In those last few months I happened to find myself in peculiar situations. These situations were so far from anything logical that I could not believe in their reality. First there was the bizarre New Year’s Eve celebration of 1945, when, surrounded by electric fences, we inmates of the concentration camp joined in camaraderie in singing the “Internationale.” Then there was the enchanted sled that the obersturmführer put me into when I could not walk any farther; and the blanket that warmed my freezing body, which was given to me by an outstretched hand in the darkness. And now, 1 May 1945, there I was between Röbel and Rostock. Behind the stack, on the side away from the road, we placed a long, massive table and two benches that we had dragged out of the barracks on the evening of the first day. The table was used by the tenants of all those holes in the huge haystack. There was Sasha, a Russian, a tall blond man with a laughing face; Rene, a Frenchman, short and fat, and very witty; Irene and Janek, Poles, brother and sister, from Lodz. There was also an older Jewish woman with a twelve-year-old daughter, a sweet, pretty girl. She had come to Auschwitz in the summer of 1944, from the Lodz Ghetto, and miraculously succeeded, without any help, in smuggling her daughter into the camp and later in placing her on the block. Now they were together, and the mother’s happiness knew no bounds. Further down the table sat two men from Poznan. They described themselves as professional pickpockets. All the day before they had been busy dragging valises full of goods from the nearby town. “We are taking back from the Germans what they took from us,” they said. Finally, there was a Hungarian woman and a Slovak woman, and, not least, Klara and I.
On the table there was a large bowl of potatoes, standing next to a pot of horse meat and a pitcher of red borscht. In front of us were plates, spoons, and cups. Sasha was talking about May 1. He made a toast to the Red Army, which had frightened the Germans, so that now they were running away. We all lifted our cups of borscht and raised them to our lips. I looked at the table, at these people, my kindred creatures. I listened to the noise coming from the highway, and again I got the feeling of fantasy, as though I were dreaming a beautiful dream of freedom. “Now the ‘Internationale,’” ‘says Irene. Very few of those present actually knew the song, but everybody stood, and those who did not know the song listened as those of us who did sang in three languages: Russian, Polish, and French.
As soon as we had finished singing we put everything back in the barracks and resumed our hiding places in the haystack. There was a constant stream of people on the road: civilians mixed with soldiers, cows and horses alongside military cars and armor. Dusk started falling slowly. We wondered when the Russians would get here and really set us free.
It was already dark when the two men from Poznan came back with their packages. They were very upset, and started backing off right away.
“Where are you going?” I asked anxiously.
“Down the road. There’s a bridge not far from here. We’re going to cross it with the Germans. We found out that the bridge will be blown up, and the battle is going to be fought right on this field. It’s dangerous to stay here. Run away, like we are doing.”
“What?” everybody asked. “You expect us to run with the Germans?”
It was certainly dangerous to remain there. The bridge was only about fifty meters from the haystacks. On the other side of the river we could see cannons and guns. Apparently, the Germans were going to try to prevent the Russians from crossing the river. No one told anyone what to do. Each person made his or her own decision individually. Late in the evening the two pickpockets with their heavy valises went in the direction of the road. The rest of us remained in the haystacks. No one slept or talked. We were waiting for the roar that would destroy the bridge. We were most reluctant to die now that we had tasted the intoxication of freedom. Trucks full of soldiers were constantly traveling along the main road. There were now fewer civilians than there had been in the morning. Finally, the ground started to rock beneath us, and finally the bridge blew up. The stack was not damaged, and we were all intact. We were under a great deal of strain, and the blowing up of the bridge made us realize how exhausted we were. We fell asleep. A terrible roar woke me up. The whole field was illuminated. Grenades exploded in front of us and behind us. If one of them were to make a direct hit on the stack it would be the end of us all. There was no place to hide. We were as exposed as the bullseye of a target. The bombardment lasted all night without pause. Thus, on the threshold of freedom, I lived through the most dangerous night of my life.
At dawn the shooting stopped. Janek wanted to leave the stack to see what had happened. He slipped out of the stack and was gone for a long time.
“Come out,” we heard him calling. “There are Russian soldiers all around us.”
We climbed out of our holes. Truly, the grass was red with the stars on the soldiers’ hats. They were holding their guns, ready to shoot. They surrounded us, full of suspicion. Only when they learned that we were prisoners of Auschwitz and other concentration camps did they let us go free.
“Wait here. We will come right back to take you across the pontoon bridge.”
The village they took us to was full of soldiers. We looked around for an unoccupied hut in which we could wash up and get some sleep. Even hunger took a back seat. On the way we were stopped by a Russian captain. He asked about Auschwitz.
“How did you bear all this?” he kept asking every minute. “Do you have food?” We were amazed by the question. “Wait. I will find something for you.”
A huge pig was waddling down the middle of the road. Our captain took out his gun. He fired and said: “Here is your food.”
I was lying in a wide bed, covered with a German comforter. We had burned our camp uniforms in the garbage. An end to the lice. We had scoured ourselves and dressed in some old clothes that we had found in a house. The only thing I saved from the flames was the camp skirt, a gray garment with a big white cross painted on the back. I kept this as a remembrance. I felt comfortable, warm and clean. But I was not happy. I did not know why. Again and again I repeated to myself the refrain: “Be happy, you are free.” But this did not help. I was sad. Sadness strangled me.
Lying there under this big German comforter I realized the tragedy of my situation; I was alone, no one was waiting for me, there was no one to return to. A plant can flourish only in its native soil, and I had been brutally torn out of mine. Of what value was the life that I had struggled so hard to redeem from Hitler’s Hell? At this moment I did not know what to do with it.
I remember 9 May very clearly—the day the Germans surrendered. We still lived in the village, close to the front. We occupied a very nicely furnished house. Living in the same house were the older lady with her daughter, and the Hungarian and Slovak ladies. It was very early in the morning when the announcement was made. There was a banging on the door with rifles and carbines. We were very frightened but started to open the door. About twenty soldiers rushed into the room: “Girls, the war is ended! The Germans surrendered!” They took us in their arms and threw us up into the air. I was flying up and down, and the whole world was whirling around.
“I lived through Auschwitz! I will return to Lublin!” I repeated over and over again. Later we drank whisky for the living and the dead. We cried and laughed alternately. We wondered whether we could live normal lives like other human beings. Would my dreams be realized in recompense for my enormous suffering?