One day after coming back from work, I saw my father and my uncle waiting for me inside the gate, just as they always did. My unit was always the last to get back in the evening, and they never failed to wait for my return. A few times, they had managed to bring back a piece of bread or a potato from a work detail, and they always shared their good fortune with me. The risk of doing this was great. As the prisoners came marching back to camp, the SS sergeant in charge of the gate scrutinized each one in search of contraband. If he saw any suspicious behaviour, he would yell to the prisoner to lift up his hands. If the man had anything hidden under his armpit, it would immediately fall out. The sergeant would take offenders out of the column and record their tattoo and barracks numbers. At appel, the punishment would be meted out: sometimes lashes from a whip, and sometimes reassignment to a penal unit (Strafkommando). Inmates in penal units were subjected to severe beatings from the Kapos and their lifespans were greatly reduced. In spite of these dangers, prisoners who managed to find scraps of food would always take the risk of trying to smuggle them into the camp. We were constantly on the lookout for items that might improve our chances of survival.
All the belongings of the newly arriving deportees were collected at the rail platform in Auschwitz II–Birkenau and sent for sorting at a special building that came to be known as Kanada. Meats and other food items also ended up in Kanada, where inmate workers sorted through them. Sometimes food items were used to hide valuables—a coin might be hidden in a bread roll, for example. Inmates were allowed to eat the food but were forbidden to take any currency, gold, or jewellery. All valuable items were collected by an SS guard called the Bookkeeper.* On this particular day, my father’s unit was working near the Kanada building when a girl from our town recognized him. Having liberal access to food supplies in the luggage, she was able to find a chunk of bacon and managed to slip it to him wrapped in a rag. It was a totally unexpected act of kindness. My father, at great personal risk, smuggled the bacon into Auschwitz I under his jacket, then slipped it to me while we were standing in a huddle. My uncle blocked the view so that nobody would see this transfer. I was surprised to find myself holding a piece of bacon in my hand. We were a traditional Orthodox family, so we did not eat pork of any kind. And yet my father told me that I must eat a little piece of it every day. He and Uncle Eugene, who must have been just as hungry as I, would not break with their religious beliefs, and I marvelled at their strength. But my father told me that this was a matter of life and death, and I must choose life.
As slave labourers, we had no lockers to store things, but I had managed to dislodge one of the ceiling tiles above my bunk in the barracks, creating a small space where I hid a few odds and ends, including pieces of rag. I stashed the bacon in the space behind this tile. For the next several nights, I waited until everyone was asleep and then, when I was certain that nobody could observe me, dislodged the tile and pulled out my secret treasure. Without a knife or any other utensils, I chewed off a small piece of the bacon. I could actually feel the energy flowing into my body from this sustenance. Every night, I had another bite—just a small shot of energy—and I am positive that this little bit of protein gave me the strength I needed to face the next day.