It was embarrassing. I refused to accept. I wasn’t quite ready to forgo the normal gentlemanly response. “I can’t take it, Zosia,” I responded, her name rolling off my tongue softly.
“Please take it. Share it with your father,” she pressed. Hearing my father mentioned, I knew I should accept.
As if to comply with Zosia’s lead, the others left their food as well. “Please, please,” they pleaded, “give it to the others.” We thanked them warmly. “We’ll stop by tomorrow at the same time,” they said as they left. We watched as they disappeared into the thick forest with tears in their eyes.
Carrying the food bundles with us would give our secret away, so we buried them. Lest our guard come looking for us, we filled the pails and swiftly started back to the camp. I walked ahead on the narrow path. I was filled with excitement and longing for the next day. I saw Tadek coming toward us. I wasn’t sure how he would react if he found out about what had just happened. “We lost our way for a while,” I said. He accepted that, and we returned to a more impatient Stasia.
“Where have you been so long?” she queried.
“Oh, we strayed a bit, but we are sure of our way now,” I said, hoping we wouldn’t lose their trust and could continue bringing water by ourselves.
The guards, preferring to sit in the shade talking, smoking cigarettes, or playing cards, weren’t anxious to have to escort us. Stasia gave a short speech on how poorly the potato peelers did. She had to check each potato, to remove what she called eyes. I wanted to explain that until today they knew little about the art of potato peeling, but instead I just said, “In time you’ll see, they’ll do better.” For a moment it sounded like the old Nazi claim that Jews were lazy.
Returning again to the spring, I was still occupied with the thought of what had happened earlier. Zosia’s beautiful face pushed all others aside. I was moved by her generosity, kindness, and genuine concern. The food they left us was irresistible: tempting fresh bread, ham, kielbasa, cookies, and fruits. We ate more than our share there, and the rest we concealed in our pockets to take to the others. Stasia did not want any more water, so we waited for the midday break.
At noon work halted. As the foreman brought the inmates in front of the kitchen, out came the casseroles, pots, and saucepans. The foremen, supervisors, technicians, and engineers ate in the mess hall. Stasia prepared their food with particular reverence. She lunched with Mr. Witczak after everyone left. I saw that after just a half day of work my father looked worn. When I asked him whether the work was too difficult, he said, “No, I am strong. I can do it.”
Schmerele, an Austrian foreman in whose detachment Papa worked, quickly got a reputation for being a terrorizing bully. He demanded that every shovel be full each time it was lifted. At forty-seven, with a heart condition, my father wasn’t the person to lift fourteen-kilo shovelfuls of dirt all day. I gave Papa part of the things Marek and I had brought from the forest. I didn’t say where the food came from, and he didn’t ask.
The soup at Brodzice did not smell as foul as the camp slop. Although its main ingredients were potatoes and turnip, it contained slivers of horse meat. We scraped up every morsel. After the meal, Marek and I went back for more water. Our comrades headed back to work in the marshes. Witczak later ordered me to find out how many inmates each foreman had on each site, so only Marek was left to provide Stasia with dishwater.
Most earthmoving in those days, especially in Poland, was done with pick and shovel. As I proceeded through the site, I saw how hard our inmates worked digging and lifting the stringy soil, loading it on wheelbarrows, and pushing them hundreds of meters, for a new rail bed. Most of the foremen were more humane than Schmerele. As the inmates’ strength diminished, their attitude also changed. After I counted the inmates, I wanted to report to Witczak. His office curtains were drawn, so I knocked on the door. He opened it and took my notes without saying a word. I quickly learned that he wasn’t a man to waste words.
Although Hoch und Tiefbaugesellschaft was strictly a German concern, the three Poles—Witczak, Kmiec, and Basiak—ran this part of the project. Kmiec and Basiak were of the Polish intelligentsia, while Witczak was not of the gentry. Kmiec and Basiak often expressed their disgust for Germany’s treatment of us, but I never knew Witczak’s opinion.
At four in the afternoon work ceased. On the way back to Steineck, guards tried to teach us to march in rhythm. They would yell, “One, two, three, four! What do people say when they see you looking like wobbling ducks?” To us, exhausted, tired slaves, it mattered little what people said. How could one expect Cantor Pinkus and other scholars, who had lived so long in a world where goose stepping didn’t exist, to march? They had spent most of their lives in Talmud study and in teaching spiritual enrichment. In time the guards became convinced we were too fatigued and accepted our marching in the only way we knew how.
When we finally arrived back in camp, the yard became a beehive of activity. Inmates were trying to attend to their personal cares all at the same time. Many brothers, fathers, and sons were assigned to different groups, and changes were nearly impossible. When we returned, those already in camp surrounded us to talk about their work. We were all doing the same thing: laying rails.
That night I lay thinking of Zosia. In the dark I saw her face. At 4:00 A.M. I was so deeply asleep that even the sharp school bells couldn’t awaken me. It was my father’s tugging that brought me to my feet.
The inmates’ strength was waning, and we had to find ways to substitute our meager camp rations of coffee substitute, mortar bread, and fake marmalade. We had all heard the aphorism “Necessity is the mother of invention.” We flattened the ends of spoon handles with rocks, to make a knife-and-spoon combination.
