I Shall Live (32 page)

Over the next week or two things calmed down a little. The Allied armies landed in the south of France, opening yet another front against the Germans, and were rapidly moving north along the Rhine Valley. The Allied forces in northern France had spread out after the breakthrough in Normandy and were advancing toward Paris. It was now obvious that the Germans were incapable of stemming or even slowing the Allied drive, and that the liberation of all of France was imminent. But these dramatic victories no longer aroused the same joy in us as had the earlier ones. The Wehrmacht was so weak now that it was no longer a contest; furthermore, this was completely overshadowed by the question of what would happen to us.

One hot, clear day in August, when we formed ranks after returning from work for the evening Appel, we were met by a gruesome
sight. In the middle of the Appelplatz, propped up on tables, were several bodies. I couldn't see the faces from where I stood, but soon a whisper swept the prisoner ranks: Chilowicz! the corrupt and brutal Jewish Lagerälteste. Indeed it was Chilowicz, with his wife, Finkelstein, and a few other of their closest collaborators. So this cunning, cruel man and his gang had finally reaped what they had sown. I had never been able to understand how even the most savage conditions could turn Jews into accessories of the SS, so that they collaborated in the torture and murder of their own people. I could understand and even forgive some of the prisoners of weak character who, when under the gun, committed offenses against their fellow Jews, but Chilowicz and the others like him went out of their way to be cruel even when the Germans weren't around. The bodies were a chilling sight, but I felt no pity for Chilowicz and company.
*

This episode caused some uneasiness, but soon the camp calmed down again. We learned of the liberation of Paris, but that had long been expected. Of more immediate concern to us was whether the Germans would be able to stabilize the front on their own frontiers. From my experience observing the course of the earlier great offensives, it was apparent to me that first the Germans, and now the Russians and the Western Allies, after an advance of several hundred miles, needed time to bring supplies up to the front and prepare for a new attack.
The rhythm of war was such that after every rapid advance there was a pause before another one could begin. I hoped of course that the Germans would throw down their arms and refuse to fight any longer, but I suspected, especially after the brutal killings of the leaders of the July 20 assassination attempt, that they were more frightened of Hitler and his Nazi henchmen than of the enemy.

September 1, 1944, came: the fifth anniversary of the German invasion of Poland and the second anniversary of our miraculous escape from under the SS machine guns in U
ś
ciług. I was in the barracks working on our professor's meaningless numbers when I heard shouting outside. The window nearest our table was open, so I went over to see what was happening. I looked out the window, and what I saw made me feel as though my head would explode. Just a few steps away was an SS woman holding Fred in a head-lock, while Fehringer was hitting him viciously all over his head and body. I was later told that I jumped out the window, which was six or seven feet above the ground, and ran over to Fred, but I don't remember it; one moment I was looking out the window, and the next I was grabbing the SS woman's arm and freeing Fred's head.

He was in a daze. Fehringer, always so cocky and self-assured, was looking at me in disbelief. An SS guard ran toward us, gun in hand, shouting,
“Was ist los?”
(What's going on?) Fehringer told him that he had seen Fred trying to conceal money, and that when he attempted to search him, Fred had resisted. The SS woman, whom I now recognized as Fehringer's girlfriend, accused me of pushing her and interfering with the search. I was afraid the SS guard would shoot us both—Fred and me—on the spot, but he calmed down and asked Fehringer what had become of the money. Fehringer told him that he had seen Fred with it in his hand but didn't know what had happened to it in the struggle, perhaps Fred or I swallowed it. The guard then looked at me and said, “Resisting
an SS guard, eh? How interesting.” He wrote down both Fred's and my prisoner numbers and ordered us to go back to work, saying, “We'll deal with you later.”

Of the money we had brought with us to the camp, there was only one twenty-dollar bill left, and Fred had had it, sewn into his trouser fly. What had aroused Fehringer's suspicions was unclear. We returned to the barracks in despair. Fred was especially upset that I had gotten myself involved, since there was no way I could have helped him. Sam and Felek were devastated. So many years of suffering, and now it looked like the end for Fred and me. It cast a pall on the whole Chemiker Kommando. They felt sorry for us, but they were also gravely concerned about the effect this would have on them, even though none of them had been involved in the incident.

