MEMOIRS
OF SHERESHEV
By MOISHE KANTOROWITZ
A couple times during that era we received a few cigarettes. I, not smoking, gave them to Leibel who did smoke. The next morning, as we received our bread, I see Leibel cutting off a piece of his bread and sliding it over to my side of the bench. To my question as to what it is for, he answered the cigarettes. I am so glad that I did not accept them, otherwise I would not forgive myself, even today. As in Auschwitz proper, so here in Sosnowicz, the privileged or prominent inmates had it relatively good. For us Jews our fate was to remain locked up till the end of our lives regardless how long that miserable existence may be. The only way out was the crematorium. For the Germans, Poles, or Frenchmen it was a matter of time till the war came to an end and their sentence would be resolved. Their personal desire was to stay alive and make their being there as bearable, as comfortable, and as pleasant as possible. To this end they used to organize different amusements. Of course the object of their ridicule and mockery had to be the Jews. All these started with our first "Lager Altester" (camp elders) a German inmate in the mid thirties with a green triangle (criminal). A giant of a man who use to take delight in seeing a Jew being beaten. He introduced boxing matches at which two starving Jews were fighting it out with bare fists over bruised faces and bleeding noses for a piece of bread. One such match got him once so excited that he wanted to participate himself, but what sense would such a match make between a six foot four inch tall man weighing two hundred and fifty pounds against a five foot eight inch man of ninety pounds. So the Lager Altester called for a volunteer. As the majority of the inmates at that time were the Italian Jews, therefore it had to be translated into Italian. To everybody's surprise a young man stepped forward. We all thought that he did it as a joke or maybe he didn't understand the challenge. A German speaking Italian Jew explained to him twice more what it is all about and that young man insisted on challenging the Lager Altester.
The two of them got into the temporary arena. The Lager Altester by a head taller that his opponent and weighing three times as much. It looked laughable. The Lager Altester sent for two pairs of boxing gloves which he made in his room and they faced each other. Again the Lager Altester turns to the interpreter and says to him; Tell him, pointing at his opponent, not to be afraid to hit me back, make him understand it. When the Italian heard what the interpreter said he replied; I am not afraid of him, he should be afraid of me. His reply brought a smile on everyone's face, such empty bravado. When the bout started we all realized that the Italian Jew was an excellent boxer and was not joking when he said that the Lager Altester should be afraid of him. When the fight was over, the Jewish young man was the undisputed winner despite the opponent’s size, weight, and strength. I will admit that not withstanding the embarrassment the Lager Altester took the defeat in good taste. Some of the big shots gave the winner some extra bread for which he worked hard and justly deserved. That same Lager Altester a couple weeks later left the camp for Auschwitz, due to a sore that developed on his leg and refused to heal. In his place came another Lager Altester. This time a German with a red triangle (Political internee) a man of about fifty whose face expressed both intelligence and authority. Now and then, during the appel, (Reveille) when he use to speak to us for a few minutes issuing new orders or decrees, one couldn't help but admire his bearing voice his diction that use to arouse so much respect that even the S.S. men, always yelling use to fall silent and listen to him. On our way to and from work we had to sing. We Jews did not feel like singing but the dozen and a half Russian inmates who were fed better and hoped to get out alive sang patriotic Soviet songs. Eventually my friend Laibl and I joined them in singing . To us it was a secret protest against Nazism and all it stands for. When the S.S. found out the meaning of the words they forbid us to sing Russian songs, so we started to sing Polish vulgar and crude songs. The more obscene, the more Polish Jews sang, especially when we use to line up in the factory in order to march back to camp when all the Poles use to be watching us and listening. This too was a sort of protest mixed with contempt for the guards for the people around and for humanity at large.
One summer morning as we were going back to camp after a nights work passing by the small lake half way between the factory and camp we saw a man fully dressed floating face down on the water. It was clear to us that the man is dead. At the time we did not pay to much attention to it. The next day in the factory we found out from some civilian Polish workers that it was a Jew who apparently committed suicide. Every Jew in the camp talked about it and I am sure that every one was bothered with the question; What drove him to it? How did a Jew manage to stay alive until the middle of nineteen forty four? Was he hidden at the house of a Pole and paid him for it and when his money ran out he was driven out? Or maybe the Pole feared for his life and told him to go. How hopeless was his situation that forced him to commit suicide? What tragic story or stories that man took with him. It seemed to me that at that time I felt more sorry for him than for myself. As far as I am concerned my fate was already sealed. I have no more to say about it, it is only a matter of time. But that poor Jew, for him every minute, every hour was a struggle. How many times a day did his mood change from hope to despair? How many times a day did the sky fall on him where he managed to lift it only so that it will come crushing on him again. Is there an end to Jewish suffering, to Jewish misery, does it always end in death. That event lay on my mind .for a long time, maybe it was an exception. He was no ordinary muscleman skin and bones that were falling by the hundreds daily in the camp. This Jew dared to fool, to outsmart the Germans and tried to survive them. To me he was a falcon shot down in flight.
We did not work on Sundays. On sunny Sundays many of us use to sit on the ground leaning against the barrack wall watching the civilian Polish population walking leisurely on the city sidewalks a stone throw from us. We use to feel a terrible melancholy enveloping us as we couldn’t help but think of our final moments. Yet during the two hours compulsory bed rest the hypocrisy of it on Sunday afternoons we used to lie on our bunks and dream aloud about a miracle that we fervently prayed should happen, namely that we should somehow come out alive and what we would do with it. Many of us wished to be guards around gas chambers into which the victorious army would be herding the Germans just like they are herding us now. How naive we were to even think about surviving. Even more so, about thinking that the world, the leaders of the powers whose army's are now squeezing the Germans from every side, give a damn about the Jews who at that time were being hunted down to the last. We certainly didn't think that after the war will be over the conquerors will let Germany get off with the symbolic hanging of a couple dozen mass murderers and let the other thousands upon thousands other murderers and their collaborators get away. Better still, lock them in their own countries while keeping the doors closed to the few victims, the remnants of European Jewry that survived.
