The Fighter (6 page)

Jacques finds it pretty funny.

“Before the war, all these anti-Semitic parties complained that the Jews took work from the Frenchmen. Now they tell us we're lazy parasites and they want to put us to work!”

“I'd like them to give us some work. Doing nothing all day makes me nervous.”

“You know this camp is full of Jewish scholars? People who came to France to study science or medicine. I heard they're planning conferences.”

“Go to your conferences. I just wish they'd give us a ball so we could play soccer.”

In July, the camp's commander says our families will be allowed to visit us. Weeks before the day, I imagine the moment when I'll see my Rachel and my little Élie. Then this moment comes and it is over so fast. In two months, my son has changed. He speaks better, he has a new way of smiling….

On June 21, 1941, the Germans attack the Soviet Union without any warning. In 1939, Stalin had signed a treaty with Hitler, because he wasn't ready for a war. I hope he is ready now. The German army won't reach Moscow as easily as Warsaw or Paris, so the war will last a long time. Maybe I'll stay years in this camp and my son will grow up far away from me.

The guards are looking for guys willing to work outside the camp. I go and fetch Jacques as fast as I can.

“Come, Jacques, this is a fantastic chance!”

“Yes, this will relieve us of this dreadful boredom.”

“I mean a chance to escape. Once we're outside, it will be easy.”

No luck. They separate us: they send Jacques to a Pithiviers workshop, me to a big farm with twenty comrades. As I've always lived in a city, I've never seen a peasant. I thought peasants were poor people, like factory workers, exploited and oppressed by the rich. Well, the peasant who owns this farm doesn't merely exploit us—he treats us like slaves. We must harvest, plow, make hay, tend the cattle. It's really tough. It never stops. He feeds us so little that we can hardly stand. He seems to resent having workers who cost him nothing. Instead of thanking us, he insults us.

“You rotten Jews, you're good for nothing. Stealing our money is easier than holding a scythe!”

The guard who takes us there has never seen such heartlessness.

“He treats you worse than dogs!”

This guard is a good guy. I wouldn't say the same about his colleagues, far from it. He doesn't think it's right that we're being kept in a camp.

“Listen, fellows. When I take you to the farm, I can't watch you all. If I notice that one or two are missing when
we get there, what can I do about it? I can't leave the prisoners and go warn the other guards, so I have to wait until evening to report it.”

Obviously, he is telling us we should escape. I talk to my brother.

“It is simple. We hide in the woods, then we walk all night heading south. We cross the line that separates the Occupied Zone from the Free Zone. You know where Montauban is?”

“Somewhere near Toulouse, I think.”

“We'll ask people. We'll get there eventually, one way or another.”

“Okay, but I can't leave my workshop. We're just six Jews with one guard. He keeps his eyes on us. Why don't you go by yourself? I'll follow when I can.”

I could escape by myself, that's true. But what about Jacques? Without me, will he be able to shake off the guards, hide, reach the other side of France? He is so sluggish, sometimes…. Even in the camp, he finds books and spends time reading and dreaming like a student. Becoming an outlaw isn't something you learn in books. I can't leave him behind. I must take care of him.

I didn't take my chance when I should have and now it's too late. More than a hundred prisoners escaped during the first six months. They say the Germans are furious. The guards put up more barbed wire around the camp. Nobody goes outside to work anymore. We hear rumors that they'll empty the camp. From May 1942 on, hundreds of men leave every week. We don't know where they go. Some guards talk about a camp in Compiègne, others say Drancy, near Paris. More sinister rumors mention camps in Germany or in the Ukraine. Lacking definite information, we make up a name,
Pitchipoï
, to name this mysterious location in Eastern Europe where they deport Jews.

My brother goes in June. I leave on July 17. On the way to the Pithiviers train station, I walk with Brod, whom I've known a long time. He is a tailor. My other brother, Albert, worked in his workshop when we came to France. He
boxed for a year or two, on and off, then stopped because he found it too tiring. He is a placid man, always ready to smile. I used to see him also on the banks of the Marne River. He's lucky—in Pithiviers, he worked in the kitchen.

