Word passed that we would be receiving new shirts. We were supposed to exchange shirts every month, but were lucky if we got fresh ones every three months. My Block was in a mild state of excitement. The exchange was a lottery. This late in the year, those trading in their heavy wool shirts stood to lose badly and those with light, cotton shirts had everything to gain. The unfortunate Häftling who had had his shirt stolen would simply be passed over. Shirts were a much sought after commodity on the camp’s black market.
One could exchange a good shirt for an old, mended one and a loaf of bread with a Polish civilian factory worker because they had difficulty getting any clothing.
After receiving my new shirt, a wool one, I went to my bed to put my cap under my pillow, as I did every evening before eating.
To my astonishment, I found a roll of bills lying there. Someone must have put it there thinking it was Moishe’s bed. My heart pounded with excitement. I looked about. No one was paying any attention to me. I thrust the wad into my shoe. Not wanting any evidence that I had been to my bed, I stuffed my cap into my pocket and slipped into the soup line. Ordinarily I would have checked the levels of the barrels. You wanted to step up when the barrel was almost empty because you stood a greater chance of getting a potato or chunk of cabbage. That night I had only one thought—getting out of the barracks as fast as possible so I could count my loot.
Somebody’s god continued to send good fortune the wrong way because I ended up with a full ladle of thick soup as well.
After eating, I ducked behind the Block and counted the money.
I was holding 580 marks, a treasure that could change my fate. But there were problems. How was I going to change five one-hundred mark bills? Where would I hide the money? If caught with such a large sum, it was the Stehbunker for sure, and possibly the rope. I couldn’t keep the money with me. Moi or one of his cronies would surely search me.
I ran to Hubert’s Block. He nearly fell over when he saw the bills. Hubert knew a pot-washer who was selling a ladle of thick soup for ten marks. I decided that for the next fifty-eight days Hubert and I were going to have full bellies. For the first time, I could truly envision a return trip to Nice.
Moi was sitting on his bed buttering slices of bread when I returned. Obviously, he wasn’t aware of the screw-up yet. I stretched out on my bed, letting my legs hang down on either side. For 580 marks, Moi must have sold an overcoat—and one in fine condition, at that. What would he do when he found out that the money had disappeared? I mused. No question he would come at me, but how?
Like a sly fox or an enraged bear? I knew there was a chance he would send a crony to beat a confession out of me, but that would be his last resort. With no tracks leading to Hubert, if I played it right I could deflect all suspicion.
A string of Moi’s furtive traders streamed in and out. “Moi?” a reedy voice called out in Yiddish from the Block entrance. “Wie bist do?” (Where are you?)
“Komm hier,” Moishe ordered.
A little Jewish fellow, slightly humpbacked and with the type of face the Nazis venomously caricaturized in Der Stürmer, hurried over. He sat down on the edge of Moishe’s bed. They began to talk in soft whispers, but their conversation was quickly punctured with Yiddish curses. The visitor got up and stared at my bed as I pretended to sleep. It was hard to keep a smile off my face. He started to slip his hand under my pillow when the curfew bell sounded, which gave me an excuse to wake. The little fellow scurried out of our Block.
That night I visited the piss pail three times, and each time I returned I could tell my mattress had been searched. Moishe had been thorough. I don’t think he slept at all that night.
Returning from the plant the next evening I discovered a neatly folded, red-and-white checkered shirt under my pillow. The shirt looked brand new and would have fetched a hefty sum from a civilian. Moi, that sly fox, sure set his trap with delicious bait. Obviously he figured I would store the shirt in the same spot I had hid the money. I left the shirt under my pillow and nonchalantly went to get my soup.
While I ate I kept an eye on my bed, but no one approached it.
Where was Moi? When my bowl was licked clean, I went looking for him. He was sitting on the steps of the Block, diligently cleaning his comfortable leather shoes. Why not have some fun with this schmuck, I thought, and headed into the latrine. Moishe followed at a distance. He sure figured me for an idiot. I sat in there as if I were constipated, and even pretended to sleep. It must have driven him crazy. I was struck with a masterstroke of an idea and quickly returned to the Block.
Grabbing the shirt, I went to Wilhelm’s quarters. I pushed back the curtain that hung in his doorway. He was in the midst of playing cards with the Kapos. I swallowed hard. This wasn’t the most opportune moment to disturb my Blockälteste.
“Was willst du, Speckjäger?” (What do you want, bacon hunter?)
“I have a present for you.”
“Show me!”
I unfolded the shirt.
“How much?” he demanded suspiciously. In Auschwitz everything had a price.
“I said it’s a present.”
I tossed the shirt onto the table and turned heels. A livid Moishe was standing by our bunk. It was an expensive backfire for him, and it got me clean off the hook.
An hour later, Wilhelm gave me half a loaf of bread.
“Hier, Muselmann, du brauchst mir nicht dankbar sein, du wäschst meine Hemden gut.” (Look Muslim, you don’t have to be grateful to me. You really wash my shirts well.)
Soon, the whole Block knew about the gift, and my companions labeled me an ass-kissing idiot. I couldn’t have given a shit what they said or thought. I had a full stomach for fifty-eight days and wouldn’t have to worry about the next “selection.”
Christmas and the New Year passed with the Allies encircling Germany. Because of the constant bombing, the delivery of raw materials by rail was increasingly sporadic. Factory output plummeted.
The Kapos struggled to keep us busy with meaningless, but still physically draining tasks. Rumors circulated that the Soviets had launched a new offensive and that their arrival was imminent. At night we could see a reddish luminescence on the eastern horizon and hear the distant thunder of heavy guns, but the only source for reliable information had dried up. I had not seen a POW at Buna for a while. I wasn’t even sure if they were still in Auschwitz. At the time of the first snowfall, all the Soviet Häftlinge were marched out of the camps. We heard they had been moved into Germany. A few days later, the Polish Häftlinge followed. Every passing day we wondered if we were going to be evacuated, liberated, or exterminated. The SS had destroyed the gas chambers in November, but we all knew they had other means to quickly rid themselves of us.
After roll call one freezing morning, we assembled into our Kommandos as usual. But as the band launched into its first military march, news came that we weren’t going to Buna until the fog lifted. Surely it wasn’t the light morning fog that was keeping us from leaving, I thought. We had gone to the plant when it was much thicker. All morning we stamped around the Appelplatz, trying to keep warm. As the hours crawled by the most fantastic speculations took shape in our overheated imaginations.