‘Were you always hungry?’

We arrived at Auschwitz after three days without food or water. The fear that held my heart in its iron grip prevented me from noticing how hungry I was. I was an automaton controlled by others, and did exactly as I was told.

Events followed in rapid succession. It all happened so fast that I barely noticed how night gave way to dawn. We stood under a shower; I lapped up its drops greedily.

Next, after we were taken into our barracks, the provisions eventually came, consisting of a piece of black bread each. I was still so shaken by the night’s events and the worry for my parents that I could not swallow a single bite. I gave the bread to my sister, and continued to do so over the following days. I only started eating when I realised that if I wanted to survive I could not give away the little I had.

We were never full. Sometimes, the unpalatable bread was not even baked through — it was just black mush. The calories were just enough to keep us from dying, but too little to live on.

When I started eating, my hunger caught up with me. It felt like an empty hole in my stomach that was always gaping. The small piece of bread could not fill it, instead it aroused a demand for more. The days went by, and the hunger tore at my bowels. It was a collective hunger; us girls were one single craving belly. All we ever talked about was different ways to trick our hunger.

Later, when we ended up in the labour camps, the hunger had become familiar. We were used to it. The constant hungry feeling became something that was simply there. Every now and then, my stomach would revolt and begin to hurt, but when that happened I chewed saliva to trick it into thinking I was eating. You could also trick your stomach by talking about cooking, recipes, and dishes until the dribble started flowing. My last thought before I went out like a light in the evening was often of the small piece of bread that I would get in the morning. It soothed my hunger for the time being, at least.

We were always on the lookout for something edible. A few girls worked in the kitchen, and it was important to be friends with them. They sometimes managed to smuggle out potatoes or a piece of bread to cheer up a friend. Joy also came from marching to work along the vegetable fields, where I would brave the risk of a beating to steal one or two stalks of broccoli.

The hunger was stronger than the fear of punishment.

Only once was I allowed to eat until I was full.

Our group was clearing up after the bombing of an oil depot. When the lunch signal came and our watery soup was supposed to arrive, we were taken into a canteen instead. The tables were set, crowned in the middle by a large bread basket. I did not dare to even think about touching the bread until the guard insisted. To my great astonishment, we were allowed to eat as much as we wanted. When the basket was empty, we got another one. It was difficult to fathom what was happening, it felt like velvet over my aching tummy. I ate, and ate, and ate. I was happy. I had never understood that bread could make you happy. Ever since, I feel an almost religious reverence for bread and potatoes. No meal is a meal for me without bread.

The joy quickly passed. Someone must have made a mistake. It would only be a one-time occurrence, and retribution for that day’s satisfaction was exacted through even more intense feelings of hunger over the following days as our stomachs shrunk back. We simply had to keep swallowing and trying to imagine that we were not hungry.

We went on like this until we were freed. When the British troops found us, hollow-eyed and emaciated, they wanted to help, and shared with us some of their rich, canned soldier’s food. Most of us devoured it; no one knew that it was lethal, that we would not be able to digest it. As luck would have it, I was not tempted. If someone had offered me a can, I would probably have eaten it. I was lucky that, instead, I met someone who offered me two raw potatoes.