Our camp numbered close to nine hundred men, ninety five percent Jews. Now and then a group of new inmates use to arrive from Auschwitz to replace those that died and only Jews died. The non-Jews were the German. Polish, and Russian prisoners. They all were a privileged group holding the best positions like the Block Altesters, Capos, and cooks. Even the Russian prisoners had it better than us Jews. The dozen and a half Russian inmates was a mixed lot and kept to themselves. Only I and my friend Leibl BLISKOWSKY were treated warmer because we spoke Russian and came from the Eastern part of Poland which was annex to the Soviet Union in 1939, so we were considered country men. We found out that among them are four red army Lieutenants, one of them a Jew by the name of Naftaly. That he is a Jew the Germans did not know. But a couple weeks later he himself made if official. His status did not change because of it, for once you are in Auschwitz you can not go lower. Amongst them were also two former Ukrainian policeman, that is Nazi collaborators. They must have committed some transgression and were sent to Auschwitz. There were among them a few former Soviet soldiers from different detachments. While they were telling each other stories from front I overheard one telling how during a retreat on the Ukrainian front a truck load of Soviet Jews escaping the German advance caught up with them and how they, the Soviet soldiers, forced the Jews off the truck and abandoning their position speeded away deeper into the Soviet Union leaving the Jews at the mercy of the approaching Germans. They were a mixed bag of individuals, from different parts of the Soviet Union and of different outlook and character. The officers and a couple of the former soldiers were decent people. One of them, the oldest in years, was somewhere between forty five and fifty, whom the Russians called "Uncle Ghrysha" started questioning me yet in mid summer about Auschwitz and especially about Birkenau. He wanted to know every detail. Asking about every step of the trainloads of Jew from the moment they arrive to the moment the doors of the gas chambers close behind them. Even the process of burning the bodies and disposing of the ashes. He admitted that he spent in Auschwitz one day, was brought from jail went through the entire process of admittance and sent on to us to Sosnowiec.
That Uncle Ghrysha was close to one of the Lieutenants, a tall handsome and well built man who used to listen in on our conversations. I was intrigued by his questions, but less than two months later I understood why. It happened at about ten in the evening when I was working night shift that we suddenly heard a piercing whistle. Most of the machines fell silent and I could hear the Capo yelling; fall in, everybody fall in. By the time we were lined up properly in the commotion there were S.S. men swarming all around with the camp commandant in charge. We were counted several times and it turned out that there were two inmates short, the so called Uncle Ghrysha and that tall handsome red army Lieutenant. The S.S. immediately started a search and we were ordered to return to work. The search continued all night with no success, they were not found. In the morning the Russian prisoners were ordered to take off their civilian clothes that were marked with wide red crosses and given the standard Auschwitz striped pajama-like uniforms. Their leather footwear taken away and given shoes made of cloth tops with wooden soles. It didn't take more than two weeks before the old story repeats itself. We are being counted and this time four prisoners are missing. The S.S. conducted a search and come up with nothing. The first two escapees have simply turned their clothes inside out so that the red crosses were not seen and put on civilian caps gotten from Poles so as to cover their shaven heads and simply walked by the guard who did not bother to check the I.D.'s. Now the second group didn't apparently have any help from the civilian Poles, they just simply overwhelmed the guard, a man of about fifty, not a S.S. man but dressed in an air force uniform, removed the fence post, then the four inmates ran away. Next day a truck arrived with S.S. men and took the remaining dozen Russian prisoners back to Auschwitz. Two days later the camp commandant ordered us to dig in two wooden posts a metre and a half apart and to fasten to them a piece of pipe connecting the two posts two and a half metres off the ground. The contraption was to be in the middle of the appel square.
We were speculating as of the purpose of it. Only the next midmorning as we were sleeping after the nights work the door of our barrack opens up and in walks in two of the four escapees. They were the two younger ones of the four. One did not look to be eighteen yet by the name of "Misha", a nice quiet young man or boy, the other in his mid twenties of whom there was talk that he was a German collaborator and a policeman. As soon as they brought in and left in our barrack, which was where they were sleeping previously, we all got up. Suddenly the purpose of the two posts with the metal bar across became clear, it was a gallows. We all wanted to know what transpired with them since their escape and what happened to the other two that escaped with them. But our entire barrack consisted of Polish or Italian Jews who were never close to them. The only two that were was I and Leibl BLISKOWSKY. But we did not dare in such a moment ask them questions. The two escapees sat on a bunk facing the window. Looking out they could see the appel platz yard on which there stood the newly erected gallows. The younger of the two "Mishka" turned to me and asked; When did they put up this "Turnik"? (Russian horizontal bar used in gymnastics). The day after you escaped, I answered. Reasoning that they were not caught the first day after their escape. Thus to drive away any sinister thoughts from their mind. It seemed that for a moment I succeeded to set their mind at ease. But after the distribution of the mid-day soup the camp Capo came in with a razor in hand and started to shave their necks their composure broke.
After the Capo left there was a dead silence in the barrack. Many long minutes past before some of us started to whisper to each other. But those close to them didn't dare to utter the merest sound. The two of the condemned sat next to each other looking out the window. The younger one murmuring something to himself while tears kept on rolling slowly on his cheeks. Nobody went over to them to speak to them. I felt that is my duty to go over more than my friend Leibl’s, because of the age different. But what was there for me to say? Still I went over and sat down near the younger one joining them in looking out the window. Now being close to him I could identify his murmur as an old Russian parting song from a son to a mother. This song I heard for the first time from my parents when we were in Chomsk, when we were sitting in the dark in the long evenings in 1941. In those despair filled nights my parents use to quietly hum sometimes this song, a depressing and befitting song to an already hopeless situation. Today I am not sure if I said something to those two escapees or not, but if even yes, I doubt if they have heard or paid attention to it. The barrack door opened and a couple S.S. men with some Capos marched in. They took the two escapees into the wash room from where they soon emerged with their hands tied behind their backs. We were ordered out of the barracks and formed a large quadrangle around the gallows. Every S.S. man and guard entered the camp, except those on the watch towers, and formed a circle around us. For the first time I saw them putting around us machine guns in the camp proper. To me, to all of us, this display of force looked ludicrous. What were they afraid of? We will oppose the hanging? They were beating us, torturing us, and killing us daily with no opposition of any kind without even a word of protest. What did they think we would do now? The Lager (camp) Capo tied two nooses on the metal bar, put underneath a short bench on which the two Russian escapees were told to get on. They had to be helped as they found it difficult to do with their hands tied behind. There they stood with their nooses dangling in their faces, while the "Rapportfurer" (S.S. registrar) read out to them in German their death sentence. Not that they understood, nor that it mattered to them. The camp commandant nodded and the camp Capo kicked the bench out from under them. Their bodies were taken to Auschwitz that very same afternoon.