After breakfast rations our group assembled, and we went to the gate, where Tadek, the chief guard, took charge of us. It was only our second day of work, and already life had become a routine. The sky looked threatening, but no rain fell. The thought of Papa still working under Schmerele nagged at me. I had to try and get him out of there soon.
We reached the construction barracks a little before seven. Stasia, Witczak, and his foremen waited. The shovels, picks, and wheelbarrows were outside the shed. After Tadek’s report, inmates were ordered to follow their foremen. “If your foreman isn’t present,” said Witczak, “go to your site and begin where you left off yesterday.”
Stasia left Marek and me at the barracks and escorted her three helpers to the potatoes and knives. Marek and I left for the spring, without a guard. It was only a few minutes after seven, too early to expect the girls. Close to eight, we had just filled our pails for the second time when we heard them coming. “Good day,” they cheerfully said, reaching the spring.
“Good day,” we answered.
That day lacked the curiosity and spontaneity of the day before. We even talked about the weather. Only Zosia seemed to have retained a gentle fascination for us. I thought she looked as if she wanted to say something. Jadzia broke the ice. “We had few Jewish students in school,” she said. Kazia and Halina agreed.
“I had a music teacher, Mr. Kaplan, who gave me private piano lessons. I think he was half Jewish. I liked him a lot,” Zosia said. “He and his wife were already old when the war began. I don’t know what became of them.”
“You said that you are married and have two children,” Kazia queried Marek.
“Yes, my son is nine, and my daughter is three. Next week will be her birthday,” he replied. From his breast pocket he pulled out a brown leather billfold with his initials in gold and showed them a picture of his wife and children. Like any proud father, he watched their faces as the postcard-sized picture was passed around.
“What an attractive wife you have, and what beautiful children,” they said. “Can they write to you?” one asked.
“They are still allowed to send mail from the ghetto, but we won’t receive it,” answered Marek.
The girls looked at each other, amazed. “What harm is there in
your having contact with your families?” Kazia asked. “If you’d like to write to them,” she said, “a letter or a postcard, we’ll be happy to send it out for you.”
“How gracious of you,” Marek responded in impeccable Polish. His good manners were not those of a water carrier. He thanked them and gratefully accepted their offer.
I seized the opportunity and asked if I too could send a letter to my relatives. Halina quickly agreed, and so did Zosia. “Gladly,” they said.
We reminded ourselves that our delayed return might bring someone to look for us, and Stasia surely would miss the water. Since it was way past nine, the girls too were expected at work. A large box rested at Zosia’s side, a collective endeavor, I thought. Discreetly, lest she embarrass us, she pointed to the box. “We brought it for you.” Knowing that such a gift would not deprive them, we accepted it. As they were leaving, Zosia turned to me. “Bronek, can you come here at lunchtime? We are free between twelve and one. Can you come?”
“I think so,” I answered. A certain warm feeling touched me inside. Was she interested in me? Then they left us, taking with them their vitality, the vitality of freedom.
We hid the food, picked up the pails, and left. On our return Witczak was walking around impatiently. I soon learned, though, that this was his habit. He never stood still. Seeming to be in a hurry always, he walked fast while talking to people behind him. As we approached him, he signaled me to follow him.
“Yes, Herr Obermeister,” I said, following close behind. He didn’t answer.
We passed the toolshed and the administrators’ dining room and entered an office. No one was there. Witczak pointed to a desk at the yard window. On it, surveyor’s manuals and books were stacked against the wall. He picked up a ledger. “From now on you’ll keep a daily record of the people you bring,” he said. “You’ll also enter their time of arrival and the number of hours each worked. As you probably know, we pay the camp for what you do.” This was news to me. From an open drawer he took out a list, apparently the one Tadek had given him. “Use this desk,” he said, fidgeting as he left.
“Yes, Mr. Witczak,” I said, but it was too late for him to hear it. He was on his way to the sites.
A stuffy, pinesap aroma permeated the air. Except for the three desks and chairs and one drafting table, which were all well worn, the office was bare. I opened the door and found Marek waiting outside. In the two days we had worked together, I had liked being with him and had learned a lot from his experiences. At times we sat and listened to the sound of water rushing at the spring, thinking of the magical moment when the girls had unexpectedly come upon us. Will I get to see Zosia again? I wondered. “Mr. Witczak wants me in the office,” I said to Marek.
He was disappointed. As I began to work at my new job, Witczak’s remark to me, “We pay for your work,” rang in my ears. I never thought that the Nazis would be selling people’s suffering. To hear that they were selling our labor was shocking. I opened the ledger and began to enter the names of the foremen alphabetically, along with the inmates assigned to them and the hours worked each day. Certain names on the list were of people from Dobra. I thought of our common past.
Shortly thereafter Stasia came in, her face beaming. She indicated her influence at the camp. “You know, when Mr. Witczak said he’d like to have someone to help him in the office, I suggested you,” she said. “Mr. Witczak is a good man,” she continued, making sure I got the intent of her comment. “I think you are nice, Bronek, and even though he may not show it, he too likes you. In his position he has to be careful.”
