Heronfield

by Dorinda Balchin

  Tony stood in his allotted place, never taking his eyes from Henri. The Frenchman was swaying from side to side, desperately struggling to stay on his feet, but as time passed it was obvious that he would not make it to the count. Tony watched helplessly as Henri finally slumped slowly to the ground. He did not dare to make a move to help him, knowing only too well the consequences of getting out of place during roll call. The wait seemed interminable. Tony willed the minutes to pass so that he could help Henri, it seemed like the count would never take place. The SS guards finally made their way along the columns, counting the rows of fives. Today there were no problems. Everyone was accounted for, so by the time the sun was up roll call was over. Tony stepped forward and knelt beside Henri.

  “What are you doing?” Tony turned towards the SS guard but did not reply. He knew no reply was expected.

  “Get back to your work group.”

  Plucking up his courage, Tony spoke to the guard. “He needs my help.”

  The guard seemed surprised to hear a prisoner speak, but at least his response was nor brutal.

  “It is not your job to take him to Barrack 61. Get to your work group.”

  Tony rose to his feet and moved away, relief flooding through him. Barrack 61, the hospital compound. Henri was not for the death carts, although his life was still in danger. Like any prisoner in Buchenwald, Tony knew what the hospital was like. The chances of Henri coming out alive were slim, but at least there was a chance. As he marched to work he thought over what he knew of Barrack 61.

  The hospital was a hut one hundred and fifty feet by thirty feet, just like the rest of the camp, save that here the wooden walls were windowless. There were areas set aside for specific diseases, the dysentery section, the TB section and the typhus section, where Tony feared that Henri was going. Each area had its complement of prisoner nurses and cleaners, none of whom were trained. Their whole stock of medicine consisted of nothing more than water. As there were no bandages available, they used paper for dressings. Rations were no different from those received in the rest of the camp. Tony was fully aware that a diet of dry bread was not the best way to keep a sick man alive and build up his strength. He was thankful that his workgroup was still digging potatoes; somehow he would smuggle some of them into the hospital and make soup for Henri.

  That evening he did just that. After roll call, he slipped out of his hut and made his stealthy way over to the hospital compound, where his belief in a loving God was severely shaken at the sights and sounds and smells which greeted him. He thought life in the ordinary huts of Buchenwald was hell, but it was nothing compared with what assailed his senses as he searched through the section containing the typhus cases for Henri. The sick lay in delirium on the filthy straw mattresses, while those responsible for their care raced back and forth in a vain attempt to relieve the suffering. Each bunk had been made for a single occupant, but most contained three or four poor souls who struggled to stay warm beneath the one thin blanket. Down the centre of the hut ran a heating channel about three feet high and two feet wide. It was connected to a brick chimney at the end but this was, of course, cold. It was known as the stove, but Tony saw that it was used as a seat where the nurses tended the sick. The only positive thing they could do was to squeeze pus from suppurating boils, and stick a piece of paper on to try to keep them clean.

  Tony searched bunk after bunk unsuccessfully. He was becoming frantic by the time he found Henri. The glazed eyes of the Frenchman did not recognise him. He cried out for water, he tossed and turned. In his delirium he cursed Tony for not giving him the meat and fruit he imagined he carried. His hands clawed at his head which was filled with an excruciating pain. He cried out for the wife he had left back in Saint Nazaire. After a few moments Tony left the bedside, tears in his eyes as he made his way down to the small fire at the end of the hut. He cooked a little potato soup and took it back, spooning it into Henri’s mouth and watching as much of it dribbled out from the uncontrollable lips. Somehow he managed to get his delirious friend to swallow a little. Finally Henri lapsed into unconsciousness, his shaking body sweating profusely. Tony sadly left the bedside to speak to the ‘nurse’ in whose care Henri had been placed.

  “Do your best for him.”

  The exhausted prisoner looked reproachfully at Tony. “I do my best for all of them. But it is not enough.”

  Tony nodded, seeing the tiredness, the hopelessness, the hunger in the face of the man who suffered as much as any other inmate of the Buchenwald camps.

  “I understand. I’ll come each evening and cook some soup for him.”

  As Tony looked around at the hundreds of sick men, he realised that Henri was in as much danger from selection as from the disease which ravaged his body. The selections came at random times. No-one had time to hide. They could only wait helplessly as the most sick people were cleared from the hut and never seen again.

  “Try to hide him if there is a selection. I’ll give you food if you do.”

  The prisoner looked at Tony through starving eyes. “I’ll do my best. But I can’t promise anything.”

  “That’s good enough for me.”

  Sadly Tony made his way back to his own hut, avoiding the searchlights and guards, determined to do all he could to save his friend.

