Rena’s Promise

From the distance through the iron bars

freedom is laughing at us . . .

But the sun’s still not shining.

—a song sung by the prisoners

We wonder what is going on here, but anything is better than Birkenau, so we keep our questions to ourselves. We are put in a basement with seventy-five Jewish girls who work as secretaries in the SS offices, the Politische.

Our new detail is in the SS laundry, to replace fifty Polish Gentile girls. They were sent back to the Polish camp in Birkenau because the SS learned that the Polish men working in the SS kitchen were sneaking food to the girls. I feel sorry for those girls but at the same time am grateful for this chance at life.

Our first morning in staff quarters we are assigned to our new positions. Our block elder is German and her triangle is red; she’s a political prisoner. Political prisoners are more likely to be kind, as they’ve been imprisoned for being against the Third Reich. Our friend Mania is chosen as the block scribe, and works for Maria personally. Mania’s sister, Lentzi, is placed in the sewing room. Janka, who we knew in Auschwitz I, is in the hand washing laundry. She’s responsible for washing and ironing the delicate clothes of the women officers. She also takes the clothes to the quarters of the SS women, and she’s Maria’s favorite because she’s so young.

The only people who have not been sent back to Birkenau are the Politische secretaries; they are the lucky ones. They were chosen on the transport platform when they first came to camp and most have never lived in Birkenau. Edita is the only Jewish kapo that I know of in camp and is the head of all the secretaries. Aranka, who I know by sight from Bratislava, is one of the scribes. Rumor has it that when she was brought in from the transports to be shaved and disinfected the SS guards stopped to stare at her-that’s how beautiful she is.

We still have roll call, but there is a roof over our heads now, and there are only a hundred and twenty-five girls to count, so it does not take hours. Our first morning in this heaven roll call is conducted in the hallway outside our sleeping area, across from the laundry. It is not four A.M. when they wake us, it is five A.M. We get a whole extra hour of sleep and roll call does not last for over two hours in rain and sleet, it takes less than half an hour. There is no marching a kilometer or two to and from work, either; we are only a few steps from the laundry.

“This is where you will work.” Maria instructs us on how to run the laundry. “You will wear these shoes while working here and leave your other shoes on this shelf.” The shoes we are shown are wooden and have straps across the arch just like the ones we wore when we first came to Auschwitz. “This is the hot water you will use to wash with.” She shows us a large kettle on a coal-burning stove, which is already steaming. There are tubs with scrubbing boards in them and baskets of dirty clothes to wash.

Wardress Bruno enters the laundry to inspect us. We all immediately stiffen at the presence of the SS woman. She has a stern look and a formal, military manner. She points to a girl. “You will be responsible for the water in the kettle and keeping the coals hot.”

So we begin our first day in the SS laundry. The stone floor is cold and the water sloshes against our calves and knees. We scrub long johns and undershirts against the washboards, rubbing them hard to remove the stains. It’s hard work-nothing in Auschwitz-Birkenau is easy-but we are inside. There is so much water being dumped into the drains that they back up. We wade through the water as if we were fishermen instead of charwomen. Then we put the damp clothes in the baskets and someone carries them away.

“Halt! Roll call!” We leave the laundry, lining up in the hall, where we are counted and handed a portion of bread as we enter our sleeping quarters. The bread looks bigger than it was in Birkenau. We get a slice of sausage; it is small but welcome. Our legs hurt terribly after that first day but no one is complaining; there are no dogs, no SS men beating us unmercifully, no immediate deaths.

I rub my calves before lying down to sleep. I wonder if so much water is good for them and worry that they will become swollen or infected. I check my skin for abrasions and cuts; everything looks fine. Danka is already asleep. I roll over, pulling my blanket up under my chin, staring up at the bunk bed above me. My eyes droop under the weight of the past few days. For some reason, I want to pray but cannot remember any words.

If Mama were there, tucking me in, she would ask, “Did you say your prayers, Rena?”

“Yes, Mama.” She pulls the comforter up under my chin. My bed is already warm from the hot brick she has smoothed over the sheets and let rest at my feet. There may be a harsh winter wind rattling our shutters but I snuggle down into down.

When Wardress Bruno enters the laundry followed by a kapo, everyone stiffens and works more diligently than before. Her face is hard, her demeanor severe; she walks directly up to me as if she knows what she wants. “You speak German?”

“Jawohl, Frau Wardress.” I straighten my shoulders and look forward but not directly at her.

“You will be responsible for taking the laundry out to dry. Pick two girls to help you carry the baskets.”

“Jawohl.” I point at my sister and Erna’s cousin. “Danka and Dina.” I call their names.

“Ilsa, they are in your charge,” Wardress Bruno orders. There is an audible sigh of relief from amid the washers and sounds of sloshing water when she departs.

Ilsa is about fifty years old but wears a black triangle. I have trouble imagining her as a prostitute and have to stifle a smirk that creeps across my lips as I look at her red-orange hair and bowlegs.

“Take these baskets. I will show you the way to the drying place,” she says in German.

“Danka, you and Dina hold the outsides,” I instruct. I am afraid that the baskets will be too heavy for my little sister, so I decide from the very first that I will always be in the middle and step in between the two baskets heavily laden with wet clothes. We look at each other, reaching the handles simultaneously and hoisting them up, following Ilsa out of the cellar.

We step outside onto a road and follow it toward two buildings. My shoulders begin to ache. We pass the SS kitchen. My arms feel as if they’re being dragged out of their sockets. We turn left into an open field beside another building. I stare and stare at the expanse before us. As I inhale deeply the air bites my lungs. It is pure; there is no smell of burning flesh hiding in its odor. There are lines set up, with a little bag of clothespins.

“This is the trockenplatz, the drying place.” Ilsa announces. We set the baskets down, put on our aprons, and obediently begin hanging the clothes up to dry. Then we wait.

There is a very handsome man who stands outside in front of a water pump which he operates. We each sneak a look at him while we work. There are SS going back and forth along the road regularly. I fidget among the clothes, smoothing them, making sure they are perfect and straight on the line. I am afraid there is something we are not doing that we might get in trouble for. Danka and Dina follow me, copying my obsessive antics. Ilsa informs us when it’s time to return to the block for lunch. We take the clothes that are dry back to the laundry and after our turnip soup return to the trockenplatz with fresh wet laundry. Finally Ilsa signals us that the day is over. We sort out which clothes are dry and which are not, carrying them back in separate baskets, but we bring in all of the clothes for the night. When we arrive in the laundry we leave the partially dry clothes in the baskets and place the rest on a table for folding.

We can see the Polish men working in the kitchen when we pass by each day, but because of Ilsa and what happened to the Polish Gentile girls, nobody dares to communicate with us. The man at the water pump, however, is so close to us that we manage to whisper to each other.

“Rena, my sister Danka, and our friend Dina. All three of us are from Tylicz.”

I can’t help but wish that Ilsa would move farther away so we could have some conversation, but we are watched very closely these first few weeks. I guess we’re on probation. The days lag as Ilsa watches us watch the clothes and we smile secretly at Tadziu. I think he is a shy man.

My fingers feel as if they are about to be peeled loose from the handles of the baskets, spilling the clean clothes across the dirt road; I struggle to keep them clenched closed. My shoulders ache. Ilsa is far behind us.

“Look at your kapo,” Tadziu says to us as we put down our baskets. We look down the road and see her coming toward us on her extremely bowed legs. Her red hair gleams in the sun above her curving limbs as if she had a huge ball between her knees. She waddles towards us.

Like a bubbling gurgle of water, a sound wells up from inside of us, erupting quietly from our chests. I barely recognize what is happening to us. I can hear it; I can feel it, but it takes me a moment to identify. . . we are laughing.

The quake in my chest has not been caused from fright or sorrow, but from mirth. Ilsa gets closer and we struggle to stifle these strange sounds, which causes our eyes to squirt tears down the sides of our faces. But the closer she comes, the funnier she looks. We hide our faces, but every time we catch each other’s eyes we start giggling all over again. It is terribly difficult to act austere and serious when all we can think about are Ilsa’s bowed, parentheses legs and how innocent she isn’t; the rest of the day we silently shake whenever we look at our kapo. Danka’s face lighting up gives me a momentary sense of relief. We have not laughed in I don’t know how long.

This laughter, which is so strange to us, is as valuable as bread; it eases our hearts of just a little pain and gives us something to smile about secretly.

Two weeks later Ilsa is no longer coming with us to the drying place; I guess that either she has completed her sentence and been pardoned or she’s been moved to another place in camp. I become the one responsible for taking the clothes and there is no one watching us for the first time since the beginning. Now when we carry the baskets out to the trockenplatz I stop and have Danka and Dina change places so they can switch hands. I do not allow myself to exchange positions.

We take the clothes out to hang no matter what the weather. Wardress Bruno believes that fresh air is essential for clothes, so even on inclement days we stand in the rain or sleet and watch the clothes get as soaked as we do. Only if it looks as if it will rain all day do we stay inside and wash clothes to dry the following day; on days when it rains sporadically we hang the clothes up in hope that the sun will come out later. Hanging wet clothes in the cold nearly bites our hands off. We stick our fingers in our mouths to warm them, and then continue. Some days the clothespins with springs are too difficult for our fingers to press open and we have to use the ones with just slits in them. It is strange that after everything we went through to get inside work, here we should be, outside, with winter coming closer with each day.

I worry that the burlap dresses we wear are not nearly warm enough for the temperatures we will have to bear. The wind skates across the trockenplatz. Standing still is much colder than working hard labor. We have no gloves to warm our hands, either. How strange to think of gloves! Last winter in Birkenau I would never have considered gloves or warm clothing. I cannot believe we survived it.

On the way back from the trockenplatz one night, the window to the SS kitchen opens and a friendly face asks, “Where are you from?”

“Yes, Polish Jews.” I want to turn and face the person I’m speaking with, but that is impossible. I shift my eyes sideways without moving my chin.