Among the six hundred and fifty Jews that came to our camp from "Pionky", one could find a diversity of characters and intellects. From total ignoramuses to Ph.D.'s, one whom I got to know had a Ph.D. in chemistry. Some were ordinary Jews, humble, meek, and unpretentious, others were self respecting, to a degree vain and proud, maybe too much so for their good. One of them I will mention. He was a young man in my age of the twenties one from the city of Radom by the name Chatzkl SILVERBERG. We were in the same barrack, worked the same shift, and because our close age and my months in Auschwitz he "bent his reverence" and picked me from all the others to be his confidant. Once during our night shift, he approached me and pointing discreetly with his eyes in the direction of a young girl whom I have never seen before at work. He said to me; You see that girl, she is a Jewish girl, a very close friend of mine since childhood. She has Aryan papers and passes as a Christian. Somehow she found out where I am so she applied for a job in that plant with the intention of getting me out of here. She has connections to make for me Aryan papers and away of getting me out of here. So what are you waiting for? I asked him. The answer came from a solemn face; "I don't want to owe her my life", he said. I looked at him as if he lost his mind. The girl worked there for about a week. Unable to talk him into bending his pride, she left. After the war I found out that he did not survive the difficult last couple months of the war.
My close friend Leibl BLISKOWSKY worked at assembling the cannon barrels. As I have mentioned earlier the canon barrel consisted of six separate tubes that fitted into each other. The very inside one consisted of two parts. The lower part use to take the impact of the explosion during the firing and use to get damaged much sooner that the upper part. So it had to be exchanged often. Those two inside tubes were joined by precision made grooves and niches. In order to save labour and material, only the lower part use to be changed. The joining of those two parts, or rather the locking them together, required delicate work with hammer file and specially made tools. One excessive motion with the file or slam with a rubber hammer could cause many hours of extra work. Still Leibl with his Polish civilian co-worker managed to sabotage those locking mechanisms in such a way that could not be detected during the final inspection. As a result many of those cannons use to be sent back for repairs after a short time in service. Leibl became good friends with that Pole who was a true socialist and as such carried no animosity towards Jews. Once he offered to sell Leibl a handgun for ninety mark. The idea of possessing a weapon appealed to me very much, for after the successful escape of the first two Russians and two out of the second four, the iea of escaping awakened again in me. Unfortunately the test of procuring the ninety marks has proven insurmountable. That Poles socialistic leanings were apparently known, for some time later in a dark night, one of the directors of the plant we worked in, a Pole and Nazi collaborator by the name of Zabicky, was assassinated. The Germans, with the help of the Polish collaborationist Police arrested some Polish workers of the plant, among them that Pole under suspicion of having something to do with the assassination. However, no prove could be found against the arrested men and two weeks later they returned to work.
During the midnight break, we Jews use to gather in quiet corners of the plant and conduct political debates. Often the civilian Polish worker use to join in. Not fearing betrayal from either side, we exchanged ideas and opinions freely. During such a midnight break I walked over to my friend Leibl for a chat and found him deep in conversation with several inmates and Polish civilians. During that conversation one of us Jews started saying aloud; If we should survive, but before he had the chance to finish what he had in mind he was interrupted by a Pole who said loud and clear; If you will survive we Poles will finish you off. I noticed that a couple of the Poles felt uncomfortable with his pronouncement, but nobody chastised him for it.
I have not been mentioning much about our third partner Shmuel ROSENBOIM (Der Maltsher). The reason being is that since he started working in the other shift I have not been seeing much of him. Still I'll mention one event in which he played an important part. It happened on a day in fall of 1944 before dark. We were staying in formation ready to go out to work while the day shift was just coming in from the factory. As usual there are S.S. men to escort us to work and the others that have just brought in the day shift. This time there are a couple of non-commissioned S.S. officers around. I watch with astonishment as Shmuel ROSENBOIM walks out from the formation that has just returned from the plant, under each arm he carries fair size parcels, he walks over to one of the N.C. officers, hands him the two parcels, turns around, and joins the column that is just marching into the camp. Each of us started to speculate and try to understand the event that just transpired. It turns out that Shmuel ROSENBOIM was already for a time the middle-man between the top inmates in camp, like the Lager Altesters and Block Altesters and some civilian Poles with whom he use to barter clothing provided by the Capo in charge of the clothing-room for food delicacies not available to the public in Germany. It was one of those big-shots inmates who wanted to find favor in the eyes of the camp commandant and arranged the procurement of two turkeys for the birthday party of the commandant that took place a couple days later. Somehow Shmuel ROSENBOIM succeeded in warming himself into a cozy friendship with some influential inmates who had a close relationship with the highest authority in camp, namely the camp commandant himself. The camp commandant was a typical S.S. man of the old guard who joined the S.S. in the very early years of the Nazi regime out of necessity. Without education or moral depth he quickly adjusted to the S.S. environment. The brutality required and executed during the thirties did not bother his conscience. From a store window washer to reach to his S.S. rank he had to excel in his unquestionable devotion and cruelty. His rudeness used to manifest itself not only towards us inmates but even towards his equals.
