The horsewhip that he demonstrated to me, to emphasize his point, didn’t leave much desire for any further testing of his patience. He held it much too confidently for a man who used it only as an empty threat. I gathered the pile of clothes and a hairbrush he shoved at me and went into the room he had indicated.
The time crept on. Gradually, it grew dark. The dusk colored the walls into the shades of rusted steel and I was still brushing my hair, mindless stroke after mindless stroke – a madwoman’s repetitious act. At one point, it seemed as though Wolff had forgotten me here. Eerie silence lay everywhere around me; even Wolff’s men had long left and I was grateful that they had, for some of them were Slovaks and I understood far too much of what they were saying to each other behind that thin door, to remain blissfully ignorant on account of this place. We had been told that we were being sent to work in the factories, you see. We hadn’t been informed that we would have been undressed, shaved, gassed, and burned upon arrival. These men were some special Kommando – Sonderkommando – that took care of everything, except for the gassing itself, for the SS. I had learned that they were inmates as well. I had learned that one of them had put his own uncle and his little cousins on the crematorium gurney a few days ago.
Suddenly, I heard footsteps outside. The door to the small storage room flung open. I scrambled to attention and pulled myself up, as Wolff stepped in. He turned the lights on and scrutinized me thoroughly as I was trying to blink away the blinding brightness. He tilted his head this way and that; grimaced slightly as though it wasn’t him who had put all this ridiculous outfit together for me earlier, demanding that I get dressed and “make myself look presentable as if I was going to meet the Führer himself.”
“Well,” he mused out loud as he circled me, “it could have been worse, considering.”
He tugged at the sable fur stole and adjusted it over my shoulders. I still smelled faint remnants of perfume on it, the smell of some other woman who was most likely dead by now, just like I would be tomorrow.
“Allow me to ask?” I carefully assembled foreign German words into a sentence. I hated hearing this tremor in my voice but I had also learned a lot about Wolff from his own Sonderkommando and suddenly getting on his wrong side was utterly beyond my desire.
“Ja?” He looked at me with semi-interest.
“What is it exactly that is demanded of me?” I made a vague gesture towards my ridiculous outfit.
He had chosen the gaudiest burgundy dress and shoes to match. They were a size smaller and pinched my feet already. I was only hoping he wouldn’t make me dance or anything of that sort.
“I thought I told you. One of our comrades celebrates his birthday today. We wanted to surprise him. Normally we’d take him to a cabaret or something of that kind of place but, since we’re here, we’ll have to work with what we’ve got.” Which is you, his eyes finished the sentence for him.
I was too afraid to say that I knew nothing of cabarets, never been to one, and knew no songs that women usually sang there.
“Don’t fret,” he laughed, far too close to my face and pinched my cheeks painfully. I stilled myself and tried not to wince under his fingers, forcing the blush into my cadaverous complexion. He was in a good mood; I smelled schnapps on his breath. It was my guess that the other women had already completed their performances. I wondered whether they were still alive or finished off already, disposed of by the same hand that was touching my cheek now. “You only have to sing him a birthday song as we bring out the cake. You do know birthday songs, I assume?”
The last words had a tint of a threat to them. You’d better know them, you Mistbiene.
“I know ‘Viel Glück und viel Segen’ and some Slovakian ones besides that,” I answered carefully.
“That’ll do just fine. Sing ‘Viel Glück’ to me. I want to hear your voice.”
I inhaled deeply and began singing.
“Louder!”
My shoulders jerked involuntarily at the shout. He didn’t mean to frighten me but it didn’t take much with me anymore. I sang louder, applying my best to the task.
He stopped me abruptly with his raised hand. “That’ll do. Sing just like that. And smile. I want you to look happy. It’s the fellow’s birthday and I won’t have you standing there with the face of a professional mourner, do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“You should reply, Jawohl, Herr Rottenführer.”
“Jawohl, Herr Rottenführer,” I repeated diligently.
“I assume it’s unnecessary to mention that if he’s not happy with your performance, I’ll punish you severely.”
