Sometime in June, our unit was marched to Auschwitz II, where the perimeter fence was being enlarged. It was our job to place the many cement pylons to which the electrified fence wires were connected. It took three inmates to lift one of these pylons, which were enormously heavy. It was crushing work that burdened my entire body, especially my shoulders. Each time we were ready to move a pylon, we counted to three and then lifted in unison. We carried the pylon down into a ditch and then up the other side, and placed it into a pre-dug posthole. If one of us faltered or stumbled, we would all have been crushed by its weight. All the while, the Kapo in charge kept harassing us and shouting, “Faster! Faster!”
By the time we’d placed the first pylon, my body was already depleted, and I wondered how I could possibly lift the next one. It took superhuman effort and concentration just to put one foot in front of the other while this crushing weight threatened to push me to the ground. We were assigned to this job for three consecutive days under the strict surveillance of the Kapo, who watched us for any sign of slack or sabotage. My body screamed for water, nourishment, and rest. When our thirty-minute lunch break came, I savoured every drop of the watery soup and each moment of shade under a birch tree.
While having lunch, I noticed a little curl of smoke rising out of the massive chimney of the crematorium. At first it looked quite harmless, but within minutes it was belching out red, angry flames. On humid days, the smoke would not rise but instead stayed low to cover a large area, and ashes rained down in flakes. The odour of burning flesh settled in my nostrils and made me feel sick. By this time, I was quite familiar with the extermination process. I’d heard stories around camp about the gas chambers, and I knew that the Nazis convinced people to enter by telling them that they were going to shower and be disinfected, creating a false sense of security. Once inside, these people—often two thousand at a time—were put to death with Zyklon B gas. Now, as I watched the smoke leave the chimney, I wondered who was in there and where they’d come from.
One day in late June or the beginning of July, we were marched out to work to the sound of the orchestra and I wondered what surprises were in store for me. It was pouring rain. I was soaked and the water ran down my body into my boots. It was a hot and muggy day, so the rain felt good and we were able to drink it to keep ourselves hydrated. I took off my soaked cap, twisted it, and drank the water I was able to wring from it.
We returned again to the satellite camp, Budy, and I saw that the flat cart was piled with woven straw baskets for some unknown purpose. We were led back to the swamps that we had drained of water a few weeks before. Now the fields were somewhat dry, and there was a mountain of white powder at one side. This chalky substance was the chemical lime (calcium hydroxide), which was used as a fertilizer. We were ordered to load it into the baskets, which quickly became quite heavy because the lime was saturated with rainwater. As soon as we had a full basket, we were directed to the fields we’d drained just a few weeks earlier and were told to apply the lime to the ground. I held the basket on my thigh with my left hand and used my right to scoop out as much as I could to scatter across the field. When the baskets were empty, we walked back and filled them up again. This process went on for many days. The chemical bleached the colour out of our uniforms, and we became known as the Ghost Kommandos.
As the wet lime leached out of the baskets, it went through our jackets and onto our skin. I wanted to scratch my body all over, but that only made it worse—the skin became more irritated, and would crack and bleed. I wondered how I was going to survive this job, but there was no relief. The work detail continued for about a week, until we finished the spreading. By then, the flesh of the fingers on my right hand was eaten away and the skin on my kneecaps was gone, exposing the bone below. I was terrified of being eaten up by this chemical. At the end of each day, I tried to wash it out of my pores, but we had no ointments or treatments to help the skin heal. This was a job that would normally have been done using some sort of equipment, to avoid direct contact with the chemical; however, our health and safety meant nothing to the Nazis. We were expendable.
For the final three days of this detail, we worked near some duck ponds. I could see and hear the ducks as we laboured. At the end of each of the three days, as a form of sport, the Kommandant ordered us to run into the water with our clothes and boots on, and then he told the guards to release their dogs. Those who couldn’t run fast enough were mauled. I was aware that when I hit the water, others would pile on top of me and I could be drowned, so I would always try to outrun the others. On the last day, after jumping into the water, I swam into nearby reeds and found a nest with two large duck eggs. It was a miracle. I knew that eating the eggs was dangerous—if someone saw me, I could be harshly disciplined or killed. But they were such a temptation that I didn’t care about the consequences. I immediately cracked one open and sucked it out. It tasted wonderful and gave me an infusion of strength that my body so badly needed. When I heard the order to get out of the water and line up for counting, I grabbed the second egg and tucked it into my armpit. I was determined to bring it back to camp for my father. But during the march back, the egg broke. I was devastated to lose this gift that I had so wanted to share. Not so long before, losing a single egg would have seemed like nothing to me, but now this loss was almost impossible to bear.