  Henri remained unconscious for days. He was kept alive only by the drops of water which the nurse managed to force through his parched lips during the day, and the thin potato soup which Tony prepared and fed to him, with endless patience, each night. When he finally regained consciousness, he was totally unaware of his surroundings, unable to recognise the Englishman who gave up so much of his time to keep him alive. Tony watched helplessly as what little flesh was left on Henri’s body slowly wasted away, leaving nothing but protruding bones and loose sagging skin. What hair had grown back on Henri’s scalp since his head had been shaved now fell out in handfuls, leaving him totally bald again. As Tony looked at the wasted body, the sunken cheeks and eyes which looked at him out of a living skull he marvelled that anyone could survive such deprivation. But slowly Henri’s strength began to return, he learned to sit up once more and Tony began to teach him how to walk again. It was slow work. At first he massaged the wasted muscles, then helped Henri to stand for a short while each evening. Finally, after over a month in Barrack 61, Henri took his first slow, painful step. He collapsed breathlessly onto the bunk immediately afterwards, but it was progress. Tony went to the fire to prepare the potato soup on which the Frenchman’s life depended, more confident that he could now survive. When he returned Henri was sitting up, with his back supported by the wooden partition. He looked quizzically at the bowl of soup, then up into the younger man’s eyes. A flicker of recognition crossed his face, and he spoke hoarsely.

  “Tony?”

  Tony could not prevent the smile which lit his face. Henri knew who he was! It was a vital step on the road to recovery. He sat down on the edge of the bunk, and spoke gently to the Frenchman.

  “Yes. It’s me, Henri.”

  “What happened?” It was as though Henri’s mind had sought refuge in forgetfulness. Only now that his body was recovering did it allow him to question. Tony took a deep breath and began to explain.

  “Typhus. You collapsed at roll call, and were brought to Barrack 61.”

  Henri looked at the filthy hut with its delirious occupants, and then down at his own wasted body. He held up a hand, little more than flesh and bone, and stared at it wonderingly.

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Almost five weeks.”

  “Five weeks?” Henri was incredulous. How could he possibly have been so ill for so long and survived? He looked again at the bowl of soup, and understanding dawned. “Have you done this for me every day?” Tony nodded. “Then I owe you my life.”

  Tony waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. Now eat this before it gets cold.”

  Henri ate gratefully. He would have been dead weeks before, if not for the car
e that Tony had lavished upon him and the risks he had taken in smuggling food. It was a debt he vowed to spend the remainder of his life repaying.

  Henri continued to make a slow recovery, each day taking more steps than the day before as a little of his strength slowly returned. Inside the windowless hospital hut he was unable to see how the weather was changing. In Buchenwald one did not notice the seasons. There was no grass, no trees, no flowers. The prisoners knew only by the falling temperatures and the shorter hours of daylight that autumn was passing and winter fast approaching. Prisoners like Tony, whose work took them beyond the confines of the electric fence, saw the leaves on the trees bordering the fields where they worked turn red and gold, and finally fall to the ground where they were driven into piles by the wind. Tony could not help comparing it to the beauty of Heronfield in autumn. He wondered what Sarah was doing now, and how his parents were. But thoughts of home were soon buried beneath the necessities of life. Tony was increasingly grateful for his coat, not only because it made it easier for him to smuggle potatoes back into camp, but because of the added warmth it provided in the bitter wind. He was able to exchange the potatoes for woollen socks and gloves, carrots, a little sausage, even an extra blanket for Henri. Slowly, over the weeks, he was able to see his efforts rewarded. Henri, one of the very few survivors of the typhus epidemic, was now fit enough to offer occasional help to his fellow sufferers.

  It was mid-November. Henri was trying to help a man to drink his meagre water ration when the door to the dimly lit hut was opened to admit an SS doctor, accompanied by a number of guards. There was general fear in the hut, as everyone realised what was happening. A selection. Who would be allowed to stay in Barrack 61, and who would never be seen again? There was silence save for the moans and cries of the sick and delirious. Then the doctor spoke.

  “Line up beside the stove.”

  All those well enough to move staggered from their bunks, and lined up beside the barely warm heating channel. It was as much as many of them could manage, but they did it, the fear of what would happen to them if they did not spurring them on to almost inhuman efforts. The doctor called in a work party from outside, and indicated those who were so ill that they had not been able to get out of their bunks.

  “Put them in the trucks.”

  As the living skeletons were carried from the hut by their fellow prisoners, the doctor turned back to those who stood by the stove. Some were so weak that they swayed from side to side, their legs threatening to collapse beneath them. Most looked as though they would be lucky to survive another few weeks. But the SS doctor was not going to leave them there long enough to find out.

  “Jump over the stove.”

  The prisoners struggled to obey. Some, like Henri, managed to clamber over the three foot high conduit with some difficulty, though his breath came in short gasps, his head thumped and his chest ached as his heart pounded under the exertion. Others, by far the majority, were left panting and gasping on the other side. The doctor looked at them dismissively. Too sick to jump, too sick to work. He called the work party forwards.

  “Put them in the trucks.”

  Some of the condemned went willingly, many not understanding what was happening, but many fought, though in their weakened condition it did little good. It was a token resistance. Weeping, they were dragged out, bundled into trucks and driven away to meet their fate. Those left behind watched silently, thankful that they had been spared yet another selection, which routinely depleted the camp of its weakest inhabitants. Slowly they made their way back to the almost empty bunks, knowing they would soon be occupied by more men, suffering and dying as the typhus gripped them.

