by Han Nolan
I switched places in line with Dvora and found myself next to Matel. I took her hand and squeezed it. She squeezed back. "I won't ever let go," I told her. "We'll go up together."
The line dispersed as we reached our block and I pulled Matel forward with the crowd, hoping to get beyond reach of the Kapo, but I was not fast enough. She yanked me back by my shirt collar and slammed us both up against the wall of our barracks. Our new Blockälteote came forward and the two of them faced away from us and talked. Then the Kapo left and the Blockältejte stood before us, her legs spread, her hands behind her back. I pulled Matel closer to me and the Blockäl-teste laughed.
"You think you would be selected for making the whole Kommando work harder? Eh? You think you would be killed for your trenches?"
We just stood there. She laughed again, and then she walked away.
The next day Matel and I were put on a new Kommando, and between us we never again spoke of our death sentence or the day we spent digging trenches.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Chana
THE DAYS AND NIGHTS grew colder as 1943 ended and the new year began. There were blizzards and ice storms and days when the temperature never got above freezing. There was no heat anywhere except in the SS barracks and headquarters. The rest of us had to stay warm by keeping in constant motion and stuffing organized bits of old newspapers that had been hoarded for use as toilet paper into our shirts. At night when we slept, we stayed warm by packing ourselves together into tight rows of up to seven across. Our shoes and thin clothing protected our modesty but not our bodies. Frostbite and death from exposure were hourly events and, as in thé ghetto, I grew adept at stepping over the dead, or almost dead, bodies that lay in the way of my destinations. The energy it would take to go around them, to feel any pity for them, was energy I couldn't spare.
I managed to organize coats for Matel and me by trading some cigarettes I found in a waste-bucket stashed behind the lavatory hut. I decided that they had been discarded by prisoners just before they were taken to be gassed, but I didn't think much about that anymore. Cigarettes were valuable currency here. They were used to bribe the guards and officers and to purchase extra food or clothes or spoons.
All of these riches came from a place called Kanada, named for that land of plenty that existed far away on the other side of the ocean. This Kanaka was a storehouse for all the personal belongings the guards tore out of the incoming prisoners' hands, as older prisoners in striped uniforms pulled these victims out of the trains and shoved them into lines.
I had heard stories about the piles of eyeglasses and suitcases, shoes and blankets, that stood as high as the ceiling in a sorting shed. There were thousands, millions, of photographs, cigarettes, pieces of jewelry, coins, cups, plates, and spoons. The girls who got to work at these sorting sheds were always the best dressed and healthiest looking of all the inmates. They could grab and eat whatever they found hidden in the clothing they sorted, but anything they wanted to bring back to camp they had to smuggle. It cost them their lives if they were caught; but here, just about any slight infraction of the rules cost us our lives. For them, for all of us who risked our lives each day in some small way, it was worth it. Not to take risks was virtual suicide. Any victory we could score against the enemy, no matter how small, was an affirmation of our existence. It was proof that we still had some control over our lives. Taking risks was a necessary part of our survival.
Once or twice a week, I risked my life by using the time before evening Zählappell, when all was chaos and commotion, to slip past the guards and go to the Revier to see Bubbe. I always found her scurrying toward the back of the barracks in answer to someone's call for water, or bread, or Mama. The hut was just like all the others in the camp, only cleaner, and the bunks were separate pieces of furniture rather than being attached to the walls. Still, the odors that hit me as I entered each time were overwhelming. More than the red cloud that hung over the camp, more than the black smoke in the chimneys, more than the fumes from the lavatory pits, this place smelled—reeked—of death. Selections were made from here more often than any other place, and I feared getting caught in one every time I came. I could not live without my visits with Bubbe, however, so I took the risk whenever I saw the chance.
One afternoon I padded through the snow to her compound, my mind full of distressing news. Bubbe could see at once that I was upset. She found me a chair to sit in and asked one of the orderlies, a prisoner in a striped blue-and-gray uniform, to take over for her.
