemned people were crowding the grounds on
which they were being herded like sheep to the slaughter. While we were already standing
in formation, those innocent poor souls were slowly moving in complete disarray and total
chaos.
From afar I was looking for familiar faces, for relatives, friends,
and neigbours. I managed somehow although in a short glimpse pinpoint some of them. I
noticed an uncle, another aunt walking with their youngsters. Frail faces of close
neighbours and even some of old school friends were also visible from far away. They
seemed like in a daze and as if not realizing what's going on around them. Some elderly
people were assisted by younger ones and the disabled were being carried or perhaps forced
to do that by younger men.
Amid all that commotion, I was surprised to notice several Ghetto
policemen among the ever more swelling mass of condemned. Ironically they were still
wearing their policemens caps.
Although I was pretty far away from this horrible place, I was able
to notice many young men and women among those unfortunate souls. Since many of those
young men were bigger and seemingly stronger than I was, it was easy to conclude that to
be selected with a chance to temporarily go on living, was just a matter of pure luck. In
strict military formation we were already walking into the camp of Birkenau. We were
escorted by armed troopers and several capos who eagerly seemed to please their Nazi
bosses by shouting on the top of their lungs orders in the German language mixed with all
kinds of obscenities.
And the sky was still blue with a bright and shiny sun.
ON THE WAY TO THE BATH HOUSE
While the vast majority of our transport from the Lodz Ghetto, many
perhaps still unaware of their fate, were walking towards their physical destruction, two
small separate groups of men and women, were approaching the bathhouse of Birkenau. It was
quite obvious that these small groups of approximately two hundred each, were being chosen
to be kept alive. However the question remained: for what purpose and for how long?
Although with a terribly heavy heart caused by the horrors we
experienced during the past several hours, I felt guilty for feeling happy that all the
three of us, my Mother, brother and myself were among the small groups of chosen ones.
The red brick bath house, if I remember correctly stood on the right
side of a large plaza. The one floor structure was built in an "L" shape.
While the first men of our group started to enter and others
followed slowly, I suddenly heard from afar my Mothers voice. Instinctively I turned
in the direction from where the sound came. In front of the smaller part of the
"L" shaped building, the apparent bath house exit I noticed an ambulance guarded
by several armed soldiers. Shocked when I heard again my Mothers crying voice, my
brother and I moved a few steps back from the bath entrance in order to see what was
happening.
In sheer horror we saw about a dozen naked young women being shoved
into the wide open ambulance doors. Among them was my hysterically crying Mother and one
of our young cousins. Noticing us from a distance of about thirty metres, my Mother kept
crying out in our direction. In spite of being brutally handled by one of the guards, she
managed to call in our direction in Yiddish: "Dear Yomile, my crown, I am too skinny,
we won't see each other again", and while almost half inside the ambulance she
screamed out, "Dear children, stay together."
Heart broken, disappointed and totally resigned, being already the
last of the group being shoved into the bath house by a big fat German in civilian
clothing, we could clearly hear the sound of the speeding away ambulance.
After only a short time of illusory happiness, our hopes of still
having our dear Mother alive suddenly disappeared together with the speeding away Nazi
ambulance. The irony again seemed to be the red cross which was painted on top of that
vehicle. Ambulances which normally carried sick people to places where their lives were
being saved, the murderous Nazis were using them to transport many of their victims to the
gas chambers.
And the sun over Auschwitz kept on shining ...
A SECOND SELECTION INSIDE THE BATH HOUSE
We were ordered to undress and wait in a large sort of lobby which
led into the showers. We entered into a small room which soon became quite crowded.
Several capos inside kept on shouting obscenities in our direction and even abusing some
of us physically. Suddenly a deadly silence engulfed this overcrowded place. Without any
previous warning the high ranking officer who conducted the main selections was suddenly
standing in front of us. Slowly without uttering a single word, this cold blooded Nazi was
moving around us performing another sort of selection. This time he was walking between
the group of horrified already once selected, sadistically picking additional victims.
Apparently the first selection didn't yield the full quota for gas
chambers and an additional number of victims had to be chosen. This of course explained
the horrible tragedy which happened just a short while before with my Mother and the other
group of unfortunate women with her.
The Nazi monster was again at his job. Every new victim was ordered
to stand at the wall next to the exit door. The purpose of this terrible act became
obvious to everyone present, although the men who were being selected seemed oblivious of
what was happening to them.
The rest of us were just waiting helplessly for our turn. Suddenly I
saw the Nazi officer asking something from my brother. He apparently noticed a little scar
on his left side chest, so he obviously tried to examine the scar with one of his fingers.
Satisfied that the wound was completely healed, he left him alone and continued looking
for other victims. Cool and still confident I noticed the monster moving in my direction.
While he stopped in front of me he asked or rather barked out a question: "How old
are you?" I really don't recall if he paid attention to my reply, but he swiftly
moved away talking to somebody else.
What I felt a moment after was my brother squeezing my right hand in
a clear expression of happiness and love. Seemingly quite satisfied, the Nazi officer left
the bath house followed by about fifteen new victims guarded by a couple of armed Nazi
troopers. Remembering the scene when my Mother was taken out from the bath house, I was
not able to lift my head and look in the direction of these downgraded and humiliated
naked young men.
As I learned later this high ranking Nazi officer was none other
than the infamous Nazi monster Dr. Mengele. Apparently still not satisfied enough with
sending thousands of innocent men, women and children to the gas chambers, he seemingly
felt obligated from time to time to conduct a second selection. This act of a sadistic
orgy probably gave this so called doctor special pleasure.
People who were not there might ask, and rightly so, "Why did
these young men go to their death without resistance of any kind?" But after truly
accessing the situation, some people perhaps might feel some understanding, but many I am
sure will remain skeptical. So let me express my thoughts about those tragic days. After
our arrival at Birkenau, the chaos, shock and panic, with the forceful dividing of
families, were enough to paralize a person physically and mentally. To this state of mind
came the gruesome process of selecting and choosing human beings who were fully aware
where they were heading. But the most tragic were the scenes and the unforgettable sites
when our loved ones and the hundreds of other victims were being herded like sheep to the
slaughter house.
All this was happening after five years struggling in the Lodz
Ghetto, was surely enough to create people incapable of anything more than passivity. By
the end however, those men who were selected again in the bath house were not passive at
all. Knowing very well that fully armed Nazi troopers are all over the place, they
realized that physical resistance was impossible. They were also fully aware that the
slightest attempt of physical resistance would definitely cause the elimination of all of
us.
So, they must have instinctively decided to show Dr. Mengele that
although he possesses the power to take their lives, he is unable to provoke them to lend
him a hand and an excuse to kill of us. Not giving the Nazi monster the pleasure of seeing
them dehumanized not even one of them was crying or pleading with him to be spared. They
seemed to walk out from the bath house with their heads high, without giving the Nazi
troopers who were escorting them an additional feeling of superiority. Under the
circumstances I consider this an act of passive resistance.
Before entering the shower room the remaining group of young men had
every hair on their bodies shaved off. We were ordered to hold on to our shoes only. One
of the attendants noticed a small picture of my Mother in one of my hands, grabbed it from
me and brutally hit me in the face. To my dismay he tore the picture into small pieces,
which hurt me more than my partially swollen face. The same fate met a bunch of drawings
which just a few hours before I tried to salvage at the rail ramp after our arrival from
the Lodz Ghetto.
After the showers we received some clothing and after getting
dressed, we were led into the so called "Gypsy Camp" in Birkenau. After going
through some sort of registration, our group of several hundred young men and teenagers
were assigned, if my memory serves me right, to block eighteen. Being aware of the danger
of being twins, although we were not really identical, we nevertheless decided to register
with different birth dates.
TADEK, OUR BLOCK ELDEST
Birkenau consisted of dozens of structures, apparently former
stables which served a Polish cavalry regiment stationed there before the outbreak of
W.W.2.
The roads and alleys between those so called barracks were covered
with gravel, and in spite of the still persisting hot summer days , the grounds were quite
muddy and treacherous. On the way to the barracks I noticed several wooden dwellings which
had signs, "latrine", but I soon learned we could only visit those places with
the permission of the block elders. It turned out that from that moment on you could not
do anything without the permission of this new master of our destiny. And our master
turned out to be a young Polish criminal, a vicious anti-semite by the name of Tadek.
Tadek welcomed us to his domain with a wielding cane, hitting
indiscriminately over the heads at whoever was unfortunate to be close to him. His
vocabulary consisted of the worst obscenities in the Polish language, or any other
language for that matter. He was constantly shouting and cursing, especially at the older
ones of our group. In his distorted mind men in their late twenties or in their early
thirties, were already considered old. Especially if they were Jewish. Besides hitting
them viciously, he kept shouting at them to make them aware that they are already too old
to live, and that eventually they will also be put into the "ovens."
Tadeks special pleasure was ordering us to look at the smoking chimneys to see,
"How your loved ones are being fried."
The barrack was empty of any sort of furniture, just four walls and
bare concrete floor. Since several hundred of inmates were already living in this place,
prior to our arrival, the barrack became extremely overcrowded. Sleeping on the bare floor
outstretched was out of the question, so we had to sit one inside the others lap in
order to find a spot on the floor.
After an extremely chaotic short while, we finally settled down and
ordered not to get up before receiving permission from our new boss.
Tadek in the meantime was beating up several "old men",
and announced with his vicious sadistic smile, that there will be no food this evening.
And with great pleasure, he also let us know that to visit a latrine, "You will also
have to wait till tomorrow morning, you dirty Jewish bastards."
Exhausted physically and mentally I fell asleep in my brothers lap,
squeezed from all sides by others.
Loud shouts with lots of obscene cursing by our block elders woke us
up. Literally running over our heads and bodies, like a let loose wild animal, Tadek was
wielding his cane in all directions. "Get up, you bastards"..."Get up, you
sons of bitches dirty Jews." Many of us were bleeding, mostly from head wounds. While
we were struggling to get up , Tadek ordered us to assemble in front of the barrack. After
we finally reached the outside, we had to form a triple line with the help of a couple
self appointed helpers to the block elders. In front of the line, Tadek was busy
distributing chunks of fresh bread and some sort of a bitter fluid.
The morning was exceptionally beautiful, without a sign of a cloud
in the sky. It was very early, but already quite sticky. With his sadistic smile on his
face, Tadek ordered us to inhale the polluted air: "This stinking air is caused by
your burning relatives," and seemingly amused by his funny joke he added, "the
ovens were busy all night."
Many of us were already eagerly consuming our breakfast. Even this
routine procedure, was used by Tadek as a calculated torture weapon. Especially against
the more mature inmates among us. To those Tadek considered old, he refused to give their
slice of bread and instead handed it to a standing nearby youngster. At the time next to
me or in front of me, I noticed our next door nieghbour, Motel, who must have been at the
time twenty-four years old being pushed away by Tadek who refused to give him his bread
ration. Instead Tadek handed it to me, with a warning that if I would give the bread to
the "old man" he will kill me.
To me it was heart-breaking to look at Motels pale face during
this sadistic spectacle. However his sad face lit up when I whispered to him that I will
save and keep his portion and at an opportune moment, give it to him. This moment finally
arrived when an hour later we were permitted to visit the latrine. The poor man eagerly
consumed his bread inside this terribly smelling dirty place, but far from the eyes of our
"benevolent bread giver."
After finishing our breakfast, we received permission to sit outside
but only close to our barrack. With broken heart I sat next to our brother, whose eyes
were filled with tears, talking quietly about the suffering Mother must have gone through?
Deep in my heart I was already glad that her sufferings are finally over. Without uttering
a single word, we continued our much needed rest. Before we were called by Tadek to gather
in front of the barrack entrance, my brother whispered into my ear: "Perhaps we
should rejoice that our Mother is finally liberated."
Full of hate against anybody who causes suffering to innocent men,
women and children, and full of hate for the Tadeks of this world, who made our lives
miserable for as long as I can remember, I recalled a Polish patriotic song, which stated,
that "Those who will survive will be free and those who die are already free."
Physically and mentally devastated, I somehow didn't care much about my own fate. After
all that happened to me so far could not possibly get any worse. To say that I should
leave everything in God's hands, was at the time out of the question. The same as
everybody else in my predicament ceased believing in a merciful God, I also became quite
skeptical. However the fact that my brother and I managed to go through all the
selections, untouched, I could not possibly totally dismiss some help from above.
I still felt miserably tortured. The terrible pictures at the ramp
after our arrival, the gruesome scenes during the selections, the scared faces of the
condemned men, women and children and especially the crying and pleading of the little
children still remains steadfast on my mind. The heroic scenes of distressed Mothers
forcefully resisting to hand over their babies will remain on my mind for the rest of my
life.
And so will, of course, my Mothers last goodbye.
"What's next?" I truly didn't care. New transports kept on
arriving daily. We however saw only small groups being led into barracks, but the
overwhelming majority of those new arrivals have already been sent to the gas chambers.
On the next morning after our arrival, we began going through new
horrifying daily ordeals. Representatives of various German enterprises like ammunition
factories, construction firms, etc., who were hand picking young and fit men for slave
labour. After going through an official registration, we had to fully undress and jog in
front of those big fat Nazi entrepreneurs who with the help of so called doctors selected
their slaves.
Understandably those slave merchants picked the tallest and
strongest among us, so it took my brother and myself a full week of those torturous
spectacles until we were finally selected.
At the time of course, we were completely in the dark of where we
were going and to what type of work. But we were glad that those torturous days came to an
end. The worst part of those days were the standing under a burning sun for hours
without food or water until we were finally led back to the barrack. The same routine, as
I said before was repeated for at least seven days.
Since we returned to the barracks just before night fall, our daily
soup was already being sent back by our block eldest, or waiting for us completely cold.
Besides the daily physical and mental torture we were forced to
listen to Tadeks vulgar speeches during which he graphically described how the
"bastard Jews" are being killed off and how lucky we are to be leaving Auschwitz
alive.
Tadeks favorite victims besides Jews were Gypsys. "These
f.... bastards" he announced with a sort of pleasure, "weren't gassed, they were
all burned alive."
Tadek also seemed to have special pleasure by telling us that the
gas chambers of Auschwitz were recently terribly busy absorbing the entire Jewish
population of Hungary. "Those dirty bastards Magyars charred bodies smelled even
worse than your relatives," he added with a ghastly smile on his ugly face.
So, we had to live under this monsters supervision for a whole
week. Although normally a relatively short period of time, he managed to turn it into an
eternity. This short time has taught us more about cruelty than perhaps months or even
years in the Lodz Ghetto. Among all Tadeks prescribed tortures, the worst one, I
think was keeping us from visiting the latrines when badly needed.
This vicious pathological Jew hater, himself an inmate for an
unknown reason was our master, free to torture us in any way he pleased, even kill any Jew
without being reprimanded.
So, our only hope and our prayers were directed towards the good
will of the slave dealers who had the only power to bring us out of this God forsaken
place.
Finally this eagerly awaited moment arrived. My brother and I were
picked, if my memory serves me well, on the sixth day of our stay in Birkenau. On the
seventh day we were told to report to the bath house for a final check up and showers.
Although we did not know where we were heading to, we were relieved
and happy just by the prospect of getting out of Auschwitz.
LEAVING AUSCHWITZ-BIRKENAU
Exhausted, tired, hungry and thirsty but nevertheless happily
excited, my brother and I were walking back to our barrack after finally being selected
and told that soon we were going to leave Auschwitz. It didn't matter to us where we were
going to be transported to, and no matter how hard we will have to work. However at the
moment, no matter how odd it may sound I was only thinking about a little bit of space
where I would be able to sleep fully stretched out. As far as food and water was concerned
I knew somehow that it could not get worse than it already was until then. While walking
absorbed in my thoughts I heard some men laughing loud and talking in Polish just behind
us. I hardly at first paid attention to what they were talking about, until I heard one of
them ordering another to kick those dirty Jews in their asses ... In a fracture of a
moment I felt an excruciating pain in my right hand. (I had a habit since my childhood to
walk while holding my hands behind my back.) My brother and I automatically stepped aside
and watched three or four capos, obviously enjoying themselves, laughing even more loudly
than before passing us by as if nothing had happened.
The top of my right hand was terribly bleeding with a part of the
skin being rubbed off. If this incident would have occurred a day before, my chances of
leaving Auschwitz would have been next to nil. In the meantime I had to hide my injury
from Tadek and from others, by holding my hand constantly in my pockets. On my evening
visit to the latrine I managed to partially clean up the wound and finally stop the
bleeding.
That night I did not sleep at all. Very early on the next morning,
when the sun was not out yet we, a large group chosen a day before, were ordered to
assemble in front of the barrack from where we were led in the direction of the bath
house.
This was the last time I slept under Tadeks supervision, and
the last time to be forced to look at the face of this vicious man who even as an inmate
at a death camp continued the ugly tradition of the pre-war vicious anti-semitic segment
of the Polish population.
As we reached the plaza in front of the bath house, the place was
already crowded with hundreds of inmates. They were all sitting on the ground tightly
close to each other waiting for their turn to be called in the already busy shower rooms.
Unfortunately our group of about sixty young men and teenagers found a place on the far
end of the huge field which was surrounded by dozens of armed soldiers. We were ordered to
remove our caps, one of the Nazi ways to let us know that we are still inmates who must
obey orders.
After a short while under the already burning sun, and without being
allowed to cover our already shaven heads, I began to experience an excruciating headache.
After a couple of hours many of our co-sufferers began to feel dizziness and some even
fainted.
Only about thirty men at a time from a crowd of several hundred,
were being let into the showers, and from one such group to the other, took at least an
hour and a half to two hours. The ones who finished were let out through the other side of
the bath house and were ordered to take their places on the field behind.
This terrible last ordeal at Birkenau became one among my most
unforgettable torturous experiences. Without food or water under a bright blue sky, and
terribly burning sun, only young men and teenage boys were capable through sheer
perseverance to survive for so many hours.
When I finally heard the call to get up and walk to the bath house,
it was already in the very late afternoon. I was already quite dizzy holding on to my
brother, I walked into the shower room, where the first drops of ice cold water touching
my head and body felt so heavenly that many of us were loudly thanking God for his mercy.
While taking this long awaited pleasurable event, I kept my mouth wide opened and kept on
swallowing water like a dried out camel in the desert.
After the showers we received a set of underwear and a striped
prisoners uniform with a cap of the same color and stripes. We kept our own wooden
shoes and belt. Before being let out we went through an additional examination during
which they put an electric bulb into my wide opened mouth, apparently searching for hidden
diamonds inside our teeth. The same procedure was performed at the bottom of our rectums.
Instead of being allowed to dress inside the bath house, we were
ordered to get out and dress outside. It seems that also this simple move was one of the
Nazis thought up tortures. It was already past midnight and in sharp contrast to the
hot day, the night was absolutely freezing. Being still wet, I was shivering to a point of
almost being unable to breathe. Getting finally dressed, I again found a place together
with my brother. Sitting back to back and very close to each other, our body temperatures
slowly returned to normal.
In the cool of the night we felt quite relaxed and less restless
than during the extremely hot day. While waiting for the official orders to move on, I
even managed a short nap. When the last group emerged from the bath house it was already
full day light.
Escorted by dozens of armed and helmeted soldiers and supervised by
scores of shouting capos, we were at last on our way to the waiting train.
The first time after five years of incarceration in the Lodz Ghetto,
I found myself among several hundred young men dressed in prison guard like common
criminals. Nonetheless I was glad to be able to leave this place no matter how I was
dressed. The road we were walking on was an alley dividing two separate camps surrounded
by high fences. There were scores of inmates inside each of these camps. Not coming close
to the seemingly electrically wired steel fences, many of the inmates kept waving their
arms in our direction. Many of them have even managed a loud good-bye, although there were
armed guards visible behind them."May God be with you", and "You are so
lucky to leave this place", were among the messages coming out from both sides of the
fenced in camps.
Judging by the many identical looking inmates, I realized that those
separate camps were housing the hundreds of twins who apparently had to go through all
kinds of so-called scientific experiments.
Amid another hot day similar to the one when we left the Lodz
Ghetto, I found myself again in front of a long train with dozens of cattle wagons. The
heavy doors of those wagons were wide open and in apparent contrast to the crowded with
luggage wagons of the train which brought us to Auschwitz, these wagons were completely
empty. Also the situation at the ramp was less chaotic and much more subdued. Small groups
of about fifty each were formed in front of each wagon where baskets full of bread loaves
and other items were placed.
In an orderly fashion each one of us received a loaf of black bread,
a pretty large chunk of blood wurst and a slice of margarine.
Supervised by capos and being watched by dozens of armed guards, we
climbed into the wagon. The only items I noticed immediately were two buckets, one filled
with drinking water and the other empty. The empty one is obviously going to serve us as a
toilet. After finding a place to sit down I whispered a silent prayer for the dead. I did
it not only for my Mother, but for all the relatives and friends whom we left in the ovens
of Auschwitz. I vividly saw again my dear Mothers tearful face before being
forcefully taken to her death. I also saw again the fearful and distressed faces of the
innocent victims walking in the direction of the gas chambers.
INSIDE THE CATTLE WAGON
For the second time in less than two weeks I found myself inside in
a hermetically closed cattle wagon. Although I had already experienced it once, the
slamming shut of the heavy doors and the horrible feeling of being locked in, brought
shivers all over my body. Only a person who went through such a terrible experience is
able to comprehend the horror of such a moment.
For a short while until the first shock was replaced by a sense of
reality, the wagon with all its inmates got engulfed in a deadly silence. Then as expected
from a hungry group of young men, most of us swiftly managed to consume the entire ration
which was supposed to last us for the remainder of the voyage.
Surprisingly calm and collected like normal human beings we selected
one of the older inmates to act as the supervisor and the head of our wagon. His main duty
was to evenly distribute the sparse but much needed water, which he managed to perform in
a way completely unexpected under such circumstances.
