Holocaust (46 page)

Today found me at Auschwitz, checking with Hoess to see if the supply of Zyklon B is sufficient, if Eichmann’s transports are on time.

The load on Auschwitz and the other annihilation camps—odd, how I have steeled myself to the use of
that word—will be heavier. Himmler, now that Warsaw has been liquidated, has ordered the immediate destruction of all Polish ghettoes. That means one thing: more work for us.

I must note here the fact that some Europeans do not agree with our plans. The Bulgarians, for example, a Slavic people for whom I have no regard at all, have defied us and dispersed and hidden their Jews. And the Italians continue to be difficult, refusing to cooperate, sending Jews into convents and monasteries and the Italian countryside. It disturbs me that whenever our units are defied in this manner, they more or less acquiesce, and turn to other business.

In any event, on this hot afternoon, I dined in the officers’ mess at Auschwitz. Eichmann and Hoess were present. They were, as always, cool, dedicated, full of new plans. The river is becoming clogged with ashes. They are now dumping the product of the ovens in a field some distance from the camp.

From the corner of my eye I saw my Uncle Kurt enter the dining room. He avoided my eye, took a seat by himself and sat in silence, puffing on his pipe. Since the scene at his office, where he dared to lay violent hands on me, we have exchanged no words.

I was halfway through a letter from Marta when I started.

“Something wrong?” asked Eichmann.

“Good God,” I said. “Our street was bombed.”

Eichmann commented that the English and Americans were utter barbarians, without any respect for human life, the culture of cities. Churchill was a savage, unloosing his warplanes on innocent civilians, Hoess added.

Marta, in her letter, assured me that she and the children were safe in the shelter during the raid. There was some damage to the apartment. Our beautiful piano was scarred with falling plaster.

There was another bit of news in Marta’s letter. Father Lichtenberg, the troublesome priest who refused my advice regarding his sermons about Jews, died in
Dachau. The circumstances are unknown. I feel a bit sorry for him. He simply did not understand the need to run with the tide, to accept the inevitable. I mentioned Lichtenberg’s death to Eichmann and Hoess. They were not interested. And why should they be? What is one more death—priest or layman, German or Pole? The important thing is to rid Europe of Jews; we all knew it; we all understand the urgency of our mission. This campaign of extermination is
central and vital
to everything the Führer has taught us. It is the fulcrum, the lever, the nucleus of our movement. It is not merely a means, or an end, but both the
means and the end
to a racially pure Europe, ruled by Nordic aristocrats.

Eichmann threw down his knife and fork. He refused to eat his cutlet. “You know, Hoess, the stink from those chimneys is awful. Gets worse every day. How can a man enjoy his lunch in this place?”

Hoess’ appetite was not affected. He drank his Czech beer, downed his schnitzel. “Can’t be helped, Eichmann. We’re still processing twelve thousand a day, top production at any camp. I hear Theresienstadt is also marked for liquidation. Romania, Hungary, they’ll all be delivering us their Jews soon. Forty-six ovens won’t be enough.”

“We’ve all got our problems, Hoess. I’m still fighting the army for trains. The bastards insist they need the rolling stock for their armies in Russia. What comes first? I asked them—Russia or getting rid of Jews? They had no answer. They know what the chief’s orders are.”

It occurred to me that as Eichmann’s and Hoess’ voices rose, my Uncle Kurt was hearing it all. He had not been eating, merely smoking, sipping his coffee, his somber face, taking it all in.

Suddenly he got up, slapped down some marks and walked past us. As he did, he looked at me with a revulsion and hatred I did not think him capable of. Then he left.

Again, I saw in Kurt’s eyes that same reproach,
that same anger I had seen in my father’s face when I was a boy. Do grownups realize the hurt they inflict on children with their disapproval?

I felt a need to teach my uncle a lesson, to squelch that moral superiority he shows me, that self-appointed conscience he has become. So I asked Hoess what the policy on using Jews as laborers was. He replied that it was the same as always, but more “urgent.” That is, not only were they to be worked until they were fit for “special handling,” but that whenever possible they were to be replaced with Poles and Russians—even if they gave evidence of being strong enough to work.

“I’m told there are several hundred Jews still working on the roads,” I said, “and I have seen lots of Christians available to replace them.”