“Say, Brod, you look good! While everybody was hungry, you were gaining weight.”

“Come on, Wisniak, you're not that thin yourself!”

“My wife sent me food. I did get fatter when I stopped boxing. I went from a hundred and eight pounds to a hundred and eighty-five! I tried to keep in shape, though. I exercised on weekends.”

“I remember. You were always swimming and playing volleyball. How's Rachel?”

“Last time I saw her, she was fine. We have a son, Élie. He's three years old. What about your children?”

“I have one more.”

“Four?”

“I like large families. I have eight brothers and sisters. My last one, actually, I've hardly even seen her. This jacket you're wearing is nice. Did your brother cut it?”

“Of course, Albert did it.”

“He's a fine craftsman. When he started working by himself, I lost my best worker. Did he marry?”

“He married just before the war. He has a daughter.”

“You know what? Maybe they're going to take us back to Paris and free us for Bastille Day, on July 14. We'll be able to dance with our wives!”

“I don't think the Germans will let the French celebrate Bastille Day. My brother told me France isn't even a republic anymore. If I'd known, I would have gone to America.”

“If I'd known, I wouldn't have registered as a Jew. They can't control everybody. Do you know the story of the two Jews taking a walk in Moscow?”

“No.”

“This was in the times of the czar. One of the Jews only has a residence permit. Suddenly, a cop comes at them. ‘Start running,' says the permitless one to the other. ‘The cop will run after you, but you don't have to worry, since you have a permit. In the meantime, I'll escape.' The Jew begins to run. The cop runs after him and catches him after a while. ‘Well, well, you bum, you don't have a permit?' The Jew is out of breath. He shows his permit: ‘Pardon me… Your honor… I do have a permit…' The cop stares at him. ‘But then, why did you run away?' ‘My doctor told me this was good for my health.' The cop is panting, too. ‘Didn't you see I was running after you?' ‘Of course I did. I thought your doctor had given you the same advice!'”

In the Pithiviers station, a long freight train is waiting for us. Brod shows me a tiny latticed window above the cars' door.

“These are cattle cars.”

“You mean these cars usually carry cattle to the slaughterhouse? This isn't a good omen.”

The guards deliver us to German soldiers. They cram
eighty men into every car. I've often taken the Paris subway at rush hour. There were so many passengers that I could hardly breathe. When I couldn't stand it anymore, I would step out at a station and wait for the next train. Every time it happened, I swore I'd be more careful in the future and avoid rush hour. Well, I haven't been careful enough. I'm standing in a train car at rush hour, except I can't step out. The train rolls on during the day and until the end of the night, then it stops. Brod lifts me up so I can look through the grilled opening.

“We're in a station. I can't see the name of the city, but the people are speaking German. The bastards!”

“What is it?”

“They're laughing at me. Wait, one of the soldiers is coming in this direction. Does anyone speak German well here?”

Most of us know Yiddish, which is very close to German, but one of us, an Austrian Jew, also speaks real German. He asks the soldier whether we could empty the bucket that serves as a toilet bowl for eighty men and have a little water. We've had nothing to drink for twenty-four hours. The heat of eighty feverish bodies adds several degrees to the summer temperature. The soldier, after asking an officer's permission, lets the Austrian Jew out. Four comrades have bottles in their bags. The Austrian guy finds a tap and fills up the bottles. Four quarts of water for eighty thirsty throats. One sip each.

The train starts again. Hours follow hours. Hotter and hotter. No food since yesterday. One sip to drink. Some men moan, lose their minds, and shriek like beasts. How long will I be able to hold on before I start to shriek, too? The train slows down. Stops again. Where are the soldiers? From all the cars we hear shouts in French, Yiddish, German.

“We're thirsty!”

“Men are sick!”

“Bucket overflowing!”

Men wearing black uniforms walk alongside the train. They're SS, special police. It seems they have replaced the soldiers.

“Stop this racket, you Jewish pigs, otherwise we'll shoot.”

