The columns of Häftlinge were still working, but the train cars were almost empty. I must have slept for a damn long time. A Kapo spotted us and rushed over with my group’s Vorarbeiter. I was going to get it good.
“I found him in the glass warehouse,” my captor informed them.
There was nothing I could say to this Kapo that would save my hide. Since I wasn’t in his regular Kommando, I was worthless to him. No excuse would appease him. In fact, it would only make matters worse. A well-placed uppercut blasted me off my feet, and I went sliding into the mud. To impress the civilian, the Kapo and Vorarbeiter punished me with soccer kicks. I slipped in and out of consciousness. When their fury died down, the Kapo profusely thanked the Meister for bringing me back.
The civilian left and the Kapo said to the Vorarbeiter, “Since they’ve been notified, we’ll have to make a report.”
I played possum as the Vorarbeiter bent over me with a notepad in his hand. “It’s so dirty I can’t read it.”
“Get it from his arm,” the Kapo said impatiently.
The Vorarbeiter yanked on my left arm, pulling up the sleeve.
He wrote down my number, then gave the notepad to the Kapo, who talked out loud as he began to write.
“The Kapo of Kommando 15 reports to the Lagerführer that the prisoner…”
I watched through my eyelashes as he made a few flourishes over the paper as if he was unsure what to write next.
“Bruno, wake up the scumbag. I’m going to write up the report when we’re back in camp.”
By the seat of my pants, the Vorarbeiter dragged me through a sea of cold, muddy water, then shoved me toward the railroad cars.
“Where the hell have you been?” someone hissed as I groggily found my place back in line.
Cloudbursts came in welcoming waves, reviving me and washing away the muck my clothes had collected during my beating. I struggled to stay focused on the task at hand, but all I could think about was the thin line I was now walking between the Stehbunker and the rope. Would my Easter nap be considered an escape attempt, even though I hadn’t left the plant grounds? That would all depend on how the Kapo wrote his report and who in the Schreibstube read it. Every one of us had a foot in the grave, and now it felt like my other foot was on the way down. I fought back tears and reminded myself I had to be a fatalist. When your time is up, it’s up. A rail banged against the side of my head as if in agreement.
Apprehension and the pain of a battered jaw and infected finger tormented my sleep. The next morning I awoke with a fever and swollen glands under my arms. After a torturous day of digging a ditch, I arrived back at camp with my face on fire and my whole body trembling with chills. I dragged myself to the end of a long line of sick men waiting outside the HKB. An epidemic of ringworm had spread through the camp, and it was being treated with a tarry ointment that left the infected Häftling looking like a spotted leopard. When I stepped inside someone took hold of me, and before I could utter a word, my whole face was smeared with the black goo.
“Next!” called the orderly.
“But I have a fever,” I said.
“Then what are you doing here?”
“Well, I saw the line…”
“Go through that door,” he interrupted, pointing over his shoulder.
The sign above the door he pointed to read Schuhe Verboten.
So with my shoes in my hands, I entered a big white room. From the distinct smell I could tell the floor had been cleaned with kerosene. A green triangle orderly wrote my number and the date on a card, handed it to me, then pointed to a bench that ran the length of the room. There were at least fifty other “pajamas” waiting. The doctor was conducting examinations in an adjoining room. Those who came in after me had to stand or sit on the floor. The line scooted slowly along the bench, and I found some comfort in having a warm spot for my bony ass.
A Polish orderly came around taking temperatures. I pressed my tongue as hard as I could against the thermometer in hopes of getting a higher reading. There was no need—it was high enough: 102ЊF. Now, I began to worry. Walking over I relished a stay in the HKB, a chance for some needed rest and relief from the awful weather. Realizing that I was truly sick, I started to view my situation with dread. There was no medicine for flu, blood poisoning, or whatever it was that I was infected with. The HKB stocked only aspirin and charcoal for diarrhea. I was now running a real risk of becoming a Muselmann and getting thrown onto the back of a truck.
The doctor waved me in. He was a yellow triangle in his sixties who wore thick horn-rimmed glasses. His medical expertise was the only thing keeping him alive. He glanced at my card. Seeing that I had a fever, he gave me two aspirin tablets, told me to come back the next morning, and handed me a card to give to my Blockälteste.
I was now an Arztvormelder, which meant I wasn’t officially sick, but was exempt from work detail for one day.
Heading back to my Block, I realized I would have to find a new hiding place for my ring because, if I was admitted to the HKB, they would issue me new clothing on my release. My rectum was not an option this time. I would surely shit it out in there, and I couldn’t hide it in my pillow or mattress because there was no guarantee I would get my bunk back. After everyone had fallen asleep, I hunted for a hiding place. I found a board in the rear wall with a deep knothole. My ring disappeared into it nicely. I slid back into my bunk with chills that made my teeth chatter.
I awoke with the need to urinate. The soup made everyone get up once or twice a night. In some Blocks it was the night watchman’s duty to empty the piss pail while in others the Häftling who topped off the bucket had to dump it outside. The latter was the law in my Block. With ice on the windowpanes and my body on fire, this wasn’t the time to go outside. Leaning on my elbow, I listened to the streams of urine going into the pail. I had heard that bucket fill up enough times to know the level by the sound. It was full. The pail’s handle squeaked, a door slammed, and a gust of cold air swept through the Block. Now was the time. I jumped out of my bunk and dragged myself to the other side of the Block. A line had already formed. We all used the same method. Shit, I thought, I might be the one topping off the pail after all.
Standing there, I regretted not wrapping myself in my blanket.
I was so wracked by chills that by the time it was my turn, I could barely keep a steady hand. To my great relief my bladder wasn’t holding much. As I made my way back to my bunk, I heard the next man swear as he began to piss.
In the morning, the doctor declared me sick and I was officially admitted to the HKB. I took a shower, was given a clean shirt to wear but no pants, then led into the sick room—a dormitory of the usual three rows of three-tiered bunks. The fetor of shit, puke, and rubbing alcohol made me shiver. If I hadn’t been so ill I would have dashed out of there without looking back.
“Bist du aus Frankreich?” (Are you from France?) an orderly asked.