"Now, Chana, something is wrong with Rivke?" she began.
"Yes, yes, it is true. We had been separated for so long, I didn't know what had become of her but now, now I see her every day. Bubbe, she has been on this Aussenarbeit too long. It is killing her. She has to carry these big rocks to the other side of the camp and deliver them to me. I have to watch her struggle across. I see her fall, I see her return each time more cut up, more ... Bubbe, it is terrible. I cannot watch what they are doing to her. They won't let us trade places. I have to chip the rocks with the hammer; she has to carry them to me. They won't let us trade. She has no fingernails."
Bubbe closed her eyes a moment and then opened them again. "You must tell her to come to me. Tell her to get on the hospital list."
"But, Bubbe, the selections."
"She is safer here. Tell her that. Tell her I will look after her."
I nodded. Someone called out for Bubbe. Even in the Revier they called her grandmother.
Bubbe signaled to the orderly and pulled me up out of my chair. She wrapped her arms around my shoulders and hugged me. "I am proud of you," she said. "I see you are changing. How is Matel?"
I pulled myself out of Bubbe's arms and sat back down. "She is well, I think, but she has lost two toes to frostbite. I need to find a way to get us indoors. I am working on it."
"Good, and Dvora? She is back in your block now, no?"
"Yes, but we do not see her much. To tell you the truth, we do not want to see her,"
Bubbe took my face in her hands and studied it. "Dvora has made changes. She is not the same."
I nodded. "I would have expected it from one of the twins but not from her. She has me so confused. She has given me new questions I cannot answer."
"Do not try, Chana."
"Last night I caught her stealing bread out of Marte's arms while she slept, and poor Marte is so ill."
Bubbe squatted down in front of me and ran her hand up my leg. "Is that how you got those bruises?"
I tucked my legs beneath the chair. "I couldn't just let her take it, could I? And I got the beatings. Can you believe? She steals the bread and I get the beatings for waking everyone up. And that is not all. She says wild things, our Dvora. She is not the same girl anymore. She follows the Blockälteste around like a puppy, and whispers in my ear at night. The things she says, they frighten me; always in the dark, she leans over me, squeezing my chest and whispering, 'Chana, I have such a plan. Everything will be different for us. We don't belong with these other Jews. We are better than them. You will see. I have a plan.'
"And she's always laughing. Bubbe, I think there is something very wrong with our Dvora."
Bubbe stood up and patted my back. "It is a good idea you have, to get yourself and Matel inside work. You must do that soon, you must get into another block."
"But we have not been in this one very long, and the Blockälteste, she is so much better than the last one we had."
Bubbe's face was dark; her eyes flashed at me like warning lights. I stood up. "Bubbe, what is it?"
Bubbe hugged me and said, "You must go, it will soon be time for Zählappell. You do not want to get caught out of your compound."
"But—"
She spun me around and shoved me toward the exit. "Hurry now."
A week later, Rivke was in the hospital under Bubbe's care, but Matel and I were still in the same hut and still working outside with the rocks. Matel was getting so weak that even the extra ration
s of food I managed to organize did her little good. One morning, when I had to drag her out of the bunk and practically carry her over my shoulders to the lavatory pits, I decided this had to be the day we took the risk and got another work assignment. First, though, we had to get through Zählappell.
I did as Dvora and Bubbe had done with me when I was so ill, and stuck her in the back row with me. I didn't even try to stand her up. Heidi, our Blockälteste, only checked the back row when the Laqerälteste—camp leader and highest-ranking prisoner—or Rapportführer was there. She did this for us with the unstated understanding that we would never be late for Zählappell or be off in another compound when the whistles blew. All of us made this extra effort, knowing that someday it could be us needing the support of the wall and the cover of the front rows. This morning, Heidi's assistant was too ill to act as her aide and she was sent to the back row with Matel and me.
Those of us who could stood at attention and watched as Heidi marched back and forth in front of us. Every once in a while she'd stop, examine the clipboard she held in her hand, and then begin pacing again. Finally, she turned and pointed at someone three rows back.
