Scheisshaus Luck (8 page)

A convoy of big dump trucks approached, slipping and sliding in the mud, splashing everything in their path. The tailgates were dropped, and we were ordered to climb onto the coal-dust–covered beds. We were packed so tightly that none of us could move our legs an inch but the warmth produced by our close proximity was welcomed. When the last man was loaded, SS guards took their places on the trucks’ running boards and the convoy started out.

Our truck slipped into the ruts in the road, then lurched sharply out of them. The low railing around the bed cut into my flesh. I tightened my muscles to resist the truck’s jolting. Someone dug an elbow into my ribs, and then I was thrown against the man next to me. He didn’t utter a sound and kept his gaze downward. I could tell he was petrified. So was I. We were all petrified. There was something depraved here. The place reeked of it and none of us were prepared to confront it. We all feared that if we looked, if we PART II | AUSCHWITZ

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stared deeply, if we acknowledged it, our fate would be worse than Lot’s wife.

The trucks splashed packs of shadows struggling along the left side of the road. I couldn’t believe it. The women and old men—the people who were supposed to be riding—were walking. Now I understood why the man on the loudspeaker had struggled to keep from laughing. I tried to observe each shadow in hopes of spotting Stella, but it was dark and foggy and most of the women were shrouded in their blankets. As the truck hurtled me away from them, I craned my neck to see the lead group being directed off the road and onto a muddy footpath.

The road improved and the convoy gathered speed. We passed through a grove of pine trees. Branches slapped and beat my face.

A rosy shimmer on the horizon silhouetted the final string of skeletal pines. What the hell could that be, I wondered? It was too early for dawn. Coming out of the woods I got my answer. Past a sweeping black field stood a foreboding complex of mammoth factory buildings bathed in a sea of light. With monolithic chimneys spitting fire at the stars, it was the largest industrial complex I had ever seen, at least five miles long.

As we got closer, the acrid smell of smoke became unbearable.

The road began to run parallel to the plant. We sped by immense factory warehouses, and the strident concerto of the machinery inside drowned out our truck’s motor. On the other side of the road sat a cluster of fenced-in barracks. The convoy swooped under a bridge and crossed a web of train tracks, the tires squealing on the wet rails. We went through a metallic gorge of massive tanks reeking of methanol. With the racket of the trucks’ motors echoing violently against their walls, the tanks seemed poised to crush us.

The molten metal from a blast furnace momentarily created daylight.

At a crossroads we turned right and descended a gentle incline.

Ahead was a sea of barracks lit by sweeping searchlights and walled off by a high barbed-wire fence. The trucks passed through the gate, then the brakes squealed and the tires grated on the gravel.

46

SCHEISSHAUS LUCK

We all pitched forward, then fell back onto one another. The SS

guards ordered us off the trucks. Stiffly, I jumped down.

Rubbing my frozen ears, I looked at the rows of barracks, speculating whether the men sleeping inside worked at the factory complex. Since guessing games were pointless, I turned my attention to a broad-shouldered fellow with thick, wavy gray hair staring us down. He was a handsome man who could have been mistaken for a matinee idol, but the folds around his square jaw and his sharp, unblinking eyes left no doubt that he was an unmitigated brute. He wore a black uniform with riding breeches trimmed on the sides with wide red stripes, which were tucked into high black boots. He had a black cap on his head and a riding crop tucked under his arm.

It would have been easy to presume that he was an SS officer, but there were no Nazi insignia on his uniform. Instead, sewn on his jacket was a patch with a green triangle and the number 4. The men who gathered our belongings had colored triangles and numbers on their striped uniforms, so I could only assume that he was a fellow prisoner. But why was he dressed so differently?

‘‘
Zu fu¨nf aufstellen
!’’ (Line up by fives!) His accent was clearly Prussian.

A blond Austrian in his twenties tried to gain favor. He stepped out and shouted in French: ‘‘Line up by fives!’’

The Prussian stiffened. ‘‘
Was bist du
?’’ (What are you?)

‘‘I’m Max, your interpreter,’’ he answered self-assuredly. Max was a socialist who had spent a few months in a concentration camp when Germany annexed Austria, then fled to France where he had been rearrested.

The Prussian moved slowly toward Max.

‘‘Here is my best translator.’’

