“In the nameless new camp we were welcomed by a huge German prisoner, a criminal, who tested our knowledge of frames and metal. In the dark, Rothschild asked me, ‘What do you know about metal work?’ I answered in a panic, ‘Tubal-cain, the forger of every cutting instrument of brass and iron…’ Rothschild did not comprehend my scriptural quote, and I whispered, ‘Genesis, chapter four, verse twenty-two. The first metal cutter, Tubal-cain.’ Rothschild sighed and said, ‘In that case, you know slightly more than I do.’
“I was seized by fear — what would we answer to the German? But Rothschild remained calm, his eyes already investigating in the dark, finding out where there might be a chance to do good business. As if he himself were orchestrating things, just as we stood before the German, a siren pierced the camp, the lights went off and we were thrown into a dark hut without any orders and with no questions asked. It turned out the Allied planes were attacking. It was already September of 1943, and the Germans were no longer so sure of themselves. Every siren sent them into a panic. When calm was restored, we were miraculously led to a large cauldron, which held our dinner, and were given pieces of soft, grey bread. At the end of the meal Rothschild was already part of the kitchen crew — don’t ask how — and I was his assistant. It turned out they needed no more than two or three metal workers in the camp, and apart from the ones the huge German chose, and apart from Rothschild and me, the others were nonchalantly taken to a nearby clearing in the woods and shot in the back of their heads.
“We were saved from Dora-Mittelbau, saved too from the fate of the metal cutters, and a few days later the camp was shut down. Again we were rolled along, this time south, to Buchenwald.”
Grandpa Yosef says the word ‘Buchenwald’ and into the room comes the nurse. Behind her, the doctor. He examines Grandpa Lolek, gives the nurse some instructions, and tells us Grandpa Lolek is out of danger and has in fact begun to recover. He can be discharged, he should be in a nursing home of some sort, like Flieman Hospital, where he can complete his little journey until he goes home. Grandpa Yosef objects with a stony face — supervision is essential. But he lets it slide. He will wait for Effi’s shift. She’s a doctor, he can recruit her to his battle and do away with their plan. In the meantime he lets it slide, protesting with an angry mumble. The doctor answers, trying to explain that the treatment in a convalescence home will be better than what he’ll get here, and in any case, he doesn’t belong in this ward. All he needs is rest. Rest and observation. Grandpa Yosef decides to ignore him, as if the argument is over. He sits down carelessly in his chair, gives the doctor a defiant look, ready for battle. He has in him a courage he did not have on the train going to Buchenwald, rattling in the dark, burnt with thirst, singed from the nights of waiting, frozen on the tracks without moving, waiting for the devil knows what, perhaps for a torture that will grow, burst forth, assail these people who are desperate anyway and starving anyway in the darkness of the train car. The doctor thinks the better of any further argument. He leaves the room and the nurse follows him. The train ride goes on for days, in the depths of darkness, Grandpa Yosef and Rothschild cast into a darkness deeper than the one Grandpa Lolek is now resting in. Outside sirens rip through villages. They cross bridges, the rain slams down, and inside the arid darkness the water bucket is empty, the windows are closed, there is no air. Finally, the screeching of tracks announces the end. The train doors are flung open. Light. Buchenwald.
Buchenwald is a vast camp. First thing in the morning, the kapo is already harassing Grandpa Yosef, two shots of the whip on his face, and screams. Grandpa Yosef does not understand what he wants, the kapo kicks him in the ribs. But then Rothschild, risking his life, jumps boldly in front of the kapo and the incident is over. In some way that is beyond normal comprehension, the kapo immediately realizes that people like Rothschild should be avoided. He screams for another moment or two, kicks and fumes, but then leaves. Rothschild drags Grandpa Yosef to his cot. Grandpa Yosef is stunned, still not understanding why the kapo fell on him, but knowing that Rothschild had saved his life. Over the next few days he learns what kind of lowly murderer the kapo is, how he amuses himself with the prisoners, but Grandpa Yosef has Rothschild’s protection.
Grandpa Yosef regulates his breath a little.
“In Buchenwald, finally, I had a little rest from my travels. I spent a whole year there, from November ’43 to November ’44. First we were sent to work in the quarry. Every morning we marched in rows, pounded rocks for sixteen hours, then marched back to the camp, where we had roll-calls and more marches. I no longer had any strength anyway, I was no more than a skeleton, and if not for Rothschild…nu. He soon joined up with the Russian POWS and the criminals, hardened people who would murder over nothing. Thanks to them he found easy work for both of us in a nearby town. Every day we were actually taken out of the camp into a German town where citizens lived their lives. Children peered at us through windows, and on the streets we passed women with baskets and gentlemen going off to work. A town, simply a town. We repaired the water reservoirs. Hard work, but only as hard as any manual laborer’s work.
“Rothschild cast his net here too, doing business, various corrupt transactions. Such a devil. He started to place his confidence in me, asked me questions, sought advice. He told me of his plans and deeds and secrets. His heart was completely unhesitant. He would do anything. He struck terror and fear in me — he could betray me at any moment, sell me for a potato.
“Only one thing did Rothschild ask of me, as ever. ‘Pray for me, Rabbi.’ His face would strain as he forced a smile, but he was entirely serious, and he took the trouble to make sure the prayer was being said.
“He grew tired of working at the water reservoirs very quickly. His business was not booming and the danger was too great, so he found himself a job in the kitchen. There, for those who dared, business was good. Rothschild traded, bribed, cheated, orchestrated transactions. In January there was snow and the ground was frozen, so they did not need us in the town. Rothschild tried to sneak me into kitchen duty, but was unable. Having no choice, we found ourselves the job of pushing the wagons that carried the dead. Throughout the camps, this job was done by the Ukrainian POWS, a hardened and frightening group. How Rothschild penetrated this evil band…nu, Rothschild. He was pleased with his accomplishment and could not understand the way my face fell when he told me. ‘The work is easy, no? We’ll survive. Gain some weight.’
“And so we took the dead out of the huts every morning. People I knew, the dying who had completed their process. One day I would look into the eyes of a dead man, nu, and the next day I piled his corpse onto the wagon. Worst of all was the inspection we had to do. Sometimes the man was not dead, but did not get up; he lay still, awaiting his fate — the hand that would put him to death. I was the wagon man. And then I had to deal with the corpses. I don’t want to talk about that.
“The months in Buchenwald went by. I survived. Rothschild was with me. I prayed, he took care of the rest. Thoughts of Feiga returned. Thoughts of Adler. I worked with the dead wagon and imagined the future in all its details. We did not gain any weight, none at all. A great hunger fell on Buchenwald. Rations were cut. The black water known as ‘soup’ was taken from us, the gray mess known as ‘bread’ all but disappeared. The hunger brought death to the huts and we were always busy. Those who did not die sometimes lit up with a fever like torches and became crazed. They drank mud and ate their own clothing. God help us, we even found gnawed bodies on the cots. Yes, gnawed bodies. And the eyes, everyone’s eyes, even those whose minds were still sound, were crazed and glimmering, their hearts wanted only a chance to nibble at some food, their souls ignited — when would the chance come? When would it come?