“Then they should be replaced. I can’t keep track of everything, Dorf.”

He reiterated. Every Jew now in Auschwitz, and every one who would come here, was marked for special handling. Skills, strength, privilege no longer counted. I made a mental note to send Hoess a written memorandum on Uncle Kurt’s Jews.

The blow fell on my father sometime in August 1943. I have not been able to pinpoint the date.

At some day in mid-month, he and his friend Max Lowy, who had been with him in Berlin and Warsaw, and all of their detail were summarily marched from their jobs to the gas chambers.

Papa and Lowy, and a third man—one who survived and told me—-were working a grading machine. The third man had heard news from a newcomer—the Warsaw ghetto had risen. Many Germans were killed. They had used tanks and planes and artillery to subdue the Jewish fighters. They both asked him if any of their friends had been involved; but he knew very
little. The resistance was wiped out, but the Germans had needed seven thousand men to do it.

As they talked, they saw an SS sergeant approach Kurt Dorf and give him a sheet of orders. An argument ensued, but Dorf, a civilian, had only limited authority. They heard the sergeant say, quite clearly, “The detail will be replaced.”

A half-dozen SS men now appeared.

The Jews working for Kurt Dorf were ordered into a column of twos. They were told they were being taken for delousing, fumigation. A new outbreak of typhus was feared.

There was a pause. Then the men assembled. Some began to weep. One man fell to his knees and embraced the SS sergeant’s boots.

“He should not,” my father said. “Let’s at least go with pride.”

Lowy gulped. “I guess it’s over, doc.”

“Yes, you and I have had a long journey.”

“Not exactly a vacation, doc.”

They were marched off, toward the concrete buildings, the distant chimneys.

“You’ve been a good friend, Lowy,” my father said. “And I might add, an excellent patient. You always paid your bills on time, and you did little complaining.”

Lowy blinked back tears. He looked at the guards. “Doc … why don’t we just jump on them? We’ll die anyway. Take a few with us. What’s wrong with us?”

“We were trained all our lives not to.”

They walked across the hot, dusty compound, on the road they had helped build. They turned once. The engineer was standing alone, arms folded, watching them.

“Give me your hand, Lowy,” Papa said.

“I feel like a kid. First day off to school.”

My father tried to joke to ease the terror. “Lowy, did you ever have your gall bladder looked after? I’ve been warning you about it for years, ever since you first came to my office on Groningstrasse.”

“I may have it done this fall.”

They kept marching. Men stumbled. They knew.

“A hell of a way for a man to die,” Lowy said.

Someone behind them called out, “Maybe it’s what they say—just a delousing.”

Lowy nodded. “Yeah. Delousing.” He looked at his gnarled hands, a printer’s hands. “Dammit. There’s black ink under my nails, doc. Well, maybe the pamphlets helped.”

“I’m sure they did,” Papa said.

They were gassed several hours later, with two thousand others.

In September, Uncle Sasha had gotten word of a trainload of Luftwaffe pilots that was due to pass over a railroad not far from our newest camp. He decided to attempt to blow up the lines and ambush them.

We had conducted a dozen raids by now, against the Ukrainian militia and the Germans, and we felt this would be our best haul so far. We had lost men, but the family camp had remained intact under his firm leadership. We had more guns than ever, more food. It was amazing how the local farmers, seeing us armed and defiant, learned to respect us.

Helena insisted on going along. She had been on several raids—against my will—but I was especially worried about her on this one. It was too dangerous. The trains were always heavily armed with machine guns mounted fore and aft.

Sasha sent me out to tie the dynamite to the railroad ties. It was a terribly hot day. I was soaked through my khaki shirt. In the trees and bushes at the side of the railroad, a dozen partisans, including Helena, Yuri and Nadya, waited.

I had learned a great deal about explosives. None of these things are hard to learn. What is difficult is getting up the courage to put them into practice. (In Israel, Tamar says, Jews became soldiers overnight. Armed and trained, they made the world forget that they had been frightened ghetto dwellers.)

Distantly we heard a train whistle.

“Hurry,” Sasha said.

“There’s time,” I shouted back. I made sure the dynamite sticks were secure, that the caps were in position. The pounding of the heavy wheels would set them off. As soon as the explosion took place, we would rake the rail cars with automatic fire and grenades. It would be our biggest action to date.

