Night (8 page)

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 death mask. When he opened his mouth, one had a ghastly vi- sion of yellow, rotten teeth. Seated in the chair, I asked meekly:

“What are you going to do, sir?”

“I shall remove your gold crown, that's all,” he said, clearly in- different.

I thought of pretending to be sick:

“Couldn't you wait a few days, sir? I don't feel well, I have a fever…”

He wrinkled his brow, thought for a moment, and took my pulse. “All right, son. Come back to see me when you feel better. But don't wait for me to call you!”

I went back to see him a week later. With the same excuse: I still was not feeling better. He did not seem surprised, and I don't know whether he believed me. Yet he most likely was pleased that I had come back on my own, as I had promised. He granted me a further delay.

A few days after my visit, the dentist's office was shut down. He had been thrown into prison and was about to be hanged. It appeared that he had been dealing in the prisoners' gold teeth for his own benefit. I felt no pity for him. In fact, I was pleased with what was happening to him: my gold crown was safe. It could be useful to me one day, to buy something, some bread or even time to live. At that moment in time, all that mattered to me was my daily bowl of soup, my crust of stale bread. The bread, the soup— those were my entire life. I was nothing but a body. Perhaps even less: a famished stomach. The stomach alone was measuring time.

IN THE WAREHOUSE, I often worked next to a young French- woman. We did not speak: she did not know German and I did not understand French.

I thought she looked Jewish, though she passed for “Aryan.” She was a forced labor inmate.

One day when Idek was venting his fury, I happened to cross his path. He threw himself on me like a wild beast, beating me in the chest, on my head, throwing me to the ground and picking me up again, crushing me with ever more violent blows, until I was covered in blood. As I bit my lips in order not to howl with pain, he must have mistaken my silence for defiance and so he continued to hit me harder and harder.

Abruptly, he calmed down and sent me back to work as if nothing had happened. As if we had taken part in a game in which both roles were of equal importance.

I dragged myself to my corner. I was aching all over. I felt a cool hand wiping the blood from my forehead. It was the French girl. She was smiling her mournful smile as she slipped me a crust of bread. She looked straight into my eyes. I knew she wanted to talk to me but that she was paralyzed with fear. She remained like that for some time, and then her face lit up and she said, in almost perfect German:

“Bite your lips, little brother…Don't cry. Keep your anger, your hate, for another day, for later. The day will come but not now…Wait. Clench your teeth and wait…”

MANY YEARS LATER, in Paris, I sat in the Metro, reading my newspaper. Across the aisle, a beautiful woman with dark hair and dreamy eyes. I had seen those eyes before.

“Madame, don't you recognize me?”

“I don't know you, sir.”

“In 1944, you were in Poland, in Buna, weren't you?”

“Yes, but…”

“You worked in a depot, a warehouse for electrical parts…”

“Yes,” she said, looking troubled. And then, after a moment of silence: “Wait…I do remember…”  

“Idek, the Kapo…the young Jewish boy…your sweet words…”

We left the Métro together and sat down at a café terrace. We spent the whole evening reminiscing. Before parting, I said, “May I ask one more question?”

“I know what it is: Am I Jewish…? Yes, I am. From an observant family. During the Occupation, I had false papers and passed as Aryan. And that was how I was assigned to a forced labor unit. When they deported me to Germany, I eluded being sent to a concentration camp. At the depot, nobody knew that I spoke Ger- man; it would have aroused suspicion. It was imprudent of me to say those few words to you, but I knew that you would not betray me…”

ANOTHER TIME we were loading diesel motors onto freight cars under the supervision of some German soldiers. Idek was on edge, he had trouble restraining himself. Suddenly, he exploded. The victim this time was my father.

“You old loafer!” he started yelling. “Is this what you call working?”

And he began beating him with an iron bar. At first, my father simply doubled over under the blows, but then he seemed to break in two like an old tree struck by lightning.

I had watched it all happening without moving. I kept silent. In fact, I thought of stealing away in order not to suffer the blows. What's more, if I felt anger at that moment, it was not directed at the Kapo but at my father. Why couldn't he have avoided Idek's wrath? That was what life in a concentration camp had made of me…

Franek, the foreman, one day noticed the gold crown in my mouth:

“Let me have your crown, kid.”  

I answered that I could not because without that crown I could no longer eat.

“For what they give you to eat, kid…”

I found another answer: my crown had been listed in the register during the medical checkup; this could mean trouble for us both.

“If you don't give me your crown, it will cost you much more!”

All of a sudden, this pleasant and intelligent young man had changed. His eyes were shining with greed. I told him that I needed to get my father's advice.

“Go ahead, kid, ask. But I want the answer by tomorrow.”

