Josef Bainvoll, born in 1925

Great Darkness

In this book, I talk about my childhood in pre-war Poland, my Jewish family, my education, friends, and about unforgettable childhood loves. I describe my life under the German occupation, leaving home, my separation from the family, the years in labor camps, everyday fight for survival; my escape into the forest, my fear of partisans, a futile search for shelter, and my return to the camp. I write about permanent hunger, dilemmas, and hopes; about people who hurt others and those who helped them by risking their lives.

„In this book…” — fragments of Jozef Bainvoll’s extensive autobiography were selected by Anita Halina Janowska, who secured the publication rights from the author.

All my close relatives were murdered. However, after the war I met a wonderful woman and was able to start a new family. I have a loving wife, two grown-up children and the most beloved grandchildren. The fact that this happened is my true victory. It cost me a lot to write about the years of “great darkness”. My memories were revived, I couldn’t sleep at night—I suffered and cried. One does not go back to the nightmares with impunity! I don’t regret the efforts. We, the survivors, are vanishing—we are simply dying off. Even the youngest ones are already old men and women.

Before too long, there will be no living witnesses to the Holocaust. I would like what I write here to be a kind of document. I want to depict and commemorate the events of one of the most dangerous and cruel periods in history. In my story, however, there are no gas chambers, no crematoria. I was in four concentration camps, but fortunately, Auschwitz wasn’t one of them. I dedicated the Hebrew original of Great Darkness to my wife, children, and grandchildren. I would like to dedicate this version to those millions of Jews who died in my old country, killed by the Nazis. Let this be my humble tombstone for them.

And here are the names of the people closest to me who were murdered:

—Efraim Bajnwol, my father. After the liquidation of the Łódź ghetto, he was deported to Auschwitz, then to Dachau, where he died. He was forty-four years old.

—Róża Bajnwol, née Zameczkowska, my mom. She was murdered in Treblinka. She was thirty-eight years old.

—My sister Ewa, murdered in Treblinka. She was thirteen years old.

—Mosze Bajnwol, my brother (Moniek). He was seven years old when he was killed in Treblinka.

—Grandfather Nachum Zameczkowski, also a victim of Treblinka. I didn’t know his exact age.

—My beloved Grandmother Chana Zameczkowska, née Gutsztadt. Treblinka. I didn’t know her age either.

—Aunt Pola Gerber, née Zameczkowska. Treblinka.

—Uncle Chyl Gerber, shot in a labor camp.

—Cousin Mosze Gerber (Moniek), murdered in Treblinka. He was eleven years old.

—My unforgettable Uncle Szlamek (Szlomo) Zameczkowski. He died in the Łódź ghetto, tortured by the Kripo. He was twenty-five years old.

—Uncle Reuwen Zameczkowski, shot in Skarżysko Kamienna; his wife Judith and their newborn son died in Treblinka.

—Uncle Cadok Bajnwol. Tuberculosis killed him in the Łódź ghetto as well as his wife and daughter.

—Aunt Sala Dojcz, née Bajnwol, her husband Izaak, and little son Natan: they all disappeared somewhere in Ukraine.

Kripo — Kriminalpolizei—the criminal police department for the Reich.

I dedicate this book to all my friends who didn’t survive the war. I also want to mention the people to whom I owe a debt of gratitude and those who were a significant part of my life.

I’ll start with a debt of gratitude.

To my cousin Rachel—I’m grateful to my beloved Róźka for making me feel less alone in the world, because she was always somewhere close. Róźka, I consider you to be my sister!

I thank Szyron Dyzenhaus for his half a day’s ration of bread, which he took from his mouth to feed me when I was suffering from extreme hunger. I thank him and his wife Maniusia for all signs of friendship and for helping me out when I was in need!

I would also like to thank Edzia Brykman-Krakowska for the bread—and bread with marmalade at that—when even crumbs of bread were a dream for me.

Stasiek Frajdenrajch (now Stanley Freed)—a belated thanks for a few warm bowls of soup in Skarżysko, when due to my willful escape to another unit in the camp, I had no food assignments and I went hungry.

Mania Oster-Szak and her husband—a couple who, after the war, took me into their one small room in Łódź—thank you for that!

I would also like to thank Róża Górska from Warsaw, my cousin, whom I found long after the war. She was hidden in a convent and grew up there. For over fifty years she didn’t know her roots. Thank you, Róża, for being here. Welcome to the family!

Finally, I bow to Luba, the Luba that I would like to keep in my memory.

Childhood years
I remember a fragment of a poem that my mother used to recite to me and which I particularly liked:

Dajcie mi papier i pióro gęsie,
Nauczcie mnie nim wodzić w potrzebie.
Toż by latało, toż by latało,
Jak błyskawica po ciemnym niebie!

Give me paper and quill pen,
Teach me to run it in my time of need.
It would fly, it would fly,
Like lightning across the dark sky!

I know there will be no lightning from my writing, much less thunder. In other words—don’t expect “high literature”. I just want to talk about my life, everything that I keep thinking about, what I’ve been dreaming about at night, for years. I constantly reminisce about my past, the people I loved, my lost family, my murdered friends. I think about the stolen years of my early youth, the most beautiful years in a person’s life. I had a happy childhood. The “Great Darkness” began for me when I turned 14, and it was only in my twenties that hope for an ordinary, happy life emerged. I was still young, but I was already burdened with experiences that in a normal world people don’t have, even in their old age.

I paid a high price and maybe that is why life is a great gift for me and I can appreciate it. I could have died as early as September ’39 when the Germans invaded Poland. Many died then, but fate was kind to me. I survived the “Great Darkness” and then it felt as if I had come back to life, as if I had been gifted a second life. I have no right to complain.

I divide my biography into three periods: before the German invasion on September 1, 1939—the childhood years; the period of war and camps—the time of captivity; and the day of liberation—May 8, 1945, when I started my life anew. Classic fairy tales often begin with the words, “Once upon a time…” So maybe: Once upon a time, there was a boy, a Jewish boy, who was born in Poland, in the city of Łódź… I lived in a district where—as was typical in Łódź—Poles, Jews, and Germans lived side by side. I was six or seven years old when I found out for the first time that I had killed Jesus. That’s right! One day, a gang of bullies attacked me shouting, “You killed Jesus!” At that time, I had no idea who Jesus was. I told the boys that I didn’t kill Jesus, that I didn’t know that guy and I didn’t even know that he lived in our neighborhood. I was screaming, “I didn’t kill anyone! I didn’t kill anyone!” It didn’t help—I got a beating anyway. I imagine what would have happened if I had known anything about Jesus and told the boys that their Christ was also a Jew? Oh no, I wouldn’t have dared!

Well, in a Poland steeped in antisemitism, it wasn’t easy for Jews. In other countries, it wasn’t easy for Jews either. The poor ones aroused distaste, and the wealthy aroused jealousy. The common temptation was to seize Jewish property and drive away or kill the Jew—or best, burn him in a synagogue. They would say, “Jews are flammable material.” Hitler perfected this method and put it into practice in a modern way in Treblinka and other extermination camps. (…)

Skarżysko-Kamienna
I arrived in Skarżysko late in the evening. I was tense and exhausted. I hadn’t slept the night before, then stood in the market square for many hours, and finally, the journey in a madding crowd. We passed a building that was open in the front. I saw enormous furnaces with blazing fire and people naked from the waist up. I was gripped by fear. Would that be my workplace? What I saw resembled a painting of hell. A howl reached my ears, it was terrifyingly loud, like the roar of some terrible beast. Later I found out that it was the machine for pressing the largest cannon shells. That giant was called “Harmony”. It was making noise all day long. Over time, I got used to the roar, it was an inseparable part of our everyday life.

We were hurried into a large hall full of men. Some of them were in SS uniforms, others in gray uniforms—feldgrau. An SS officer stood in front of us and introduced himself, “I am the camp commandant, my name is Dalski.” The commandant said more or less the same thing as his colleague in the square, but it sounded more menacing:

“Jews, the conditions here are livable if you work with full dedication. Anyone who fails to work like this has no chance of surviving.” The message was clear. After a while he added, “Here are boxes and you will put all your valuables in them. Mark my words—all of them! We will search you thoroughly and whoever tries to hide something will be shot.” Some of  us  had  considerable  sums  on  them.  Rachel  and  I  had gotten 500 zloty each before we left. It doesn’t seem like a lot, but in these conditions, it was a fortune. You could buy over one hundred pounds of bread for it! At first, I hid the money in my pants. Watches, jewels, and other valuables besides money were thrown into the chests. We were ordered to undress down to our underpants, the inspection was thorough and I would have been caught for sure. I was scared, I didn’t want to risk any more, so quickly, with regret, I tossed all my fortune into the chest. But it turned out that some were braver and smarter than me—they hid the money in such a way that the Germans couldn’t find it. Those who were caught hiding something weren’t shot, though—they got a sound whipping and that was it.