When the allied have liberated France and many Nazi big-wings found themselves back in Germany without the high positions they held in France, the Nazi hierarchy appointed many of them in all sorts of factories and undertakings. Such a one was appointed in our factory. What his assignment was we did not know and I doubt if he knew. He use to wander around aimlessly a couple hours a day among the workers and noisy machines. How it happened I don't remember, but I remember this middle age German starting to beat up one of us inmates. He only stopped when he ran out of steam and started panting. Within a few minutes I saw the Lager (camp) commandant striding in. His appearance and threatening looks made us inmates uneasy. The three hundred pound S.S. man whom we have just seen for the first time, in his uncontrollable rage, in his unbuttoned, long, black leather coat, the laps flapping like two forbidding wings of the angel of death threw fear into us. We were wondering as to who will be his victim this time. To our astonishment he strides over to that new arrived German-party-big-shot and in a load almost yelling voice says to him, “What right have you to order around my men”?,using the words "Meine Loeite" (my men). It was the first time in camps or in ghetto that I heard a German referring to us Jews as men. It seemed that the camp commandant didn't receive a satisfactory answer for he raised his voice even higher. Apparently the commandant won the argument, for from then on that civilian German had nothing to do with us inmates. We knew only too well that the camp commandant didn't do it out of love for us Jews; he resented the fact that a civilian interfered in matters that were under the commandant’s jurisdiction.
From time to time a civilian Pole or Frenchman used to let one of us try to work at the lathe, but not willingly. There were two reasons for it. Firstly they were afraid that if a Jew will learn to operate a lathe, they will loose their job. Secondly, should the learner by chance in a split second make any mistake or damage, they would be held responsible. Such an accident happened. A young boy of no more then eighteen tried to perform an operation on a gun barrel and took off a fraction of a millimetre too much. But instead of blaming the civilian who was suppose to watch him, the young boy was held responsible by the foreman. At that time it was considered sabotage. However, since the damage could be repaired, the camp commandant ordered to give him twenty five lashes. He was taken to a secluded corner of the plant where an S.S. man delivered the lashes. According to regulations the camp commandant as well as the camp senior were present. At six in the evening as we were lining up to return to camp, I noticed the young man, or rather the boy, a couple rows in front of me. He stood there weeping like the child that he was from the lashes that at times killed a man. We stood there surrounded by the S.S. guards that were escorting us to camp and by the hundreds of the civilian workers. The camp senior, seeing the crying boy, walks over to him and says; What are you crying for? All the boy could utter was; "I am innocent". The camp senior looks at him and right there in front of the S.S. and all the civilians says; You are innocent? I am already fifteen years in concentration camp innocently, what are you complaining of innocence. I was surprised at that boldness of the camp senior that dared to proclaim his innocence in front of all the S.S. and the civilians.
At times I reminisce about those several hundred Jews with me in that camp Sosnowiec. The majority of them were in the late teens and in the twenties. Many of them demonstrated all kinds of potential talent. A few of them showed virtuous qualities as singers who used to entertain us, if this is the right word, with old-time sentimental and moving Yiddish songs while we were getting ready for the night. I know of two from that group that survived and are now Chazonim (Cantors) here in Toronto. There were among us men in the late twenties and thirties that have studied in Austria , Italy, and even Germany up to the mid-thirties. Others were artful story tellers with inexhaustible sources of stories from personal life. About one of them I will dedicate a few lines. His family name was WARNER, his given name nobody knew nor did anybody care. In mid twenties of medium height with no outwardly Semitic features. He was intelligent, manifested keenness and cleverness, characteristic of Yeshiva students from times gone by. But his most noticeable virtue was his wit. He could not utter two sentences without squeezing in a joke, yet they were always keen and amusing. What I want to tell about him is the way this intelligent and apparently shrewd man got himself into Auschwitz. He was born in Germany to as far as he knew Christian parents and of course was not circumcised. He served in the Germany army and in late 1943 was stationed in Paris. As many soldiers, he was not happy with life in the army and was longing for home, particularly a rich and comfortable home like his parents. His father was a movie producer. In late 1943, or early 1944, he heard from a friend that Jewish men are not serving in the Jewish army. The idea stayed in his mind and after ruminating for a while he remembered his father mentioning once that one of his parents were Jewish. Not realizing the consequences, he ran to his captain asking to be released from the army. The captain told him to get out thinking that it was a joke. Werner, however, insisted that it is true. The captain then told him to go back to his quarters. Two days later he was given a ticket home. Somewhere along the road he was arrested by the Gestapo and sent to Auschwitz. Werner unfortunately was shot during our march from Sosnowiec to Mauthausen in the second half of January 1995, when Auschwitz and all affiliated camps were being marched deeper into Germany. With his death died his dream of producing a movie about the war.
From the friendlier civilian Poles we knew much about the military situation. We also knew that the Red army is already at the Vistula river. It was so near yet for us Jews, so far. We understood that with the next push or offensive, the Red army will reach us. But will the Germans wait until the offensive to annihilate us or will they start sooner? And so did the autumn pass accompanied by the unachievable dream of liberation. Not having any connection with Auschwitz we knew nothing of what was taking place there. Of course trucks used to go back and forth between us several times a week and sometimes a block-elder or Capo used to get a ride, but they did not share the news with us. Christmas eve we went to work. The civilians, Poles, and Frenchman were allowed to go home two hours earlier. The Poles I knew came over to wish me a happy holiday. Suddenly all the engines stopped for the first time since we started working there. The silence was eerie. We sat or stood in groups not knowing what to do with ourselves. In that strange stillness while all the civilians, all the free people left for their homes or families, I and the rest of us felt the deep hurt and pain for everyone and everything we had lost. There was no reason for us to stay in the plant. We were lined up and marched to the camp. To our surprise we received peeled potatoes with a dinner spoonful of jam. When we finished, we received another portion of potatoes but without jam. It was the first time that I went to sleep without hunger pangs.
