Two

My father held me under his coat to keep me warm and put his arm around my mother to steady her as the lorry sped through the night. My grandparents had great trouble sitting on the truck floor and my poor grandpa couldn’t do a lot to ease Baba Melanie’s discomfort.

It seemed inevitable that the truck should finish up at the railway depot. We were ordered to join hundreds of people sitting on the cobbled stones of the station.

I didn’t really have any idea of what was going on. Why had I been snatched up and taken to this place where everyone seemed to be afraid, where the only sounds were frightened cries and harsh, terrifying shouts? I wanted my father to reassure me, to tell me that it would only last for a moment and then everyone would go away and we could return to our big, warm bed. I kept as close to him as I could but he had other problems: Grandpa Albert and Baba Melanie for a start. All their lives they had lived at peace with the world and they had no way of coping with these unfamiliar harsh circumstances. My father understood this and tried to make them as comfortable as possible, mentally as well as physically. Amid all the noise and confusion he battled to keep us together, to reassure us that everything would be all right.

We sat on the ground but my grandparents remained standing, their arms locked around each other. The guards were walking along the track-side, shouting at people to sit down and, when they didn’t react smartly enough, giving them a whack with their guns. My father helped Baba Melanie sit down. It was difficult for her. She suffered from arthritis and it was agony having to lower herself on to the damp cobbles. We all crouched around her and when the guard had passed my father disappeared into the building behind us and emerged with a chair. He put it at the back of the track-side area where it was less conspicuous but still in touch with the mass of prisoners on the crowded platform and, with Grandpa Albert, gently lifted Melanie up and almost carried her to the chair. My mother gathered me close and watched the guards. They hadn’t noticed our movements so we crawled back to where my grandmother was now sitting in the chair.

All around, everyone was talking in whispers. I still didn’t understand what was going on but the atmosphere of fear was subsiding now. We were beginning to be philosophical about our position. The grown-ups reasoned that there was surely no mileage in doing anything nasty to us. It was obviously in everybody’s best interest to buckle down and work in the resettlement camps and show that we could be depended upon to pull our weight.

A guard walked past and we all cowered down, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible – which wasn’t easy with Grandma Melanie perched above us on the chair. He stopped and looked at her. My father’s arm tightened around me. Melanie inclined her head and smiled at the guard as if greeting an acquaintance. The guard smiled back and moved on. We all relaxed.

I dropped off to sleep. I don’t know how long I slept on my father’s lap but I was awakened as he shifted his position to claim the attention of the guard who was walking along the line calling his name. Papa carefully transferred me to my mother, then got up and picked his way through the people lying on the ground. I wanted to cry out, to tell him to come back, not to leave me, but my mother put her hand over my mouth.

A man in a long leather coat came over to Papa, asked him a question and checked a detail in a sheaf of papers. My father shook his head and pointed to us. This did not suit his interrogator. He took my father by the arm, but Papa pulled away and again pointed towards us. The leather coat wanted my father to go with him but Papa was desperate. Rashly he grabbed the man’s arm in an attempt to detain him and, although the guard tried to shrug him off, my father wouldn’t let go. Without warning, the man took out his Luger and smashed it across my father’s head. For what seemed an eternity Papa stood and stared at the man with the leather coat, then he crumpled at the knees, fell on his back on to the cobblestones and lay very still. I screamed and clung to my petrified mother who, wisely, didn’t react. The man nodded to my mother as if they were acquaintances acknowledging a chance meeting and walked off.

Mascha dropped to her knees beside my father and cradled his head on her lap. She tried to see how bad the wound was and looked around desperately to find something to staunch the bleeding. I was shrieking my little lungs out. The blood covering my father’s head was something I couldn’t cope with. Mama opened my coat and tore my pinafore off me, folded it and pressed it to my father’s head. Someone tried to comfort me but I wasn’t having it. Without warning my father’s eyes opened and he looked solemnly at me for a moment or two, then smiled reassuringly and opened his arms. I threw myself on him and sobbed hysterically.

It was almost light. A train arrived with a haunting blast of its whistle, then set about shunting the cattle trucks around until the guards were satisfied that they occupied the exact position designated for them. Then, with their dogs, they began to round us up and force us aboard the train.

The man in the leather coat was standing near our group. He obviously had a problem with my father. As Papa desperately tried to get to his feet, he roughly pushed him out of line and snapped questions at him. My mother tried to stay with him and my grandfather also attempted to help but the night on the cold ground had been too much for him. He could hardly move and Grandma Melanie was even worse. My mother, half carrying my father, tried to assist her parents but it was impossible. The guards were shouting and shoving everyone on to the train. Grandfather Albert told Matka to help my father to the train. They would follow. My mother hesitated but Grandmother gave her a reassuring smile and waved her away. I clung to my father’s coat and went with them. When I looked back Baba Melanie was sitting like a queen on a throne and Albert was at her feet, his back resting against the chair leg, holding Baba’s hand. They saw me looking and gave a wave and a reassuring smile. It was the last I ever saw of them.