  When Tony returned to the hut that night, he learned of the selection at Barrack 61 and spent an anxious two hours waiting for roll call to pass, so he could go and find out if Henri was still safe. . But that night was one of the not infrequent occasions when the numbers at roll call did not tally. The prisoners continued to stand in the icy wind, teeth chattering, while the guards checked inside the huts. Finally they found the missing prisoner standing outside the wrong hut. This frequently happened with those who were reaching the last limits of their endurance, and could concentrate on only one thing, survival. At last roll call was completed and the prisoners were allowed back into the cold huts. No fires were allowed yet, as the S.S deemed that it was not yet cold enough for the prisoners to need them. Tony collected his ration of bread and water. He lay down on the bunk, waiting for the rest of the hut to settle, so that he could go across to the hospital to see if Henri had survived.

  At last the inmates of the hut fell asleep. Tony slid out of his bunk to make his silent way across the floor, slipping past the prisoner whose job it was to guard the door. He was dozing at his post, as usual. Tony crouched low, keeping to the heavy shadows at the base of the hut walls until he came to an open space which separated him from the hospital compound. It was brightly lit by the searchlights. Even a mouse would have been seen moving across the muddy ground. Tony settled himself and carefully surveyed the guard posts, to make sure that there was no one looking in his direction He knew from experience it would be some time before they were all looking away. He had to draw on all his reserves of patience and self-control as he sat in the bitterly cold shadows, awaiting his chance. When it came, he did not hesitate. He ran straight across the yard, taking the shortest route possible, and stopped in the shadow of the hospital hut to gather his breath. He never dreamt during his days of training for the S.O.E. that the skills he was learning would come in useful in such a situation. But stealth and silence were vital to survival if one constantly broke the curfew. He would also have been surprised, four years earlier, that running such a short distance would leave him breathless and close to collapse. His whole body ached from the exertion, and he realised that although the deterioration of his condition was slow, it had not halted. There would come a day when he would not be able to cover the distance in time. He fervently hoped that Henri would be out of the hospital and back in the hut before that day came. That was if he had survived the selection. Tony pushed open the door and made his way into the dark hut.

  It was strangely silent. He was used to hearing the cries and moans of the sick, the rantings of the delirious, coughing, hushed voices. But tonight there was nothing. As his eyes slowly adjusted to the gloomy interior, he hoped that the whole hut had not been cleared. Over to his right, he heard a familiar voice and let out a sigh of relief.

  “Tony. I’m over here.”

  He made his way across to Henri, and sat down beside him on the bunk.

  “Henri! I’m so glad to see you! I thought you might have been selected.”

  Henri shook his head. “No. Believe it or not I’m one of the fittest, or I should say I was one of the fittest. All those in worse condition than me have now gone.”

  “Maybe they’ve been taken to another hospital.”

  Henri looked at the Englishman, his eyes filled with incredulity. “Do you really believe that?”

  Tony shrugged. “I don’t know. I can’t imagine the Germans caring for them, but what else could they do with so many?”

  “Kill them.”

  Henri’s eyes held a strange haunted look, and Tony frowned.

  “So many? It would be impossible.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” Henri’s voice was unusually dull. “One of the work party who took the sick away managed to give his guards the slip and hide in here. He said he couldn’t go back to that work, or he would go on the fence.”

  Tony frowned. What could be so bad about the work that the man was willing to throw himself onto the electrified fence and commit suicide? Henri interrupted Tony’s thoughts.

  “His is a grim story. Do you want to hear it?”

  Tony nodded, and Henri slipped off to fetch the man. When he returned Tony was surprised to see a young man barely out of his teens. He appeared to be well fed, at least he was not as thin as most people in Buchenwald, but what really
caught Tony’s attention was his eyes. Never before had he seen eyes filled with such hopeless terror, as though death was waiting round every corner, and could not be avoided.

  The young man sat nervously on the edge of the bunk and looked at Tony.

  “So you want to hear about the ovens?”

  Ovens? Tony looked questioningly at Henri, who nodded. Tony looked back at the young man.

  “Yes, please.”

  The boy began to speak, his eyes fixed and staring as though he were seeing the atrocities again. Tony listened. He felt the bile rise in his throat. His head pounded, but he did not doubt that the young man was telling the truth, and he did not try to stop the flow of words.

  “When the dead are taken from the huts, they go to the crematory, where the ground floor ovens are waiting. There are six of them, with huge chimneys behind. We have to throw the bodies inside and watch them burn. The smell is awful. But we can’t move away because we have to feed in more bodies and more coke. Those who are taken from here alive, or who are sent to the left at the selection by the gate when they arrive, are sent to the showers. They strip down and go under the shower heads. But instead of water, gas comes out. They die screaming and writhing. We have to carry their twisted bodies to the ovens.”

  Tony’s head was swimming as he absorbed the terrible facts. He looked across at Henri, who had come so close to selection that very day.

  “Thank God you weren’t taken.”

  Henri nodded. “Yes. But there is more to hear.”