Having gained the confidence of every one in the wagon, he proposed
to have a couple or three guys on steady watch at the little barred window, in case some
good samaritan at passing by rail stations would be kind enough and willing to take
chances and help us with some food or water.
The train was moving very slowly and often stopping between
stations. Those constant stoppages added to the heating up of the wagon. After a while the
constantly burning sun caused an unbearable stickiness. On the second day of our
constantly disrupted journey, we were left with no drop of drinking water. There was also
no sign of any help from the outside, though we saw many farmers peacefully working their
fields without even throwing a glimpse in our direction.
When we crossed the border into Czechoslovakia things changed
drastically. Farmers, without any fear of armed guards at the roof tops of our wagons,
kept on throwing into the little windows of our wagons all kinds of fruits and vegetables.
Surprisingly enough the guards seemed in general to ignore them, although some did shout
some warnings mixed with obscenities in the German language.
From time to time our guys on duty next to the windows did catch
some of those goodies, which were eventually fairly divided between all of us. This little
help, although immensely appreciated did not drastically change our ever more desperate
situation .
The ration of black bread and especially the spicy blood wurst,
which was given to us before boarding, must have been especially designed complying with
the official Nazi tortures. Consuming such items inside an over heated wagon with very
little water to help it digest, turned out dangerous indeed. My mouth and tongue felt like
on fire, and my desire for a drop of water became unbearable. I suppose that all of us had
the same horrible feeling. But there was no water in sight.
I recall one time receiving a slice of onion, part of our daily
catches. Being extremely hungry and thirsty, I eagerly consumed a large piece of this hot
produce. Although it added to the terrible dryness inside my mouth, I was nevertheless
grateful to the people who threw in even this kind of produce, because the tears running
down my cheeks wetted my dried out lips a bit.
Sitting on the wagons bare floor, which was a little less
crowded than Tadeks barrack, many thoughts were crossing my mind. Some of those
thoughts concerned my recent past and others my uncertain future. For a fraction of a
second I could not help thinking about the dense and wholesome soup we supposed to have
been served once a day at Birkenau, but during all the seven days at Auschwitz I managed
to consume only one of those soups. As another one of the Nazi tortures, just minutes
before the arrival of the soup, we were called to the plaza to go through some kind of
selection.
I also could not help thinking about the fact that throughout the
whole journey through Czechoslovakia we constantly received some kind of help from the
Czeck people. Sadly enough no such help was granted to us while passing Polish farms and
villages. Our country men in spite of our pleading for help completely ignored us.
I don't really recall how many days and nights it took our train to
reach the next point of our torturous journey. The only difference which I experienced
from day changing into night was the fact that during the nights it was a bit easier to
breathe. During those periods I managed a few hours of restful sleep, from time to time
however disturbed by horrible nightmares.
After so many years I'm still puzzled by the fact that after
reaching our destination we all managed to survive this horrific journey. Although hardly
standing on our feet, we didn't count a single casualty. I think that this phenomenon
could be attributed to the young age of those inmates and perhaps most of all to our will
to live and sheer perseverance.
CHAPTER 9
ARRIVAL AT MUNICH, GERMANY (THEN
CAMP4-KAUFERING)
After several days of indescribable misery our train finally came to
a halt at an isolated ramp at the central station of Munich. Dressed in our grey and blue
striped prisoners garb, surrounded by dozens of Nazi troops, our presence at the
station seemed quite a normal sight to the hundreds of seemingly busy and self absorbed
German travellers.
After disembarking I was quite surprised by the relatively subdued
reception we received. There was no shouting or any sort of verbal or physical abuse.
Another, and at the time more important surprise to us all, were the countless barrels of
fresh water placed around the platform.
In a very uncommon orderly fashion, the military guards were
dividing us into small groups forming line-ups close to the water barrels from which we
were allowed to drink as much as we pleased. Refreshed and almost brought back to
normality and in a much heightened mood. We became even more encouraged by a short speech
delivered by the commanding officer. Walking with one stiff leg, seemingly a war invalid,
this well mannered officer promised us very soon to reach our final destination, where we
will immediately receive food rations and a chance to rest up "after this very
difficult journey of yours."
Shortly after, a regular passenger train replaced our cattle wagons.
While we were again in an orderly fashion boarding the trains, I
could not help looking again at the seemingly untouched by the war huge train station
crowded with normally behaving travellers, seemingly quite happy at a time when most of
occupied Europe was lying in ruins.
Presently surprised by our initial welcome on German soil and having
my twin brother next to me while sitting on quite comfortable seats, I truly anticipated
at least a bit better times ahead of us. Intoxicated by a couple of well calculated
gestures by our torturers, we all seemed foolish enough or perhaps just naive to think
that the Nazis have suddenly changed their policy towards the Jews.
DACHAU-CAMP 4 KAUFERING
It took us no more than an hour to arrive at the train station of a
little town named Kaufering, where we again in a quite orderly fashion disembarked. Under
loud orders by the limping commander we formed military-like groups. Each of those groups
was escorted by several armed troops who marched with us in formation to our final
destination.
In the early afternoon of September 1st, 1944 after about half an
hour of brisk walking we arrived at the camps gates.
As all the time through the last several weeks, this day was also
quite warm and the sun was constantly shining from an entirely cloudless blue sky. The
paved road on our march to the camp, was shadowed by rows of large trees on each side
which made it easier and quite refreshing for us to walk. However the beautiful houses and
villas visible behind those trees filled us not only with envy but also with considerable
anger.
The guards at the camp gates were helmeted SS men with pointed
rifles directly at us. Dozens of more guards were lined up next to several wooden barracks
and more were visible on top of countless towers placed a small distance away from each
other. The entire camp was surrounded by tall, barbed wire fences.
All I saw besides those few wooden barracks were countless rows of
huts, usually used by farmers to store produce during the winter seasons.
My first impression therefore seemed quite logical: "We are
here to do farm labor." Not for a second did it occur to me that all those partially
underground huts are going to be our homes for the next eight months.
Passing by row after row of those huts we reached a huge gravelled
but again somehow muddy field, soon to be known to us as the "Appellplatz", the
place for our dally head counts. Direct supervision over the new arrivals was immediately
delegated to capos, who were already waiting for us. They were chosen from among inmates
who were already in camp before us.
The limping officer with his troops was already out of sight. After
a while it became clear to us that this camp is entirely being ruled by the SS and dozens
of capos.
THE OFFICIAL WELCOME
The "appellplatz" was filled to full capacity. While
waiting again in military formation for the arrival of the camp Fuehrer and his
assistants, the ghosts of Auschwitz appeared again all over the place. The shouting by the
stick-wielding capos, their obscene language and the abusing treatment toward their fellow
inmates, have dashed all our hopes for a more humane treatment.
A loud shout of "Achtung", followed by "hats
off" by one of the capos, brought me back to full reality. It was already in the late
afternoon and the sun was already disappearing beside the clearly visible mountains in a
distance away.
Several high-ranking SS officers followed by two civilians came out
from an adjoining wooden barrack and stopped several meters in front of the first row of
inmates. One of the two civilians, a tall handsome man in his early thirties stepped
foreward and introduced himself as the camp eldest. Afterwards he introduced to us the SS
camp Fuehrer followed by the names of a couple of his lower ranking SS officers.
With the other civilian who turned out to be Rolf, the head camp
capo, Hans, the camp eldest finished the introductions followed by a short but most
disturbing speech: "You are here to do honest work, but don't expect to be pampered.
As long as you are going to follow strict orders and behave properly, you might have a
chance to survive in this place about three months, and sometimes more ... Otherwise you
are going to die much sooner."
Soon after this most disturbing sermon we were ordered to put our
caps back on. Divided again into groups this time about fifty inmates in each one, we were
led by capos to our designated quarters.
BLOCK EIGHTEEN
Coincidentally of course the number of my designated hut was the
same as the number of Tadeks barrack in Birkenau. To describe my new home is not
going to be a too heavy task. After stepping down about four or five steps, a small gate
was leading into an approximately eight to ten metres long and about four metres wide
chamber. On both sides divided only by a narrow passage were wooden platforms. On each of
these platforms which were completely bare, I noticed just a number of grey blankets
supposedly one for each inmate. On the far end of the hut there was one small window. Next
to the window a tiny wooden table with two chairs was standing, probably for the
convenience of our block eldest and his helper. At the center of the unpaved floor, a
small wood burner was placed probably in preparation for the coming winter. This oven made
it more difficult to squeeze through the extremely narrow passage. An extremely
small-voltage electric bulb was hanging down on a wire attached to the ceiling, just over
the wood burner. Needless to say that the place was besides being utterly depressing, very
poorly lit.
The "block eldest," a French Jew named Jacob, with the
same filthy and abusive mouth as most of the capos, ordered each one of us to lie down
next to a blanket. Soon about twenty five inmates on each platform were resting on a plain
wooden board next to each other. Without a pillow to rest my tired head, I substituted it
with my blanket and stretched myself out on the wooden platform. 602)
During the entire time at Birkenau including the several days
journey to Munich I had not been able to stretch out my legs. But finally on this wooden
platform, which was going to serve me as a bed I fully stretched out and over tired,
exhausted and weak from the long and stressful journey, I dozed off. My brother next to me
was already engulfed in a deep sleep.
Our hut which normally was supposed to serve farmers with their
crops was now serving as a permanent home for about fifty inmates,
Loud orders shouted through the loud speakers, calling for the block
eldeste to pick up the food rations, awaked all of us. Being without any or very little
food for the last several days I was eagerly awaiting the arrival of some food, no matter
what. However this time surprisingly we received a meal far above our wildest
expectations.
A MEAL FIT FOR A KING
The block eldest assisted by two helpers had to make a couple of
trips to the kitchen in order to bring the full days rations. It was already dark
when the food began to be distributed. I was simply flabbergasted and indeed overjoyed by
the amount and quality of the food received. First our containers were filled up to the
rim with non-peeled large boiled potatoes, and on a second plate every one of us received
one third of a loaf of fresh bread in addition to a large piece of Polish sausage. If this
was not enough they also gave to everyone of us a small triangle shaped piece of cheese
and a large slice of margarine.
The first time in many years I had completely consumed in one
sitting such a generous and sumptuous meal. This place seemed unpredictable indeed. With a
full stomach, utterly satisfied and more optimistic than ever before I fell asleep on the
wooden platform.
For the next several days we were resting most of the time enjoying
our still sumptuous meals and the continuing beautiful weather. Several times a day I
freely ventured out of the hut for a refreshing walk admiring the breathtaking view of the
faraway Alps which on a clear day were fully visible. Apparently on the other side of
those mountains was the enviable country of Switzerland.
The tranquility of those precious restful outings were from time to
time interrupted by the "head capo." As if to wake us up from our present dreams
and letting us know that we are living with imaginary illusions, Rolf an extremely tall
and strong Mischling, (half Jewish and half German), performed this task with visible
pleasure. Rolfs apparent daily enjoyment during his walks around the camp, was to
pick one inmate out of a group of ten and giving the unfortunate chosen one several lashes
on his behind with some sort of a bamboo stick.
After the initial several days of our illusionary affluence, the
unprecedented daily rations began gradually to shrink.
Very soon, approximately after on week of relative rest, on one late
afternoon we were suddenly called to the Appell Platz. Without previous notice we were
told that we are scheduled for night shift at a construction company, which is going to
start this very evening.
It was just before night fall when several open trucks were lined up
in front of the camps gate. In sharp contrast to the last several days, a group of
several hundred inmates, my brother and myself included, had again to endure mental and
physical abuse by capos and armed guards who shoved us onto the empty tracks shouting the
well known obscenities.
Unfortunately the September night was unusually cold, especially for
us who were dressed in pajama like prisoners garb. A brisk wind added a lot to the chill.
Standing on top of the trucks we tried to form small groups and stand close to each
others backs in order to resist the wind and cold. We were all shivering and
literally freezing until finally after about an hours drive we reached the
construction site.
A brightly lit billboard on top of a large gate clearly announced
the name of our future bosses: "Leonard Moll construction-Munchen". Next to it a
smaller sign read "Holtzman construction and architecture." (or something
similar).
We entered into a tremendously large and seemingly quite busy
construction site, surrounded on all sides by a dense forest and barbed wire fences. There
were also visible some towers with armed guards.
The place was buzzing like a beehive. Rail tracks all over the place
were handling trains moving in all directions, loaded with thousands of sacks of cement
and other building materials. Trucks with other materials were being loaded and unloaded.
The heavy sacks of cement were being handled and carried on the backs by scores of inmates
who were in the process of ending their day shift. Most of the inmates working at this
place were inmates of the many outside camps affiliated with Dachau.
As usual viciously shouting capos and foreman were urging their
laborers to move faster with their loads while trying to please their always present Nazi
bosses. Those misguided and weak characters were convinced that by forcing others to work
harder, their own chances to survive would be assured.
Judging by the location as well as by the scores of armed and
helmeted SS troops, the work going on at this place was obviously of a secret character.
Adding credence to this assumption were the always present
high-ranking "Luftwaffe" (air force) officers who were apparently supervising
the whole enterprise.
My brother and I were assigned to a group who were forced to carry
twenty five kilo sacks of cement from the trucks to a point where they were erecting some
sort of underground bunkers. Under threats of severe punishment, we had to be
exceptionally careful not to drop or spill any cement on the ground. On one of those
constant trips from the trucks to the bunkers, my brother lost his balance and dropped a
sack which unfortunately split in half on the ground. This was the first severely vicious
beating he received on the first day of our work at the construction company. And this was
just the beginning.
From that day on we continued our slave labor, alternating each week
from day shifts to night shifts.
The ever colder weather, the extremely hard labor and the steadily
diminishing daily food rations in addition to the terrible sanitary conditions were among
the many causes of the already rising mortality rate among the new arrivals. Only several
weeks after we arrived to this hellish place, many of my former friends had already died
and others became walking skeletons, unable to perform any work.
Although relatively in good shape I was plagued by several nasty
boils on my left shoulder, obviously caused by sleeping on the bare wooden platform. When
they finally covered those platforms with a layer of sawdust, the boils on my shoulder
were fully developed and causing severe pain. Not being able to endure the severe pain, I
was forced to let a former male nurse or whatever other experience he had in such cases,
cut open the boils and give a chance to the accumulating puss to ooze out.
This self appointed doctor performed his surgery with a plain knife
and bandaged the wounds with some kind of white paper. The pain actually almost
disappeared and miraculously the remaining wounds healed up after only a couple of weeks.
From time to time however some of the scars reopened, discharging some puss or blood and
eventually healing up again. These occurrences happened quite often and caused besides
pain, quite a bit of discomfort. The truth is that at that time I considered this
affliction an unimportant problem in comparison to the daily sufferings I had to endure.
Every single day became a separate struggle. The work at the
construction site could only be described as slave labor. Before each shift whether night
or day, my prayers were directed at one crucial point, namely not to be picked for work
inside the bunkers. It seems that my prayers were only partially answered because I was
only assigned to this place a couple of times. The work inside the bunker consisted of
pushing with some heavy stick, the flowing concrete. Countless inmates who were already
too weak to hold on to the narrow platforms of the bunkers walls slipped and fell into the
deep concrete mud from where they were never pulled out. Truly to describe in detail the
first three months in camp 4-Kaufering-Dachau and the slave labor at Leonard Moll
construction company, I could fill up a thousand pages and still not be able to tell all.
So I will just describe the events of the end of the first three
months. At the beginning of this chapter I quoted from the welcoming speech of our camp
leader, Hans, who was also a Mishling like his friend, Rolf. Hans then issued a warning to
the new arrivals telling us that with good behavior and hard work we might have a chance
to survive up to three months. This is exactly what actually happened. After three months
to the day, during a thorough selection of all the surviving inmates, a small group of
about two hundred young men considered still able enough to work, were transferred to camp
1-Landsberg-Dachau. The remaining survivors were unable to leave their huts where they
were awaiting a slow death by starvation or diseases.
My brother and I were fortunate enough to be among the two hundred
inmates, and were soon on our way to the new camp.
AGAIN SOME HELP FROM AN UNEXPLAINABLE SOURCE
Since our camp leaders welcoming speech turned out to be correct
indeed, the logical question by anyone to ask is how my brother and myself had managed to
survive the full three months, and still be able to continue working.
A logical question, of course, deserves a logical and truthful
answer. However in my reply I will try to elaborate a bit more, instead of giving a short
and simple answer.
As we all know, the Nazis conducted their diabolical final solution
with a goal to exterminate the entire Jewish population of Europe. They were using two
different methods and both with well prepared German precision.
The first method and the most efficient at the start was by simple
killings. Hundreds of thousands of men, women and children were being shot by special Nazi
troops and their bodies thrown into previously prepared mass graves. Those mass killings
were eventually scientifically improved by using gas chambers and crematoriums.
The second system and even more calculated one was to use young men
and women as slave laborers to help the Nazis in their war effort. Those victims of Nazi
barbarism were working under most inhuman conditions, while being fed far less than the
minimum a person needs to exist.
While they were performing their slave labor, the Germans inflicted
on them incomprehensible suffering. They had to endure constant physical and mental abuse,
suffering constant starvation and living under indescribable disgusting sanitary
conditions, they had to endure all kinds of diseases, and epidemics without any medical
help whatsoever. Hundreds of thousands of those victims had perished in concentration
camps and so-called labor camps.
So it was quite clear that under those conditions nobody but nobody
had a chance to survive in those camps without some additional help, no matter of how
little or from what source.
Here is how my Brother and myself were able to survive the first
three months at camp 4 Kaufering.
By the end of the second month in camp 4, my brother and I were
already reaching the end of our physical endurance. By the start of the third month the
camp leaders prediction started to show its ugly face. The death rate among the extremely
overworked and starving inmates was steadily climbing. Fortunately for my brother and
myself, just in time to block our sliding into a skeletal stage, some unexplainable
occurrence took place. On one cold November night after arriving at the construction site,
my brother and I were lucky enough to be picked for work other than carrying sacks of
cement. We joined a small group of young men equipped with sharp axes and escorted by a
German supervisor, we were led into the nearby dense forest. There our job for the night
was to chop off branches from already cut down large trees.
The night, besides being exceptionally cold was also damp and foggy
with very limited visibility. Poorly dressed, in only our thin prison uniforms, the only
way to avoid freezing to death was working up a sweat, which meant working fast and as
hard as possible.
It must have been a little past midnight when I heard a voice coming
in my direction: "Come over here boy," someone addressed me in German. When I
turned my head in the direction of the sound I noticed through the dense fog a tall figure
of a military man. I was unable to see his face, but the figure in the darkness seemed
slim and tall. When I found myself in front of him I noticed a small sort of wooden baton
in his right hand, with which he constantly tapped on his military boots. Apparently
looking straight at me, he ordered the visibly surprised German supervisor to write down
my inmate number.
After exchanging a few words with the supervisor, the apparent SS
man disappeared into the prevailing fog the same way he shortly before emerged.
I don't recall being exceptionally afraid or even confused by what
had happened. I rejoined my group without even thinking too much about it. I remember
however that some of my co-workers kept asking me some questions to which I had no
specific answers. The next morning soon after returning to camp I heard my number being
called through the loud speakers.. I was ordered to swiftly report to the camp office.
Having almost entirely dismissed my midnights encounter, I reluctantly and quite
tired took the approximately ten minutes walk to the camp office.
When I reported to the capo on duty and gave him my number he quite
politely pointed to a desk where to my utter surprise a smiling clerk handed me without
any explanation one and a half packs of German cigarettes. At the moment it was difficult
for me to distinguish whether someone played a joke on me or I was simply dreaming.
Holding tightly my freshly acquired fortune and protecting them with
both my hands, I walked briskly back to my hut. To avoid the risk of losing my treasure to
some greedy thief, I called my brother outside, where we decided on a way to safely secure
our "jackpot."
To correctly describe the value of thirty cigarettes at that crucial
time, I could only point to the fact that the SS camp guards received daily a ration of
three or five cigarettes. And the Soviet laborers at the construction site were gladly
exchanging a large bag of potatoes for one single cigarette.
This unexpected gift from a highly unexpected source helped us, my
brother and myself, live relatively well to the end and passed the estimated three month
survival rate of an inmate in camp 4 Kaufering. Needless to say that with such a fortune,
it became much easier for both of us to continue our struggle for survival, even after our
transfer to camp 1-Landsberg. During the following period of continuing suffering and
despair, it was hard for me to wipe out from my mind that towering SS officer.
At the time I kept asking myself two very important questions to
which I have still no answer, many decades after that unexplainable encounter: "How
can I sincerely dismiss such a mysterious encounter as plain luck? Or would I be
considered simply weird or just superstitious to credit this act to my unexplainable
"Guardian Angel." After all this was not the first time during the Holocaust
that I was being helped through some mysteriously unexplainable events.
At least, for the next couple of months, my brother and I became
wheelers and dealers, exchanging cigarettes for much needed food items.
CHAPTER 10
CAMP 1-LANDSBERG DACHAU
Our arrival at Camp 1 from Camp 4 was entirely uneventful. A couple
of capos divided our group of about two hundred inmates into smaller units and led us to
half empty huts. After the usual formalities we were accepted by a block eldest.
The camp was exactly the same as Camp 4, with the same partially
underground huts and the same narrow muddy alleys leading to them. As I found out pretty
soon, also our work place was the same as before.
As I recall, my brother and I were assigned to join the night shift
on the very night of our arrival. Although the camp as well as the working place was the
same as Camp 4, 1 nevertheless noticed quite a remarkable difference between the
inhabitants of the two camps. While Camp 4 was housing mostly Polish Jews, predominantly
former inmates of the Lodz Ghetto, Camp 1 inmates were mostly Jews from Lithuania.
So it was no surprise to us that they occupied all the highly
privileged positions at camp as well as at the Moll construction site. Besides being capos
and foremen, the average Lithuanian inmate was employed at better work details, other than
carrying cement bags or pushing mixed cement inside the concrete underground bunkers.
