The guard had obviously enjoyed his outburst of violence. A huge grin stretched across his face. His eyes were wide and shining with excitement, and he began to look around, searching for another victim. Tony hurriedly began to dig again, studiously keeping his eyes from the pitiful remains of the man beside him. He desperately tried to make his shaking limbs work, and stop his heaving stomach from emptying its meagre contents. Somehow he managed to avoid the guard’s attention. He worked on, his mind no longer on his surroundings, but seeking refuge once again in thoughts of home and of the woman he loved.
SEPTEMBER - DECEMBER 1944
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Summer moved inexorably towards autumn. Tony lost himself in the dreary round of life in the camp. He concentrated on what he would have to eat next, how he could avoid work, how long he could survive. Sometimes as he lay in the crowded bunk during the long dark nights, he wondered how far the Allied armies had got. Would they reach Germany this year? Would the war be over by Christmas? Would he still be alive when the liberators arrived? Would they come at all? There was no way of knowing the answers to these questions, so he tried to push them to the back of his mind along with his hunger and pain. Instead he thought of home. How he missed England. How he longed to walk once more beneath the trees of Heronfield, or beside its flowing crystal river. His dreams, waking or sleeping, were haunted by faces; David, dead for four years now, but still as much a part of Tony's heart as he had been in childhood; his mother, so beautiful and loving; his father's stern features, which concealed a caring heart. There was once face, however, which was with him more frequently than the rest. Sarah’s. Did she think he was dead? Had she taken the advice of his letter and married that American soldier? Or was she still waiting for him to come home? He clung to the last thought like a leach. He imagined Sarah at Heronfield, waiting for him to come home, eager to take him in her arms and to kiss away his hurts. Dwelling on such thoughts gave him the strength to face each new day, determined to survive and to go home to the woman he loved.
It was almost three months since Tony had arrived at Buchenwald. His shower on arrival had been the last time he had washed. If a relatively clean puddle could be found, he could rub himself down with the water, as long as he was not so thirsty that he would fall down on his knees and lap it up like a dog. His skin was a colourful patchwork, grey where the dirt and grime had engrained itself in the pores, blue where he was bruised, red from sores. His hair grew back and was now home to hundreds of lice which he found quite impossible to kill. They formed into crusts on his scalp and burrowed down under the skin where they itched like mad, but could not be scratched. If the skin was broken, it would undoubtedly become infected. His clothing was alive with fleas which he shook out daily. He watched them run away seeking new homes, leaving his body covered in red spots, like measles. From head to toe he was covered with scabs and boils from which pus had to be squeezed out at regular intervals to prevent further infection. But they would not heal. They left behind holes of increasing size in his flesh, which was wasting away as the calories he used up were not replaced. Tony felt as though he were rotting alive. Yet he was determined not to give in, striving all the time to keep as clean as possible and to drive away the parasites. He knew that if he was to become infected with scabies or any similar condition, he would disappear just as the Muselmenn did, and never be seen again.
After some weeks on the grave-digging work party, Tony had again hidden one morning to avoid work. He joined another group in order to try to find a job that would provide him and Henri with more food. Without it, he feared the Frenchman would not survive the coming winter. He was already much weaker than Tony and often found it almost impossible to manage the march back to camp after a day digging graves. Tony was lucky once again. This time he found himself in a work party digging potatoes, a task that was a little easier than grave digging. At the end of the day he managed to smuggle two potatoes into camp, one under each armpit. As he lay in bed that night, he showed his treasure to Henri.
"What do you think?" He was grinning broadly, an expression Henri had not seen on his face for months. Henri himself was wide-eyed with surprise. He swallowed the saliva which flowed at the sight of the two small, muddy potatoes. He reached out tentatively and touched one. It felt so solid, so real that he knew that this was not one of the hundreds of dreams about food that he had. He looked at Tony.
"Just what you need to keep you going through the winter."
"Not just me, Henri. We’re a team. You cared for me on the train and I owe you my life."
He held out one of the potatoes, and Henri took it gratefully. The two men carefully brushed off the dried earth and bit into the vegetables. They were hard, but neither man cared as they chewed on the food, their jaw muscles aching through lack of use. The raw potatoes tasted like heaven to the starving men who chewed each mouthful slowly and with relish. At last the potatoes were finished. They licked the last drops of starch from their fingers. Tony sighed with satisfaction.
"That was lovely. But next time I’ll try to cook them!"
"Will there be a next time?"
Tony smiled at his friend and nodded. "I don't see why not. But I really need to bring many more back. That way we can exchange them for other things we might need. Food. Water. Extra clothes."
"Be careful, Tony. If you’re caught, you’ll be in serious trouble.
Tony nodded. "I know. I'll be careful. I'll just have to think of a way."
As Tony fell asleep that night a plan was forming in his mind. He smiled in his sleep.