The year 1945 started with the same routine as the previous year. We would get to the factory at 6 a.m. or 6 p.m.; punch in 12 hours of work, then go back to the barracks, always accompanied by the inseparable and so familiar nagging hunger. On November 17, 1944, I came to work on the night shift at 6 p.m. Everything in the plant seemed normal, although a certain tension could be felt among the workers as a day or two earlier a rumor spread that the Red Army started an offensive along the Vistula River. Common sense dictated that the Germans would do something with us Jews. The question was: Will they take us to Birkenau to be gassed or will they shoot us here? One thing we were sure of was that they will not leave us here alive. If there was ever a time to try to save ourselves it had to be now. Our work supposedly went on but at a very slow pace and the management did not pay attention. We inmates kept on walking from one to another asking for ideas or advice. The closest friend I had there was Leibel BLISKOFSKY and I wanted to be with him for a few minutes alone. But as soon as I went over to him or he to me there were instantly others around. We simply had no chance to be alone. It was because or our longer stay in Auschwitz that all others thought that we might have some sort of solution to our critically desperate situation. In this confusion the time was running out. About 10p.m. that evening we heard a whistle and I noticed a large number of guards at the entrances. We were ordered to line up in order to go back to the camp. Here, I thought to myself the game is over. Either they will take us to Birkenau or shoot us in the camp. As we stayed in the factory lined up five in a row surrounded by our guards all lights suddenly went out and throughout the entire plant there was total darkness. I realized that then was the time to run and hide in the factory, but I needed a few seconds to get used to the darkness in order not to run into an S.S. man. The S.S. men were everywhere. Those were the precious few seconds that I wasted, For as I was preparing for the dash the lights came on and I missed the chance. I looked around and saw that all the rows were even, nobody was missing, probably for the same reason as mine.
I knew then that for the second time in my life I missed the chance to save myself. The first time as were leaving the ghetto as Shalom BERNSHTEIN gave me a prod and told me to come with him. While I was hesitating he got off the sled and walked into Krucel’s mill and now again I missed my chance. We were led into the camp and told to prepare for a march. We each received a whole loaf of bread which I immediately cut into quarters and put in my pockets. We were told to each take a blanket and so we remained outside until 5a.m. of January 18, 1945 and then we were let out of the camp five abreast into the unknown. We were led through the city of Sosnowiec as the city was just awakening. It was a long, long, time since I walked in a street between houses. Now and then a person walks by looking at us with curiosity but did not stop. I'm too busy looking around the houses and streets to notice our guards. Finally we are out of the city and in an open field. The road we are on is covered with snow but well used. The wind cuts in my face, around the neck and penetrates our so called coats to the bone. I notice that some of us have wrapped around themselves with their blankets and I do the same. The blanket does break the wind. Now I observe our guards and am surprised that I didn't notice it earlier. The entire complement of our guards that consisted mainly of S.S. men has changed. More then half of them consist now of older men in the age of between forty-fifty and they are dressed in air-force uniforms. To a twenty or twenty two year old young man a fifty year old is an old man. They walk stooped along our lines. The collars of their coats are up as protection against the wind. They don't look at us but seem to be preoccupied with their own thoughts. They straighten only up and became aggressive when a S.S. man gets closer. The S.S. men have a new role, they walk up and down our column making sure there are no strugglers. If some one falls behind, he gets beaten and if this does not help, he is ordered to get off the road and is shot. At the very end of the column I notice a couple dozen of us are pulling and pushing a fully loaded large farmer’s wagon. With night fall, we enter a town called Boiton ("Biton" in Polish). We are locked inside a school. At least we are protected from the wind and there is enough room to stretch out. I eat up a quarter of my bread and make sure the other three quarters are deep in my pockets. Apparently I slept well for when I woke up before day break I found only two quarters of my bread. Overnight somebody helped himself to one quarter. I missed the loss but in all honesty I did not begrudge the thief. I knew only too well the feelings of hunger. With day break we were driven outside to continue the march. Not receiving anything to eat or drink, I ate one of my two quarters of bread. We continued marching all day long. It was already dark when we past through Guwice (Gleiwitz). On the other side of town we were herded into some public building in which there was hardly room enough to lie down. In the middle of the night I got up to use the washroom and had literally to tread on people to get there. When I finally made it back to my room, there was no thought of finding a place to lie down and I had to spend the rest of the night on my feet. That morning I finished my last quarter of bread not knowing that that was the last piece of bread, or any food for that matter, I will see for the next two weeks. After marching the whole day we were locked up again in some building where we were just as tightly crowded as in the previous one. That night because of the cold I had again to use the washroom. Having learning my lesson the previous night I wasn't about to spend another half a night standing, so I urinated on the floor lying down. The blanket on which I was partly lying and partly being covered with sucked up some of it, but by morning it was dry.
That morning I had nothing left to eat. In that wagon that some of us were forced to pull and push lie the guards knapsacks. Below the pile of knapsacks lie many loafs of bread and tins of meat and other assorted cans of food which the guards use to eat while escorting us. Those pushing the wagon use to try and stick their hand in the wagon to pinch off a piece of bread. One considered himself lucky if successful. If however a guard noticed, he use to give the guilty one such a beating that he would remember the rest of his just shortened life. Worse still was if a S.S. man noticed, they use to take the transgressor to the side of the road and shoot him. It was even worse for those who were harnessed to the wagon. They had to pull with their last bit of strength without having a chance even to try to get a piece of bread. Not having eaten three four days we barely dragged our feet, but for those pulling the wagon it was much worse. They literally used to fall away and were replaced by others. If the one that fell could still get up, he was sent back to the marching, if not, he would be dragged off the road and shot. I would have liked to be one of those pushers but what if they would put me to pull the wagon? Would I last until the evening? I decided not to volunteer. That night we were herded into a school building. It was a two story large building well lit, roomy enough to walk from room to room and floor to floor. We could easily see the guards outside. A few of my acquaintance approached me to suggest that if I will go with them we will make an attempt to escape. Their plan was to jump together from the window down on the guard below, throw a blanket around him and make a run for it. It was a bold idea but to me impractical. Where will we run hungry, exhausted, in prison garb, and already on German soil. To me it meant suicide. I refused to join them and they would not go without me. With day break we continued our march. At about ten in the morning we entered a town of some twenty to thirty thousand inhabitants. We are being led on what seemed to me to be the main street. It is a cold but sunny morning without ever a breeze, it is bearable. Our camp commandant walks as usual in the middle of the street. On one side of him marches the Rapportfureer and on the other a SS non commissioned officer, we referred to him as the executioner, as he seems to take delight in shooting. Behind them we march five in a row a long line of "Haftlinge" (inmates) surrounded by guards and at the very end a large wagon fully loaded pulled by prisoners.
