The Brothers of Auschwitz

by Malka Adler

  I sat on the last bed and observed the mouths of the people in the room. I watched them take a bite with their teeth, gurgle, chew, swallow, chatting, offering to each other, saying thank you, sucking, wiping, burping, scratching, laughing, wrapping left-overs in a napkin, putting them back in the box, locking it and going to sleep. The German prisoners didn’t notice that I’d come, they were oblivious. For them, I was a bit of dirt on the wall.

  The smell of food drove me mad. My mouth filled with saliva. I could smell sausage and cakes. Bread and smoked fish. And peanuts and chocolate. I heard sounds in my belly. I smacked my belly. The sound didn’t stop. I took off my shoes and lay down on my back. A Jew from Budapest came in to sleep next to me. A fat, older Jew, about sixty. He had drops of sweat on his cheek. He breathed heavily, like an old train engine. He told me about the enormous farm he’d left behind in Hungary. I was shocked. A Jew with lands? Yes, boy, lands the size of three villages. Really? Yes, boy, and what use is it to me now that I’m dying, dying of hunger. What’s your name, boy?

  Bernard, that’s my Christian name. At home my name is Leiber.

  How old are you, boy?

  Sixteen and a bit.

  The man caught hold of my shoulders, shook me firmly, staring at me, one eye healthy the other made of glass, and said: Bernard, look at me, I don’t stand a chance, you do. Steal, kill, live, do you hear me? You’re young, Bernard, you’re a boy with a good chance of coming out of this war, understand?

  I made a small movement with my head, understand. The fat man fell back on his bed. We fell asleep in a second. The next day he was gone, in the way of Auschwitz, as I understood in time. One moment you’re talking to someone, the next moment he’s gone.

  Chapter 3

  Yitzhak

  At Auschwitz, in the year 1944, I received a new name.

  55484 was sewn onto the side of my trousers and this was my new name. I was given striped clothing. A shirt and trousers from the same fabric, like the pictures we see today. I was given a striped hat and plastic shoes with wooden soles. We stood in the dark, rows and rows of prisoners, everyone the same. Like a convoy of ants with numbers on the chest and side.

  We were put in Bloc 12. In the bloc were three-tier beds. Not really beds, more like sleeping benches. We were ordered to stand in a line next to the beds. Avrum and I stood next to each other. Avrum was eighteen and asked where Dov was. I was fifteen and a bit, a year younger than Dov and didn’t know where he was. Avrum was at least a head taller than me. Avrum had broad shoulders and the bristles of a beard. I had room in my shirt at the shoulders and a smooth face with no sign of a beard. In the Bloc were other children my age. They stood among the older prisoners, looking down at the floor. I glanced at my brother, fiercely rubbing the thumb of my left hand. I couldn’t stop rubbing.

  An SSman entered the bloc. He stood straight with legs apart and a hat on his head. He stood with one hand on his hip and the other playing on his thigh. He pursed his lips as if whistling and slowly passed from one prisoner to another. Advanced. Stopped. Went back. Stopped at a boy of maybe thirteen, maybe less.

  The thirteen-year-old puffed out his chest and belly, made himself taller and taller and taller.

  SSman beckoned with his finger.

  Boy stepped out of the line. Boy cried quietly. Boy trembled.

  SSman hit him on his thigh. Thwack. Boy fell silent.

  SSman scratched his neck with the long nail of his little finger. Slowly scratched his bristles. I heard the scratch of sandpaper on a board. He scratched, scratched, scratched, stopped.

  I stopped breathing.

  SSman pursed his lips. Began to scan us again.

  A boy opposite me pinched himself on the arms. I saw him stand on tiptoe. Fall. Stand. Fall. A boy beside me pulled his shirt away from his trousers, as if he’d grown fatter since standing in the line. Someone at the end of the line fell. They dragged him to the boy standing on the side.

  SSman took three children and the one who’d fallen and they left.

  I didn’t know the crematorium. But I did know I mustn’t go outside with SSman. I understood everything through the crack in his eyelids. I was fifteen and a bit, thin as a match, and it was my great good luck not to go out with them. That was my first stroke of luck. And there was a second stroke of luck. Two brothers from my village saved me. They were in the bloc, two beds away from me. Two large brothers, with swollen muscles in their arms, and bull like necks. The brothers lifted me onto the third tier of the bed.