“I’m an actor, from Warsaw. My name is Stasiu. Stop tomorrow in this same spot and I’ll throw you a piece of sausage.” I catch a glimpse of his face just before he moves from the kitchen window.

He’s old, at least for Auschwitz-he must be in his forties. We pick up our pace as if nothing has happened. The next day we stop outside the SS kitchen just as the window cracks open. Danka and Dina switch places as I busily rearrange the clothes, making a hole in the center. A package lands neatly in the basket and I cover it up. Our hearts pound as we pick up the laundry and continue our trek. Inside staff quarters, while Dina and Danka unload the laundry I disappear with the package, hiding it under our mattress, hoping and praying that nobody will catch me. We wait until dark; then, when everyone else is asleep, we divide the piece of sausage Stasiu sent us three ways and devour it.

There’s a men’s kommando working in a field close to the macaroni factory and I notice that one of them seems very interested in me. He’s quite handsome. We steal glances. Danka and Dina have gone back to the laundry to take back some clothes that are already dry and fetch another basket while I guard the SS underwear.

I have to think for a moment. Have I really had two birthdays in camp? They have passed unnoticed. “Twenty-three.” We do not dare to exchange more words.

Danka stares at him, smiling faintly. We hang the clothes, trying not to look too anxious for him to start the conversation-if you can call snippets of words passed across a field a conversation.

“My name is Marek.” I hear his voice from between the legs of long underwear.

“Rena,” I answer, busily smoothing the wrinkles from the undershirts already hanging.

“Dina.” Dina and Danka hang something up together. There is a slight breeze catching the clothes and teasing them about in the air. Contact has been made, names have been shared. It is moments like these that help us feel alive. There is another living being who knows we are here; it is a relief to speak to anyone outside our own narrow prison. I am slapped gently by the flapping clothes.

We are hanging the clothes up to dry when I notice a window at the top of the macaroni factory open for the first time ever and out comes a bag of macaroni. There is no one to see, no one to thank; it is a silent gesture. Quickly we cover it with the clothes already in the basket and smuggle it back into our quarters. Our hearts are pounding as we enter the block.

“Janka,” I whisper to our young friend, “we have some extra food. Can you organize a pot full of water and slip it into the coals after roll call?”

Janka’s eyes narrow craftily. She nods. There are coals left each night in the stove in the laundry room on which we can cook, if we can find anything to cook and if we are careful not to get caught. We stand at attention for roll call patiently, trying not to fidget, trying to stop our watering mouths and the rumbling in our stomachs. We march into our sleeping area, taking our portion of bread and breaking it in half. We lie down after our meal, feigning sleep. The sounds of deepening breaths and snoring filter through the dark.

I tap Danka. We roll quietly off our bunk and tiptoe to the door. We are the first to arrive at the stove in the laundry room. I empty the contents of the bag into the simmering water. We sit and wait. The door to the laundry room opens slightly. Silently, Dina enters. Janka slips through the portal as stealthily as a cat, then Deborah, Mania and Lentzi, Aranka and a few others. Our excitement is impenetrable. “I got a bit of salt,” one girl offers, pouring it into the steaming pot. We are smiling despite the danger we’re in. We sit around the potbellied stove watching the kettle boil. It takes forever. The floor is cold beneath our buttocks, but we sit anyway, waiting.

I use my spoon to taste one of the noodles. “Done,” I whisper to my coconspirators in the dark. Dividing the noodles evenly into their waiting bowls, I figure, accurately, that there are five tablespoons for each girl, then pour the hot water on top, making sure everyone gets some. Danka and I are served last. The rest wait until we are all served; then in silent unison we begin to eat the warm, nourishing macaroni. We take our time. No one is urging us to hurry, so we linger over each spoonful slowly, as if we were at a dinner party in some wealthy family’s house. The water the noodles were cooked in is delicious. It tastes like home.

Aranka nods to Danka and me before slipping back across the hall to her bed. Slowly, soundlessly, the laundry room is emptied of its secret habitants. Janka stows the kettle so no one will find it in the morning, and together we tiptoe back to our beds, our bellies no longer rumbling but still hungry.

Dina and Danka have returned to the laundry to get more clothes. I stand watch, eyeing the garments and Marek’s work team with the same glance. He tosses a rock with a note wrapped around it in my direction. The note is full of niceties: You’re a pretty girl. Too bad we’re not in the free world, but maybe someday we’re going to be free. . .

“Many,” I tell him, trying to remember how to flirt, and then feel bad that I have lied to him. It is not a bad lie. I had three boyfriends; that is almost many. “I was supposed to get married two weeks before I came here.” I clip up two pairs of underwear and a pair of socks. When I glance back towards Marek, his back is to me; his kapo is nearby.

Marek is not in the field every day, and I miss him when he isn’t sneaking words with me or risking his life to send me a note.

It is starting to get bitterly cold outside as winter arrives. “Do you think I should go ask Wardress Bruno for better clothes to work in?” I ask Dina and Danka as we hang the clothes up in a snow flurry.

“I’m afraid of her, too, but we’ve been here for a while and it’s starting to snow. We have to take a chance. It’s too cold for us to work without gloves and jackets.” I rub my hands together to get them supple again so I can open the clothespins.

“You’ll have to go on your own, she makes my knees turn to pudding.” So it is decided. I am going to approach the wardress with our request as soon as I get up the nerve. It takes a few days.

“Wardress Bruno?” My words chatter with nervousness. Her black hair and chiseled features frighten me, her blue eyes are serious and look as if they could be mean, but I have to go on. “I would like to report that it is getting quite cold on the trockenplatz. And could I request warm clothes for me and the two girls helping me?”

“Yes, I’ll arrange that,” she answers. “I’ll take you after roll call.” She dismisses me.

The next morning after roll call, true to her word, Wardress Bruno takes us to another building. She leads us upstairs to an attic, where we pick out skirts, thick stockings with elastic on the top to hold them up, jackets, boots, and gloves. I pick a black-and white checked jacket, a man’s shirt, and a woolen skirt, trying very hard not to think about where these clothes have come from. I try to remind myself that it is better for us to have them than for them to be sent to warm German bodies. In this way we are set to go outside, looking very much like human beings except for the white crosses painted across the backs of our coats and our numbers sewn on the left sleeves.

Marek’s detail works diligently all day long. We haven’t had a chance to speak, but finally he edges his way towards me, tossing a stone. We are stealing words between us, looking as if we’re working in case the SS are watching from the macaroni factory window or come riding their bicycles along the road.

The next morning our conversation continues. “Have you had any intimate relationships with your boyfriends?”

“No.” He is going to embarrass me for sure if he keeps asking these questions.

“You’re a virgin?” He almost stops working. He is looking at me as if I’m not real.

“Yes!” I whisper proudly. He chokes on his laughter; he tries hard to keep working but is in a fit of chuckles.

“I come from Warsaw, where I’ve never met a virgin yet.” He has to walk away to cover himself.

“I think you’re exaggerating!” I hide in the laundry, my face hot as an iron. Men! I decide to ignore him the rest of the afternoon.

To avoid his eyes I hang the clothes quickly so I am blocked from his view and duck behind the long rows of long johns bleaching in the winter sun.

He moves closer, digging busily. “You’re blushing!” His voice peek-a-boos over the clotheslines. I shake my head and move farther away, hang an undershirt between his face and mine.

“We’re in Auschwitz and you are embarrassed?” There is that strange sound in his voice—laughter.

I smile but do not allow him to see that I’m also amused by this thought. With everything we have been through, with everything we have seen, I am still self-conscious. ‘‘I’m glad I’ve given you something to laugh about.”

“No one will believe it,” he says. “Wait until I get back to the block—a virgin at twenty-three!”

The next afternoon he throws a third note. I stick it in the hem of my skirt and wait anxiously to read it until after roll call. Sitting on our bunk, I read it out loud to Danka and Dina: When I was fifteen I lost my virginity. There was a married woman at a public swimming pool who asked me up to her apartment and she introduced me to it.

“What am I going to do tomorrow if he’s there?” We smother our chuckles under the blankets, trying to fall asleep. I cannot wait to see him again but I am too shy to face him.

It is easier to bear the weather with our new clothes. The gloves make a huge difference in our ability to hang the clothes up, but sometimes the rain still soaks us through to the skin. It seems so ridiculous to do nothing but stand in a downpour and guard clothes, but there is nothing else we can do. I eye the awning on the back porch off the SS kitchen with envy; if we could just stand there we would be a little dryer after a day of rain or snow.

“Should I ask Wardress Bruno if we can stand there when the weather is bad?” I ask.

“That’s a good idea. We just got the clothes, we don’t want her to think we’re taking advantage.” The decision is made, but I am terrified to ask for anything else.

“Wardress Bruno? I would like to make a report.” I stand before the SS woman whose looks are so harsh.

“Yah?” She looks at me with semi-interest, as if I were more than just a number. After being a number for so long it is unnerving, and I must remind myself that one cannot trust the SS. She could change her mind about me in an instant. She has the power of life or death.

I begin my report. “We hang the clothes out for fresh air everyday rain or shine or snow.”

“There is an awning behind the SS kitchen. I can see the whole trockenplatz from there. If it would be acceptable to you, could we please have permission to stand on the porch when the weather is bad?”

“Yah, you can do that.” She dismisses me. I breathe a sigh of relief. I tell Danka and Dina the good news-we have cover. It is just in time. Winter has arrived.

How strange it is that after all my hoping to get a job inside I should be standing outside, but I am simply grateful to be away from Birkenau with my sister, still alive.

The first rainy day after my request we stand under the awning all day. Sometimes I lean my elbows on the railing and scan the fields before me, where there are no fences. A train passes in the distance. I am careful not to make contact with anyone in the kitchen. This is my first day using the porch for shelter and I do not want to lose the privilege, so I keep to myself and my private thoughts.