We were pushed on to the train. My father’s dazed state saved him. The man in the leather coat tired of not getting a coherent reply and pushed him roughly towards the door of the cattle truck. Mama elbowed the people getting on the train out of the way, held her position in the entrance by force and practically hauled my father aboard single-handed.

More and more people were hustled into the already packed cattle truck. A cacophony of shouts and shots fired outside cut into the screams and cries. Abruptly the doors slammed shut and bolts crashed home. It was pitch black inside. I couldn’t see anything but I could hear the mass of people crammed around us pushing against each other, moaning and cursing. I started crying again. I was terrified.

The train began to move, very slowly at first, then gained traction and speeded up. But it was not long before it stopped again. We could just make out that it was snowing and we were standing in the middle of nowhere. A freezing draught blew through the slits in the wall and it was better not to look out. But the doors didn’t open. With a lot of grumbling and shuffling everyone settled down again. The train stood and stood. Matka had managed to worm her way into a corner. She acted as a comfortable buffer against the cold wooden walls. Poor Mascha, her back must have been frozen. She held my father’s head on her lap and cradled me in her arms.

It was daylight again when the doors crashed back and a metal container was heaved on board. Everybody instantly started shouting questions and making demands. They fell on deaf ears. The doors were slammed shut, bolts driven home and there was the shrill cry of a whistle which signalled that we were about to continue our journey.

The train finally came to a halt at a small provincial railway station called Stutthof Waldlager. The bolts were pushed back and the doors opened. It was night time but glaring lights blinded the semi-comatose prisoners on the train. Freezing wind drove snow into our faces as we tried to obey the shouted orders from the guards: ‘Raus! Raus!’

The guards gave their dogs a bit of slack to help the lazy ‘Yids’ to get a move on. Huge black shapes jostled and pushed at me. I was too terrified even to whimper. My hand was welded to my mother’s but it didn’t seem to help. I wanted to run away somewhere, anywhere. For a moment I was out of the crowding figures and in the glaring light – and that was even worse. The shouting and crying was horrendous. Everyone was running, stumbling. A number of times I would have fallen and been ground into mincemeat underfoot if it hadn’t been for my mother’s strong hand. I was crying now and, in my fear, trying to sit down. My mother knew something I didn’t and wasn’t allowing me to give way to my terror. And I wasn’t her only concern. My father’s head was bleeding again and in spite of his determination to keep on his feet it was touch and go whether he would make it to wherever we were headed. A couple of times we found ourselves on the outside of the bustling crowd. Even I knew it wasn’t a good place to be. There were men in daunting black uniforms with sticks and dogs with sharp teeth.

My father, seventy-two years old and suffering from the blow to his head, sank to the floor. Torn between helping him and keeping me close, my mother was desperate. Her anxiety was transmitting itself to me through her fingers. I was screaming and trying to wrench my hand from the vice-like grip. Relief came just in time. The soldiers called a halt and everyone sank down where they stood on to the snow-packed ground.

Time was unimportant. Pain was what counted. Pain from sitting on the ice-cold ground, pain from bruises and cuts picked up along the way, pain from the separation from family and pain from hunger. I’d never been a particularly great eater but my small appetite hadn’t been satisfied for many hours. I swayed in and out of consciousness, so cold that I couldn’t even cry. A man in a Nazi uniform stopped in front of my parents and ordered them to follow him. My mother tried to pull me to my feet and I fought against the unrelenting pressure. I wanted to stay where I was, movement meant pain and I had had enough. My mother picked me up and we followed the man in uniform who seemed to know where he was going. He took us to a truck waiting by the side of the platform and my mother put me on board and then, with the help of the man, heaved my father in beside me. I was terrified that we would leave without Matka and tried to jump down. Papa attempted to stop me but he was too weak. A stinging slap to my bare, ice-cold leg brought me momentarily to my senses. My mother climbed in beside me and took me in her arms. Two guards followed us on and one of them banged on the cab with the flat of his hand.

The truck moved off immediately into the pitch-dark night. Naked to the elements, we sat shivering as the snow fell on us. Papa pulled me on to his lap and covered me totally with his coat. We bumped and thrashed along for some time, the engine straining and the tyres trying to keep traction until we got to an area with bright lights, a big iron gate and barbed-wire fences with watch towers at intervals. Soldiers with guns stood on the watch towers, pointing their weapons at us. The truck passed through the gate and stopped outside a brick building with lots of tall glass windows.