Since for an incomprehensible reason to me, most or at least a large
segment of Lithuanian inmates had not much sympathy left for Polish Jews; our group of
about two hundred new arrivals were assigned to the most difficult and most dangerous jobs
available. A still unexplainable animosity towards us was caused by a weird assumption
that every Polish Jew was a thief.
Unfortunately during a night shift I had to go through a painful
degrading experience. Trying once during a miserable cold night to approach a small wood
burner to warm up a bit my freezing hands. The burner was a common sight close to working
groups of Lithuanian Jews. The moment they noticed me coming near to the burner one of
them called out to the others, "Hey guys, take care of your Pasoode", (a tin
container where inmates used to keep some pieces of bread or other items), there is a
Polack among us." I must say however that none of them attempted to chase me away.
I considered it unjust and very painful that under the worst working
conditions ever, in addition to the steadily diminishing food rations, and unbearable
deteriorating sanitary conditions, our group had to suffer discrimination by their own
comrades. To me this situation was in a way more painful than the suffering inflicted upon
us by the Nazi beasts.
So far the month of December was the hardest to endure. The bitter
cold at work as well in our scarcely heated hut, hard work and very little food, plus the
ever more annoying plague of body lice became unbearable. Many of the group of two hundred
were already unable to continue working, and quite a few had already died.
During those horrible nights and days, some encouraging rumors about
a special festive meal, a full loaf of bread for each inmate and other surprises for the
approaching Christmas holidays, began to circulate all over the camp.
There were also rumors that some warm winter clothing for the
freezing inmates would arrive very soon, probably before Christmas.
In the meantime however our suffering continued unabated.
TWENTY FIVE LASHES
As we had learned during the years of incarceration, there were two
helpful ways to survive, excluding of course plain luck: one was the ability of an
individual to organize, (an expression used by inmates), some additional food or try to
avoid as much as possible involvement in hard labor.
The first solution was the most difficult one, although some of us
did manage to obtain some extra potato or slice of bread. But as far as work was
concerned, there were inmates who would take the risk to sneak away during work hours and
somehow managed to find a hiding place. Those few who did that had actually accomplished
two worthwhile tasks: first to avoid hard work and at the same time to sabotage the Nazi
war effort.
My twin brother from time to time subscribed to the second idea,
although his chances to being discovered much diminished by my covering up his absence.
During the spot checks by the German supervisor, who usually called out every individuals
number, I managed to reply for both of us. In different tones of voices of course.
Until on one early morning of a cold December day, the expected had
happened. But instead of my brother, I was the one to endure the punishment.
After a night of loading and unloading heavy bags of cement, I was,
as usual, on my way to pick up my brother from his hiding place and return with him to the
place where the inmates assembled in preparation to return to the camp.
Shortly before approaching the hiding place, some sort of a bunker,
I noticed some kind of an unusual chaos. Several inmates seemed to be running in different
directions being chased by capos and armed guards. When I spotted my brother among the
ones being chased, I immediately attempted to turn around. Unfortunately I was blocked by
one of the capos who without any questions grabbed me, hit me in the face while turning me
over to another capo who was standing next to a guard. He immediately reported to the
armed guard that he caught a saboteur who was hiding during work hours.
Soon, with blood dripping from my face I found myself next to a
small group of other youngsters accused of the same crime. They were all shaking like
leaves and crying hysterically as if awaiting the death sentence.
Feeling completely innocent and being sure that my night shift
foreman would intervene on my behalf, I stood among them quite calm although being abused
physically and verbally. But when I tried to plead with my night shift foreman, Mr.
Caplan, the Lithuanian was simply pretending not to see or hear me. While I in desperation
tried to plead with my escorting capo, a Lithuanian by the name of Burstin, this young and
strong fellow kept on hitting me over the head with some kind of a heavy wooden stick.
Without reservation he repeated those hits each time I tried to open my mouth.
Realizing the futility of my pleading, I decided to shut up and
quietly and obediently walked together with the others back to camp. Normally our work
force returned to camp by train, but those seven dangerous saboteurs had to walk a
distance of about ten kilometers to camp as a prelude to an expected severe punishment.
At the camp gates the overly zealous capo again introduced us as a
saboteur who instead of working were hidden in a bunker where they slept all night.
The Nazi camp fuehrer and the camp eldest, were obviously informed
beforehand about our arrival. They were already waiting for us when we entered a dimly lit
shack which was empty of any sort of furniture except for a wooden horse placed in the
centre of the gravel floor. Besides the two camp leaders, there was also present the head
capo, (also by the name of Burstin), and a SS officer who was probably an assistant to the
camp leader.
The lower rank officer was the one to read to us the formal
accusations and the sentence. Underscoring the magnitude of the crime, he tried to present
the Nazi camp leader as a man with a heart of gold, who decided to punish you in the
mildest way possible ... Only twenty-five lashes.
The Jewish camp eldest who was the one ordered to perform this
merciful deed, came out with another surprise for which he also gave credit to the camp
fuehrer: "If you were able to count each single lash up to number fifteen, you will
save yourself ten lashes."
I was not scared at all while standing among the small group of
youngsters whose faces were covered with tears. It was painful for me to watch one after
the other receiving their full punishment of twenty-five lashes during which they were
crying and pleading for mercy. I don't recall exactly if I was the fifth or sixth to be
called to bend over the wooden horse. After receiving the first hit, I somehow realized
that I would not have the physical strength to survive twenty-five such painful lashes; so
I tried my best to erase for the moment from my mind the present situation and concentrate
only on the counting. When I reached number three, the pain seemed to be less severe and
to ease after every additional hit. As closer as I came to number fifteen, I somehow felt
more resistance towards the pain. The moment I called out fifteen, the executioner
finished his job.
Perhaps it was just some sort of illusion, but I was convinced at
the time that I heard him whispering, "Bravo."
With all the strength in my body I slowly walked out into the
refreshing morning chill and made my way to the hut. On the way I had to stop off at a
latrine to get rid of the only pair of underwear in my possession. This tremendously
valuable part of my winter clothing was unfortunately full of excrement and impossible to
be saved. I cleaned myself the best way that I could and continued my walk to the hut.
Somehow the loss of my precious long under garment which I was
wearing from the day I left Birkenau, was in a way more painful to me than the bloody
fifteen lashes. When I finally reached the dimly lit hut, everybody except the
"stubendienst," was already asleep. Visibly touched by my ordeal, he handed me
my bread portion with some hot water while helping me to sit down. This however turned
into an impossible task and I had to consume my breakfast while standing. Afterwards I
dragged myself up next to my soundly sleeping brother, and laid down on my belly. The
events of that night and early morning in addition to the excruciating pain were keeping
me from getting a bit of needed rest. Eventually weak and exhausted, I somehow dozed off.
HELP FROM A HIGHLY UNEXPECTED SOURCE
It took no more than a couple of weeks for me to return to my normal
daily routine. Although it was hard for me to erase from my mind what I went through
during that short period of time, I felt that it was time to think more of the future and
as much as possible to forget the past.
On that cold mid-December morning after arriving at the construction
site, we were as usual waiting for our assignments to specific work groups. Again, as on
any other day, I was silently praying not to be picked for the dreadful cement work.
This kind of labor was becoming increasingly harder for me to
perform. Especially after enduring so much pain during the last few weeks. It became ever
more hard for me to carry on my bony back the heavy cement bags without avoiding an
accidental drop of one of those bags to the muddy ground. Such an accident was often the
cause for severe punishment. Unfortunately my brother and I were lately quite often
assigned to this work detail, and several times we also had to endure the extremely
dangerous work inside the concrete filled bunkers. I had seen several times weak and
exhausted inmates helplessly slipping into the rapidly moving wet concrete from which they
were never recovered.
Even less difficult jobs around the construction site were more than
often aggravated by physical abuse by O.T. men or capos.
This particular morning however turned out to be quite different. My
silent prayers seemed to be heard and properly answered. My brother and I together with a
small group of about fifteen young men were chosen for some kind of detail outside the
construction site. With the unknown to us destination we soon left the place marching in
proper formation under the watchful eye of a young SS man and a foreman, whom I
incidentally knew from back home.
Even while unaware of the destination we were heading to, it felt
awfully good to walk through wide open spaces, passing by large farms with their neatly
painted farm houses. Although we were forbidden to pick anything from the ground, it was
still surprising to notice how many produce like carrots, beats and potatoes were
littering the roads next to the farms where these precious items obviously froze and got
rotten.
This sort of waste was allowed while thousands of innocent camp
inmates were starving to death just a short distance away.
Amid all those thoughts we finally arrived at our destination:
"A camp for members of the Organization Todt"' (O.T), a camp for German work
supervisors.
This camp which stood in the middle of nowhere although looking from
the outside had no guarding towers or any armed guards in front of wide open large gates.
Just before entering the camp, I noticed our two escorts, the young SS man and the foreman
having some sort of conversation. Soon after while we were still standing, the foreman
whose name was Lachman, approached me with an odd proposition. He told me that this young
SS man is an ardent art lover and would like very much for someone to make him some
drawings. Since I know" he continued "that you are a good artist, (I was a
classmate of his younger brother) I told him that you would be willing to do some work for
him." At first I was quite shocked by such an unexpected proposition. I pleaded with
him not to get me involved with an SS man, because I was afraid of unpleasant consequences
if he would dislike my work.
Lachman, however was quite persistent with his assurances that he
knows this young SS man for quite a while, and that he is a very nice guy who never abused
or touched an inmate. Reluctantly I eventually agreed.
After a short conversation between the two of them, I noticed a
smile on the SS mans face.
Soon after we were led into the camp. The dozen or so of clean
wooden barracks were quite different than the dirty huts we were forced to live in. The
grounds and roads leading to the barracks were covered with gravel and some even neatly
paved. There was no sign of dirt or mud. The place was already busy with O.T. men being
driven out, apparently to their work places, while others were performing different jobs
inside the camp proper.
I could not help noticing how neat and clean this camp was kept in
spite of the harsh winter which caused so much misery inside the dilapidated concentration
camps.
While I was told to wait outside next to my foreman, my brother with
several other guys was assigned to the camp kitchen where they supposed to help pealing
potatoes and chop some wood for the kitchen stove and probably for wood heaters in the
camp barracks. The others were sent to do odd jobs around the camp periphery.
Lachman then took me into the camp cantine while still assuring me
of the young SS mans good intentions. He told me that the young man is actually a
Ukrainian who was forcibly drafted into the SS and besides quite often showing willingness
to help some inmates, he was also a quite intelligent young man and an ardent art lover.
My first impression of the O.T. canteen was really overwhelming.
Quite a large room with several tables which were already occupied by a dozen or so
Germans eating what seemed to be a hefty breakfast. The smell of fried eggs and home fried
potatoes plus the long forgotten to me aroma of freshly perked coffee brought back to me
almost forgotten memories of home.
If not for the vulgar loud laughter of some O.T. men, and the hated
swastikas on their uniforms, I would have thought that all this was just a dream.
A couple of young women inmates were busy around the kitchen
preparing food while another young girl, apparently also an inmate, was busy serving
breakfast and cleaning off the tables.
In one corner of the room I saw two middle aged inmates intensely
working on some oil paintings using large easels. Both of them simultaneously greeted me
with a friendly good morning, while I passed them on my way to a prepared for me clean
table.
On the table I already found a prepared drawing pad and a bunch of
pencils. The table and the two artists easels were placed next to a large window. As
if she could sense the way I felt, one of the ladies appeared in front of me with a plate
filled with food I hadn't seen or tasted for a long time. Two large slices of bread
covered with a thick layer of margarine a pile of freshly scrambled eggs with a nice
portion of home fries. Before I managed to say a proper thank you, she ran off to bring me
a large cup of steaming hot coffee. "Eat it in good health," she said with a
friendly smile on her face and with an unmistakable Hungarian accent.
At first I just looked at the food in disbelief. I was hesitating
for a moment to start eating, simply because I could hardly believe that this type of food
was meant for me. I nevertheless followed the fast moving lady and in a stuttering voice
thanked her for her kindness. She smiled at me and kept on doing her work. After finishing
that sumptuous meal, the same woman brought me a mug of beer. I must admit that this was
the first time in my life that I consumed an alcoholic drink. Who would believe that this
would have happened while I was still an inmate of a Nazi concentration camp....
Content and quite in a good mood I made several drawings of whatever
came to my mind. On the request from my foreman I also did some drawings of naked girls.
Lachman assured me that such drawings will immensely please the young SS man.
I was pleased that before handing over those drawings to my foreman,
I received compliments of approval by the angelic ladies who were taking care of the
canteen and also by the two artists who were still working on their paintings. They told
me later that they both are Hungarian Jews and inmates of a nearby concentration camp.
Fortunately both of them are steadily employed by the Nazis by continuing their life-long
professions, and feel quite grateful for this granted to them privilege.
Although those two veterans of several concentration camps,
including Auschwitz, were rewarded for their art with only relatively decent three meals a
day, they were nevertheless happy not to have to work as slave laborers at the
construction site.
Before the days end, one of the nice ladies slipped into my
coat pocket a couple of slices of fresh bread wrapped into a paper napkin. Probably as a
habit, she did it in a surprisingly discreet way, although there was no German in the
canteen at the time. While leaving that place which would have existed only in the dreams
of each and every camp inmate, I again expressed my sincere thanks to the nice ladies for
the best day I had experienced during my entire period of incarceration.
The moment I stepped out of the canteen my foreman was already
waiting to collect my days work.
Although the sky was full of dark clouds, the weather was not too
bad. A brisk wind caused a bit of discomfort but the important thing was that it was still
quite bright when we left the O.T. Camp on the way back to Landsberg.
My brother seemed also very happy with his days work. With the
specific inmates language, he gave me to understand, that he managed to organize
quite a few raw potatoes and some other produce. Judging by the happy faces of all the
others in our group, it became quite obvious that they all had a pretty good day. Without
knowing, of course that I would still be handsomely rewarded for my quite easy days
work, I was very satisfied and grateful for this unexpected remarkable day. At that very
moment without even considering the fact that I and all the others with me were extremely
lucky , I again gave full credit for this special day to my incredible guardian angel.
Again we were walking through open spaces passing by large farms
which had at the time their obvious winter rest, I tried to breath in as much fresh air as
possible before returning to my smelly and dirty hut. After all the air doesn't belong
only to the Germans. At least this pleasure could not be taken away from us, not even by
armed guards.
While my mind was occupied with similar thoughts, I heard our
foremans order to stop walking. I found myself in front of a huge farm which was
almost entirely covered with dark huts similar to the ones which were for the last several
months our homes. To my surprise and quite a bit frightened, I noticed the SS man walking
directly towards me. This time without the help of the foreman he addressed me directly in
a broken German.
Without the usual mannerism of an SS man, he spoke to me as a friend
to a friend. He pointed to one of the many huts, and told me that one of them is already
not locked. He gave me the exact number and place where to go to: "Go there as fast
as you can, take yourself whatever your heart desires while we will slowly continue to
walk". In haste he added, "Try to catch up with us as soon as you can."
Completely intoxicated with the prospect of obtaining some food and
without considering the possible consequences and repercussions, such an act could bring,
I ran as fast as I could into the huge field until I reached the particular hut.
Now, after five decades, I am still unable to comprehend how I got
the energy, the power and most of all the guts to do what I then did. At the time it
didn't even cross my mind that if I would have been spotted by anybody, whether it would
have been a farmer, a passing policeman or another SS man, I would have been shot and
killed on the spot.
It is impossible for me to describe the way I felt after pushing
open the small gate of the hut. A picture of unbelievable beauty appeared in front of my
eyes ... A treasure beyond my imagination. The hut, an exact replica of my living
quarters, had both side boards filled up almost to the ceiling with all sorts of fresh
produce: Beautiful red carrots, beets of all sizes, turnips, potatoes, etc. A view that
almost made me faint.
Realizing my limited time, I hastily tied up the bottoms of my
slacks with pieces of string we always carried in our pockets in case something important
emerged. As quick as humanely possible, I began loading myself up with whatever I could
easily reach. In a matter of several minutes I was loaded with produce all over my body,
which weight exceeded probably double my actual weight. With a power and energy provided
to me only by the Almighty, I kept on running in the direction of our supposedly slow
walking group.
It was already quite dark and without any lamp posts in the
vicinity, I could not see any sign of my walking comrades.
Surrounded by complete darkness, I nevertheless ran in the proper
direction, and became quite panicky when I still could not spot my group. I was running
like a fox who was being chased by a vicious wolf .... Finally amid a deadly silence, I
heard a variety of steps, a sound which was at the moment so welcomed that I burst out
crying like a baby. It took me several more minutes to join the gang who apparently also a
bit worried, seemed overjoyed to see me at last.
I walked next to my brother, who did his best to relieve me of some
of my load. More relief eventually came when on the suggestion of our SS man, I
distributed a great part of my bounty to everyone of the group.
My brother and I had still enough food left to last us for at least
a couple of weeks. It was surely an important supplement to the ever decreasing daily
rations and provided us both with some awfully needed nutrients.
Obviously satisfied with my drawings, the SS man instructed our
foreman from now on to include me every morning to his working detail. Needless to say
that such a prospect made me very happy indeed.
Unfortunately with deep disappointment and sorrow I was informed by
Lachman that the young Ukrainian SS man was transferred to another kind of duty.
Although hurt and disappointed, I realized that in order to survive,
life must go on. I still believed that no matter what, my steady protector, the invisible
guardian angel will without fail appear whenever I would need him and whenever my life
will be in real danger.
CHAPTER 11
CHRISTMAS OF 1944 AT CAMP 1- LANDSBERG
Rumours for a special Christmas with special treats for the inmates
were apparently leaked from the camp office. As always my reaction to this sort of rumour
was at best skeptical.
This time however the rumours turned out to be true indeed. On
Christmas eve each one of us received a one pound loaf of bread with a slice of margarine,
plus a large piece of German sausage. After that our containers were filled up to the rim
with a dense cabbage and potato soup.
The joy of the inmates at the time was indescribable. The pale and
bony faces of the happy young men were simply shining. Though we were all Jewish, it was
nevertheless a kind of joyous event which I will never forget. We actually called this
celebration a Hannuka party. Many of us were loudly giving thanks to God for the special
food he sent to us.
For a short couple of hours the misery of our existence was almost
forgotten.
For my brother and myself however the joy and happiness didn't even
last that long. During the unusual commotion, while my brother and I were busy dividing
one of our loaves of bread, one of our priceless loaves mysteriously disappeared.
Apparently one of the starving inmates was looking for an opportunity to supplement his
ration by stealing somebody elses bread.
Needless to say how angry and disappointed we both were. After all,
the person who stole our bread was not exactly too hungry at that moment. But after five
years of Nazi Ghettos and camps, I had learned to adjust to situations like that. No
matter how careful one was, things like this were indeed unavoidable. No matter how
painful this occurrence was to both of us, I nevertheless tried not to blame that poor
soul whoever he was. There was always someone among us who after so many years of
suffering didn't have the strength to resist such an occasion.
After that special feast we expected at least on Christmas day to be
allowed to sleep a little bit longer. The Nazis however had apparently already prepared a
plan for a special torture for Christmas morning. After all, they didn't consider it right
to have in camp too many happy Jews.
Instead of the usual six a.m. wake up call, on that Christmas day we
were ordered to the "Appell Platz," about four a.m. We were standing there in
total darkness with our caps removed as we always did while waiting for the camp fuehrer
to arrive and perform the actual head count.
It was a bitterly cold and windy morning with snow covering our
hairless scalps, which gave us a feeling of being locked inside an ice box. The snow on
top of my head slowly kept accumulating probably to a couple of centimeters. I felt like
the cold and the wind were penetrating deep through my skin and freezing up my whole body.
This terrible ordeal which was designed to inflict on us more
suffering than on any other regular working day, had without doubt added a lot to the
rapid deterioration of my health. Shaking like a leaf and using up the last bit of
strength in my body I stood as patiently as possible, while waiting for the Nazi tyrant to
arrive. Finally after several hours, the camp fuerer showed up. He was dressed in a
seemingly fur lined warm overcoat with a large fur collar and fur hat. Shortly after his
appearance we were finally dismissed and returned to our cold and smelly huts. The Nazi
escorted by a couple of other high ranking SS men walked back to his comfortable and
obviously well heated quarters, to enjoy his Christmas holiday together with his family.
THE TRAGIC EFFECTS OF THE HOLIDAY FEAST
Christmas day was hardly over when several of the inmates began to
experience stomach cramps. Others were already running to the latrines with severe pains
of a bloody diarrhea. It became quite clear that the cabbage soup in addition to the very
fresh still warm bread, was much too much for the empty stomachs to handle.
Total chaos and uncontrollable panic took over all of us, especially
the affected inmates. We were all afraid that this unexpected Christmas meal could bring a
disaster to all of us. Even the shouting of orders by the block eldest could not stop the
moanings and cries of the sick ones. We all knew that even those who were badly affected
will have to join the work force on the next day.
Fortunately I personally emerged untouched by this terrible
disaster. I got up as usual in the early morning ready to report for the head count. While
getting dressed in the dimly lit hut I did not notice my brothers absence. He soon
appeared pale as a dead person, acting as if he would be in terrible pain. "I became
one of them," he pointed to the many who were lying on their places unable to move.
Terribly worried about my brothers condition I was forced to
join hundreds of others on the way to the construction site. This morning was the first
time since our incarceration that I walked the several kilometers to the construction site
without my twin brother at my side.
The most dreadful moment of our always feared separation had finally
arrived. After my return from the days work, tired and hungry, I was immediately
informed that my brother with a group of other diarrhea victims were moved to a
"Schoenungs Lager." (A death camp which was cynically called a place where sick
inmates were taking care of.) To which camp he was sent, I could not find out. However I
was told by one of my friends that Meyer was in very bad shape before his departure.