I said I understood and thanked her politely. Tadek walked by, poked his head in, and asked what I was doing there. When I said I was working for Witczak, Tadek’s look took on a new measure of respect. “I understand,” he said approvingly. Basiak, followed by Kmiec, arrived at the office, and both seemed surprised to find me there. Working with these two gave me an opportunity to get to know them. Even if for different reasons, hatred for Germany was something we had in common. That the Poles hated Germany was a long-standing historical reality, and the latest German occupation brought renewed antipathy. Both men seemed friendly.
At noon Marek waited. “I’ll be working with Witczak from now on,” I said. When I suggested that he get someone to replace me, he said that he could handle it by himself. The box the girls brought was still where we had left it. If I wanted to find Zosia, it was time for me to go. Inconspicuously I moved to the rear of the barracks. From there I crossed over a small mound. Then I couldn’t be seen from the yard. I walked the rest of the way with long strides. Zosia was sitting on a stump. She got up, and we touched hands in greeting.
“You made it,” she said warmly.
“How could you doubt that I would?” I replied.
Neither of us knew where to begin. She looked at me the way other girls my age once did. Could she possibly have a romantic interest in me? Sitting there, I tried to think of what to say. I could have said I was glad to see her. “Being here is courageous of you,” I finally ended up saying.
She began to tell me about her life. She lived in Poznan. Her father was a bookkeeper, her mother a homemaker. She was an only child. When the schools reopened, she said, she wanted to get her matura (high school diploma). She loved playing the piano, gardening, reading, and seeing the American movies that had by that time disappeared from the Polish screen. When I had gone to school in Kalisz, the family of one of my friends had owned the Apollo cinema. Together we often picked up reels of film from the railroad station. We were free to view them as often as we liked. Zosia and I compared movies we remembered seeing and talked about our favorite actors and actresses. Then it was time to end our meeting. Zosia knew that I wouldn’t be able to meet her in the morning. We agreed to meet at lunch the next day.
When I returned to the camp, most of the inmates were still there. No one except Marek knew where I had been. He thought it was dangerous for me to be away at that time.
“Where were you?” asked Stasia. She had something for me to eat. I didn’t expect this. With my fellow inmates eating from the kettles, how could I, in their presence, have different food? I thanked her but said, “I’ll eat with my comrades.” In time, however, hunger won out, and I occasionally accepted her leftovers.
Papa also worried when he did not see me in the yard at noon. I saw that my father’s strength was depleting quickly. His foreman, Schmerele, was certainly the woe he was made out to be. I didn’t like Papa’s situation at all. I had always known that our roles would change in time, but I had not realized it would be so soon. “How is Schmerele?” I asked Papa.
“Good,” he said. “He yells a lot, but he isn’t treating me worse than anyone else.”
“What does that mean, Papa?”
“Sometimes he gets angry, because he thinks we don’t try, but he isn’t really as bad as he seems.”
My father wasn’t one to complain, especially to me. It was just his second day there, but his usually pink-colored cheeks had turned purple, his eyes had deepened and had dark rings, and he was walking much more weakly than before. I was concerned and decided to do something. I knew that my new job brought me some influence. Kmiec and Basiak regarded me as part of their team, but I was most at ease with Stasia. I decided to ask her if she could use my father’s help in the kitchen.
The foremen made their voices heard. “Return to work!” they yelled in chorus. Marek went to the spring, and I to the office. There I found Basiak at the drafting table. Although he was past forty, his light complexion and thick blond hair made him appear much younger. He had a small, shapely nose and delicate Slavic features that complimented his good looks. His tempered disposition made him easy to talk to. A small wedding picture of him and his wife, Cesia, sat on his desk and faced him squarely as he sat working. He was recently married and childless. He promised to take me to his home someday, but it never happened. I envied him. I wasn’t much different from him, so why was I subjected to all this discrimin
ation? Does my darker hair make me an Unmensch (nonhuman)? At four the whistles dutifully announced the end to our workday. What remained of the contents of the food box—some bread and a bit of cheese—Marek handed out. Before a line formed, it was all gone.
It was obvious that no one could survive on our rations. What the girls brought could not help many of us. In time I realized that my having been placed in a position that gave me an advantage carried with it rejection by the other inmates. Although I had seen the small recessed house with the sign “Piekarnia” (bakery) before, that day returning from the work camp it especially captured my interest. Would the baker possibly sell us bread? I wondered. We could find out. I remembered what Tadek had hinted to me, saying, “There must be many rich among you.”
I drew up a plan, and I wanted to share it with Marek. When I told him to come by my room later, he sensed that it was important. I didn’t have to wait long. “Did you notice that bakery on our way?” I said. He looked at me curiously.
“If Tadek will let us go in, on our way to work, one of us could see if the baker would sell us some bread.”
“And who is going to pay for it?” Marek asked.
“All of us, according to our means.”
“If it worked,” he said, “it would be really good.”
“OK. I’ll ask Tadek as soon as we leave the camp tomorrow.”
“What about the rest of the guards?”
The Dentist of Auschwitz Page 6