The next day as we bring the laundry back from the drying place a stone lands at our feet. “Change positions,” I whisper. Danka and Dina stop. We put the baskets on the ground and I retrieve the note adroitly.

We wait impatiently through roll call before I can read the note Danka peers over my shoulder as I unfold the paper, but there are no words; it is a pencil drawing. We are slightly giddy about it and I am flattered that someone should take the time to sketch me: I am leaning forward and my skirt is hitched up a little too high around the curve of my legs.

“He makes my legs prettier than they are, too!” I wish I could hang the drawing up or hide it somewhere safe, but there is no place that is safe enough. Besides, it is signed: Stasiu Artista. He has also scribbled in the corner, When you walk by the window tomorrow, lean back a little bit and slow down. I’m going to throw something to you.

The next day we stop in front of the kitchen and Dina and Danka exchange places while I look busy arranging the clothes. Smooth as clockwork the package lands in the underwear. I cover it up without a second lost and we pick the baskets up without looking back.

After roll call we discover that the package Stasiu has sent is a bag of sugar. “Let’s share it,” Danka suggests. Dina and I nod in agreement; this is too precious to hoard selfishly. We whisper to twenty of our closest girlfriends to come to our bunk after everyone is asleep.

Sitting with the bag of sugar in my lap, I take the spoon from the first girl in line, carefully leveling it off, making sure that everyone gets an equal amount. When it’s all gone we rest on our bunks in the dark, licking the metal of our spoons over and over, trying to savor and squeeze out every last bit of sweet.

It is sleeting. I have come to enjoy inclement days now because they give me a chance to whisper with my new friend, Stasiu Artista. Sometimes I long for a conversation that is face to face. One that is real and long and not dangerous. It’s silly to long for something that is impossible, but I miss the days when I could flirt and walk down the road with a beau and just talk about whatever comes into our minds. That shouldn’t be a crime, but it is.

“My friend, I am alive, and here that is beautiful. Thank you for the compliment, though.”

It seems silly sometimes, especially when it’s sleeting, to act as a sentry for clothes, but I have my orders. The afternoon wears on slowly. The gentle tapping against the tin roof above my head sounds like a lullaby. The crispness of the air seems to capture the smells from the SS kitchen, dangling them before my nose. Whether it is the smell of meat roasting or the sound of sleet I do not know, but suddenly I am transported back through time. How wonderful our house smelled the night before Sabbath—the goose, the kugel, the latkes. I long for real home cooked food and actual meals that take place at a table with white linens and silverware, meals that last for hours because there is so much food and there are so many friends and family enjoying genuine conversation and togetherness. Mama has her white silk scarf draped over her head and lights the candelabra on the dining room table. She says the Sabbath blessing, and stretches her arms out over the flames and back toward her heart—twice. Then, covering her eyes with both of her hands, she prays silently.

Danka and I watch her with awe and anticipation. It is a solemn moment, with nothing but the golden flickering light upon Mama’s hidden face to indicate that time is passing. Her hands lower slowly, tears shine on her cheeks. There are always tears sparkling in her eyes after the Sabbath prayer—radiant. “Git Shabbes.”

“Good Sabbath, Mama.” Danka and I run into her arms. Papa returns from temple and we sit down for a real feast. We are so blessed, so loved.

The note falls close to my feet. I reach down and pretend to adjust my stocking while reaching for the message. I wish I could just read it immediately without having to wade through the rest of the afternoon until we get back to Stabsgebaüde. My palm itches, but I tuck the note well into my jacket, ignoring the nagging desire I have to read it. Glancing quickly at the window, I see Stasiu scuffling away. Once again I am alone with the skittering sound of sleet.

That night we read Stasiu’s note as if it were the day’s newspaper; that is how important these communications are to us.

I have been here since 1939. The chef is number 45· He has been here the longest of anyone I know who is still alive. We stare at his words seeing the naked truth. It is impossible to believe that years could go by and we might still be here, but Stasiu is proof. We are proof. I crumble his note while walking slowly to the toilet. It swirls downward, dragging with it all prospects for a life of freedom.

After roll call, ten packages are given to us from the Red Cross. There are no names on them as there were in Birkenau, but Maria tells us, “Divide these up between you the best you can.” We stare and stare at the packages, eager to tear open the brown wrapping paper to see the goodies inside.

“I think we should take a vote to decide who is going to divvy up the food.” Mania suggests.

“I think Rena should do it,” Janka volunteers. “She’s very particular and honest.”

“All for Rena, raise your hands.” I cannot believe my eyes; every hand in the room is up. All one hundred and twenty-five girls vote for me. We open the packages as if this were a holiday, even though it’s not a feast for so many. I put everything into separate piles: twenty cans of sardines, ten sweet cakes, ten loaves of wheat bread, and bags of sugar cubes.

“Somebody get a knife from Maria and someone else got a measuring tape from the sewing room so I can be exact.” My hands shake. This is the biggest honor I have ever been given, more important than being chosen, the first Jew and the first girl, to recite a poem before our entire village on Poland’s biggest national holiday when I was eleven years old.

We lay the measuring tape across the cakes; each one is about six and a quarter inches long. I divide the length of the cakes by one hundred and twenty-five and figure that each piece should be half an inch thick. With two girls holding the measuring tape taut, I mark off thirteen sections of cake and then carefully slice each piece at the premeasured mark. Our mouths water. We measure the wheat bread in the same way.

My hands tremble as I slice each section of cake. These are hungry people; everyone must receive exactly the same portions. I cannot show favor to anyone, not even my sister-not that I would even think of cheating another hungry person out of such precious food.

There are twenty tins of sardines and between six and eight per tin, and I figure that there are enough sardines for each girl to have one tablespoon. “It will be easier to divide the sardines up using our spoons so we do not lose the oil,” I tell the girls. They stand in line, holding out their spoons as I meticulously scoop out the fish so that each spoonful is level. The sugar cubes are counted out as well. When it is all done, everyone takes her piece of bread, spoonful of sardine, and her nibble of cake and goes to her bed to eat in grateful silence.

If you knew there was a million dollars somewhere and you could take it, would you? These pieces of bread and cake are worth a lot more than that amount of money. I have never stolen from anyone in camp. Every scrap of food is a matter of life or death and I can never bring myself to cheat another human being. I remember how it was in Birkenau—when I found even the tiniest morsel of food, even if it was a potato peel on the ground, I divided it with my baby sister. Even though it was burning my hand because I was so hungry, I always brought it to her to share. I consider myself an intelligent person, but I am so obsessive and prudent about food, it is ridiculous. This is what starvation can do to one.

The girls in the SS offices are constantly complaining about the Jewish kapo, Edita. She’s always reporting them for the littlest thing and then punishing them too severely. She is a tyrant and treats them more severely than some of the German kapos. None of us understands why she is so mean, but the secretaries come up with a way to get back at her.

“Yes, I’ve got both. Is this something that will endanger my sister’s life?”

“No,” they assure me. “We’re going to pin Edita down in her sleep and beat her.” I nod. It sounds like a worthy cause. “You want to beat her or hold her mouth?”

“I’d better hold her mouth. I don’t have the chutzpah to beat a person,” I tell them.

While the rest of the block sleeps, we sneak into Edita’s room, gathering around her bed silently. Then, on the leader’s signal, two girls grab her arms and two grab her legs as I pull my hands over her mouth and another girl covers her eyes. The two who are going to beat her begin to strike her over and over on the stomach, where no one will see the bruises. It’s hard to keep the pressure on her mouth as she struggles to get free, but I press my hands into her face to prevent any groans or noises. When they are done pummeling her they nod to us and we release our hold, dashing back to our bunks. Our covers are already folded back so we can jump into them, pull them up to our chins, shut our eyes, and look just like everyone else who is sleeping.

I force my breathing to be as slow and even as Danka’s, but I am sure it is audible. What if she checks the room? What if she turns on the light and demands that the guilty parties step forward? I try to shut my brain off. What if we get caught? But Edita does not check our bunks. The next morning she walks stiffly out of her room without looking at anyone. Nothing is reported to the SS, and no one investigates because she doesn’t tell anyone. She has learned her lesson. She stops berating the scribes and starts to act with a little shred of humanity toward her co-prisoners.

Danka is on the outside basket and leans back as Stasiu throws us a piece of sausage and some bread. Out of the corner of my eye I see an SS man riding by on his bicycle. I swear that he’s seen us, but we do not pause, look guilty, or do anything that will arouse more suspicion. We bury the food deep in the clothes and walk back to the laundry as quickly as possible. The whole way back we think that the SS man’s going to come and catch us and then we’ll be done for. We are jumpy and irritable, our nerves frayed with fear. First there is the joy of having extra food, then there is the possibility of that food sending us back to Birkenau or worse. We would gladly give up the meal to avoid that end.

We hide the food as soon as we enter the block stairwell and, sure enough, the baskets are checked thoroughly, but no one accuses us of anything. After roll call I sneak back to the hiding place and share the sausage and bread with a few other girls. It doesn’t taste as good as it did before; our fear has flavored it differently.

The next morning one of the Poles who delivers our tea whispers to me, “Stasiu Artista just got twenty-five lashes for stealing a sausage for one of you girls.” I try not to show alarm. I’m glad he gave me the information because I can prevent the story from spreading and getting us in trouble. I also know that Stasiu has not given up our names to the SS officer who caught him. We are safe.

“Change places,” I whisper. We stop. Danka moves as the sausage lands in our basket, and Dina takes her place.

“You’re going to get into worse trouble than before,” I scold him. “You better not do that again!” But he doesn’t care. Every few weeks out comes a little bit of sausage, out comes an extra piece of bread-manna from heaven.

It is spring. We do not allow ourselves to feel spring, but we cannot ignore the fact that it is here again. This is our third spring in captivity; except for the smell of the air, it has all but lost its meaning. All spring really means is that we have survived another winter. Marek and his detail are back working along the fence, and trains race by across the field. I enjoy the noise as they pass; it reminds me of freedom and far-off cities.

