All but My Life: A Memoir (17 page)
Read All but My Life: A Memoir Online
Authors: Gerda Weissmann Klein
Tags: #Biography & Autobiography, #Historical, #Women, #History, #Holocaust
By the time dawn came the freight cars were empty of coal, and we marched back to quarters. We weren’t even allowed to wash, and it seemed only seconds until we were awakened again. Again I was chosen for the flax detail.
The same never-ending day continued and melted into the night and coal. Flax dust, coal dust, blood, sweat, all mixed together into a crust that covered my body. We were only a handful of girls who were chosen for both the flax and coal details, but I was always among them.
Ilse was jittery. She kept most of her meager rations for me.
“You need all the food you can get,” she insisted.
Then Sunday came. We didn’t work. To be away from the
hateful flax was a most wonderful feeling. Locked up on the sixth floor we sat on Ilse’s bunk and looked toward the distant hills.
hateful flax was a most wonderful feeling. Locked up on the sixth floor we sat on Ilse’s bunk and looked toward the distant hills.
Ilse asked gently, “How are you going to stand it?”
I knew that she wanted me to reassure her, but all I could say was, “I don’t know.”
That night coal trains came again, and again I was chosen. During the night it grew cooler. Other freight trains passed, from them we heard faint cries and pleas for water; in those trains were Jews making their last journey to Auschwitz. Those trains rolled by swiftly. Like snakes, they rolled into the night, taillights blinking sadly, and with them disappeared lives, thousands.
Another four days and nights and I felt myself weakening. My mind grew dull. There was no longer any satisfaction in showing the supervisor my pride. The tracks became more inviting each night, the promise given to Papa less meaningful. I wasn’t myself any more, and that Thursday night I told Ilse that I couldn’t take it any longer.
She squeezed my hand and didn’t say anything. The next day, Friday morning, when I was again chosen for the flax detail, I felt Ilse’s hand in mine. She had either been selected too, or had traded places with someone.
That day the flax train did not arrive on time, so we were led to a swamp where we had to open bundles of flax and spread it in the water. My back felt broken, for we had to crouch in order to perform our work. Mosquitoes feasted on us.
All at once Frau Aufsicht appeared, wanting to know whose number had been thirty-two in Bolkenhain. Thirty-two had been Ilse’s number. For a second I saw her hand start to go up, then I saw her motioning to me to lift my arm.
“That’s her number!” she said, pointing at me.
I knew what she was trying to do, but my mind still was not entirely clear. I only heard Frau Aufsicht yell at me, “You idiot, don’t you know your own number?”
I was led away by the guard before I could say anything to Ilse.
We arrived at the factory courtyard where, to my immense relief, I saw Keller, the director from Bolkenhain. As much as I had always hated him, I was glad to see him now.
A few girls, all of whom had formerly worked at Bolkenhain, were standing near him. As I was led toward them, I saw Ilse coming. Her eyes were enormous with fear. Her clothing was wet and dirty. She was shaking. Frau Aufsicht hissed at her, asking what she was doing, but she ran up to the director–shy, timid Ilse–threw herself at his feet, and started to beg. He seemed amused. Frau Aufsicht raised her whip, but let it fall at a sign from the director.
“What do you want?” he finally demanded.
Wringing her hands, Ilse pointed in my direction and stammered, “My sister, my sister!”
The director turned to me. “You worked on four looms in Bolkenhain, your name should be on the list.” Frau Aufsicht started to check the roster but the director said impatiently, “Both of them can go.” He frowned at us. “Go wash, you look like pigs.”
We clasped hands and with new-found energy we raced up to the sixth floor, cleaned up as fast as we could, and gathered up our bundles.
A truck entered the yard. Ilse and I and ten other girls, all formerly from Bolkenhain, stood in readiness. We were going to Landeshut … . In a matter of minutes we were settled on the truck. Why, oh why, did it take so long to get started? After an eternity the heavy gates opened and the truck roared out. I hardly realized that it was beginning to rain, I was so lost in my desire to get away as far as possible from Märzdorf.
As we climbed higher and higher along the mountainous road I made out that we were traveling southwest. For several hours, while it grew colder and colder, Ilse and I held hands without speaking. I still had not thanked her for what she had done–for the risk she had taken. I had no words.
It was evening when the truck pulled up at a building that looked like a large stable. A familiar voice sounded through the rain and darkness.
“Get inside. Quickly! Quickly!”