During the next week Tony smuggled potatoes back into camp every night, but instead of eating them, he hid them in a shallow hole near the latrine pit. At last he had enough for what he needed. He exchanged the small pile of vegetables for a coat. He smiled as he put it on. It would serve two purposes; firstly to keep him warm as winter approached, while secondly, and more importantly, he would be able to fill the hem with potatoes. He could bring many more into camp each evening. His plan worked well. Over the next few weeks he was able to exchange potatoes for a coat for Henri, new shoes for them both, extra water rations, a little cheese and sausage, as well as having some left over to eat. Gradually the two men felt a little more strength in their weakened muscles. They still did not have enough food to prevent them losing weight, but the weight loss was reduced. Raw potatoes as a staple diet is not exciting, so Tony endeavoured to cook them whenever possible. The difficulties and dangers this entailed because of the curfew did not hold him back. It drove him on to seek ever more resourceful ways of finding fuel, and smuggling it back into the hut in the dead of night. Though he and Henri kept their potatoes for themselves, Tony's activities had added benefits for the other occupants of the hut, who often warmed themselves beside the meagre fire.
A strict curfew was enforced throughout the camp for the hours between evening and morning roll calls. No-one was allowed to leave their hut during that time. Enormously powerful searchlights situated around the electrified fence illuminated the whole camp, so the guards could see anyone moving between the huts. Not only was it difficult to move about outside, but it was difficult to get out there in the first place. The Kapo in each block was held responsible for any infringements of the curfew, so kept watch to prevent the inmates from moving about at night. This did not deter Tony. He would sneak out of the block while the guard was dozing, keep to the shadows as he made his way to the woodpile next to the kitchen, and carry an armful of its precious cargo back to the hut. He made a fire in the chimney breast, and baked the potatoes he had smuggled into camp that day. They were usually still part raw, but that did not matter to the hungry men who would have done anything to keep starvation at bay.
One night at the beginning of October, Tony slipped out as usual. He was making his stealthy way across to the kitchen hut when an SS guard spotted him.
”Halt!”
Tony turned to see the guard running towards him. He stood frozen in fear for what seemed like
endless seconds before turning and sprinting back towards the hut, with the guard in hot pursuit. It was not far, but Tony’s breath was laboured and his lungs bursting as he arrived and dragged himself back into his bunk. A year before, he would have been able to run that distance without even becoming winded. Now he felt totally exhausted, and his wounded leg ached. He drew the thin blanket over his head and tried to smother the sound of his laboured breathing. The door to the hut was thrown open.
“Who just ran in here?”
The inmates of the hut woke slowly, and looked with bleary eyes at the SS guard, who stood silhouetted in the doorway.
“Someone broke the curfew. Which of you was it?”
There was silence, save for the sound of someone trying to smother a cough on the far side of the hut. The guard was angry, but he did not bother to search the hut. There were far better methods of finding out what he wanted to know.
“If the person responsible is not found, the whole block will be transferred to the Straffenkommando in the morning.”
The SS guard turned and left, while the hut settled down to rest again. No one spoke, but Tony could feel the questions in the air. Though many suspected Tony, no one was sure that he had broken the curfew. If it was not him, who was responsible? The atmosphere was electric. If the guilty man was not handed over to the SS in the morning, they would all be in the straffenkommando, the work party for offenders, which few people survived. As Tony lay in the silent, oppressive darkness he felt the icy touch of fear at the thought of the punishment that would be meted out to a curfew breaker. But he knew that he could not allow the whole block to be punished for his misdeeds. He spoke in a confident voice which masked his fear. His words echoed in the silent hut.
“I’ll hand myself in in the morning.”
The silence continued but it changed in nature. It was no longer the silence of fear and speculation, but the absence of sound as the exhausted men sought sleep once more. Tony was the only one to remain awake. The prospect of the coming day drove all thoughts of sleep from his mind.
At four o’clock the whistles for roll call were blown. The men from the hut stumbled out into the cold morning air, to stand in their rows of five until the count was taken at six o’clock. Tony usually found that standing in the cold damp air caused his shattered shoulder to stiffen and ache. But he did not feel it this morning as the guard counted the rows. Satisfied that everyone was present, he addressed the men.
“Have you found the curfew breaker?”
Tony took a deep breath, straightened his back and stepped forward. “It was me.”
The guard looked Tony up and down. He beckoned him forward to where he stood beside a wooden trestle. Tony took off his coat and shirt, allowing them to fall to the ground along with his dish as the cold autumn wind whipped his body. He had seen enough punishments to know what was expected of him. He stretched out his arms, so that two prisoners from his hut could tie him down. He looked across at the SS guard, who was smiling as he uncurled his whip.
“Twenty-five strokes.”
He flexed his arm and the whip cracked. Tony closed his eyes and waited for the first blow. When it came, it sent a river of fire coursing across his back though he did not flinch. With tightly gritted teeth, he counted the blows as they fell, raising huge red wheals upon his back. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. His body began to jerk with pain each time the lash found his bare flesh. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. He cried out as his skin burst beneath one particularly viscous blow. Somehow he lost count, not knowing how many times the lash had fallen. He only hoped he could hold out to the end. The SS guard drew back his arm with relish, savouring each moment. The whip cracked and the prisoner writhed in torment, while the other occupants of the hut watched in silence.
