by Gregg Loomis
The Sturmbannführer stopped in front of a row of wooden huts, guards' quarters, looked at Solomon, and motioned him forward. "Kommen Sie."
They entered the first building in the row. Inside, Solomon could not help but savor the lingering odors of food, burned wood, and tobacco, the latter something he had almost forgotten. Bunks were arranged against the walls much like the prisoners' barracks except these had Federbetten, feather-stuffed comforters. A porcelain stove stood in the corner surrounded by firewood. Before the war Solomon would have regarded these quarters as Spartan indeed. Today they were the height of luxury.
The German pointed toward the far end of the single room. "There is a shower there. When you have cleansed yourself, put these on."
He indicated a pile of clothing on one of the bunks.
Solomon stared. The only clean clothes he had seen were prisoners' uniforms on the rare occasions in the summer when they were given an opportunity to wash them. And these clothes not only did not have the stripes of a prisoner or the Star of David; most important, he could see no lice.
He had not had a hot bath since . . . he could not remember, a very long time. He enjoyed every moment of it, lathering up time after time as the delightfully hot water pounded his skin into a pinkish hue. He tried not to even guess at the reason for his being here. Perhaps someone had made a mistake, allowing a prisoner, a Jewish prisoner, to spend a few minutes living like a human being.
But then, Germans did not make such mistakes.
Reluctantly, he left the shower and got dressed.
The Sturmbannführer tossed him a standard Wehrmacht greatcoat. It smelled of sweat and rancid food but it was welcome. Odor or not, no other prisoner had such a garment. Without speaking the German turned and motioned Solomon to follow him outside. Four other prisoners shivered in cotton uniforms as they stood in the snow under the gaze of a guard with a rifle. Two had red badges sewn onto their uniforms along with the letters "SU" under the numbers printed on their blouses. Russian prisoners. A third, a short, dark-skinned man, displayed a "Z" for Zigeuner, Gypsy. The fourth wore the same faded yellow Star of David as Solomon had.
The Sturmbannführer waved to move on.
A short march brought them to the railway tracks where a locomotive with a single car waited. Not a cattle car, like those that arrived almost daily with new inmates, but a third-class passenger coach, one with rows of hard bench seats and a stove glowing with heat at one end. At the other was a partition that concealed a rough wooden seat above an open hole onto the tracks, a toilet. It had the first toilet paper Solomon had seen in years.
Certainly an improvement over his last train ride, Solomon thought. Before the war, before he and most of Warsaw's Jews had been deported, Solomon had never ridden on anything more mechanized than his bicycle or, on occasion, the city's trams. His first trip on a railroad had been to the camp. Hours standing shoulder to shoulder in a suffocating cattle car with other deportees, his nostrils filled with the stench of human excreta and, worse, terror. He had tried to comfort Rebecca, telling her what the Germans had said, that the Jews were only being transported to waiting villages and farms where they would lead lives away from the city. She would have none of it, weeping the whole trip. Two old men had died, remaining standing because there was no room to fall down. He doubted he would ever ride a train again without being reminded. In fact, he had doubted he would ever ride again, period.
The engine groaned to life and picked up speed, the first train Solomon had seen leaving Auschwitz with living cargo. The train went a few miles before reaching a forest, an endless stand of snow-draped conifers so thick the ground was in perpetual twilight. There it stopped until real darkness fell before moving on. Solomon had learned that asking questions produced more beatings than answers, but his curiosity was partially satisfied when one of the Russians whispered an explanation. "The airplanes. They destroy everything that moves by day."
That, of course, did little to tell Solomon why he had been chosen or where he was going. He only knew it had to be better than where he had been.
CHAPTER 4
Three Days Later
Early Morning
SOLOMON AWOKE AND STRETCHED. THE wooden bench of the railcar was no harder than the bare slats of his bunk at the camp, and the greatcoat had kept him reasonably warm. The smell of coffee made his mouth water as did the thought of the boiled eggs and ham that had been his breakfast the previous two mornings. The Jewish prohibition against pork never entered his mind. Meat was food, whatever its source. A warm place to sleep, food. Wherever this train was taking him, he hoped the trip would never end.
