By Chance Alone (9 page)

S
ometime in June, our unit was marched to Auschwitz II, where the perimeter fence was being enlarged. It was our job to place the many cement pylons to which the electrified fence wires were connected. It took three inmates to lift one of these pylons, which were enormously heavy. It was crushing work that burdened my entire body, especially my shoulders. Each time we were ready to move a pylon, we counted to three and then lifted in unison. We carried the pylon down into a ditch and then up the other side, and placed it into a pre-dug posthole. If one of us faltered or stumbled, we would all have been crushed by its weight. All the while, the Kapo in charge kept harassing us and shouting, “Faster! Faster!”

By the time we'd placed the first pylon, my body was already depleted, and I wondered how I could possibly lift the next one. It took superhuman effort and concentration just to put one foot in front of the other while this crushing weight threatened to push me to the ground. We were assigned to this job for three consecutive days under the strict surveillance of the Kapo, who
watched us for any sign of slack or sabotage. My body screamed for water, nourishment, and rest. When our thirty-minute lunch break came, I savoured every drop of the watery soup and each moment of shade under a birch tree.

While having lunch, I noticed a little curl of smoke rising out of the massive chimney of the crematorium. At first it looked quite harmless, but within minutes it was belching out red, angry flames. On humid days, the smoke would not rise but instead stayed low to cover a large area, and ashes rained down in flakes. The odour of burning flesh settled in my nostrils and made me feel sick. By this time, I was quite familiar with the extermination process. I'd heard stories around camp about the gas chambers, and I knew that the Nazis convinced people to enter by telling them that they were going to shower and be disinfected, creating a false sense of security. Once inside, these people—often two thousand at a time—were put to death with Zyklon B gas. Now, as I watched the smoke leave the chimney, I wondered who was in there and where they'd come from.

One day in late June or the beginning of July, we were marched out to work to the sound of the orchestra and I wondered what surprises were in store for me. It was pouring rain. I was soaked and the water ran down my body into my boots. It was a hot and muggy day, so the rain felt good and we were able to drink it to keep ourselves hydrated. I took off my soaked cap, twisted it, and drank the water I was able to wring from it.

We returned again to the satellite camp, Budy, and I saw that the flat cart was piled with woven straw baskets for some unknown purpose. We were led back to the swamps that we had drained of water a few weeks before. Now the fields were somewhat dry, and there was a mountain of white powder at one side.
This chalky substance was the chemical lime (calcium hydroxide), which was used as a fertilizer. We were ordered to load it into the baskets, which quickly became quite heavy because the lime was saturated with rainwater. As soon as we had a full basket, we were directed to the fields we'd drained just a few weeks earlier and were told to apply the lime to the ground. I held the basket on my thigh with my left hand and used my right to scoop out as much as I could to scatter across the field. When the baskets were empty, we walked back and filled them up again. This process went on for many days. The chemical bleached the colour out of our uniforms, and we became known as the Ghost Kommandos.

As the wet lime leached out of the baskets, it went through our jackets and onto our skin. I wanted to scratch my body all over, but that only made it worse—the skin became more irritated, and would crack and bleed. I wondered how I was going to survive this job, but there was no relief. The work detail continued for about a week, until we finished the spreading. By then, the flesh of the fingers on my right hand was eaten away and the skin on my kneecaps was gone, exposing the bone below. I was terrified of being eaten up by this chemical. At the end of each day, I tried to wash it out of my pores, but we had no ointments or treatments to help the skin heal. This was a job that would normally have been done using some sort of equipment, to avoid direct contact with the chemical; however, our health and safety meant nothing to the Nazis. We were expendable.

For the final three days of this detail, we worked near some duck ponds. I could see and hear the ducks as we laboured. At the end of each of the three days, as a form of sport, the Kommandant ordered us to run into the water with our clothes and boots on,
and then he told the guards to release their dogs. Those who couldn't run fast enough were mauled. I was aware that when I hit the water, others would pile on top of me and I could be drowned, so I would always try to outrun the others. On the last day, after jumping into the water, I swam into nearby reeds and found a nest with two large duck eggs. It was a miracle. I knew that eating the eggs was dangerous—if someone saw me, I could be harshly disciplined or killed. But they were such a temptation that I didn't care about the consequences. I immediately cracked one open and sucked it out. It tasted wonderful and gave me an infusion of strength that my body so badly needed. When I heard the order to get out of the water and line up for counting, I grabbed the second egg and tucked it into my armpit. I was determined to bring it back to camp for my father. But during the march back, the egg broke. I was devastated to lose this gift that I had so wanted to share. Not so long before, losing a single egg would have seemed like nothing to me, but now this loss was almost impossible to bear.