"You, step forward," she said.
The woman came forward. It was Dvora, her pet.
"Here, you be my assistant now." Heidi handed Dvora a stick and a red kerchief for her head.
Dvora turned to face us. Her face was red, her eyes wide. Carefully, she bent her head and tied the kerchief around it, then she raised up and gazed out across the sea of prisoners, her prisoners. A wide smile spread across her face.
As soon as the Lagerälteste was in sight, Dvora swung her stick at us and shouted, "You can stand up straighter. And you"—her baton came down on someone's head—"where do you think you are, in your living room? Face forward. Be still! Pay attention!" She was certainly earning the extra rations of food her new position would bring her.
When the Lagerälteste reached our section, Dvora walked straight up to her and spoke. Heidi was farther down the row, and seeing the two of them talking, she hurried forward, clutching her clipboard to her chest. When she got there, we saw the Lagerälteste grab the clipboard out of her hands and smack her over the head with it. The board broke in half.
"Is it true what this girl says? You do favors for the prisoners?" screamed the Lagerälteste. She tore Heidi's armband from her arm and shoved her backward into our lines. She fell to the ground, taking several other women down with her. The Lagerälteste kicked at her, at all of them, as they scrambled to their feet.
"You know the rules," she bellowed at Heidi. "Everyone must stand at all times during Zählappell. If they are too ill to stand, they are too ill to be of any use to the Reich. You are lucky it is not Taube here today or you would be stomped to death," she added, still kicking at poor Heidi, who could not get back on her feet. "I will be much nicer to you, however. I will simply put you on the list for Block Twenty-five."
Heidi flung herself at the Lagerälteste's feet. "No!"
The Lagerälteste picked up the broken clipboard and handed it to Dvora. "I trust you will do a better job at following the rules, or you, too, will find yourself in the block."
I half expected to see Dvora click her heels and salute. Instead, she took the armband and the clipboard from the other woman's hands, stepped over Heidi's crouched body, and called us to attention. Her big plan had worked. And why shouldn't it have? I asked myself as I waited out the rest of that Zählappell, trying not to catch Dvora's eye. The camp thrived on such back stabbing. The Nazis counted on it. Starving us, working us to exhaustion, and then offering us salvation by giving us charge over our fellow inmates was what kept this giant operation going. It gave us our lives, and it caused our deaths.
After Zdhläppell I brought Matel back into the hut.
"I cannot work today," she said to me as she sagged against the bunks. "Hide me. Hide me under the straw and leave me here."
"But you cannot stay. Dvora has gone mad—who knows what she might do if she finds you. Maybe she'll have you sent off to Block Twenty-five as well."
Tears began to stream down Matel's face. "I hear them screaming at night, in my dreams. At least I think it is in my dreams."
The women in Block Twenty-five were women who had been selected and stripped, if they weren't already, and then taken to the block and locked inside. There they remained until enough women had been selected to fill the gas chamber. This could often take several days, days spent without food or drink.
Matel grabbed my hand. "Sometimes when I hear their screams, I think they're calling to me. I think I hear my name. They're wanting me to go and let them out. I never do. I always hurry past the block whenever I have to go that way. I ignore their cries. They're calling for help and I ignore them. I'm no better than Dvora."
"None of us are, I suppose," I said. "We all want to survive. But that is not likely to happen if Dvora finds you here. Come, we have to go."
"No, please hide me. I will be all right if you can just leave me here."
Against my better judgment, I hoisted Matel onto the top bunk and covered her up with straw. "I will think of you all day," I said. I picked up her hand and kissed it. "Here, take the rest of my bread and eat it at noon. I can think of you then and know you are still alive." I tucked the bread into the palm of her hand. She wrapped her fingers around it and pulled her arm back under the straw. I hopped down and left her there, uncertain if I would ever see her again.
