Brothers Beyond Blood (4 page)

“But then what will we do, Herschel?” Hans was near tears.

Shrugging, defeated, I put my arm around the older boy and pulled him close and whispered, “We will wait. The war will end soon, no? The Allies are nearby. The planes pass every night and the bombs are close to us. It can’t be long now.” I scrambled to my feet, pulling Hans up. “Now take me back to the barracks and go to town quickly.” I knew I was taking a chance giving a guard orders, but by this time, Hans and I were more comrades than guard and prisoner; Hans and Herschel Rothberg.

I had come to this remote camp as a young boy. I had been protected by family and had belonged to a group of fellow boys much like the Boy Scouts; the Hitler Youth. I enjoyed my time with the other fellows, even when we were ordered to beat and round up Jews. I was told that the Jews were stupid, a sub-human species. They were also depicted as clever, money manipulators and, we were told they made items of gold and jewels stolen from our good German people. I had some trouble believing the claim that Jews were stupid; yet clever, and that they controlled all of the banking in the Reich. How could that be?

We took the Jews we arrested to a holding pen near the railroad yard in my town. I was told that this was happening all over Germany, and once all the Jews, Gypsies, homosexuals – I didn’t know what this meant until later – and ‘enemies of the state’ were rounded up and sent to work camps, Germany would reclaim her rightful place as the leader of nations in the world.

My Papa used to tell me how bad things were after the Great War, a war we lost and then were treated very poorly by the Allies. It was Der Fuehrer who made us see how great we could be again. I was proud to be part of our recovery.

When I arrived at the camp, I was appalled. This was not a large camp, just six rough wooden buildings for the prisoners, and three somewhat smaller ones to the left of the gate for the guards and German support personnel. A cookhouse and kitchen for the guards and Commandant was next. Directly beside the gate was the main administrative office where the Commandant, Major Boettcher, his aide Sergeant Mueller, and a secretary worked. The camp was surrounded by high barbed wire strands and had tall watchtowers in two of the corners. The camp was designed to hold almost one thousand prisoners, though I couldn’t see where we could feed this many or even house them. I was disgusted at the condition of the prisoners. How could we keep these men working if they were in such poor physical condition? It took me only a couple of days to see that this was maybe once thought of as a work camp but was now an extermination camp. I was sickened and did everything I could to stay away from the gashouse. But one day I was ordered to help supervise the removal of bodies from this place.

That was when I met Herschel. He was about my age but taller. He moved swiftly and did the jobs assigned to him without lagging. I had no need to strike him or abuse him in any way. However, some of the other guards abused the prisoners whenever they could, I think because they were bored. After a while, I saw him, not as a rat, but as a boy near my own age. He and I might have been friends back in my town.

He did not have the look of the stereotypical Jew: curly black hair, hooked nose, grasping hands that were on all the propaganda posters. He instead, had dark brown hair, green eyes, but with pale skin. His features were regular, and he often smiled. In our later discussions, I found him intelligent, respectful, quick, and most astonishing of all, not beaten down as most of the other prisoners seemed to be.

After a time, I tried to insert myself between the other guards and Herschel. I escorted him to the storehouse where the dead prisoners’ belongings were sorted and kept until they could be sent to Berlin. Sometimes I was able to give him some food from the guard’s kitchen.

As the war ground on, the trains grew fewer, then stopped. The prisoners ceased coming, and the belongings remained in the storehouse. No vehicles came to claim them. No further orders came from Berlin or Dachau. What is more, the supply trucks with our food stopped coming.

That is when Herschel started instructing me in the lore of precious metals and gems. I was an apt pupil, not long out of school, and the thirst for knowledge was still strong in me. Daily, I roused him with a light kick or a shove from his pallet in Barracks 4 and escorted him to his place in the kitchen area so he and I could eat what little food was available. Then we were off to the storehouse for the day’s instruction. Sometimes one of the other young guards and I would go into the nearest town with a small bauble Herschel would select, and trade it for food or petrol, when there was some available.

I was worried that Granski, the older Polish guard, would kill all of the prisoners and possibly the rest of the guards. Several times he said, “If the Allies find out what has been done here, they will kill us all.” He was referring to us guards and support personnel.

At Herschel’s suggestion, he and I worked out a plan. I took some gold teeth and started walking to town. Security was now lax, with the few remaining guards in almost as poor condition as the prisoners. I was very weak, so I sat by the side of the road and fell asleep. I really did not have to go into Keffer to complete the ruse. I knew there was no food in the town.