The blows from his whip sent Max rolling into the mud. The callousness of the
boche
startled me. The handful of SS members in Drancy had kept a low profile, and the only time I witnessed a German lash out was to break up an illegal dance we had going in a vacant room. His half-hearted kicks to clear us out sprang from irritation, as when you swat flies. This Prussian’s eyes sparkled with PART II | AUSCHWITZ

47

sadistic glee as he beat Max. What filled me with dread wasn’t the violence, but that this was the action of a fellow inmate. I could only hope that he was the exception.

‘‘
Los marsch
!’’ commanded the Prussian.

As we started walking, a handful of men dressed in the stripped garb approached from between two barracks. I recognized one of them. He had been shipped out of Drancy in December. It was a relief to see that he hadn’t become one of those hunchbacks.

‘‘
Comment que c’est ici
?’’ (How is it here?) the man next to me asked them.

‘‘Awful.’’

‘‘Worse than you can imagine.’’

The group scattered when the Prussian approached, waving his

‘‘translator.’’

We were led into a barracks that had the number 36 on the door. The empty, cavernous space smelled of freshly cut wood and varnish.

‘‘
Alles ausziehen
!’’ a voice barked.

The few of us who understood German began to disrobe; the rest watched like bewildered monkeys, then slowly followed suit.

That’s when I grasped how difficult Auschwitz would be for those who didn’t understand the Nazis’ language. I took off my entire

‘‘Dandy of the Shithouse’’ wardrobe—coveralls, plaid flannel shirt, golf knickers, and ski pants. Chills and goose bumps raced over my naked body from the icy wind cutting through the barracks’ walls.

Men began moving to the opposite end of the barracks where prisoners armed with clippers were waiting. I carefully folded my clothes and felt the shoulder of my jacket. The ring that I had hidden in the padding before leaving Drancy was still there. A portly man came to retrieve his belt.

‘‘What are you going to do with that?’’ I asked.

‘‘Those are the orders. We’re to keep our belts and our shoes.’’

I then realized that I would never be wearing my warm winter clothes again. Incensed, I kicked them across the floor. How could I be that stupid to expect to keep them, I asked myself? My ring!

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SCHEISSHAUS LUCK

Shit, I had to get my ring! I scooped up my jacket, tore open the lining, and closed my hand over my one and only true possession as prisoners began to gather up our clothes.

I fell into line for the barbers. We were all naked except for the belts around our middles and the shoes on our feet, which seemed to accentuate how vulnerable and powerless we were. Men stood or sat on stools depending on what part of their body was being sheared.

A big sign hung on the wall behind the barbers. Beneath a skull and crossbones was written Eine Laus Dein Tod (A Louse Means Your Death). It made me think of Nicole. I was sixteen, she was fourteen, and we had been necking on a street bench in full moonlight. I wish it had been a moonless night because while I was kissing her, a louse trekked beneath her bangs. It was the first time I saw one of those miniature gray scorpions. I was so shocked that I forgot to take my tongue out of her mouth.

I stepped up onto a stool and a moon-faced barber grabbed my genitals and started cutting my pubic hairs. He had a grip that could crack walnuts.

‘‘Hey, you don’t have to pull on my balls like that!’’

He looked at me with dull eyes and said, ‘‘
Nix compris
’’ (I don’t understand French).

I yelled it in German. With his clippers, he pointed to his red triangle that had the letter ‘‘P’’ written inside it. ‘‘
Ich Pole, lieber
Mann
’’ (Dear man, I am a Pole), he informed me and kept on clipping.

I winced and gritted my teeth as the clippers pulled out more hair than they cut. I told myself that I would have to learn some Polish swear words fast. After he was through with my armpits, the Pole had me sit so he could assail my head. The hair on my head was less than a half-inch long. What good would it do to cut it any more? I pointed to my head and indicated the measly length with my thumb and forefinger. Grinning broadly, he shook his head and bent over so I could admire his closely shaved skull. I shrugged and submitted. On my arrival in Drancy, I had put up a fight when they PART II | AUSCHWITZ

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tried to cut my hair and I lost a tooth. It was obvious I would lose a lot more here.

