Every day deathly undernourished women and hundreds of mortally sick people came through the doors of the infirmary to which was attached a little cottage that housed the personnel who worked in the infirmary. Actually, it was not really a cottage but a little shack without windows. The total area of the shack was about two by six meters. Inside there were two three-decker beds and a small table. We thought that it was the most wonderful habitation in the world. It was our corner, different from the terrible barracks.
One sunny day we received a notice that hit us like a clap of thunder. It was a summer evening in 1944 when Orli brought us the news that we would have to move out of our little shack because Mengele had decided to create a ward for mentally disturbed women. At night we removed our meager possessions. The next morning we waited for the patients. The whole affair looked very suspicious to me. It was difficult to understand why Mengele would create a ward for the mentally sick in the infirmary. Until now there had been no such ward. We had a feeling that Mengele must have a new trick up his sleeve.
First thing in the morning they brought the first patient. Her name was Natasha. The blokowa brought her in.
“She has to stay here with you in the infirmary,” the blokowa said and left.
Before me stood a young girl, straight as a tree, with a gloomy, rebellious face. She was nineteen years old and from Leningrad. She would not tell us anything else. Our Jewish doctors were not invited to examine her, since their findings were set at no value. Natasha immediately took an upper bunk. She lay there quietly, saying nothing, but when we brought her some soup she came to life, and a big smile brightened up her face. She ate while she continued to lie there without saying a word.
The same afternoon, five new patients were brought in, including two German, one Dutch, and two French women. They were all very young and very sad. At first we were afraid of them. We imagined that they would cause trouble, maybe have fits. Perhaps we would have to use physical force to subdue them. We had no experience in handling such cases. But the new patients lay quietly in their beds, or else they sat bent over on the edge of the bed.
I remember that I made several attempts to talk to them, but my words did not reach them. That same day, just before roll call, a few more women were brought in. By this time a few of the beds were being shared by two women. A couple of mornings later we prepared the infirmary to receive a visit from Dr. Mengele. We knew that he would come to examine the new “ward.” That morning, as we were admitting the sick to the hospital, we did not accept the very sick ones. We sent them back to the blocks. We knew that if he started looking at them he would certainly send them to the ovens. It was with heavy hearts that we sent those women away to do heavy labor, women who were barely alive, with swollen legs and terrible sores all over their bodies. But we well knew the monster in the white coat who had the face of a Romeo. He would assign them to the gas and then would say to us, “You see yourselves that these women are not strong enough to live. Why should they suffer? I am sending them to the gas for their own good.”
Mengele arrived about twelve o’clock.
“Achtung,” shouted Marusia.
The selection of the sick and the signing of the cards started. Everything was going smoothly, without a hitch. All of a sudden, from the next room, we heard a loud, happy voice calling,
“Hey, you! Doctor! Maybe you can come in and see us.”
It was Natasha calling to Mengele; she was speaking to him in beautiful German, her voice radiant with happiness.
“What are you afraid of, coward, you who can murder women and children? Come here. We will discuss your Hitler’s crimes. Maybe you want to discuss Stalingrad, where you are dying like mad dogs.”
We turned to stone. Every one of us pretended to be very busy. We were afraid to look in his direction. We knew that in a minute something terrible would happen. Natasha’s ringing, violent voice floated in from the other room.
“You will all die in Russia, the way Napoleon did. You are afraid to come to me. You don’t want to listen to the truth, you specialist of the gas chambers.”
Suddenly we saw Mengele get up and go into the other room. I waited for a shot and automatically covered my ears with my fists.
“Come, sit next to us. We will have a chat.”
Mengele did not say a thing. Only the voice of Natasha could be heard.
“Hitler, that human garbage, destroyed Germany. All the nations will hate you through the ages. You will see. Even if you live through the war, you will have to hide from human revenge like a worm.”
We stood there completely motionless, as though hypnotized. Natasha started to sing. What a wonderful voice she had.
She finished the interview with an abrupt, “Get out of here. I can’t stand to look at your shiny mug any more.”
Mengele got up and left without a word. Only after he had crossed the threshold of the infirmary and had looked at our pale faces did he shout out the order to dress all the sick, because the orderly would come to pick them up after lunch.
“The Russian is to stay here,” he added in closing.
We knew what that meant. The orderly would give them an injection of phenol, and in the evening the leichenauto would take them to the gas chambers. Natasha had to remain here. Why? Maybe he was preparing a more agonizing death for her.
The next day they brought a new batch of women. They, too, were sad and silent. About lunch time Mengele came in again.
“Come here, hero of the gas chambers,” Natasha called again. “We will discuss your death. If you wish, I will tell you how you’re going to die.”
With wonder we watched him approach Natasha. For an hour she carried on a tirade against Hitler. She sang Russia’s praises. Mengele sat on the chair with his head hung low on his chest.
I remember looking at him and not believing my own eyes. What was going on here? What was drawing that predator to his prey? To this very day I cannot understand what secret was lurking behind his behavior. Maybe it was just one more aberration. Perhaps the flagellation he received from Natasha’s tongue gave him some sort of satisfaction.
Every day the sanitation worker took the sick for the szpryce (injection). That was their term for murder by phenol in Auschwitz. Every day Mengele came to listen to Natasha’s speeches. One evening I decided to have a talk with Natasha. I told her everything about myself, waiting for her to get up enough confidence so that she would be willing to tell me about her life. I was not mistaken.
Natasha had been a student. Her parents had been professors of German. It was from them that she had learned such elegant German. After that conversation I was certain that Natasha was not mentally ill and that she was feigning mental illness in order to be able to get away with telling the Germans exactly how she felt about them.
“But dear Natasha,” I screamed with anguish, “do you know what they do to mentally ill people? They don’t heal but kill.”
“I know,” said Natasha. “But I don’t want to live in this rotten world.”
The next day Dr. Koenig came for the inspection instead of Mengele. We closed the door to the little room. Maybe we could hide the sick from him.
“Hey, you, Doctor of death,” Natasha shouted in a loud voice. “Come here, we will discuss your Hitler.”
Koenig shuddered. He pushed open the door and went into the little room. The room was almost completely dark. On the beds sat the huddled figures.
“What, you’re afraid to come in, you Hitler’s coward?”
Then there was a shot. All the sick screamed at the same time, with a terrible, hollow voice.
When we reached Natasha she was already dead.