It is what I would call a typical German town. There are people in the street, they look at us with curiosity and yet with an expression that they would rather not see us. Their faces betray tension and anxiety. From the sidewalk they yell out to our camp commandant; What shall we do? Shall we run or stay? He yelled back to them; No, no, stay, you have lots of time. Above me comes a voice. I look up and see a young hefty blond German women leaning our from an upper floor booing; We are not moving, we are not running, we have no fear. The camp commandant beams. Along the street people keep on asking him what to do. He is now a big man, the former window washer, people are asking him advise, his people are showing him respect. In his wisdom he tells them all to stay. I don't believe my ears. Is it possible that the red army is already this close that Germans will become refugees, leaving behind their homes and possessions? Are they indeed losing the war? I realize that my situation is hopeless and I will not see the final victory. But to see Germans on German soil contemplating to run from the approaching red army is never the less exhilarating. That evening we reached a town Ratibor or Rathamer. I am not sure with the name for we were in those two placed. We were led into a large ramp and unheated slaughter house. The building was made entirely from stone and cement. The huge sloping slaughter ramp was still wet and slippery from the day's slaughter. The smell of blood and intestine hang heavy in the air. It was so cold during the night that we spent the night hugging each other in order not to freeze. In the morning I saw a few of our men lying on the wet slaughter platform dead, there bodies noticeably swollen. How they got to that platform I don't know. Death could have come from many quarter like exhaustion, hunger, cold, a beaten during the previous day and others.
It is already daylight, yet we are not moving out. An hour goes by and another. At ten o'clock we hear a rumor that they are going to cook for us soup, we get livelier, it's almost a week that we had anything cooked, four days that I had nothing to eat or drink. How long can we go on like this? If somebody would have told me in Sosnowiec that I could go on for a week without food or drink, I would have laughed in his face and yet, here I was still alive and on my feet. Around one thirty in the afternoon, we are being lined up for soup. Some bowls appear from somewhere and the first couple dozen receive their soup, but suddenly they run out of bowls. The others will have to wait until the first group will finish and turn in the bowls. They have not finished their soup yet when suddenly in walks our rapportfurer with a group of our SS guards. They order us to fall in not giving a chance to the few to finish their soup. We are being driven outside and ordered to march quickly. We are proceeding much faster, I can feel the urgency, the haste in their purpose. Still the first thing that comes to my mind is the bowl of soup that I have been deprived of, yet I wonder how the few that did get the soup, but didn't get the chance to finish it, felt. The other thing that puzzles me is the sudden hurry. I notice that we are not marching on a main road as before, but on a secondary one between snow covered fields where every couple hundred or so metres stands a farm stead. There is no lead up to our march. It is starting to get dark. A column of German soldiers catches up to us and pass. They are dressed in ordinary vermacht uniforms. Each of them sits on or runs along a small farmer sled that is pulled by an under nourished horse. All we can see in the sled is a bit of straw. As they pass us in a single line they gesticulate in such a way as if to say "It is all over". Some of them say in Ukrainian, in a couple hours more you'll be free. I suddenly realize that those are Ukrainian volunteers that joined the German army. The mind does not want or is unable to except such good news. However, as if to confirm there words, we suddenly hear the staccato of machine guns coming from behind us which couldn't have been more than two kilometres back. Is it possible that the red army is this close? We enter a small forest which is crawling with German soldiers working feverishly at mining the trees. I see as they tie around each tree trunk three to four sticks of explosives about a metre above the ground. I realize that they will explode it when the Soviet tanks will enter the forest or even before in order to form a barricade against the tanks. The soldiers were so absorbed with their work that they didn't even glance at us, as if close to a thousand men under guard passing no more that two metres from them are ghosts.
It is night and we are still marching. The first time at night. I know that the Russians can't be far behind, there might be a chance to sneak away, but then what? To go back into the forest I'm sure to get caught by the soldiers, to wander around behind the forming front line, I'll get caught too. To hide n some bushes, either I'll freeze or die of hunger. So we keep on marching for we must, anyone that falls behind is shot. About midnight we started to slow down. It is possible due to our air force guards that were all older men and began to tire. I don't know how to describe that night. After an endless march from previous the afternoon, with liberation only a few kilometres behind which we could tell by the thunder of the canons and yet so far because we are in the hands of the beasts. Still the march continued. Before dawn as I dragged my feet, I noticed that my eyes are closing and I am falling asleep. Drained of strength, beyond exhaustion, walking in a daze, one prayer keeps on repeating in my mind; Let me just once more have a warm drink. May it even be the so called camp tea and you can put an end to my anguish. The total exhaustion and cold keeps closing my eyes, they just don’t want to stay open. We walk like drunkards. Each one wants to hold on to the next guy who shakes him off, he has trouble to walk himself. With day light the sleepiness eases off a bit. The march continues. The road although a secondary one, looks abandoned and so do the scattered farms around. From time to time we hear an explosion but can not tell the direction it comes from. There is not a living soul in sight. A total silence. But we hope that the Russians are getting closer. We pass a cluster of houses. Am I seeing or imagining a person’s head in a window. Otherwise there is total emptiness.