After tragically losing my Mother at Auschwitz, I was convinced that
no other tragedy could ever move me; however the worry about also losing my twin brother
depressed me immensely. Adding to my state of depression was the fact that no matter how
we tried, we were not able to fulfill our Mothers last wish for us to stay together.
As it turned out the time for me to worry about my family ended
abruptly.
The unbearable freezing mornings during the head counts and the very
cold days at the construction site had finally shown its damaging effects on my exhausted
and undernourished weak body. It seemed that the warmer winter clothing which we received
recently arrived too late to shield me from the cold weather. Also my recently acquired
wooden shoes although much warmer than my already torn shoes from back home, didn't do
much to avoid my impending illness.
A steady nasty cough kept on bothering me during my working days and
became much more nasty during my sleepless nights. Feverish and hardly dragging my aching
legs, I kept on following my regular daily routine until New Years day of 1945.
After the holidays it became entirely impossible to join the work force again. Realizing
that my condition seemed pretty grave, my block eldest ordered me immediately to visit Dr.
Bergman in his makeshift office.
On that miserably cold morning after New Years, I dragged
myself through the narrow muddy roads to Dr. Bergmans "Clinic Barrack."
His office was the same hut like we all dwelled in, but much cleaner of course. The
dwellers of this place were several doctors, mostly men in their mid or late thirties. Dr.
Bergman however who was apparently the chief doctor must have been in his mid forties. On
the small table in the centre of the hut, I noticed some paper bandages, scissors, and
several small bottles of white pills. Close to the table, two chairs were placed, one next
to the other, apparently reserved for doctor and patients. This was all the furniture
visible in the clinic.
Dr. Bergman, a Lithuanian Jew, a handsome man with a full head of
grey hair greeted me with a friendly smile. After a short examination he diagnosed me with
pneumonia and suggested a transfer to a so-called hospital block. With a transfer paper in
my coat pocket I slowly walked back to my regular hut to inform the block eldest of my
impending move. Unfortunately, although to us inmates the sound of sirens became like
music to our ears, that evening was unusually busy with constant air raids.
Obviously impossible for me to walk in total darkness to my new
place of residency, I failed to consider the possible consequences if I would not show up
in time at the new hut. I left my hut only the next morning.
A HOT WELCOME BY MY NEWEST BLOCK ELDEST
I don't remember the time when I felt so terribly as on that cold
January morning. The wet snow enforced by a gusty wind irritated my ever more nagging
cough, causing severe chest pains. Again dragging my tired feet with the heavy wooden
shoes through the muddy grounds, turned into sheer torture. Holding tightly my container
filled with the morning hot tea I finally reached the hospital hut.
I was not yet down the few steps into the hut when out came a
shouting and viciously enraged block eldest, throwing the usual obscenities straight at
me. Suddenly I felt his fist direct on my face. Loosing my balance I fell backwards like a
sack of flour, half consciously hitting the muddy grounds.
While lying there shocked and still unaware of what had happened, I
felt the entire content of my container all over me. However I could still hear the block
eldests shouts and curses: "You bastard son of a bitch, you were supposed to be
here last night, not this morning." In a rage he kept on yelling, "Where do you
think you are, you little bastard, in a summer resort?"
This kind of behavior from block eldests and capos was nothing new
to me, but it was very hard to digest that someone who was supposedly entrusted in helping
the sick, could treat a patient in such a barbaric way.
I was helped to get up by a couple of passing-by inmates and
afterwards was led into a not much cleaner stinking hut which I had just left a while
earlier.
The block eldest of this "hospital" still raging mad,
ordered me to occupy one of the few empty places between two other patients. This, at the
moment seemingly heartless man refused to listen to my explanations and reasons for not
reporting to him the night before. He turned his attention to some other patient as if for
him I wouldn't exist anymore. I had to struggle with whatever strength was left in me to
climb up to the platform and settle down as comfortable as I possibly could.
The only difference between the wooden platforms of the regular
barracks and this so called "hospital block" was that here the sawdust was
covered with some dirty blankets.
I tried, although not very successfully, to calm down. I could
hardly control the tears which were streaming down my cheeks. It was very hard for me to
understand the behaviour of the block eldest towards a patient in my condition, although
he seemed quite decent to the other patients.
The familiar noises during the distribution of the daily rations
awoke me from a short nap and brought me back to reality. In sharp contrast to the regular
barracks, here we were served our rations while lying down. And I must add that the
service by a couple of helpers to the block eldest was done without shouting or other sort
of abuse.
The two fellows as well as the block eldest seemed pretty well
nourished in comparison to the miserably looking patients. After a while I felt like
forgiving the block eldest for the reception he accorded me after my arrival. I felt that
the whole incident was partially my fault as well.
In addition to other exceptional conveniences was one which I
considered the most important one, namely having the head count inside the barrack. For me
it was the first time since I left the Lodz Ghetto, that I did not have to get up during
the wee hours of the morning, many times during heavy rains, snow storms, or far below
freezing weather, for the obligatory head counts.
So, after several days of rest and almost no exposure to the cold
weather, I began feeling less feverish and my cough was not as nasty as before. I was
provided with one white pill daily apparently some sort of aspirin, which also seemed to
help a bit.
A NEWLY ERECTED SHOWCASE HOSPITAL
There was an old Yiddish proverb which could have easily applied to
myself at the time: "Mehr Mazel Vi Ferstand" (More luck than brains).
Already a short while before Christmas I noticed some unusual
activity on an empty lot close to the Appell Platz. Soon many trucks loaded with clean cut
wood and other building materials were arriving steadily. A large crew of O.T. men with
quite a large group of inmates became busy erecting some kind of a wooden structure.
As usual rumors started to circulate about the purpose of such a
development. We were most intrigued by the unusual urgency and secrecy surrounding this
project. After all, the weather was far from ideal for construction. "So what's the
hurry?"
The rumors were intensifying with ever more bizarre suggestions,
until they caused quite a panic among the inmates. One of those suggestions which some
inmates began to believe in was that the Nazis are erecting a gas chamber to finish us off
before the Americans will try to liberate us. Those rumors were causing sleepless nights
to many of us.
By the middle of January the new structure had already turned into
quite an impressive large building with a smaller extension next to it. They were both
towering over our half underground huts and even over the quite large SS barracks.
While the structure was being finished, the inmates seemed to be
less interested in their new building and more in their individual problems. They were
especially absorbed in the ever more diminishing food rations and in their ever more
deteriorating health.
It must have already been by the end of January, when my block
eldest who seemed to have completely mellowed informed me that Dr. Bergman wants me to see
him for another physical. The next morning during another one of those miserable cold
days, but walking with more energy than on my earlier visit, I carefully negotiated the
treacherous grounds to Dr. Bergmans clinic.
The doctor seemed in quite a good mood. After some friendly
greeting, Dr. Bergman, assisted by another young doctor, gave me a thorough examination,
which lasted about half an hour, disregarding the fact that several other young men were
waiting to be examined, Dr. Bergman seemed to have taken some extra time to check my
entire body for any blemishes, fresh pimples or scars. A process which at the time I could
hardly comprehend. Before I left I was told to report at a certain hour of the next
morning to the bath house. Again with a pleasant smile, the doctor told me not to forget
to take all my possessions with me because I might not return to my present quarters.
Until the next morning I tried to convince myself that my
appointment at the bath house was a routine "entlousung" and disinfection of my
clothing. It turned out however to be something of an entirely different and much more
important nature.
AT THE BATH HOUSE
When I reached the bath house I became one of a group of young men
ranging at the age of nineteen to about twenty one. We were told to undress while one of
the attendants collected our clothing for disinfection. The large vestibule with its
concrete walls and concrete floors was windowless and empty of any sort of furniture. Amid
the cold and and discomfort, many of our group were engaged in peculiar conversations.
Some tried to connect our presence in the bath house with the newly mysteriously erected
structure.
One of the guys told us that he just had a fast glimpse through a
window of the newly erected building and could swear that he saw clean double bunks, while
another one was sure that he saw shelves stocked high with white sheets and new grey
blankets. What I noticed however was that nobody at the time was mentioning a previous
suspicion that the new building might house a gas chamber.
The worst suggestion however was that perhaps the structure might be
used for medical experimentation.
While this bizarre conversation was still progressing, we returned
to reality by a shouting voice of an approaching SS man, who was followed by a push cart
pulled by several inmates on which a group of naked men were being brought in to the bath
house. Next to the wide open door they slowly unloaded the brought in "cargo"
under the watchful eye of the tall exceptionally blond young SS man.
The new arrivals were placed on the cold concrete floor, one next to
the other. There were at least ten of them, all hardly alive. Except for their silent
moanings, they were hardly showing any sign of pain. Their bodies were swollen with
multiple colored bruises like large balloons of different colors. Part of their skin was
cracked up and opened, dripping with puss and blood.
The sight of those retched individuals whose bodies were apparently
being eaten up by gangrene, caused a panic among our group. Suddenly the notion about us
being used for medical experiments had gained strength. After watching this unfortunate
group of suffering human beings lying in the front of us, we all became convinced that we
were definitely being prepared to replace those dying men.
Some of us could not resist crying loudly while others, myself
included were just standing motionless and shocked without being able to utter a single
word. Helpless, we were all resigned and ready for whatever was bound to happen.
As always, I tried my very best not to let myself be overwhelmed by
a panicky pessimism. I tried, although it was not too easy at the moment to be as calm as
possible while hoping for the best.
It was hard to believe that while the allied armed forces were
already occupying parts of Germany, the Nazis would still be engaged in such bizarre
practices. I tried to convince myself that there must be something else, something more
logical explanation to the purpose of our being in this situation.
I had desperately attempted to convince the others to follow my way
of thinking, unfortunately without success.
The hot showers may have helped a little in calming down my
desperately panicky friends, but when the capo returned with our disinfected clothing,
plus a new white nightgown for each one of us, I also became quite skeptical and a bit
scared.
This skepticism of mine got even more fortified when the capo was
leading us in the direction of the newly erected building.
The seriousness on the face of our accompanying capo, and the silent
weeping of some of the scared youngsters also seemed to have a bad influence on my way of
thinking. I must admit that throughout all that walk, I stopped thinking all together.
THE NEW PLACE
For a moment we stood in front of this exceptionally clean wooden
structure, which hardly fit into this dirty dilapidated camp, waiting in fearful
anticipation for the opening of the large double door. Even the camp commanders
quarters and the SS barracks fared poorly in comparison to this impressive building.
The doors were finally opened by a man dressed in white slacks and
white coat. "We expected you," the man greeted us with a warm smile. "Come
in fast, because we don't want you to catch cold," he said with a slight hint of
sincere concern.
Without passing any sort of vestibule, we entered directly into a
large hall. To say that I was stunned and flabbergasted with what I saw at that moment,
would be an understatement of the greatest degree . In front of me I saw a picture of a
real genuine hospital, almost the same as I remembered when my father was hospitalized
when I was only about eight years old. The only visible difference that instead of single
beds on each side of the hall, here were rows of double bunks.
The still freshly smelling natural woods of the inside walls as well
as the brand new bunks, for just a second reminded me of summer camp. The wooden bunks
which were covered with grey blankets and white linens were a nice match to the pure white
curtains which were covering the many windows on each side of the hall. It might be odd
that under the prevailing circumstances I was able to concentrate on such unimportant
details. I could also not help noticing the fluffy pillows which were also white and
apparently brand new. At the centre of the room there was a large table covered like
anything else, with a pure white tablecloth.
There were several male nurses, all of course dressed in white which
completed successfully the identical appearance of a real hospital.
Again an orderly collected our clothing while we all remained
standing in our white long to the ankles night shirts. For a moment it reminded me of the
night shirts we were wearing back home. Several bunks were already occupied. But the
mystery of our being here was still unsolved. We were escorted to our bunks by the same
orderly who collected our clothing. I was fortunate enough to be assigned to a lower bunk,
so I wouldn't have to climb up and down; besides the lower bunk had also a night table
which made it more practical. .
While finally resting in a clean comfortable bed, my thoughts became
ever more troublesome. The question of why I was brought to this place and what kind of
new torture is awaiting us here, could not be easily erased from my mind. The whole
attitude of the doctor and everyone else who took care of us seemed abnormal under the
prevailing circumstances, even bizarre. It felt odd to say the least being an inmate of
Camp 1, and not being shouted at not constantly being showered with obscenities and not
witnessing any sort of physical abuse. Being the eternal optimist I must admit that I felt
nevertheless some sort of fear.
While my thoughts kept on torturing me I noticed a young man whose
face seemed quite familiar, occupying the bunk just across the room facing me. For a while
I was unable to make out his identity. Suddenly it hit me. This young man was one of three
brothers who belonged to a group of the most influential and most prosperous inmates in
camp. They were all employed at the provisions warehouse which supplied the camp kitchen
and also the kitchen for the SS guards as well as other German personnel.
This revelation indeed gave me enough assurance that this hospital
must be free of any dangerous or sinister plans by the Nazi administration. There is no
way that his two brothers would have agreed to place their sibling in an unsure
environment. At once all my doubts had suddenly disappeared. Although still unaware of the
purpose of our being placed in such a beautiful hospital, I informed my new found friends
about what I had discovered, and seemed to calm down most of them. Instead of sadness I
had seen many smiling faces among them. The feeling of despair was suddenly replaced by an
atmosphere of hopeful expectations.
It took only several days for the two rows of double bunks to become
fully occupied.
With a more hopeful peace of mind, I began to really enjoy this
unusual place. This huge hall with its very high ceiling and large windows gave me a
feeling of some sort of freedom. After living for over a half a year in dirty huts with
absolutely no air, muddy floors and a steady stench of human refuse, this place could only
be described as paradise. Just a walk on the clean wooden floors to the exceptionally
clean toilette could be described as pure pleasure.
Soon I began to feel human again. In contrast to my previous way of
life, I felt almost liberated.
Like in any other regular hospital, our meals were served in bed.
For breakfast we received a couple of large slices of fresh bread, with a cube of
margarine, some marmalade at the side with a silver foil rapped triangular piece of
cheese. Instead of the usual colored hot water, we were served a cup of "ersatz"
coffee which tasted pretty good. At noon we received a good soup with some more bread and
about the same meal at supper time. Although it was not enough to really fatten us up, it
was nevertheless enough to make us look more human as time progressed. For me personally
the way we were treated was not much less important than the food itself.
We had regular visits by Dr. Bergman who with his usual smile
treated us as if we were paying patients. Besides the tranquility of this place, we were
kept clean and most importantly free of the plague of body lice.
Pretty soon, I should say no more than two weeks, my health and
apparently my appearance seemed to improve immensely. I judged my appearance by the looks
of the entire group who arrived together with me.
Still puzzled, for what reason I was chosen from among hundreds of
inmates to enjoy such an exceptional rich life while so many others were dying daily of
starvation and diseases, I nevertheless selfishly enjoyed my feeling of being human again.
So it was no surprise to me that feeling human makes you also think
human. So from time to time I became engulfed by a feeling of guilt for the many other
unfortunate and especially for my twin brother whose fate was still unknown to me. And
again like many times before I started to wonder what unexplainable power was working
towards my well being, while at the same time thousands of others were still being
tortured to death in countless concentration camps.
A TASTE OF APPLE PEELINGS
Since the first inmates of Camp I were predominantly Lithuanian, it
was quite normal under the prevailing order, that the best jobs in Camp were divided among
them. I was also not surprised that the entire staff at this hospital were Lithuanians. As
I mentioned before their relationship towards the Polish inmates was far from being
correct. It made me realize indeed that if it would have been up to them, the very few
Polish Jews, including myself, would not have been patients at this hospital. However I
was still grateful and thanked God for being one of those lucky few.
Most of the patients were probably inmates without any siblings or
other family members still alive. So there was no surprise that my neighbour across the
room was a subject of envy by the rest of us, simply because he had two brothers who often
visited him and took good care of him. On each of such a visit, they brought him food
items which the rest of us had not seen for several years. From time to time I noticed him
eating hard boiled eggs and chocolate bars. But most of all I envied the daily red apple,
one of his brothers brought him. Each afternoon during my nap I was awakened by the long
forgotten aroma of fresh apples. At first I thought that I was just dreaming. "Who in
this world of ours would be in possession of such a treasure." Automatically I gazed
straight ahead of me, and there it was: Our famous neighbor was sitting up and slowly
peeling a large red apple. But I became much more irritated when in addition to the
unbearable aroma I noticed the young man disposing of the entire peelings into a waste
basket next to his bed.
At a time when thousands of hungry inmates were happy to find and
eat some rotten or frozen potato peelings, this arrogant young man threw to the garbage
such a priceless treasure. Somehow I thought that while he was doing this despicable act,
he was looking over at me with a sarcastic smile on his face.
I tried my very best to avoid looking at this arrogant spoiled brat
during his continuous sadistic performances. Unfortunately I could not avoid inhaling the
beautiful aroma of something I hadn't seen or tasted for over five years.
The seemingly forced politeness towards us by the hospital staff was
probably ordered by the camp administration. At the surface we all seemed to be treated
equally.
A VERY IMPORTANT VISIT
On the third week or so when most of us had already been transformed
into human beings, as far as appearance was concerned, we were officially informed that
several important people were going to visit us soon. We received strict instructions not
to talk to any of them unless being personally addressed. If asked, any questions should
be answered simply with a yes or no.
A couple of days after we were prepared for a visit, an apparent
delegation from the Swiss Red Cross arrived. They were accompanied by the Camp commander
and several more high ranking officers. They were slowly walking from bunk to bunk,
looking at each of us without uttering a single word or a simple greeting. They seemed
quite indifferent to the entire spectacle. They left with the same expressions on their
faces as they had arrived with.
After they had left, the head nurse told us that in the near future
we can expect several other of these visits.
All I could think of at the time was "Why, only after five
miserable years during which millions of innocent men, women and children were brutally
slaughtered by the Nazi murderers, the Red Cross had finally decided to visit a
concentration camp. And what were they being shown? Except for hastily erected model
hospitals or other prepared show cases, did they visit the hundreds of real concentration
camps? Of this we were not aware at the time.
Later on I had learned that during those special visits, the Red
Cross delegates were told that the regular inmates were all at work and doing fine. The
camp grounds were being properly cleaned and prepared before the arranged visits and all
the huts were being closed for the time of each visit.
I can recall no more than a couple of those visits while I was a
patient at the model hospital. I could only guess that there were also visits by the Red
Cross in other camps of which I was really not aware. One thing however I was sure of,
that there was no visible change in the lives of the average camp inmates. Life at the
camps was going on in the same brutal and despicable way as before those seemingly at the
time important visits.
The daily food rations kept on shrinking drastically and the load of
hard labor remained the same and in many instances even increased. The death toll kept on
rising drastically and so did the scores of incapable and unfit to work inmates.
However some results of those visits were shown shortly before
liberation. By the end of March or early April of 1945, while I was already an inmate and
a returnee to camp 4 Kaufering we were surprised with a small parcel from the
International Red Cross. Unfortunately this gift arrived much too late to have had any
impact on the mostly sick or dying inmates.
As far as I know, the only people who gained from these staged
masquerades, were the small number of patients in the showcase hospital. This relatively
small group of extremely fortunate young men were apparently used by the Nazis for their
last attempts of Nazi propaganda. However through this obvious deception, these young men,
myself included received a much needed boost in their continuing struggle for survival.
After the short time of uncertainty about the purpose of this
hospital and after the first visit of the Red Cross delegation, life for the patients
could only be described as an unbelievable sweet dream.
So as usual, when things go well small happenings of little
importance are being taken too seriously.
Unfortunately and unwillingly I became involved in such a minor
incident. Among many misfortunes brought on us by the Nazis and their collaborators, we
also had our share of problems created by our own.
Most inmates, no matter from what country they came from were always
ready and willing to help their fellow sufferers. But there were always a few who harbored
some unexplainable animosities toward others.
Some Hungarian Jews for instance didn't like very much. their
Rumanian neighbours while some Polish Jews felt some resentment for Hungarians and visa
versa of course. We, the couple of hundred Polish Jews at this camp sometimes felt some
open resentment. Even inside this beautiful hospital this problem was prevalent to a
certain degree. It was quite obvious to me that the old Lithuanian staff of this place are
favouring their own landsmen, although we actually did not suffer too much because of that
problem. The fact was that most of the staff of this hospital were more educated and older
than the average Polish patient.
As part of their recreation, our staff gathered around the only
table in the hall for some sort of literary discussions. For these gatherings they also
used to invite some of the Lithuanian patients while completely ignoring anyone of us. I
could hear them pretty well while with a cup of tea they were talking about classical
literature, old movies and the theatre. Since that table was pretty close to my bunk, I
truly enjoyed these interesting discussions, to which of course, I was never invited.
Once during such a discussion I heard them review the book "The
Call Of The Wild." Although they were all correct as to the theme of the book, none
of them seemed to remember the name of the author. They seemed so frustrated that they
came to a point when one of them proposed to postpone the discussion until the next day.
Since this book as well as the movie which starred Clark Gable, was
my favorite, I not only remembered the name of the author, but almost the whole plot.
I must admit, with a bit of shame, that for a while I really enjoyed
those guys frustration. But in eagerness to win their sympathy, I could not resist
calling out the name of Jack London. In a split of a second, I had most of them next to my
bunk, happily expressing their thanks and gratitude for helping to get them out of such an
"unbelievable dilemma." Some of them even warmly shook my hand.
Needless to say, that from that moment on I became an invited guest
at the frequent, sometimes quite heated discussion. And something more, at the time
probably of no lesser importance was the fact that after my arrogant sadistic neighbour
finished peeling his next apple, he called me over with a smile and handed me the entire
peelings. It is also needless to say how immensely I enjoyed that special treat.
