Four Scraps of Bread (2 page)

Work ended when the day did. At the great entry gate, the same looks searched out our every weakness, and the same careless gestures pointed us toward death. We straightened ourselves up and looked forward to another tomorrow—one at least as awful as today.

We stood, waiting endlessly for our evening soup and a morsel of bread. A long roll call, the last cracks of the whip as we got back into our hut, then we sank with the sun.

L
ICE

I remember those tiny, ingratiating, tenacious little bugs that teased me, nibbled me, and devoured me for many long months.

They were of different sizes, colors, and families. There were the rather plump black ones who moved around so slowly but who stopped only to nip you in some choice location. The white ones were thin and transparent and huddled together in the seams of our clothes. Others were voracious and agile, with their yellow heads and black bodies, and sprawled around in our wounds, having a feast without giving a thought to their host.

With them around I was never bored. If one group had had its fill, another would be hungry again and take over. The lice were there day and night. They became inquisitive with time and familiarity. They had the audacity to parade themselves right under the nose and beard of the SS,
⁵
who, being elite souls and the epitome of cleanliness, could not bear to see them. A thorough disinfection was called for.

Naked and trembling, we clutched our bundles of old clothes as a huge concrete belly swallowed us up. A vat for the clothes and a cold shower for us, then a procession in front of a bicycle pump that spat out some white mist. A puff on the right and a puff on the
left then out we came laundered, shorn, frozen, and crying with impotence as the audience laughed at us. Each of these sessions was also a highly risky moment of selection. If we had the misfortune to let ourselves be overwhelmed by hunger or the smell, dogs were there to bring us back in line.

At the end of the session, they would throw clothes to us over a small fence. Those rags were never the right size. As we waited for the others outside we tried to swap them with each other, an operation that itself had risks, what with the barbed looks that surrounded us. Sometimes I pulled it off. However, it also happened that I would come back at night wearing a dress with a train and with shoes the size of boats on my feet. Those who organized our stay took great delight in seeing us in such outfits.

Our little black, white, or two-tone guests waited for us in the straw in our huts. They were angry that we had left them to fast for so long. Filled with desire they came back to us.

B
READ

The value of a morsel of black bread in the palm of my hand: a little bit of life that I stared at devouringly.

Crumb by crumb I ate it, making it last. I closed my eyes like a newborn so that I could savor it and let myself be immersed in its flavor.

If I were not vigilant, someone might take it from me, seize hold of my life, just like that, without warning: every man for himself. I needed to be willing to fast for many days if I wanted to survive.

You had to know how to keep your eyes open to spot a peeling that had escaped from one of the bins, the way you would scoop up a drop of dew nestled in the bottom of a shell.

Hunger made me dizzy. I saw mirages, and stars flashed in front of my eyes. I spent all my energy chasing away visions of plates, cooking, and meals in an effort to calm my imagination. This was an enemy I fought against every day.

For all that, I do not envy those who have never known hunger, because they will never know the joy of a crumb of bread.

F
EET

My feet bore the weight of an entire life. I often begged them not to let me go. They went through every season of the year under a gray, forgetful sky.

Our bodies walked on despite us, and thousands of feet made themselves move forward against all reason. It was better not to know why, or what fate they were dragging us toward. We were well aware that if our feet refused to walk, other feet in black shiny boots would be ready to finish us off.

At the great entry and exit gate we had to run. It was an almost daily routine, to check if we were still fit for work. Icy robots stood on either side of the gate, armed with whips, dogs, and sticks. We ran, numb with fear. To lighten our run, and to avoid being bitten or beaten, we abandoned our shoes and clogs. If we slowed down or stumbled, a stick would immediately hook us and pull us off to one side—chosen for death. The women bringing up the rear of this long column would bump into lifeless bodies and trip over random obstacles.

With wild and flailing steps we kept on running past the gate, breathless and driven by instinct, our faces stiff with fear.

Our lives depended on our feet. They were painful and disturbed our short nights. At every daybreak we
wondered if our shattered feet, bearing the impossible weight of souls stripped bare, would make it through another day.

M
AN AND
B
READ

Yesterday we were all warm and sheltered; our affections made us feel safe, and our possessions made us feel secure. We had a shared sense of who we were. Then the scaffolding collapsed. Stripped of our appearances, who were we? Beggars? Rich?

I was not yet sixteen when I saw the face of man turn into that of a wild animal. Once the social norms were broken, for a morsel of bread we were no longer recognizable: we could crush our fellow human beings without a second thought.

Lying on my bed in Auschwitz, I saw a woman deep in prayer. A scrap of bread fell out of her pocket. A fellow sufferer sidled up to her and grabbed that piece of bread, which represented life itself. I was amazed at such a sight. But I too coveted that piece of bread.

I knew people who bore such destitution with magnanimity. They knew how to maintain a generous heart, and eyes full of light and concern. Stripped of absolutely everything, in a state of non-being where today, yesterday, and tomorrow were mere abstractions, their witness brought humanity back to its true stature. For those of us who were lucky enough to know them at that time, their witness allowed us to rediscover a taste for life and hope.

T
HE
G
ERMAN
S
HEPHERD

I was dragging around both my clogs and a huge obsession: to become a German shepherd.

They were truly beautiful animals, with their glossy coats, bright eyes, and sharp teeth. They were spoken to like they were people. They were entitled to smiles and games, and their meals were guaranteed. Thousands of us men and women envied their fate.

These dogs were not gentle with the prisoners, yet I was never scared of them. I looked at each one of them lovingly, and wondered which one of them put up with my all my playfulness and cuddles when I was younger. Never was I bitten.