Feldgrau—greenish gray; it was the color of of the Reichswehr and the Wehrmacht uniforms.

We heard that a few days after we left Stopnica, all the Jews from the town were taken to Treblinka, where they were gassed and burned. As I write this, shivers go down my body.

However, a group of Jews, probably for a high a ransom, stayed in the town. Workshops were organized where they worked for the Germans. The news that some Jews were left in Stopnica was one of the reasons to escape from the camp. None of the venturers survived. Those who tried to save their lives for the ransom didn’t get to live either. They stayed alive for a short time, but eventually, they were also taken to Treblinka. Stopnica was now, like other towns, judenrein.

Judenrein—German: “clean of Jews”.

Because a certain number of the Jews ended up in the camp, a relatively large percentage of the residents of Stopnica survived. Significantly more Jews died in other towns, where there was no chance of working in the camp. Some of them were hiding with Poles who helped Jews out of pity or for money. There were such brave ones, not only in Stopnica. Today, as Righteous Among the Nations, they have their trees in Yad Vashem. Most Poles behaved passively in the face of the Holocaust. Understandably, not everyone wanted to hide Jews—the lives of one’s entire family were jeopardized for hiding a Jew in Poland. But it wasn’t the “passive” ones that were a threat to us, it was the “szmalcownicy”—the blackmailers who made denunciations for “szmal” (cash) that were the most dangerous. I can see a huge difference between passivity and putting people into the hands of torturers.

I mentioned the fugitives, and now I will describe in more detail how the Germans discouraged such attempts. It was winter and I worked a day shift. In the camp, everyone was gathered in the assembly square. Two young boys were standing in the middle of the square. We were told that they were criminals who had tried to escape. They were stripped naked, laid on benches, and tied. Two Ukrainian Werkschutzes were thrashing the naked bodies with their riding crops for a long time. The half-dead boys were tied to the barbed wire of the fence, their feet stuck in the water tubs. For two hours we witnessed torture—the water in the tubs was turning to ice, barbed wire cut into the naked flesh. They were slowly freezing to death. The crying and pleading were heart-wrenching. That night I didn’t sleep a wink. For long hours I heard screams, then groans, whimpering similar to that of dying dogs. There was silence at last. We left for the morning roll-call at dawn. The sight of the bluish corpses was haunting! The bodies were left hanging for an entire day so that they could also be seen by the inmates returning from the night shift. Everyone had to see with their own eyes what the dangers of trying to escape were.

Werkschutzes—German: site security.

Nevertheless, attempts to flee continued. I was tempted to do it too, but common sense prevailed. Where would I run? Death was everywhere.

The arms factory in Skarżysko consisted of three camps: A, B, and C, known as Werks. I was in the biggest one—Werk A. Werk C was known as the worst. After a few months, I found out about it the hard way. In Werk C, there were units that used an ingredient called picrin. In these units, the clothing, skin, hair, even the nails of the workers turned yellow-green. These men and women looked like aliens.

Two “yellow” people from Werk C decided to escape. Pure madness! It was clear that everyone would spot them from a mile away. They must have been utterly desperate. They were sure that there was no chance for them to survive in the camp. Two Ukrainian guards brought the fugitives to Werk A. As they walked through the assembly square, large cardboard signs hung on their chests. They read in large letters only one short sentence written in Polish, “I tried to escape and for that I will be shot.” The victims were put by the fence with their backs to us. Two Ukrainians stood behind them and shot them in the head at point-blank range. I was standing close. It was a shock! I don’t know why I couldn’t take my eyes off the terrifying sight. The impact lifted the two skulls up, the brains splattered in all directions, and their bodies collapsed to the ground.

I want to go back now to the first day of my stay in the camp. In my mind, the word “camp” had been associated with barracks or tents. The Skarżysko camp was completely different. There was a large building in the middle of the square. This place was called “Ekonomia”. I don’t know exactly how many prisoners there were in Ekonomia, around six thousand. They all lived in one building. The upper floor was intended for important figures. There was one large room downstairs. In the front of the room were women, farther back were men, with no wall or curtain between them. The room was filled with bunks up to the ceiling. Four stories high, sixteen places on each level. You could stand on the upper level and barely sit up on the remaining three.

We were brought in at night. We heard the order, “Find yourself a place!” I felt fear. A large hall, dimly lit, long rows of wooden bunks.

I didn’t see people, everyone was asleep. I found a place on one of the bunks. Although I was exhausted, I couldn’t sleep until morning.

At dawn, in the yard, I met Luba. The day before, we had said goodbye in Stopnica. After a while I saw another girl I knew well—Hinda. Hinda had something to say to me: her friend, Mietek, was sent to Werk C. This Werk aroused fear from the very first moment. Hinda was torn—she wanted to be with her beloved, but she was terrified of the damned place. Lost and afraid, she sought my advice. “She’s not doing well,” I thought, “if she chose a kid who doesn’t know his way around this world as her advisor.” Of course, I didn’t even try to advise her, she followed her heart and volunteered to go to Werk C.

The years spent in the camps convinced me that it was neither logical decisions nor common sense nor following you heart that had any value—it was only pure luck.

In the morning, the men with blank cards were taken to the office on the factory premises to “complete the formalities”. We were sitting on the grass, no one was watching us. The situation didn’t seem terrible. At lunchtime, we got soup—a cauldron of lukewarm water with some carrots and turnips floating in it. None of us touched the pink dishwater. A group of prisoners stood around. Like savages, they pounced on the cauldron of soup. Each of us had something we’d brought from home. I took out my loaf of bread and cut a slice on my backpack. The prisoners were devouring my bread with their eyes. One of them turned to me and asked if he could collect the crumbs that were left on the backpack. Shocked, I cut a slice of bread and gave it to him. A second, third, and more appeared immediately. I sliced up and distributed my one loaf of bread. An older man came up and said, “Junger Mann, young man, don’t be so generous, tomorrow or the day after tomorrow you’ll be the one picking up the crumbs. Nobody gives away bread in Skarżysko.”

On the first day, people were assigned to workplaces. One group turned out to be redundant. They were loaded onto trucks and disappeared without a trace. Among them were Szyron Dyzenhauz’s parents and his sister-in-law (his brother’s wedding had taken place a few days before leaving Stopnica). The whole family went to the camp voluntarily to stay together and they were separated on the very first day. One more proof that in the place where we lived, planning was worthless and the future was impossible to predict.

My cousin got lucky somehow. The Jewish camp commandant chose ten young women, Rachel was only 15, but she was pretty and looked mature. Selected women worked as cleaners inside and outside the camp. Rachel worked in the guardhouse for a while. It was easier for her there than in the factory. She had more freedom, here and there she found something to eat, and there was no night shift. She belonged to a class that was somewhat privileged. I, on the other hand, quickly found myself on the bottom.

Uncle Reuwen worked in Werk C. There was no bathhouse, so he used to come, like the others, to bathe in Werk A. I was surprised I hadn’t seen my  uncle  around  for  a  long  time.  One  Sunday,  I  bumped  into a friend from Werk C. “Josek,” he said, “I have some bad news for you. Your uncle is dead. He fell ill with dysentery. The Germans took the sick. They ordered them to dig out pits. Then they shot them and threw them into the pits.” The news pained me.

However, life in the camp was governed by its ruthless laws. The next day, or even on the same day, my thoughts focused only on how to get an extra piece of bread or get a spoonful more soup.

Another piece of sad news was about Hinda’s death. I found out that she’d fallen ill with typhus and was shot together with other patients. After Hinda’s death, her friend Mietek, who also came from Stopnica, escaped. He didn’t look like a Jew. With some luck, and maybe with the help of Poles, he had some chance of saving himself.

The largest ammunition factory in Poland was located in Skarżysko. Although Skarżysko was officially a labor camp, and not an extermination camp, disease, hunger, and executions made it into one big cemetery. There’s no exact data, but it’s estimated that Skarżysko consumed over twenty thousand souls.

