Kanada (8 page)

Thursday, July 13, 1944 –
Monday, July 17, 1944

T
he tinny drumming of rain on the roof was keeping me awake. The room was black, except for a dim bulb above the entrance. Agi stirred beside me.

“You can't sleep either?”

“The rain,” she whispered.

My stomach groaned. “Sorry. Can't help it.”

“I'm hungry too,” she said. “Do you ever think about lecso? All those peppers and onions. And an egg on top with a runny yellow yolk.”

My mouth watered. “That's my favorite meal.”

“Did your mama put a piece of sausage into her lecso? It gives it a nice, smokey taste,” said a voice from the bunk directly below us.

“No, she didn't. We're kosher.”

“We're kosher too,” said a loud voice from another bunk below. “A wedge of kosher salami will give you the same flavor.”

“My mama's lecso is so tasty that it doesn't need meat,” I bragged.

“It's true,” Agi said. “Her mama makes the best lecso in the world.”

“What about cholent?” asked Eva. “Beans and barley, and onions and garlic … so yummy! My papa is a rabbi. We let it cook over Shabbos while we went to shul.”

“Hush!” cried another woman before I could answer. “Some people are trying to sleep!”

I closed my eyes. I could taste the flavors in my mouth. During those terrible nights, I learned how to cook. The women loved to talk about their kitchens. As I listened, night after night, I remembered how Mama had shooed me out of the kitchen. “Two women in a kitchen is one too many!” she used to say. After the war, she'll let me help when she realizes that I know what I'm doing, I thought as I lay there half-dreaming. Then I would remember the tall chimneys, and I would cry myself to sleep.

On a hot July morning after our coffee ration,
SS
guards set up three long tables and rickety chairs in front of the barracks. At each of the tables sat two prisoners. One of them was clutching what looked like a medical instrument with a needle. His partner was in charge of a black ledger and a pen.

The Lagerälteste called for attention. “Each of you will be given a number!” he shouted. “Every woman will have this number tattooed on her arm. This number will be recorded. From now on, you will be known by this number. It will replace your name. Häftlings with surnames starting with the letters A to F, go to table one. Häftlings with names beginning with letters G to N, go to table two. The rest of you, go to table three. You disobey at your peril!”

Nobody spoke up.

“Haltet die Klappe!” bellowed the Kapo. “Line up! Single file!”

Long lines formed in front of each table. I headed toward the farthest one. The line moved slowly. There was only one person ahead of me when I felt a tug on my sleeve. It was Agi.

“Come with me!” she said.

“I can't! It's almost my –”

She leaned close. “Eva says that if our numbers are close together, we get to stay in the same block. Prisoners with higher or lower numbers may get moved to different blocks,” she said. “If we want our numbers to be close together, we have to stay in the same line. Look at what this man's doing!” She pointed to the Häftling with the needle. I could see that he was tattooing large numbers on the forearm of the woman in front of me. “That woman,” she said, pointing to the table with the longest line, “tattoos small numbers on the underside of your arm. Let's line up there.”

“But my name starts with W.”

“Don't tell them your real name pretend your name starts with a letter from the beginning of the alphabet.” She pulled my hand. “Come on. Eva is saving a spot for us.”

I followed her. As we passed by the second table, we saw Sari at the back of the line. I motioned for her to follow us.

“What's the matter with you? Go back to your line before you get into trouble!”

When I told her what Agi had found out, she came with us. Nobody stopped us. Neither the Kapos nor the
SS
were paying attention.

Eva let us cut into the line in front of her at the first table. We waited for another hour. Finally, it was my turn.

“Your name?” the prisoner with the ledger asked.

“Judit Freis,” I stammered.

He recorded my name in his book. Then the Häftling with the needle grabbed my arm. The pain was like a bolt of lightning. I clenched my teeth and stifled a scream. In a few minutes, it was mercifully over. On the underside of my forearm, neatly outlined in drops of blood and blue ink, was A10234.