THE BEGINNING OF THE END TO THE GOOD LIFE
Since the first visit of the Red Cross delegation, the day when the
charade about the model hospital was finally solved, life in this place was completely
detached from the lives and problems of the regular inmates. We were like a paradise
island surrounded by a sea of suffering and misery. We never learned whether the German
authorities actually invited the Red Cross in order to deny the already well known facts
of Nazi atrocities or the International Red Cross was seeking proof to the contrary.
As far as we were concerned, we couldn't care less. For the patients
at this hospital, every day passed was a day gained and a better chance to survive.
An additional assurance about the security of this place, was the
fact that there was a chance for us to remain in this place indefinitely. So far there
were no discharges nor any new arrivals. It was apparently too difficult to find among the
hundreds of regular inmates any who could fit the criteria to become patients in this
model hospital.
So I felt secure, confident and under the circumstances pretty good
indeed.
Unfortunately, as the saying goes, "Nothing lasts
forever." After enjoying a quite normal relationship with the Lithuanian personnel
for quite a while, I had lost this privilege due to the silly, but dangerous animosity
between inmates of different backgrounds.
It actually started with my neighbour who became my steady supplier
of apple peelings. On one regular afternoon when I was eagerly waiting for my
"supplier", to call me over to pick up my treat, I surprisingly met his old
malicious gaze followed by the torturous act of throwing the entire peelings into the
waste basket.
Apparently one of his brothers workers, an inmate of Polish
background, had stolen something during his errands. So, I as a Polish Jew automatically,
according to their way of thinking, became an accomplice to the crime.
The same perverse logic of generalization was also used by the group
of quite intelligent men who never again invited me to join in their literary discussions.
This sort of behaviour was not new to me. Fortunately it was not too
widely spread, and it occurred mostly among the more ignorant and obviously among the very
frustrated and starving individuals. I was however very surprised and it was very painful
to me to digest that the intelligent and well read staff of this hospital displayed the
same attitude.
Although I felt hurt and insulted, I did not have the time to dwell
on it. A sudden discomfort and occasional pain in the back of my neck started to give me
sleepless nights and quite a bit of worry. When the pain became more intense and the
swelling on the neck quite visible, it became hard for me to hide my condition from Dr.
Bergman much longer.
Realizing that not just with such a serious problem, but even with a
simple rash or pimples, my days in this place were numbered. I tried very hard to postpone
the inevitable for as long as possible. Finally when the excruciating pain became
unbearable, I was forced to reveal my secret to Dr. Bergman. It was probably my sixth week
in this fabulous place when I decided to tell Dr. Bergman about my problem. After the
examination, the kind doctor with visible sorrow in his sad eyes told me to get ready for
immediate surgery. The boil on my neck, a so called "carbuncle" was apparently
growing deep inside my neck and was already reaching a dangerous stage.
With obvious sympathy, the doctor expressed his regret that I could
not under any circumstances return to this hospital. He added that right after the surgery
I would be sent to my previous "hospital hut."
The orderly who led me into the operating room, was carrying with
him the plastic bag with my clothing, as if confirming the fact that I would never see
this place again.
The surgery was performed on an operating table inside a beautifully
equipped model operating room. Dr. Sacharin, a well known Lithuanian surgeon assisted by a
much younger Dr. Katz, did the job.
A hard slap on the face awakened me from the anesthetic, and minutes
after, without any escort and hardly able to walk, I was again dragging my legs through
the eternally muddy grounds of Camp I Landsberg. It took a while to reach my hated and
despised regular hut.
Again lying on a joint bunk together with about twenty-five sick and
starved inmates.after such a long time of enjoying a near normal life, it felt quite
strange, to say the least. I was again covered with a dirty old blanket and again a
potential victim of body lice and again waiting eagerly for the daily watery soup and a
slice of stale bread.
Amid the never ending shouting and cursing by the block eldest and
his helper, I still felt lucky and grateful for the time I spent away from this hellish
hut. Every night before falling asleep with a silent prayer on my lips, I thanked my
guardian angel for the help I received so far.
The pain on my neck awoke me several times during the night. The
completely dark hut and the unbearable stench was more than enough to feel depressed and
discouraged. Many of the inmates were snoring loudly and others were just moaning. It was
very difficult to fall asleep again.
During such times, thoughts of long gone times mixed with recent
events, kept on racing through my mind. It was clear to me that my future didn't look too
promising, especially with an open wound on my neck which was continuously bleeding and
discharging puss.
In spite of all that, I was still optimistic and resolved not to
give up too easily. I felt ready to continue, with all the strength left in my body, my
desperate struggle for survival.
CHAPTER 12
BACK AT CAMP 4 KAUFERING
After my discharge from the model hospital, and after spending a
couple of weeks at the filthy hospital hut, I was branded as unfit to work.
On a rainy morning in the middle of March of 1945 1 joined a small
group of mostly skeletal looking young men chosen for a transfer to a so- called
"Shonungs Lager". Partially walking and partially sitting on a man-driven push
cart, it took us almost a full day to make a distance of about eight kilometers. Although
I was walking most of the time and had only a couple of slices of bread for the day, I did
not feel too bad. In comparison to the others I was still in pretty good shape, thanks of
course to my stay at the model hospital. I walked into the camp on my own feet while most
of the group were riding on push carts. Although quite exhausted and as usual very hungry,
I was nevertheless happy and surprised to find myself back in Camp 4, which was my first
camp after Auschwitz. First of all I hoped to see my brother again or at least find out
more about his whereabouts. Secondly, I might get the opportunity to meet some of my
former comrades and perhaps even some friends from back home. Another surprise indeed was
my being assigned to the same hut where I spent the first three months as an inmate,
although with a different block eldest.
My first impression while stepping into the hut was quite
depressing, to say the least. Most of the inmates were confined to their bunks, except for
a couple of youngsters and the "stuben dienst" (the assistant to the block
eldest). What had hit me immediately was the fact that most of the bunk-ridden inmates
were stark naked except for a dirty blanket covering their skeletal bodies.
Many of them seemed to recognize me and were happy to see me alive,
they even gave me compliments of how well I still looked. They tried to inquire of how
life was at Camp I Landsberg. They complained a lot about the ever more diminishing
rations and especially the little bread they were receiving.
None of them seemed to know anything about my brothers
whereabouts. However I received from them some very useful and valuable advice. They told
me that under no circumstances I should willingly surrender my clothing and let myself be
forced to stay steadily on my bunk. It became obvious to me that by letting myself
forcefully to be out of circulation, it will mean certain death.
When my new block eldest, Mr. Zulty, told me that according to camp
regulations I must undress and surrender all my clothing except my belt and the wooden
shoes, I simply refused. I tried although politely and with reservations to convince him
that as long as I am able to stand on my own feet, I would like to do any work around the
camp. I promised him to do anything he would ask me to. "I will do anything without
reservation," I pleaded, "as long as I would be able to walk on my own
feet." Zulty looked at me with an expression of mockery and surprise. He measured me
from top to bottom, as if asking himself: "Who the hell does this little shrimp think
he's talking to."
Suddenly as if my good old guardian angel would have pinched him,
this big seemingly strong mans face turned into a pleasant smile. "O.K. you
little son of a bitch," he said while leaving me standing next to my bunk, and still
walking he gave me a firm warning: "but don't you ever dare to disappoint me."
For a while I stood there with an open mouth not being able to utter a simple thank you.
Very soon I was brought back to reality by one of the inmates who in a whisper uttered an
even more important warning: "If you know what's good for you, better remember what
he told you."
The very next morning after obtaining my bread ration, and some warm
water, I left the hut in search for some work around the camp.
It was a beautiful sunny early spring morning, but the camp was
almost deserted. Here and there you could see a capo escorting several slow walking
inmates who were apparently heading to do some work around the camp. I could also see some
skeletal inmates with only their blankets rapped around their naked bodies sitting next to
their huts consuming their rations while getting a bit of fresh air and enjoying the
warmth of the sun.
Only several months earlier this camp was busy like a beehive with
hundreds of inmates leaving or returning from work at the construction company and other
work details. The majority of them were young men in their late teens or early twenties
still able to work and perhaps even full of hope and belief in eventual survival.
The reality however turned out to be quite different. Most of those
young men were already dead and the remaining survivors were on the way to meet the same
fate. It was clear to me that the Nazi intention to use us for as long as possible and
finally kill us through hard labor and starvation succeeded indeed. While I was away at
Camp I Landsberg, Camp 4 Kaufering went through a devastating typhoid epidemic during
which hundreds of inmates had perished.
Slowly I was walking around hoping perhaps to find somebody who
would have heard something about my brother. I visited hut after hut asking questions but
all my inquiries were in vain. Many of those inmates were already in such a terrible state
that some didn't even know what I was talking about. Not only couldn't I find out anything
of substance, but became depressed like never before.
Besides the terrible state of most of the inmates, each hut had the
same unbearable stench and the same horrible picture of total devastation. The barracks
were already half empty and those still alive were half dead.
While walking back to my quarters, I kept inquiring about some work
around the camp, but this too was in vain.
During the following days I visited almost all the huts and only
found one young man with whom I was pretty close prior to my leaving the camp and who was
still recognizable. After a long conversation I found out in more details about the last
several tragic months at this camp. He told me of many close friends who had died and of
others who were deported to other camps. But the best information which I got from this
man was that my neighbour and good friend Laibl Krawiecki, with his father are both alive
and somewhere in this camp. Another important piece of information obtained from this
young man was that all women who were working in the camp kitchen were being transferred
to another camp and were being replaced by youngsters who are still able to work.
After another day of searching, I finally found the Krawieckis.
Laibl looked not too bad and was recognizable. His father, a man in his late forties or
early fifties, looked quite pitiful, especially without clothing except for his underwear
and was like most of the others wrapped in a dirty grey blanket.
Under the prevailing circumstances finding close friends was of
great importance. We were all happy and excited to have found each other. And happy that
we were still alive.
Laibl as myself was fully dressed and was also searching for some
kind of work in order to supplement the ever more decreasing daily food rations.
Unfortunately they were also unaware of my brothers
whereabouts.
My friend and I decided to join forces and together start a serious
search for something to do before the block eldest would force us to give up our clothing,
the way they did to most of the camp inmates. In the meantime the older Krawiecki, a
Chassidic Jew, invited me to join in the daily prayers which he was leading inside his
hut.
ONE DAYS WORK IN THE CAMP KITCHEN
As soon as I found out on what day the kitchen was going to hire
youngsters to replace the departing women, I decided together with my friend Laibl to try
our luck.
It was very early and a pretty chilly morning when we met in front
of the kitchen doors. There was already a line up of about twenty other boys and young men
in front of us.
The capo and another kitchen worker who opened up the door were both
unable to control the shoving and pushing group of eager youngsters running inside the
kitchen. The understandable chaos prompted another two kitchen workers to intervene in
quieting down the terribly noisy crowd.
Without any effort from my side, I was simply being shoved in by the
others and in seconds I happily found myself inside a large well equipped kitchen. And so
did my friend Laibl. Soon we were both assigned for the job of peeling potatoes.
For a short while I was quite convinced that not only did I find a
good job but also another chance to push through the terrible period and even had a good
chance in my struggle for survival.
Unfortunately my euphoria didn't last too long. I soon realized that
all this was just a dream. As it turned out, the whole new kitchen staff, which was
supposed to be hired at that morning were preassigned by the camp administration. Those
were all youngsters whose names were being put in by capos and other camp dignitaries.
This list was at the moment in the hands of the kitchen capo.
When my friend and I were eventually identified as impostors we were
just quite politely told to leave the place. Surprisingly without any sort of punishment.
Our effort however turned out to be not entirely unsuccessful.
Apparently out of pity several of the new kitchen workers took the two of us aside and
told us to be in front of the kitchen early every morning. There a wooden stretcher loaded
with potato peelings would be ready for us to carry it away for disposal at the nearby
dump. They promised that under each load of potato peelings, they will place several
potatoes or some other raw produce.
Needless to say.that we were both happy and grateful to our new
acquired friends. Although it was not an easy job for a couple of starved camp inmates, we
were both happy with the results of our not completely successful venture.
For quite a while this unexpected addition to our daily rations gave
me another chance to fight starvation.
REUNION WITH MY TWIN BROTHER
The problem with raw potatoes is of course that before eating them,
they have to be cooked. So, with the experience of a concentration camp inmate, I somehow
managed to solve this problem to my full satisfaction. First I asked my kitchen friends to
supply me with two empty tin cans. One I used as a cooking dish on which I made a couple
of holes and attached to them a piece of wire. The wire which was formed in the shape of a
hook was easy to hang up inside the small wood burner which was still from time to time
heating our hut.
The second can I took apart and formed a straight piece of tin.
Using the same large nail and a rock with which I opened the holes on the cooking can, I
knocked out dozens of small holes creating a perfect shredder to make potato pancakes. My
friends at the kitchen from time to time supplied me with a bit of salt to add some taste
to my cooking.
So every mid morning after returning from my chores and safely
leaving with several potatoes in my pockets, I felt quite satisfied. Most of the time I
rested for a while before starting my cooking. The main meal which I made for myself was
of course a potato soup, which I often shared with a couple of my closest neighbours.
Sometimes closer to the evenings, when the small burner was really hot I made some potato
pancakes by sticking the shredded potato mix to the sides of the wood burner. I must say,
that those "latkes" (pancakes) tasted heavenly. But also this delicious treat I
often shared with my friends.
Having an almost perfect schedule, and not living on an entirely
starvation diet, I took some afternoon walks around the camp grounds with the hope to find
somebody who by any chance did meet or heard something about my brother.
During the last week of March warmer weather arrived with sunshine
most of the day. On those days the camp started to show a bit more of life. There was
noticeable activity in preparation for the approaching nice weather. Small groups of
inmates supervised by capos or foremen were helping to plant flowers in front of the SS
barracks. Other small groups were busy cleaning up the walks in front of those barracks,
but doing their jobs very slowly and seemingly without strict supervision. Many skeletal
inmates, dirty and unshaven, were standing on their thin legs wrapped in their blankets
next to the hut. Others obviously too tired to stand, were sitting on the still muddy
grounds. With their sad eyes and understandable envy, they kept looking at those still
able to walk, or able to do some work.
I could not help comparing those poor souls with the still healthy
looking capos, foremen, and block eldest, who still looked the same as I remember them
after my arrival from Auschwitz many months before.
On one of my walks I came face to face with the two highest ranking
camp inmates. Hans, the camp leader and Rolf, the head capo, were both
"mischlings" (half German and half Jewish). Both tall and handsome, apparently
in their early thirties, looked even better and healthier than at the time of our arrival
at the camp. They were both apparently having their meals together with the SS high
ranking officers and as some inmates would attest, were many times spotted in the company
of German female SS guards from a nearby womens camp.
On one of my daily walks, it must have been on the last days of
March of 1944, 1 met a man who travelled with us in the same wagon from Auschwitz. I am
unable to recall the mans name, but he knew my brother and myself quite well. He
must have been already in his late thirties or perhaps early forties, and with his
friendly personality acted like some sort of protector of the many youngsters who were
travelling with him.
We were talking for quite a while and needless to say that we were
both happy to have met each other again. He hugged me in a fatherly fashion and before
going back to my quarters, we exchanged the numbers of each others huts, promising
to visit each other as often as possible.
It was already past noon when I reached my hut. Since the little
wood burner seemed to be quite hot, I decided to make myself a few pancakes. I was just
starting to eat when I heard the noise of the little gate slamming open. I also thought
that somebody was calling my name. I hastily turned around.
Holding the gate wide open, the man with whom I had just spoken a
short while ago excitingly told me that he brought me a precious gift. While he was trying
to tell me what it was all about, my brother came running towards me. To describe the
remarkable scene of our reunion is for me truly impossible. I can't even recall our first
words that we had said to each other, while hugging and kissing. However, I clearly
remember what he said when he saw the pancakes in front of me. Looking at me with wide
open eyes, he whispered: "You have food?"
After pleading with my block eldest, he permitted my brother to move
in into our hut and secured for him a spot next to me.
My brothers story of how he survived the bloody diarrhea and
then how he found the place where I was staying was quite miraculous.
Soon after he left camp 1 on that miserable day after New Years, he
started to feel much better. The fresh air during his ride to another camp seemed to have
helped a lot in his recovery. He landed in camp 7, which was also designated as a
"Schonungs Lager". Since he felt pretty good after his arrival he was also
permitted to wear his clothing and the same as I did here, he performed all kinds of work
around the camp. Before the liquidation of camp 7 he was transferred to camp 4 in
Kaufering. The same as I, he also was hoping to find me here.
Exactly as I did after my arrival, he was also venturing around the
camp hoping to find somebody who might have known something about my whereabouts.
Incidentally or miraculously, the first person he met was the same
man I was talking to a short while ago. Being happy to see a familiar face, Mayer
approached the man greeting him warmly and asking him how he was. The man looked at him in
bewilderment, asking him if he is, "Out of his mind"... "I was just talking
to you a short while ago, and you are asking me again, how I am?" A bit confused, he
added, "I hope that you are not loosing your mind."
Needless to say that my brother immediately understood the mix up.
Although we were not identical twins, people used to confuse us, especially in the camps
with both shaved heads and wearing the same Prison uniforms.
Without further explanation, Mayer grabbed the mans arm and
begged him immediately to take him to my hut... "You were talking to my brother, not
to me", he tried to convince our good friend. Happy about the turn of events, our
friend whose name I unfortunately am not able to recall, brought me the best present
imaginable.
A SMALL FOOD PARCEL FROM THE RED CROSS
Being together again with my brother was advantageous for both of
us. First of all it was a fulfillment of my Mothers last wish. Besides that, we both
felt more secure and ready to help each other in any way possible. In the meantime Mayer
took over the duties of preparing the additional meals made from my daily limited supply
of potatoes. His presence gave me a chance to rest up after my morning chores.
Even with the additional few potatoes, the task of carrying quite
heavy loads of potato peelings became harder by the day. With ever smaller bread rations
and the replacement of a little bit of marmalade instead of margarine, my strength seemed
gradually to diminish.
In the beginning of April, rumors began to spread among the inmates
that we might soon receive some food parcels from the International Red Cross. As
fantastic as it may have sounded, it really happened. Sometime before Passover on one of
those sunny spring days, the camp loud speakers were calling for the block eldests and
their helpers to report to the camp warehouse. Soon after they returned with a pushcart
full of small boxes with the "Red Cross" stamped on top of them.
Unfortunately this first ever unexpected gift which arrived just a
few weeks before liberation, turned out to be a curse instead of a blessing. The content
of the parcel, one kilo of sugar cubes, one small can of coronation cream, and a pack of
twenty cigarettes, triggered one of the worst disasters this camp had experienced since
the disastrous typhoid epidemic.
The overwhelming majority of the half dead and skeletal inmates were
unable to digest the fat cream and the many sugar cubes which they eagerly consumed as
fast as they received them. Non-smokers immediately exchanged their cigarettes for another
can of cream or some additional sugar. Many finished their entire parcel in one sitting.
The result was indeed devastating. In our hut alone several victims
died during the night while others complained bitterly of stomach cramps and diarrheas.
As usual, there was no medical help available, and many more victims
were found dead on their bunks the next day and after.
My brother and I ate only some of the sugar cubes and shared one can
of cream. The rest we kept hidden under the saw dust of our bunks. The cigarettes we
gradually traded for additional slices of bread. This additional food made our lives a bit
easier for another week or ten days.
Even with all that my physical situation kept on deteriorating until
I reached a point of no return.
CHAPTER 13
CAMP 4 KAUFERING (PASSOVER 1945)
At first after my arrival at camp 4, the place was filled up to
capacity. This was of course almost eight months earlier. Each hut was then fully occupied
with about fifty inmates, all laboring at the large construction site of "Leonard
Moll-Munich."
On passover of 1945, the camp was less than half empty with mostly
unable to work, sick and almost half dead inmates. The overwhelming majority of the first
arrivals, mostly from Auschwitz, were already dead. Starvation, hard labor, constant
harassment, and all kinds of diseases, were causes for this tragic and devastating
situation.
Even with the steady daily influx of new arrivals from camps of
Eastern Germany, this place could never reach its capacity again.
Since none of the present inmates were doing any outside work, the
daily rations for the mostly and slowly dying inmates was kept to a bare minimum. A slice
of stale mostly greenish with mold black bread with some colored lukewarm water for
breakfast and a watery soup with a single slice of potato, if you were lucky, could hardly
keep us alive.
So ever fewer of these skeletons dared to venture outside of their
huts to catch a bit of fresh air or a glimpse at the spring sun. Inevitably the death toll
kept rising.
The blue sky of spring and the beautiful sunny weather kept on
teasing the helpless inmates as if daring them to get off the smelly bunks and come
outside to enjoy nature. However, we the members of the chosen people, were not granted
this great gift of nature. Nobody or very few were able to step outside or even care any
more to do that. Fortunately my brother and I were still able to move around, while I with
my friend, Laibl were still, although with a much slower pace, continuing with our daily
chores.
I was still hoping to make it to the end, and my optimism of
surviving this terrible war remained as strong as ever.
After all, we were all aware of the fact that Germany was losing the
war. We also knew that allied forces were already on German soil. But most of us lacked
physical or mental strength to celebrate. We were also aware of the recently established
"United Nations," which had already drawn up plans for a new world order. The
question at the time however was who among us was going to live to enjoy the planned new
world.
Most of the inmates in this camp and most likely in any other Nazi
concentration camps had given up and lost their will to continue the daily struggle for
survival. "What is the use to continue suffering, when by the end the Nazis are going
to kill us anyways?" was the accepted argument by most of us.
Although my intentions were not to give up, I was finally forced to
quit my daily job. My health and strength deteriorated to a point when I could hardly get
off my bunk and venture outside the hut. Just a short while ago I was still among the few
fortunate ones who was able to supplement my meager daily rations. I had an exceptional
break and help from friends who were working in the kitchen. However as it seemed, all
this was not enough to keep me on my feet. For a while I was quite sure that this
additional help would let me continue my daily struggle while still standing on my own
feet. Unfortunately it was just the opposite. It seemed that I was working too hard to
sustain my ever diminishing strength.