Several thousand Poles also worked in Skarżysko, but on different terms—they returned to their homes after work. The management of the camp was in Jewish hands. The commandant, his deputy, warehouse workers, police—they were the camp elite. This order gave the uncontrolled power, the power abused by the majority brazenly and unscrupulously. Zalcman was the Jewish commandant. He was about thirty years old, a good-looking man. He walked around the camp with his riding crop and hit people, usually for no reason. At roll-call—lashes, prisoners went or came back from work—more lashes. He walked around the camp like a king. The bastard thought that he had grabbed God by the balls. The commandant of Werk C was a pretty woman—Markowiczowa. She had an affair with Zalcman. They were able to move freely between Werk A and Werk C, and their love flourished. But Zalcman found himself another mistress. Markowiczowa figured it out, and since she had influence with the Germans, Zalcman was invited to the headquarters. He disappeared as if the earth had swallowed him. Nobody felt bad for him. If anyone felt bad, it was only that he hadn’t kicked the bucket sooner.

Albert became the new commandant. His twelve-year-old daughter stayed with him in the camp. There were almost no children of this age, and if there were, it was because they had privileged parents. Albert was completely different from Zalcman; he didn’t raise his hand against anyone, he didn’t wrong anyone, he didn’t even have a riding crop, which was the hallmark of the camp elite. I will tell you later how I survived thanks to him. (After the war, Albert lived to an old age. He died a natural death. His daughter also survived the Holocaust).

The camp management had opportunities that secured them relatively comfortable living conditions. There were also those who fared better than before the war. The Jewish policeman, Jojzep, was a shoemaker before the war, and shoemakers were neither the rich nor the social aristocracy. Here in the camp, the cobbler-policeman considered himself a demigod. Like almost all of his colleagues, he didn’t part with the riding crop. He used it frequently and for no reason. He had a dream partner in the person of Łajzer Frydman, a butcher by profession. They were on duty at night in the general hall. It was their duty to ensure that the belongings of the sleeping people weren’t stolen. Our wardens would get bored. The toilets were outside, so when someone went to pee, the men would catch the sucker and beat him. They shouted, “You wanted to steal, didn’t you!” It’s true that thefts happened, but most often the detainee was as innocent as a lamb, but they didn’t spare him lashes.

In one unit, two policemen—Zis and Mordkowicz—were “in office”. These two tricksters found a way to milk the poor people. A few of us still had some valuable things. The pair of crooks compiled a list of prisoners who were supposedly unfit for work and who were going to be sent away, which meant death. The victims bought their lives with their last pennies. A girl I knew was on that list. She had no money, she pleaded with them, begged them, and finally, they agreed to cross her off the list in exchange for a pair of high boots. Success went to their heads. Fictional lists multiplied. Eventually, the pair of blackmailers overdid it. They included one boy on the alleged death row list. He was poorer than dirt. Distraught, he turned to the German foreman who liked him, “Mr. Boss, I’m a good worker, why are they sending me away?” The Germans didn’t like competition. After a short investigation, it came to light who invented these lists. Zis and Mordkowicz were shot on the same day. (Crazy world. A Jew seeks and finds justice with a German.)

The chief of police was Teperman—a number one sadist with a riding crop as if glued to his claw. A gloomy face, medium height, round back, high shoulders, and short neck—he looked like his head was screwed into his body. His deputy and right-hand man was Krzepicki. A well-matched pair—they beat people for no reason and without mercy. When people were leaving or returning from work, they stood at the gate, counting the slaves. The German standing with them didn’t care what they were doing, he relied on the two Jewish “guardians”. And for a reason, they were very zealous in keeping discipline and order. They beat people when the line wasn’t even enough, when someone spoke without being asked, and sometimes they beat people just on a whim.

The conditions in the camp were deplorable. Cramped space, dirt and lice everywhere. You slept on stinking straw that was never changed. Those who wanted to maintain any sanitary conditions slept on bare boards. The top floor on the bunk was the best, there was nobody above you and nobody pissed on your head. But the bunk only had one top level. Groups of friends who wanted to sleep together were formed. I spotted a place on the fourth level. I threw away the straw, I found cardboard boxes and spread them out on the boards. The shoes stayed at the bottom, and you wore socks on the bunk. And that’s how you managed to maintain tolerable sanitary conditions.

The prisoners—in the German lexicon, “Häftlinge”—were given seven ounces of bread a day. The bread wasn’t baked from pure rye, it was full of potato flakes and other ingredients that were difficult to identify. A loaf weighed almost four and a half pounds, looked like a brick, a dark brown mass at first sight. The seven ounces of daily allowance was just one slice—gooey and heavy. The slice stuck to the palate, looked like a slice of clay and tasted like it. Bread was distributed according to workplaces or places where you slept. The division was an important rite. Ten prisoners were given one brick of bread. How was it split? Now, they all stood in a circle, one marked the place with a knife where the bread would be cut; after a short inspection, the bread could be distributed. One heftling stood with his back to the sliced portions, another took a slice of bread in his hand and asked, “Who will get this portion?” With his back turned, he gave a name. In this way, a fair distribution of bread was ensured. If someone got a slice a bit thicker, which happened—he was lucky. Several years ago, I read a memoir of a survivor who stayed in one of the many German camps. They also used a similar randomized system.

How does a hungry person eat bread? Bread that is swallowed all at once doesn’t satisfy. The slice must be cut into thin pieces. You take small bites off the pieces and chew them as long as possible before swallowing. It is a tried method and everyone who has starved knows it. Fresh bread isn’t filling. Bread that was baked two or three days earlier is better.

We got three quarters of a liter of soup a day. In all my years in Skarżysko, I never saw a potato in the soup. Potato flakes were added to the watery slush, sometimes a little carrot or turnip. On Sunday—a holiday—they gave us sauerkraut! Once a week—a meager ration of runny beet marmalade and a spoonful of sugar.

For the hungry, sharing out the soup was also a problem. Vegetables were lying on the bottom of the pot. Those who were first got almost only water. Later, the prospect of thicker soup was better, but it was also possible that the soup would run out and those at the end of the line wouldn’t get anything. Hot soup satisfies you better, but it was almost never hot. The first ones got soup that was thinner but warmer, the last ones got it thicker but also cooler. So where do you get in line? At the beginning or at the end? The workers in the press room were lucky enough to be able to put a soup bowl on hot shells.

One of the warehouse workers was Gnat—a marmalade expert. He added so much water that instead of marmalade, we got compote. The bastard bent over backwards to keep marmalade in the barrel for himself. In addition to the seven ounces of bread and watery soup, we got brown liquid in the morning, which they called coffee. It was lukewarm and bitter. In winter, I washed my face with it because the water was freezing cold and it was no good for washing up.

Most units didn’t work on Sunday. The warehousemen decided that they also deserved a day off. The order of things was changed. On Saturday evening we got our Sunday portion of bread. I ate the lousy fourteen ounces in one go. In the same evening, Sunday soup was distributed. I also ate the soup immediately, so I didn’t eat anything until Monday noon. One and a half days without food—I endured it somehow.

There was an old mare in the camp that was struggling to pull the cart with bread. They apparently saw that she was dying, so someone killed her. And now the question, “Who’s going to get the meat?” A horse, no matter how large, cannot be divided among several thousand people. Fortunately, the camp elite didn’t eat horse meat; if they had, there wouldn’t have been a problem —they would have taken everything. It was decided that the meat would be given to those who did the hardest work, i.e. the heftlings from the Granatenpresserei and the transport.

At that time, I was in transport, so I was one of the chosen ones. The mare was cooked in a sauce seasoned with onion and pepper (I had long forgotten about such garnishes). As I live and breathe, I have never eaten such tasty meat! Our portions were probably a few ounces, so the moment of delight was short.

After leaving my money at the entrance to the camp, I was left penniless. First, I sold my holiday suit to Poles for food, then, a pair of pants. I  arranged  everything  through  a  Jewish  middleman.  Whether I wanted it or not, I had to rely on his honesty—all decisions, more or less risky, were most affected by the nagging, constant hunger.

Again, let me go back to the first days of my stay in the camp. On the second evening, I was brought with a group of twenty people to the unit where we were assigned our work stations. There were no giant furnaces with blazing fire nor half-naked people looking like devils. There were rows of machines in the large hall. Our task was to convert cannonballs. There were two sizes: the smaller ones weighed forty-four pounds, the larger—seventy-five. The Polish manager, our “Mr. Foreman”, had an outstanding sense of humor. The machines processing large missiles, the so-called “cielaki” (calves), were high, yet the foreman assigned short men to them, including me. Was I able to put the missile into the machine? No. I made a platform out of two crates. It was harder for me than for others. One hundred and twenty missiles per shift was the norm. I had to lift each missile twice, which means that I carried seventy-five pounds two hundred forty times. Fortunately for me, I was physically strong. And yet, after working for twelve hours, my back ached as if it was broken.

About two weeks later, the malicious joke stopped amusing the foreman. He moved me to a smaller machine. The work suddenly felt so wonderfully light. For what is forty-four pounds, even when carried two hundred forty times?