The barber finished by slapping disinfectant powder on my body. I tapped him on the shoulder and signaled that I wanted a drink. He shook his head again. ‘‘
Nix Wasser
’’ (No water).

I had to find water. My throat felt like ancient parchment, my glands were swollen, and a crushing headache made each pulse beat a hammer blow. There’s plenty of snow, I thought, on the steps outside, and it sure couldn’t be any colder out there than in here. I went to the door, but the damn thing was locked.

A number of my fellow ‘‘nudists’’ were grouped around a tall prisoner with gold-rimmed glasses. He had kind eyes and a vigorous voice with a strong Alsatian accent. On the right sleeve of his striped uniform he had an armband with the printed letters HKB.

Curious, I joined them. HKB, I learned, stood for Ha¨ftlingekranken-bau (inmates’ infirmary). He was in charge of it.

‘‘This is Monowitz, a branch of the Auschwitz camp. They will be putting most of you to work in the Buna plant, which I’m sure you noticed on your way here. Helping finish the construction, mostly. Soon you will receive a shower and your striped uniforms.

Tomorrow you will be given a medical examination, quarantined for a few days, then all of you will be housed in the same
Block
(barracks).’’ He began to walk away. ‘‘Oh, yes. Be sure to keep your shoes. You will need them to work in. If your feet go bad, you cannot work, and if you cannot work, you will be in a lot of trouble.’’

‘‘Water?’’ I interrupted.

‘‘Be patient. You will get some coffee soon. Do not drink any water. It’s not fit for human consumption. Believe me, it’ll make you sick.’’

It was heartening to see that there was someone who cared about our well-being. My overwhelming dread returned, though, when the Prussian entered the
Block
with an SS guard.

‘‘Everybody line up with your shoes in your hands,’’ the guard commanded in German.

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SCHEISSHAUS LUCK

We lined up and he flung open the door to an adjoining shower room. As men filed in, the guard inspected their shoes, armpits, and mouths. How was I going to get my ring past this
boche
? Tucking it into my belt and flesh was too risky, and I didn’t have a tuft of hair left to conceal it in. There was only one solution and it was one I truly didn’t savor.

I stepped out of line unnoticed, then leaned my back against the frozen wall and tried to put the ring into my anus. I had never attempted anything like this before. Apprehensively I pushed it up.

My muscles, taut from nervousness and the cold, resisted. My legs started trembling as I tried to work it in like a corkscrew. Luckily no one was paying any attention to me. I wasn’t shoving my grand-father’s heirloom up my ass for sentimental reasons. No, the ring, two crisscrossed snakeheads with a ruby and diamond for their eyes, was currency and could help make my imprisonment more bearable. Finally it slipped in. The muscles tightened around it, and I felt the ring slide up into my colon. With a deep sigh I slowly shuffled back into line.

The SS guard looked me over and waved me in. I hung my shoes on a nail near the shower room door. Most of the others kept theirs on or in their hands, but I wasn’t about to be stuck walking around in soggy shoes. It was an odd-looking shower room. There were no showerheads hanging down from the ceiling, just a network of pipes with holes at regular intervals attached to the rafters.

Someone bolted shut the sheet-metal door. Bouncing off the walls, our speculating and bitching dissolved into the hum of a beehive. The heat of our tightly packed bodies quickly warmed the room. Arms, bellies, backs, buttocks, and tufts of bristly hair brushed up against me. Repulsed, I would step away from one only to be more tightly pressed against another. Why didn’t they turn on the water? What the hell were they waiting for?

‘‘Water, water!’’ I roared.

‘‘Water, water!’’ Others chanted until it was like thunderclaps in a cavern. I don’t know how long we shouted, but finally the pipes began to tremble and hiss. A few yellowish drops fell, then a deluge.

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To hell with the HKB man’s warning, I thought. With eyes closed I swallowed as much of the lukewarm water as I could. It had a rotten, metallic taste and smelled even worse. Oh, well, it’s better to get ill than to suffer any longer from this burning thirst.

Without warning, the water shot from pleasantly warm to scalding. Men howled. I clasped my hands over my head and tried to get to a wall, but I kept slamming into solid barriers of flesh. We were all hopping from one foot to the other as if performing some ridiculous native rain dance. I worried if I kept jumping about I would lose my ring. A dense vapor filled the room until I could no longer see.