“I understand, Herr Rottenführer. I’ll do my best.”
Wolff left me in front of the SS barracks and told me that he’d fetch me as soon as the time was right. Shivering in the thin silk material, I pulled my head inside my shoulders, hiding my neck in the folds of the stole. The air outside took one’s breath away. I was gulping mouthfuls of its howling wind until my lungs were full of its icy needles. A sentry passed by with a rifle slung over his shoulder. He stared at me uncomprehendingly and paused for a moment but then Wolff stepped outside and grabbed hold of my forearm.
“Showtime,” he breathed into my face. Now, in addition to schnapps, I smelled the brandy on his breath.
Inside the SS barracks, the air was warm and thick with cigarette smoke and a roast-meat aroma. The boisterous conversation came to an abrupt halt as soon as I stepped forward. Wolff nudged me so forcefully toward one of the SS men that I nearly fell into his lap. He was wearing some sort of a paper crown they’d fashioned for him, for the occasion. He blinked at me, mystified. His face appeared flushed in the dimmed light of the barracks, either from alcohol or my nearly falling on him. I quickly pulled myself up, caught a glare from Wolff who now stood in front of me and promptly pasted a huge false smile on my quivering face. In a loud voice, just as Wolff had instructed me, I began to sing. Two of the birthday fellow’s comrades brought in a cake. Soon, they all picked up and my voice drowned in the veritable roar of theirs.
A round of applause followed. They applauded him, the birthday fellow, of course, not me.
I sang a song in Slovakian next. The birthday fellow was young and dashing, like most of them. Dashing and ruthless and full of hate. His eyes were pale blue. His hair and heart were black. Suddenly, he smiled at me for the first time.
“What kind of a song was that?” he inquired after I had finished singing in my native tongue.
“It’s a birthday song that we usually sing in Slovakia,” I quickly glimpsed his insignia, same one as Wolff’s, “Herr Rottenführer.”
“It’s nice,” he commented with a measure of restraint in his voice. They were not used to complimenting the Jews, that much was obvious.
I thanked him softly.
“Bitte, sing something else,” he requested. His voice was actually gentle and had a softer accent to it than his counterparts’, however, it somehow sounded more commanding than even Wolff’s, without his having to raise it one bit. It was the voice of a man who was used to giving orders and having those orders obeyed without any questions. “Sing…” He considered something for a few moments, named a German song but I didn’t know it. He named another one but I didn’t know that one either. In the end, he raised both hands in surrender. “Well then, sing something you like. Sing your favorite song to me.”
I was silent for a moment. I wasn’t sure of what to sing. The song that I liked the best was too tragic – about a woman whose beloved dies – and it was wholly and utterly unsuitable for the occasion but my lips parted on their own and a sad, haunting melody filled the room. At one point, one of the SS men pulled out a harmonica and started picking up the notes as I sang. He was very gifted musically, just like Wolff was very gifted with his whip. I finished singing. No one clapped. A vague shadow of tension hung over the room, along with the silver rings of cigarette smoke. I felt Wolff’s eyes on me. Most certainly he was already considering the th
rashing he’d administer to me for pulling this stunt and I was too afraid of him to even say a word in my own defense, to explain that I didn’t do this on purpose.
Suddenly, the birthday fellow was pressing a piece of cake, wrapped in a napkin, into my hands. It smelled so divine that it made my mouth water, a soft wispy cloud of sweet delight in my sweating palms. Just now had I remembered that I hadn’t eaten anything in a few days.
“It was a very nice song. And you have a beautiful voice. You must sing for us sometime again in the future.”
I wetted my lips. “I’m afraid that will be impossible, Herr Rottenführer. Our entire transport is being liquidated tomorrow. I was told so today. But thank you for your kind words, nevertheless. It warms my heart, knowing that I pleased you on your special day. I wish you a long and prosperous life.”
He swung round in his seat. “Is it true?” he asked Wolff.
The latter only shrugged in response, busy munching on a sausage with mustard.