Danka and Dina and I hang the clothes up silently as a train passes us in the distance. I turn from my work to watch its journey, and for one moment my mind is transported beyond the walls and work fields of Auschwitz-Birkenau. There a woman bedecked in a white hat and white gloves, her chin leaning on her pristine wrist, is looking out the window, looking at me, looking through me as if I were not there. She is clean and refined. She looks as if she might be going to visit somebody and that the greatest burden on her mind is what to serve for dinner tonight.

I am so controlled always, never do I let the emotions catch up with me, but there is no stopping the tears pouring from the corners of my eyes. Where is she going? I ask myself. Why does she have a life and I have nothing?

“There is a world out there,” I gasp, giving way to the deluge inside of me.

There is a song we sing in camp. It never leaves my mind for one moment, always I am singing it inside my head:

It is so impossible, but there it is, just a few kilometers away. Even in Stabsgebaüde, even if I can’t see it, the smoke is still belching from the crematoriums. We aren’t out of it, and the Germans are so efficient, and they’re winning the war. We are surviving because we have a hope for living, but admitting to this hope is insane! In my heart I want to believe I will be free again someday because I don’t have the strength to stand up and live without that hope. But death is too imminent; the crematoriums are too oppressive. Hope is only there because we cannot survive without it.

“That train . . . ” I answer, my voice wavering and unsure, “there were people on it, all dressed up, sitting there as if there is no war . . . as if we’re not even here.” I disappear behind the clothesline to wipe my tears on SS underwear so no one will know that they have gotten to me, again.¹

The rock lands a few feet away. It is a simple note, just a few words : Why don’t we try to escape?

And go where, Marek? I wonder. We are Jews, and nobody is for us anymore. Despite the spring my youth is gone. We work, we are temporarily safe, but I feel no passion for life anymore. I sit in the dark fighting the overwhelming urge to cry. One good long boo-hoo—even that is not allowed. I clench my hands and jaw until the desire to weep recedes, like the ocean tide. Someday, if we survive, I will cry for a week, maybe more. But not today, not here.

Marek’s work detail is no longer by the macaroni factory. I notice his absence the way I do anyone’s disappearance in camp: I fear that he is dead.

It is a warm day. Summer is nearing and the clothes dry quickly. We have checked the shirts to see which ones should be folded and put in the basket. I bend down to pull a few tender shoots of grass to nibble on, when a shadow falls over me. Squinting my eyes, I look up at the horse and its rider. Her blonde hair has lovely, graceful curls which tumble across her shoulders. Her boots are like mirrors reflecting the sun. I have seen her before, riding across the fields of camp. She is quite beautiful, and I feel small and insignificant in comparison.

She allows her horse the reins. He shakes his head eagerly, lowering it toward the shoots of grass I was just gathering. Surveying the area for a moment, she allows him to graze. Then she pulls the reins up and clucks to her steed. They gallop off across the fields, her hair bouncing against her back. Pangs of memory shoot through me: I used to have long hair. . . I used to have curls. . . I used to sit on our plow horse. . .

Danka and Dina return to the trockenplatz. “Wardress Grese was here,” I tell them. We have seen her many times riding across the fields, and ever since she came to camp she has been whispered about because she is so beautiful.

Marek returns to the work detail by the macaroni factory, and tosses me a note which is very long. I retrieve it, slipping it into my jacket. It must have been hard for him to organize a piece of paper so large. I am an officer in the Polish army. I was trained to be a doctor in Belgium and then returned to Warsaw where I received the post of an officer. I have some contacts in the underground who are willing to build a double floor in the train that takes clothes out of Auschwitz and into Germany. We can hide in this space which will be small but we can escape. You would have to leave your sister behind, we cannot risk more than one other person as one scream or cry could mean death for all of us. I would like to escape with you and make a life with you. I believe we can do this.

I crumble the note, tearing it into little pieces, and go to the toilet to wash it away. Marek. So sweet, so eager, so naive. I swallow back the lump in my throat. I swallow the words of my friend.

I can’t do this, I write back to him. I cannot leave my sister in this place alone. Besides, I am not brave enough. Thank you for thinking of me, though. I throw the stone across the field when no one is looking and turn away to hang the mounds of SS underwear that it is my duty to watch and clean and fold neatly.

I do not see Marek as often, but occasionally he sends word through the kitchen workers who bring our morning tea. I miss our correspondence and his voice drifting on the wind among the clothes. I miss his kind face across the field and his concern for my welfare. The trains still pass in the distance, but I refuse to look at them.

Mala is the messenger girl for the Birkenau camp. We have seen her many times walking from one office to another, exiting from the gates to take a message to one of the other camps. We all admire her, not only because she is beautiful but because her position is extremely important. Despite the fact that she’s a Jew, they have given her almost free rein of the complexes and allowed her to keep her hair. She speaks seven or eight languages and takes messages from Wardress Drexler to the hospital, the SS offices wherever they need her to go. We have always taken pride in her job; she is a symbol to us that we are of value, we are human. Still, even for her, with all her privileges, camp life was too much.

We hear about it from the men who bring us tea in the morning. In hushed whispers all day we gossip and fantasize about Mala, who has escaped from Auschwitz with her lover.²

We speculate and imagine how they did it. “She must have had contacts in the outside world.”

“Yah, sure. How else could they get out?” Late into the night after we have eaten our portion of bread we discuss the fates of Mala and her lover.

“I heard they stole German uniforms from the laundry, and someone built a false floor under one of the trains shipping clothing out, for them to hide in.” I remember Marek’s plan.

“You know a lot.” For weeks we whisper and pray that these two brave souls are never caught. In our hearts they live happily ever after, they escape from Nazi Germany and make it to England, or Switzerland, or America, anyplace in the free world where there is safety for a Jew and a Gentile. We stoke the flames of our own courage as Mala becomes our beacon of light. If she can reach freedom, someday maybe we can, too. If she is brave, we can be brave. Oh, to flee this place and be with one’s love. We dream of it. We cling to it. It makes the free world seem real again. It makes us remember what freedom was like. And then it makes us sad.

“The SS punished the camps for Mala’s escape,” the men carrying the teakettle in the morning whisper. “The prisoners in Birkenau were forced to stand roll call for twenty-four hours. Many dropped from fatigue.”

We are just finishing hanging the laundry when Irma Grese appears again. This time she is on foot and wearing a beach jacket. She waltzes past us without the faintest sign of recognition, throws a blanket on the ground, and proceeds to remove the cover over her bathing suit. Nervously I check the garments swaying in the breeze. She lies down and begins to rub cream over her legs and arms. Danka’s eyes widen in alarm. Dina steps back. I move away cautiously.

“You there!” I freeze at the sound of her voice. “Would you put some lotion on my back?”

I am shocked. I have never been asked to do anything by an SS; they always order their slaves. Not only that, but she has asked me, a Jew, to touch her! I move toward her, afraid that I might do something wrong, afraid to touch her gorgeous skin. Trembling, trying hard to still my hands, I gingerly smooth the cream over her shoulders and down her spine. Then I stand up, moving back toward the clotheslines, the safety zone, the place I know I belong. Busily we check the fabric for dampness, keeping our hands busy and our minds silent, pretending this SS women’s presence does not unnerve us.

Danka and I wake up early on Sunday morning. Mama has cheese Danish for us in a little sack. We put on skirts to hide our shorts underneath, because Papa forbids us to wear shorts. She kisses us at the door, hands us our picnic, and tells us to have fun. We hike into the mountains until we reach the stream. Then we take off our skirts. Folding them neatly and putting them someplace to stay dry while we play in the water and sunbathe. Around noon we open Mama’s Danishes, still warm from the oven, or maybe the sun kept them warm, and eat them while languishing in the sun.

A wave of homesickness revolts in my stomach, making it flip-flop. How I miss lying in our forbidden shorts eating Mama’s homemade sweets.

Throughout the afternoon Wardress Grese suns, then abruptly she dresses, folds up her blanket, and disappears down the road. We watch her depart, folding laundry quietly into our baskets, each of us lost in her private thoughts.

The morning tea comes, and with it the news. “Mala and her lover have been captured.” Rumors escalate through the day; everyone is whispering about what has happened. That night, after the lights are out, we discuss her fate in the dark.

“They had changed into civilian clothes, but an SS was eating there and recognized Mala.”

Grese comes often to the trockenplatz and always asks me to put lotion on her back while ignoring Danka and Dina. Sometimes she speaks to me, telling me about the war and asking me about myself. She is so congenial to me. Pleasantry from the SS is so strange. It is not rare-it’s impossible. I do not know what to make of Grese’s kindness, but I think perhaps she is lonely.

“How old are you?” she asks as I spread lotion across her shoulders slowly and carefully, making sure it is perfectly even.

“So am I.” She is so matter-of-fact. But I do not miss a beat. I do not fumble, stunned as I am by her words. We come from such different worlds, we are in such different circumstances-but we are the same age.

“It’s very small . . . in the Carpathian Mountains.” She is quiet. I do not instigate conversation. I know my place. I am still a slave, no matter how friendly she seems.

“You know what’s going to happen when the war is over and we’ve conquered the world?”

“All of you Jews will be sent to Madagascar.” She doesn’t use a mean tone of voice, she just says it matter-of-factly, as if she knows that without a doubt this is the way it will be. “You’ll be slaves for the rest of your life. You will work in factories all day long and be sterilized so you can never have children.”

My heart droops. Standing up slowly, I try to break away from hearing more without allowing her to see the bewilderment in my face. I have a feeling she does not approve of emotional weakness—no SS do—so I move toward the folds of underwear swaying in the summer breeze and hide.

There is a roaring in my ears, a train rushing through my head. Why don’t I just die right now if I’m going to be a slave for the rest of my life? I stumble blindly away from her voice, fighting the dryness stinging my eyes. What’s the point of going on if this is all there is? I hide my face between clean white undershirts and shorts. I want to tear them off their lines and scream at the encroaching clouds darkening the sky above us. I want to end it all, make the endless monotony cease . . . make everything stop. I want to sleep forever and never wake up. Then I hear myself saying, Come on, Rena, you don’t even know if you’re going to survive tomorrow-why worry beyond that?