For some, the shining sun became like a magnet for those still able
to move. Slowly they dragged themselves outside and sat down resting their skeletal bodies
on the hut walls, trying to enjoy as much as possible the warm spring weather.
They hardly talked to each other. Not that there wasn't enough to
talk about, but they all seemed to be engulfed in their own thoughts. Some of them were
sitting there with wide open eyes as if wondering what this world is all about, while
others seemed asleep, perhaps dreaming of the past, of being together with their families
and perhaps even dreaming of a bright future.
During rare occasions when I was also sitting down among my fellow
sufferers, I did my best not to think at all, especially not about the past. I tried my
best to enjoy the few precious minutes which I hoped would help me to push through another
day. It was however very depressing to look at the people around me.
I knew most of them, they were all young men in their early twenties
and some still teenagers. I remember them when they were still looking quite human, and
some of them used to be my co-workers at the construction site.
Dear God, how they all changed. Living skeletons with greyish pale
faces and terribly sad eyes which were placed deep into their skulls. How many of them, I
thought will be strong enough and fortunate enough to survive under the prevailing
circumstances?
It looked to me quite bizarre that even during those moments it
never really crossed my mind that I would not survive. I somehow witnessed horrible
suffering all around me without really realizing that I am one of them.
I used to whisper to myself, even trying to convince myself that I
must survive, and even that I am destined to survive: "How is the world going to know
what was happening to our people if we would all perish?" I was sure even during the
worst moments of suffering that by the end there are going to be survivors, and that with
God's help, I would be among them.
THE FIRST CONFRONTATION WITH MY BLOCK ELDEST
It happened during Passover of 1945. Until that day I was fortunate
to belong to very few favorites of this monster.
The supreme master of our hut who was known as the block eldest was
a well known sadist by the name of Zulty. In Warsaw and later in Paris before the war, he
was working as a baker. As a capo at Auschwitz and later as a foreman of a clean-up squad
after the Warsaw ghetto uprising, he apparently single-handedly had killed several
inmates.
The irony of all that was that ZuIty considered himself a marxist, a
saviour of the suffering working class. At every occasion he kept on preaching about the
superior quality of life in the Soviet Union while denouncing the oppressionist regimes of
capitalist countries. He also considered himself an ardent music lover but his preference
in songs were mostly tunes which were denouncing capitalism. Since I remembered quite well
several such songs, he designated me and a couple of other youngsters as his "block
singers." After noticing some of my pencil drawings he also considered me as his
block artist. So every night before turning off the light he confortably stretched himself
out on his bunk and together with his ever-present boy friend at his side, enjoyed our
songs praising the victorys of the world proletariat. For this task and for my"art
work" he rewarded me with an extra spoon of marmalade and sometimes even with a slice
of bread.
Many times during our "concerts," Zulty used to open his
little window, actually the only window in the hut in order that the SS man on top of the
nearby tower could also enjoy himself and arrive at some sort of satisfaction by hearing
young Jews singing for him.
Apparently this was a Ukranian SS man who was on exceptional
friendly terms with our block eldest who was a well known homosexual. According to Zulty,
this guard was once an active communist who was forced into the "Waffen SS"
against his will. On this particular night before the first day of Passover, after our
nightly "performance" the hut became engulfed a deadly silence. Somehow at once
everybodys thoughts became occupied with the fact that this was supposed to have
been the first Seder night.
While my mind was completely absorbed with thoughts about the
Passover Seder together with my family and almost hearing myself asking the "four
questions," I returned to reality by a tap on my shoulder. Unwilling to abandon the
beautifully served Passover table, I tried to hold on to that vision a bit longer. But my
neighbours pleading voice kept on repeating itself, although in a sort of a whisper.
My neighbour, a Hungarian born Orthodox Jew, pleaded with me to
perform a "great Mitzvah" (a good deed). This thirty something ultra religious
man asked me to intervene with Zulty on his behalf. Since he would never eat bread on
Passover, and as he put it, he would rather die instead of becoming a sinner, he would
like me to ask our block eldest to give him during the Passover days an extra soup instead
of the bread ration.
I tried as much as I could to convince this skeletal young man that
in his condition he would be better off with his bread ration, and might even commit a sin
by not eating it. My arguments were obviously unsuccessful. Apparently I found Mr. Zulty
in an exceptional good mood, or perhaps he pretended to be, because without hesitation he
promptly agreed to give the poor man an extra soup instead of the bread. When I gave the
good news of the arrangement to my neighbour, his pale skinny face seemed to had lightened
up from happiness.
It did not take me too long to realize that Zultys deal was
worth as much as his reputation. The poor inmate did indeed not receive his daily bread
ration, but the promised extra soup was never given to him. All this poor starving man
could do at the time was moaning and quietly complaining to his helpless fellow inmates.
I can not recall exactly on which day it happened, perhaps on the
third or the fourth day of Passover, when my starving neighbour kept whispering into my
ear, "Please, my friend, please help me", he was crying bitterly. Feeling a
sense of guilt for actually believing the block eldest, and making the deal with this
monster, I could hardly hide my frustration and anger.
Obviously not realizing that Zulty might hear me from quite a
distance, I apparently,a bit too loud, urged my starving friend to walk over and with the
little strength left in him, demand from the block eldest to keep the deal as promised.
"Don't wait any longer if you want to survive the holidays" were my last angry
words before a deadly silence overtook the dimly lit hut.
Suddenly the hoarse voice of a obviously angry block eldest, broke
the silence like a thunder during a bad storm: "You f ... ing bastard son of a bitch
painter" he shouted like a wild beast..."Come over here at once, you little
creep".
All I managed to notice on the way to his part of the hut were the
faces of my scared fellow inmates and friends. Walking like in a daze, I apparently did
not fully realize the seriousness of the situation.
A bit of light from an outside lamppost managed to steal itself into
the almost dark hut and allowed me a glimpse at Zultys viciously angry face. Before
I came near him and before I was able to open my mouth, I found myself flying backwards in
the direction I came from. Fortunately our tormentor hit me with a vicious slap to my face
which was so powerful that I completely lost control of my entire body. In seconds I found
myself on the floor at the other end of the hut. Although my face seemed bruised, and
swollen, I was grateful that the brutal monster didn't hit me with a clenched fist. In
pain I could hear Zulty continue his vicious diatribe for at least several more minutes.
Even in a much worse hoarse voice than before, he kept on shouting obscenities in my
direction: "If it wouldn't have been you, you bastard son of a bitch, I would have
killed you." Several times he repeated the same sentence.
I am not quite sure if my poor ultra religious neighbour received
any additional soup on the remaining few days of Passover. However, I do remember well
that a couple of days after Passover of 1945 only a few short weeks before liberation,
this deeply religious man was found dead on his bunk. In contrast to other victims of
starvation he looked exceptionally peaceful as if being already liberated.
This was about the same time when my own health was already rapidly
starting to deteriorate. I became almost completely bunk ridden and could hardly walk on
my own. I had to have the help of my brother even to walk over the few meters to the
"relieve" bucket.
Without the extra few potatoes I earned by carrying heavy loads of
potato peelings, plus the recent loss of the small privileges granted to me by our block
eldest, I became weaker by the minute. The ever more reduced bread ration, and the ever
more thinner daily soup added to my physical deterioration.
Since I was not able to continue my daily chores at the kitchen, I
desperately tried to talk my brother into taking over my job. I attempted to convince him
that the few extra potatoes might help me in my recovery as well as help him to continue
to stand on his own, moved him. Realizing in what condition I was in, his argument seemed
quite logical: I would rather not eat" he argued "than use up my last bit of
strength for a couple of rotten potatoes. At first I was quite upset by his refusal to
help out. After all he was always an equal partner to whatever food I managed to bring in.
Later however I fully realized that he was right indeed.
During those last weeks of April, hundreds of new arrivals crossed
the gates of our camp bringing with them tales of horror and devastation. Many
concentration camps in East Germany, including the infamous camp of Buchenwald, were
liquidated and their Jewish inmates were being dragged by foot in the direction of the
Tyrol mountains. When the surviving inmates reached our camp they were already half dead.
For several weeks under most gruesome conditions, those unfortunate
Jewish men and women had to endure torture, cold and starvation. Those unable to continue
walking were shot or beaten to death. Their bodies.were dumped into the ditches alongside
the roads. According to the survivors thousands upon thousands of those unfortunate men
and women perished on the roads and byways of Germany.
A relatively very small percentage of those "marchers",
managed to survive this terrible ordeal. After arriving in "camp 4" they were
assigned to different huts where they shared the miserable lives of the already
"native" inmates.
Surprisingly also large groups of Soviet P.O.W.s arrived at the same
time. Those separately kept prisoners did not look much better than the Jewish inmates.
They were only recognizable by their dilapidated Russian military uniforms. In a blatant
violation of the "Geneva convention," those prisoners of war were starved and
tortured in the same way as the Jewish inmates.
Those already walking skeletons were wearing uniforms which seemed
several sizes larger than their bodies. To those who watched those former brave soldiers,
they appeared tragically ridiculous. After several days we learned that the Soviet
prisoners left the camp for an unknown destination.
MY SECOND AND LAST CONFRONTATION WITH ZULTY
It was probably about ten days before liberation. I was already one
of those helpless skeletons as most of the occupants of my hut. Unable to wash myself or
even to walk over to the bucket to relief myself. From time to time my brother who was
still in relatively good shape helped me drag myself outside to get some fresh air and
enjoy the beautiful Bavarian spring weather.
But most of the time when Mayer with a couple of friends who were
still able to walk ventured outside by himself, I remained quite lonely on my bunk
listening to the moaning and silent cries of dying inmates. However I felt sometimes much
worse when some of them seemed too quiet. It turned out that those silent ones, most of
the time were already dead.
Sometimes I used to hear loud complaints addressed to God ... They
kept asking "Hashem", why he created such a gorgeous spring "while none of
us is able to enjoy it?" "Do you care more for the German people than for your
own chosen ones?" Some in their distress and anger were even cursing their God.
Others were simply complaining about the stale piece of molding
bread which they were already unable to swallow or for the awful watery daily soup.
Considering my own condition I suddenly realized that theirs was a
truly legitimate complaint. Lately it was getting very difficult for me to bite into this
hard like a rock stale bread and the soup which contained just a hint of potatoes was
causing pain to my stomach instead of stilling my hunger.
I remember telling my brother about not being able to eat the slice
of bread or swallow the always cold watery soup. He told me then that the block eldest is
cheating us by distributing to the inmates only the water from the soup barrel while the
potatoes which were left at the bottom, he enjoyed together with his little boy friend.
Mayer assured me that he himself saw the two large plates of dense soup on the block
eldest table.
Although it was always obvious to all of us that Zulty was stealing
from our rations, it nevertheless irritated me this time more than ever. It was hard to
comprehend that this sadist would continue to steal from us under the present conditions
and so close to our possible liberation.
Full of rage and obsessed with a desire to let this beast know what
we felt about this practice, I was looking forward to next distribution of the daily soup.
On the next day when Zulty with the help of his "stuben
dienst" began to distribute the soup, I was already armed with a prepared verbal
attack, which Zulty did probably remember until the day he died.
The moment I took the container of soup into my bony hands, I
realized right away that all I received was a container full of luke warm water. Without
the slightest fear of any possible consequences, I started a tirade of insults, I myself
hardly believed were coming out from my mouth and my weak body.
I began with Zultys own expression: "You bastard son of a
bitch" and continued with a rage of obscenities which almost paralized the shocked
and scared inmates of our hut. I noticed Zulty standing next to the soup barrel seemingly
not less shocked than the others. My brother kept holding me tight trying desperately to
calm me down. His attempt to restrain my outburst, didn't seem to help. Without the last
strength in my body, I kept on shouting: "Don't you know, that your judgement day is
fast approaching?" "Didn't you kill enough of us with your fists and especially
by stealing from our daily rations?" "Do you have to continue those murders,
even now at such a terrible time and at our last struggle for survival?" I recall
shouting at him to take this watery soup from me and choke on it, because "I am not
able to swallow this anyways." Already exhausted with a completely hoarse and still
angry voice, I told him to "Take it and go to hell with it." I finished my
tirade amid a deadly silence.
As if in a daze, Zulty was still standing next to the soup barrel
holding his large ladle in his right hand. The deadly expression on his fat face did
hardly give a hint about his possible reaction. As far as the inmates were concerned, they
probably expected to experience another killing.
I however remember being very calm and most of all very satisfied. I
finally let that beast know who he really was. Something that I am sure many of us had the
urge to tell him but were somehow to weak or were just lacking the energy and guts to do
it. I am sure that deep inside they were all satisfied by what had just happened.
Suddenly we heard Zultys quite subdued voice calling to my
brother, "Mayer, come over here." In a split of a second, Mayer stood in front
of him apparently not knowing what to expect. "Bring me over his soup" he
requested from my brother, who rapidly followed his order. Zulty took my soup, poured it
back into the barrel, and waited for a second. While all eyes of the scared inmates were
focused on him, Zulty slowly dipped the ladle down to the bottom of the barrel, and filled
my container up to the rim with a dense soup full of large slices of potatoes.
"Give it to your brother and let him eat it" he said with
a tone which sounded quite cynical. He then continued to distribute the soup as if nothing
had happened. This time as I found out to everyones satisfaction, each soup
contained at least a few slices of potatoes.
EXPELLED FROM THE HUT
The next morning Zulty came in with a man I had never seen before.
He introduced him to me as a doctor, who examined me thoroughly (or pretended to conduct
an examination). After the examination the alleged doctor decided that I had typhoid. To
my reaction that this is impossible, since I already went through this disease during an
epidemic in the Lodz Ghetto, the "doctors" answer was complete silence.
Nevertheless his swift recommendation was an immediate transfer to a so-called typhoid
block. I must admit, that at first I was almost fooled by Zultys change of heart.
But as it turned out his seemingly kind gesture was just a calculated way of revenge.
Being already afraid of fresh accusations of cruelty, in the wake of the obviously near
liberation, he conveniently expelled me from my familiar environment and effectively
separated me from my twin brother.
In 1945 or in the beginning of 1946 1 had learned that my former
block eldest, was shot dead while walking on a street in Paris. Zulty was apparently
gunned down by a sibling of one of his many victims.
CHAPTER 14
THE LAST WEEK AT CAMP 4-KAUFERING, DACHAU
With the last confrontation with my block eldest still on my mind, I
was hanging on quietly to the arms of my brother who assisted me on the way to my new
quarters. I don't remember how the weather really was on that for me gruesome day. But the
grounds were still muddy and treacherous as during the worst winter days. It again crossed
my mind a perception that muddy grounds were somwhow a part of Nazi torture intended to
make our lives as miserable as possible.
The time to reach the typhoid block seemed to me endless, although
the distance from my place to the intended destination was no more than about a hundred
and fifty metres. My skeletal legs were so weak that the wooden shoes on my feet seemed to
pull me to the ground with their weight.
When we finally reached the designated "typhoid hut" I
thought that I felt some rain, or perhaps just a drizzle. I don't remember the exact time,
but the heavy clouds were adding to the approaching darkness of the late afternoon. This
seemingly sudden bad weather added a lot to my extremely depressed state of mind.
With one hand Mayer opened the little gate, and with the other he
carefully led me down the several steps into the hut. He then left me in quite a hurry, as
if being terribly afraid of catching the deadly desease.
The hut was completely engulfed in darkness. I was not sure whether
the little bulb hanging down from the ceiling was turned off or was already burned out.
A young man who seemed to be waiting just for my arrival handed me a
dirty blanket and helped me to find a place to settle down. Amid total darkness he found a
narrow space between two inmates. Having completed his task without uttering a single
word, he disapeared, never to be seen again.
The total darkness inside this place was frightening. Even the
little window at the rear of the hut did not let in a trace of some outside light. I
settled down between two conspicuously quiet patients. Not being sure if they were dead or
alive I was quite relieved to hear one of them letting out a faint growl. The stench
inside this so-called typhoid barrack was unbearable. In addition to the horrible odor of
human excrement, there was also a mixture of staleness and sweat and most probably of
decomposing human flesh.
Through the blinding darkness it was hard for me to see any faces,
not even of my closest neighbour, but according to the many bony bare feet which were
sticking out from under the blankets, the place seemed filled up to capacity.
Lying stretched out I was finally able to rest at least temporarily
my aching bones. The depressed thoughts inside my equally aching head were chasing each
other like racing cars. I tried my best to be as rational as possible under the
circumstances. But felt much too tired and weak to concentrate. Willingly or not, many
nagging questions started to surface inside my mind: "Why are we here left completely
on our own without supervision of any kind?" "Why are we left in total
darkness?" But the worst question of all was: "Why is it so frightening quiet
inside - this by God and anyone else forsaken place?"
Although I had my suspicions, I could not arrive at a definite
explanation. But after several hours inside this despicable place of human misery I
started to see the real picture quite clearly.
When the usual standard time for the distribution of the daily
rations had passed without anybody showing up, I fully realized the gravity of my present
situation. Even in my quite unstable state of mind, it became clear to me that I am not
inside a so-called typhoid barrack. This place was no hospital of any kind. Besides not
having a doctor or nurse on duty, this place had not even a simple human being who would
take care of our minimum human needs. This hut was simply a part of a "final
solution" without a gas chamber.
The terribly poisoned air and the deplorable conditions inside this
place and left alone without food or water, was equal to a death sentence.
Not even the filled up bucket of human excrement seemed ever to be
emptied, but worst of all the already dead inmates were not being removed and left simply
to rot on their bunks. This of course clearly explained the scary silence as well as the
unbearable stench.
Although my stomach was completely empty, I was much more bothered
by thirst than hunger. I hadn't had a bite or any fluid for at least twenty four hours. My
mind kept on working in a abnormal speed. Yesterdays events came back to me clear
and vivid. I suddenly realized that my block eldest could have easily killed me. I also
realized that for this man being insulted in front of his victims, must have been a
terrible blow.
But the times surely did change. Zulty was indeed aware that the
Americans were quite close and that his days as master over helpless inmates were
numbered. So as sneaky and clever he thought he was, this shameless collaborator and
vicious torturer surely must have realized that this was the time to pretend to be a nice
guy. That must have been the only reason that instead of a deadly punch, he gave me a bowl
of potato soup.
In addition to that human gesture, he also demonstrated how
passionate he could be when a sick inmate needed help. That's why he probably decided to
let me be examined by a so-called doctor who did it of course in front of the surprised
inmates.
It didn't take too long for me to get used to the terrible stench
inside this forsaken hut. However, the continuous total darkness became unbearable. I also
missed terribly at least for a little while to talk to somebody. Even the closest
neighbour of mine seemed to be dead or close to it. From time to time I could hear a quiet
painfull growl or some hardly understandable whisper in Yiddish or Polish mixed with some
muffled sobbing. In general the hut was engulfed in a deadly silence.
I felt terribly alone and abandoned, even by my own brother who
hadn't visited me yet. The dryness in my throat and mouth was terribly irritating. Cracks
opened up on my dried-out lips, and I began feeling some wetness on my neck caused by a
reopening of the old scar which was again bleeding and discharging puss. It was hard for
me to understand at the time why I did not feel any special pain.
From time to time I tried to talk to myself and even to utter a
silent prayer: "All I need " I felt myself uttering, "is just some water
and a visit from my brother." I also heard some subdued voices of a couple of other
inmates. One very close to me asked God not to forsake us and help the unfortunate
children of Israel.
Through the sleepless nights I could not stop thinking about my
grave situation. My eyes were burning to a point where I could hardly keep them ajar. When
finally the morning dusk arrived I somehow felt a bit safer and more secure. The strong
sun seemed to manage to push through a little bit of light into the hut, although the
window was small and covered with dirt. At such times feeling a bit more hopeful I fell
asleep.
When I woke up the hut seemed a bit brighter. A few sunbeams must
have shown some mercy for the abandoned creatures inside this even by God forsaken place.
It took me a few seconds to realize where I was. Then I let my bony legs slide down to the
muddy floor and bare footed, dragged myself over to the overflown bucket to relieve
myself. The smelly full of refuse bucket brought me back to reality. When I slowly
returned to my place I usually tried to sit down at least for a while at the edge of the
bunk. "I cant give up, I must continue my struggle to survive." I looked
around but through the half darkness I could not see any movement or much sign of life. I
estimated that at least fifty percent of patients in this typhoid hut must have been dead
with the rest dying or in a coma.
I tried to convince myself that I had a better chance to survive
than many of the others. They had nobody who would help them. With me it was entirely
different. After all, I still had a brother who will surely show up at any minute. If he
would only have the occasion, he would bring me a slice of bread, perhaps even a bit of
soup. But most importantly some water, maybe even a lot of water.
Why should I even think otherwise. After all he's my twin brother
with whom I have shared every bite I managed to obtain. I did that from the start of our
incarceration to the day my strength gave up on me. Somehow I was always lucky, probably
with the help of my invisible guardian angel in obtaining some additional food. I was
quite sure that he fully realized that now was his turn, and with that awareness he would
show up pretty soon.
With these kind of thoughts the hours went by while the hut returned
to its usual darkness. Nothing in this place however seemed to change. Although
interrupted from time to time by some silent moaning or crying, the deadly silence in this
hut was more than frightning. Perhaps yet another inmate passed away in silent agony? But
the little gate of our hut remained constantly shut.
Nobody, not a living soul seemed to come through this little gate,
not even my own twin brother.
On the third or fourth day my two bony sticks which were once strong
legs were already unable to carry me over the short distance to the bucket. I was lying in
a pool of urine and excrement, unable to do anything about it.
