Suddenly a young girl appeared in front of me. Dressed in a sports coat, with a hood on her head, she went down the line asking, in a hushed voice, “Who is a friend of Sonia?” I became proud. Could they mean me? “That’s me,” I said, not completely sure that they really meant me.
She looked at me quickly, as though she could read me completely with this one look. That is how people looked at each other in Auschwitz, as though they undressed each other with a glance. “Come with me,” she whispered. “How can I?” I replied. “The sztubowe.” I was afraid of their blows. “Don’t ask,” she said. “Just come.” I stepped out of the line. The hands of the sztubowe parted before my guide. We stepped outside the chain that surrounded the people condemned to death. Eva (that was the stranger’s name) led me along a narrow path. She took me to the rear of the bath house, where those who had lived through the selection were waiting. I was saved.
We stood there for a long time, shifting from leg to leg, oppressed by cold and fatigue. We waited for the rest of those who were not going to the gas this time. When the selection was finished, we returned to the block. Without a word we lay down on the beds, unable to exert any effort. The sztubowe also sat motionless, dejected and silent. Even those who were familiar with death and with the crimes of Auschwitz saw in the selections the uncertainty of their own existence.
The first day after the selection our block looked terrible. Everyone returned, even those whose number had been written down in the book of death. They had a few days respite from the gas. The little Greek girl was lying on her bunk, injured from her desperate jump through the window. She was inscribed for the gas. Because of some scabs a young beautiful girl would be cut off from life. I did not talk to her, though she lay no more than an arm’s length from me. I was ashamed that I was to live.
There were some other people from Bialystok on the block with me: Sojkow and her two daughters. Mrs. Sojkow was written down for the gas. She was an older woman but full of vigor and initiative. Before the war she had been a small-town merchant. She had been affluent and believed in the might of gold. I remember that in the Bialystok prison she was able to procure bread and ham for her family, her daughters and grandchildren. With the gold that she managed to bring into the cell she was able to bribe the guard to bring her the provisions she needed. But the gold did not help her save her grandchildren: Niunke, a clever eight-year-old, and her two brothers. All of them had been sent to the gas by the Germans. And now Mrs. Sojkow herself was condemned to the gas. Although she was still alive, her two daughters cried over her death. The three of them sat in a tight embrace, crying, and from time to time the mother would interrupt the crying to give them a bit of advice.
Suddenly I saw Sojkow get up and move to my side. It was really hard for me to look at her, her nose sharpened and her mouth tightened with grief. A condemned person, but condemned for what crime? Why did she have to perish like a strangled rat? At this minute I thought it would be more merciful if they were to take them to the gas immediately. Why this waiting for death? Maybe because waiting for death would be even worse than death itself. The old lady sat next to me, a living corpse.
“I don’t know when they will take me,” she started sheepishly. “Please excuse me for any wrong I may have done to you.” In the Bialystok Ghetto we had lived in one room, and yet we never fought. What sins could have been committed against me by this unfortunate lady whom the Nazis would not allow to die a natural death? I reminded myself of a similar scene in Bialystok when the Gestapo lined us all up against the wall with our hands on our necks. We were sure that this was death. At that time, also, Mrs. Sojkow called to the rest of us to forgive her any wrongs she might have committed against us unintentionally. Mrs. Sojkow believed in the world after death, and she wanted to go to heaven unencumbered by sin. What could I tell her? To comfort her by telling her that I thought she had a chance of evading death would have been dishonest, and to talk to her as if she were already a corpse would have been inhuman. For the first time I shed bitter tears.
The subdued murmuring coming from all corners of the block was suddenly interrupted by a desperate yell: “Why was my number written down?” cried Hela from an upper bunk. She was a young and very handsome woman. In the Bialystok Ghetto Mrs. Hela had run a small store out of her apartment. For a few pennies you could buy a piece of bread. In the Bialystok prison they took her four-year-old daughter, and now she was assigned to the gas. “Let the blokowa come here and let her accompany me to the SS men,” Mrs. Hela pleaded. The sztubowe moved in her direction, but with some quick movements she took off her clothes and stood naked in the upper bunk. “Look at me. How could they write down my number?” She spun around, showing her body from all angles, and particularly exhibiting her breasts.
“She is really young and pretty. Why did they write her number down?” I trembled at that terrible logic, as though there were some justification in killing the sick, the elderly, and the unattractive. I looked at the old faces, the bowed heads, and I felt sorry for them. I tried not to think about my own salvation though Eva’s form shimmered before my eyes. I tried to dampen the joy that wanted to surge through me because this time I had eluded the angel of death. Who was this Eva before whom the ring that was so tightly closed for everyone else had opened? Why did she come looking for me? Sonia probably asked her to come because Sonia was unable to come herself. She had led me to the other side of the bath, endangering her own life. Why did she do it? The whole time she had walked briskly in front of me, not looking around. From time to time she had said, as if to herself, “Don’t look around. Just walk behind me the whole way.” When we finally had arrived in a safe place, behind the bath, she had disappeared.
They brought lunch, but nobody ate. The fights that usually took place at the soup can did not occur. The sztubowa called a few of the prisoners to come get the soup but no one stirred from her place. The cans were returned to the kitchen full. You do not take your own death lightly. It is impossible to live in a world where there is no room for joy. Poor zugang. More than half of our block were condemned to death. When will they take them? How long will they have to wait before the death sentence is implemented?
I was so engrossed in my thoughts that for a long time the fact that someone was calling my name did not register. “Sara Nomberg,” somebody was shouting in a very loud voice. It was Masza Zyskinol. I looked at her and thought that I must be dreaming. Where had she come from? Masza was originally from Lublin. We had attended the same school, and Masza had matriculated a few years before I had. Then she had gone to France to study. She used to come back to Lublin for the summer, and it was during those summers that we became close friends. Masza was a Communist, a slightly rebellious Communist, as she described herself, since she did not always agree with the party line. On our long walks through the parks of Lublin we used to discuss the problems of the world. When I was released from prison in 1934 I returned to Lublin, where I was told that Masza was in Paris. How did she get to Auschwitz?
She descended on me breathlessly. “Tell me, were you in the bath? Did they look you over? Did they write down your number?” The words came tumbling in one breath. “You weren’t, so everything is alright. You look terrible. I guess you’re not used to it. In a few days we’ll get you out of here.” Where to, nobody said. At this point I did not care. Even the encounter with a dear friend did not make any impression on me. In my thoughts I was far away from her.