I could imagine how he must have screamed his innocence and the sinister smirks and savage beatings he received in return. Had he been a young man, middle-aged, a father, a good man, a fair man? I squeezed my eyes shut. My temples pounded. No, I couldn’t allow myself to ponder who he was! This wasn’t the place to burden one’s self with such questions. Suddenly I saw Jonny. I hadn’t thought about him for a long, long time. I fought back tears. Was I cursed? Did my life depend on the blood of others?
I looked up to find the Vorarbeiter walking slowly toward me.
What now? Was he going to drown me in this stinkhole? He sat next to me without dropping his pants.
“Weren’t you there for the execution? A man hung for trying to escape on Easter Sunday? They rushed it because of the lousy weather.”
“I was in the HKB.”
“I missed the whole thing, too. Never got a good look at the man’s face.” He turned to me with a smile. “I must’ve had a really silly look on my face when I saw you. Thought I was staring at a ghost.”
“I wish I could disappear like a ghost.”
“Why did you try to escape?”
“I didn’t.”
I recited the answer I had prepared that miserable Sunday. “I didn’t try to escape. I was being nosey, and when I looked into the warehouse, the wind slammed the door and I was locked in.”
“To be honest, you were so muddy I’m not sure now what I wrote and God knows what that illiterate Kapo put in his report. It’s no wonder Hans screws up all the time; he’s been in jail almost all his life.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Like most communists I was arrested when Hitler came to power. I met Hans in prison.”
“Why is he such a prick?”
“Because he’s a thief and murderer. How did you come to speak such fluent German?”
I couldn’t believe that I was having a social hour with this man.
“I spent a few vacations in Berlin.”
This really interested him. “Which area?”
“Charlottenburg at the Litzensee.”
“Your father must be a rich bastard.”
“Some of his friends are.”
“I’m from Wedding.”
The Wedding district of Berlin was a working-poor ghetto and a hot bed of communism. There had been years of vicious street-fighting and gun battles between the communists and the brown shirts of the fledgling Nazi Party.
“How many languages do you speak?” he asked.
“Four, and I understand a few more.”
“You’re lucky. I can barely speak mine.” He stood up. “Get to work, and stay away from Hans or we’ll both be swinging.”
I pulled up my pants and followed the Vorarbeiter. He eyed me.
“Kid, nothing is going to unhang that poor bastard now. Understand?”
I nodded. I understood. In the life I had known before I might have confessed and restored that poor man’s name, but in this world that would have served no purpose.
CHAPTER 15
Reestablishing contact with Hubert came when life in Monowitz was threatening to bury me. I had been there for nine months and there was nothing I looked forward to anymore. When I was digging a trench not a thought entered my mind. I was an automaton.
I had succumbed to the Nazis’ desired condition of a slave, a brain-dead machine working without question, detached from all needs except for those that would raise me from bed and send me goose-stepping out the gate. I was aware what was happening to me and didn’t like it; there was nothing I could do about it.
I was a voyeur in my own nightmare. The only thing reminding me that I was still human was Hubert—his wave as we lined up in the morning, his nod as he shuffled back into his Block at night, his occasional smile. It’s amazing how the smallest gestures of camara-derie can resuscitate a depleted soul. There would be times—few and far between—after evening rations that we would meet behind the Blocks to ensure that the other wasn’t ready for a ride to Birkenau. We would share rumors on the Allied push, discuss SS activity in the camps, and bitch about what scumbags our Kapos were. We’d always finish with speculations on the welfare and whereabouts of friends and inflated tales of past female conquests. Those nights I would have the most wonderful sleep.
There were a handful of Orthodox Jews in my Block. Since their beards and payos (side curls) were long gone, the only reason I knew they were Orthodox was that they would sneak away to pray each morning and nearly every evening during the chaotic distribution of rations. Out of sight of the Stubendienst, they would sway back and forth facing the eastern corner of the Block. I was certain it was an abridged version of their prayers because they didn’t last more than a couple minutes. If caught practicing their religion, they would all be whipped—a high price to pay for a few words to a God who had apparently fallen asleep at the helm.
The Jehovah’s Witnesses held prayer meetings behind the Blocks at night. When I first stumbled on one of their meetings, I was baffled and curious. What were these men whispering about in the shadows? Planning an escape, organizing a resistance group?
The Häftling who explained to me that it was only die Bibelforscher had a good laugh when I told him what I thought they were up to.
A few weeks after the young woman’s suicide, I was emptying a piss pail on a moonless night when I spotted a prayer meeting. I felt guilty that I hadn’t memorized her number, but I was pretty certain that they had heard what had happened and didn’t need any of my ugly details.
One September morning the Orthodox Jews in my Block stayed in prayer a little longer and didn’t get in line for bread after they were finished. During our lunch break at the plant, two Jews in my Kommando refused their soup, explaining that it was their High Holy Day, Yom Kippur. Amazed, I stared at them. It’s foolhardy and counterproductive to your survival is what I wanted to say, but I kept my mouth shut. What was the point? I thought about the Orthodox Jews in my Block. Why the hell couldn’t they have observed their holy day by giving their unwanted bread to a starving atheist like me?
Once the evening count was over I hurried to Hubert’s Block to make sure he wasn’t refusing his soup.
“I don’t give a shit,” he told me. “I’ve been starving long enough. The way I figure it, I have credit coming for the rest of my life.”
I was thankful that Hubert was smart enough not to be a slave to his religion. Why? The next morning a couple of yellow triangles in my Block didn’t get out of their bunks, and that evening we carried an unusually high number of corpses back.
Since I was among those in my Block who had survived the longest, I was often able to nab the choice chores. This had very little to do with seniority. We “old timers” knew how things in the camp were run and what was expected from us, and no screw ups meant the Stubendienst and Blockälteste were secure in their posts.
The morning chores were mopping and sweeping the Block and ensuring that the beds were properly made. Each Häftling was responsible for making his bed, but one Häftling was in charge of seeing that the bunks would pass the sporadic SS inspections. The SS had ludicrously stringent rules on how the beds should appear.