Night shifts turned out to be my worst nightmare. Twelve hours felt like an eternity! The gates of the hall were wide open, and outside it was bitter cold. You could barely keep your eyes open, your legs were hurting, hunger didn’t subside even for a moment. Torture! I noticed that at night the foreman disappeared at 11:00 pm and returned in the morning. One night I was exhausted, struggling to stay on my feet. There were enormous furnaces in the adjacent unit. I found a dark corner and, curled up, I slept there for several hours. I was lucky that even though I had those secret snoozes several times, no one caught me. There was only one penalty for taking illegal rest: execution.

In December 1942, those working in the Granatenpresserei were transferred to a small camp made of barracks. It was about two miles away from the overcrowded, foul-smelling Ekonomia. The difference was huge. Instead of a few thousand people in one hall, there were twenty of us in one room. On two-story bunks, everyone had their own cot, mattress, and blanket.

Compared to Ekonomia, it was a luxurious hotel. The only drawback was being cut off from Rachel and the rest of my friends. Only Szyron worked with grenades and he moved with us to the barracks camp. We met on Sunday, a day off work. It was the time to deal with matters for which there was no energy or opportunity during the week. So: laundry, mending clothes, cooking, and above all—social gatherings. There was a stove in every room, and whatever you had, you cooked on it. Yellow millet was popular, which I also had eaten in Stopnica. Szyron and I often bought a portion and split it. When the groats were ready, we sat down at the table and, unhurriedly, we ate the yellow pulp from one plate. I took a spoonful, Szyron took a spoonful, slowly, so that you could feel the taste of the hot groats in your mouth as long as possible. I was looking forward to this rite all week, because Sunday evenings were the only opportunity for me to spend a few hours with a close friend. (Szyron is my friend to this day.)

My friend from Stopnica, Alter Zylberg, was in the camp with his whole family, including his parents and sister. (Fortunately, they all survived.) In the barracks, the son and father were my bunk mates. They both were managing somehow and didn’t starve. On the first day, I was alone in the room. The Zylbergs had a shelf between the bunks, and there was a loaf of bread on it. I was hungry, I fought with myself, finally, after a long hesitation, an empty stomach won. I cut off a thin slice and ate it. I stole many times in the camps over the years. But it was the first and last time that I had touched something that belonged to another prisoner. I was ashamed of myself. But who wouldn’t forgive me for this theft now…?

One day, while I was working, I got a metal splinter in my fingertip. I couldn’t remove the sliver in any way. My finger was swollen and filled with pus, the pain was unbearable! I tried various methods: I soaked it, picked at it, squeezed it—to no avail. On Saturday night I came back from the night shift. Despite being exhausted, I didn’t sleep a wink. My finger was blue and my arm was red all the way to my armpit. At that time, those who were unable to work were liquidated. I had nothing to lose. I went to the infirmary. The paramedic was a young man, Mietek Malinger. His medical expertise was that he was the son of a doctor. I showed him my finger and he told me without beating about the bush, “If you don’t want to die, we have to open the ulcer and squeeze out the pus. Right now! But you should know that I have no anesthetics and it will hurt like hell. You know that the guardhouse is right next to us, if you scream, they will come in, see your hand and you’re dead meat.” He was right, I swore I wouldn’t scream. He took a small knife, sanitized it over a spirit stove, cleaned it with alcohol, and was ready for surgery. But he wasn’t born yesterday nor was he stupid, he knew what awaited me, and he didn’t rely on my promises. He called two Jewish policemen. One sat in a chair with a cushion in his lap. I put my head on the pillow. The second policeman held it tightly with his hands. The surgery began. Malinger was right to have called the policemen. I couldn’t control myself. Knowing that I was risking my life, I roared like a wounded animal, but the roar was inaudible—the policeman was stuffing my face into the pillow. Every few seconds he would release his grip to let me catch my breath. Finally, the nightmare operation was over. I felt indescribable relief. In the evening, Mietek called me to the mobile infirmary. This time a knife wasn’t used—he pressed pus from the wound. My face was buried in the pillow again as the pain was intense. The next day I went to work, there was no other way…

This young inexperienced paramedic saved my life. All it took was a pocket knife, two policemen, a pillow, and a lot of luck. It was the beginning of my game of hide and seek with the angel of death. Sometimes, jokingly, I’d describe my strategy. I simply told him, “Back off, love, I’m in a hurry. I have important matters on my mind. Can’t you see I’m fighting for my life?”

At about the same time, another, more dangerous accident happened—a shell fell on my foot. It swelled up, turned blue, I felt excruciating pain. I soaked my foot in cold water, it didn’t help. I couldn’t fit my foot in the shoe. So I tied it with wire to the shoe and walked for almost two miles to and from work. The shoe dug into the sole of my foot, the wire cut into the skin, the biting frost paralyzed the foot—the pain was so bad that I was ready to give up the ghost. On top of this, I had to hide the pain while standing at the machine for twelve hours!

A few days later, before we left for work, we were told that a selection would take place. In Skarżysko it was called “przebierka”—a “pick-through” (like picking through potatoes to get rid of the rotten ones). The selection of the beast of burden was pretty much ongoing. People were dying, people were killed, and soon more were taking their place. The Germans could afford to starve and kill us. They weren’t afraid that there would be a shortage of manpower, new transports were constantly arriving, first from small camps, then from the Łódź ghetto. A transport of men and women came even from the extermination camp in Majdanek.

The selection was as follows: those who decided whether you would live or not stood at the gate, and the prisoners—three in a row—waited a few yards in front of the gate. Each group of three lightly ran past the judges, but not too quickly. The judges wanted to carefully assess the condition of the runners. One of the Germans touched the condemned one with his riding crop, and another quickly pulled him out of the line. This way, in fear, with a pounding heart, the three people ran in front of the judges.

I knew that with my foot tied to the shoe, limping, I had no chance. I had to put on my shoe at all costs. And I did. Only fear, the will to live, and determination allowed me to squeeze the swollen foot into the tight shoe. The pain was terrible! I was afraid that I would pass out. I asked two inmates to support me. A few yards in front of the gate, I was already walking on my own. When it was my turn, I ran the prescribed short route lightly, quickly, with the grace of a fawn. I didn’t feel any pain, it was the most beautiful run of my life! On the other side of the gate, I mixed into the crowd and passed out. When I woke up, I was standing on my own feet, supported by two prisoners. Limping, I stumbled onto my Werk. Now it was necessary to free my foot, take the shoe off. Desperate, I wanted to cut my shoe with a knife at first. I changed my mind quickly. In winter, in the camp, wearing one shoe? With the help of my colleagues, in hellish pain, I took off my shoe. From a piece of board and wire, I made what I ambitiously called a “sandal”. Fortunately, after a while, the swelling went down and the foot healed. That was another point for me in the game with the angel of death.

We stayed in the barracks camp for only three months. The return to Ekonomia was depressing. I was back in the large, overcrowded, smelly, and dirty hall with sixteen people on a bunk. This time I couldn’t get a place on the upper level. I slept on the second level, in the dark and discomfort. It was hard, very hard.

In this difficult situation, people sought an escape from the gloomy, gray everyday life. I simply called it a desire for culture.

In Ekonomia, on Sunday evenings, there were performances called concerts. The artists stood in the main aisle, surrounded by the audience. They presented what they knew, and there wasn’t much of it—some singing, jokes, and sketches. The star was Albert, a young man who, I suppose, was a street performer before the war. Although his repertoire was limited and he repeated the same thing every Sunday, he was very successful. A professional artist would dream of such success. A storm of applause greeted him and closed his act. It was an expression of gratitude for the rare moments of oblivion.

Ekonomia was liquidated, the prisoners were placed in the barracks camp, and the living conditions improved. In the barracks, our “theater” changed its character. The performances were less spontaneous, less “folk”. Groups of artists, who asked for a fee to see their performance, were formed. I had no money, so with other, less wealthy people, I listened to the performances outside, through an open window.

We had a real star in the camp—Gutka. Gutka wrote poems. She often stood in the middle of the room surrounded by the audience and recited. She never asked for money for her performances. Her poetry described our everyday life in the camp, longing for our loved ones, longing for freedom. She recited poems about birds, the sky, the stars. I don’t know if her poems were outstanding poetry, but that was the least important thing back then. What mattered was that Gutka’s performances were received with emotion and gratitude.

The grenade production division was closed. I was reassigned to a smaller unit where Poles worked. Apart from me, there was only one other Jew. The job was monotonous and boring. Poles were brutal and vulgar towards us. The foreman, a youngster, was also not a fan of Jews.