  Covered me with a straw mattress, saying, when there’s appel – counting – you don’t come down, understand, Icho? I stayed on the third tier for four days. SSman came to our bloc every day or two, took small thin prisoners. Avrum gave me bread. Avrum whispered the situation to me from below.

  After a week they announced over the loudspeaker: Going to work, not counting. The two brothers from my village didn’t believe the loudspeaker. They told the group, they’re taking us to the crematorium. The two brothers climbed onto the bed and help me to get down. I get down from the third tier and feel my legs fold by themselves. As if they’d been filled with margarine. I held onto the wall and looked at my brother. Avrum grabbed me by the hips and stuck out his tongue. Dragged me to the door. We were the last to leave and I glanced at the fence. An electric, barbed-wire fence at least four meters high. I saw a sign with the drawing of a skull and several words.

  Someone behind me whispered, careful, death hazard. I thought, a long time ago, ordinary people walked to and fro behind the fence. What happened to them, are they alive or dead, I had no answer.

  SSman shouted, left, right, left, right, in the direction of the train tracks.

  Again the crowding in the car. I calculated, if I kill the one in front of me, and the one behind me, and if I kill those to the side, how much room will I have, maybe the length of a ruler on each side, no more. I looked for my brother. I saw there was no point in calling him. He was pressed between two tall people. Pale. I saw his eyelids jumping like a broken automaton.

  We traveled for several days. A quarter of bread per day, no water. People around me died without a murmur. They died a purple color, their mouths closed. They had purple under their fingernails. Like iodine poured on a wound. Someone died and we immediately searched him for food. Then we laid him down, while he was still warm, and took turns sitting on him.

  There wasn’t enough air in the car for everyone.

  Sour sweat dampened our clothing. We stood pressed against one another with our mouths open, we shouted, air, air. We beat on the door. Screamed for an hour. I lost my voice. Finally they opened a narrow strip above. We climbed over the dead and the frail in order to breathe. We climbed on them as if they were our staircase to life.

  Through the window I saw we had reached Weimar. There was a prominent sign there. From Weimar they took us to Camp Buchenwald. I knew it from the sign.

  We arrived at Bloc 55. The first thing a prisoner with a wounded hand said to me was: careful, they’re looking for children, and in a moment I threw myself onto the third tier of the bunks. The barracks door would open, and I was on top, just as I did at Auschwitz. My brother Avrum told me when to come down. After two days the loudspeaker called my brother Avrum to report. We knew by the number they called.

  Avrum came to say goodbye but in the end he said nothing. He looked at me and trembled. His face was white as a sheet. I fell upon him, oy, oy, oy, it’s a mistake, they mistook the number, don’t go, Avrum, don’t leave me alone. Tears wet Avrum’s shirt. The trembling of his chin increased. His mouth stretched up and to the sides as if he was telling me many important things. He was breathing very fast, and his nose ran like a tap. The loudspeaker called Avrum’s number again. I was afraid. Avrum jumped and hugged me hard. I wept into his ear, I want to stay with you, what do we do, Avrum, let’s go together. Avrum refused. I felt as if both our ribs were breaking, and then he pushed me, breathing in and out, dried my face so I’d see him more clearly, le
ft. I ran after him to the door. The guard at the entrance wouldn’t allow me to leave. He gestured, go back to your place or you’ll get it. He had a baton in his hands. A baton with an iron knob at the end. I wanted to shout, Avrum, Avrum, wait for me. I opened my mouth wide. Closed it. Went back to my place on the third tier.

  I felt myself falling, falling, as if into a bottomless pit. As if they’d tied me to a heavy weight and thrown me into a dark place among strangers. I lay on my bunk and cried for an hour, until they brought a new prisoner to Avrum’s bunk. I immediately turned my back. Couldn’t bear to see someone else beside me. I got down. I knew I was angry enough to kill that prisoner. Two hours had passed and I still couldn’t calm down. A German from another Bloc came into the barracks. I didn’t have time to climb up.