To show they mean business, they do shoot with a machine gun inside one of the cars. Nobody shouts anymore. A dreadful silence falls on the train like a slab of lead. Pithiviers was no fun, but we're beginning to understand that we'll soon remember it as paradise lost. We're heading toward unspeakable horrors.

When I was a child, hunger was my faithful companion. I never knew thirst, however. I'm discovering this cruel sensation now. I can't think about anything else. My throat is as raspy as sandpaper. My tongue is twisting inside my mouth, looking for a few drops of spittle. My lips are burning. The others groan, rave, scream: “I don't want to die!” We muffle
their screams with shirts, lest the SS shoot into our car at the next stop. Some faint but stay upright, held up by the closeness of their neighbors. Others slide to the floor, unconscious or maybe dead. Is this how they had imagined their death? From thirst and exhaustion in a cattle car… ?

The bucket overflowed long ago. A frightful, nauseating stink permeates the car. When we stop in a station, the SS shout, “You stinking Jews! You're just shit!”

We move in turn near the opening to breathe some fresh air. I see Brod in the distance. He smiles at me. He's still alive.

My thoughts seem to slow down. At times, I fall asleep standing up. When my mind clears somewhat, I tell myself that this trip has to end sooner or later. I'll leave this car, dead or alive.

Toward the end of the third night, as the sliver of sky we see through the grated slit turns gray, the train stops and we hear shouting:

“
Aussteigen! Los! Los!
(Get out! Come on! Come on!)”

We're there.

The SS open the car's door. They order us to leave our bags inside.

“We'll bring them to you later.”

We know it's not true. We're a thousand guys in the train and our bags aren't even marked. How would we find them? During this trip, exhaustion froze our thoughts, but we knew one thing: we were traveling toward death. Our material goods lost any value. So I'll never see my faithful backpack again. What do I care about pajamas and a toothbrush? If only I can hold on to my life.…

After three days in the gloom of the cattle car, the morning light dazzles me. The train has stopped along a
kind of low platform. I can't see it too well. My legs are stiff. In spite of all this, I jump down, I hurry, I run. The SS are hitting us with long rubbery clubs to get us moving. Ouch! This hurts like hell. While I'm rubbing my shoulder, I notice there is a steel ball at the end of the club. Some comrades fall down, knocked senseless.

This station is in the middle of nowhere. SS guards armed with rifles, holding German shepherds on leashes, stand every five feet on the platform. Suddenly, one of these SS starts shouting. The German language may not sound as musical as Yiddish; it is nevertheless quite beautiful in the poems by Goethe or Schiller. The SS seem to use another language, a shouted or barked one. What does he say? We try to see what's happening. Something's wrong with a comrade in the next car. Although he left his suitcase behind, he kept a small parcel under his arm. Three SS knock him down with the butt of their rifles.

“We told you to leave everything behind!”

They break his skull with the rifles. One of the guards jumps aside deftly, like a boxer, to avoid dirtying his shiny black boots with blood and brains.

We were talking in low voices: “Did you see the name on the signs? Auschwitz.”

“It's a German name. Do you think we're in Germany?”

The death of our comrade makes us fall silent. I don't feel thirst, hunger, exhaustion anymore. Although I haven't slept for three nights, I am wide awake.

I try to remember whether I have ever seen a cold-blooded
murder like this one. The carters in our courtyard. Knives, gunshots. Mazik's stray bullets. “Don't go near the window,” my mother said. I'm surrounded by killers and I can't hide.

An SS officer makes an announcement.

“There are trucks over there for those of you who are tired or ill. The other ones must walk to the camp.”

I don't like these trucks. They let us die of thirst in the train, they shot at random inside a car with their machine guns, they just killed one of us for no valid reason. This sudden kindness toward tired and sick Jews doesn't sound right to me. Since they kill Jews so easily, I bet these trucks won't drive them to a nice rest home.

We walk in rows of five toward the camp. The SS kill one comrade with their rifle butts because he's dragging his feet and stumbling, another because he vomits. Brod walks next to me.