“I want you to exclude her from the Aktion,” the birthday fellow said with a sudden authority in his voice, which was rather strange considering that his rank was the same one as Wolff’s.
“She’s already on the list.”
“Well, strike her name out of there then. What’s so difficult about that?”
“Palitzsch has already signed it.”
“I don’t give a brass tack! Strike her name out of there. Why are they liquidating the entire transport when we’re so severely understaffed in the Kanada?”
“Go ask the Old Man. He gives the orders here, not me.” Once again, Wolff was back to chewing.
In the corner, one of the soldiers was offering cigars to the others gathered around him, entirely oblivious that a human being’s fate was being decided at that very moment between two of his comrades. My head had grown light all of a sudden. For a moment, the floor appeared to have been going from under my feet. I closed my hands into fists, as tightly as I could. The birthday fellow’s face swam before my eyes – one of the killers whom I desperately wished to save my life because he liked the way I sang for him.
“But don’t you think we could use some women to sort the clothes? These women aren’t sick, are they?” He turned to me sharply. “Are you sick?”
I shook my head vehemently, pleading him with my swimming eyes the best I could. I was healthy, very much so and very eager to work. Just let me show you how good of a worker I can make. I can do anything, Herr Rottenführer, absolutely anything you tell me to!
“They’re expecting a new transport from the Protectorate tomorrow, I think,” Wolff commented lazily. “They gave me the order to liquidate today’s transport; that’s all I know.”
“Assign her and the others to our work detail then. I’ll sort it out with Palitzsch myself.”
Wolff stared at him as though the birthday fellow had completely gone off his head. The latter didn’t even flinch, suddenly stern and regal in his paper crown.
At last, Wolff nodded, with a measure of respect.
“Just because you asked me, Dahler.”
Now I knew his name. Rottenführer Dahler. He gave me a bright, reassuring smile, a monarch pardoning the person on the gallows at the last moment. On shaking legs, I walked out of the barracks. Once outside, I could finally breathe again. Tomorrow, almost everyone I knew would die but I wouldn’t be among them. A sudden urge to scream came over me and I quickly shut myself up with the cake, shoving it down my throat together with tears and wild, animalistic fear. I was too terrified to believe. I was too terrified Wolff would get drunk and forget his promise. I was too terrified Dahler would change his mind. But the morning came and with it, the roll-call and Wolff himself signed to me, out of the column, which later marched straight down to the block from which no one had returned.
“Yesterday was Dahler’s birthday,” Wolff commented as he took me to my new work detail, the Kanada. “Today is yours.”
I didn’t argue. He was right.
Chapter 3
Helena
April 1942
Another day in the Kanada. I pulled the pocket of a coat inside out, producing a cigarette case. I weighed it in my palm before considering throwing it into the box that stood in the middle of the warehouse for that very purpose – all valuables went into its narrow slot to be counted and registered later by the accountant, Rottenführer Weber. The case was heavy. The coat was good English tweed, yet I hesitated. Sometimes we misjudged these things and threw a fake into the box and received a good hiding for it. Not from Weber himself – he was too much of a bureaucrat to bother raising his hand to anyone – but from a Kapo, that’s for sure. Or from Wolff, which was worse.
The beating for getting caught at loitering – precisely what I was doing right now – was usually much more severe but I still stood like an automaton that had run out of power and stared at the case in my palm with glassy eyes. Rochelle, my work detail mate, gave me a prod with her elbow along with an expressive look.
“Get to it,” she hissed but only after ensuring that there were no Kapos around to catch us at chatting. “What is it with you today? Barely out of the grave and testing your luck already?”
There were very few of us, women, who had the luck to survive solely due to Rottenführer Dahler’s insistence to include us into his Kanada Kommando. Only fifty, to be exact. His authoritative bearing made some sense to me now, after I had learned that Dahler was a Kommandoführer in this sorting detail and had his superiors’ ear but due to what, no one appeared to know. Some inmates speculated that it was due to Dahler being some big-shot’s son; some argued that he merely knew how to butter up Rapportführer Palitzsch with a timely bribe; some insisted that he had some dirt on someone in the administration. Whatever the truth was, no one could tell but what they could tell, with enough certainty, was that Herr Kommandoführer was from Austria, that he was not an unreasonable fellow when he wished to be but also that whenever he blew his lid, making oneself scarce was a wise thing to do, for he was such a beast with his whip that he would put even Rottenführer Wolff to shame.