We mounted the stairs, illuminated by a single, faint bulb, and at the top found Frau Kügler barking, “Get in, get in!” Behind her were Mrs. Berger and Litzi. Beyond them I spotted Suse. In the kitchen, Lotte, beaming, was putting steaming bowls of something that looked and smelled delicious on the well-scrubbed table. I felt a lump in my throat. We hugged and kissed each other again and again. This was home! The stable, converted into a camp with the familiar three-tiered bunks, seemed so dear and safe. There were the girls from Bolkenhain but also some others, new girls. Suse took Ilse and me aside and led us to two empty bunks in the lowest tier. “They are right next to where I sleep,” she said. Her smile illuminated her face and I could see how happy she was. There was much milling about. We all talked simultaneously. Finally, the lights went out. I took Ilse’s hand.
Märzdorf was behind us, but I could still remember those silvery tracks beckoning in the moonlight.
I must have murmured aloud, “I’m glad I didn’t jump.”
“What did you say?” Ilse asked, half asleep.
“I said I am glad,” I answered, and holding hands we went to sleep.
THE WEAVING MILL IN LANDESHUT WAS A BRANCH OF THE ONE in Bolkenhain. Director Keller came on periodic inspections; thus we learned that he was in charge of all mills owned by Kramsta-Methner-Frahne.
Although everything in Landeshut was much more strenuous than in Bolkenhain it was heaven compared with Märzdorf. We worked the night shift only, from 6:00 P.M. to 7:00 A.M., with an hour at midnight when we returned to our quarters for a bowl of soup. The Germans worked the day shift. We were weaving white silk for parachutes and time and again were warned against possible mistakes which would be considered sabotage. Handling four looms was very hard since the thousands upon thousands of fine silk threads shone like liquid silver and reflected millionfold the lights overhead. It was most difficult to notice when a thread broke and got entangled in the fabric. During those ten months on the night shift in Landeshut my eyes suffered seriously and always burned and itched unmercifully.
The man in charge of the plant, who was addressed as Herr
Betriebsführer,
or plant supervisor, was not older than twenty-five. He walked with a limp, was short, stocky, and blond, and had one blue and one brown eye. Before the war he must have been a minor bookkeeper in the firm. Now, because of the manpower shortage or perhaps because he was a good Nazi, he had reached a position for which he obviously was ill suited but which he relished. He spoke to us as if we were all mentally deficient, punctuating every sentence with, “And if you don’t do it, you know I have a big stick.” I would have been amused had I not been sobered by the thought that our lives were in the hands of this moron. On the other hand, we
now knew beyond doubt that we were valuable. The factory owners did not want to send us back to the Dulag; we were trained weavers and skilled labor was scarce.
Betriebsführer,
or plant supervisor, was not older than twenty-five. He walked with a limp, was short, stocky, and blond, and had one blue and one brown eye. Before the war he must have been a minor bookkeeper in the firm. Now, because of the manpower shortage or perhaps because he was a good Nazi, he had reached a position for which he obviously was ill suited but which he relished. He spoke to us as if we were all mentally deficient, punctuating every sentence with, “And if you don’t do it, you know I have a big stick.” I would have been amused had I not been sobered by the thought that our lives were in the hands of this moron. On the other hand, we
now knew beyond doubt that we were valuable. The factory owners did not want to send us back to the Dulag; we were trained weavers and skilled labor was scarce.
Bolkenhain, we heard, had become an aircraft factory. Many unfinished bolts of fabric were turned over to us for completion in Landeshut. We sensed that the war was growing worse for the Germans when our rations were cut. We were convinced that it was when we noticed the factory was heated less and less. But we had learned one lesson well: we realized that our lot could be far worse. We would have been willing to stay in Landeshut until the end of the war.
As at Märzdorf, there was no mail privilege. For weeks now we had not heard from friends and relatives. We did know, however, that each Polish town in turn had met the fate of Bielitz, and that the only Jews who remained were in camps.
We had no contact with the outside world, yet, strangely, I did not miss the mail. There was relief in not having to wait for good news that would never come. I thought of Papa, Mama, and Arthur and spun dreams of our reunion at home. At night, alone with my looms, I dreamed of the future. As each night passed, my dream became more vivid, more real. In a way, I looked forward to going to the factory in order to dream through my waking hours, to think of the people whom I would see when I would return home. I designed new dresses, planned trips to faraway places. During those long fall nights a new thought came more and more insistently into focus–the thought of a baby, warm, new, clean as freedom itself. How wonderful it would be to have my own baby!
We had heard that in some camps girls had been forcibly sterilized. That thought filled me with unspeakable horror. Many girls in our camp no longer had their monthly periods because of their poor nutrition. Few of them seemed concerned. It was always a problem to contrive sanitary supplies, to collect sufficient paper and sometimes bits of wood shavings to be wrapped in paper. Of course, no sanitary supplies were obtainable officially.