As though the gods were mocking him, the train's brakes squealed and it began to slow. Another stop in the woods to hide during the day? For the first time since leaving the camp, the train was moving in light. Outside the window, Solomon could see a landscape far different from that they had left. Instead of Poland's flat marshes and rolling hills there were mountains, some so high their snowcapped crests were swallowed by the morning mist. The trees shrunk as the locomotive groaned its way around one uphill curve then another. Soon, there were no trees at all, only jagged outcroppings of gray rock peeking out from under snowbanks.
Solomon had only an idea where he was; somewhere in the Alps and west of Poland. Certainly not Italy; they had surrendered to the Allies over a year ago, according to camp gossip. Switzerland was unlikely unless the Sturmbannführer had planned on internment for the duration, in which case bringing five prisoners with him made no sense. The French Alps were in the southern part of that country, perhaps too far to reach only traveling at night in such a short time. That left Bavaria or Austria.
Solomon knew it really didn't matter where he was: he was a Jew under guard by Germans. In another sense, it mattered very much. Knowing his location on the globe gave him a sense of being something more than an insect to be crushed at will under a German boot. A man who knew his whereabouts at least was free from his masters' will to keep it a secret.
The train was definitely slowing now, coming to a stop on the first bit of level ground Solomon had seen in the last half hour. On the other side of the window, the steeple and onion dome of a church reached for the sky. Several little houses stood in small clusters as though seeking warmth from each other. Then, a wooden building, a train station, blocked his view. But not before he caught a glimpse of a faded black sign painted on a white background that proclaimed OBERKOENIGSBURG.
A blast of frigid air rushed through the car as someone opened the door from outside. The all-too-familiar commands in German followed and the other four prisoners leapt from the train. Solomon would have followed had not the Sturmbannführer grasped his arm, shaking his head.
"Wait," he said.
In a few minutes, a black Mercedes pulled alongside the single railcar and Solomon was led from the train into it. As the car moved slowly away, he could see black dirt, and mud covered a great deal of the snow. To his right, up a steep incline, he could see a cog railway, tracks that were a series of holes where a spoked or cogged wheel would fit in much the same way watch gears turn each other. At the top of the peak, the tracks disappeared into a large opening, some sort of mine, Solomon guessed. Right below the mouth of the mine was a lone tree on the slope: some sort of pine that had grown out in double trunks like a giant "V." A "V," Solomon thought, like Churchill's two fingers extended in a victory sign. Perhaps the mountain was telling him he would ultimately prevail.
At the bottom of the slope, around where the train had stopped, twenty or thirty heavy trucks were parked, their beds covered with canvas. Fifty or so men, mere skeletons in striped uniforms, sat numbly in the snow or moved back and forth swinging arms in a vain effort to keep warm while half a dozen guards watched listlessly.
Prisoners.
Why would the Germans bring him and the other four men from Auschwitz when they already had prisoners here?
His question was partially answered when he was hustled out of th
e Mercedes and into what had been the train station. Instead of benches for waiting passengers, machines hummed, IBM punch-card machines identical to those Solomon had left behind.
The Sturmbannführer was smiling, the first hint of levity Solomon had seen on his face. "Is like home, nicht whar?"
Solomon nodded, still unsure he was really seeing what his eyes told him he was.
Another man, this one in civilian clothes, came over and whispered to the German before addressing Solomon in unaccented Polish. "I am Sabanski."
He bowed slightly as he handed Solomon a business card. Watson Business Machines, 24 Murnerstrasee, Krakow.
Solomon vaguely remembered from before the war that Thomas J. Watson was the president of IBM's Polish subsidiary. He shoved the card into his pocket, wondering if the American company had any idea of how their marvelous machines were being used.
