He had been in Block 28 for a fortnight when instructions came one afternoon: “All Reservepfleger fall in.”

What was it this time? The Blockältester came into admissions with a well-dressed Häftling, a real prominent. The man was wearing a black jacket and a black beret. His striped trousers were of a woolly material. The full prominent style. They talked a little between themselves and the stranger said that he could use five of them.

“Take six,” the Blockältester said. “Otherwise I’ll never get rid of them.”

They picked out six of the lads, including four Dutchmen: Hans; the young psychologist Gerard van Wijk; Tony Haaksteen, who had a bachelor’s in medicine; and Van Lier, the junior doctor. They had to gather up their things and go with the man, who turned out to be the new Blockältester of Block 9. He was friendly and told them that he had already spent nine years in concentration camps. As a Communist he had been picked up in the first year of Hitler’s regime. He was now fifty.

“Oh, camp life’s bearable once you’ve got a bit used to it. You know, ninety percent die in the first year, but if you get through that, you can manage the rest too. You get used to the food, you get clothes that are a little better and once you’re an Alter Häftling, the SS has a bit of respect for you.”

“But don’t you want to get out again?” Hans asked.

“Wanting it’s one thing. It’s not so much fun on the outside either. I’m a carpenter. Am I supposed to start all over again with a boss at my age? In the camp I’m my own boss.”

“I thought the SS was the boss.”

“Oh, they’re all little brats. I was already in Oranienburg⁴ when they were still in nappies. The camp isn’t a camp anymore. It’s a sanatorium. You’re Dutch, aren’t you? I’ve had dealings with Dutchmen before. That was, let me see, in 1941 in Buchenwald. Four hundred Dutch Jews. I was Blockältester in the quarantine block. They were with me for three months and had already got a bit used to it. I made sure they didn’t have to work too hard. After all, they were better lads than the Poles and their sort. Then the whole troop was suddenly sent to Mauthausen. I heard later that they ended up in a gravel pit. Carting gravel up the slope at double time the whole day long. The toughest ones stuck it out for five weeks.”

He was right. Hans remembered the story from Amsterdam. In February Hendrik Koot, a member of the WA, was beaten to death in the Jewish quarter. In retaliation the Grüne Polizei rounded up four hundred young men off the streets. A couple of months later the first death notices came. The others didn’t last much longer.

Meanwhile they had arrived at Block 9. They had to wait in the corridor for a while and were then shown into Room 1.

Sitting on the other side of the table was a short, thickset man wearing a red triangle with a P on it. A Polish political prisoner, in other words. He had a round fat head and a hard mouth, but a gentle, somewhat distracted look in his eyes. Nervously he fidgeted with a pencil. He was sure to have been through a lot and might have been in the camp a long time too.

The lads had to report to him one by one. As the acting Blockältester and senior doctor in the block, he would be allocating the jobs.

First up was Tony Haaksteen. Was he a doctor? He tried to evade the question a little. Then the block doctor asked him how old he was. Twenty-two. The bystanders laughed and there were mumbled comments along the lines of blöde Holländer. Then it was the turn of Gerard van Wijk, who said that he had studied medicine and was now a psychologist. The block doctor didn’t entirely understand. So he was a psychiatrist? Gerard didn’t dare say no.

“Go to Room 3 then. To your compatriot Polak—they couldn’t use him in Buna. That’s where the madmen are.”

Hans felt like the ground had been cut from under his feet. After all, he had been a psychiatric intern for two years and was a lot closer to being a psychiatrist than Gerard, the theoretician. But trying to compete didn’t seem sensible. Maybe Gerard’s only chance was as a “psychiatrist.” Accordingly, Hans called himself an internist.

“Fine,” the boss said. “Just stay here, in this room. This is the admissions doctor, Ochodsky. You can assist him a bit.” Van Lier didn’t get a hearing. The Blockältester from 28 had already told his new colleague at 9 that Van Lier had a foot wound. As a result he had to go to a hospital ward first until the wound had healed.

Hans was delighted. Assisting the admissions doctor—that had to be a good job.

He still hadn’t grasped anything about how things worked. Who practiced medicine in the Lager? The lads of eighteen and twenty who ruled the roost in outpatients and sold the medicine for cigarettes and margarine. Not to those who needed it, but to those who could afford it.

Who was in charge of Block 9? Not the Blockältester and the Blockarzt, but the quartermaster and his cronies: Polish ruffians in cohorts with the odd Russian.

Medical work? Dr. Ochodsky, who was good to the bone, had nothing to do himself. There were about ten admissions a day and Ochodsky told them which ward to go to. That was five minutes’ work; otherwise he spent the whole day on his bed. When the doorkeeper raised the alarm, he knew an SS man was approaching and quickly began examining someone. No, there wasn’t any medical work, but there was enough work. Still, Block 9 had another, inestimable advantage. After all, as sure as night follows day, 9 is always followed by 10!