I made my last knots, then walked into the cover of the foliage, unlimbering my machine pistol.

Helena stood next to me. She looked small, unprotected. But she too carried a machine pistol, and had grenades draped around her neck.

“Some necklace,” I said.

“I’m proud of it.”

I kissed her cheek. She was frightened. We all were. But we had learned not to show it. We would never plead for mercy. We would die before giving in.

Uncle Sasha had an ear cocked in the direction from which the train was due. He looked concerned.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I think they’re stopping.”

We all listened. Beyond a curve in the tracks, there came a sound of
chug-chug-chug
—an engine locomotive slowing down. Then the sound ended, and the engine seemed to sigh.

We waited. Seldom had I seen Sasha so upset. He nodded at me. “Rudi, sneak out to the edge and see what’s happening.”

I crawled on my belly, holding the machine pistol in my cradled arms, and reached the shoulder of the rail line. A few more yards and I could see the locomotive. It had stopped.

On the roof of the first car was a machine gun with a crew. They were standing, looking about. The train was a good fifty yards from the explosive charges I had set. Something had aroused their suspicions. Maybe it was just a security measure—they knew there were partisans in the area.

Then I saw a half-dozen soldiers come out of the train, all in combat gear. They began to walk slowly down the track, while the train remained stationary.

I crawled back to Sasha and the others.

“They’re sending men out,” I whispered.

Sasha frowned. “They’ve been tipped. Let’s clear out, as fast as we can.”

“We can take them,” I said. “Ambush them. Let them come.”

“No. Only when we have an advantage. They’ll kill us with those heavy machine guns. Everyone move off.”

We started through the woods.

Evidently the Germans suspected something, for we could hear orders being barked out, men running along the gravel shoulder. The train also edged up, but did not reach the explosives.

Then, without warning, the machine gun opened fire.

Twigs and branches split and cracked around us.

“Scatter!” Uncle Sasha shouted.

I grabbed Helena’s arm and we raced through the forest. Branches cracked at our face, clutched at our clothing. I wanted to turn and fire, to try to stop them, for I could hear them behind us—boots pounding, shouts in German, cracks of their rifles, louder bursts from the mounted gun.

And suddenly Helena was hit. She fell without a word, still holding my hand.

I stopped and kneeled oyer her. Her face was calm, pale. There was no agony on it. The bullets had entered-her back and killed her instantly. She lay there, looking tinier than ever, more beautiful, and I buried my face on her breast.

Why they did not shoot me down also, I do not know. A rifle butt smashed against my head and I was unconscious.

Some of our band had escaped. Four, including Yuri and Helena, were killed. Two other young men and I—again for reasons that elude me—were marched to a collecting point for Red Army prisoners.

The usual rule on partisans was to shoot them on
sight. But perhaps they planned to torture us and get information on the entire partisan movement.

We were not fed, given just enough water to keep us from dying of thirst, and then, unexpectedly, with a great rush of action and orders, we were herded aboard a cattle car.

I huddled in a corner, and I felt I was being transported to my death. Perhaps I had cheated death long enough. I thought of Helena dying silently under the fusillade of bullets. She had wanted to come on a raid so that we could die together. Now she was gone; I lived. I felt guilty, miserable, unworthy. I should have argued her out of her foolish desire. I wept for a long time as I squatted in the rattling, noisy wagon. The trip was interminable. One of the men said we were going to Poland. He had seen road signs.

That made me certain that we were to be killed. Perhaps worked as slave laborers for a while.

Finally the train was unloaded at a town called Sobibor. We were walked for a mile or so to a concentration camp—barbed wire hung on concrete pillars, floodlights, a high fence, dogs, sentries. A bleak, dreadful place. Chimneys smoked in the distance. A death camp.

Eventually, I was assigned to a barracks, where I climbed into a bunk and fell into a long, nightmarish sleep. I dreamed of my boyhood in Berlin, the games I’d played—and it was a time of terror and defeat in my mind. When I awakened, I expected Helena to be at my side, as she had been for years. I may have even called her name. But I cried no more. A great hole had grown inside me, eaten at my emotions, my heart. She was dead. Our cause was a lost one. I would never see Sasha or my partisan friends again.