When I mentioned it to my father, he hesitated. After a long silence, he said:

“No, my son. We cannot do this.”

“He will seek revenge!”

“He won't dare, my son.”

Unfortunately, Franek knew how to handle this; he knew my weak spot. My father had never served in the military and could not march in step. But here, whenever we moved from one place to another, it was in step. That presented Franek with the opportunity to torment him and, on a daily basis, to thrash him savagely. Left, right: he punched him. Left, right: he slapped him.

I decided to give my father lessons in marching in step, in keeping time. We began practicing in front of our block. I would command: “Left, right!” and my father would try.

The inmates made fun of us: “Look at the little officer, teach- ing the old man to march…Hey, little general, how many rations of bread does the old man give you for this?”

But my father did not make sufficient progress, and the blows continued to rain on him.

“So! You still don't know how to march in step, you old good-for-nothing?”

This went on for two weeks. It was untenable. We had to give in. That day, Franek burst into savage laughter:

“I knew it, I knew that I would win, kid. Better late than never. And because you made me wait, it will also cost you a ration of bread. A ration of bread for one of my pals, a famous den- tist from Warsaw. To pay him for pulling out your crown.”

“What? My ration of bread so that you can have my crown?”

Franek smiled.

“What would you like? That I break your teeth by smashing your face?”

That evening, in the latrines, the dentist from Warsaw pulled my crown with the help of a rusty spoon.

Franek became pleasant again. From time to time, he even gave me extra soup. But it didn't last long. Two weeks later, all the Poles were transferred to another camp. I had lost my crown for nothing.

A FEW DAYS BEFORE the Poles left, I had a novel experience.

It was on a Sunday morning. Our Kommando was not required to work that day. Only Idek would not hear of staying in the camp. We had to go to the depot. This sudden enthusiasm for work astonished us. At the depot, Idek entrusted us to Franek, saying, “Do what you like. But do something. Or else, you'll hear from me…”

And he disappeared.

We didn't know what to do. Tired of huddling on the ground, we each took turns strolling through the warehouse, in the hope of finding something, a piece of bread, perhaps, that a civilian might have forgotten there.

When I reached the back of the building, I heard sounds com- ing from a small adjoining room. I moved closer and had a glimpse of Idek and a young Polish girl, half naked, on a straw mat. Now I understood why Idek refused to leave us in the camp. He moved one hundred prisoners so that he could copulate with this girl! It struck me as terribly funny and I burst out laughing.

Idek jumped, turned and saw me, while the girl tried to cover her breasts. I wanted to run away, but my feet were nailed to the floor. Idek grabbed me by the throat.

Hissing at me, he threatened:

“Just you wait, kid…You will see what it costs to leave your work…You'll pay for this later…And now go back to your place…”

A HALF HOUR BEFORE the usual time to stop work, the Kapo assembled the entire Kommando. Roll call. Nobody understood what was going on. A roll call at this hour? Here? Only I knew. The Kapo made a short speech:

“An ordinary inmate does not have the right to mix into other people's affairs. One of you does not seem to have understood this point. I shall therefore try to make him understand clearly, once and for all.”

I felt the sweat running down my back.

“A-7713!”

I stepped forward. “A crate!” he ordered.

They brought a crate.

“Lie down on it! On your belly!”

I obeyed.

I no longer felt anything except the lashes of the whip.

“One!…Two!…” he was counting.

He took his time between lashes. Only the first really hurt. I heard him count:

“Ten…eleven!…”

His voice was calm and reached me as through a thick wall.

“Twenty-three…”

Two more, I thought, half unconscious.

The Kapo was waiting.

“Twenty-four…twenty-five!”

It was over. I had not realized it, but I had fainted. I came to when they doused me with cold water. I was still lying on the crate. In a blur, I could see the wet ground next to me. Then I heard someone yell. It had to be the Kapo. I began to distinguish what he was shouting:

“Stand up!”

I must have made some movement to get up, but I felt myself fall back on the crate. How I wanted to get up!

“Stand up!” He was yelling even more loudly.

If only I could answer him, if only I could tell him that I could not move. But my mouth would not open.

At Idek's command, two inmates lifted me and led me to him.

“Look me in the eye!”

I looked at him without seeing him. I was thinking of my father. He would be suffering more than I.

“Listen to me, you son of a swine!” said Idek coldly. “So much for your curiosity. You shall receive five times more if you dare tell anyone what you saw! Understood?”

I nodded, once, ten times, endlessly. As if my head had decided to say yes for all eternity.

ONE SUNDAY, as half of our group, including my father, was at work, the others, including me, took the opportunity to stay and rest.