The train barreling through my head stops. My thoughts quiet and slow. The sky has not changed, the sun still burns brightly and Wardress Grese still lies on her stomach as if she has said nothing to destroy my world. I could die tomorrow. I will worry about the rest when and if I make it that far. I hang up an undershirt, smoothing the wrinkles from the cotton, trying very hard not to think about Madagascar, watching her beautiful body tan.

It is harvest time. My birthday must be near, or maybe it has passed. I do not know. I only know that a farmer is crossing the field with his wagon full of cabbages, so it must be late August. He slows down his horse just a little as he passes us, then clucks and jerks the reins. The horse starts with a jolt and off roll five heads of cabbage. Danka grabs my arm with a squeeze.

“Dina,” I say. “You and Danka keep watch while I nab a cabbage. Next you go, and then Danka.” They nod in agreement, turning their backs to me, hanging up the clothes and keeping their eyes peeled for SS. I walk toward the bounty the kind farmer has left for us and quickly retrieve it, carrying it back obscured by my clothes and hiding it in one of the baskets. Within minutes we have obtained three huge cabbages, their leaves luscious and warm from the sun.

“We have enough. We could get caught if we’re too greedy. Besides, I’m sure some other hungry person will find them.”

That night we dole out several leaves to our dearest friends while everyone else is asleep. They are sweet and crisp. The juice runs down our throats as we consume them. They are so fresh you can almost taste the earth they come from, and so full of vitamins that our bodies feel immediately revitalized, however momentarily, and that permanent hole that lives in our stomachs is partially filled.

The next day I notice that the other two cabbages are gone. A few days later we see the farmer and his wagon coming across the field again. His head down, he slows the horse and then clucks, just as he did before. Off roll a few more cabbages. I cannot prevent the smile that emerges as I say a prayer of blessing to this man before nodding to Danka and Dina. This simple farmer does the same thing for us one more time during the harvest season, and always we share the bounty with our friends.

As the fall moves in on us again the news becomes more and more positive, hope begins to seep into our pores and our dreams. Morning tea is our favorite time of day because the men from the kitchen who bring the kettle whisper news of the war to one or two of us. We sip our tea sharing the latest information: the Allies are pushing back the Germans; the Russians are closer; the Allies are going to bomb the train tracks.

We wait each day for more good news, more hope, which comes in on the radios smuggled into camp. This is food for the soul, and even those weak from hunger feast on this free meal of information, holding it close to their hearts as one would an extra ration of bread. This is good because the portions are shrinking once again and Stasiu is throwing less food, less often. The SS seem more tense and irritable, so we must be extremely careful not to annoy them. There are rumors that the laundry is going to be moved. We’ve heard planes overhead.

The air is changing. The farmer with his cabbages no longer crosses the trockenplatz, so harvest is over. September? October? We hang the clothes out to dry in the cooling wind and whisper about the events outside our world, wondering where the laundry will be moved, wondering when and if the war will ever end.

At morning roll call we are told to line up and march out. There is anxiety at first; we eye each other nervously. Danka grabs my hand for a reassuring squeeze. We leave the basement guarded by SS. Please don’t let it be Birkenau, is the prayer each girl repeats in her heart. Anything but Birkenau. We head down the road praying they will turn down another path. There is a fence and watchtowers in the distance, but it is not Birkenau. Our fears are quickly relieved. We assess our new compound; the fence is not electric, there are eleven blocks.

We march into Block Four. “This is where you will sleep.” We enter our new living quarters hesitantly. The hair on my arms is raised, my skin is prickly: these are the new blocks, the blocks that Danka and I helped build when we were in Auschwitz and Birkenau. The concrete holding the bricks together was sifted and delivered by our own hands. We have forged our own prison.

Roll call in the new blocks is held outside and then we are marched out of the gates to a leather factory, where the laundry has been relocated. Mullenders is our wardress. She is Dutch but speaks German very well. “There are men working in the leather factory,” she tells us. “You will not speak with them or have any dealings with them. If I catch any of you carrying on with them you will be punished-severely!” Her cold eyes glare at us so that we catch her meaning.

It is whispered that in Block Eleven they are conducting experiments. Next to us, in Block Five, there are German soldiers known as the Brownshirts hiding in case there is an enemy attack on camp. We can see them through the window of our block when we come back from work.

A bomb falls in a field, leaving a huge crater, but no one is even remotely injured. The transports keep coming, the gas chambers keep killing, the crematoriums keep burning. The first few days are depressing. We have lost our secret supply of food and miss contact with Stasiu Artista. The men from the kitchen who bring our morning tea do not risk sharing any news with us until the situation can be judged safe. We are lost without our daily routine. We hunger and thirst for news of the war.

The old, all too familiar routine begins again. We wake at four A.M. We rise to harsh reminders, “Raus! Raus!”

The tea arrives. I stand in line to get my cup, but when it is my turn the server whispers, “ Marek is downstairs waiting for you.” He pours my tea and I move on. My head is pounding so hard that my ears ring. Danka watches my flushed face as I hurry into the basement.

“Marek! What are you doing?” I can barely whisper out loud, I am so nervous.

“You wouldn’t run away with me, so I have come to you.” He pulls me close to him. “I’ve wanted to hold you for so long.”

“It’ll be worth it, if only for one kiss.” He lowers his head and kisses me, but I am in no mood to kiss back.

“That was lovely.” He sits on the table, pulling me onto his lap, holding me tight.

I cannot resist the warmth of human comfort, the longing to be held close and dear. I kiss him long and endearingly.

“That was really worth it!” He smiles. “And now you must get upstairs before anyone notices you’re missing, and I must get back to serving tea before they notice my absence.”

“Nothing will happen to me. I’ve been tortured and beaten by the Gestapo-what more is there?” I do not answer him. Taking his scarred hands, I stroke the places where his fingernails once were.

“Marek, how do we know what will be?” We kiss once more before I flee upstairs. Danka and Dina are waiting for me, and together the three of us run out of the block and into our positions for roll call. My face is glowing, my belly is wound up so tight I cannot even eat the portion of bread I saved from last night.

We are woken with orders to line up for roll call, then we are ordered to march. Confused but obedient, we head out of the gates in neat rows of five. Using side glances, we look at one another warily, sending warnings like silent Morse code with our blinking eyes.

Our hearts sink as we approach the electric fences of Birkenau. The band is playing as we march beneath the sign ARBEIT MACHT FREI. The entire women’s camp is standing at attention facing a platform.

Drexler steps up on the platform. “Today we will witness the execution of a prisoner who tried to escape. This is what you all have waiting for you should you even think about escape from Auschwitz!”

Drexler continues talking about how foolish Mala was to think she could escape the Third Reich. “We will rule the world,” she reminds us. I remember Wardress Grese telling me about Madagascar. We will always be slaves, there is no hope. There is no reason to fight against them. They are everywhere. Drexler’s voice drones on, instilling fear and trepidation into our veins.

Mala is standing there holding her hands gently in front of her, a faint smile on her face. She looks victorious. There is no regret in her eyes. Her dress is extremely dirty. I am sure they tortured her, trying to extract information and the names of the underground who helped them escape. She does not look as if she told them anything, though. She has pride. Her chin is up, her eyes are unwavering.

We have stepped over so many dead bodies that death is something we have become immune to, but this execution disturbs us. Why do we feel so terrible? Why is this so much worse than the suicides on the wire, the selections, the endless murders? But they were dead faces devoid of hope, and here is Mala shining despite the darkness in camp. Her face never falls in despair. Why did it happen? Why can’t just one of us stay in the free world and survive?

She is so beautiful. The sun in the sky isn’t shining for us, but Mala is. She is our sun. She has tasted freedom and seen heaven in the world outside. There is no hope for us, we may not survive—but Mala, her chin lifted high, has escaped from all this madness. She has been the secret ray of hope, and now they’re going to try to snuff our only light out.

They move her toward the noose, but in one adept movement she pulls a razor blade from her sleeve and slits her wrists. Her blood spills across the platform.

Taube tries to stop the bleeding. “Scheiss-Jude, you will die by hanging, not by your own hand!” He swears and curses her. She slaps him in the face, digging her fingers into his eyes.

“I’ll kill you with my bare hands!” he yells, beating her body unmercifully. “Bring the cart!” he bellows, wiping his hands in disgust. A wheelbarrow flies toward the gallows, and prisoners carry her body to it.

Her crumpled body no longer cares where it goes. Her spirit is already hovering over this world. The cart races toward the death chambers; her arm, dangling just outside of the cart, gushes her life’s blood upon the soil of Poland.

“Please let her die,” we pray. “Please let her die before they put her in the ovens.”

It is hard to wake up. The vision of Mala bleeding to death disturbed our sleep and rocked all dreams of freedom we had fostered from her escape. The kettle of tea waits like a cauldron of doom. Then the whisper cascades gently through our ranks, nourishing us with what little courage we have left.

“An SS took mercy on her and shot her before she was put in the oven.” Our prayers were answered—by a German, of all things.⁴

It is a warm Sunday. We open the windows to let fresh air into the block. Standing at the windows, we stare at Block Five and the Brownshirts stare back at us.

Silently, we flirt. We are young and so are they; it is only natural. One of them holds a loaf of bread and points at it smiling and nodding. He runs downstairs and places a whole loaf of bread outside, then dashes back inside.

I run down to retrieve it. He has paused at the doorway and we look at one another from our separate worlds. I smile briefly and mouth Danke schon before disappearing back into our block.

“Look, it’s a whole loaf of bread!” We can’t believe our good fortune. “How many are there of us?” We divide the loaf up into twelve chunks and inhale it hungrily.