All through the day as I hammered at the chunks of stone delivered to my feet, I worried about Matel. She was so thin, even the assortment of safety pins we had organized could not fasten tight enough to keep her knickers up. If only she could hold out till spring, I told myself; she'd be so much better then. The days were getting warmer and wetter. I felt sure spring was just around the corner.
That afternoon, I was happy to march through the gates to the music and only wished that the orchestra could play faster, so I could reach our compound sooner. At last we were there, and I ran inside and climbed onto the bunk. Matel was not there. I jumped down and climbed onto the next set of bunks. Again she wasn't there. I threw the straw onto the ground and called out to her. She did not answer.
"Are you looking for your daughter, Chana?"
I looked down and saw Dvora smiling up at me.
"What have you done? I will kill you, Dvora. I promise you that." I jumped down off the top bunk and lunged toward her.
She raised her whip and lashed at my wrist. "Is that the way you talk to someone who has just saved Matel's life?"
I wrapped my hand around my wrist. "To Block Twenty-five you have sent her. Is that how you save her?"
"You do not trust me, your friend?"
"I trust no one, especially not you. I will never forget what you did this morning."
"Chana, she is safe." Dvora laughed. "She is on the Weberei work unit. I even managed to organize some medicine for her. She was not too proud to let me do favors for her, but I wonder, are you?"
"I do not understand."
"I can get you on the unit, too. It is indoor work. You get to sit down. But, of course, if you cannot accept my offer, if you think it would muddy your soul to accept, well, there are others I can help."
"I do not understand."
"Chana, already you said that. It is simple. Do you want to work at the tables with Matel, or do you not?"
"No, I mean, it is you I do not understand. This morning, what you did to Heidi, why did you do that? And now, why do you want to help me?"
"The answer to your first question is simple. I want to survive. The answer to your second question is also simple. I want to help my friends survive. It was my big plan. I told you that. Now we can be safe. Now I can help you."
"I think you want to help me so you can ease your conscience. No, I will not let you off so easy. It should not be so easy. God will not forgive you for Heidi just because you save Matel and help me."
"I thought you did not believe in God," Dv
ora said, crossing her arms in front of her and letting the whip dangle in her hand.
"No, it is you who does not believe. This morning you turned away from Him, just like the Nazis. You are just the same."
"So, you will not take my offer? Fine. I will send word to Matel."
"No!" I grabbed her arm as she turned away. She wrenched her arm out of my grip, but she stopped.
"Well?" she said.
I looked down at the ground of our hut, already turning to spring mud. "I'd like to go," I said.
"What?"
"You heard what I said, Dvora."
"But I did not hear the magic words."
"Please," I said.
"Please, what?"
"Please, Dvora, can I go to the Weberei unit?"
Dvora laughed. "You are not so different from me, young Chana." Then she turned and left the hut.
I didn't know if Dvora was really going to switch me over to the new unit until after Zählappell the next morning, when a woman with a swollen face and scarlet cheeks came by and called out my number. As I followed her out of the compound, past the lines marching off to Aussenarbeit, I felt my heart jump. At last I was going to work inside, and I had Dvora to thank for it. However, I wasn't going to think about that. I wasn't going to think at all, and I hoped, with all my heart, that I would never see Dvora again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Chana
MOST OF THE SPRING of 1944 was cold and ugly, but every once in a while, a day would come when the sun would be strong enough to break through the thick red sky and warm the ground beneath our feet. On days like that, Zählappell was almost bearable, and during our midday break, when we received our bowl of Lagersuppe, we could sit out on the ground and feel the heat seeping through our flesh, thawing out our bones.
Our work on the Weberei unit was tedious but not backbreaking. We sat at long tables piled high with rags and paper as stiff as wood. We tore them into strips with our hands and braided them, often tearing the skin off our hands as well. Every day we had to complete a rope of twenty meters, and it had to be strong enough so that when the SS came around and tried to pull it apart, it held tight. These ropes were used for throwing hand grenades, so their strength was most important. If they fell apart, or if our daily quota was not met, the Kapos would beat us and threaten us with selection.
