Scheisshaus Luck (22 page)

I looked up to find the
Vorarbeiter
walking slowly toward me.

What now? Was he going to drown me in this stinkhole? He sat next to me without dropping his pants.

‘‘Weren’t you there for the execution? A man hung for trying to escape on Easter Sunday? They rushed it because of the lousy weather.’’

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‘‘I was in the HKB.’’

‘‘I missed the whole thing, too. Never got a good look at the man’s face.’’ He turned to me with a smile. ‘‘I must’ve had a really silly look on my face when I saw you. Thought I was staring at a ghost.’’

‘‘I wish I could disappear like a ghost.’’

‘‘Why did you try to escape?’’

‘‘I didn’t.’’

I recited the answer I had prepared that miserable Sunday. ‘‘I didn’t try to escape. I was being nosey, and when I looked into the warehouse, the wind slammed the door and I was locked in.’’

‘‘To be honest, you were so muddy I’m not sure now what I wrote and God knows what that illiterate
Kapo
put in his report. It’s no wonder Hans screws up all the time; he’s been in jail almost all his life.’’

‘‘How do you know?’’ I asked.

‘‘Like most communists I was arrested when Hitler came to power. I met Hans in prison.’’

‘‘Why is he such a prick?’’

‘‘Because he’s a thief and murderer. How did you come to speak such fluent German?’’

I couldn’t believe that I was having a social hour with this man.

‘‘I spent a few vacations in Berlin.’’

This really interested him. ‘‘Which area?’’

‘‘Charlottenburg at the Litzensee.’’

‘‘Your father must be a rich bastard.’’

‘‘Some of his friends are.’’

‘‘I’m from Wedding.’’

The Wedding district of Berlin was a working-poor ghetto and a hot bed of communism. There had been years of vicious street-fighting and gun battles between the communists and the brown shirts of the fledgling Nazi Party.

‘‘How many languages do you speak?’’ he asked.

‘‘Four, and I understand a few more.’’

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‘‘You’re lucky. I can barely speak mine.’’ He stood up. ‘‘Get to work, and stay away from Hans or we’ll both be swinging.’’

I pulled up my pants and followed the
Vorarbeiter
. He eyed me.

‘‘Kid, nothing is going to unhang that poor bastard now.

Understand?’’

I nodded. I understood. In the life I had known before I might have confessed and restored that poor man’s name, but in this world that would have served no purpose.

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C H A P T E R 1 5

Reestablishing contact with Hubert came when life in Monowitz was threatening to bury me. I had been there for nine months and there was nothing I looked forward to anymore. When I was digging a trench not a thought entered my mind. I was an automaton.

I had succumbed to the Nazis’ desired condition of a slave, a brain-dead machine working without question, detached from all needs except for those that would raise me from bed and send me goose-stepping out the gate. I was aware what was happening to me and didn’t like it; there was nothing I could do about it.

I was a voyeur in my own nightmare. The only thing reminding me that I was still human was Hubert—his wave as we lined up in the morning, his nod as he shuffled back into his
Block
at night, his occasional smile. It’s amazing how the smallest gestures of camara-derie can resuscitate a depleted soul. There would be times—few and far between—after evening rations that we would meet behind the
Blocks
to ensure that the other wasn’t ready for a ride to Birkenau. We would share rumors on the Allied push, discuss SS activity in the camps, and bitch about what scumbags our
Kapos
were. We’d always finish with speculations on the welfare and whereabouts of 151

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friends and inflated tales of past female conquests. Those nights I would have the most wonderful sleep.

There were a handful of Orthodox Jews in my
Block
. Since their beards and
payos
(side curls) were long gone, the only reason I knew they were Orthodox was that they would sneak away to pray each morning and nearly every evening during the chaotic distribution of rations. Out of sight of the
Stubendienst
, they would sway back and forth facing the eastern corner of the
Block
. I was certain it was an abridged version of their prayers because they didn’t last more than a couple minutes. If caught practicing their religion, they would all be whipped—a high price to pay for a few words to a God who had apparently fallen asleep at the helm.

The Jehovah’s Witnesses held prayer meetings behind the
Blocks
at night. When I first stumbled on one of their meetings, I was baffled and curious. What were these men whispering about in the shadows? Planning an escape, organizing a resistance group?

The
Ha¨ftling
who explained to me that it was only
die Bibelforscher
had a good laugh when I told him what I thought they were up to.

A few weeks after the young woman’s suicide, I was emptying a piss pail on a moonless night when I spotted a prayer meeting. I felt guilty that I hadn’t memorized her number, but I was pretty certain that they had heard what had happened and didn’t need any of my ugly details.

One September morning the Orthodox Jews in my
Block
stayed in prayer a little longer and didn’t get in line for bread after they were finished. During our lunch break at the plant, two Jews in my
Kommando
refused their soup, explaining that it was their High Holy Day, Yom Kippur. Amazed, I stared at them. It’s foolhardy and counterproductive to your survival is what I wanted to say, but I kept my mouth shut. What was the point? I thought about the Orthodox Jews in my
Block
. Why the hell couldn’t they have observed their holy day by giving their unwanted bread to a starving atheist like me?

Once the evening count was over I hurried to Hubert’s
Block
to make sure he wasn’t refusing his soup.

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‘‘I don’t give a shit,’’ he told me. ‘‘I’ve been starving long enough. The way I figure it, I have credit coming for the rest of my life.’’

I was thankful that Hubert was smart enough not to be a slave to his religion. Why? The next morning a couple of yellow triangles in my
Block
didn’t get out of their bunks, and that evening we carried an unusually high number of corpses back.