I spoke to other girls about my fears but they shrugged it off: Survival had become their most important thought, shutting
out all else. Yet the thought of sterility did worry me. More forcefully as the long nights passed, the idea returned that someday I must have a baby of my own. I felt that I would endure anything willingly so long as that hope was not extinguished.
out all else. Yet the thought of sterility did worry me. More forcefully as the long nights passed, the idea returned that someday I must have a baby of my own. I felt that I would endure anything willingly so long as that hope was not extinguished.
Saturday was a hard day for us for we worked as usual through Friday night, then went back to camp for three hours’ rest and were back in the factory at 11:00 A.M. to work another twelve hours. But Saturday midnight we felt rich, realizing that we did not have to go to the factory again until Monday at 6:00 P.M.
Sunday was our day of leisure. We usually sat around and talked, slept, or invented games to play. A favorite game was called “Adventure.” Each girl said where she would like to travel and why. The walls of the camp seemed to slide away as each of us wandered over the wide world. The war seemed far away and a life of adventure unfolded. One Sunday in late fall we played a variation of the game. The question was posed: “If you could choose, what qualities would you have in a husband?” Ilse nudged me constantly as some of the answers were given, and Suse could hardly suppress her laughter. Some wanted wealth, and swore if given a chance they would never so much as lift a finger again; the word
work
would be stricken from their vocabulary. To many, the most important attributes were good looks, combined with gaiety and the ability to dance. One voice, unforgettable, boomed, “Give me a grocer!”
work
would be stricken from their vocabulary. To many, the most important attributes were good looks, combined with gaiety and the ability to dance. One voice, unforgettable, boomed, “Give me a grocer!”
There was a lot of talk about educated men, for we all craved learning. One girl wanted a husband who was a textile manufacturer and explained, “I could see the looms all the time and would never have to touch them.”
Then it was my turn. Eyes centered on me. Before I had time to organize my thoughts, it came out: “Before I marry, I will ask myself if I want that man as a father for my children.”
There was a burst of laughter.
“Gerda, you of all people!”
I was angry at the girls, angry at myself. I felt that I was
misunderstood. The discussion became gayer and gayer; they did not let me explain. I walked away, furious. I thought I had expressed my feelings well but the girls had not understood my dreams about a baby. I was the butt of much good-natured joking for a long time after that.
misunderstood. The discussion became gayer and gayer; they did not let me explain. I walked away, furious. I thought I had expressed my feelings well but the girls had not understood my dreams about a baby. I was the butt of much good-natured joking for a long time after that.
November came. As we left the factory one morning we watched a column of men march by, on their backs and chests the Jewish star. We saw the SS guards shouting commands, swinging their whips. We were speechless–there was a men’s camp nearby! The men marched across the meadow that adjoined our camp. When almost out of our sight, they halted and began to build something. There was excitement in our camp, a kindling of hope that fathers, husbands, and brothers might be in the group.
Frau Kügler soon found that there was a dentist among the prisoners and summoned him to repair her teeth. When he came with his equipment, we learned from him that the men were housed about an hour’s march from us in what had formerly been a tavern on a hill called Zum Burgberg. It was shortly to be known as one of the most horrible men’s camps in Germany.
The dentist, Dr. Goldstein, was a dark-haired man of about thirty-five, with a dimple in his chin. He still had the air of a jolly person, yet when he spoke of the Burgberg, horror came into his eyes.
A few girls learned by means of the messages that Dr. Goldstein smuggled out that their loved ones were close by. I saw girls breathlessly wait for his visits and I saw them at the windows, anxiously watch the passing column of prisoners, throw their precious bits of bread to the men when the guards were not looking. Some girls waited in the yard next to the outhouse, where they knew the column must pass. Sometimes a boy would step out of line for a second and risk being whipped to touch a girl’s hand, or to get a piece of bread.
From the time the men came there was no peace. The girls could see the column dwindle daily. When a loved one failed to pass by for two or three days running the girls knew what had happened. I often awoke to their sobbing or to a cry of
despair so piercing that I could sleep no longer. Dr. Goldstein kept us informed of the incredible excesses the SS guards indulged in: the slaughter, the wild orgies, the transports to Auschwitz.
despair so piercing that I could sleep no longer. Dr. Goldstein kept us informed of the incredible excesses the SS guards indulged in: the slaughter, the wild orgies, the transports to Auschwitz.
One stormy dawn late in November, after we marched back from work, I was about to fall asleep when I felt somebody touching my shoulder..It was Mrs. Berger. “Come to the kitchen,” she whispered. I followed her. She took a folded piece of paper from her pocket and handed it to me. I recognized Abek’s handwriting.
