One day, the SS marched us to a large tract of land that was overgrown with scrub and full of large tree stumps. We were directed to clear the entire area and level the soil because they wanted to use the land for growing grain and mustard. Although the hot sun beat down on us, the fresh air was invigorating and it didn’t seem that this work would be as rigorous as our former jobs. We had space to move around and we could use the bushes as a sort of a camouflage so we were not under the constant surveillance of the Kapo or the Kommandant. The guards and their attack dogs were spread out along the perimeter of the work area, and while I could not see them, I knew they were constantly patrolling in a circle. I thought of trying to escape, but I soon realized that there was no chance of success. Being under constant watch was like having a ball and chain around my neck. The Kapo drove us mercilessly to work at a fast pace, but we had some respite because he had such a large zone to patrol.
The SS divided us into units to perform different tasks, such as cutting bushes and hauling the branches to an area designated for burning. Others levelled the land or filled ditches with soil. My unit of four was ordered to dig out the roots of the large stumps. Two of us had pickaxes to loosen the soil and two of us had shovels to remove it. We were to dig in a circle around the stumps so that the roots could be exposed and severed, and then remove the stumps. I estimated that we would be doing this work for about one week.
Around noon each day, a horse-drawn cart brought canisters of watery soup and we had thirty minutes of rest. Lunch was always a risky time because of the jostling and shoving for position. Your spot in the lineup often determined how thick, and therefore how filling, your meal was. We were like ravenous wolves desperate for sustenance. If a prisoner was in the good graces of the person ladling the soup, he had a chance to get more of the vegetables that settled at the bottom of the canister. I told myself that if I survived, I would never, ever stand in line for anything again. I felt that there was no humanity here, only degradation, dehumanization, and the desire to grind us away, body and soul. We were forced to fight over soup so that we could go on.
One day while I was savouring my watery soup, I heard the whistle of a locomotive a short distance away. We were on a plateau near a river and some railway tracks, and I was eager to see what was coming our way. When the locomotive drew near, I could see that it was pulling many flat cars. Each flat car carried two big tanks, and on each tank there were soldiers in black SS overalls. They were singing, laughing, and waving as they went by. My thoughts turned inward, and I wished that I were free to sing and laugh as they did. I had not laughed once since my arrival in this harsh world two months earlier. But then I realized that these soldiers were going east to face the tank units of the Russian Red Army, and I wondered if they’d be laughing then.
After eating our soup, we continued to dig until the Kapo told us to assemble and be counted for the march back to the camp. I was tired, thirsty, and in need of sustenance. I was looking forward to the evening cup of ersatz coffee, a thin slice of bread, and a tiny square of margarine, as well as being able to rest on my wooden bunk.
By now, we were a seasoned marching unit, with the Kapo calling out the orders and setting the pace. We sang German marching songs as we went. The marching and singing helped me feel more normal, and empowered me to go on from day to day in this distressful situation. It also showed our guards that we could not be beaten down; in fact, they had to hustle to keep up with our pace. If the wind was blowing in our direction, I could hear the sound of the camp orchestra as we neared. More and more, this music was an integral part of my camp life. Like the coffee and the bit of bread, it sustained me.
The next day, we were working in a deep cavity we’d dug; all the excavated soil formed a mound that hid us from view. This gave us a feeling of security, and we let down our guard. It was a dangerous mistake, because the mound also prevented us from seeing if anyone was approaching. At one point, we were loafing carelessly, holding our tools in our hands, when suddenly two of my co-workers jumped up and furiously started to work again. I felt a blow on the back of my head. Although I did not feel any pain, there was a buzz in my ears and a feeling of dizziness overcame me. When I tried to pick up my shovel to resume working, I felt something warm dripping down my neck and I saw blood. I turned around to see an SS guard standing behind me, and I realized that I had received a blow from the butt of his gun. Our eyes locked for a second and I saw his twisted, evil grimace. I thought I was looking at the devil.
Blood continued to pour from the wound, and I went into shock and collapsed. The other prisoners hauled me out of the pit and threw me into a nearby ditch to keep me out of the way until the end of the day. The blood continued to ooze out of the wound, and eventually the under-Kapo, a man named Stasek, approached. He tore off a piece of my prisoner garb and told me to urinate on it and then put it on the back of my head. This bandage eventually stopped the bleeding, and I was thankful to him. Without his assistance and advice, I would not have made it back to camp.
I was no longer able to participate in the work detail. I tried, but my feet would not cooperate and my legs couldn’t hold me up. My thoughts ran on like a movie, a retrospective of my life up until that moment. I recalled my father’s parting words—about telling the world what happened at Auschwitz—and I knew I would not be able to fulfil his final wish. My demise would be the end of the family Eisen.
When it came time for lunch, I watched from the ditch as the soup was ladled out, but I could not go there and no one would bring any to me. I was simply written off. At some point, Kommandant Kuntz probably received a report that our unit was down one prisoner, and he came to have a look at me. I thought he would pull his pistol from his holster and shoot me on the spot. Instead, he signalled with his right hand, his finger pointing up in a circular motion, meaning that I was going to go up the chimney of the crematorium. I understood that my fate was sealed. A feeling of helplessness and fright overtook me. How could I prepare myself to face the gas chamber? I would be reduced to a simple pile of ashes. I had always planned, as a last resort, to run to the electrified fence and die by my own action, but this was no longer an option because I had lost my mobility. I began to wish that the Kommandant had put a bullet in my head. I thought of my family and how they must have felt while facing their own demise. When my mother entered the gas chamber, she had my three siblings in her care. How she must have fought until the last breath in that horrible chamber. What would it be like for me? Slow or fast? Would my soul leave my body? Would I meet my family again? Would they all be waiting for me? How would I know them? What shape or form would they be in? I felt utterly alone, with no one to take care of or comfort me. No one could save me.
At the end of the day, our work unit was lined up and counted. All the tools were loaded on the two-wheeled cart, and I was thrown on top. As the unit proceeded to march back to camp, I was acutely aware of what I saw and heard around me; it was the last time I would experience any of it. The cart was left in a shed with all the tools in it, and two inmates took hold of my arms and dragged me a short distance through the gates of the camp. Under-Kapo Stasek directed them to the hospital in barrack 21, where I was left in a hallway, near the surgery room.