O
ne day after coming back from work, I saw my father and my uncle waiting for me inside the gate, just as they always did. My unit was always the last to get back in the evening, and they never failed to wait for my return. A few times, they had managed to bring back a piece of bread or a potato from a work detail, and they always shared their good fortune with me. The risk of doing this was great. As the prisoners came marching back to camp, the SS sergeant in charge of the gate scrutinized each one in search of contraband. If he saw any suspicious behaviour, he would yell to the prisoner to lift up his hands. If the man had anything hidden under his armpit, it would immediately fall out. The sergeant would take offenders out of the column and record their tattoo and barracks numbers. At
appel
, the punishment would be meted out: sometimes lashes from a whip, and sometimes reassignment to a penal unit (Strafkommando). Inmates in penal units were subjected to severe beatings from the Kapos and their lifespans were greatly reduced. In spite of these dangers, prisoners who managed to find scraps of food would always take
the risk of trying to smuggle them into the camp. We were constantly on the lookout for items that might improve our chances of survival.

All the belongings of the newly arriving deportees were collected at the rail platform in Auschwitz II–Birkenau and sent for sorting at a special building that came to be known as Kanada. Meats and other food items also ended up in Kanada, where inmate workers sorted through them. Sometimes food items were used to hide valuables—a coin might be hidden in a bread roll, for example. Inmates were allowed to eat the food but were forbidden to take any currency, gold, or jewellery. All valuable items were collected by an SS guard called the Bookkeeper.
*
On this particular day, my father's unit was working near the Kanada building when a girl from our town recognized him. Having liberal access to food supplies in the luggage, she was able to find a chunk of bacon and managed to slip it to him wrapped in a rag. It was a totally unexpected act of kindness. My father, at great personal risk, smuggled the bacon into Auschwitz I under his jacket, then slipped it to me while we were standing in a huddle. My uncle blocked the view so that nobody would see this transfer. I was surprised to find myself holding a piece of bacon in my hand. We were a traditional Orthodox family, so we did not eat pork of any kind. And yet my father told me that I must eat a little piece of it every day. He and Uncle Eugene, who must have been just as hungry as I, would not break with their religious beliefs, and I marvelled at their strength. But my father told me that this was a matter of life and death, and I must choose life.

As slave labourers, we had no lockers to store things, but I had managed to dislodge one of the ceiling tiles above my bunk in the barracks, creating a small space where I hid a few odds and ends, including pieces of rag. I stashed the bacon in the space behind this tile. For the next several nights, I waited until everyone was asleep and then, when I was certain that nobody could observe me, dislodged the tile and pulled out my secret treasure. Without a knife or any other utensils, I chewed off a small piece of the bacon. I could actually feel the energy flowing into my body from this sustenance. Every night, I had another bite—just a small shot of energy—and I am positive that this little bit of protein gave me the strength I needed to face the next day.

T
he SS initiated a wave of selections in Auschwitz I in early July
1944
. Simply hearing the word
selection
sent fear through me. My fellow prisoners had explained the entire gassing and cremation process to me, and I knew that selection meant certain death. I made a firm decision that if I was selected, I would try to electrocute myself on the fences or get shot from the guard towers, rather than submit to being gassed.

One night, we were abruptly awakened from our sleep. SS guards and Kapos were yelling, “
Raus!
Selection! Leave your clothes in your bunk and get down to the ground floor.” They herded us onto the street between the barracks and forced us to run to a nearby building where SS doctors were waiting to make the selection. We filed by them in a single line. They looked at each inmate to determine who was too weak or sick to work and who could continue. I knew that my life was hanging in the balance, and the fear almost froze me at a point when I should have looked most alive and capable of physical labour. The person in front of me was stopped, and his tattoo and barracks numbers
were recorded on a clipboard. This was a death sentence for him but an opportunity to live for me. While he was stopped, I simply kept moving toward the exit of the building, breathing a sigh of relief when I got there. I knew that if I had paused for even a moment, they might have scrutinized me more closely and sent me to my death. I was lucky this time.