More darkly, did they care?
Sabanski continued. "I'm here to help the Germans set up an inventory and catalog the goods being delivered for storage. I am told you understand the use and maintenance of the equipment."
"I've worked with it," Solomon said tersely.
Sabanski took him by the shoulder. "Good, good. For all their efficiency, I'm having no luck teaching the Germans here how to use the machines. That's why I asked for you."
Solomon stopped and faced the Pole. "Asked for me?"
Sabanski smiled and shook his head. "Not by name. I asked if they had anyone who understood the system enough to help explain it to, to . . ." He looked around making sure no one was listening. "These blockheads. They are all well and fine when doing something they understand or obeying precise orders. But learning something new . . . well, I'd as soon try to teach a dog to dance."
"But, but, you're helping the German war effort," Solomon spluttered.
"War effort?" Sabanski shrugged. "What war? It is over for Poland. Better the Germans than the Russians. There is nothing to do now but make a living."
Solomon shook his head. "But if the Germans lose?"
Sabanski put his hand back on Solomon's shoulder. "Best not to speak of such things. Better to work with the Germans than face the alternative like the stupid Jews in the Warsaw Ghetto, eh? But then, the Jews are always causing one problem or another. Poland is better free of them, eh?"
For the first time, Solomon was self-conscious about not having the Star of David on his blouse. Now he understood why he had been allowed a shower, a change of clothes. To make him inoffensive to some Polish bigot. Not that anti-Semitism was rare in Poland; it was not. However, most Poles usually made an effort to keep quiet about it.
"Now," Sabanski said, leading Solomon to a desk, "here are the codes we will be using . . ."
Half an hour later, Solomon at least somewhat understood what was going on. The Germans were categorizing and storing four types of inventory, simply coded with an A, B, C, or D. Each specific item bore a number, say, A-16. Once so coded, another code was added denoting location. Each individual unit was to have a card with the information punched into it so that the machine could locate number C-124/zg instantly.
Exactly what he was making an inventory of was not explained nor did it need to be. Solomon only punched the cards according to the lists he was furnished.
That night he learned what he was actually doing.
Solomon, the Gypsy, Rastum, and the other Jew, a Berliner named Rosenblum, shared a small upstairs room in what had been the station-master's cottage. There was no sign of the two Russians. The single large bed was comfortable, actually had a mattress. Though there was no stove, heat from downstairs wafted up along with the smell of the roasted pork that had been supper for them and their German guards. Solomon had no qualms about eating the flesh of pigs; meat was to be consumed on whatever rare occasion it became available, no matter what its source. Rats, for example, had become almost extinct at Auschwitz regardless of the Jewish dietary laws.
Surely God had more important things to worry about these days.
Rosenblum's scruples were more inflexible. He had made a meal of the potatoes and cabbage, leaving his portion of the roast untouched until the Gypsy had helped himself.
Had the three held any illusions about supper and the comfortable quarters, about any inherent Gemütlichkeit, the sound of the lock turning as they entered the room and the footsteps of the pacing guard outside dispelled them. Solomon started to complain of the filthy, ragged, and unwashed state of his bedmates. Then, with revulsion, he realized they were no dirtier nor more lice ridden than he had been only a few days ago.
He was drifting off to sleep when the man next to him, the Gypsy, asked, "What did you do today?"
The man had turned so that the cheap wooden cross he always wore around his neck was poking Solomon's shoulder. A mere trinket not worth the Germans' policy of confiscating personal items, he never took it off.
Solomon was not interested in conversation. Besides, the question was so banal as to not be worth answering.
"I sorted and appraised jewels, silver and gold," Rastum persisted. "Loose jewels as well as rings, bracelets, necklaces, silver dishes, and eating utensils. Much of the gold was wedding rings; some was gold teeth."
No doubt where the last two had come from, Solomon though bleakly.
"Before the war, I was the largest Roma jeweler in Eastern Europe."
And look where that got you.
