After that first week on the block of the zugangen I felt myself reaching the limits of my endurance. I knew that I would not be able to manage. I would simply be crushed by those who were stronger than I. I was hungry. All around me raged an animalistic struggle for existence, a battle for a little bit of watery soup, even for a little bit of water. I was cold during the day and cold at night. I hatched all sorts of plots in my sick head. I wanted to do something that would attract the attention of some noble soul who must have existed there, though I could not imagine how. I could not decide what I should do, and I did not find that noble soul. I was dying, perishing in this terrible world.
Then I decided to commit suicide. Truly, there was no other way out. This may appear strange, but what bothered me most in my desperate situation were the naked decaying corpses lying in front of the block. Every morning the sztubowa pulled dead women out of the beds. She immediately stripped them naked, dragged them through the whole block, and heaved them into the mud. As she dragged them through the block by one hand you could hear the bones crack, and the loosely hanging heads banged on the cement. I thought in despair that these might have been highly intelligent, talented beings—actresses, painters, poets. Or maybe they were just women who loved and who were loved in return. Maybe they had children to whom they were most beautiful. Maybe they were dreamers. Maybe they believed in miracles that would redeem them from this Hell. But no miracle had occurred, and now they were being dragged through the mud without honor and without pity.
I was frightened by the thought that tomorrow they would be dragging me through the block, a nameless dishonored corpse, unmourned by anyone. Although I did not believe in life after death, still I trembled at the thought of what was going to happen to me after I died.
I decided that on the coming Thursday I would make an end of it. I twined a shirt into a rope, which I intended to slip around my neck after everyone was asleep. After roll call, half frozen, I curled up on the upper bunk and listened to the women around me gossiping. I was listening, but I heard nothing. Having made my decision I felt serene. The young Greek girl, sad as always, was sitting next to me. She scratched herself nervously, tormented by a rash.
“If the Germans were to see the rash they would send me to the gas right away,” she whispered with fear. “If you could give me some ointment I would smear it on, and in a couple of days I would be healthy.”
Sorry. I had no ointment. I answered her request politely, but my thoughts were far away from the world that surrounded me. I was thinking about my own death, feeling its cold breath washing over me. High on the ceiling burned a small lamp; the whole block was submerged in half darkness.
Suddenly a familiar voice broke through the wall of consciousness. Someone was standing at my bed, someone familiar and close. Who could it be? I bent over, violently, and saw Sonia Ro-zawska. At the sight of me, Sonia became quiet. I did not have to say anything. She saw my strength ebbing. The entire nervous strain of the last few weeks rose to the surface at this moment. I sank into unconsciousness.
From 1938 to 1939 Sonia and I both had been prisoners in the Fordonia prison. We had been political prisoners. Later on, when the Russians controlled Bialystok, we both taught in the Bialystok school. In August 1941 we found ourselves prisoners again, this time in the Bialystok Ghetto. At that time we both joined the Jewish anti-Hitler volunteer army. In February 1943, during the first aktzia, the Germans took Sonia. It seems that she was sent directly to Auschwitz. She had been here for a year by this time. She knew the camp and the people, and she had become adept at living in this Hell.
Sonia had hair, warm clothes, and boots. By our standards she looked well fed.
“Don’t torment yourself,” Sonia whispered in my ear. “We will have you out of here by tomorrow. We will ‘organize’ a warm sweater and boots for you. I will bring food for you. Do you know why I came here? To find friends and help them as much as we can. There are many of our people in the camp—meaning the international anti-Hitler organization. We are not without our means, even in this Hell.”
She ran quickly, because she lived quite a distance from our block, but she returned after a short interval. She brought a sweater, boots, and some bread. Now the sztubowa took notice of me; she asked me if I wanted to sleep next to her. Now I was somebody. I had protectors. Now it was not a bad idea to stay on good terms with me.
“Did you get your supper?” the sztubowa asked.
God! How base everything was. Sonia left after a short while because she had to get back before they closed the gate.
“Things will be different tomorrow,” Sonia told me before she left. “Just keep calm. You have a lot of acquaintances whom you’ll see tomorrow.”
I hid the noose that was waiting to deliver me under the mattress, and I fell asleep with hope in my heart. I felt so good that I began to thaw from inner warmth.
“Things will be different tomorrow.” Those were prophetic words though Sonia did not imagine how things would be different. Right after roll call the block was closed. No one was permitted to leave. “Blocksperre”—so it was called in camp language. The blokowa stood guard at the gate so that nobody could slip away. The sztubowe chased us from the beds and started to line us up in pairs.
“Selection!” The word passed from mouth to mouth. They will look us over, examine us carefully from all angles; some will be chosen to live and others to die. “Selection!” We repeat that terrible word. No one was yelling; no one was crying; no one was trying to defend herself. What was keeping us back? Was it the fear of that kind of death that could be terrible? Perhaps the icy breath of death takes away a human being’s ability to act. Maybe one simply does not want to fight, just to live among the people who created this kind of a world.
I knew that for me selection meant death. Nevertheless, I was serene. I observed objectively everything that was happening around me. Even the yelling of the sztubowe, who were doing their best to make sure that we would take our last walk in an orderly fashion, came to me as if from a distance.
Finally, we were taken to the baths. We walked into a tremendous circle made by all the sztubowe holding each other by the hand, making sure that none of us would slip out of the circle. Later the blokowe kept counting and re-counting us for a long time, and no matter how they counted there was always one number missing. Two of the sztubowe tore off in the direction of the block, and a minute later they returned leading an eighty-year-old woman who had no idea what was happening around her. They laughed with pleasure at having found their lost sheep so quickly, and they were satisfied that everything was proceeding so smoothly. Without a shade of sadness or scruple they were dragging this defenseless old lady by the arms, her head hanging down as if she were a manikin, leading her to certain death.
The first few pairs went to the baths. Right at the entrance you had to undress completely. Then you had to walk past the table where the commandant of the camp and the camp doctors sat, with the blood sucker Mengele at the head. The condemned person’s number was recorded, and then, after the inspection, the condemned person had to take a different door leading to the other side of the bath. There nobody guarded them. The doorlatch fell.
Anxiety grew among the women as they watched the procession going to the bath. Some tried to run away, to slip through the circle of hands that surrounded them. The blokowe yelled and beat them mercilessly. I stood in line, waiting my turn. What was happening around me was so terrible that I could not make myself believe it was real. At one point I noticed that the little Greek girl hid behind an old chest that was standing not too far away. She did not want to die, but she knew that if the German doctors saw the scabs on her body they would send her to the gas, even though her rash could be cured in a few days. I did not look in her direction, though I knew that they would find her and push her into the bath. They did find her. They dragged the beautiful little girl out of her hiding place and pushed her into the bath. Not long after, I looked up to the second floor. A window opened and the little Greek girl jumped out, a rag thrown across her naked body. She fell, then got up and quickly started to run away, but the sztubowe descended on her. They beat her, at the same time screaming: “What do you think, you stinker? You think that I’m going to go to the gas for you?” They dragged her into the bath for the last judgment.