Thursday, August 31, 1944 –
Friday, September 1, 1944

W
e lost everything even our names. We had been reduced to numbers.

It was the end of August, and the days were cooler and constantly rainy. The Lager was full of mud. We had been moved to another miserable block, no better than the one we were in before. Agi, Eva, Sari, and I clung to one another as if we were the last people alive in a world of spirits. We spent the time wandering around the Lager or lying in our bunks. Our filthy uniforms hung loosely over our scarecrow frames. We were infested with lice.

The sun finally appeared. We had just received a scrap of bread and were squatting in the mud in front of the barracks eating.

“I thought the rain would never stop,” said Eva as she
broke off tiny crumbs. She saw me watching her. “It lasts longer this way,” she explained.

“I know. I do it too.”

“So do I,” Agi added.

Sari was leaning against the barracks wall, eyes closed, as if all the fight had gone out of her. She had become what the Häftlings called “Muselmann,” somebody who had been broken by life in the camp and had lost the will to live. She was a walking skeleton with every rib showing, her skin gray, and her body and face covered with open sores. Over the last few weeks, she had become one of the living dead, but we pretended not to notice. She didn't take a bite of her bread.

“Why aren't you eating?” asked Eva. “Are you feeling sick?”

Sari's eyes remained closed, but a tear trickled down her cheek. “Do you know the date today?” she asked.

“I've lost track,” said Agi.

“So have I.”

“It's the end of August.” replied Eva.

“It's my birthday,” revealed Sari. “I'm nineteen years old today.”

Agi gasped, and I understood why. The gray stubble on Sari's head, her toothpick limbs, her sunken eyes, and pale lips covered with sores she looked like an old woman.

“Congratulations!” cheered Agi finally. “A happy birthday and many happy returns!”

Sari opened her eyes. “Congratulations? You must be joking! What do I have to celebrate? My mama and papa are
gone,” she said, waving her hand in the direction of the crematorium. Tears welled up in her eyes.

“We must be grateful that we're still alive,” reassured Agi, putting an arm around Sari's shoulders.

“God will save us,” added Eva calmly. “He will deliver us from the evil around us.”

I kept quiet. My kind and gentle papa and Dezso, full of merriment. My darling mama and grandmama. All gone. For nothing, for nothing at all. I looked bleakly at the living hell around us, and no words came to my lips.

“We must celebrate your birthday somehow,” said Agi. “Now what can we do? We have no food … nothing to give you.”

Sari closed her eyes again “Don't bother it's not worth it.”

“Yes, it is!” cried Eva. “I remember how much we used to enjoy parties at home … oh the dancing, the music!”

Sari turned her head away.

That night, as I lay in the crowded bunk, Sari's face, so sad, so bereft of hope, swam in front of my eyes. I so much wanted to do something to lift her spirits, but what could I do?

The Kapo marched into the barracks as we were getting up the next morning.

“I need someone to help out in Kanada for the next few days,” she hollered. “Any volunteers?”

Everybody's hand, except mine, shot up. I knew that the Kapo didn't like me. Why give her the satisfaction of passing me over?

We'd heard of the fabulous riches stored in the ware-houses named after the country on the far side of the ocean, the land of my dreams. The Kanadians were the most fortunate among us. They were Häftlings who had been assigned to sort and store the possessions taken away from arrivals to Auschwitz-Birkenau. Sometimes the riches ended up in prisoners' pockets.

The Kapo scanned the room. “You all want to get away from here, don't you? Can't say I blame you!” She pointed her baton at me. “You are the only one who didn't volunteer. Are you too lazy to want to work, bitch?” she asked. “Come with me!”

I followed her outside to a jeep. She got into the driver's seat.

“Get in the back!” she snapped. “Lean away from me. I don't want to catch your lice!”