  We were ordered: Line up, don’t move. The German half-closed his eyes and scanned us slowly. Back and forth. Back and forth. He had a crooked smile and puffiness under his chin. Like a pocket full of food. His eyebrows were joined like a fence and he had a pointed belly under his belt. He held white gloves in one hand, tapping them against his other hand. As if the gloves were helping him to think. Back and forth, back and forth. I stopped breathing. The German put on his gloves and took me and four other children. I followed him, oblivious to anything.

  Outside, the late-afternoon sun was warm, the beginning of summer. Bright light filled the spaces between the blocs. I searched for Avrum in that bright light. Examined the parade grounds. I saw trucks with tarpaulins. I didn’t know if there were prisoners inside or if they were empty. I never saw Avrum again, never saw him again.

  The German with the white gloves took us to Bloc 8. Things were good for us in Bloc 8. Food on time. Lights out. A shower every day. Beds with blankets, clean sheets. A place with discipline and the color white. Fifty or sixty children with Baba – Uncle Volodya in charge. A fat man with a fat nose and a fat voice, and a large handkerchief in his hand. He liked to travel with his handkerchief on his bald head, pat-pat-pat-pat, but also to wipe children’s tears with it. It was mainly at night that he wiped and fondled everywhere. I was quiet, almost unmoving, when he wiped and fondled. I barely breathed and my mouth was closed.

  A doctor came into the bloc every morning.

  Doctor had alert ears like an antenna. Doctor said hello, how are you, children. Doctor laughed with white teeth, and I saw the slight tremor of the antenna. Doctor would choose a child and leave.

  In the meantime, Baba Volodya fondled children. Baba Volodya pinched cheeks and sent kisses to the ceiling. Children jumped on Baba. Children hugged Baba. Children said thank you, Baba, thank you. Thank you for the good food. The clean sheets. The shower and hot water.

  And I saw method: children who went with doctor didn’t return to the bloc. Their beds remained empty. I didn’t understand. Healthy children leave with doctor. Plump children leave the bloc. Children with color in their cheeks don’t come back to sleep in the bloc.

  I hung onto Baba Volodya’s shoulder, asking him, where do the children go, Baba, and why don’t they come back to the bloc to sleep, what’s going on here, Baba, huh? Baba didn’t respond. I felt knives in my belly. I felt I had no air left at the open window. Every time the doctor came in I would catch Baba Volodya’s eye. Catch his eye and hold it. As if I were hanging onto his shoulder from a distance, as if telling him, you’re my father, you’re my father, and you won’t leave me alone like my first father, d’you hear me? Only when the doctor left did I leave Baba Volodya and breathe in from the deepest place possible.

  I started wandering around, asking questions.

  I walked the length of the bloc. And back again. I walked back and forth, counting. I asked, where do the children go, where, and got no answer. I went over to stand near the older prisoners. I knew they were old-timers by the numbers on their clothing and their silence. They neither asked nor answered, just stood there staring nowhere. I said, tell me, where do the doctor and the children go, where is that building?

  One said, there’s a special place for experiments on young ones and a place for experiments on grownups. Doctor and child go to a place for experiments on young ones.

  I said, experiments, what are experiments, what do you mean, tell me, I don’t understand. He had an eye infection that leaked like a slug.

  He looked at me without seeing me, as if thinking about me, then, finally, he said, go away, boy. My blood pounded fast in my veins, tam-tam, tam-tam. Someone else with a swollen belly who had heard me stuck to me. My blood pounded even faster.

  My new friend said, be careful. I don’t go anywhere near that place. Every child goes into a pot with gas, they close the lid on his head, like with soup. There are other cases. They examine some children according to a clock: how long can they live without air. Some last for a long time, others not at all. They die the minute the clock is set.

  I stamped my foot and ran back to the bloc. I grabbed a freckled boy by the neck, calling agitatedly, boy, wait. What does it mean when the doctor leaves with a boy and returns without. Tell me, is it true they cook him in a pot? Cut him?

  The boy said, don’t know, and ran away as if I were holding a butcher’s knife. I didn’t give up. I ran outside. I caught a short prisoner with saliva on his chin.

  Asked, what are experiments, and why do healthy children leave beds empty, huh?

  He asked, where.

  I muttered, in Bloc 8.

  He sat down, are you in that bloc?

  I hit him on the shoulder. Shouted, tell me, now, what’s going on in my bloc.