At that time, a typhus epidemic broke out in the camp. Dozens of people disappeared every day. There was an atmosphere of fear, people sought comfort from one another. Friendships were made that would never have occurred under normal circumstances. Here in the camp, everyday matters were the most discussed and social differences between people blurred. The exception was, of course, the camp elite, for which hunger or other concerns weren’t a problem.

I made friends with a boy whom I hardly knew in Stopnica. We slept in the same bunk now. In the evenings we sat together eating our pitiful portions of bread. My friend’s name was Aszer, I don’t remember his surname. Out of nowhere, Aszer got a high fever. He went feverish to work for two or three days, but that morning, he was unable to get up from his bunk. My insistence didn’t help nor did my explanation that he was risking his life. He understood what the danger was, but he said to me, “Josek, I can’t stand on my feet, I’m falling over.” I brought him a bottle of cold water and left him lying on the bunk. When I returned to the camp in the evening, Aszer was gone. I went looking for him in the so-called “hospital”. I asked about him. Yes, he had been brought in, but the Germans took all the sick. I lost a friend.

One day I also got a fever. I was scared that typhus had gotten me, too. It never occurred to me to go to the hospital. At the time, it meant a death sentence. I went to work despite the fever and terrible exhaustion.

On various occasions, I talk about how a Polish foreman saved me from certain death. The version was as follows: the foreman came up to me and, looking me in the eye, said, “You have typhus.” Fear gripped me, I denied it. He replied, “I studied medicine before the war and I know what’s what.” He led me to a dark room whose floor was covered with soft, warm sand. He laid two boards and brought me a bottle of cold water. From then on, the good angel would bring me white bread and milk, and on the spot he mixed them into a warm, sweet paste. By the end of the shift, he gave me a sign, and I joined those returning from work. He let me stay there until I got better. And this is how the Polish angel saved my life. A few years ago, when I was remembering the whole situation, something seemed wrong. I came to the conclusion that this course of events could only have been born in my imagination. As they say in Yiddish, “Niszt gesztojgen un niszt geflojgen” (which means that I neither climbed up nor flew, but it was all in my head). The image gradually cleared up. The truth was that the foreman did come up to me and say I had typhus. It was true that I denied it, and he mentioned his medical studies. So far everything was correct. The reality, however, was different. Feverish, I went to work, I knew about the “dark room” in the shed and took two boards there. When I went to work, I took a bottle of water with me. I sneaked into the shed from work. I lay feverish all day. I must have had an internal clock in my head, because a few minutes before six I would wake up from half-sleep, sneak out from the shed, and join the people returning from work. Now the picture is clear. It’s also clear that if my absence had been a little longer, the foreman would have reported it and that would have been the end of me. He didn’t. Maybe he didn’t notice my clever maneuvers, or maybe he turned a blind eye? Who knows.

In most cases, and especially during the typhoid and dysentery epidemics, the sick were eliminated. Later there were times when the sick were spared their lives. What did it depend on? I have no idea.

After my illness, I was pale and weak and could barely stand on my feet. In Granatenpresserei they were doing a “pick-through”. Apparently, they listed the haggard and the weak. In the evening, I was informed that I wasn’t going to work the next morning, instead, I was to report to the office on the factory premises. I walked there full of the worst feelings, all the more so because the prisoners walking with me to the office were as pale and thin as I was. It couldn’t have been a coincidence.

A German stood in front of us and declared, “You are weakened and you cannot work hard, so we’re reassigning you to the garden activities, to light outdoor work. You will also get extra food.” It was too good to be true. I whispered to my neighbor that, to the best of my knowledge, they didn’t feed the skinny ones, but buried them in the ground. He nodded. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” I said. We walked away a few yards. And what’s next? Where to now? I knew there was no way out. We returned to the group and were taken to the camp.

That day a new period in my life began, one of the most difficult and most depressing ones. I stood in the yard of Ekonomia for what seemed an eternity to me.

I knew the camp reality. I knew that the lives of people in a condition like mine were hanging in the balance. Albert ordered us to take our things. In a small backpack I had a pair of pants, some underwear, and two shirts. The remaining clothes had long since been sold for pennies. The fact that we were told to take our belongings was encouraging. Those destined for annihilation were taken as they were, without their things. We pleaded with Albert to reveal where we were going. He gave in and said, “You’re being moved to work in Werk C.” This made sense, because the executions took place mostly there, but “the work” part was hard to believe. Until then, I hadn’t heard that the frail were transferred from one workplace to another, but rather straight to the other world.

Albert knew Rachel, I asked him to let her know where I was going.

I believed Albert wouldn’t fail me and tell her.

The camp commandant was a high-ranking SS officer. His name was Üfling. He had an innate or learned passion for killing people. Most often, he would go to the yard before dusk. At that time the square was full of prisoners. Üfling approached a random victim from behind, put a revolver behind their head, and pulled the trigger. Apparently the sight of the brain splashing gave him satisfaction, pleasure, maybe even an orgasm—who knows? Such cases have been heard of. But it could have simply been the fun and joy of a hunter who had found a large animal to kill.

We left Ekonomia in threes. There were twenty-two of us assigned to Werk C. Seven rows of three and one prisoner at the end of the row. Üfling, who was standing at the gateway, said to him, “You’re spoiling the formation. Turn around!” And with an indifferent face, he split his skull open with a single bullet.

I was walking to Werk C barely alive, full of dark thoughts. I walked for about two miles. Werk C was very different from Werk A. Ekonomia in Werk A was a huge building in the middle of a large yard. The yard was surrounded on all sides by a double barbed wire fence. There were no trees or greenery, the yard was smooth and full of light. In Werk C, however, the barracks were located in a grove. Tall trees cast a shadow. The camp looked gloomy, tomb-like, and depressing. The only consolation, the only bright thought, was that I would now be close to Luba, close to the woman I loved. My feelings hadn’t changed.

I found Luba. She lived with her sister Sara. I wasn’t welcomed enthusiastically, maybe even rather coldly, but I didn’t realize it at the time.

Sara was cooking millet and treated me to some. She gave me a small pot with a few teaspoons of groats in it. I accepted the treat with gratitude. I sat with them for a few minutes and left the barracks.

The first night I slept on the floor. No change—what’s the difference between the floor or the planks of the bunks? At the morning roll-call I showed up with my backpack. “What’s this?” asked the policeman. “I don’t have an assigned place,” I explained. “Leave your backpack on the floor!” he ordered. I left it and went to work.

When I returned to the barracks in the evening, the backpack was gone. Someone wanted to free me from the burden. I didn’t have much in my backpack, but now I had nothing left.

The next evening I went to Luba’s barrack again and the next day too. I sensed more and more that I wasn’t a welcome guest. Sara’s reluctance was clear, while Luba seemed uncomfortable. She remembered well what had happened between us, but maybe that was why my presence made her feel awkward? I quit fooling myself and stopped visiting Luba. I felt depressed and lonely, I had no one close to me, no one with whom I could exchange even a few words. Sometimes at the morning assembly I met Abraham, Luba’s brother. He often complained about Sara that she had taken everything they had brought from home and ignored him.

One evening, however, the feeling of loneliness prevailed over self- respect—I went to Luba again. She was lying on the bunk, I sat by her side. Luba, without looking at me, said, “I have a headache. Get off the bed.” I saw reluctance and loathing on her face. It occurred to me that she was simply disgusted by me. And no wonder: I was disheveled—in torn clothes, maybe I even smelled of dirt and sweat, and I didn’t know? I got up, left the barracks, and promised myself, “It was the last time. A man must have his honor.”

I would bump into Luba after the war in Łódź. She was married to a nice young man with whom I had stayed in a camp in Germany. When I was alone with Luba, I never mentioned a word about the nice moments from our past. The past was in the past. Each of us went our own way. And that was it. I also got together with Luba and her sister twenty years later, I thanked them for the handful of groats given to me at Werk C. Not only did I not mention how she humiliated me, but at that moment, I didn’t remember it myself. Luba lives in America, she sends me a letter from time to time, and at Rosh Hashanah wishes for the New Year. We call each other from time to time. This is all that is left of our past.