At last it was over. The guard coiled his bloodstained whip, surveying his handiwork with a smile. Tony’s back was criss-crossed with raised weals, but the skin had only broken in one place. A trickle of blood ran down the thin wasted flesh, which could no longer conceal the contour of the Englishman’s bones.
“You are lucky to escape with twenty-five. Next time the punishment will be worse.”
As the guard turned and stalked away, Henri rushed forward to untie Tony and help him back into this clothes. The material of his shirt rubbed against his back. He winced as the heavy coat fell over his shoulders. Henri tucked the enamel bowl into his shirtfront.
“I wish I was on your work party. You need someone to look after you today.”
Tony tried to smile, but could not hide the pain in his eyes.
“That’s all right, Henri. I’ll manage.” He turned and joined his work group. Henri watched him go, wondering how he would be able to survive a day’s work after such a beating. Tony wondered that too. He struggled to keep up on the march to the field. Once they had arrived and he set to work, each movement was an agony. But he forced himself to work on, for to stop would only draw the guard’s attention and ensure another beating. The day seemed endless, but Tony gritted his teeth and refused to give in. He knew that survival in Buchenwald was dependent on a mental attitude, as much as on physical strength. It was a matter of willing yourself to take one more step, dig one more plant, live for one more day, one more hour. He concentrated his mind until all he was aware of was himself, his body and the work he had to do. He did not see or hear those around him. He did not have the energy to focus on them. By the time the whistle blew for the end of work, he was close to collapse.
Shuffling, limping along with the others, he completed the long march back to camp where, he entered the gates with shoulders stooped and bowed, his left leg dragging weakly. A curious guard stepped forward.
“What is wrong with him?”
A prisoner to Tony’s right spoke. “Punishment lashing this morning.”
The guard grinned as he stepped back and allowed the column through. They made their way back to the open area behind the hut, where Henri was waiting anxiously. He stepped forward eagerly when he saw Tony.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like hell.”
Henri helped him to sit down. “You must not take any more risks like that. You might not survive the next beating.”
“I might not survive the beating, but I know for certain that I won’t survive the camp if I don’t take risks.” He forced his exhausted features into a caricature of a smile. “There was a suspicious guard at the gate, but he didn’t find these.” He shook his arms and a potato slipped down each sleeve and into his waiting hands. “Baked potatoes again tonight!”
Before Henri could say anything, whistles blew for evening roll call. They made their way to the front of the hut. While they waited in silence to be counted, he acknowledged that Tony was right. The only way to survive Buchenwald was to try to stay one step ahead. Tony’s potatoes would help them to do that.
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Despite his beating, Tony continued to break curfew to get firewood and trade his potatoes. As he watched the faces in the hut change as men came and went he knew it was the additional food that kept Henri and himself from succumbing to the diseases which were rife in the camp. But the two men were growing weaker and thinner by the day. He was afraid it would not be long before their turn came.
Henri lay awake, strange for him, for he was usually so exhausted when he crawled into the bunk that he fell asleep as soon as his head touched the thin straw mattress crawling with fleas. Tonight he tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable, alternately hot and cold, his body wracked by shivers. Tony was awakened by the erratic movements of the Frenchman. He turned towards him to see what was wrong, and reached out to touch a thin shoulder.
“What is it, Henri?”
Henri turned, his face bathed in sweat and his teeth chattering. “I don’t feel too good.”
Tony’s brow creased into a worried frown. His friend was very ill. He feared that it might be typhus, a disease to which most prisoners fell victim at one time or another. Very few survived. There was
nothing he could do to help Henri, save hold him close throughout the night and try to keep him warm. He hoping he had just caught a cold and would feel better in the morning, but deep inside he knew he was lying to himself. The truth of the lie was proved when the whistles blew for roll call. Tony crawled from the bunk and pulled Henri along beside him. “Come on, old friend. You can do it.”
Henri sat on the edge of the bunk and shook his head, which sent arrows of pain shooting through his skull.
“I can’t do it, Tony. My legs won’t hold me up.”
His voice was hoarse, and Tony was worried.
“Come on! You’ve got to make it! You know what will happen if you don’t.”
Henri did know. The dead, those who would never again rise from their bunks without assistance and all those too sick or weak to make it to roll call, were carried out of the hut each morning. No-one knew what happened to the weak, for they were never seen again. They did not reach the Hospital Block, as they were considered useless to the Germans as slave labour. To stay in the hut during roll call was an immediate death sentence. With a supreme effort of will, he tried to stand but his legs buckled under him. Tony caught him by the arm and helped him across the hut. By the time they were outside, Henri was almost unconscious, but he had made it. He would not be on the death carts today.
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