“Where did you get it?” I stammered.
“Abek is here,” Mrs. Berger replied.
I shook my head in disbelief. He must have come with the new group that was to replace those sent to Auschwitz. Then the impact of Abek’s being so close hit me. Abek was on the Burgberg!
“Read your letter,” Mrs. Berger urged. “Then I will tell you something.”
It was a strange letter, so inappropriate for that environment: “At last I am breathing the same air as you, seeing the same sky as you. When we are free nothing can keep us apart. When will I see you? How many seconds? Hours? Days? How I prayed for this hour, to be where you are.”
I looked up at Mrs. Berger.
“You will see Abek at noon,” she told me.
I learned later how it had been arranged that morning. Frau Kügler had gone with Lotte to get a supply of coal, which was kept not far from the construction site where the men were working. Abek had been there and asked Lotte to get a message through to me. Lotte told Frau Kügler. I can well imagine how astounded he must have been when Frau Kügler approached him and said, “Around noon, cut yourself; I will come around and find an excuse to take you to camp to see Gerda.” I was deeply touched. I woke up Ilse and told her. Quickly word spread, for Abek was well known. The girls insisted on dressing me up. One friend begged me to wear her white sweater, the most elegant garment in the camp. I waited for noon, looking out toward where the men were working.
At times I thought I spotted Abek, but I was not sure. Finally, around noon, Lotte came running from the kitchen, to call me. Then I saw Abek, his face white as snow. He seemed very tall. His head was shaven, he was thinner than ever. He held onto the railing as he slowly walked up the stairs; apparently it took great effort. I stared at him from a distance, watching him enter the kitchen and speak to Mrs. Berger. He had not seen me yet. I stood still, as though frozen, wishing with all my might that I did not have to face him. The last time I had seen him I had been with Papa and Mama.
At times I thought I spotted Abek, but I was not sure. Finally, around noon, Lotte came running from the kitchen, to call me. Then I saw Abek, his face white as snow. He seemed very tall. His head was shaven, he was thinner than ever. He held onto the railing as he slowly walked up the stairs; apparently it took great effort. I stared at him from a distance, watching him enter the kitchen and speak to Mrs. Berger. He had not seen me yet. I stood still, as though frozen, wishing with all my might that I did not have to face him. The last time I had seen him I had been with Papa and Mama.
Mrs. Berger came out of the kitchen, Abek turned around and followed her with his eyes. Then he saw me. He stretched his arms out. I closed my eyes and ran to him. He held me tight.
“My little darling!” he whispered. “At last, at last!”
He buried his face in my hair, whispering over and over again, “At last, at last!” I did not utter a word.
He took my face, as something precious, between his hands, and looked at me as if not believing I was real. I could read love and unbearable sadness in his eyes. Then I realized that I had not said one word, not shown by one gesture that I was glad to see him. I wanted to embrace him but he pushed me away roughly. I thought he misunderstood. I stretched my arms toward him, but he gripped the edge of the table, an odd look in his eyes, his hands and lips trembling.
“Go away,” he whispered hoarsely. “Go away!”
I could not understand. I stepped forward. Abek sank on a bench, and cried. I watched him cry. It was heart-rending. I could not speak, nor could I wipe his tears. I wished that I could have cried, but there was no such relief for me.
Mrs. Berger came in with a bowl of food and a cloth for Abek’s wounded hand. Only then did I notice the wound that he had inflicted on himself with a shovel. I saw the blood that slowly trickled from it, I saw his tears. That blood and those tears because of me, I thought. Why must there be this bloody war?
“Eat, Abek,” I urged him.
He lifted a spoon but put it down.
“I can’t,” he said, and then I knew how very hungry he must have been.
“Lonek is here at the Burgberg too,” he said after a pause, adding, “He came along.” Lonek was his nephew.
“Came along?” I echoed. Then I realized what Abek had done.
“Abek!” I gasped. “You did not come
voluntarily?”
voluntarily?”
He nodded.
“But why, in God’s name?”
“Need you ask?” he said with a catch in his voice.
“We have to go,” Frau Kügler called into the kitchen. She had been talking to the guard in her quarters. Either the guard never suspected her motive or perhaps he too was a bit human.
I kissed Abek’s cheek.
“Good-by, take care of yourself.” With pain in my heart, I watched him go.
The girls waited, excited for me. What could I tell them? I only wanted to be alone. I was not happy that Abek was here, that I could see him, perhaps daily. I wished that he had not come. I felt incapable of such love and sacrifice. I was responsible for his coming, I thought, for his misery and for Lonek’s as well!
Oh God, I prayed, watch over him! Let nothing happen to him!
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