Now they were standing stark naked in the burning sun, which beat down on their bodies for hours while the rituals to turn them into Häftlinge were completed.

Standing behind a long bench were six barbers, who cut off their hair and shaved their heads and bodies. They didn’t ask if Sir would care for some powder or a scalp massage. They were rough, annoyed at having so much work to do on a hot afternoon. With their blunt razors they tore out the hair more than shaving it off, and they manhandled and sometimes hit anybody who didn’t turn and twist enough to let them get everywhere easily. When the barber had finished, you got a note with a number to take to the tattooist. Hans got 150822.

He just smiled scornfully as the number was jabbed into the skin of his arm. Now he was no longer Dr. van Dam; he was Häftling no. 150822. What did he care, as long as he could one day become Dr. van Dam again? If he could only become Dr. van Dam again.

And then that thought was there again, rolling back and forth in his head like an enormous ball and making a sound like a gramophone spinning out of control. Until a thump from behind brought him back to his senses.

They went into the washroom about fifty at a time. Inside were rows of showers next to each other. Three men had to share each shower, which gave a trickle of lukewarm water: too cold to soak off the dust and summer sweat, too hot to freshen up. Then a man wearing big rubber gloves came and smeared stinking disinfectant under their arms and over their pubic area with a single swipe.

After they had been sprayed with a Flit gun,³ they were rein, which was a far cry from what we would call “clean.” They were still half wet and sticky from sweat and disinfectant. Their skin was burning and the nicks and scrapes from being shaved smarted, but at least they were free of lice and fleas.

It was not easy to quickly find something that fitted in the large piles of clothing. The corridor of the Bekleidungskammer, as Block 27 was called, was dark when you came in from the bright sunlight and you had no idea what to actually take. You were pushed, shoved, and yelled at, and if that didn’t make you go fast enough, they hit you until you had gathered up some clothes. An undershirt, a coat, and a pair of linen trousers, a hat and a pair of wooden shoes or sandals. They weren’t given enough time to find the right sizes and looked like clowns in their convict uniforms.

One man’s calves were showing; another was stumbling over his trousers. One was missing one of his coat sleeves; another had to roll his up. But all of the clothes had one thing in common—they were all equally dirty and patched, cobbled together from pieces of blue-and-white striped material.

Now dressed, they were standing in front of the block again. The day was almost over, but the heat of late summer was still weighing heavily on the camp. They were hungry and thirsty, but no one was brave enough to ask for anything. They waited for another hour in Birkenallee, the street that ran behind the blocks: sitting on the edges of the pavement and on the benches by the strips of lawn, or simply lying stretched out on the street, exhausted and overcome by the misery they had been plunged into.

Registration tables had been set up in the street. All conceivable facts, personal or otherwise, were noted down: professional and other characteristics, particularly diseases—tuberculosis, venereal diseases—and once again the familiar questions about nationality and the number of Jewish grandparents.

Hans was talking to Eli Polak, a fellow doctor. Eli was a broken man. He had seen his wife when the trucks were at the train. She had fainted and they had thrown her onto the back of a truck, followed by their child.

“I’ll never see them again.”

Hans felt incapable of consoling him. He couldn’t lie. “You don’t know that,” he answered, but with little conviction.

“Have you heard what happens in Birkenau?”

“What’s Birkenau?” Hans asked.

“Birkenau is an enormous camp,” Eli answered. “It’s part of the whole Auschwitz complex. On arrival they tell all the old people and all the children they have to shower and take them into a big room. In reality, they gas them. Then they burn the bodies.”

“But it won’t be like that with all of them,” Hans said, forcing himself to comfort him.

Then the soup arrived. Three kettles. Everyone was supposed to get one liter. They queued up in a long line. A few of the pushiest helped dole it out. They ate from large metal bowls, dented, with bare patches in the enamel. As there weren’t enough bowls to go round, they put two liters in each bowl and you had to share it with someone. There were also spoons. About twenty. Those who didn’t get a spoon had to drink from the bowl. That wasn’t difficult. The soup was only thin. It had the odd hard bit floating in it and there were discussions as to whether they were beech or elm leaves. But none of that mattered. Most of them were still well nourished, and then it doesn’t make much difference whether you get a liter of hot water or a liter of food in your stomach.

Suddenly they were being hurried up: “Quick, it’s almost roll call!” They slurped down the hot soup as fast as they could and were taken to a large wooden warehouse that had been built between two blocks. It was a laundry. In one half, clothes were being washed in big cauldrons; in the other there were showers. Hans counted one hundred and forty-four. Along the walls were benches where people could get undressed. They sat on the benches and waited.

They heard that after the roll call, which was held outside at that time, they would be traveling on to Buna. The man from the administration who told them was bombarded with questions: “What is that, Buna?” “Is it good there?” “Do you get soup like this there too?”

He said it was all right. You had to work in a synthetic rubber factory. The food was good there because you were in the service of an industrial concern. The man gave a knowing smile.

Hans discovered a Belgian.

“Have you been here long?”

“A year.”

“Is it possible to stick it out?”

“Sometimes. If you’re lucky and get into a good Kommando.”

“What’s a good Kommando?”

“The laundry or the hospital or something like that. Almost all of the Kommandos that stay in the camp in the daytime are good. The food Kommandos too. But as a Jew you don’t stand a chance of them.”

“I’m a doctor. Could I get into the hospital?”

“Didn’t you tell them you were a doctor?”

“Yes, but they brushed me off. Where do they take the women?”

“The women from this transport were brought into the camp. There’s a women’s block here where they do all kinds of experiments.” Hans’s heart stood still. Friedel, here in this camp. Experiments! What could that mean?

He told the Belgian about Friedel and asked him if he would take a message to her, as he himself would be leaving for Buna. The Belgian said it was extremely difficult because it was very dangerous to go near the women’s block. Just then an SS man came in. They all jumped up, as they had been taught. He asked the big question: “Are there any doctors here?”

Three of them leapt forward: Hans, Eli Polak, and a young fellow they didn’t know.

The SS man asked how long they had been practicing medicine. The young chap turned out to be a junior doctor. Eli had been a GP for eight years. The SS man sent Eli back to the others: “You’re going to Buna with them.” He took Hans and the younger man away with him.