I don't remember feeling any more hunger, but was tortured by a
terrible thirst. "If only my brother could manage to bring me something to
drink." Tears kept constantly running down my bony cheeks. All my thoughts at the
time were full of questions and doubts of why my brother was still not showing up, even
for a single minute. Amid my helpless and horrible situation I began worrying about the
well being of my brother. In addition to the terrible darkness inside the hut, I became
blinded by my own tears.
As ridiculous and bizarre it may sound, my constant sobbing turned
into some kind of blessing. I kept on licking and swallowing the salty tears which came
down close to my mouth. This little bit of fluid became in a way a relief for my burned up
lips and soothed a bit the dryness of my blistered mouth.
The pain and frustration and even anger about my brothers
continuing absence became much worse than the misery of the nights and days spent in this
almost mass grave.
I even became immune to the horrible plague of body lice. My
blanket, the one and only piece of clothing which supposed to shield my body from the
chill and dampness of this hut, was literally invaded by lice. These little creatures
usually had the power of constantly keeping you from getting some much needed sleep and
provided you with endless torture while you were awake.
So during my present predicament, this until now terrible plague
became secondary to my other problems. Whether my brother would show up or not, my
determination and unbreakable will to survive became my number one goal. Even in my
seemingly hopeless situation I was hoping that with my perseverence, hope and sincere
belief that also this time I would overcome and manage to survive. Perhaps I was not
entirely in full control of my senses, but I still believed and trusted my Guardian Angel,
who somehow until now never missed to be around when I needed him (or her).
I remember once when I was quite sure that nobody was listening or
perhaps at a time when I was quite delirious, silently talking and asking questions to our
God himself: "Dear God, how can you allow your chosen people being tortured by the
Nazi murderers and their helpers?" I also kept on asking if he doesn't think that it
is time to bring an end to the suffering of his people.
Although I could hardly hear my own voice, my questions turned into
an angry outburst: "What wrong have we done to deserve such harsh punishments?"
..."You took everything from us, our parents, our families, our freedom ... isn't
that enough?" I continued with an ever more lower voice to plead for help for the
still living souls of this horrible place. Especially in the wake of the soon approaching
end of the war.
I could have gone on and on, if not of a faint but very angry voice
coming from a short distance away "Shut up you idiot, there is no God", and as
if in embarrassment he repeated himself, "There is no God". While continuing the
same sentence several more times, the poor man turned his resentment into a silent
sobbing.
Another day went by without anybody showing up to provide us with
some help. Unable to count the days anymore, it was impossible for me to actually pinpoint
the time of my presence inside this place without any food or water.
Being completely dehydrated and hardly able to move, I was lying on
that dirty with lice infested place still hoping for some sort of relief.
Because the little gate of the hut was not opened for quite a long
time, the place seemed completely airless. It became impossible to breathe. But all my
thoughts continued to be occupied with my brothers fate. I could still not
comprehend why he never came to see me. I became frightened by the thought that perhaps he
was not alive any more.
I kept on crying, but my tears seemed already to have dried out. I
nevertheless tried not to give up and still kept on hoping for the best.
After all I was one of the very few who never subscribed to the
theory that the Germans would kill us all, even minutes before liberation.
After a few days I became accustomed not only to the life in this
hut but also to the steady almost total darkness. I was able to see certain things,
although not too many details. I looked at my bony legs and my thoughts were wandering
back to my childhood. "Is it possible that those legs were once able to play soccer
or ice skate?" I was also, probably to forget a bit about my present prediciment,
thinking about the many hours I was standing on my legs playing table tennis in
preparation for upcoming competitive matches.
Probably in order to forget about my lonliness, I even tried to
recall the time when my Father brought home the first ice skates for my brother and
myself. I must have been six or seven at the time. How trivial it seemed to me while lying
among dead and dying inmates, to remember the label on those skates: "turf weden
stahl." This for me unforgettable day happened after I was skating for a while on
only one old skate attached to my right shoe. This loving gesture by my Father seemed to
me something that I would never forget.
Finally on the fourth or the fifth day of my total loneliness I
thought that I heard the little gate shut open and to my pleasant surprise I also heard my
brothers voice calling my name. Apparently not being sure if I was dead or alive, my
brother kept on calling my name and asking where I was. I tried to reply to his callings
but my voice was so low that he was barely able to hear me. I used the maximum of strength
to raise my voice, which apparently made him aware of my presence. After a few minutes of
searching through the darkness, he finally found me. At first I was numb with accumulated
rage, but nevertheless was happy to hear his voice and see him standing near me. I started
to cry hysterically, being unable to utter a single word. "What is it?" he asked
as if not fully realizing the gravity of the situation. Perhaps not to make me feel too
bad he pretended that everything was quite normal.
I gathered whatever little strength was left inside my body and
still crying, I asked him why he waited so long to visit me. Still crying I pleaded for
his help. Without uttering a single word, he took both my hands into his and held them
tight.
Finally he seemed to be talking to me, but his words made hardly any
sense. I was unable to see the expression on his face but I was sure that he was also
crying. What I was able to understand and clearly remember was that the camp was being
evacuated. I also understood that all able bodied inmates were being taken and escorted
out to an unknown destination by SS troops. In my feverish mind I could hardly fully
comprehend what my brother had just told me.
My brothers entire visit must have lasted about five minutes.
He told me that he must join the hundreds of others who were already getting ready to
leave the camp. Amid tears by both of us, Mayer handed me a medium size raw potato after
he promised to fetch for me some water, "if only possible"....he kissed my
forehead and promised to see me soon.
The next time I saw my brother was forty-five years later, when he
visited me together with his son in Montreal.
EVACUATION
My brothers gift became my only source of nourishment for the
next several days. Only the tremendous will to survive provided me with the strength even
to be able to bite into the raw potato, which provided me with both some food and some
fluid.
Like a baby satisfying its hunger from a mothers breast, I was
eagerly sucking the cooling delicious juices of the raw potato. I was also consuming small
crumbs of the potato itself. As I always did with my meager rations, I also this time had
the sense of preserving this newly found treasure: "There is always another day"
my mind told me. Every hour or so slowly and with care, I took the potato to my mouth and
sucked a bit of strength into my dehydrated body.
Perhaps it was just psychosomatic, whether it was real or imaginary,
I began feeling better and stronger. For the first time in several days I was able slowly
to drag myself to the bucket of refuse to relieve myself.
After my brother had left me my mind kept on searching for an
explainable reason for his unexplainable behavior toward me. To avoid unnecessary pain, I
found an answer which would at once soothe my anger and also free my brother from any
intentional wrongdoing. The answer in my head, but not exactly in my heart, was quite
simple: Since he was convinced that my days were probably numbered, he was reluctant to
take unnecessary chances by visiting a possibly highly contagious typhoid hut.
My self explanation seemed at the time quite logical especially then
when he saw the Nazis leaving the camp in great panic and being sure that liberation was
closer than ever before. Not thinking too much about my own situation, in my mind my
brothers behavior was fully forgiven.
With the help of my blanket I wiped my eyes dry, took a deep breath
and again reaffirmed my promise not to give up. "I will gather every bit of strength
left in my body and continue my struggle to survive."
"I am not going to die"...I cried out not being sure if
anyone heard me. This time however nobody told me to shut up.
MY GUARDIAN ANGEL AT WORK AGAIN
On that evening I somehow fell asleep quite early. I was suddenly
awakened by loud shouts in German mixed with screams and cries in other languages. The
until now mostly quiet nights and days were apparently coming to an end. Inside our hut
however a deadly silence still prevailed. Nobody seemed to hear or even care. Not having
forgotten what my brother told me several hours earlier, I sensed something of utmost
importance was happening or was going to happen.
While all kinds of thoughts began torturing my mind again the little
door of our hut burst open with a frightening bang. Together with the now amplified
noises, the lights from the lamp post outside brought in a brightness into our hut never
seen before. Two young men apparently in great hurry were desperately trying to wake up
one inmate after another, obviously without great success.
"Whoever is able to leave the bunks, we are going to help"
they shouted. "You have to get out of here very fast"...They kept on shouting to
a clearly unreceptive audience.
With an unexplainable power I pushed myself to the edge of the bunk
and managed with my feet to reach the floor. "Here, here" I brought out a quiet
cry from my throat. One of them finally heard me and after a split second they both
grabbed my skeletal body, put my helpless arms over their shoulders and swiftly dragged me
outside. A pushcart already quite full of some half-dead inmates were already lying one on
top of the other. In another very rapid move I was then placed on top of the others. A
couple of other young men were already pulling the filled to capacity push cart.
Amid the indescribable chaos and panic, our pushcart was being
driven as fast as humanly possible. Scores of inmates some still walking on their own feet
and others being helped by others were moving in different directions, as if not realizing
what was going on around them. The camp seemed brighter than ever before with the help of
the usual lamp posts, and some reflectors. The air seemed quite fresh in comparison to the
stench and dampness of the completely airless huts.
Lying on top of the heap, I was able to see most what was going on
around us. While the pushcart was crossing the muddy grounds of the "Appell
Platz", and while I was inhaling the refreshingly wonderfull air, pleading voices and
heart breaking cries for help brought me back to reality. The vast area of the plaza and
all the empty spaces around the camp were transformed into virtual dying fields. Hundreds
of dead and dying inmates were lying all over the place. Many of the dead skeletal bodies
were already piled up one on top of the other. The pain and misery of those still alive
you could see in their horrified wide open eyes. The desperate cries of the dying and
their pleading for help, must have reached the heavens. But no help seemed to be
forthcoming. These pictures of total devastation and horror were visible throughout the
entire camp, and all the way to the waiting trains. Only several minutes after I was being
taken out of the barrack and just before I reached the train I noticed a huge f1re
lighting up the sky behind us. It turned out that the two typhoid barracks, one of them
which was my miserable home for close to a week, were set on fire.
Still on top of the pushcart and realizing what was going on around
me, my mind became again bombarded with questions impossible for me to answer. As a matter
of fact I am now several decades after those horrors still unable to find answers to those
questions.
"How could I explain why I was the only one from my barrack to
be saved by a couple of inmates whom I knew only by the look of their familiar
faces?" "What prompted those two inmates at a time when their own lives were in
mortal danger to so passionately try to help others? As many times during my incarceration
I was also this time mysteriously helped in a way I could hardly had expectedtv. "Why
me?" I kept asking myself. Why did those people choose me while hundreds of pleading
inmates were openly visible and lying all over the camp grounds?
We soon reached the place where a long train was waiting for us. In
contrast to the closed up cattle wagons in which the Nazis were usually transporting their
victims these wagons were similar to half trucks which were used mainly for transporting
coal or construction supplies. The fields close to some wooden areas where the train was
standing was also a picture of sheer hell. Amid chaos and confusion, there seemed no
Germans in sight. Hundreds of half dead skeletons were walking aimlessly apparently not
knowing how to settle down. For those people to climb on top of a wagon was humanly
impossible. Many of them were just lying down on the terribly muddy grounds. Some of them
were helped by still relatively mobile young men who had shown great passion and extreme
human kindness at a time when many others were absorbed in their own well being. I will
always treasure the memories of those days when I witnessed extreme human kindness from
many inmates towards their less fortunate comrades.
During all that indescribable chaos, some of the helpless inmates
were pleading to be placed into the wagons, while others were crying and begging to be
taken off and being placed somewhere on the ground. Most however were unable to move
alltogether, and were helplessly and quietly lying on the ground.
Our pushcart was slowly emptied of its cargo. One of the boys
grabbed my arm and the other took hold of my legs and together they literally threw me
onto the wagon.
I landed on top of a pile of scantily dressed and some completely
naked inmates. The reaction to my sudden arrival on top of them was quite mixed. Some
screamed out in pain apparently hurt by the weight of my bony body and most likely by the
impact of my heavy wooden shoes. They kept on pushing and shoving me off their bodies
while others seemed not to react at all.
Amid all that confusion the most important thing on my mind at the
time was to hold on tightly to my treasured raw potato, whatever was left of it.
No matter what teriible hardship I just had to go through, the next
ordeal with its fresh horrors and sufferings has always seemed to dwarf the previous one.
THE LAST VOYAGE
The train which seemed to move for a short while suddenly stopped
and as I recall, never moved again. The time spent and the pain endured during those
several days, I can describe without hesitation as the summit of my suffering.
Being sqeezed in between many dying and already dead inmates with
some of their wooden shoes cutting mercilessly into the skin of my knees felt like a pain
I had never experienced before. Blood kept gushing from both my legs. I was crying and
pleading for help, but nobody seemed to be able to help me. In addition to this
excrutiating pain the scar on my neck which never really completely healed, reopened again
causing a steady flow of blood probably mixed with pus coming down my back.
To add to my suffering I felt a stinging pain in my right ear which
was also discharging some blood and pus. This came from an almost healed up injury to my
right ear drum. For the first time during my entire incarceration I felt really scared. In
spite of all this however, I gave myself a vow never to give up.
Conspicuously in a way that nobody would notice, I slowly took my
raw potato to my mouth and enjoyed a few small crumbs of the only source of nourishment I
possessed. I can vividly recall thinking at the time that the sweet juices of this potato
must have tasted better than the most expensive wine. Although I was tempted to finish
what remains of the potato once and for all, I still had the sense of keeping some for
later.
I really didn't know then and will probably never know exactly how
many days I managed to live without food or water. Except of course for the raw potato
given to me by my fleeing brother. Days seemed automatically to turn into nights and
nights into days. Although at the beginning I tried to remember the amount of time during
my last voyage, I finally completely lost track.
Again left completely without supervision or anybody to help me it
was impossible for me to reduce the pressure on my bloody knees. In addition I had to
endure for quite a while a heavy load of new victims which were thrown into the wagon on
top of me.
On one morning I was awakened by a sudden outburst of shouting and
crying. When I opened my eyes I saw on the other end of the wagon a couple of young men
holding a basket full of sliced bread. Obviously unable to distribute the bread in an
orderly fashion, they were just throwing slices into the crowd. Suddenly as if the dead
inmates returned to life, most of them tried to push forward with all the power and energy
seemingly still left inside their skeletal bodies. The two men probably fearing the worst
swiftly emptied the entire content of the basket by throwing the bread randomly at the
hungry inmates.
Being tightly pinned in between several unmovable bodies and quite
far from the point of distribution, none of those treasured slices of bread ever reached
me. My pleading in the direction of the two benefactors was apparently never heard.
Silently crying I remained in my helpless condition. Even while being ignored or most
likely being taken for already dead, I could not help admiring those young inmates who
were still trying to help their fellow sufferers.
No matter how bad and how disturbed I felt at the moment, I could
not help to compare this display of human kindness to the many years of witnessing
mens inhumanity to man.
In addition to all the suffering we were also plagued by a constant
drizzle. At the time when some warm weather and a bit of sun might have helped the poor
sufferers, the sky was constantly covered with dense clouds. At some point when the sun
managed to push away some clouds, I felt a bit better even while the pain in all my open
wounds was still bothering me. My worries at the moment however were mainly about the fact
that my raw potato was slowly vanishing.
As time passed it became more quiet on top of the previously noisy
wagon. This silence however was suddenly disrupted by a German military train which seemed
to have stopped just paralell to our train. Armoured vehicles and tanks loaded on top of
the wagons were visible in spite of their camuflaged covers. Again shouts in German were
sounding all over the place.
Suddenly a roar of incoming planes accompanied by several explosions
became a simple affirmation that the war was not over yet. Together with the German
shouts, screams and cries in Yiddish, Hungarian and Polish became a mixture of chaos and
panic.
Bombs exploded in the vicinity of our wagon and I could clearly hear
shrapnel hitting the outside of the wagon walls.
A fresh outbreak of panic occurred immidiately after the several
explosions. Whoever was still able to move began crawling to the wagon walls unwillingly
causing serious injuries to others in their quest to save themselves. In their desperate
attempts to get off the wagons, many of them simply fell down to the ground and some of
them apparently remained there lying helplessly. The stronger ones or at least some of
them managed to crawl into the nearby woods. Most of them however were being hit by flying
shrapnel and killed instantly.
Screams and cries for help were heard all over the place, only to be
overwhelmed by the roar of flying aircraft and many explosions.
The wagon I was in became half empty. I was finally able to release
my bloody legs and like a baby managed to crawl on my knees and arms to finally find a
more comfortable spot near a wagon wall. At last I was able to stretch out my aching legs.
Several others pulled themselves over next to me. I was glad they did, somehow feeling a
bit more secure and what's more a bit warmer.
In a while the explosions seemed to have scaled down, though some
were still being heard from a distance away. Also the desperate cries of our suffering
brothers seemed more distant. The dark clouds and the constant drizzle seemed to remain
without interuption.
At first I considered the weather an additional hardship, but
changed my mind when I decided to use a part of my wet blanket as a remedy to my dried up
lips. Besides licking the wet dirty blanket, I was also trying to catch some rain drops
into my palms, and drink them.
On approximately the third day the blanket which was my only piece
of clothing began literally dripping with water. Also the wagon floor slowly turned into a
black muddy mess. Little chunks of coal obviously remnants of previous transports were
almost swimming on top of the ever more accumulated rain water.
"Look around, my friend", one of my nieghbours
whispered... "besides the few of us, everyone on the wagon seemed already to be
dead." I did not say anything. I was clearly unable and perhaps even unwilling to
count the number of my dead comrades. But by judging the piles of dead bodies, I could
estimate that at least thirty young men and teenagers were spread out all over the muddy
floor. At a couple of places some of the corpses were piled up one on top of the other.
Most of those young innocent victims of "Hitlers final
solution," were lying on their backs staring with their wide open bewildered eyes at
the skies above. Already dead, their grim faces still revealed pain and anger at a world
that did nothing to help them. I was quite convinced at the time that their anger was also
directed at the heavens. They all remained with wide open mouths, as if asking
"why" and perhaps even shouting the same question.
Probably the same question was asked by the Jewish people for many
centuries: "Why did God stand by idle while his chosen people had to endure so much
suffering?"
Without really considering my extremely grave situation and as
always still being optimistic about my own fate, I uttered my own questions to God.
"Why now, obviously days or even hours before liberation, have so many young innocent
Jewish people to die? ... Weren't there enough victims already?"
My comrades next to me were already sleeping soundly. I however was
not able to close my tired eyes. The constant thoughts about my parents and the
whereabouts of my brothers, kept me wide awake. Exhausted and weak, I also fell asleep.
The brightness of the morning, though still cloudy did not help
much. It only brought new pain and tribulations to the ones still alive.
Only three of us seemed to have woken up. The man on my right pulled
himself closer to me. He kept staring at me with his sad wide open eyes as if in search
for something of great importance. Suddenly he opened his mouth and with visible
excitement in his weak voice cried out my name. Instinctively and swiftly came my
response: "Bialik', I managed to whisper, and before I was able to utter another
word, Bialiks head fell backwards. With his eyes and mouth still wide open, my
former factory coworker from the Lodz Ghetto who in his last minutes was able to recognize
an old friend became another victim of the Nazi horrors. This decent young man, probably
in his early thirties was joining his young wife and two small children who about eight
months earlier perished in the gaz chambers of Auschwitz.
While tears were running down my cheeks I tried in vain to shut my
friends eyelids, and at the same time was wondering how it was possible for two skeletons
to recognize each other.
When I settled back to my previous position, I noticed a can of
conserved meat lying next to me. I also noticed that my only living comrade was clutching
in his hand a piece of dry salami.
Probably seeing some sign of life on our wagons, someone from the
military train tried to ease his accumulated burden of guilt by throwing into the wagons
some food for the poor souls.
There was obviously no way for me to open a can of meat. I wouldn't
even be able to lift that heavy can. In case there would have been someone to do it for
me, I am sure that even one spoon of that apparently pork would have killed me instantly.
My neighbour however seemed to be much luckier. Although it was quite impossible for him
to bite into that seemingly already hard fully dried out piece of salami, he kept on
vigourisly licking his unexpectedly acquired treasure.
The night before I consumed the last bite of the potato, my brother
gave me several days before. I hardly realized at the time that my brothers goodbye
gift would sustain my life for so many days. It would be hard for anybody to understand
how it could be possible for a human being to survive such an extended period of time
without food or water. And even less understandable is the fact that I made it with the
only help of a medium sized raw potato.
It seems that my perseverence and tremendous will to live combined
with my belief that someone, somewhere is really taking care of me gave me the strength to
survive that far.
I could not help staring at my nieghbour while he was enjoying his
gift from God. I desperately tried to dismiss my hidden envy. After all I also kept my
potato from the others without even offering a little bite to anybody. The night before we
both had a sort of a introductory conversation. My friend told me his name, his age and
some other small details. He was born and raised in Sosnowiec, a city in South Western
Poland. He was twenty years old and as far as he knew he was the only survivor of an
extended family.
Without really realizing how I looked at that time, I felt some
heart breaking pity for this obviously dying young man. I was quite convinced that this
young man had little chance to survive another day.
My constantly bleeding open wounds were still bothering me, but were
somehow not as painfull as before. Also my previous hunger for some food somehow
diminished, but although I still was able to wet my lips on the wet blanket, I would have
been gratefull at the time for a drink of water.
I thought that perhaps my friend would be able to help me. If I
could only gather the strength to ask him just to let me have a couple of licks on his
piece of salami. It reminded me of the hot summer days when I and other children used to
ask for a lick of each others ice cream. I nevertheless decided not to ask him. The
usually beautiful Bavarian spring seemed to come late on that season. The grey skies and
the constant drizzle and the whole environment around us was a perfect match to the
situation I found myself in.
Not being able to resist the temptation, I finally dared to ask my
friend to allow me a couple of licks of his salami. With all his strength left in him he
pulled backwards, as if someone was going to hit him. He was holding his treasure with
both his bony hands as tight as he possibly could. Having very little strength left in me,
I was not able to continue begging or pleading. Besides I still had some pride left in me
to do that.
I was lying on my back looking upwards like all the others
did....the dead as well as the two of us who were still alive. Although there was hardly a
sign of some life in the whole area, I did not feel that I could soon be one of the dead
ones. I simply refused to think about it.