Back in the barracks, I couldn't get to sleep. I wondered what had happened to my father and my uncle, who were in a different barracks than I was. How did they fare? I would have to wait until the morning to find out.

The next day, I ran to their barracks, but they were not there. I thought the worst must have happened. I had no time to investigate further, however, because I had to join my unit for
appel
. I spent a horrendously difficult day thinking about them, but I tried to convince myself that they had just been selected to join another work camp. I hoped for the best, but inside I knew that I was lying to myself.

When I returned from my work that evening, I went immediately to their barracks again. Still they were not there. I asked people in the bunks next to theirs if they had seen them, but no one had. I ran to a fenced-off holding area where the SS kept the selected prisoners until they were ready to transport them to Birkenau to be gassed. I saw many people milling around inside this area, and I called the names of my father and uncle. Within seconds, they came to meet me at the barbed-wire fence. I was so happy to see them, but at the same time, I knew these were likely our last moments together. I didn't have any words. I couldn't express a single word of consolation or hope. The guard from the tower yelled, “Move away from the fence immediately or I will shoot!” My father reached out across the
wire and blessed me with a classic Jewish prayer: “May G-d bless you and safeguard you. May He be gracious unto you. May He turn His countenance to you and give you peace.” This was the same prayer my father once uttered to bless his children every Friday evening before the Sabbath meal. Then he said, “If you survive, you must tell the world what happened here. Now go.” As I walked away, I took one final look before I turned the corner of the building and was unable to see them any longer.
*

I was devastated and confused. How does a father feel when he is saying goodbye and leaving his son in such an evil place? For days, I barely existed, drifting along in a constant haze. My two guardian angels were gone. Without their encouragement and their small gifts of food, I never would have survived the first two weeks in Auschwitz. Now I was the only living member of my immediate family—a sad, lonely, and daunting feeling. How was I going to survive without them?

O
ne day, the SS marched us to a large tract of land that was overgrown with scrub and full of large tree stumps. We were directed to clear the entire area and level the soil because they wanted to use the land for growing grain and mustard. Although the hot sun beat down on us, the fresh air was invigorating and it didn't seem that this work would be as rigorous as our former jobs. We had space to move around and we could use the bushes as a sort of a camouflage so we were not under the constant surveillance of the Kapo or the Kommandant. The guards and their attack dogs were spread out along the perimeter of the work area, and while I could not see them, I knew they were constantly patrolling in a circle. I thought of trying to escape, but I soon realized that there was no chance of success. Being under constant watch was like having a ball and chain around my neck. The Kapo drove us mercilessly to work at a fast pace, but we had some respite because he had such a large zone to patrol.

The SS divided us into units to perform different tasks, such as cutting bushes and hauling the branches to an area designated for burning. Others levelled the land or filled ditches with soil. My unit of four was ordered to dig out the roots of the large stumps. Two of us had pickaxes to loosen the soil and two of us had shovels to remove it. We were to dig in a circle around the stumps so that the roots could be exposed and severed, and then remove the stumps. I estimated that we would be doing this work for about one week.

Around noon each day, a horse-drawn cart brought canisters of watery soup and we had thirty minutes of rest. Lunch was always a risky time because of the jostling and shoving for position. Your spot in the lineup often determined how thick, and therefore how filling, your meal was. We were like ravenous wolves desperate for sustenance. If a prisoner was in the good graces of the person ladling the soup, he had a chance to get more of the vegetables that settled at the bottom of the canister. I told myself that if I survived, I would never, ever stand in line for anything again. I felt that there was no humanity here, only degradation, dehumanization, and the desire to grind us away, body and soul. We were forced to fight over soup so that we could go on.

One day while I was savouring my watery soup, I heard the whistle of a locomotive a short distance away. We were on a plateau near a river and some railway tracks, and I was eager to see what was coming our way. When the locomotive drew near, I could see that it was pulling many flat cars. Each flat car carried two big tanks, and on each tank there were soldiers in black SS overalls. They were singing, laughing, and waving as they went by. My thoughts turned inward, and I wished that I
were free to sing and laugh as they did. I had not laughed once since my arrival in this harsh world two months earlier. But then I realized that these soldiers were going east to face the tank units of the Russian Red Army, and I wondered if they'd be laughing then.