There was movement on the far side of the bed. In the dim light from the cracks around the door, Solomon could see Rosenblum sitting up.
"I was an art and antiques dealer before the war, Berlin's finest. They had me looking at art today. Rembrandts, Vermeers, Van Eycks, as well as impressionists like Monet, Manet, Renoir, even a single Van Gogh. Millions of reichsmarks' worth."
"And I thought the Impressionists had been declared 'degenerate' by our beloved Fuhrer," Rastum sneered.
"Degenerate or not, those paintings are worth a lot," Rosenblum sniffed.
"Wait a minute." Solomon was also sitting up. "Tell me, did you mark each item with a code, a letter and number?"
"According to our hosts," the Gypsy snorted, "we Untermenschen aren't smart enough for such a difficult task. I did, however, note that after I appraised each item, its value was written down beside a number prefixed by a letter."
And the information on those lists is what I am translating into punched holes on cards, Solomon thought.
There had been rumors in the camp, the only news prisoners had, talk of defeat in the East, huge Russian victories. The number of new Russian prisoners had certainly diminished and every guard under forty had been replaced by older men. Gossip also had it that the Allies, the English, Americans, and Canadians, had succeeded in an invasion across the English Channel and were making their way across the occupied countries. Could the Germans be hiding their looted treasure for safekeeping?
The thought ignited a feeling Solomon did not at first recognize. It had been so long since he had experienced it, he thought it had died long ago. A tiny, flickering and fragile thing called hope.
CHAPTER 5
A Week Later
THE SNOW HAD STOPPED THAT MORNING and a weak sun was spreading pale butter light outside the window next to where Solomon was finishing the last of the cards. He had not seen his two roommates for the last three days and assumed, tasks finished, they had been transferred to some other camp. At least that was what the guard at the bedroom door had said. A Bavarian, the man actually approached being civil in brief conversations, showed Solomon pictures of his chubby wife and fat baby. The man even shared an occasional cigarette from his small ration. A couple of puffs, enough to make Solomon lightheaded as he inhaled tobacco for the first time in years. Gratz, Corporal Wilhelm Gratz. If Solomon survived long enough, he would find Herr Corporal Gratz and thank him for showing him the only kindness Solomon had seen since leaving Poland.
Although Solomon felt a little guilty at having the bed to himself, he could not bring himself to miss the caco
phonous snoring or the Gypsy's wry comments that, if overheard, were likely to put an end to the luxury the three of them had shared.
"All done?" Sabanski was looking over his shoulder.
Solomon stepped back from the hole-punching machine. "Finally."
"Now what?"
It was a question Solomon had avoided even thinking about. For the first time in two—or was it three?—years, he had slept in a warm, soft bed and had had enough food to keep the gnawing worm of hunger out of his belly.
The first day here, he had eaten so much he vomited most of it, as his shrunken stomach convulsed with all the pains of hell. Over the next few days, he had managed to control the impulse to cram every crumb he could find into his mouth. By now, he could eat a decent meal without ill effect. He had become accustomed to bedclothes other than the filthy, lice-ridden blanket.
Going back to the camps would be worse than when he first entered Auschwitz. This time he knew what to expect.
He leaned back in his chair, looking up the mountain. There was no outer perimeter of wire here, no dead zone, either. At Auschwitz, escape had been impossible. At least in winter. Even if you made it through the wires, the cold would kill you before the dogs hunted you down.
But now Solomon had a coat.
And he had seen no dogs here, either, although he had heard barking. At least they were not on constant patrol.
Solomon stood, stretching. "I've got to go to the WC. Something in that food last night really screwed with my stomach."
Sabanski nodded sympathetically. "They serve us shit here, food they wouldn't dare put on the table in Krakow."
Unless you are a Jew.
The toilet was at the far end of the former train station. Solomon made sure the door closed noisily before opening it again and looking back at Sabanski. The Pole was holding a magnifying glass up to a stack of cards.
