The Holocaust

Birkenau

After we left the wagon, the Germans made us stand in the mud. As we waited for the infamous selection, we saw what we were prepared for: the barracks, the smoke, and the smell. There was no doubt: we sensed the smell of burning flesh of those who were murdered just a while ago.

Everything around us was gloomy and depressing. The gray November evening turned into a black night, while we still stood on the same muddy spot, which seemed to be part of an endless swamp. The yells of the Germans mixed with the barking of their violent dogs.

After several hours we were ordered to get into a line and start moving. We marched in the mud, step after step. On both sides there were Germans and dogs. Darkness was all over, and we had no idea where they were taking us. Then we entered a camp. We were its only inmates. Later on we heard that our transport was the first one that was not taken right away to the gas chambers, because as of November 1, 1944, new policy and instructions came into effect: the general extermination machinery ceased to operate, and new inmates were no longer executed immediately upon their arrival. Until that day, the mass killings were enormous and beyond the capacity of the crematoriums. Therefore, burning went on for days, and on the day of our arrival, the smoke of the cremated human bodies still rose up to the sky.

We were taken to a place called the “Quarantine Block”. Next to it was Block B. We went over to its fence and asked the inmates what was to be expected. They pointed at the chimney of the crematorium and said: “Do you see the flames? That’s the place you’ll be soon going to. There is no way out.”

We returned to our barrack and laid down on the bunks. Horrible cries and noises of beating interrupted our sleep. A paralyzing fear overwhelmed us. Unable to ignore the screaming, we left our banks and got closer to a space in the middle of the barrack. That space, with a stove in its midst, was part of a corridor located all along the barrack. There we saw three men surrounded by a group of people who kicked and hit them. The three begged for their lives, but the others kept beating them with iron rods until they stroke them dead, in the presence of people who stood around. We were shocked by what we saw, and asked what it was all about. The Jews around replied: “It’s all right, it’s all right.” Then they told us that the three were informers from Slovakia, who were dragged out of the train by the underground before its arrival in Birkenau. Only then we understood why did the train stop for a while, and their names were loudly called.

After the three have been killed, they were thrown onto the electric fence, and that was the end of the story. However, for us it was a terrible, atrocious experience.

On the following morning nothing happened. In the afternoon, two local Kapos took our names for registration. They told us that this time something unprecedented happened in Birkenau: children of all ages got their numbers tattooed on their arms. Even a newborn was tattooed, not before its parents faced a terrible dilemma: either handing over the baby for being tattooed, or it would be “taken care of” right away. The parents’ decision was obvious.

We did our best to hold on together and get consecutive numbers, which would be easier to memorize, and – what seemed to be more important – help us stay close to each other. So we got the following numbers: dad’s number was 14024, Shmuel’s 14025, and mine 14026.

The process of tattooing was far from being pleasant, but people on the other side of the fence were telling us that we were lucky by being numbered, because it was an indication on our proceeding to the next stage within the camp.

After the first week, women were separated from men. Mom was taken away, and from that moment on we knew nothing about her.

Hunger and thirst came upon us shortly. There was a sign in the shower barrack: “It is prohibited to drink water! Water is contaminated by typhus.” That caused a serious problem.

Naftali: For me, drinking has always been more important than eating. The morning coffee was turbid, and a quarter of a loaf of bread was our daily menu. Because of the unbearable thirst and despite all warnings, I drank the shower water. Luckily, I did not get ill.

That week was a horrible one. Outside everything was rainy and muddy, and inside the barrack was terribly cold. However, the uncertainty about what’s in store for us was most frightening.

A few days after we arrived in Birkenau, we were ordered to give away all our belongings and march to the shower barrack. In a huge hall, with benches and hangers all over, we had to undress. Totally naked, we were commanded to proceed to the next rooms. As we walked, all nude, into one of the rooms, we were shocked at the sight of a sign: SHOWERS. People knew what it meant. We were absolutely certain that we came to the end of the road.

However, to our great luck, real water came out of the showerheads. We even had soap at our disposal. After we all took a shower, we were transferred to another hall. There, barbers cut all our hair. At my turn, the barber yelled at me, because I had no hair. A few seconds later I learned that he was joking; after all, he was an inmate just like we. Dad, whose chest was all hairy, became all of a sudden unusually bare, and everybody around looked very strange. In the fourth hall, inmates’ clothes were thrown at us, but we were allowed to keep our shoes. Those shoes were most essential in our struggle for survival.

As we came out of the barrack, we saw a huge crowd of nude women of all ages who stood in a muster. We never before saw nude women, and that sight was most stunning.

On our way we met Mr. Wertheimer, an old-time acquaintance of our mother from the town of Vrbové, who has been in the camp since 1942. He recognized us and gave us a loaf of bread, which at that time was of great value. While he did his best to encourage our spirit, Mr. Wertheimer asked about mom’s whereabouts. We replied that she has been separated from us, and at one point we even thought that we saw her. Having held a certain position in the camp administration, Mr. Wertheimer promised to find out where she was.

We were lucky to have stayed with dad, who did his best in order for us to stay together. Even at the time both our parents were with us, we learned from him a very important way of behavior. For example, whenever somebody came over and asked: “Who is a skilled carpenter? Who is a skilled shoemaker? Who is a physician?” etc., dad always refrained from volunteering. He understood that the authorities were looking for people to do some menial work or fill quotas of deportations, disguised their intention by attracting those who might have thought that they were called up for jobs within their respective professions. Thanks to the rule he made, we stayed together for a few more days.

At that time, the quality of food became had worsened, and its quantity was reduced. Because of the scarcity, the Kapo men used to steal more foodstuff for themselves. Whenever a loaf of bread had to be cut into five portions for five people, they first took for themselves the better and larger portion from the middle of the loaf. At all times, we faced an eternal dilemma: should we eat the bread right upon receiving it, or should we eat it piece by piece? We mostly choose the former possibility, being afraid that otherwise someone might steal our remaining portions. More than once, people who kept their portion of bread beneath their heads found out by the next morning that it has been stolen.

Time went by, and we were still not employed. Hunger and Appells were a real ordeal. Appells took place every day at four o’clock in the afternoon. All barracks had to be vacated. All their inhabitants stood in line in front of the barracks, and the man in charge of each barrack had to count his men and report to the commander or his deputy. The number of counted men had to be compatible to the number in the register, known only to the commanders. Such roll calls took place day by day. They lasted for at least an hour and half an hour, but whenever a person was missing or dead and the counting did not come out properly, we stood for three or four hours. Even the dead had to be carried to the Appell. At times, we had to carry out a humiliating exercise: time and again, we had to take off and put on our caps until we did it in a uniform manner. Sometimes we repeated the exercise dozens of times.

The numbers