One day one of them was cheeky enough to disobey its master: it rubbed against my leg without hurting me. Could the animal feel my affection?

This sensation, buried deep at the time, and its encounter with my numbed heart, remain vivid in my memory.

T
HIRST

The distribution of soup and drinks at Birkenau
⁶
was so disorganized that when it came my turn to offer up my metal bowl, there was nothing left.

I had not drunk for several days. I was thirsty: my lips were full of cracks, my tongue was swollen, and my senses were completely numbed. I would have thrown myself into the next puddle if my companions had not been there to stop me. Your pupils dilate, your eyes grow wild—people think you have gone crazy.

I must have drifted into unconsciousness, since all I can remember is the sensation of life coming back to me.

I felt drops of water. Where were they coming from? I only found out later. Other prisoners whom I did not know came to my aid, performing miracles just in time to save me. They have no names or faces in my memory. I do not know if they are alive or dead. I know that I owe my life to them.

I saw other prisoners dying from dehydration.

One time, I knocked into one of these almost dead skeletons without realizing it at first. They felt the bump and moved their leg. That is a painful memory. I could not save them: it was too late. As for me, I had been lucky once again.

E
DWIGE

Edwige was a former Auschwitz deportee turned block commandant.

I can still feel her whip cutting into my body, and her powerful slaps. I can still hear her hateful insults: “Hurry up and die.” “Pity is a crime.” “You are nothing but useless mouths.” “Kindness is futile.” “We are all enemies.”

Cries of pain, groans, and our exhausted silences irritated her and made her beat us harder. Older faces were particular grounds for cruelty: “You are stealing bread from the young ones!” she would yell. “Why is it taking you so long to die?” I saw prisoners collapse at her feet; she would kick them to death or finish them off with the riding crop.

She played the game of death so casually, more concerned with taking care of herself, and dressing up in all that she had stolen.

She gave out hot tea in the mornings with one hand, and randomly hit us with the other, yelling to try to get silence and minimize the chaos. She dished out only just enough to fill the bottom of our cups and used what was left in the huge kettle to do her ablutions in front of us.

At the end of a long day, there she stood at the door of the barracks, clean, fresh, and wearing a new outfit
that she had traded our bread for. How many paid with their lives to fill Edwige's wardrobe?

It took me thirty years to remember Edwige's face. Spring has come back to my heart because I can now talk about her without being overwhelmed by a mudslide of hatred. She was the daily temptation to despair. She was the one among us who had been trained to be just like our executioners. But how could I forget the painful deaths of my fellow prisoners? How could I forgive her look of contempt and her cruel laughter at seeing that we had lost everything?

What became of her? I have no idea, but I know that for me she remains a troubling mystery.

M
Y
B
LANKET

My blanket is a loving clown with a face whose color has drained away.

On good days

It serves as a pantry:

stolen beetroots and jams

armies of vermin

swarming all over them

leaving brightly colored streaks.

With wounds in our flesh we gouge out

a path for senseless convoys.

At night, exhausted,

I wrap myself up in its worn-out warmth

as if to forget.

It also whispers to me in its threadbare voice:

“Chin up!

You have to carry on.

You are not allowed to weaken.

Feelings kill, don't forget that!”

You have to allow yourself one certainty:

that this nightmare will end.

Even if believing on your own is difficult.

Through its

gray, stained, moth-eaten face

I see circles of plain sky,

often black.

Sometimes full of stars,

if I want to push my luck.

And with the wings of my broken dreams,

I hold the blanket tight.

Then I think of nothing.

H
OW
?

I was too young, and I did not understand why we were condemned to death.

What were we guilty of?

I did not understand how people changed so much: some became executioners, others became victims.

How was that possible?

How could we have been forgotten by humanity? How could it be that no one took an interest in us, except for our torturers?

We would scoop up random scraps of newspapers and secretly devour their words, searching for a message for us.

How was it that we never got anything?

Thousands of lives were stolen before my very eyes, and I plodded on, unable to see any other way out.

Against an unhearing and unspeaking heaven, our tears became gray clouds, heavy with anger and fear.

How was that possible?

There were also those who had a look of hope. Those looks helped me to keep going.

Today I live, think, and with difficulty I write, because the more I think, the less easy it is for me to answer all these questions.

T
HE
C
ALL

The goal of our overzealous guards was to make us disappear, albeit cleanly. Hence they dedicated themselves to showering us, depersonalizing us, shaving us, and disinfecting us, on average once a month.

They also wanted to know exactly what they were doing and therefore counted us often. This they did with imagination and care. It all depended on their mood. A sudden yearning for precision, and there we were, outside, in rows of five, at any moment of the day or night.

Four of them took turns counting us, and they checked each other's work. They took as long as necessary to make their numbers tally. Neither sun, nor rain, nor ice put them off. They were pernickety in fulfilling their duty and performed it with an iron discipline. If they thought they were missing someone, to make things easier, they could just erase hundreds of numbers. The unfortunate absentee was often found already dead. We stood there waiting.

Amid the bustle of dogs, whips, and guards, we waited, tired of being so important. It was with powerless rage that we observed the addition and subtraction of thousands of these muddled numbers.

We often found ourselves being awakened in the middle of the night with yells accompanied by cracks
of the whip. The whips had big personalities. They made themselves heard both vigorously and rigorously. Their handlers stamped their image on them. There was no point in trying to understand these outbursts. It was simply a pressing need to express their strength, their virility, and their importance.

That morning, once more, the warmthless sun rose. We exchanged a look of hope with those of our sisters who were still standing. A pale sky, a round cloud, a drop of water caught on the tip of our tongue, and we were still alive.