I awoke in total darkness, disoriented and groggy. What woke me? Bombers overhead roared and dropped their bombs in the distance. I waited until they turned back and then hurriedly returned to the camp. Each time I left, I found it more and more difficult to return, but now I had Herschel as my friend, and I couldn’t leave him to Granski.

Everything worked as we had planned. Well, almost. I rushed into the guard barracks and found Granski seated at a table eating the last of a piece of cheese. The other boys were asleep.

I whispered, “I heard that an American paratroop unit has landed on the other side of the town and might be upon us by morning.” He jumped up and ran to our small larder, threw food into a cloth bag and grabbing a pistol, which he tucked into his belt. I followed him to the prisoner’s kitchen, which he ransacked for what little food he could find.

A tall, gaunt prisoner who helped Jurgen, our cook, came in and asked, “What is happening?”

Soon two more prisoners crowded in, and the three made a feeble attempt to stop him. Granski drew the Luger pistol and shot them. Bang, bang, bang and the three fell dead at my feet, their blood pooling around and under them. At the noise, Herschel came in and stopped short. Granski turned the pistol on him, and I could see his finger tighten.

“Don’t try to stop me, Jew,” he spit.

Before he could shoot, I stepped between them. “Take what you want, Sergeant. No one will stop you,” I said in as calm a voice as I could.

Granski jammed the pistol back into his belt and ran out without another word. We hoped to never see him again. I couldn’t have stopped him nor would I. Granski ran through the open gate and disappeared down the road, the bag bouncing against his rounded back.

After that, we just waited, waited for the end and whatever that would bring. We foraged in the nearby wood and ate whatever we could catch or dig up. It seemed that the world had forgotten us, which was just as well.

When I heard the gunshots, I ran from my pallet in Barracks 4. Hans was standing over three bodies, looking down in horror. Granski stood with his back against the wall, waving a Luger pistol and looking wild-eyed “They were going to attack me,” he screamed. Then he aimed the pistol at me.

Just before Granski pulled the trigger, Hans stepped between us and said something to Granski. My heart stopped and I stood still, not daring to move. I looked down at Dovee, Mr. VanGelt and Professor Steiner lying in pools of blood, and then looked up at the pistol. I don’t remember what Hans said, but Granski stuck the pistol in his belt and ran out. I couldn’t move.

“Herschel, are you all right?” Hans shook me by the shoulder.

The tears ran down my face. I looked at him, “You saved my life, Hans.” I looked down again at my friends and sighed. By now several more of the prisoners were gathered in the doorway to our little kitchen. “Please help me bury these good men.” I went out to get my cart, and we placed the bodies on it, taking them to the mass grave at the back of the camp. Hans pointed a hand torch before us.

Rabbi Shmuel said a short prayer and we carried them down into the trench and laid them out. I shoveled enough dirt to cover them for the time being and climbed up, Hans helping me. We walked back to the barracks slowly, not talking. I bid him a good night and tried to sleep. At my count, we were down now to ninety-seven prisoners and only seven guards.

The next day was overcast, low dark clouds hanging over the camp. How appropriate, I thought. When we gathered for morning count, only Hans and two other guards emerged. I saw movement in the guards’ barracks, but none of the others came to the muster. I’m not sure why we bothered every morning; force of habit, I guess. After the muster, most of the prisoners just sat against the walls of the buildings. Some went to the kitchen, and I walked toward the counting shed.

I watched Rabbi Shmuel take a pan of water in shaking hands to the dog kennel. We used to have five large and aggressive Alsatians, the breed you call German Shepherds. There were only two skinny dogs left now and no food. As if we would use what little food we had to feed the dogs.

We wanted to kill the dogs and eat them, but the Rabbi asked us to please not kill his kinder. There wasn’t much meat on them anyway. He placed the bowl down on the ground and sat with the dogs. They looked longingly at him, hoping for some food, but all he had was a small brush, which he slowly stroked over their filthy coats. We were all prisoners.

Hans urged me to the storehouse, and we entered, and then sat on a rough bench against the wall.

I turned to my friend and again said, “You saved my life, Hans. I will never forget that.” I was an empty shell. I had come close to being exterminated so many times, but for some reason, the events of the past night loomed large in my mind. I was a prisoner in a concentration camp, and a guard had saved my life. Unheard of. We continued our jewelry lessons. It seemed pointless, but it passed the time.

