Once the train started rolling it didn’t stop until the next morning, coming to a halt in the middle of pine trees and heath. Surprisingly, they let us out of the cars to walk about. There was smoldering brush on either side of us. I could see down the track the skeletal remains of a bridge. We had missed being on the primary target by a couple of hours. I picked up from the guards’ conversations that they were waiting for orders as to where to deliver us. Squatting to relieve myself, I spotted some wild onions.
They went down like fire into my empty belly. Luckily I found some young, tender dandelions to soothe the burning. The SS brewed coffee and ate by a campfire while we watched with dripping tongues. We’d had nothing to eat for the last forty-eight hours.
The SS got their orders and we started off on foot. We soon reached a village of prosperous-looking dwellings. Everywhere we heard cattle, chickens, and pigs. A rooster crowed from its perch on the fence of a white farmhouse with a red tile roof as we went by. I couldn’t believe it. Even German farm animals were Nazis, teasing and torturing our ravenous stomachs. It had to be a Sunday, for people were coming out of the church. They were all big and fat, clean and well dressed. They turned their backs when we passed by or spat with disgust. Others let loose their dogs or chased us with pitchforks when we tried to drink from their pumps. I guess “Love thy neighbor” must have been ripped out of their Bibles. They couldn’t give a damn how many cement bags the ashes of Häftlinge had filled.
As night fell we followed a road that ascended the Harz Mountains. Multicolored explosions lit the western horizon, and little silvery birds passed in front of the moon. Again we were fleeing before our liberators and marking our trail with corpses. I had to escape now if I was going to witness the Nazis’ demise. We reached a forested plateau, but with the dogs at our heels there was no chance to make a break. Then the road zigzagged downward and at each bend there was a culvert. From the road, all the culverts seemed to have plenty of mud that I could burrow myself into. I checked behind me. The SS and their dogs were at the end of our column.
At the next bend I jumped into the culvert, but instead of landing in mud I kept falling. My shithouse luck had picked a pipe that was on an extremely steep incline. Pressing my knees and elbows against the slimy walls, I struggled to break my fall. It was hopeless.
I couldn’t get a grip anywhere. I shot out the other end and landed flat on my back in a muddy ditch. I stood up scraped and dripping wet, only to find the head of the column coming around the bend.
There was nothing to do but fall back in line.
When we reached the valley below, they marched us across desolate grazing land to a waiting train sitting on a rusty track overgrown by weeds. I could tell that the march over the mountain had thinned our ranks considerably because we had even more room in the cars. They left the door to our car open, and sometimes there would be a guard sitting there and sometimes there wouldn’t. The SS at Auschwitz would never have such an inconsistent routine.
Things were so desperate and chaotic for the Germans that they were probably wishing we would all jump out of the train and die.
The effects of the Allied bombing raids were evident everywhere. Charred remains of buildings and military equipment dotted the landscape like so many funeral pyres. A perfect postcard to send to the Allied generals. Problem was, I didn’t have a camera or a stamp and I was riding on a high-priority target for their bombers.
There were bomb craters on both sides of the track. The train would roll for miles, then stop for hours as workmen fixed the mangled tracks ahead. When the rails were repaired they were still far from being sound.
While the train sat idle one afternoon, I stepped over to our guard who was sitting in the doorway with a copy of Der Stürmer and read over his shoulder. The bold headline gave me a shock: “Roosevelt Tot.”
Roosevelt was dead. I slumped down in a corner, crying. I feared his death would alter the outcome of the war, or at least prolong it. At this point every minute counted for a Muselmann.
The train began to move slowly. Wheels squealing, our car wavered on the poorly repaired track. We were approaching the outskirts of a town when air raid sirens started to wail. The train lurched forward at full throttle in the engineer’s attempt to escape harm’s way. He was taking a hell of a chance on those unstable rails.
Everyone in the car either plastered themselves against the walls or dropped to the floor as the train rocked and bounced through a burned-out train station. The guard’s newspaper scattered, then was sucked out the open door. I slid across the floor, expecting us to derail at any moment, but by some miracle the track got smoother and we hurtled onward to “Pitchi Poi.”
That night a young Romanian who was talking to himself woke me.
“Let me sleep,” I grumbled.
He looked at me with dull eyes and continued to mutter. Poor bastard, he’s out of his mind. Someone jostled him and he leapt to his feet howling like a rabid beast. The other man fell over backwards and the Romanian grabbed him by the throat. Foolishly I tried to separate them, and the Romanian came after me with a homemade knife. I grabbed his arm, but he twisted away. I felt a sharp sting at the nape of my neck. I knocked the Romanian over.
Seeing the knife still in his hand, I jumped on top of him and kneeled on his arm. He tried to bite me, so I jammed my other knee into his neck. I could feel blood streaming down my back as he scratched and hit me with his free arm. I sank my knee into his throat. Gasping for air, the Romanian finally let go of the knife.
With my hand over the gash in my neck I rolled off him, exhausted.
One of the Häftlinge circling us picked up the knife and threw it out of the car. A few others flung the Romanian out after it.
PART V
RAVENSBRÜCK
CHAPTER 20
The loss of blood from the knife wound had debilitated me. A malnutritioned man needs to spill only a few drops to render him a useless shell. I was catatonic for the rest of our train ride. We could have traveled days, weeks, or maybe only hours, before I was overwhelmed by sunlight. I found myself staggering behind a procession of Muselmänner on a dirt road leading to a camp called Ravensbrück. Once we were all inside, the guards locked the gate and stayed on the other side of the wire. I stumbled into a Block and passed out.
When I awoke I was shocked to find myself not in the lowest tier of a bunk but in a normal bed. The whole Block was filled with single beds. Still weak and woozy, I slowly sat up. Other than the dandelions and wild onions, I’d had nothing to eat for five days. I asked the Muselmann in the bed next to me if the boches had passed out any rations. He didn’t acknowledge me. He was on his way out, and it looked like the rest of the men in the Block were heading in the same direction. I dragged myself outside. There was barely a soul in the yard, and the Häftlinge who were milling about seemed to have the same goal I did: finding something to eat. Young dandelions were sprouting around the Blocks and I filled my belly with them.