Cold, hungry and miserable, I started crying again. My father’s wound frightened me. Who would take care of us if Papa couldn’t? My father had always been so positive, sure in what he did and what he wanted. To see him sitting on the floor listless, not making his mark on the surroundings, was terrifying.

We went inside the building and were told to sit and wait in the corridor. Mama pulled me up on to her lap and, out of the snow, I began to feel comforted. We sat there for hours. Mascha made a little nest with her coat and I dropped off to sleep.

Heavy footsteps woke me up. The Kommandant of the camp, Max Pauly, wearing an impressive uniform and an overbearing manner, stopped in front of my father. He tried to get to his feet but the effort was too much. Matka was on her feet, speaking fast and persuasively. I couldn’t follow what she was saying but I could tell it was important. But not as important as my hunger. I started whining again in the hope that the big man would be more sympathetic than my parents and give me some food. Nobody took any notice.

That night we were ordered to sleep in a hut, empty except for cubicles with rows of rough wooden bunks three high. Mascha put me on one and I thought it was the most luxurious place I had ever known. It was out of the icy wind and snow, and I had a thin mattress, a blanket and even a wonky pillow. I snuggled down and fell asleep at once.

At dawn, still hungry and miserable, I noticed a terrible stench, and the cots that had appeared so wonderful the night before were damp and unyielding. There was also a loudspeaker shouting a few inches from my ear – enough to make anyone cry. Mama tried to go in search of food but was stopped at the door by a couple of men in ‘pyjamas’. Shortly after, I learned that they were prisoners. Everyone in pyjamas was a prisoner and those who weren’t were to be feared and avoided.

I needed to go to the loo and left my poor mother in no doubt that if I didn’t go immediately the result would be all her fault. One of the prisoners offered to take me. That first encounter with a camp latrine was memorable. It was open on three sides with a long seat with round holes roughly cut at equal distance along the whole length. The stink was eye-watering but the companionable seating appealed to me. And it’s surprising how easy it is to get used to vomit-inducing odours.

Back at the hut, Mascha was trying to light the pot-belly stove but without dry tinder her efforts were getting her nowhere. Later in the day we were taken back to the warm offices with the big windows. My mother sat on a bench, very upright, very tense. I was bored and tried to persuade her to play with me but she wasn’t in the mood. She sat staring at the door through which my father had vanished as if our lives depended on it. And they probably did. What seemed like hours later my father suddenly appeared. He seemed better now – more confident. He grabbed me by the hand and hustled us both outside as if he was afraid that his good fortune might leak away if he hung around too long. We went back to the hut. It was still empty. My father settled down on one of the bunks and pulled me in beside him. I felt warm and protected. My mama had gone off somewhere. I was just explaining my hunger to him when she returned. She had some bread and a tin pot containing a dark liquid. I hated both but Matka’s patience was wearing thin after listening to my non-stop whining and she gave me a take-it-or-starve alternative and I took the former.

I was lying in the crook of my father’s arm on the bunk, almost asleep, when the door opened and a man entered. My father gently extricated himself and stood up. My mama was crying and seemed to be on the point of collapse. I was embarrassed. Until recently I had never seen my mother cry – now she never seemed to stop. My father cuddled her and then came back to me and gave me a quick kiss. I was amazed. He also seemed close to tears. He turned away abruptly and followed the man out of the hut. Matka picked me up and held me so that I could see out of the window. A car stood a little way up the path between rows of huts. It was big and shiny and black. My father turned and waved, then climbed into the back. As the car sped off I could see my papa’s white face staring back at us through the little window. Mama was crying openly now, not making any attempt to hide her sorrow. She didn’t seem to know what to do. It was the only time I can remember her appearing hopeless. I didn’t really know what was going on but I joined in her tears anyway.

A man in a uniform came into the hut and spoke to my mother. I was fascinated by his black shiny boots and the way he kept swatting them with his riding crop. The man saw my interest and flicked me gently on the arm. I didn’t like that and glared at him. He patted me on the cheek with the floppy end of the whip. Angry, I grabbed at it. He teasingly flicked it away, then pushed it back again. Again I tried to grab it but he was too quick. He laughed, nodded to my mother and left. She picked me up and wept into my hair. I didn’t know what it was all about and struggled to get down. She held on tightly. So far, my whining and sniffling had been about normal for a healthy five-year-old. My mother’s tears and seeing my father being forced to leave us opened the dam, and I sank to the ground, shrieking and crying. Perhaps our situation had finally sunk in: Welcome to Stutthof concentration camp, my home for the next three years.