“Raus! Raus!” our block elder yells. “Follow me! Quickly! Into the basement.” We run downstairs. A door opens and we cram ourselves through it, bumping into one another. We try to turn around and move apart, only to step on each other’s toes. Turning around to see if there is more room somewhere else, I see an SS officer shut the door. The latch clicks.

The space is suffocating. We are all terrified. What if the building collapses and we’re trapped inside? The whole structure is shaking and we are crammed against each other in this small crawlspace. Flashbacks grab my mind-our first night in Auschwitz, the transport from Slovakia.

“No,” I lie to her, controlling the panic that tries to steal my breath. I put my arms around her, pulling her close. My heart is pounding so loudly, though, that I switch sides, holding her against the right side of my chest so she cannot feel it.

I cradle her like a baby in my arms. Her eyes look up at me for assurance as she wraps her arms around my neck. The ground beneath us rumbles. My legs are liquid, struggling to keep us both from collapsing to the floor. Nobody moves. One girl faints, and then another. There is a huge crash outside.

What if the building above us has been destroyed and we are buried alive? They will not save us. We are prisoners-refuse. No one will dig us out of this grave.

We lose all track of time and space, trapped as we are. No one speaks. No one can move. Another girl faints, her body hits the floor with a dull thump. My skin creeps eerily under my clothes.

There are footsteps outside. A key scrapes against the lock. Light sears into our widened pupils, causing them to retreat too quickly. We wince. Dazed and blinded, we struggle out of our cell. Each girl clutches a friend as our weakened knees buckle struggling up the stairs into daylight. There are ambulances and air raid sirens screaming across the complexes. We look out the windows, stunned.

Block Five is gone, flattened beyond recognition. Medical teams run this way and that, carrying stretchers. Frantically, the SS work to free their fellow soldiers from the rubble, but there is no one to save, all of the Brownshirts are dead. I stand at the window avoiding the tears smarting in my eyes. I am sorry that the soldier who brought us the bread is dead. I do not understand how I can feel this way about a German soldier, but I do. I conceal my sorrow. I do not love the Germans. I hate what they have done—are doing—to me, my sister, and my people, but I do not understand

somebody who was nice to us must die. I do not understand why anyone must die. None of it makes any sense at all.

Everyone is dizzy with the bombings; suddenly it seems as if the war might end someday and we are filled with anticipation masked only by our servitude. Jusek, one of the men working in the leather factory, steals a few words with Danka one day as we are passing by. It is innocent, nothing more than what might happen in the free world when people feel hope. We go into the laundry not thinking anything more about it.

Wardress Mullenders stalks in behind us. Her eyes shift slyly. “Your number is up!” She looks directly at Danka and then exits. Danka’s flushed cheeks go white. She leans against the wall, covering her face.

“Maybe she is just threatening to give your number up.” I try to comfort my baby sister, but I’m scared. Mullenders has no softness toward us. She is cruel.

“What will happen?” Danka looks at me for direction. “Oh, God, what will happen to me?”

That night we enter the block with our bread and tea; we sit numbly on the bunk, trying to force the food down our tightening throats. There is a bit of commotion on the other side of the room, but we pay no attention. My mind is racing. What can I do to save Danka?

Dina sits down on the bunk and says matter-of-factly, “Danka will not be getting reported.”

“No. Everyone has pitched in with bits of jewelry, somebody even had a watch. We bought Mullenders off.”

Dina shakes her head. “Nothing, Rena. It is done.” The girls around us smile, their faces shining in the dark with pride and self esteem.

This is how close we are. These girl-women with whom we have worked and lived for almost a year have saved Danka’s life.

“You said that two months ago, and it’s only gotten hoarser. Now it’s getting cold again. I think this is something serious.”

“There’s nothing I can do about it, Danka.” She’s right though, it hasn’t gone away. I almost sound like a man now; in another few weeks I may lose the ability to speak all together. Fortunately, there’s little reason to speak out loud and no one inspects our throats or voices, but this loss of my voice is reason to be selected should an SS notice it.

“I heard what you were saying,” a nurse says to us quietly. “We’ll bring you something from the hospital. Saturday, after roll call.”

It is Saturday night. We chew our bread slowly waiting for the nurses to come. “Thank you for being so concerned,” I tell Danka.

“I can’t let you get selected,” she tells me. “We have an oath.” I smile. We do have an oath, but it never occurred to me before that she’s just as committed to my survival as I am to hers. “I have to go watch the door.” She gets up off the bunk, slipping downstairs to wait. I watch her, amazed. This is my baby sister. When did she grow up?

We are deep into the night when four nurses arrive at my bedside. Silence is imperative; if any of us are caught we will all be shot.

The nurse in charge pulls a needle out of her pocket. “I am going to inject you with strychnine,” she whispers. “Give me your arm.”⁵

“It’ll be okay, Rena.” Danka strokes my brow. “You’re brave. You can do this.” I try to look confident for my sister but cannot muster any feeling but fear. It is her eyes that are full of confidence and courage, and I lean on her strength, fighting the urge to panic.

The needle glimmers. Her firm hand is cool on my skin as she prepares for the injection. The needle penetrates my flesh and immediately there is a burning fire raging through my body. My muscles spasm as I lurch to scream, but their hands hold me down, pressing firmly on my mouth. The pain is excruciating. I try to remind myself to be silent, but there are moans escaping from my body which I have no control over. It is as if pins dance in my veins and puncture my lungs. I pant and heave, but cannot vomit.

Minutes . . . hours . . . I do not know how long I thrash and writhe in agony, incapable of controlling my limbs. The compresses seem to help. I scream when they change them. Danka’s face is stained with tears.

In a fugue state I hover just above unconsciousness. The body sleeps fitfully, waking me with its sporadic twitching as the poison does its work. My mind is far away.

The morning light in the block hurts my eyes. “How do you feel?” Danka’s voice wakes me.

“Terrible.” I can barely mouth the words. She holds her finger up to her mouth, indicating for me to lie quietly.

“Something went wrong, I don’t know what, but it was close. The nurse said you’ll feel weak today, but tomorrow you’ll feel better and in a few days your voice should start to return to normal.” She hands me a cup full of water. I gulp it thirstily.

There is an explosion outside. We all stop working. It doesn’t sound like a bomb, there are no planes going over, but it sounds like it’s just a few kilometers away. Mullenders runs to the door. We follow her slowly, glancing at one another carefully. There is smoke billowing up from the direction of Birkenau. We do not smile but our hearts grin. We wait, listening for more explosions and praying, though we do not know what we are praying for.

The next morning the news arrives with our tea. One of the crematoriums was blown up by the Sonderkommando.⁶ We have finally struck a blow against our captors. We hope, feebly, that it is the beginning of the end, but the SS catch everyone in the Sonderkommando and kill them. Four girls have been arrested from the gunpowder factory; they helped smuggle the powder out. Those of us who continue to live sit silent shiva for our brave co-patriots.

Danka has excruciating pain due to a rotten tooth. On Sunday she and ten other girls finally get permission from the camp commandant to go to the camp dentist in Auschwitz. I stand by the fence watching my sister head out the gates of our camp without me to protect her, guarded by the SS who do not care whether she lives or dies. I am nervous being separated from my sister even though I know where she is going; too much can happen in a second and I am uneasy. I try to tell myself that I am being ridiculous and instead of pacing the block go to the window and look out. It is a bright sunny day, but that brings me no peace. My mind is whirling with alarm and fear. There is a plane. I blink hard, staring into the sky. I cannot see it but I can hear it. The air raid sirens begin to whine.

“Rena! Come on!” Dina shouts at me. I run across the room toward the stairs. The windows behind us shatter; glass shards shower down on our heads.

In the basement we shiver with fear. I wish that Danka were in my arms like the last time. If I was with her at least I could do something . . . anything. I feel as if I’m going crazy with worry. I will never forgive myself if my sister dies without me. I squeeze my hands until I cannot make fists anymore. My God has abandoned me, left me cold; still I pray but in the same breath I doubt his power. “Please don’t let my sister die,” I plead. “I cannot live without her . . . “I try to mask my futility and fear with bravado, but what will I tell Mama if something happens to Danka?

Finally the sirens stop and we are released from our dark and airless cell. I run up the stairs. Smoke is billowing into huge black thunderheads from the direction of Auschwitz. A girl returns through the gate. She is alone except for her guard.

“I have to get my sister!” My head pounds as the blood rushes into it; my vision goes black. Blindly, I run toward the gate to find my sister. I don’t care about the guards in the towers. I do not care about anything but finding my sister.

“Grab her!” Dina yells. I feel firm hands gripping my arms, pinning me down. Out of my mind with grief, I try to shake them loose.

“Let me go!” I scream at them. They are the enemy. They are against me. I struggle to shake them off. I do not know how many girls hold on to prevent me from going through the gates and getting shot.

“Rena. Listen to me. You can’t do anything. You have to wait here,” Dina says.

Finally Janka’s voice sinks through my outburst. “What if she is fine and you get shot trying to leave without permission? What would Danka do without you?”

“Be still. She’ll be back,” Dina reassures me. “You’ll see. Everything will be fine.”

“You don’t know. Wait before you get yourself killed. Get hold of yourself.” I gasp for air trying to listen to their cool, calm logic.

“I’m okay,” I finally manage to say. “You can let me go. I won’t run off, I promise.” They move away slowly. Dina and Janka stay close by me as I pace back and forth in front of our block, remembering Block Five, remembering how in Auschwitz people die for no reason.

There are some figures coming toward our complex. I stare and stare at their forms, trying to make out if one of them is Danka through the wire mesh. I think I see her but I could be making it up, I could be crazy and seeing things. I feel Dina’s hand squeeze my shoulder.

“Thank you, God.” But I am not sure if it is God’s doing that she is alive. It could be simply luck, or a mistake. Chance is the only order in our universe.

They come through the gate and the SS guard leaves them. I hug and kiss my sister over and over, not allowing her time to explain.

“I thought you were among the dead! Promise me you’ll never leave my side again.” I lean exhausted against the block.