By mid afternoon, my stomach was groaning. I was so hungry, I ached. Suddenly we heard a shot, then another. We lurched toward the door and stumbled outside. A light rain was falling, and the prisoners were gathered by the fence on the south side. Two guards squatted over an object. I hoped it wasn’t another one of my fellows.

Hans and I rushed through the gate and over to them. They were looking at a pig. It must have wandered out of the forest. Hans said to the men, “Why don’t you bring the pig to the cook house, and we will butcher it.” He sounded plaintive. A trickle of saliva ran down his chin.

I felt my own mouth moisten. A whole pig. Of course I knew pork was verboten to Orthodox Jews but I was so hungry. We hefted the carcass and carried it to the kitchen. It looked like it might weigh perhaps fifty kilos. One of the guards, Karl, I think, ran and got a length of rope. In short order the guards hoisted the dead pig up by a pulley hooked to a corner of the building’s roof. Everyone gathered round. Rabbi Shmuel said a short prayer and nodded. Two of the guards, both former farm boys, butchered the pig and cut it up into small pieces.

One of the prisoners, a man named David, edged forward and grabbed a small piece of flesh. The Rabbi struck his hand and knocked it to the ground. “You know why pork is forbidden. If we must eat it, it must be cooked through.” He raised his eyebrows to the guards. They nodded.

Jurgen went to the kitchen storeroom and returned with a large kettle. While the guards threw in every edible piece of the pig, two prisoners brought buckets of water and poured them into the pot. Soon it was bubbling over a wood fire we’d built between several rocks.

More water was added, and a guard and a prisoner went into the nearby wood and returned with a mound of white roots. They, too, went into the pot along with the last of the salt. In an hour, everyone was lined up with his tin cup.

Even the guards took their place in line with their utensils. We were all in the same boat now.

My children, I have eaten many wonderful meals since that day, but no food ever tasted as sweet as that thin, watery stew. And pork, no less. I had never tasted pork. It was wonderful. Everyone had a cupful and though most wolfed it down, some, like Hans and I, savored every mouthful, trying to make it last. We had intended on saving some for another meal, but we were so hungry that before we knew it, the pot was empty.

Ah well, I felt human again. Hans and I and another guard, Helmut, sat on a bench against one wall of the administrative building.

“We need food, Hans. We need a regular supply. How can we get food?” There was no answer from either of them. We watched idly as Rabbi Shmuel patted the dogs and, with a smile for each of them, gently slumped to one side. One of the dogs whined and laid his head on the old man’s lap. The other one just lay down next to the rabbi, nose under his hand. I nudged Hans and pointed.

Hans nodded. We stood and walked through the dust to the kennel. I leaned down and felt the old man’s neck for a pulse. Nothing. He was dead. Just another old Jew dead in a Nazi camp. When I looked up, most of the other prisoners were standing behind us. A murmur lay over us like a blanket. I bent and closed the old man’s eyes.

Hans nudged the dog next to the rabbi. Again, nothing. The dogs had been the rabbi’s responsibility for so long that they died with him.

We wrapped Rabbi Shmuel in an old blanket and carefully laid him in the mass grave with a dog on either side of him. I mumbled a few words; a few of the others said some words, and we all said the Kaddish, the Hebrew prayer for the dead. And that was the end. We were now ninety-six. I wondered if it would ever end. Perhaps when, one by one, we were all laid in that deep trench beside the kind old man.

Chapter 7 -
Hans’ Story

So the days went by and no one came. We took turns going to the village to try to trade for food. Though the trek was long, if we got an early start, we would warm up. The winter had been mild with only small patches of snow remaining beneath the trees. The other guards and prisoners foraged in the wood. It was late in the year and there had been some harvesting on the nearby farms and we were able to trade jewelry and gold teeth for some cattle corn and oats. It was meager fare, but we survived. Once in a while a guard would shoot a rabbit or a rodent to add to the pot.

We were standing in line one day, stamping our feet to stay warm, when two soldiers came down the road and stopped at our gate, which was left open these days. No one was going anywhere.

We just stood and stared. It had been so long since anyone had come through our gate. No one knew what to do.

The taller soldier made a fist and held it over his head. I saw a red star on his helmet and wondered if he was a Russian. I hoped not.

Herschel nudged me with an elbow. “Go see who they are,” he hissed.