Some kilometers further, we get to a cross road. Here we see a scattered military vehicle or a civilian one packed with civilians. In mid afternoon we approach some town. Our march has changed into feet dragging. I cannot tell if it is due to the guard’s exhaustion or lack of yesterday’s urgency. In any case we are taking our time and I look around. Ahead of us is a bridge over a river. In fact the town’s outskirts start along the opposite bank. As we start out on the bridge I notice that the bridge is quite high above the river and it give us a good vantage point. I look around and notice along the far side of the shore a long row of shallow holes and in each of them stands or sits a single soldier. Even to me, inexperienced in military matters, the whole thing looked very unprofessional. They looked exposed not only to artillery but even to rifle fire. The tiny holes could not protect them from anything. As we get closer I realize that those are boys of not older than fifteen or sixteen years. I think to myself; “They will not save Germany”. However, the moment we entered the town, my opinion changed dramatically. There was a constant traffic of military trucks coming and going in all directions. There were soldiers at every street corner busying themselves with different kinds of equipment. Officers were walking purposefully and were being stopped every so often by countless gendarmerie patrols checking their papers. I noticed that they were stopping mostly officers seldom an ordinary soldier. Our camp commandant in all his glory and size walked down the middle of the street flanked by the Rapportfurer and the executioner and we behind him surrounded by the guards. This however did not stop a couple of gendarmes to stop him and ask for papers, which he obliged with great fanfare saying in a loud voice and a dramatic wave with his hand in our direction; And there are all my people, taking in with one sweep guard and guarded. We are passing by a van around which a few gendarmes hang around. One of them decides to open the rear door. As the door opens, a pile of cartridge belts falls down to the ground. One of the gendarmes yells out to our guard: Here take some bullets. You will need them. One of our guards yells back: We have enough. A quarter of an hour later we leave that town behind. Shortly after we are driven into a barn, where we fall down exhausted.
Where are they taking us? How much longer can we keep without food? After forty eight ours we can sit or lie and speak freely. Everybody comes up with his assumptions. Others come up with worthless plans. Somebody proposes to hide in that huge barn full of hay. The Germans have counted us as we were driven inside the barn and they are sure to count us in the morning. They will look for us, find us and shoot. What to do? Our chances of surviving are slim. Yet the Russians are so close and getting closer by the hour. In the morning we are being counted and some are missing. A few SS men remain behind. What happened we do not know? When the SS men catch up to us, the barn is already out of sight and ear shot. To avoid traffic, we are being led on a side road that runs through open fields. The wind blows through the blanket and penetrates every bone in the emaciated bodies. In spots the blowing wind deposit a lot of snow on the road which makes the going harder. The only part of my body that has not felt the bitter cold during the march so far was my feet. Suddenly I felt as if I stepped with a bare foot into a pile of snow. I pull my foot out of the snow and notice that the entire bottom of my shoe is gone. This is all I need now, I think to myself. How long can I go on with a bare foot? (I had no socks.) I knew it was a matter of minutes. In desperation I ripped off a piece of blanket and wrapped it around my bare foot. Tearing off two longer strips, I used them to fasten the first piece tighter and so I proceeded one foot in a shoe, the other wrapped in a rug. At noon we got to a wider and better road. At first I did not notice it but there was a fair amount of traffic and all is moving in our direction. It consisted of people on foot. I start taking a better look and see people of all ages, men and women, many with knapsacks on their shoulders, others with suitcases. Some are pulling a small sleigh loaded as much as it will hold. Still others pushing a baby carriage piled high. Slowly my frozen mind starts to realize that they are Germans running from the Soviet onslaught. I try to imagine how they must feel. Only a couple years ago they ruled over Europe, now they are reduced to homeless wanderers. Yet they do not awaken in me pity or sympathy. They catch up to us but they are not in a hurry to overtake us, as if near us they feel safer. We are pleased with their presence. Not only the middle aged air force guards but even the SS men behave properly in front of the German civilians. They not only stopped using their foul language on us and stopped the beatings, but what is more important; they stopped shooting those that can not continue the march. Instead they order some of us to help the weak ones to continue. With our experience we know that this is only a matter of a few more hours until we will be herded into some barn along the way while the civilians will continue. Then everything will return to the way it was. Still even a temporary respite is welcomed. It is getting dark and we are marching. It is midnight and we are still plowing on. The night is bright. I can clearly see the faces of the civilians that walk along us and recognize some from this afternoon. How gladly I would change places with them even in defeat. My common sense tells me that our guards will be with us until the last one of us will collapse. They, the guards, might be homeless for a little while but live they will. Sometime past midnight we get off the main road and into a nearby large barn.
In the morning, after leaving behind a large number of dead that died during the night, we continue our march. This time on a very remote road that leads through small forest and snow covered fields. One would think that we are on a trip to discover new horizons as there was not a sign of a human being until suddenly we began to see dead bodies lying along the road side dressed in the stripped camp uniforms. What we could not tell was if they are a couple of hours ahead of us or a couple of days. We no longer needed road markers, their bodies indicated the direction in which they went and what lay ahead for us. That night again we spent in a barn and in the morning there were some missing. As we started marching away, some SS men began to search in the hay. The last couple of days our guards lost every pretense of civility. If one fell down regardless if he tried to get up or not, he was dragged off the road and shot. That afternoon another group of inmates caught up to us. They were about the size of our group. They were guarded exclusively by SS men, but what took us aback was the fact that their Capos and Blockaltesters carried weapons and played with them like children with toys. Those camp big shots had green triangles (professional criminals) having for some reason gotten hold of fire arms they kept on shooting the inmates at will. That group somehow got mixed in with us and I have seen with my own eyes as one capo of that group shot three of their inmates in front of us and in front of their and our guards for no reason at all. In fact, he shot them in the back as they were marching. Our guards did not interfere with the others. In fact it seemed that they were oblivious to what is taken place around. The only conclusion we inmates could come to was that the SS guards came to a satanical agreement with the big shots of that group, since those big shots were Germans and criminals, to dispose of the several hundred Jewish inmates and disappear in the confusion of the fast approaching front. Of course some ask the question as where did those big shot inmates get the weapon? To which others answered: From already deserted SS men.