“Line up!” SS Mullenders orders us. It is the middle of the day. We freeze, then move quickly into line.

“March!” she orders. We march out of the leather factory. It is not time to stop working and we do not head toward the new blocks. “I want you to sing German marching songs.” We open our mouths but no sound comes out.

“Sing or you will be punished!” She begins to sing, waving her whip at us threateningly. We join, our voices shaking in fear. She makes an unmistakable turn in the road. Birkenau looms before us. Our hearts are in our throats but still she forces us to sing.

We march under the hated sign. We do not know immediately what the purpose of our return to Birkenau is, but we fear it worse than death.

“Line up! Face front!” she orders. “Keep your eyes open and face the gallows.”

We line up with sinking hearts. We are, all of us, shaking uncontrollably. The whole of the women’s camp is lined up facing a platform with four nooses. I stare and stare at the girl-women trapped in the camp, a sea of conquered spirits. Then I close my mind so that I cannot see anything else.

Ella, Roza, Regina, and Ester walk bravely toward the platform. They have been tortured. I know their names from the men who bring us the tea. I know they were arrested for smuggling the gunpowder out of the factory they worked in so that the Sonderkommando could blow up the crematoriums. I know that they never gave one name or contact of the many people who were involved in the sabotage. I wonder if I would have had the courage to do what they did; I marvel at their strength. I weep inside, where no one can see.

“These traitors to the Third Reich are condemned to die by order of the Fuhrer, for espionage. You will watch these filthy traitors hang until they die, so you will be reminded what happens to enemies of the Reich! All caught closing their eyes will be shot for failing to learn this lesson!” Commandant Hossler yells.⁷

The girls go up on the chairs. The SS put the nooses over their heads. “Long live Israel!” They begin in unison to recite a Hebrew prayer. Their voices are cut short as the chairs are pulled out from underneath them. There is no God to save them.

I have to watch, it’s the least I can do; it is how I honor them. We stand and wait until the last body has stopped its death dance in the air. They take the bodies down, loading them into a cart and wheeling them to the crematorium.⁸

“One of them is still breathing.” In a civilized world if the condemned survives hanging they are pardoned, but not in Auschwitz-Birkenau. We pray that she will die before she is put in the ovens.

Mullenders makes us march back to our camp singing more German songs. “Louder!” she orders. “Chins up!” We sing in our dry and cracking voices, our spirits trying not to break.

In the morning we wake slowly, depressed by the loss of our comrades. The kettle of tea arrives. We are in mourning for the girls who have died and not eager for news of the war today. One of the kitchen men whispers, “She died on the way to the crematorium.” We breathe a sigh of relief. She did not suffer.

I get my tea. A note is slipped into my hand smoothly without a second’s falter. It is from Marek: They’re going to march us out of camp. The Russians are very close. You must decide if you want to feign illness and stay in camp or march. I will help you either way and meet you in America. When you get out, go to America and find Charles Boyer. Tell him I sent you, he is a friend of mine from Belgium. He’s such a famous actor even little children in New York know his name . . .

I fight back the tears. Children may know who Charles Boyer is, but I don’t. America seems like such a far-off place.

We get more and more information that the Russians are coming and we are going to be freed. So we start talking about what we’re going to do-should we stay or try to escape?

“They’re going to leave all the sick in Birkenau and the rest will have to march to Germany,” one of the girls in our block tells us.

“I heard that they’re planning to set fire on all four sides of the camp, lock the gates, and leave the electric wires on, so everyone will burn inside,” one of the scribes tells us.

“I’m going to take a chance and march out. Maybe I can escape on the march.”

“It seems like our chances would better of escaping on the march then locked inside a burning camp, though.”

“All I know is that I don’t want to die here. Let me die anywhere but Auschwitz.” The voice is passionate. We all look at Janka. Her seventeen-year-old eyes have seen much in all of her years in the ghetto and camp. She has said what we all feel deep down inside. We will die if we must, but not here, not in the flames. We continue to work at the laundry every day, but Mullenders is jumpy and ill-tempered. Her regular morning speeches terrify us, but now we glare at her with hatred. We would not have dared to do so a few weeks before, but the songs she forced us to sing are still sticking to our tongues no matter how hard we scrub to rid our mouths of their taste. We know now that she will not have control over us forever and we hate her with a vengeance.

Our work days are not as long and we discuss things more openly than ever before, worrying about what to do. It’s not that we speak in front of Mullenders, that would be foolish, but when she moves away from us we whisper. Guesswork and rumors, guesswork and rumors—that is all we know. Nobody knows for sure whether staying or going is safer.⁹

The morning tea arrives. I hold out my bowl, feeling a note slipped into my hand by the server.

“You’re welcome.” He has kind eyes. What is it about these men in the kitchen that they will risk their lives to bring notes to us? Sometimes I am in such awe of their bravery. They do not know me, they are not blood relations, but they would die before they gave up my number.

I disappear quickly to read the note from Marek. It says, How many girls do you want supplies for? I show Danka the note. How many should we try and help?”

“Janka . . . Mania and Lentzi.” I nod. We cannot help everyone, but we can help a few, and these are our friends who have helped us.

Clothes and food for six, I write to Marek. Thank you. The men with the kettle are preparing to leave. I slip the note to the one with kind eyes and move away.

The day passes slowly. The weather is worsening. Clouds are everywhere, and it looks as if we’ll be in for a snowstorm tomorrow. We hang up the boxer shorts and SS long johns on the lines inside. It suddenly seems so ridiculous, the days we spent watching the laundry in sleet and snow and rain. At least it’s warm in the leather factory and the clothes dry quickly. The soup comes at noon. I receive another note: Watch for the tea tomorrow. Don’t forget-America. I walk to the toilet casually and flush. We fold the underwear that has dried into our baskets and leave what has not dried hanging for the next day-if there is a next day.

Morning comes. There is no work today. I get my tea and my instructions: There is a kettle in the basement. Get everything out of it and leave. I nod to Mania, who is the biggest and strongest of us. Danka knows to follow in a few minutes with Dina; then Janka and Lentzi will sneak downstairs. We must hide the food and clothes quickly, without anyone noticing. There is a loaf of bread for each of us, four bags of sugar, six pairs of pants, shoes, socks, and sweaters. I divide them up. Mania helps me. We conceal the clothes under our mattresses, hiding them for later.

“You’re more robust-being a secretary and working inside, can you carry two bags of sugar?” I ask Mania.

“Sure.” She takes the bags under her arms. There is one little package wrapped in a rag that says Rena on it. I open it excitedly and find a chrome watch. Marek knows how particular I am. I smile to myself, fastening the band onto my wrist, remembering the last watch I wore. Pulling the sleeve down over my wrist, I return upstairs.

The SS have a lot on their minds, trying to destroy records, gathering things around camp. There are bonfires of paper that remind me of that dreaded night six years ago when the Nazis ignited our holy books outside the temple and shaved Papa’s beard and ear locks. The flames are no longer newborn, they are aged and smile wickedly at those of us who have seen evil mature, unhindered. Like Mengele’s mask of beauty, no one will believe what this evil has cultivated behind its walls. They destroy the evidence so that there will be no proof, no records, nothing but our memories, if we survive, and they will try to obliterate those, too. I look out the window of our block; the landscape is spotted with puffs of gray smoke and black cinders drifting up over the SS offices. For the first time since the beginning of our horror, the air smells like burning paper rather than burning flesh.

We wait through the day, putting our extra clothes on, changing our boots so that we are ready. This is almost as bad as being in quarantine. We have no clue as to what will happen to us, but at least it will be different. We’re going to leave Auschwitz-Birkenau, despite our fear. There is a sense of anticipation for the unknown, but still the dread hangs over us. We do not know when, but we know that soon they will come in and say, March out! We are too tense to sleep. All day we wait. We try to rest. I clean my fingernails eight times.

“They’re saving the food for themselves.” We’re nothing but cover against the Russians, and expendable. They’re not going to waste something as precious as food on us. We wait. We rest. It grows dark outside. No one brings our evening bread. Our block elder is agitated; she will have to march with the rest of us. Danka dozes. My eyes grow heavy, then jerk open; I’m afraid I’ll miss something. The lights are still on in our block. There is stamping outside.

We line up outside the block just as we always have. The SS count us and then give the orders. “March out!”

I look down at my watch. It is exactly one o’clock in the morning. It is January 18, 1945. We step outside the gates.

There are thousands of people before us. Bonfires speckle the landscape. Tramping through the well-packed snow, we march in neat rows of five, orderly to the end, leaving behind us the iron curse ARBEIT MACHT FREI: the words are branded on our souls. It is snowing. The blizzard has arrived.

We are the only women on the road, but there are men’s bodies scattered across our path. Tramping and tramping, our legs ache with fatigue yet move as if they were mechanical. Stepping over bodies already covered with snow, we march for an hour, maybe two, before we are herded into a barn. Are the Russians near? Is freedom here? We collapse in the straw for a brief respite. Sleep is dark, dreamless.

“Raus! Raus!” We get up stiffly. A few do not wake. They are prodded, then shot. The snowdrifts are knee-deep and the wind is picking up; still, we do not have to break the trail as the men before us did. The sun rises in an overcast sky. It is a gray day. Our flesh is gray. Tramp, tramp; we step over three and four bodies at one time. Gunshots come from in front of us and in back of us, in front of us and in back of us. We’re so numb to it that the bullets feel as if they’re in our own heads. The snow is endless. It does not stall or slow down, it falls in sheets. I have blisters on my feet which would hurt more if my feet weren’t so cold. When we stop for rest periods there is no food. We ration what food we brought with us; it is disappearing fast. The bread will be gone tomorrow and the sugar is too low. We eat snow.

“Why don’t I take one of the bags of sugar, Mania? So you don’t have so much to carry.”

“We’ve eaten it.” She dares me to question her. I don’t believe her but am too weak to argue. If we starve because of her selfishness, it will be on her head.