Let me go back to Werk C. I worked for a week in the same unit as Luba. The work was light, in a heated room, with no screams, insults, or beatings—a paradise compared to the transport unit, where I had toiled before. The foreman was very kind to me, I have no idea why. He gave me his soup several times a week. One time I snuck out of my workplace and went to Luba’s unit; I was hoping to see the foreman and get some soup. On the way, a German came up to me and asked, “Where do you think you’re going?” “Someone promised to give me some soup,” I replied. Then he shouted, “I’ll give you soup!” and hit me on the head with the rod he was holding. I passed out. When I came round, I was lying in a pool of blood. I dragged myself to the unit for help. The foreman gave me some dirty rag and sent me to the camp. The mobile infirmary was closed. I went to the washroom, I put my injured, bleeding, ripped-up head under the tap. A liquid similar to red borscht poured into the sink bowl. I pressed the bloody cap to my head for a few minutes. I wrung it and pressed it again. This is how I was stopping the bleeding for a long time. Sara, Luba’s sister, entered the washroom. To this day I don’t know why, maybe out of despair, I walked over and said, “Look what they did to me.” Sara didn’t react in any way. “Cold bitch,” I thought bitterly. It wasn’t until the evening that they opened the infirmary. The paramedic shaved my head and dressed my wound. To this day, I have two deep scars on my head.

I have already mentioned how lonely I was at that time. I worked with a boy who came with me to Werk C, and we became friends. During lunch breaks, we sat together eating watery soup. One day, my friend fell ill. He was so weakened that he was unable to go to work. He was taken to a place they called a hospital. It was a smelly barracks. The sick were lying on the floor covered with stinking straw. I visited him every night. He was so weak and exhausted that he couldn’t swallow anything, even the soup. He stopped eating, he couldn’t speak, he couldn’t even raise his hand. I stood there in silence for several minutes. What can be said to a man who is dying? He and I both knew he was expiring. When I came the next evening, my friend was gone. I don’t know if he died a natural death—from hunger and exhaustion, or if he was killed like thousands of others. Today I don’t even remember his name anymore, I only remember that he came from Włocławek. Another of my friends was gone.

There was a place in Werk C called the shooting range. A high concrete wall—this is where the Germans checked the ammunition and shot the Jews. A locked car was spotted. The car drove for hours on a route that ended at the place where the bodies were buried. There was a rumor that in the gray van people were gassed. The idea was met with skepticism, because why would they need a van and gas when a Jew can be killed with one bullet? Soon, however, the rumor turned out to be true. The gray van was just the beginning of a practice that facilitated killing. In the extermination camps, vehicles were replaced with gas chambers and crematoria. There were no gas chambers or crematoria in Skarżysko. Executions and mass graves sufficed. It was enough to kill thousands of people.

I don’t remember when the thought of running away started sprouting in my head. I also don’t remember how many weeks I spent in Werk C, maybe six, maybe seven. I lost track of the time. Of the twenty heftlings brought from Werk A, only seven were still alive. I felt that I was wearing out. This period at Werk C was one of the hardest times in my life, not only because of the difficult conditions and murderous work, but also because of my total loneliness. After the death of my friend from Włocławek, I was no longer looking for company. I didn’t develop friendly contacts with the people I worked with. I was also not looking for friends from Stopnica, I was ashamed of my pitiful condition and appearance. Undoubtedly, the blow that Luba had dealt me made me feel bad. I was resigned and depressed.

I was working on loading missiles into trains. In the units, the shift was twelve hours long. Here, it ended when the last shell was in the carriage. I worked sixteen or seventeen hours seven days a week. Sunday wasn’t off here. The only upside was that I didn’t have night shifts. One day I nearly fainted at work. I felt that I was going to pass out in a moment. I found a corner and sat down on the floor. Suddenly, as if he had sprouted from the ground, Dr. Ross stood in front of me. Ross was an SA officer, a short, thin guy with a narrow face, big round glasses. His head resembled that of a snake. Dr. Ross had preferences just like Üfling—he loved shooting people. He walked around the Werk and when he felt like it, he shot and killed. I was sitting on the floor, the executioner stood in front of me, the foreman at his side. I felt dense fog surround me again like a cloud of smoke. Suddenly, I saw myself kneeling and cleaning the floor with my hands. “What are you doing?” the snake hissed. “I’m cleaning the floor.” Through the gray fog, I could see the revolver in Ross’s hand. As though hypnotized, I stared at the barrel pointed at me. I felt no fear, as if it wasn’t me the gun was pointed at. How to describe this feeling? Only one who has had a gun put to their head will understand. Petrified, I stared at the barrel and waited indifferently for the shot. Suddenly, I noticed the foreman touching Ross’s arm and heard him say, “He’s my best worker in the unit, spare his life.” The snake lowered his hand, looked at me, and kicked me in the stomach. I fell on my back. A few minutes later, I heard a shot. Here’s what happened: when Ross was leaving the ward, a young woman was standing outside drinking tap water. Ross shot her and killed her. The lust for blood was satisfied. I kept a score when I managed to avoid death. Later I stopped counting—there were too many points.

We didn’t have a bathhouse in Werk C. Those who wanted to bathe were led to Werk A, usually on Sundays. I was working on a Sunday, so when I went to bathe, I lost my lunch soup. This is probably why I didn’t visit the bathhouse every Sunday. I had no change of clothes, so the lice on my shirt greeted me, even when I returned to them from a bath.

The Wagner family had lived in Stopnica. Three brothers went to Skarżysko. Two of them were in Werk A, the youngest, Naftule—in Werk C. The eldest of the brothers, Mojsze, was as cunning as a fox. On the second day in the camp, before I knew where to piss, Mojsze was already a grifter in the power plant. Of course, he didn’t work. Mojsze was a born businessman, and the conditions for doing business weren’t bad. Many Poles worked in the power plant. Mojsze took full advantage of the situation and traded with them. He earned money and bribed the right Germans. This gave him a comfortable life. One Sunday, I went to take a bath with his ex- brother-in-law. Mojsze gave us a whole pot of thick soup, full of meat, called “Polish soup” (because Poles got better food). Unfortunately, this luxury wasn’t for us—we were supposed to take it to Werk C, to Mojsze’s brother. And so, two starved men walked for over two miles with a large pot of thick soup in their hands. We had a dilemma: to eat or not to eat? On the one hand, conscience, on the other—an empty stomach. In the end, as always, the empty stomach won. At first, with some hesitation, then with full energy, we started emptying the pot. I had a spoonful of soup, he had a spoonful of soup, and we ate almost everything on the way. Naftule got a nearly empty pot—with some leftover soup and small bones on the bottom. He didn’t say a word. He must have understood that you don’t pick ravenous prisoners to be the carriers of food.

The thought of escape was constantly on my mind. I decided to come back to Werk A, to the “paradise” in Ekonomia. It was the greatest stupidity I could think of. If I had known what awaited me, I would have probably stayed put. I don’t remember if I had gone to the bathhouse that Sunday already with the intention of moving. I asked someone to get Rachel—she worked in the guardhouse. I was probably acting on impulse. Perhaps I wanted to be closer to a loved one. Rachel was the only kindred soul left to me in the world. I told her that I wanted to be in Werk A. I asked if she would be able to help me a little before I sorted everything out. What was I going to sort out? I had no idea, I had no clear plan. The result of this decision was unpredictable. The situation was as follows:

I was absent from Werk C—I was a deserter. And I wasn’t in Werk A either, because I didn’t check in and I didn’t have an assigned job. This meant that I wasn’t getting any rations of bread or soup either. In addition, if I was discovered it would mean death. Rachel promised she would help me. If she had mentioned the danger or even winced, I might have given up on the idiot idea. It was easy to leave the group. We weren’t watched, what was the point? Where would we run? There weren’t many crazy people like me. I hid in some shed. I heard policemen counting people from afar. They knew one prisoner was missing, but they didn’t know who. They could have contacted the guardhouse and searched the area thoroughly, then they would have found me, but they gave up. The column moved. Suddenly there was a ringing silence in my ears, I felt fear. For the first time, I realized the situation I had gotten myself into, but there was no return. What was next? Individual small groups worked on Sundays. One such group was returning to Ekonomia in the early evening. I blended in with them. Again—the traffic and bustle of the overcrowded building. And I stood alone among the hundreds of people. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know who to turn to.

This is when I came across Edzia, a nice girl whom I had known from Stopnica. Although we hadn’t been friends, I quickly confessed the truth to Edzia, and asked her to get Rachel. Róźka came, she was surprised. She probably thought that when I was talking about running away, I was just fantasizing. But it was good that she came, that she already knew where I was.

