also found a potato in it once in a while.
Since the beginning of my camp existence, I was used to rationing the bread for the morning and evening. But on this day, I devoured everything all at once. Then I reclined carefully into my bed. My neighbor was Ali Kwasigroch from Danzig. During work, Reinhold had turned a head even more on him than on me.
It was not until now that I became fully aware of the experiences of the day. The hard bed, which I was used to, now seemed to be laid out with bricks. My body hurt with the slightest movement; my heart pounded fast; the fever began to rise . . . I fully realized that I could survive the next day if I were able to rise early and, furthermore, that I would be able to work the entire day.
I realized that my muscles, which had been smashed to beefsteak with Reinhold’s club, were as hard as stone. Therefore, it would be out of the question that I would be able to work . . .
Carefully, I began to massage. Ali did the same.
In the silence of the night, while it was entirely dark in the hall, we kneaded our smashed bodies meticulously for a long time.
Suddenly, I heard the one from Danzig whisper:
“Listen . . .”
“Yes. What?”
“It would be good if at the end, we were to apply compresses . . .”
“The room is locked. We can’t get into the washroom . . .”
“Hm . . .”
There was silence again. After a while, I heard steps and soon thereafter a typical noise near the bucket.
“Ali!”
“Yes, what?”
“Do you hear it?”
“What?”
“Someone is pouring into the bucket. We have water . . .”
“Are you crazy?” . . . However, he seemed to think it over, and after a while he added, “Perhaps you are right, after all!”
I waited a few minutes until the prisoner in question had finished his business. Then I glided carefully down from the bed, with a towel in hand.
I was extraordinarily lucky because until now only those who were concerned with “small matters” had gone to the bucket.
I soaked Ali’s and my towels, wrung them out, and returned to my bed,
The cool, acidic compress had a wonderful effect on the inflamed muscles. It smelled a bit, but it helped marvelously. . .
During the night I changed the compresses several times.
3
The command of the Stubendienst woke me up.
“Get up!”
As fast as I could, I slipped out of bed and went into the overcrowded washroom. It was a small room with twelve faucets. Over one hundred prisoners pushed around them and waited while the “VIPs”—Kapos and Vorarbeiter—took their time finishing their morning toilet. They were, however, not in a hurry. Slowly and carefully, they lathered themselves with good toilet soap, savored the pleasure of the lathering for a long time, soaped once more and again rinsed it off. A “Pipel”—a young male servant and prostitute for the Kapos—who was already waiting nearby with a terry towel, rubbed the refreshed dignitary dry. Only after that was the faucet turned over to the “rabble.” Then the fight for the water faucet began. Every prisoner tried hard to at least give the impression that he had ducked his trunk into the water because the Stubendienst stood at the doors of the barrack rooms and checked those who entered. Anyone who was not wet enough was zapped on the spot twenty-five times . . .
Miraculously, I succeeded in getting to the faucet and was able to hold my neck and chest under the refreshing jets of water. Happy and wet, I paraded in front of Komarnicki, who did not even notice me. I received my coffee and was about to drink it when the gong which signaled the lineup for the work detachment (Arbeitskommando) resounded. Our Stubendienst seemed as if struck by lightning.
“Move, everybody out!”
With one jump, he reached the nearest prisoners. The screams of those he maltreated mixed with the muffled blows of the club. Everyone rushed to the door in order to reach the corridor.
There stood the Kapos and Vorarbeiter, of course, with heavy clubs and their fists.
“Faster! Tempo! . . . Move on! . . . Get going!” sounded from all sides. The mass of the prisoners reached the stairs. Somebody fell. Over him another, over this one again others. The revolving living ball rolled down the stairs—cursing, moaning, pleading, screaming, rumbling, banging.
“Move on! . . . Move on! . . . Faster!!!”
Finally we are in the square. Three or four of those who were crushed were carried to the washroom located on the ground floor.
“Man in front! . . . Line up!” Again there were screams. This time they came from the Blockältesten, and their helpers. The Stubendienste are running through the rooms as if possessed. Someone did not quite correctly line up. Bum! The clubs worked over all of his body parts which were extending over the line. Feet, hands, head; it does not matter where he hits. Everything is so fast, like streaks of lightning, as if in a mania.
“Counting!” the command of the Blockältesten is ringing out. At number nineteen, someone has counted incorrectly. It is a foreigner, who is not familiar with the counting in German. The Stubendienste rush to him like hyenas, and already they had dragged him out of the line. One kicked him; the other hit him with the club. “Into the washroom with him!”
“Counting!”
This time it works out; but the position is not correct. For a change, there is one too many. Again a running around; again the clubs are in motion. It turned out that the congruence was very poor. Everything is repeated . . . Finally . . .
“Block 11 . . . Stand to Attention! . . . Caps Off! . . . Eyes to the right!”
The Blockälteste, holding the Rapportbuch in his right hand, his cap in his left hand, is coming from the front of the Company to the gate where Blockführer Gerlach has just appeared . . . A short report. Gerlach is scrutinizing everything. Slowly, he is inspecting the lines and is counting very accurately. He is looking into everyone’s face; this one he is hacking, another one he is hitting, and then he is moving on, dignified and full of himself. He has completed the checking of the count. Indifferently, he is looking into the book, comparing it. It is correct. Slowly, he is moving to the gate; he is walking through it to the appeal center of the camp in order to give a report to the Rapportführer, who is officiating at the desk.
And in the meantime, we are standing. Straight. To attention, our heads turned to the right, motionlessly, almost not breathing. The Blockälteste, the Stubendienste, and the Kapos circle between the rows, observing the slightest motion. One is not allowed to move a limb; one may not rest; not even coughing is allowed.
Someone is coughing just now. A short while later, he is already screaming . . . And again he is silent . . . This is lasting for about a quarter of an hour. Finally Gerlach is returning.