Fred told us what had happened; Fehringer had suddenly come into the barracks and ordered him outside, demanding that he hand over “the money.” Fred told him he didn't have any. Fehringer knew where people usually hid money. He ran his hands over Fred's striped jacket and pants, felt the bill sewn in the pants fly, cut a slit in it with a razor blade, and took out the money, all in a few seconds. Then he handed the twenty dollars to his girlfriend, and they both started beating Fred up. Just taking the money wasn't enough for Fehringer; he wanted to kill Fred. Now, thanks to my interference, we were both in a hopeless position.

I sat down at the table and tried to do some work, but I couldn't bring myself even to push the buttons. “So this is the end,” I was thinking. “After all we've gone through.” Felek and Sam were heart-broken and kept hugging us, Sam shaking his head despondently. Everyone knew that resisting an SS guard meant almost certain death. They would probably display our bodies on the Appelplatz like Chilowicz.

We didn't have to wait long to find out. On the way back to camp, after they had counted us at the gate, one of the guards called out: “Prisoners numbers so and so—step out.” They were our numbers. I tried to prepare myself for the worst, but still my heart was pounding like a jackhammer. Sam and Felek didn't even get a chance to say good-bye; all I saw was their ashen faces as we were led away.

The guards took us to the SS camp headquarters, which were not far away. Before leaving the work barracks, Fred and I had agreed that no matter what they did to us, we would stick to the same story: we had no money, and Fehringer had been mistaken. We figured that if we told the truth and said that Fehringer had taken it, it would be worse for us. First, because we would be admitting to the illegal possession of money, a capital offense in itself, and second, we knew that they wouldn't believe us anyway, not with the SS woman backing up Fehringer's story. My intervention made it all look even worse.

When we arrived at the SS headquarters, several SS guards were standing about in the anteroom. One of them said, “Wait here. I will tell Obersturmbahnführer Müller they are here,” and went into the adjoining office. In a moment he came back and ordered Fred to follow him. They went in, and from the inner room I heard a loud voice questioning Fred. I couldn't hear Fred's reply, but there came a series of thuds, which I assumed meant someone was hitting or kicking him. This went on for a long time. I winced every time I heard a new thud. Of all the many things that had happened to me, I had so far been spared the sight or sound of anyone I was close to, let alone a brother, being methodically and brutally beaten up: the feeling was almost indescribable—a mixture of pain, bewilderment, helplessness, despair. But this time there was no possibility of intervening to stop it; the guards were standing right next to me, their guns at the ready. At last the sounds of the beating stopped,
but soon they began again. Then I heard an especially heavy thud, as of a body falling to the floor. The door opened and I heard Müller shouting to the guards to bring me in. I entered the office, where for the first time I saw Müller close up. I had seen him often on the Appelplatz, but always from a distance. He was tall and thin, with cold gray eyes. Another SS officer stood next to him. I looked around and saw Fred on the floor in the corner. His head and face were covered with blood and he was lying on his side perfectly still, all crumpled up.

Suddenly he stirred and let out a moan. A wave of happiness rushed through me—he was alive! Müller made sure I had taken it all in, then said, “Get a good look at your brother, because that's what will happen to you too if you don't tell me where you hid the money.” “We didn't have any money,” I said. Müller came over to me and hit me in the head with a heavy rubber truncheon. I saw stars. Müller continued to hit me in the head, blow after heavy blow. The first four or five blows hurt a lot, but after that I felt each blow less and less. After a while it was as if someone were hitting a big, soft pillow on top of my head.