  He rolled his tongue and said, they inject a needle with a substance into the boy’s vein, but first they talk to him nicely. Then they measure how long it takes for the substance to reach the heart. For some it takes three minutes. For others one minute. For some even less. But you should know it doesn’t hurt to die like that. They die well there, without a nasty smell.

  I asked who talks such nonsense, the one who dies?

  The man said, no. Not the one who dies, and he wanted to go.

  I tugged at his shirt, the doctor says so?

  No.

  So who says it doesn’t hurt, who? The prisoner turned and walked off.

  I decided to escape from Bloc 8.

  I heard they were looking for a cook for the women’s camp. I told Baba Volodya I’m a very good cook. Get me out of here into the women’s camp. Get me out, Baba, please. As if I were your boy now. Baba Volodya stuck a match between his teeth and pressed hard. I didn’t move from him. Volodya wrote down my name.

  Volodya said, wait. I waited. I watched him from wherever I stood. I pursued him and waited.

  Achtung. Achtung. 55484, report.

  My heart stopped. I didn’t know where they were sending me, to the gas chamber of the Jews, the experiments’ pot, or to cook in the women’s camp. Gas. Kitchen. Pot. Gas. Kitchen. Pot. Kitchen. Kitchen. My tongue went dry in moment. I felt a strong pain in my backside. I went out.

  Soldiers took me to a petrol station. Soldiers put me on a train car. I moved from Buchenwald to Camp Zeiss. An entire day on a cattle train.

  Chapter 4

  Dov: Do you remember when they took us from home to Ungvár,

  we sat in open cattle cars and heard train whistles?

  Yitzhak: Remember.

  Dov: Do you remember our rabbi saying, when the Messiah

  comes, you’ll hear a shofar?

  Yitzhak: Nu?

  Dov: When I heard the whistle, I thought,

  maybe our rabbi was right, maybe the Messiah did come.

  Yitzhak: Nobody came to save us. Nobody.

  Dov

  At Auschwitz, in 1944, a number was tattooed on my arm, A-4092.

  “A” signified a transport from Hungary. The next day they made us stand to attention for eight hours on the parade ground. The rain didn’t stop falling. I was cold. Cold. Cold. I had gooseflesh like pinheads on my skin. I felt as if they’d stuck a board in my back. In my shoulders. My legs trembled rapidly,
rapidly, slowly. Rapidly, rapidly, snap. The muscle jumped. I was sure everyone could see.

  SSman yelled, Do Not Move. Do Not Sit. I grabbed my trousers and pushed the fabric forward.

  Anyone who fell did not get up.

  Prisoners usually fell quietly. Sometimes they’d cheep like chicks in a nest. Sometimes I’d hear a blow, thwack, and that was that. Prisoners with a function had stripes and a ribbon on the arm and they’d drag the fallen out of the row. I focused my gaze on the nearest wall. I saw black circles running along the parade ground. The circles brought prickles to the temples and shoulders, two-three minutes and the prickles settled in the legs. Suddenly, hot. Hotter. And that was that. I couldn’t feel my legs. Like paralysis. In my shoulders and neck as well.

  They announced numbers over the loudspeaker. The voice over the loudspeaker was cheerful. As if he had a few chores to finish before going home, la-la-la. A prisoner next to me, an older man, began to cry quietly.

  I heard him say Sh’ma Yisra-el Adonai Eloheinu Adonai Echad – Hear, O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One and immediately fall. He had white foam on his lips. He made the mewling sound of a cat kicked by a boot. Within seconds he was dragged out. Vanished. Poor man, poor man, God didn’t hear him. I wanted to scream, where are you. God didn’t answer. He cut me off too. I gave myself an order, stand straight, Dov, don’t move, huh. I heard my number over the loudspeaker. I went with other prisoners. They sent us to work at Camp “Canada,” named for the belongings left on the platforms by prisoners from the trains. They called us “Canada” Commando. They put me in a huge storeroom and told me to sort out clothes. There was a huge pile in the storeroom. Like a colorful hill of sand. There were suitcases. Many many suitcases with a number, or a name, or a label tied on with string. Sometimes, just a small ribbon on a handle, a red or green ribbon, like the ones used to arrange little girls’ hair.