She revved the motor and we drove off. Her back was turned to me, offering a good view of her luxurious blond hair swept into a large chignon at the nape of her neck.

“What kind of work do you want me to do, Kapo?” I dared to ask.

She twisted her head in my direction. “Schweig!” she yelled. “Speak only when you're spoken to!”

I kept my eyes fixed on the floor of the jeep as if the antics of two busy lice crawling around on the top of my shoe fascinated me. The Kapo turned her attention back to her driving and sped up. A fat louse made its way up my leg. I picked it up and gently transferred it to the back of the
Kapo's uniform. She did not stir. I picked another louse from my sleeve and placed it carefully in the center of her chignon. Two more lice made their way to her back. She did not take her eyes off the road as she guided the jeep through the sea of dirty scepters listlessly moving along her path. Finally, we arrived at Kanada. As I stared at the large warehouses, I imagined for a moment fields of wheat and deep forests. But this Kanada was a series of warehouses, and I was staring at a mountain of clothing in front of one of them. I was handed over to one of the Kapos in charge of Kanada.

I stood at attention. He was the smallest man I had ever seen, under five feet tall, with a wizened face and a bulbous nose. His voice was very loud, as if he was trying to compensate for his diminutive size. I was relieved that he spoke in Hungarian. He led me into a large storeroom where coats of every color and size were piled high to the ceiling. He kicked aside a coat that had fallen from a pile to the floor before he spoke.

“Many of the Juden hide their treasures in their pockets when they are ordered to hand them over to the authorities before deportation,” he said. I remembered the bracelet that Mama was forced to give to the gendarme at the fertilizer factory. “The Jews don't realize that their coats will be taken away from them at the end of their journey, so they stuff their pockets full with their money and their jewelry.” He laughed heartily, as if he had just told a funny joke. He glanced around the warehouse. “There isn't much room here. Check the pocket of every coat for valuables. Move
each coat over there,” he ordered, pointing to the only empty corner in the room. “Put aside anything that you find for me. I'll be back!”

There was so much to do that I didn't know where to begin. Finally, I picked up a fashionable olive-green jacket. I imagined its stylish owner sitting in a café with other young women, gaily discussing her beaus as she ate sumptuous pastries and drank dark, rich espresso. The pockets of the coat were empty. Next came a man's elegant black overcoat. I could see its dashing owner bundled up in it, a black homburg on his head, as he walked to his law offices. The pockets of this coat were also empty. My pace was slowed down by images of the ghostly inhabitants of the clothing, but I felt I owed them the opportunity to tell their stories one last time.

I forced myself to concentrate on the pile of coats in front of me, for I knew that the Kapo would be returning, and he wouldn't be pleased to find me daydreaming. I looked in the pocket of every coat, but except for three handkerchiefs and a tube of lipstick, I found nothing. By the time the Kapo sent a Häftling with the message that I could have thirty minutes off for lunch, I had checked the pockets of more than half of the coats in the room. I was exhausted, and my shoulders and arms were aching.

It was definitely my lucky day. The prisoner dishing out soup from a large cauldron was a woman who had come to Auschwitz with my transport. When it was my turn to be served, I held out my dish: “Remember me from the train?”

She looked at me blankly at first, but then recognition dawned in her eyes. She dipped her ladle deep into the cauldron. The soup in my bowl was the thickest I had eaten since I'd arrived at the concentration camp. I sopped it up with a large piece of bread another Häftling had handed to me. I felt so full that I was afraid my stomach would burst.

I sat down on the ground to rest for a few minutes, leaning my head against the wall of one of the warehouses. The prisoners around me, who were mostly women, were well dressed and well nourished. Many of them were in civilian clothes, wearing white blouses with dark slacks. I was amazed to see that their hair was not shaved like mine. Häftlings in striped uniforms were clean and well groomed. Several of them asked for a second bowl of soup or another slice of bread. I was shocked to see that they were given food without beatings or curses. After a few minutes of rest, I was ready to return to the warehouse.