I have a slight depression at about the center of my skull that I have always believed was its weakest spot, and my only thought was that if Müller hit me there with the force he was using elsewhere on my head, he would crush my skull. As I saw the blows coming, I moved my head slightly so they would miss that spot. Müller continued hitting me and I felt no pain, but I sensed that if it went on much longer, he would probably kill me. I was quite calm now, and after about twenty or thirty blows I decided to pretend I had fainted, so I slipped down to the floor and lay there with my eyes closed. Someone threw water in my face and I opened my eyes. I heard Müller's voice saying, “Get up.” I got up, expecting him to resume hitting me, but he must have been tired. On the floor Fred
opened his eyes and looked at me in pain. “Throw the two pigs in the
Stehbunker
[standing bunker] and keep them there until they start talking,” Müller told his assistant. The assistant ordered Fred to get up. He tried but couldn't, and motioned to me to help him. I went over to the corner where Fred was lying, helped him to his feet, and we embraced for an instant. Then the guards came in and led us away.

They took us to a barracks and pushed us into two adjacent cells, locked the doors, and left. So this was the Stehbunker. It was almost completely dark inside, but there was a small opening in the door through which I could see a tiny ray of daylight. The bunker was about two feet by a foot and a half, so it was possible only to stand up in it—one could neither lie, sit, nor crouch. It smelled foul, and the floor was covered with feces and urine. Next door Fred kept wailing, “Why did you do it? You couldn't have helped me. Now they'll kill us both!” I had no very intelligent answer to give him, and there wasn't much I could say to cheer him up. After he calmed down a little we compared notes and reaffirmed our decision not to change our story no matter what they did to us. As the only occupants of the entire row of the Stehbunkers, at least we could talk freely.

Fred was in much worse shape than I, for his beating had been more severe than mine, and from time to time he moaned with pain. I just had a bad headache; when I touched my head it still felt like a big, soft pillow.

When the ray of light disappeared, we knew it was evening and wondered whether we would get any food, or at least some water; my mouth was very dry. I tried to change position, but the Stehbunker was too small. I couldn't even lean against the wall; there wasn't enough floor space to allow an angle.

Time dragged on endlessly. I was reminded of the first day of the U
ś
ciług action, when we were hiding in the ditch. I tried some
uplifting thoughts, about German defeats and how Hitler must be suffering, knowing that his end was near, but that didn't work for long. My knees started to hurt, and Fred told me to rub my legs, which helped a little. Finally I dozed off, but only for a moment; it was hard to sleep in a standing position. It seemed as though the night would never end. Fred and I spoke from time to time. We both felt that since they were almost certainly going to kill us, it would be better if they did it soon. We worried too about Sam and Felek, who probably thought we were dead by now. We hoped that the SS would not punish them for being our brothers.

When the little ray of light appeared again, we knew the long night was over. It was probably our last day, and we tried to prepare ourselves for whatever might come. It was getting very painful standing in the Stehbunker, and again we wondered if they were going to bring us any food, or at least a little water. Thirst was becoming unbearable, worse than the pain. Hunger was the least of our discomforts. Time crawled. I watched the movement of the ray of light, trying to calculate what time it was, wishing for somebody, almost anyone, to come, for something to happen. The ray of light grew fainter, then disappeared. It was night again. We couldn't understand why they hadn't taken us out during the day, either for more interrogation or to kill us. Probably they were trying to soften us up in the Stehbunker so that we would “confess.” The mere thought of staying there much longer was terrifying. I felt that I was gradually sinking into a stupor. I had read about medieval prisons in which prisoners were kept in conditions similar to this, and now I knew what it was like.

The swelling on my head went down and I could feel my skull again. It hurt when I touched it. Thirst was becoming worse every moment, and now I was having trouble breathing. I urinated against the wall, and wondered how I would be able to move my
bowels standing up. The night dragged on and on, and now and then I sank into a kind of sleep.

The ray of light appeared once more. Fred and I were exhausted and aching in every joint. We could scarcely talk, our throats were so dry; we managed only to exchange a few words from time to time. Nothing happened; no one came. My tongue started to swell and my lips cracked. I was losing all sense of time. The light disappeared again; we were into our third night. Occasionally I called out to Fred to make sure he was still conscious. Once when I called out he didn't answer. “Fred! Fred!” I screamed, and finally he responded. He must have fainted. My tongue was so big it almost blocked my throat, and I could hardly breathe. The light came once again, and I thought that if this continued for one more day I would probably choke to death. My tongue was so swollen that scarcely any air was getting through my mouth or nose. I wheezed every time I took a breath.