Since I was among those in my
Block
who had survived the longest, I was often able to nab the choice chores. This had very little to do with seniority. We ‘‘old timers’’ knew how things in the camp were run and what was expected from us, and no screw ups meant the
Stubendienst
and
Blocka¨lteste
were secure in their posts.

The morning chores were mopping and sweeping the
Block
and ensuring that the beds were properly made. Each
Ha¨ftling
was responsible for making his bed, but one
Ha¨ftling
was in charge of seeing that the bunks would pass the sporadic SS inspections. The SS had ludicrously stringent rules on how the beds should appear.

The
Ha¨ftling
assigned to create these masterpieces would use two wooden planks that looked like oversized trowels to iron the wrinkles or creases from the blankets. Then he would have to position all the pillows so the SS officer could look down the row of bunks and see that all the pillows were aligned. If our beds couldn’t make

‘‘the god with a moustache’’ happy, everyone in the
Block
would go hungry that night.

Evening chores included washing the
Block’
s three or four thirteen-gallon soup containers. This was the most treasured task.

Where most other chores paid with an extra half ladle of soup, the
Ha¨ftlinge
who washed the soup containers had the right to whatever remained in the bottoms and clung to the sides. Up to four ladles of soup would be left in those barrels, and there was an unquenchable demand for it on the camp’s black market.

Another evening chore was doing a stint as night watchman. It took a good deal of fortitude and endurance to stay awake for that two-hour shift after twelve hours of labor, but the loss of sleep got you a full ladle of soup.

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SCHEISSHAUS LUCK

When I was the night watchman, I sat underneath the night-light, where I had a good view of the door and the night watchman’s clock hanging on a bedpost. I was also within earshot of the men filling the piss pail. In our
Block
there had been many fights over who would be the one to empty that pail. Many times I took it out myself to ensure quiet during my shift. Peace would be a better word—the
Block
was never quiet. When everyone was awake, there was coughing and spitting and swearing and arguments, and snoring and pitiful moans when they slept.

One night I heard men swearing in French outside the
Block
. I went to investigate and found two men scratching, biting, and claw-ing each other by the latrine. They were enraged beasts, and I had difficulty separating them. One brawler was a Parisian and the other had a southern French accent. They were real
Muselma¨nner
and had spent what little strength they had in their fight. On hands and knees, their chests heaving for air, they sobbed like children. The fight had been ignited by a culinary difference of opinion. The Parisian preferred to cook with butter while the southerner swore by olive oil. I stared at the sad fools and wondered if they realized that they would never taste food cooked in either fat ever again.

Another evening, I noticed that the night watchman’s clock was gone. My heart stopped. How did it disappear right from under my nose? Did someone steal it when I emptied the piss pail? Had I fallen asleep? Regardless, I absolutely had to find it before the
Blocka¨lteste
woke. The clock was his prized possession. Every morning he locked it up in his makeshift quarters. If I didn’t find it, I might as well count my bones.

Like a man possessed, I scurried from one end of the
Block
to the other. I tiptoed up and down the rows of bunks, hoping to hear it. It had to be in the
Block
since no one had gone outside. Finally, my ears caught a muffled ticking. I was ecstatic and at the same time boiling mad. The thief was going to pay for this. I stole up, then unclenched my fists. The clock was in the
Stubendienst’s
bunk.

There was nothing I could do to that snoring pig. He must have taken it to show the
Blocka¨lteste
that I was incompetent, so that one PART II | AUSCHWITZ

155

of his buddies could have my job. You’re not going to make me look like a fool. Gingerly I lifted his pillow, retrieved the clock, and hung it back in its place.

While I was in line for my bread the next morning, the
Stubendienst
smugly asked if I had slept well.

‘‘Oh, very well, thank you,’’ I smiled.

‘‘Slept during your watch?’’

‘‘Oh, I never sleep then.’’

‘‘Then how could I’ve taken the clock?’’

I pretended to be astonished. ‘‘What clock? Nobody could’ve taken it since it was there this morning.’’

‘‘You took it out from under my pillow.’’

‘‘Pillow? I would never dare do that. You must have dreamt it,’’

I said, staring at him innocently. He threw me an incredulous look and walked away.

After that episode I applied for a different chore, washing the
Blocka¨lteste
’s laundry. I had a cordial relationship with Wilhelm, whose dignified air clashed with the green color of his triangle. He had been imprisoned for embezzling funds to pay for his mistress’s lavish lifestyle. He was still grieving for his only son, who had died in the battle of Stalingrad and hadn’t ever visited his father in prison. Wilhelm enjoyed practicing his knowledge of foreign languages with me and seemed to treat me better than most. Washing his laundry got me access to soap and warm water in the shower room, some extra food, and a bed of my own whenever possible.

♦ ♦ ♦

As I was licking my bowl clean of the tasteless evening soup, I noticed a bored SS officer standing just inside the doorway. Wilhelm yelled orders for us to undress. It was a ‘‘selection.’’ We were hustled into one corner, and the
boche
handed out the green cards that we had filled out on our arrival. One by one we filed past the Nazi.

He took my card, looked me up and down, then examined my back-side. Why was he dragging this out? I’m no
Muselmann
. I just turned nineteen. On September twenty-sixth, to be exact.

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‘‘
Der Bengel ist noch ganz kra¨ftig
’’ (The rascal is still strong), Wilhelm said.

I turned around. The SS officer gave me another look, then shrugged indifferently. He took my card out of his pocket and put it on the table with the others. ‘‘We’ll wait until next time,’’ he told Wilhelm.