And so, that Sunday evening, another chapter of my life began. I said earlier that the period in Werk C had been the worst of all. There I was devastated, depressed, and physically exhausted, but at least I had my seven ounces of bread and soup. However, in the new situation, not only did I have nothing to eat, but I could be killed for desertion. During the day I couldn’t stay in the camp. There were roll-calls and I would certainly have been caught. The only option was to walk from Ekonomia to the factory and back. Each morning, I blended in with the crowd going to work, and each evening I went back to the camp with the crowd. It wasn’t easy in Werk either. I couldn’t loiter around the factory all day. Everyone had to be in their unit, only a few groups could move more freely. There were warehouses at some distance from the buildings. I found a warehouse of fireclay bricks. The wooden shed wasn’t locked, because who would steal bricks and why? I built a burrow, invisible from the outside. I spent long hours there. Before the evening, when I heard the bustle and voices of the prisoners, I sneaked out and joined one of the returning groups. The columns went by units, the prisoners were counted at the factory exit and at the camp gateway, but the counting wasn’t too careful. The policemen knew their subordinates and they constantly chased me out of the line. I wandered from line to line, got a kick in the ass more than once, but somehow managed to get from one side to the other. Twice a day my life was hanging in the balance. I suffered terrible hunger. I spent hours between the bricks sleeping half-conscious. I was literally pushed to my limits. Often, for two or three days in a row, I had nothing to eat. Rachel would give me some crumbs from time to time. She didn’t have too much herself. Rachel’s friend, Stasiek Frajdenreich—a “Vorarbeiter” at the sawmill also helped me a little. Every now and then, when he was distributing soup to his people, I would lurk and he would call me and give me a portion. Stasiek belonged to the camp elite, he gave his soup away to those working at the sawmill. Then a stranger showed up and took the soup away from them. They gave me accusatory and hostile looks. I didn’t get the soup every day. When Stasiek was distributing it, I tried not to get too close and he didn’t always see me. Whether he would give me the soup also depended a little on his mood. I accepted what he gave me with ineffable gratitude. I will never forget his kindness. He owed me nothing, people closer to me didn’t lift a finger to help me.

Vorarbeiter—german: foreman.

Fifty years later, I remembered that I had never thanked Stasiek. I knew he survived and lived in the States. I looked up his address and apologized over the phone for thanking him so late. Of course, we exchanged impressions and memories. He said, “Skarżysko wasn’t a bad camp.” I replied, “Stasiek, we were in the same camp, but my Skarżysko was completely different from yours.”

During my desertion, I didn’t contact my friends from Stopnica. Even Szyron. I tried to inform as few people as possible about my crazy mishap. What if the message reached the wrong ears?

Time passed in constant fear and tension. I was so hungry I was in pain, and I didn’t even have a permanent place on the bunk. When I saw an empty spot, I went to sleep, of course with my clothes on, I had nothing else. One day, in the crowd going to work, I met Szyron. We hadn’t seen each other for a long time. I told my friend about what I had done. Explanations were unnecessary. Anyone would understand my situation easily. Szyron took a small package from his pocket, containing half a daily ration of bread thinly covered with marmalade. I knew it was his food for the day. Without hesitation or scruples, I took the gifted bread. People get presents of greater or lesser value in life, but who can judge the value of a slice of bread taken from your mouth and given to a person dying of hunger? I will never forget my friend’s gesture. Szyron and his wife Małka also helped me on other occasions. They have a special place in my heart forever.

Edzia from Stopnica, a frail girl, fell ill with typhus. Thanks to the care of Dora, her sister, Edzia managed to stay in the room and not go to the so-called “hospital”, which the sick avoided like fire. Edzia lived in the same room as Rachel. She no longer had a fever, but she was pale and weak. She said that her parents had sent her a care package from the Warsaw ghetto. (How the package arrived I have no idea). It is known that the Warsaw ghetto wasn’t a paradise either. Edzia said to me, “Josek, open the suitcase, there is bread in it, cut a slice for yourself and spread some marmalade.”

It wasn’t easy for a hungry person to cut a slice of bread for himself. Maybe it would be too thick? It wasn’t appropriate, because Edzia was sick and also hungry. I asked her to give me as much as she saw fit. “I’m too weak, I don’t have the energy,” she said. I cut myself a thin slice and she said, “Josek, take a thicker one.” I remember her gesture to this day and will never forget it. Edzia lives in Paris and we have a casual contact—a greeting card for the New Year, from time to time a letter or phone call. We got together several times—Edzia was in Israel, I was in Paris. So, for Edzia too, I’ll always keep a special place in my heart.

There was another situation connected to dividing bread. Rachel had gotten a small loaf from somewhere. I was in her room by chance, she offered me the privilege of slicing the bread. I insisted that she give me as much as she wanted, because she too had been starving more than once. Mojsze Wagner came up, and Rachel asked him to cut the bread. Mojsze divided the loaf into two unequal parts. He gave me the bigger one and Rachel the smaller piece. In his opinion, men should eat more than women. I didn’t protest, although I saw anger in Róźka’s eyes. I knew I was acting indecently, but I was too hungry to be loyal. To this day I’m ashamed of it.

In the part where I write about childhood, I mention that I wasn’t too religious. Even as a young boy I had doubts. At first my thoughts were shy, then as I grew up my doubts intensified and deepened. I simply didn’t believe in God. A young man without education, and an atheist—appalling! In the time of the Great Darkness, as I call those years, I envied the believers. I often thought, “Here is a man who’s suffering hardship because he is lonely and helpless, but he believes in God. He has someone to turn to, someone to beg for mercy and help. He believes that there is a God in heaven, that he will give him a helping hand, and shine a light on the darkness…” I had no such redress, I didn’t believe before, I don’t believe now. Those who haven’t lived through the situations I’ve experienced won’t understand how helpful faith can be in times of loneliness and breakdown. Here’s how I explained my disbelief to myself, “If we are God’s chosen people, why won’t he protect us, why has he abandoned us and thrown us for the dogs to eat? German soldiers have belt buckles embossed with ‘God’s with us’. How can He be the God of the murderer and the innocent murdered victim at the same time? Then it’s a betrayal. My God has betrayed us. Or maybe there is more than one god? Or maybe mine is weak and cannot or does not want to protect me? So why should I serve him? If I were to serve anyone, it would be a strong god that I could count on in my hour of need. Where can I find him? I don’t know. So I will be without a god for now.” Perhaps this is how I was looking for justification for my own impiousness.

I talk a lot about self-doubt and breakdown, but honestly, in all my “dark years”, I’d never been in utter desperation. I was struggling, I was very depressed, but always, contrary to reality, against logic, there was a deep belief in my heart that I would survive the nightmare. Or maybe it was that hope and persistent faith in survival that, for me, was an ersatz faith in God, a faith to which I wouldn’t admit?

I don’t remember how long the game of cat and mouse lasted. Every day I sneaked into Werk and back into the camp. I spent long hours in the brick warehouse. I lived on breadcrumbs, food scraps. I had a terrible fear of getting caught. The only clothing I had was worn out, I wore torn pants, a shredded shirt, and shoes that had holes in them. Skinny as a needle, unshaven, I looked like a typical “muzułman”.

“Muzułman”—a distorted form of the Polish word for Muslim (German: Muselmann)—in camp jargon, the word meant a prisoner who was extremely emaciated.

One day I realized that I had to do something, make a change, otherwise I would die. I decided to turn to the Jewish commandant, tell the truth, and ask him for help. So I did. I seized the moment Albert was alone and walked over and told him my story.

I told him about the escape from Werk C, constant sneaking, starvation. I said it was over, that  I  couldn’t  take  it  anymore.  I  saw the amazement on Albert’s face. It was hard for him to believe that I had avoided any mishaps all that time. Finally he said, “I’m the camp commandant, it’s my duty to hand you over to the Germans. We both know you’d get a bullet to your head. No, I don’t want to have you on my conscience. I’ll help you. But you have to promise me: if you get caught, you won’t mention a word about our conversation. If you do—we will both die. Understand?” I promised and kept asking, “Help me.” He said, “I can’t do much. I’ll give you clothes and food for the road. That’s all. You can’t stay in the camp. Run to the forest, there are partisans there, maybe they’ll help you.” Finally, he said, “Good luck. From now on, I don’t know anything about you. I didn’t see you, didn’t hear you, we didn’t talk.” Albert gave me underwear, pants, a shirt, a warm coat, socks, high boots, and a brick-loaf of bread.

In the camp, the only thing a prisoner never parted with was a dish—a pot, a bowl, or a more luxurious item—a mess kit; sometimes a simple tin can had to do. The dish was carried just in case, because somewhere, unexpectedly soup might appear. I had a large can; the handle was made of wire, which was tied with a string to my waist. Before the escape, I got a second can. I started my forest adventure in new clothes, with a brick of bread, two cans, and a heart full of fear.

It wasn’t difficult to escape from the camp, as in the spring of 1943 there were no more escapes. There was simply nowhere to run. The bravest wouldn’t take the risk. I knew that small groups returned to Ekonomia at night. In the evening, I stayed in the factory, in my brick warehouse. As night fell, I hid in the bushes near the gate. I skillfully slipped between the returning workers. Within a moment, I was outside the gateway. The sleepy Ukrainian guard who escorted the group didn’t notice anything.