I looked around for my rifle and found it leaning against the wall of the cookhouse. I picked it up and, though it held no ammunition, I put it on my shoulder and walked to the gate.

“Who are you gentlemen?” I asked in German. I held the rifle across my chest as I’d been taught, at the ready.

The shorter soldier said something in what I thought was English. I smiled in relief and lowered my weapon. Then he hit me in the stomach with the butt of his rifle and screamed at me. I fell to the ground holding myself while the other soldier tore my weapon away and threw it out the gate. Herschel and two of the other guards, Helmut and Karl, came running up. The soldier fired his rifle into the air and Helmut and Karl dropped their weapons in fright, holding their arms up high. Herschel knelt in the dust beside me.

“Hans, Hans, are you all right?” he asked, feeling for broken ribs.

I pushed his hands away and gasped, “Yes, I am all right. Why did they hit me?”

Herschel looked up and screamed at them to go away, to leave us alone. The shot must have alerted more soldiers, for suddenly many were coming out of the wood on each side of the road, rifles pointed at us. There were nearly as many of them as there were of us. Herschel helped me to my feet and said something to the shorter soldier, the one who had hit me. His voice was now softer, in control.

“Why did you hit him?” he said in halting, school English.

The soldier smiled and laughed and said something to the other soldier. I noted that their uniforms were dirty, and the sleeve of one’s shirt was nearly torn off. He had stubble of a beard but he was smiling at Herschel.

In a few moments a tall man, whom I assumed was an officer, pushed his way through the men surrounding us. I looked over my shoulder and saw that none of our people had moved. They were still in line with their tin cups or cans, watching raptly. The officer spoke to Herschel who shook his head.

“Slowly, please. It has been many years and I speak only small English. You are English?” Herschel asked, puzzling over the words.

The officer looked at this thin, brown-haired boy, “American. Does anyone else here speak English?”

Herschel slowly shook his head, “I do not think so. American. Is the war over, Mein Herr?”

The officer smiled and pulled a cigar out of his breast pocket, bit the end off and spit it in the dust. Then he jammed it into the corner of his mouth and lit it with a shiny silver lighter, “Almost, son, almost.” Then he said something with a sneer in his voice but the only word I could understand was Nazis. He turned to another soldier, this one with several stripes on his sleeve, and in a moment the other soldier had shouted something and the American soldiers fanned out across the compound. They first collected the rifles from us guards and from the guards’ quarters, and then they rounded up the seven of us and took us to our barracks.

Herschel tried to intervene but didn’t have the words. One soldier put an arm over his shoulder and led him to the kitchen area. Herschel shouted to me but I could not understand what he said. The American soldiers shoved us roughly into the barracks and made us sit on two of the bunks. They kept their rifles ready as if we were going to overpower them. What a joke. I noted that some of them seemed no older than we were.

Karl asked for some water, but either the soldiers didn’t understand or didn’t care. I tried speaking to one of the men, a young fellow who looked little older than myself, but he shook his head and sneered at me, saying something guttural. What was the matter with these men? Did not one of them speak German?

An hour passed and Helmut asked to use the latrine. When a soldier looked at him questioningly, he pointed toward his crotch and made motions with his hand. The guard nodded and pointed to a bucket in a corner that was used for cigarette butts back when there was anything to smoke. He looked at me and I shrugged, “It’s either that or in your trousers, Helmut.”

Helmut sheepishly went into the corner and pissed into the bucket, trying to be as quiet as possible. The soldiers snickered but kept their rifles at the ready.

About one hour later a small, dark haired man my father’s age came in. He had thick glasses and a battered leather briefcase under his arm. His uniform was rumpled and, though his rank appeared to be a lieutenant, the soldiers deferred to him. The soldiers had moved our battered desk into the center of the room. He sat there, lit a cigarette and surveyed us.

I watched as he withdrew several items from the briefcase and placed them carefully on the desktop. Then he barked in German, “You!” and gestured at Karl. “Who is in charge here?”

Karl looked at each of us in turn. We all shrugged. No one had been, as they say, in charge, since Granski had left. Actually, no one had been in charge since the commandant had driven away one night many months ago. “Excuse me, sir, but no one is in charge. We’ve just stayed here.”

He looked bewildered. No one in charge? Inconceivable. “Who is the senior man then?” he asked.

After some discussion amongst us, it was decided that Karl was the oldest, having turned eighteen just three weeks previously. We pointed at Karl.

I wondered what they were doing to Herschel and the other men.