A short distance beyond the fence, in a sparse grove of birch trees, were hundreds of Jews. The men were mostly older, but the women were of all ages. All of them were now being herded toward a squat building with two ugly chimneys jutting from its roof. A crematorium. Inside was a gas chamber. And ovens that burned bodies to ashes.
There were a few minor protests, but no real resistance. The people were either unaware of their fate or resigned to it. I saw an elegant elderly couple walk, arms linked, toward their death with an incongruous air of respectability. I saw a blonde toddler sucking on her thumb, her other hand encased in her mother’s. I saw a young woman breastfeeding her baby even as she carried him toward the crematorium.
All of a sudden, the docile procedure was disrupted by a dark-haired woman who spun on her heel and slapped a guard across the face. The guard retaliated by smacking the barrel of his rifle into the woman’s head, then proceeded to kick her when she dropped to the ground. Finally, he swung his rifle downward and pulled the trigger. The crack of the shot made me jump. Those few Jews who had still not entered the building stopped in their tracks. The baby started bawling. The toddler screamed. A man shouted imprecations at the guards, while another started toward the shot woman, intending to help her.
The guards reacted wildly, beating the startled Jews toward the building with frenzied ferocity, using their boots, their fists, the butts of their weapons.
I stood paralyzed by the fence, watching with unblinking eyes, feeling as small and powerless as an insect. After all the Jews were inside, a few long minutes passed with no activity that I could see. Then two guards approached the side of the building, each carrying a canister. These they upended into two small windows, which they then sealed.
There was a stretch of deathly silence; then the screams began. Muffled by the thick walls of the gas chamber, but still piercing. A tidal wave of death cries.
Upon hearing them, something inside me splintered, then broke, then shattered. As though a small bomb had detonated inside me, leaving a burning wreckage in the middle of my chest. This was how my wife and daughters had sounded in their death throes. These were the cries I would never forget, never be free of.
I stood bent over, heaving, unable to move. My eyes roved about before latching onto the small body of the courageous woman who had slapped the SS guard. I swore to her that if I lived, I would take vengeance. I would make them pay with their lives.
The screams didn’t last very long. An unnatural stillness descended. But it was swiftly ended by the chatter of the guards, their coarse laughter.
How I hated them. How I longed to jump over the fence and rip them to pieces.
A hand on my shoulder made me whirl, fist raised.
It was Stefan, his face pale and his eyes moist. Only then did I register the wet trails down my cheeks, the salty taste in my mouth.
"Now you know why Kanada is one of the worst kommandos to be in,” he said in a choked voice. "Now you know.”
23
"Is this how it is every day?" I asked Stefan, as we walked together back toward the first row of warehouses.
He nodded gravely. "More and more trains keep arriving from Hungary. I can't say how many people"—his voice faltered, and he cleared his throat—"but it has to be hundreds of thousands. Just in the past two months."
It was strange how I could be both unsurprised and shocked by that number.
"How can you stand it?" I asked.
"Sometimes I feel that I can't. That I’ll go crazy. But what is there to do? I want to survive, Adam, and it's much easier to do so in the Kanada Kommando than anywhere else in this camp.”
Neither of us spoke for about twelve more paces.
"It gets easier," Stefan said, and when I looked sharply at him, he added quickly. "It sounds terrible, I know, but it does. I didn’t believe it either when a longtime prisoner told me that, but he was right. You learn to close yourself off to the sounds, the knowledge of what is happening. It helps if you don’t watch. Which is why I tried to stop you.”
"I’m glad I saw it,” I told him, and wasn't sure I was being entirely honest, because I knew that those images and those screams would forever haunt me. “I needed to see it just once. To bear witness."
"Why? You think those bastards will ever face justice? Stand trial for their crimes?”
If I lived, they would. I would be prosecutor, judge, and executioner.
"I don’t know about that," I said. “I was talking about the victims. I want to remember them.”
Stefan rubbed his forehead. “Maybe it would be better to forget."
We were back near the trucks by now. The Kapo took one look at my face, and I could tell that he knew where I'd been and what I’d seen. He gave me a heavy nod, like a taciturn father would give a son who had endured a grueling rite of passage and was now considered mature.
"Head on over to the latrine if you need to," the Kapo said. “We start again in a few minutes."
On the train platform, another cargo of Jews was being processed. More cries and yells. More victims. How many Jews had already died here? How many would die?
Stefan and I were pointed toward a huge pile of belongings. Another prisoner gave us directions: suitcases to that warehouse, clothes to another. Stefan and I each grabbed a pair of suitcases and hurried to deliver them.
"Where can I find this Ludwig?" I asked him.
Stefan was sweating profusely, straining with the weight of the suitcases. "This one feels like it’s filled with bricks," he said, but he didn't dare set it down to catch his breath, because an SS guard was standing in the doorway of the warehouse, eying us.
Inside was a hive of activity. Wooden worktables were scattered about the large interior. Standing at each of them was a woman prisoner, sifting through an open suitcase and sorting its contents. More women sat on the floor, doing the same. There were not enough tables for all the loot. The air smelled of leather, unwashed fabric, and sweat.
"Take them there,” an older woman prisoner told us, pointing toward a nearby wall, where suitcases were stacked four rows deep. “And don’t just toss them. Put them up tidily.”
As we walked through the warehouse, I was struck by the immense range of belongings being sorted. I saw cigarette cases, shaving kits, fur hats, handkerchiefs, candles, plates, bowls, utensils of every kind, wristwatches, and a remarkable number of books. Over by the door, there was a barrel filled with them, like an overflowing garbage can. They would probably be burned later. The Nazis had a fondness for burning books.
"Where can I find Ludwig, Stefan?" I asked again, once we’d set the suitcases in their place.
Stefan wiped his brow with his sleeve. "He’s around here somewhere. If I see him, I’ll tell you. If not, we’ll go look for him when we get a break, okay?" He glanced around. "Now stand over here, will you? Shield me from view."
He undid the clasps on one large suitcase and flung it open. Inside were clothes, folded neatly, and a small round tin. Stefan ran his hand among the clothes, finding nothing, then unscrewed the lid of the tin and peered inside. He flashed me a toothy grin over his shoulder. "Could be you bring me luck, Adam.” He closed the tin and hid it in his sleeve, then shut the suitcase. "Let’s go," he said.
Outside, he pulled me between two warehouses and showed me his find. Inside the tin was a batch of cookies—oatmeal dotted with puffy raisins. Instantly my mouth watered.
"Four for you and four for me,” Stefan said, handing me my share. He jammed a cookie in his mouth, chewing rapidly. I stared at my prize as a treasure hunter might stare upon a chest full of gemstones. Four cookies. An unbelievable sight.