It took about a week to harvest all the mustard (although it felt like an eternity), and after that we returned to Budy to pick up our tools for the next assignment. Shovels and hoes were loaded on a two-wheeled cart and brought to a large swampy area, where we were split into two groups. The first group was forced to dig trenches on the edge of the swamp, while the other group, which included me, waded in with boots on to dig channels to direct the water into the perimeter ditch. The sun was burning hot, and my boots and trousers were soon wet and full of mud. Despite all the water around us, we weren’t able to drink it because it could cause dysentery, which was often fatal. I had thought the mustard fields were awful, but this was much, much worse.
During our lunch break, my father, my uncle, and I sat together as a family, just as we did every day. The Kapo, Heinrich, must have noticed this, though, because he stood right in front of us and asked my father to identify the person next to him, pointing to my uncle. My father said it was his brother. Then he pointed at me and asked who I was. My father said I was his son. I feared that this was not going to end well.
I had taken my boots off during lunch to try to get the mud out of them, and so I was barefoot when the Kapo yelled at us to get our hoes and get back to work. I rushed to get my boots on while still sitting on the ground, but I wasn’t quick enough for Heinrich, who expected his orders to be followed immediately. He began to beat me with his truncheon. I thought my bones were going to crack, but I didn’t utter a sound. I had noticed that when the Kapo was beating others, he would pile it on even harder if they yelled out from the pain or begged him to stop. I kept my mouth shut, hoping that he would be more quickly satisfied and would leave me alone. When he was finished with the beating, I grabbed my tools and my boots and ran into the swamp to continue working. This was the first serious beating I’d received in Auschwitz. I was sore and had welts all over my body, but thankfully nothing was broken. Still, I felt violated and humiliated.
The next day, Heinrich went after my father, giving him his own terrible beating. When I saw his pain, I was frustrated that I could do nothing to help him. Later that day, when we returned to camp, my father suggested that we split up, so as not to present an obvious family group. He believed that the Kapo was attacking us because he feared our family unit would strengthen the ties between us. My father thought that if we didn’t split up, we would not be able to survive the daily beatings.
Two days later, my father and uncle managed to get into another work unit; I remained with Kapo Heinrich. I don’t know how my father and uncle managed to change work units, but it meant that they were moved to a different barracks. For me, this was the start of a new chapter. At fifteen and a half, I was completely on my own during the day, and I had only a few hours to spend with my father and Uncle Eugene before evening lockdown. I was worried about how I would manage without my two guardians, but I was determined to show my father that I had the wherewithal to survive on my own.
After a few days of working in the swamps, my feet were bearing the brunt of the labour. Standing in water all day made my boots soggy, and I couldn’t remove them until I got back into my bunk. By the morning, when the boots had dried, it was very difficult to get my feet back into them. I had to force them, and I could no longer use the piece of rag that I had previously wrapped around my feet in place of socks. My heels rubbed against the boots and soon became a bloody mess. With constantly bleeding heels, I had trouble walking. I didn’t know how to deal with this problem, which was very worrying because without your feet, you were in big trouble. Every morning, I woke up and focused on making it through the day. My father had always told me to put one foot in front of the other, and this was the advice I repeated to myself constantly.
After a while my heels miraculously healed and I was able to wrap them with a piece of cloth to protect them. In the camp, you had to be inventive and use your smarts to survive. I didn’t want my father to worry, so I never told him about my injured feet. And soon I had another concern: by the end of June, I was covered with painful boils from lack of vitamins. My body was screaming for protein, but there was none to be had. My bodily functions were also changing—something I’d observed in many older inmates, who simply could not control their bladders. I began to have the same problems, and soon I found myself climbing down from the top bunk in the middle of the night to rush to the washroom. When we’d first arrived in the camp, my father had said that we should take the top bunks even though it would be harder to get into them as our bodies got weaker. I realized now that being up top at least shielded us from the accidents of those who couldn’t make it to the washroom.
Food was the foremost item on our agenda. We thought about it during the day and dreamt about it during the night. I constantly fantasized about meals I’d had at home. I remembered how much I’d hated my mother’s tomato soup with rice, but now I thought how wonderful it would be to have a bowl. I told G-d that if I survived and got out of this place, I would be a very good person. I would live happily in a forest alone, and a piece of bread, a potato, and a glass of milk would be a dream come true.
The nights were the time when memories of home and family came flooding back to my mind. How long had it been since I’d left? It was only a couple of months, but it seemed like a thousand years. I could see my family, the faces of each one of them. I didn’t want to forget what they looked like or what they had taught me. But at the same time, I knew that if I let my thoughts get too carried away, I would become very vulnerable. So I made myself stop remembering and then was able to sleep more soundly. Still, it always seemed that mornings came much too early, and the Kapo’s harsh voice screaming at us to get down from our bunks was a most unwelcome greeting to a new day.
As the days dragged on, I noticed some men with glazed eyes, acting like drunken people who could no longer follow orders. They were beaten, but it made no difference. They had simply given up on living. Inevitably, these men were singled out and taken to the gas chambers. I didn’t know about depression at my age, so I worried that the behaviour of these men was somehow contagious. I resolved not to be stricken with what ailed them. There were many times that I faced desperate situations in the weeks and months that followed, but I was determined to survive.