As the hours passed, I became more anxious. No matter how conscientiously I checked the pockets of the coats, I had nothing to show to the tiny Kapo. It was already midafternoon when I came across a woman's camel-hair coat with a beautiful fur collar just like my mama's coat! I searched its pockets. They were empty. I stroked the fur and buried my face in its softness. It had the same smell as the perfume that Mama used to dab on her neck. I became more certain that I was holding my mother's coat in my hands. There was only one way to be sure. I examined the lining around the collar. As I ran my fingers over it, I felt a bulge. I
heard Mama's voice,
Hurry, hurry!
I used my fingers to rip out the stitching that secured the lining to the material of the coat. It was hard going, because my nails were broken. I worked feverishly in case the Kapo returned to the ware-house. Finally, I had unpicked enough of the stitches to rip a hole in the lining. As I expected, several shiny gold coins were stitched against the material at regular intervals. Next, I loosened and removed the large cross-stitches that held the coins in place. I arranged the coins in a neat pile on the concrete floor.

I couldn't take my eyes off them. A dozen gold coins would let me organize a lot of extra bread. A dozen gold coins could mean the difference between life and death. There would even be enough money left over to pay for my train fare home when the war was over. I felt Mama's hand on my shoulder. I stuffed the coins into the pocket of my uniform. Then I put on Mama's coat, enveloping myself in her scent. For a moment, I felt as if she were a part of me. When I could delay no longer, I took off the coat and threw it on top of the pile of jackets I had already checked.

I got to work again. The heat in the warehouse was overwhelming, and I desperately wanted a drink. I was hot and tired and terribly frightened. I stopped sorting the coats and lowered myself to my haunches to think over the possibilities. I knew that the Kapo would be angry if I told him that I didn't find anything valuable. Would he even believe me? Would he not look in my pockets to make sure that I had not stolen anything? I ran to the entrance of the warehouse
and poked my head outside. Still no sign of him. I emptied my pockets and piled up the coins on the floor, beside the handkerchiefs and the tube of lipstick.

As I worked, the money drew my eyes like a magnet. It occurred to me that even if the Kapo didn't believe that I had not found any valuables, he had no way of knowing what I actually did find. I was in an agony of indecision sweaty and shaky from thirst and anxiety. Again, I poked my head out the door. There was still no sign of the Kapo, but I noticed a puddle of brackish-green water by the entrance. I couldn't resist it. I scooped up some of the liquid in my cupped palms and drank it down greedily. Then I hurried back into the warehouse, my mind made up. I picked up five of the coins. But where to hide them? If I didn't want them in my pocket, the only place to put them was in my shoes. I pulled down Mama's coat from the top of the pile and tore two long strips from the lining. Then I twirled the strips like bandages around my bare feet. I shoved the coins between the soles of my feet and the material. The coins dug into my skin, but I could still walk. I pushed the coat into the center of the pile, out of sight, and went back to work.

The Kapo didn't appear until the end of the day. He looked around the warehouse but didn't comment on the amount of work I had accomplished.

“Find anything?” he asked.

I pointed to the gold coins in the corner of the room. He picked them up, bit into them, and grunted in satisfaction
before putting them in his pocket, together with the hand-kerchiefs and the lipstick.

“Turn your pockets inside out,” he barked.

I did as he ordered.

“Lucky for you that you didn't try to pull a fast one! You're a good worker,” he admitted begrudgingly. “I'll arrange for you to be permanently transferred to the Kanada detail.”

I opened my mouth to thank him. I knew that in Kanada I had a chance to survive.

“That's very kind of you, sir, but I prefer to stay where I am,” I heard myself say. “My friends are waiting for me.”

The Kapo's face turned crimson.

“Don't you understand what I am offering you?”

I hung my head. “I am sorry, Kapo, but I prefer to stay in my Lager,” I repeated. And I meant what I said.