Also this long day, which turned out to be the last day of my voyage
slowly came to an end. The skies were getting darker and it looked like night was
approaching pretty fast. The rain or drizzle seemed to have come to an end. It became
colder and with only a wet blanket to protect my skeletal body, my situation in reality
must have been much graver than I actually felt.
Just before it became really dark, I felt a light touch on my
shoulder from my neighbours hand. I moved my head in his direction. He was half lying,
apparently trying to sit up, staring at me as if in a daze. His right arm with his hand
holding that covetted piece of salami was slowly moving toward me. And from his opened
mouth I could hear a faint whisper, "Here, here, take it." With this
unforgettable humane gesture of brotherhood, my only living companion and the last inmate
alive also passed away. I remember somehow a thought crossing my mind at that moment:
"Probably only several hours before liberation"...
His half sitting-up body slowly took on the position of all the rest
of them. His mouth and eyes like on all the other victims remained wide open. They all
somehow seemed to look in bewilderment at a cruel world which had permitted such a
terrible disaster to happen.
ALONE AT THE END
When recalling the last hours on the train which apparently was
supposed to take the remnants of the camp to the mountains of Tyrol for a final
liquidation, it is still impossible for me to comprehend how I went through and endured
all that suffering without giving up hope for my own survival.
After losing my last living companion, I attempted to settle down
for a "normal" nights sleep.
With one part of my body already quite irritated, I desperately
tried to change my position, but was unable to move a single inch. Finally I gave up, but
did not feel aggravated or distressed. I took a few licks of that delicious salami. I felt
like putting it away for tomorrow, but was unable to resist the heavenly taste of this
precious gift. Before hiding it under my blanket, I allowed myself several additional
licks. I even tried unsuccessfully of course to have a little bite.
The night seemed to have been exceptionally dark. There was not a
single light visible in the whole area. There were no more explossions heard or any
particular noices even from far away.
There was no more shouting, screaming of any sort or even silent
crying. The whole area was engulfed in total darkness and in deadly silence.
For an instant I thought that I heard some footsteps near by.
Excited about the prospect that someone might be able to hear me, I desperately tried to
call out for help. But what my vocal cords were able to bring out, was a faint whisper.
Obviously, I decided to give up.
I felt cold but no pain whatsoever. An unusual lightness seemed
slowly to have replaced the terribly heavy load accumulated inside my head. A weakness
never felt before overwhelmed my entire body. My tired eyes stubbornly refused to stay
open.
"Why am I suddenly so terribly sleepy"? Were my last
thoughts.
LIBERATION
I heard voices. It sounded as if several men were talking, all at
the same time. I could hardly understand a single word. The language or languages I heard
seemed very foreign to my ears
"Perhaps I am dreaming?" I desperately tried to open my
eyes. It took a while, but after several attemps and a bit of a struggle I finally
succeeded.
I couldn't see much. As if through a dense fog, I was able to make
out some contours of people, shaddows only. But no faces. I was totally confused, didn't
know where I was and who those strange people were. After a while the fog slowly lifted.
The voices became much clearer, though still not understandable. Also the confusion inside
my head seemed slowly to stabalize.
I began to recall certain things: The wagon, the dead inmates, the
bombing of a military train parallel to our train. Most of all I recalled that by the end
there were no more Germans in sight.
I was lying on a table face up. A very bright light was shining down
from the ceiling terribly irritating my aching eyes.
The shadows next to the table slowly turned into people. Men with
faces, surprisingly smiling faces. They were all wearing some kind of uniforms, military
uniforms, clearly not German ... "Who are they," I kept asking myself.
Without feeling the slightest hint of pain, I noticed a needle in my
left arm from where a thin pipe was attached to a hanging from somewhere bottle with
fluid.
Then I heard voices talking directly to me. At first someone asked
me in German who I was and from where I came from. I stubbornly refused to answer, not
even realizing why. Then it seemed that I was being asked the same questions in other
languages, which I obviously could not understand.
Finally I heard someone addressing me in Polish, although in quite a
halting Polish, but to me quite understandable: "Don't be afraid to talk to me",
he said and with a pleasant smile on his face he continued, "you are liberated, you
are free, you don't have to be afraid any more, we are Americans." When he asked me
my name, and where I was born, I was hardly able to answer. I was weak and confused, but
looking at his smiling face, I was finally able to whisper my reply to his questions.
Apparently too weak to show my real feelings and happiness, I was
lying motionless waiting for further questions. What came next was the seemingly excited
voice of the American officer asking me what I would like to have at that moment. I could
clearly remember asking for water. Instead I was given a few sips of milk through a glass
straw, which I also remember was my first taste of milk since the start of World War 2. It
was also my first drink in probably more than a week.
All I can remember, before I blacked out again was a room full of
men with smiling faces.
LIBERATED BUT STILL NOT FREE
When I opened my eyes again I was still lying on my back. This time,
however, on a stretcher inside a speeding ambulance. I did not know where I was and much
less where I was being taken too.
Confused and scared, I desperately tried to recollect what had
really happened to me in the last day or two. With my mind speeding in different
directions, it became quite a struggle for me to remember clearly anything that happened.
After a short while however, one episode of the nearest past came back to me vividly
indeed: I was told that I was liberated ... An American officer told me that I was free. I
understood him well because he spoke to me in Polish.
Lying with my feet towards the ambulance door, I tried to move my
head backwards, in the hope to be able to get a glimpse at the driver. In fact I managed
to see with the help of the front mirror the face or part of the face of a military man.
Although his helmet did not resemble one of the Germans, I was still unsure of who he was.
My terribly confused mind began to work on my worst fears. I somehow
became convinced that the Germans found me and were taking me back to the camp.
This terrible nightmare was further reinforced when I turned my back
and in horror noticed a fully uniformed SS man lying on a stretcher next to me.
When the SS man returned my frightend gaze, with a pair of a typical
SS mans hatefull eyes, there was not a slightest doubt in my mind that I was on the
road back to the Nazi camp.
According to the time already past, I somehow figured that I was
being taken much further than camp 4 Kaufering.
Terrible thoughts of being taken to the gas chambers became
completely devastating. My thoughts kept on racing one another in an unbearable speed. For
the first time in all those years I was anticipating my own death..."This is finally
it." I thought "But why does it have to happen after I was already
liberated?" Again as always I attempted to calm my fears by trying to awake in myself
my ever lasting optimism.
My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a loud squeak of the
ambulances brakes. The ambulances doors abruptly opened and two men dressed in
white swiftly pulled out the stretcher with the SS man and disappeared.
Although the commotion inside my mind was for a short while
completely uncontrolable, I finally realized that my fears and tribulations were
completely groundless.
After they removed the SS man it became clear to me that the Nazi
who I thought was placed there to guard me, was actually an injured P.O.W. being
transfered to a military hospital.
Although I was not fully aware where I was taken to, I soon learned
that all events following my liberation were done exclusively for my benefit. Apparently I
was taken away from an area where fighting was still going on, to be placed in a field
hospital deeper inside the American occupied German lands. At the new field hospital,
where I stayed only several days, all my opened wounds were finally being cleaned up and
properly bandaged. I received mostly fluid and mashed foods fitting for a person in my
condition. During that time I was being taken care of by a personal nurse.
I will always remember and remain gratefull to the many wounded
American soldiers who treated me with love and respect. There were moments when I had to
beg them to remove from my blanket the too heavy loads of Hershey bars with which those
young Americans kept on showering me.
I was especially gratefull to one of the American patients, a young
man from Chicago who spoke some Polish and became my official translator.
After that second field hospital I was transferred to a regular U.S.
military hospital. There I was placed in a private room, and being taken care of
exclusively by a nurse with a Czeck backround, and Dr. Pavlowitz, a Yugoslavian American.
Both of them were easily able to converse with me in Polish. They both took care of me
like devoted parents of a new born baby.
During the first days at the hospital, the Americans turned my room
into a sort of freak show, (at least this was how I saw it at the time) showing my
skeletal body to an array of guests sometimes high ranking U.S. officers. All of them used
to snap pictures of my naked body.
However, when they also started to present me to seemingly high
ranking Nazi P.O.W.s, I vigorously protested, especially because of their insistence that
none of them was aware of the atrocities committed in the concentration camps. Finally
these annoying to me shows finally ended.
During the couple of weeks I spent in that hospital, while
constantly bed-ridden, I had plenty of time to reflect about my recent past, as well as
about my immediate future.
The most difficult thing for me to understand was how under the
prevailing circumstances, I was rescued and obviously still alive taken off a wagon full
of dead bodies.
Now after so many decades after liberation, while watching
documentaries and pictures of how this procedure was handled, (by using baggers and
shovels) it is impossible for me to comprehend how my equally skeletal body was being
separated from all the dead ones and rescued.
To say that I was just lucky would have been too simple an
explanation of something surely much larger. I could also not be sure that if I would
remain among the hundreds of other skeletal half dead survivors, I could have had a chance
to live for another day. Therefore my old belief that I was being taken care of by a
special guardian angel crossed my mind again, this time indeed with more conviction than
ever before.
Very slowly I started to gain some weight and some flesh began to
cover my transparent almost blue skin. My dramatic rescue, which of course in general was
a blessing had also unfortunate side effects: When the first American doctor asked me in
Polish my date and place of birth, I hardly realized that according to the Americans the
place of birth meant also the nationality of the person. So soon after spending some time
in U.S. army hospitals, I was eventually transferred to a D.P. hospital exclusively for
Eastern European refugees.
Close to seven months I spent in this type of hospital where I was
all the time the one and only Jew.
Although I found several good friends among the Polish patients, I
had to endure seven months of anti-semitic abuse by many of the others, especially the
Ukrainians. The whole seven months while still sick and almost helpless, being the only
Jew among people who hated me only because I was born Jewish, I still consider as some
sort of extension to the Holocaust.
FINALLY LIBERATED
One day while visiting a barber shop outside the hospital in the
German town of Lohr Am Main near Frankfurt, I noticed a small item in a German newspaper
where they mentioned about the existence of a Jewish committee in the Bavarian city of
Munich.
Without waiting to get my haircut I immediately returned to the
hospital. Although the chief doctor vigorously opposed my leaving the hospital at the time
I nevertheless insisted on leaving immediately. With a stern warning to be carefull
because the approaching cold November weather might worsen my existing state of an acute
pleuritis, he gave me permission to leave.
With the help of my good Polish friend Kazik who literally took off
his own shoes and gave them to me, plus one of his warm jackets, I soon found myself
(without a single penny in my pockets) in front of an overcrowded train at the rail
station at Frankfurt Am Main.
After several hours of travel squeezed among a mass of travellers on
an outside ramp of a speeding train, I finally arrived in the Munich Central Central
Station.
Standing under a light first winter snow in front of a bus stop, I
finally heard a first Yiddish word in over seven months. Standing next to me, a tall slim
boy, who later introduced himself as Marek Landau, whispered the commonly used Hebrew
expression: "Amchu?" which meant the question, "Are you one of us?" At
that very moment I finally felt liberated indeed.
EPILOGUE
After liberation, a substantial number of survivors had filled up
dozens of hospitals and sanatoriums all over Germany.
In spite of the tremendous efforts by the allied forces, thousands
of already half dead survivors kept on dying daily. Obviously their vital organs were
already damaged to a point at which help came much too late.
So I again found myself in an exceptionally unique position. Instead
of being one of those unfortunate souls I was extremely lucky to find myself the one and
only survivor among scores of injured American soldiers.
Being put into a fairly large single room and being taken care of by
a specially assigned nurse who took care of me as if I were a newborn baby. Maria was of
Czeck background who could easily communicate with me. Also a doctor with a Slav
background became my personal physician. Dr. Pavlowitz was a Yugoslavian who was also able
to speak with me in Polish. Slowly and with utmost care the two of them brought me back to
life. I am convinced if many others could have had received such a unique treatment as I
did, many thousands of lives could have been saved. It seemed however that under the
prevailing conditions such a general treatment was quite impossible.
In all those fabulous places I did not meet (or hear of) a single
Jewish survivor. "So why, me?"...I am still searching for a proper answer.
The seven months I had spent in various U.S. and D.P. hospitals,
being the only Jew among Gentiles and my eventual return to my people were, to say the
least, quite traumatic. This period followed by several years of actual healing and my
eventual immigration to Canada in 1951 were so eventful that they warrant a continuation
of my memoirs. This second book, on which I am working on already for some time, I hope to
have completed soon.
My arrival in Munich, and again becoming a member of the Jewish
community, I consider to have been the end of my uniqueness. I started to live and being
treated in the same way as all the other survivors of the Holocaust.
During those years of rehabilitation, and quite a degree of
suffering, I also experienced, perhaps even more than others, a great deal of happiness.
By the end of 1946 my two older brothers returned from their exile
in the Soviet Union and after a short period spent in Lodz, they immediately found their
way to Germany. Needless to say that our reunion was one of the most happy events in my
life.
Understandably the happiness was mixed with a lot of sadness when
they learned from me about the fate of our dear Parents and relatives. There was also a
great disappointment due to the absence of my twin brother. While in Lodz, in addition to
my letter to the Jewish committee, they had also found a letter from my twin brother who
was at the time in Kaunas, Lithuania. Being sure that Myer was already in Germany with me,
they didn't even bother to reply to his letter.
They were also quite disturbed by the state of my health.
After a short while Isaac returned to his wife and one year old son
Allen, who were staying at a D.P. camp somewhere near Frankfurt. They were living there
until their immigration to Canada by the end of 1948.
Moshe, however, with his wife Sonia and his equally one year old
daughter Chava settled in Munich, where he found a job in the garages of the A.J.D.C.
(American Joint Distribution Committee). They made that move in order to be near me.
During my extended stay at the sanatorium, Misha and Sonia became my
virtual parents. They devoted most of their time and energy helping me return to my full
health. This feeling of security, provided me with a will to continue my education. Which
I did.
In 1949, completely cured and transferred to a school near the
Austrian border, at a small town close to Bad Reichenthal, Misha and Sonia decided that it
was time for them to leave Germany. With a clear conscience they emigrated to Israel and
settled in Jerusalem where Sonia had two older brothers with their families. Misha was
also reunited with my Mothers younger sister Rachel and her children who were living
in Tel- Aviv since 1935.
After my arrival in Canada in 1951, 1 became one of the thousands of
Holocaust survivors who had emigrated to various countries of the Western World. Exactly
as the others I worked hard to make a living. Saved up a bit of money, got married, and
had two beautiful children (girls), went into business for myself and as most of the
others I did my best to live a normal and productive life.
I consider the day when my first daughter, Ella was born to be one
of the happiest days in Canada. She was the only one to be named after my dear Mother.
As most as the others did, we sent our children to Jewish schools,
regular high schools and Cegep. Eventually both of them got married and shortly after my
wife and I were blessed with four grandchildren.
And the years seemed to pass as normally as a person could only
wish. Until tragedy struck. In 1990 our loving and devoted daughter Sara was diagnosed
with breast cancer. This happened shortly after I had lost my brother Misha who lost his
battle with acute leukemia.
In 1993 on the same day we returned from our grandson Rons Bar
Mitzvah in Jerusalem, my brother Isaac was taken to a hospital with an apparent heart
attack. On the same evening he passed away.
In 1995 after a five year struggle, our devoted daughter Sara, (Sue)
passed away. She left two grieving children, Shannon, fifteen, and Ashley, seven. Her
sister Ella lost not only a sister, but a dear friend and my wife and I will remain broken
hearted forever. And life must go on.
In the year 2000 1 finally retired and soon after became a volunteer
at the Montreal Holocaust Memorial Centre, where I was speaking mostly to students about
the Holocaust. A year later I also began work on the "Information Line for Holocaust
survivors and their families." Recently I took on an additional job as a member of an
advisory committee to help needy Holocaust survivors.
Being married for forty eight years (February 14/1954), my wife and
I are blessed with lots of "naches," (pleasure and satisfaction) from our four
exceptional grandchildren.: The oldest, Ron is a student of political science at Concordia
University (Montreal); his younger brother Michael studies humanities at the same
university. They are both graduates of Bialik High School.
Shannon who will soon be twenty two, is on her third year at the
University of Ottawa soon to be majoring in biology. She attended the Hillel Academy in
Ottawa from where she graduated with distinction. She graduated from high school with a
four year scholarship. Her sister Ashley (Orly) is now graduating from the Hillel Academy,
probably also with distinction. She will be fourteen on June 5th of this year.
AT LAST A REUNION WITH MY TWIN BROTHER
After years of just corresponding and lots of telephone
conversations, I finally managed to bring my brother to Canada for a two month visit. The
year was 1990, several months after the untimely passing of my brother Misha, Myer arrived
in Montreal. He was accompanied with his son Oleg.
Needless to describe the happy scenes of our reunion. For days we
did not tire from the constant nostalgic conversations. He envied my good fortune to have
spent so many happy moments with our brother Misha, during the countless times my wife and
I had spent in Israel. During each of those visits Sonia jokingly used to tell us that for
Misha, our visits were always considered his most happy times. As always Sonia used to
treat us not just like a sister-in-law, but like a devoted Mother.
Among most of Misha's few regrets in life was his insistence for me
not to emigrate to Israel. The main reason for him to do that was his constant worrying
about my health: "The times in Israel are too difficult now, and it would be better
for you at least temporarily to choose a better place." And with fatherly concern
continued: "Didn't you suffer enough?" Sometimes during our conversations, Misha
used to confess regretfully that if he would have been a bit smarter we could have been
living together all our lives in Israel.
Myer and his son spent a terrific two months in Montreal. A time he
would never forget. We met again at both Bar Mitzvas of our grandsons in Jerusalem, Ron's
in 1993 and Michaels in 1995. Also two of his sons were guests at both Bar Mitzvahs. His
son Oleg soon after his visit in Montreal decided to emigrate to Israel. With the help of
Sonia and his cousins he established for himself a new and happy life.
Recently Myers oldest son with his wife became new immigrants to
Israel. He himself however claims to be too old to start a new life, a claim which he
started to express twenty years ago ... While in Montreal Myer did his best to explain the
circumstances of his misinformed departure from Germany to Lithuania: "After the
Americans entered Camp 4 Kaufering, he returned to the camp searching for me. When he came
close to the two typhoid huts expecting to find me inside, he saw instead two piles of
rubble. Being convinced that I was killed in the apparent explosion, he helplessly stood
there for several minutes reciting Kaddish, (the prayer for the dead). He left the place
where he was spending a most terrible period in his life as if he would be leaving a
cemetery.
Not being fully aware about life in the Soviet Union, he let himself
be talked into a misguided venture by some of his newly acquired Lithuanian friends. They
convinced him that by going with them to Lithuania, he might be able to find his two older
brothers. Disappointed and miserable all his life. he was a Father of three sons with an
always sick wife. He had to wait forty five years to finally get the chance to visit
Canada.
Now we are in touch by often having endless conversations on the
phone. We both sincerely hope to see each other again.
Our Mothers last wish while being taken to the gas chambers of
Auschwitz "For us to stay together" was unfortunately only partially fulfilled.
We only managed to stay together during the period of our incarceration at Dachau.
With Sonia and her children we are in very close contact. We speak
with them very often, sometimes once and even twice weekly. Unfortunately we did not have
the opportunity to visit them in Israel in the last several years. However, Chava with her
husband David were here several times and so was her brother Chanoch, with his wife Mira.
During our grieving period for Sara and during the Shiva, all of them were here to comfort
us.
Our closeness and love between both our families will remain
forever.
APPENDIX
IMMEDIATE FAMILY, RELATIVES AND FRIENDS WHO
PERISHED
DURING THE HOLOCAUST
I will start, of course, with both my parents, and continue with the
names of our immediate family and relatives:
My Mothers parents, Naomi and Mendl Rosenbloom.
Her three brothers, Isaak, Hillary, and Nathan, with their wives and
children.
My Fathers brother Samuel and sisters Esther, Chava, Tayga,
and Yeta, with their families.
Two of my cousins, a nineteen year old girl and her seventeen year
old brother (Fela and Jurek Rosenbloom) survived the Lodz ghetto and several concentration
camps but were murdered after liberation. They were taken out from their apartment by
members of the Polish Home Army, and mercilessly killed. Members of this right-wing
resistance group murdered thousands of Jews during the Holocaust and continued doing that
also after liberation. Thousands of concentration camp survivors and returnees from the
Soviet Union were being killed by shootings and during organised pogroms.
Beside the above-mentioned close relatives we had lost all our
second aunts and uncles with most of their children and grandchildren.
Among the survivors, in addition to my brothers, were several
cousins. Some of them survived in the Soviet Union and some the German occupation.
Without exaggeration it would be safe to estimate the number of
victims in both my parents families between eighty and ninety men, women and
children.
The few survivors established themselves in Israel, the U.S.A. and
Canada.
It might be of interest to mention that one cousin of mine, a woman
about thirty years old, survived with her ten year old son by working as a Christian at a
Nazi officers cantine. After liberation Bronia and her son Marek settled in Israel.
Her husband however perished while in hiding. Her older sister with her two young children
were killed in 1941 during a pogrom by Ukrainians in the city of Stanislavov. After her
husband buried the mutilated bodies of his family he committed suicide.
One more cousin, Hershy Rosenbloom, survived in hiding and also
settled in Israel.
In sharp contrast to the staggering number of relatives our family
has lost to the Holocaust, the number of survivors was very small indeed. However, in a
relatively short time we had managed to rebuild our shattered lives and secure a
"hemshech" (continuity) of the large Kujawski family.
I am grateful and thank God for granting me the privilege to be
alive and able to see our family grow and prosper. Most of our second generation became
professionals with the third generation following in their footsteps.
Now at the start of the second millennium, the Kujawski family
including their spouses with an already emerging fourth generation, number close to 45
young men, women, and children.
Although we are spread over three continents, we remain a family
united by a tragic past and a promising bright future. |