Ahead of us, other prisoners, men and women, were plodding toward the Kana-da gate or passing through it. About fifteen SS guards were standing at the gate, and every few seconds, one of them would motion at a prisoner to step aside. Then that prisoner would undergo a search.
Fear wrapped its cold, slimy fingers around my neck and squeezed. I prayed that I would be allowed through without being searched. A shrill, panicked voice in my head shrieked that I had been a fool to keep the cookies, to take such a risk. Get rid of them, the voice urged me, before it's too late.
Clenching my jaw, I squashed the fearful voice, tamping it down until it was but a bothersome murmur at the back of my mind. Vilmos was my friend, and he needed whatever extra nourishment he could get. I was going to give these cookies to him.
As long as he was not dead already.
There were about fifty prisoners between me and the gate now. Another two prisoners were pulled off the path to be searched. I struggled to compose my features into what I hoped was a blank, innocent cast, when I heard a cry from my left.
A male prisoner was cowering before an SS guard, who was whipping him with a riding crop. At the guard’s feet was evidence of the prisoner’s crime: a can of food—I could not make out of what—the size of a man’s fist and lying on its side. For this tiny measure of food, the hapless prisoner's raised arms were now being ripped to shreds. For this, he would be removed from the Kanada Kommando and assigned to one in which the life expectancy could be measured in weeks if not days.
Fear tightened its grip further, compressing my Adam’s apple. My stomach contracted, and my hands turned clammy with icy sweat.
Keep calm, I told myself, don’t let them see you’re scared.
Only ten meters separated me from the gate. Just a few more steps and I would be in the clear. I swallowed hard and strove to keep my breathing even. Head up, eyes straight ahead, mustn’t look shifty or like I had something to hide.
Seven meters to go now. Six, five, four, three...
I saw it in my peripheral vision. A rigid finger pointed my way, accompanied by a sharp command to step aside. I stifled the urge to run. There was no place to run to. With my heart lodged firmly in my throat, I obeyed.
The guard was a mean-faced man of about thirty-five, with a spray of small pimples marring his cheeks and dull brown eyes behind round spectacles. He had cut himself shaving that morning, I saw. Tiny blood clots on his neck.
He had a small mouth and a long nose that wrinkled in disgust at the sight of me.
"Are you carrying something that isn’t yours, Jew? Something you stole? Reich property?"
I said that I’d stolen nothing.
"If you hand it over now, things will go easier for you than if I have to find it myself."
"I’ve taken nothing, sir,” I said, my tone respectful and obsequious. To my cop ears, I sounded like a horrible liar, but perhaps that was merely due to the terror roiling inside me. He’s going to find the cookies, that voice in my head said. Speaking softly now, with a satisfied, l-told-you-so edge. You’re a dead man.
I had removed my cap and was standing at attention with it clutched in my right hand. How I longed to be able to squeeze and twist it in both hands, to relieve some of the tension. But instead, I didn’t move, staring straight ahead, while the guard moved in so close I could smell sausage and onions on his breath.
"I think you’re lying, Jew. I can see it on your face." He tapped his temple with two fingers. "You think you can trick me, but you're wrong. Last chance or I won’t be merciful."
I repeated my claim that I'd stolen nothing. The guard nodded as though he’d expected no better from me.
"Drop your cap to the ground," he said, and when I did, he prodded it with his boot. There was nothing there.
"Take off your uniform," he said.
I hesitated. I had long since abandoned all vestiges of modesty at being naked around other men, but on the path just two meters from where I stood, scores of women were trudging by as well.
The guard backhanded me across the face. My head spun with the force of the blow. Needles of pain stung my cheek and mouth.
"Do as I say, Jew!" the guard snarled.
Tasting blood, I undid the buttons of my shirt, pulled it off, and let it fall to the dirt. Then I stepped out of my clogs, pushed down my trousers, and kicked them off. I made sure to not look at the prisoners who could now view my nakedness. Shame spread its warm, uncomfortable glow over my face.
The guard proceeded to step on my uniform, rubbing the soles of his boots back and forth as though cleaning them of mud.
There was nothing in my clothes.
I hoped that would be the end of it. But the guard was not done with me yet. His eyes roved slowly up and down my body. His lips curled in disdain, though everything he saw—the filth, the bruises, the bones jutting under the skin—was his and his comrades’ doing. But he did not see it that way. He was not seeing a man at all, but a creature of a lesser order. That’s how he had been taught to view a Jew: as a dangerous vermin that polluted the Aryan blood and corrupted the society in which it lived. A vermin that needed to be exterminated.
"Raise your hands. Spread your fingers.”
I did. My hands were empty.
"Turn around," he said.
I obeyed, my fear sharpening now that I couldn’t see him.
"Bend down and spread your buttocks.”
For a second I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly, so shocking was the command. Then came the harsh blow to my back as a reminder that nothing in Auschwitz was shocking or beyond the pale. Because everything was.
Shutting my eyes tight, I did as commanded. The moment, the most vulnerable and humiliating moment I’d ever known, seemed to stretch forever, crushing and suffocating my spirit bit by bit.
Finally, came the guard’s voice again.
"Turn around.”
I did, my face scorched with embarrassment. The guard’s face was a mask of revulsion and bewilderment. He eyed me suspiciously. He had found nothing, but some wicked instinct was telling him that he had simply not looked hard enough.
Then his eyes alighted on my clogs, and his forehead smoothed. He picked up first one clog and then the other and gave each of them a good, hard shake. Two thin strips of filthy rag floated out. These I’d used to cushion the sides of my feet, including where my wound was. Neither would be wanted by the officials in Berlin.
The guard ran a finger under his nose, over a toothbrush mustache similar to the one Hitler wore. He scratched at his temple, the same one he'd tapped to indicate his superior intelligence. He gave me a final sneer, swiveled, and walked off without another word.
I let out a shaky breath, gathered my clothes, and with trembling fingers, put them on again. Then I joined the other prisoners leaving Kanada toward the men’s camp.
26
Upon returning to camp, I rushed to the appointed meeting place with Vilmos. He wasn’t there. Turning around in a circle, I scoured the crowd of returning prisoners for my friend, my dread that Vilmos had not survived the day growing with each passing second.
I didn't see him. He wasn’t there. He was dead.
I should have been there with him, to help him get through the day. I knew this was an illogical thought, but guilt is an insidious creature. It makes its own rules.
The weight of despair grew heavier across my shoulders and back, and a painful void expanded in my stomach. Burying my face in my hands, I felt tears wetting my palms.
Then came a voice from behind. "Been waiting long, Adam?’’
Jerking my hands off my face, I whirled—and saw Vilmos standing there with a weary smile on his face.