We stop. In a barn, the six of us divide up the last of our bread and sugar. I’m so tired. It feels as if tomorrow will be the end for me. I wonder if I shouldn’t just give up. It is almost as if I am hearing voices in my head while I lean against the thin barn wall. I stop my musing, listening for a familiar sound. Then I hear it-a family speaking Polish in the farmhouse connected to the barn. Their door is ajar. The voices tug at me, drawing me to them. I must go see these people who were my people before this war. The SS guards are outside.

I slip up to the kitchen, my knuckle raps at the door. “I am sorry to bother you,” I say in Polish, “but I have a sister and we’re both very hungry. We’re from Tylicz. If you can spare one potato I’ll give her half. If you give me two I’ll take one.”

“She’s from Tylicz!” the wife exclaims. The family discusses this briefly. Not wanting to endanger them, I wait outside, catching bits and pieces of their conversation. The door opens a crack.

A ray of warm, golden light drifts across my face. The wife’s eyes are moist with worry and fear. “Take these.” She hands me two hard-boiled eggs and two cooked potatoes. I hold them in my hands, letting the warmth seep into my skin and the smell waft up to my nostrils.

“Jekuje. Bög zapać. May God reward you for this favor.” I back away from the door. “I will never forget you.” That night we eat.

I do not know how long we have been walking, or how far. I cannot remember how many times the sky has grown light and then dark, how many times my watch has done twenty-four revolutions, or how many barns we have collapsed in. We could have been walking for one day or ten. I do not know, I do not care. I am so sick I want to die. I have such terrible diarrhea that I run to the outhouse without asking. The SS must be tired of shooting people, because they haven’t shot me yet for leaving the barn without permission. I try to sleep through the night, but we are freezing and my stomach is empty.

“Raus! Raus!” Get up. Go to the outhouse. Stay there. They have shot girls for trying to hide and escape. That is what I want. I don’t care anymore. The SS line everyone up. My hands support my head, too weak to lift itself.

I pull my pants up and tie them tight but fall back down on the seat, unable to stand up.

“Look at those bodies. Look at all those who are dead, but we’re still alive. You’re not going to die now. I’m not going to let you!”

“Janka!” I can hear the tremor in her voice. She is so brave. “Come help me.” I unlatch the door. I cannot look in my sister’s face. I am so sick of this. Their hands hoist me up between them. We stumble into formation.

Mustering all the strength and courage in the world, with Danka and Janka supporting just my elbows, I tramp through the snow again. We walk forever. The sun comes up cold against the barren landscape. Their hands are firm under my elbows. We walk as if there were nothing wrong with me. It is forever. Then, suddenly, my strength comes back.

Slowly Danka releases her hold on me. They have walked the illness out of me. This is some miracle.

For hours we tramp over bodies, through snow. Gunshots fell those of us who are too weak to continue, but I am not one of those poor souls. Gunshots fell those still strong enough to escape, but we are not among them either. Do I wish that we had stayed in Auschwitz-Birkenau? Despite the cold, the hunger, no. I am glad that we will not die behind that sign, behind Hades’ gates. We could be walking in circles the way the path is strewn with bodies; they all look the same, frozen, desperate. Free.

“Get into the coal cars,” they order. We can barely get in without help, but there is no help. Everyone is exhausted and too weak to climb into the empty cars. I help Danka in, who helps Dina, and so on; everyone has just enough strength to help one other person. We lean in the corner, finally able to rest. Then we start to shiver. The cold bares its fangs and digs into our flesh. I don’t want to sit down because of the soot, but that concern does not last long. Overcome by fatigue, I collapse with the others onto the black, dirty floor.¹⁰

Air raid sirens begin to wail and planes swoop overhead as the SS and German people run into the railway station, leaving us outside. We huddle in the cars hoping the bombs will not kill us—hoping this ordeal will end. We pass out despite the sounds of war overhead.

I stir and crawl up the side of the car to look out at the people just starting to return to the platform. A lady holding her infant stands nearby. “Please, can you hand me some clean snow from the ground?” I ask in German. “We are so thirsty and the snow is too dirty up here to eat.”

Her eyes register fear as she looks at the SS with their guns. She looks at her baby, shaking her head. I understand. The snow begins to fall again and after a little while I am able to scrape a tiny layer of fresh clean snow off the ridge of the car before it turns black. This we melt in our mouths, trying to quench our thirst.

The train starts. Wind whips our faces with bitter, subzero breath. I do not know what time it is. Every time I look at my watch I forget what the hands say and I don’t want to raise my cuff and give any reason for the cold air to touch my skin directly. For how long the train races through the night I do not know. We get in and stay there until we are told to get out; it is dark and light somewhere in between.

“Raus! Raus!” We are ordered off the train. Our legs are cramped from sitting still and our joints don’t bend easily as we leap into the snowdrifts below us. Four feet down.

We march again for a very long time through the dark. It is below zero. The snow is at our knees. No one has come before us to break the trail. There are no footprints to indicate that others have traveled this path; the bodies that strew the landscape are still warm. They are all girl-women. Where are they taking us?

Gunshots rip through the air like swatting flies on a hot summer day; still we march. I look at my watch but the numbers have no meaning. There are lights ahead. We march toward the lights, through the snow toward the gate of another camp, Ravensbrück. The words cackle across the dawn—ARBEIT MACHT FREI. My heart collapses. We are not free.¹¹

There is nothing here, no blankets, no bunks, just lots of girl-women and all the beds are occupied. We are so tired we curl up on cold dirt floors. I am so hungry that I sneak outside to find us food. There was a pile of potatoes we passed on our way through camp. Edging along the blocks, I scour the complex for the shadow I think will fill our bellies. There are no potatoes, only piles of bodies in the dark.

They wake us with watery tea and a crust of bread. I cannot remember when we ate last, then I recall it was the Polish woman.

Rena’s trek from Slovakia to Auschwitz (1942), the Death March and finally to Neustadt Glewe (1945).

¹ This was reported by two escaped male prisoners in April, 1944: “[Of] the Jewish girls deported from Slovakia in March and April, 1942, [there were originally] over 7,000. . . . Now there are only 400 of these girls left and most of them have been able to secure some sort of clerical post in the women’s camp. About 100 girls hold jobs at the staff building [Stabsgebaüde] in Auschwitz where they do all the clerical work connected with the two camps. Thanks to their knowledge of languages they are also used as interpreters. Others are employed in the main kitchen or laundry” (Wyman, 5, 32).

² “June 24 [1944] . . . Mala Zimetbaum (No. 19880) . . . escapes from Auschwitz II, together with Polish political prisoner Edward Galinski (No. 531) . . . who was brought to the camp with the first transport of Polish prisoners . . . on June 14, 1940. [Also on this date] six prisoners (male) . . . receive Nos. 189229–189234. [And] two female prisoners . . . receive Nos. 82064 and 82065” (Czech, 650).

⁴ On September 15, 1944, the executions of Mala Zimetbaum and Edward Galinski are scheduled to take place simultaneously, in the separate men’s and women’s camps. “Mala succeeds in preventing the execution. While the sentence is being read she slits her wrists and hits SS man Ruitters, who attempts to stop her, in the face with her bleeding hands. The execution was interrupted. Mala Zimetbaum is taken in a cart to the prisoners’ infirmary to stop the bleeding so that the execution can proceed” (Czech, 710). Accounts differ on who the actual SS man was that Mala slapped, and on whether she died on the way to the crematorium or was shot before reaching the crematorium.

⁵ “At one time strychnine was used as a tonic and a central nervous system stimulant, but because of its high toxicity (5 mg/kg is a lethal dose in the rat) and the availability of more effective substances, it no longer has a place in human medicine” (Bartlett, 534).

⁶ October 7, 1944 . . . there is a revolt by the Jewish Sonderkommando, with explosives smuggled by women prisoners. The Sonderkommando labor squad was periodically exterminated, the members of this detail planned the revolt knowing they would be killed anyway, whether or not they destroyed the crematoriums. The plan to destroy all of the crematoriums was thwarted by the Germans but the men in the Sonderkommando did successfully wreck Crematorium IV before the uprising was crushed (Rittner and Roth, 31).

⁷ “January 6 [1945] . . . In the evening four female Jewish prisoners, Ella Gartner, Roza Robota, Regina Safir, and Estera Wajsblum, are hanged in the women’s camp of Auschwitz. . . . The reason for the sentence is read by First Protective Custody Commander Hossler in Auschwitz; he screams that all traitors will be destroyed in this manner” (Czech, 775).

⁸ In November and December of 1944, demolition squads were created who were responsible for dismantling some of the crematoriums. “After the beginning of the demolition of the extermination facilities probably no more selections are conducted among the prisoners. The prisoners die a ‘natural death’ from starvation, heavy labor, and the inconceivable living, hygiene, and sanitary conditions.” In the camp registry, 322 women, who died by violent means, were listed as dying because of “special treatment” (Czech, 756).

⁹ “The last roll call [in Auschwitz-Birkenau] had included 31,894 prisoners—16,577 of them women” (Rittner and Roth, 14). “No. 202499 [is] the last number assigned to a [male] prisoner in Auschwitz” (Czech, 785).

¹⁰ “Columns arrive by foot in Wodzislaw in Silesia. From there they are taken to Sachsenhausen and Flossenbürg [Germany] in open freight cars, which normally are used for transporting coal. Almost half of the prisoners die on the way of hunger, of exhaustion from the long march, and of freezing” (Czech, 789). “Auschwitz was liberated by the Red Army on January 27, 1945. Those troops found about 7,000 sick and exhausted prisoners—4,000 of them women” (Rittner and Roth, 14).

¹¹ “January 24 [1945] . . . a transport with female prisoners from Auschwitz, including 166 Poles, arrives in Ravensbrück” (Czech, 800).

STABSGEBAÜDE (Staff Quarters)

STABSGEBAÜDE
(Staff Quarters)