The inmates of that group were so perturbed, so agitated and in such a terror that in spite
of the half hours that we were marching practically together we did not exchange two words with any of them and did not find out what camp they were from. As suddenly as they appeared, so have they disappeared. Their guards have driven them into a little forest. Their desperate gazes and the deep resignation on their faces are haunting me still. Again that night we were driven into a large barn and continued in the morning. The hiding in the hay became a daily event. The guard used to start looking for hidden inmates as soon as we were driven outside, even before they started the count. We got used to the shooting of those found hidden as if that is how it supposed to be. Every evening as soon as we used to be driven into the barn, I used to tighten the piece of blanket around my foot and retie the two strips of blanket for they used to slacken during the day. I could not do it during the day for I would have to step out of the line and bend down for such an act. An SS man would gladly shoot me. Besides, my hands were cold and my fingers so numb that I could not do anything with them. Already a couple days earlier when I had to urinate which was done during the march I was unable to button back the button of my fly and left it open. I buttoned my camp coat over my pant and continued. The next day I was unable already to button my coat and I was marching with an unbuttoned coat with the flaps skirts of my coat clapping in the wind. The only bit of protection from the wind was my shrunken blanket which I used piece by piece to wrap around my bare foot. The following few days and nights were like walking in a night mare in which I could not discern between being alive or dead. No more was anything of importance or interest. I no longer bothered to look back to see how many and who is being shot. I lost count of the dead nor did I remember the number of days we have been marching. I no longer felt hunger pangs nor thirst. I lost count of the days I ate my last piece of bread. I was surprised that I am still alive.
It had to be around the twenty eight of January when we were driven out of a barn and led down a field road for about two kilometers. We were marching through a large farm, passing by a couple large barns and stables. At the end of the farm near some sheds I noticed some freight wagons, their wide doors were open as if they are beckoning for us to get in. We are told to get in. In the confusion and bustle I notice near one shed some wooden boxes with raw potatoes. Not caring any more I left the line, ran over to a box and grabbed a handful of what turned out to be five potatoes and put them in my pocket. Even now I do not know if it was an act of indifference to the consequences or that I was in a state of delirium that I dared to do it. In any case, for what ever reason, I got away with it. The doors slid shut and padlocked. We remained in total darkness. Apparently they prepared enough wagons for our entire camp. As there were already so many of us missing or shall I say dead, there was enough room in each car for each one to sit on the floor. Although the wagons were unheated and the walls and floor were of ordinary boards, never the less, they broke the wind which accompanied us the last eleven days and cut our flesh like knives. We folded our blankets and sat on them. As our bony backsides were hurting from sitting on the wooden floor, it didn’t take long before the cold penetrated our camp uniforms and we began to shiver. We decided to pair up. We used one blankets to sit on and wrap ourselves with the second. After many hours the train begins to move. We do not know in which direction nor do we know what is going on outside. The walls of the cars are solid. There is a narrow crack between one side of the wall and the roof. Enough to tell if it is day or night but impossible to look out through it.
The train is a drag. Makes many stops. Some short ones and others long. We loose track of time. It gets difficult to differentiate the length of time between each stop nor the length of the stops themselves. It makes no difference anymore, when the train stops so does the banging of the wheels. A dead silence overwhelms us. Slowly some start talking with low voices, not out of fear but for lack of strength. In our semi delirium we attempt to speculate on our next torment. Like: Will they keep us here locked until we are all dead or are they taking us still to another camp? The conversation leads to the subject of food. How long can we survive without food? It is already twelve days that we got nothing to eat. We have held out longer than I ever imagined possible, how much longer can we go on. The topic turns to cannibalism. One mentions the liver is the most nourishing part of an animal and assumes that it is applicable to a human to. I look around in the almost complete darkness of the wagon and wonder: Whose liver will I be forced to eat, or will it be mine that will be eaten? Some one points to a couple bodies already lying motionless on the floor. A shiver goes through me and I turn my head away. At that moment I resolve no matter what, I will not eat human flesh. If somebody wants, let him wait and eat mine. I see that nobody makes a move towards the two bodies. It seems after all that talk the thought of cannibalism is alien to our nature. And so passed the first day and night.
With the break of day which we can tell by looking up to the crack above our heads, I eat one of the five raw potatoes in my pocket. It does not satisfy my hunger nor do I feel more hungry. The constant nagging hunger of the few days ago left me. I no longer felt hunger nor thirst. The following four days was a confusion between reality, lucidity and delirium. We did not know where we were being taken nor did we care. Mentally we had already resigned from life. Still I used to eat one raw potato every morning. On the fifth day I finished my fifth and last potato. That very day at noon our train stopped. By the voices outside, we could tell immediately that we arrived at our destination. A few minutes later the doors slid open and we were told to get out. How many remained in the wagons dead or dying we did not know. Those that could still stand up were lined up five abreast and ordered to march. The road was up hill and I found it difficult to march. After several dozen meters I began to fall back. Two of my close acquaintances grabbed me under my arms and helped me walk. One of them by the name of Leibl WASHKIEWITCH from the shtetl of Lomza, was my age and held me up with powerful hands. I asked him from where can he muster so much strength to hold me up after not having eaten for over two weeks. To that he told me that while we were being loaded onto the train cars by some big shots, like the Blockaltesters and capos, he happened to enter with them in the same car. In several places where they made stops the local authorities brought some food for us inmates. Those big shots used to accept it in our behalf, take it into their car and eat it themselves, never sharing it with us. They had so much food they did not mind if he helped himself to some. After several hundred meters walk uphill, there appeared before us a wall built of large rectangle stone blocks that gave the appearance of a fortress. I was too weak and too exhausted to care about further surprises or in fact what is going to happen to me. At that moment I did not realize that I am facing the gates of Mauthausen.