After eating our soup, we continued to dig until the Kapo told us to assemble and be counted for the march back to the camp. I was tired, thirsty, and in need of sustenance. I was looking forward to the evening cup of ersatz coffee, a thin slice of bread, and a tiny square of margarine, as well as being able to rest on my wooden bunk.

By now, we were a seasoned marching unit, with the Kapo calling out the orders and setting the pace. We sang German marching songs as we went. The marching and singing helped me feel more normal, and empowered me to go on from day to day in this distressful situation. It also showed our guards that we could not be beaten down; in fact, they had to hustle to keep up with our pace. If the wind was blowing in our direction, I could hear the sound of the camp orchestra as we neared. More and more, this music was an integral part of my camp life. Like the coffee and the bit of bread, it sustained me.

The next day, we were working in a deep cavity we'd dug; all the excavated soil formed a mound that hid us from view. This gave us a feeling of security, and we let down our guard. It was a dangerous mistake, because the mound also prevented us from seeing if anyone was approaching. At one point, we were loafing carelessly, holding our tools in our hands, when suddenly two of my co-workers jumped up and furiously started to work again. I felt a blow on the back of my head. Although I did not feel any pain, there was a buzz in my ears and a feeling of dizziness
overcame me. When I tried to pick up my shovel to resume working, I felt something warm dripping down my neck and I saw blood. I turned around to see an SS guard standing behind me, and I realized that I had received a blow from the butt of his gun. Our eyes locked for a second and I saw his twisted, evil grimace. I thought I was looking at the devil.

Blood continued to pour from the wound, and I went into shock and collapsed. The other prisoners hauled me out of the pit and threw me into a nearby ditch to keep me out of the way until the end of the day. The blood continued to ooze out of the wound, and eventually the under-Kapo, a man named Stasek, approached. He tore off a piece of my prisoner garb and told me to urinate on it and then put it on the back of my head. This bandage eventually stopped the bleeding, and I was thankful to him. Without his assistance and advice, I would not have made it back to camp.

I was no longer able to participate in the work detail. I tried, but my feet would not cooperate and my legs couldn't hold me up. My thoughts ran on like a movie, a retrospective of my life up until that moment. I recalled my father's parting words—about telling the world what happened at Auschwitz—and I knew I would not be able to fulfil his final wish. My demise would be the end of the family Eisen.

When it came time for lunch, I watched from the ditch as the soup was ladled out, but I could not go there and no one would bring any to me. I was simply written off. At some point, Kommandant Kuntz probably received a report that our unit was down one prisoner, and he came to have a look at me. I thought he would pull his pistol from his holster and shoot me on the spot. Instead, he signalled with his right hand, his finger
pointing up in a circular motion, meaning that I was going to go up the chimney of the crematorium. I understood that my fate was sealed. A feeling of helplessness and fright overtook me. How could I prepare myself to face the gas chamber? I would be reduced to a simple pile of ashes. I had always planned, as a last resort, to run to the electrified fence and die by my own action, but this was no longer an option because I had lost my mobility. I began to wish that the Kommandant had put a bullet in my head. I thought of my family and how they must have felt while facing their own demise. When my mother entered the gas chamber, she had my three siblings in her care. How she must have fought until the last breath in that horrible chamber. What would it be like for me? Slow or fast? Would my soul leave my body? Would I meet my family again? Would they all be waiting for me? How would I know them? What shape or form would they be in? I felt utterly alone, with no one to take care of or comfort me. No one could save me.

At the end of the day, our work unit was lined up and counted. All the tools were loaded on the two-wheeled cart, and I was thrown on top. As the unit proceeded to march back to camp, I was acutely aware of what I saw and heard around me; it was the last time I would experience any of it. The cart was left in a shed with all the tools in it, and two inmates took hold of my arms and dragged me a short distance through the gates of the camp. Under-Kapo Stasek directed them to the hospital in barrack
21
, where I was left in a hallway, near the surgery room.