Aimlessly, I started digging into a new pile, rummaging through the pockets as though in a daze. It was an odd sort of a job, searching for valuables and sorting the clothes of the people who were either already dead or sentenced to work here till they dropped from exhaustion and hunger or one disease or the other. On our second day here, I heard an amused snort from one of the women – she had just found her own skirt among the piles and piles of clothes that littered her sorting station. I hadn’t found anything of mine yet, only mountains and mountains of other women’s clothes, the women who hadn’t been as fortunate as us. Yes, the Kanada detail was an odd sort of place for sure. The hours were much too long and the Kapos didn’t encourage talking and therefore all kinds of thoughts would eventually start creeping into the mind, corroding it and tainting it like spilled oil spreading over clear water.
“You, girls, don’t even comprehend how lucky you are,” one of the inmates of the Kanada Kommando told us quietly on the first day.
Just like the members of the Sonderkommando, Kanada men wore striped trousers and caps but made-to-measure civilian jackets with numbers and different types of triangles on their left breast. They were also always clean-shaven and some even wore shoes shined by the less fortunate inhabitants of the camp, in exchange for a piece of bread – scorned by the Kanada men but considered a veritable feast in other inmates’ terms. Still dazed and utterly disoriented by everything around us, we nevertheless had enough wits to quickly realize that the Kanada detail was considered to be some sort of elite in the camp’s complex hierarchy and the inmates belonging to it, were looked at with reverence and incomparable respect; whenever one needed to procure anything, it was the members of the Kanada Kommando that they bribed – for warm shoes, for underwear, for the much-needed toothbrush – anything really that could make an inmate’s life more bearable.
We, the first women, were issued striped dresses afte
r undergoing the disinfection process and, much to our delight were allowed to keep our hair that was unmercifully treated with chemicals and was now covered by the dark-blue kerchiefs. To the Kanada men, we were still some sort of curiosity, something new and amusing, for there were no women at all in Auschwitz before and therefore they didn’t demean us as much as they did with the new, wide-eyed male arrivals but instead took a certain pleasure in instructing us on the camp’s system of rules and regulations, both official and unofficial.
“We may be sorting dead people’s clothing,” he continued in the same soft voice, “but at least we have a roof overhead, the possibility to procure food and whatnot, and, what’s more important, we aren’t made to hurl rocks from one pile to another all day just to hurl them all back into the first pile the following day. Now, what’s with the surprised faces?” He smirked. “Never heard of the SS amusing themselves in this manner? Arbeit macht frei and all that rot. They’ll make you hurl rocks, in a second, just to occupy your hands with something if they don’t have an actual task for you that day. So, yes, you’re very lucky girls. Be grateful. This is the most kosher work detail in the entire camp. Inmates fight to get into it. You haven’t seen yet what it’s like for the others,” he finished, on an ominous note.
To speak the truth, we did fare much better in the Kanada than other inmates. When the Kapos looked the other way (or stuffed their own pockets with goods), we pulled whatever edible items we could find and ate them right there or concealed them in our mess tins that dangled from our belts to eat them later or exchange them for cigarettes or medicine or even alcohol. I’d found a half-eaten bar of Swiss chocolate earlier that morning. With a faint smile on my face and my mouth pooling with saliva at the mere thought of it sitting snuggly in my pocket, I dreamed of the evening when I’d eat it after dinner – a piece of sawdust bread and a smear of margarine on the palm. What a dessert it would make! I could almost taste its bitter-sweetness on my tongue.
Auschwitz Syndrome: a Holocaust novel based on a true story (Women and the Holocaust Book 3) Page 3
