orchestra continued to play the same march until the last Kommando had passed. Then the conductor's baton stopped moving and the orchestra fell silent. The Kapo yelled:
“Fall in!”
We fell into ranks of five, with the musicians. We left the camp without music but in step. We still had the march in our ears.
“Left, right, left, right!”
We struck up conversations with our neighbors, the musicians. Almost all of them were Jews. Juliek, a Pole with eyeglasses and a cynical smile in a pale face. Louis, a native of Holland, a well- known violinist. He complained that they would not let him play Beethoven; Jews were not allowed to play German music. Hans, the young man from Berlin, was full of wit. The foreman was a Pole: Franek, a former student in Warsaw.
Juliek explained to me, "We work in a warehouse of electrical materials, not far from here. The work is neither difficult nor dangerous. Only Idek, the Kapo, occasionally has fits of madness, and then you'd better stay out of his way.“
”You are lucky, little fellow,“ said Hans, smiling. ”You fell into a good Kommando…“
Ten minutes later, we stood in front of the warehouse. A German employee, a civilian, the Meister, came to meet us. He paid as much attention to us as would a shopkeeper receiving a delivery of old rags.
Our comrades were right. The work was not difficult. Sitting on the ground, we counted bolts, bulbs, and various small electri- cal parts. The Kapo launched into a lengthy explanation of the importance of this work, warning us that anyone who proved to be lazy would be held accountable. My new comrades reassured me:
”Don't worry. He has to say this because of the Meister.“
There were many Polish civilians here and a few French- women as well. The women silently greeted the musicians with their eyes.
Franek, the foreman, assigned me to a corner:
”Don't kill yourself. There's no hurry. But watch out. Don't let an SS catch you.“
”Please, sir…I'd like to be near my father.“
”All right. Your father will work here, next to you."
We were lucky.
Two boys came to join our group: Yossi and Tibi, two brothers from Czechoslovakia whose parents had been exterminated in Birkenau. They lived for each other, body and soul.
They quickly became my friends. Having once belonged to a Zionist youth organization, they knew countless Hebrew songs. And so we would sometimes hum melodies evoking the gentle waters of the Jordan River and the majestic sanctity of Jerusalem. We also spoke often about Palestine. Their parents, like mine, had not had the courage to sell everything and emigrate while there was still time. We decided that if we were allowed to live until the Liberation, we would not stay another day in Europe. We would board the first ship to Haifa.
Still lost in his Kabbalistic dreams, Akiba Drumer had discovered a verse from the Bible which, translated into numbers, made it possible for him to predict Redemption in the weeks to come.
WE HAD LEFT THE TENTS for the musicians' block. We now were entitled to a blanket, a washbowl, and a bar of soap. The Blockälteste was a German Jew.
It was good to have a Jew as your leader. His name was Alphonse. A young man with a startlingly wizened face. He was totally devoted to defending “his” block. Whenever he could, he would “organize” a cauldron of soup for the young, for the weak, for all those who dreamed more of an extra portion of food than of liberty.
ONE DAY, when we had just returned from the warehouse, I was summoned by the block secretary:
“A-7713?”
“That's me.”
“After your meal, you'll go to see the dentist.”
“But…I don't have a toothache…”
“After your meal. Without fail.”
I went to the infirmary block. Some twenty prisoners were waiting in line at the entrance. It didn't take long to learn the reason for our summons: our gold teeth were to be extracted.
The dentist, a Jew from Czechoslovakia, had a face not unlike a
“Fall in!”
We fell into ranks of five, with the musicians. We left the camp without music but in step. We still had the march in our ears.
“Left, right, left, right!”
We struck up conversations with our neighbors, the musicians. Almost all of them were Jews. Juliek, a Pole with eyeglasses and a cynical smile in a pale face. Louis, a native of Holland, a well- known violinist. He complained that they would not let him play Beethoven; Jews were not allowed to play German music. Hans, the young man from Berlin, was full of wit. The foreman was a Pole: Franek, a former student in Warsaw.
Juliek explained to me, "We work in a warehouse of electrical materials, not far from here. The work is neither difficult nor dangerous. Only Idek, the Kapo, occasionally has fits of madness, and then you'd better stay out of his way.“
”You are lucky, little fellow,“ said Hans, smiling. ”You fell into a good Kommando…“
Ten minutes later, we stood in front of the warehouse. A German employee, a civilian, the Meister, came to meet us. He paid as much attention to us as would a shopkeeper receiving a delivery of old rags.
Our comrades were right. The work was not difficult. Sitting on the ground, we counted bolts, bulbs, and various small electri- cal parts. The Kapo launched into a lengthy explanation of the importance of this work, warning us that anyone who proved to be lazy would be held accountable. My new comrades reassured me:
”Don't worry. He has to say this because of the Meister.“
There were many Polish civilians here and a few French- women as well. The women silently greeted the musicians with their eyes.
Franek, the foreman, assigned me to a corner:
”Don't kill yourself. There's no hurry. But watch out. Don't let an SS catch you.“
”Please, sir…I'd like to be near my father.“
”All right. Your father will work here, next to you."
We were lucky.
Two boys came to join our group: Yossi and Tibi, two brothers from Czechoslovakia whose parents had been exterminated in Birkenau. They lived for each other, body and soul.
They quickly became my friends. Having once belonged to a Zionist youth organization, they knew countless Hebrew songs. And so we would sometimes hum melodies evoking the gentle waters of the Jordan River and the majestic sanctity of Jerusalem. We also spoke often about Palestine. Their parents, like mine, had not had the courage to sell everything and emigrate while there was still time. We decided that if we were allowed to live until the Liberation, we would not stay another day in Europe. We would board the first ship to Haifa.
Still lost in his Kabbalistic dreams, Akiba Drumer had discovered a verse from the Bible which, translated into numbers, made it possible for him to predict Redemption in the weeks to come.
WE HAD LEFT THE TENTS for the musicians' block. We now were entitled to a blanket, a washbowl, and a bar of soap. The Blockälteste was a German Jew.
It was good to have a Jew as your leader. His name was Alphonse. A young man with a startlingly wizened face. He was totally devoted to defending “his” block. Whenever he could, he would “organize” a cauldron of soup for the young, for the weak, for all those who dreamed more of an extra portion of food than of liberty.
ONE DAY, when we had just returned from the warehouse, I was summoned by the block secretary:
“A-7713?”
“That's me.”
“After your meal, you'll go to see the dentist.”
“But…I don't have a toothache…”
“After your meal. Without fail.”
I went to the infirmary block. Some twenty prisoners were waiting in line at the entrance. It didn't take long to learn the reason for our summons: our gold teeth were to be extracted.
The dentist, a Jew from Czechoslovakia, had a face not unlike a
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