The night was dark, and there were ditches along the sides of the road. I made sure the sentry wasn’t looking and jumped into the ditch.

There weren’t many safe escape routes. I knew that going left was a bad idea because the road led straight to the railway station. So I turned right. I hoped that the forest was close. The road was empty, but I was walking along the side of the road—in case of danger, I could jump and disappear into the ditch.

As I walked, I reached a road junction. From there you went to Werk C. At the mere sight of this place, I felt dread and shivers ran down my spine. I wasn’t deluded, I knew that I was going into the unknown. I walked for a couple of miles. Finally, in the distance, the shadow of the forest appeared. Less than a mile of hiking and I was in the woods. I hid in the bushes and fell asleep exhausted.

I woke up in the morning starving. I was looking for blueberries; it wasn’t the season yet and I found nothing. I decided to go to a nearby village and ask for help. If something looked suspicious to me, I’d run deep into the forest. I was afraid that the peasants would hand me over to the Germans, but I had to risk it, there was no way out.

I kept walking until I saw a large village. I didn’t see any people, but smoke was rising from the chimneys. I spotted one of the larger cottages and knocked on the door. My heart was pounding, my throat felt tight. I was terrified! I was overcome with the familiar feeling that I was standing in front of an invisible wall with only a cloud of fog before my eyes.

The homeowner opened the door for me. My appearance spoke for itself, there was no need to explain. I saw the confusion on his face and I felt uncomfortable, too. Finally, I spoke, “Gracious sir, I am a Jew, I escaped from the camp. I am begging you, help me!” With some hesitation, he allowed me to enter the cottage. Two women were sitting at the table. They both looked at me, stupefied and fearful. They looked as if I was a ghost or an alien from another planet. The host indicated a seat at the table. I sat down.

One of the women gave me a slice of bread with cheese and a cup of warm milk. I sat and ate. I didn’t look up, everyone was silent. I finished eating, the host offered me a cigarette. Later he stated firmly, “You cannot stay here, the danger is too great for us. Go away and don’t come back again.”

I knew about the partisans. To tell you the truth, I feared the Polish saviors no less than the Germans. Nevertheless, while promising the peasant that I wouldn’t come again, I mentioned the partisans, “Sir,” I said, “there are supposed to be partisans in these forests. I would like to join them.” He replied, “I know, I know very well where the partisans are. You will find out today too. I’ll let you know.” I was disturbed by the peasant’s exaggerated enthusiasm and eagerness to help me, but there was no way out. He took me to the barn and told me to wait for him to come back. I made a burrow in the straw—a hiding place. Despite my exhaustion, the anxiety didn’t subside. I couldn’t sleep. Before dusk, the peasant brought me food. He said he had let the partisans know. At night they would come and take me to the forest. Suddenly, something in his voice bothered me and I became suspicious.

For  long  hours,  in  the  barn,  through  the  cracks  in  the  walls, I watched the yard. I saw a pigsty, a cowshed, and a stable, and a loft above it. I decided to change my hiding place. I left the barn and climbed the ladder to the loft. I parted the hay and soon, I had a new burrow, a new hiding place. I lay down in the fragrant hay and fell asleep. How long I slept I don’t know. Voices woke me up, I saw the silhouettes of men. I recognized the host by the voice. He was holding a lantern in his hand. Two tall shadows loomed beside him. I thought I saw rifles. I wasn’t sure, maybe fear drew them in my imagination. The men came out of the barn. I heard the host say angrily, “That bastard kike was in the barn. It seems he has already taken off!” I didn’t like the “kike” or the “bastard”. I sat quietly, motionless so as not to reveal my presence. I decided to go back to the forest as soon as it was safe.

A few years later, I learned that the partisans in this area, also after the war, had snuffed out many a Jewish life. Extremely nationalist units of the National Armed Forces operated here. This time my hunch didn’t disappoint me. If I had gone with them, I probably wouldn’t be telling this story, but rotting somewhere in the green Polish forests for a long time now.

The peasant went back in the cottage. I waited patiently for all the lights in the windows to go out, I got down from the loft and ran through the field into the forest. I found thick bushes and hid there.

I considered my situation. I had escaped from the camp, where the prospects for survival were poor, and now I would either starve or be caught by the Germans or partisans—I felt the same threat. I fought with myself—returning to the camp seemed like suicide. Death awaited me both here and there…

For now, I was delaying my decision. Later that night I found a path leading in an unknown direction. I kept walking for several hours. In the morning I saw a village in the distance. There were no lights in the windows, and no smoke was rising from the chimneys. The villagers were still asleep. I approached the first cottages. I didn’t think about dogs. In Polish villages there was a dog guarding each house. When a stranger came, the dogs barked so loudly that the householders woke up. I didn’t consider dogs in my plans. And something strange happened, something incomprehensible—no dog barked at me! Neither the first night nor the following night. To this day, I can’t explain it.

I found a way to feed myself. I was looking for pigsties—I knew that potatoes for pigs were mixed with bran. Although the pigs left little for the hungry Jew, I always managed to throw something into my can. The second can I had with me served as a water dish. In Polish villages, a bucket on a chain was lowered into a deep well. I was afraid of the clink of the chain, so I used the can to get the leftover water from the bucket. To collect enough water, I went to several wells. I returned to the forest with this treasure. The nighttime wandering between the forest and the villages often took hours. Common sense told me not to visit the same village every night, although it was easier that way. I tried to change direction, but I often got lost and eventually returned to the same place. At night all cats are black and all villages look alike.

The daily routine was fixed. I slept in the bushes during the day. In the evening, I inspected the area from my hiding place. I waited for all the lights in the village to go out, and a moment later I came out. I was terribly afraid! I didn’t know whom I feared more—the peasants that would hand me over to the Germans, or the partisans.

Man is a sedentary animal. Though it wasn’t wise, I got attached to places. I spent several days in the same tree once. The tree was large- crowned with thick branches and dense leaves. When I lay down on the branches, I was invisible from below. I decided that this tree would be My Home. I recognized the way by the various landmarks and I found My Tree from all directions.

I tried not to lose track of time and hid a piece of twig in the cuffs of my pants every day—that was my calendar.

When I had taken refuge in the forest, I was already weak. After a few days, I felt my energy draining away. Walking became more and more difficult. I shuffled my feet. In addition, loneliness was bothering me. I missed the human voice. I told myself stories from books and movies. I even sang softly, like a bird. In my mind, I was talking to my parents, to other family members, to friends—people I had lost and missed. Several times I realized I was talking to myself.

I wondered what to do next. One possibility was to turn to some peasant in the countryside—he would hand me over to the Germans or partisans. But with the partisans, I had some chances—with the Germans, none. The second option was to return to the camp—I knew what the sentence would be. The third option was to keep quiet and wait for death or madness to come. I decided to go back to the camp. If I was to die, it would be like a human being, among people, and not in the forest like a dog. While waiting for a miracle, I gave myself two weeks to think. The longed-for miracle didn’t come.

On the fourteenth day, before evening, I limped towards the road. After a few hours of torment, I was standing in front of Ekonomia. Hidden in the ditch, I waited for dusk. At night, I sneaked back to the camp with a group. I was back in Ekonomia. Suddenly, the stuffiness of the overcrowded and smelly building seemed nice and warm to me. I found a place on one of the bunks. It had been a long time since I had slept so well as I did that night. The presence of people gave me confidence, I felt that I belonged somewhere. It didn’t bother me that the prisoners who slept next to me were strangers, that we had nothing in common except a common fate. But the mere thought of being able to address another human being, hearing a human voice, made me feel better.

The next day, the game of cat and mouse began again. In the morning, I sneaked up to Werk, hid in a warehouse, and in the evening, I quietly returned to Ekonomia. Here and there, I collected bread crumbs and ate the leftover soup. Soon, the charm of Ekonomia wore off. My strength was gone completely. I felt that I was slowly dying.

One Sunday a roll call was announced. The prisoners stood on the left side of the square, and Jewish policemen, Germans, and Ukrainians—in the middle. The policeman called the prisoner, who gave his number and ran to the other side. My situation was dire—I knew my name wouldn’t be called and I would be left alone on the left side of the square. I was frantically thinking what to do. I decided that once there were more people on the other side of the square and the distance between the groups shrank, I would run quickly and mix with those whose names had already been called. The distance between the groups narrowed, and I stood there, frozen. Fear paralyzes and chains you to the ground. There was only a small group left. Then I saw Rachel from a distance, returning from work in the guardhouse. I called her and hastily whispered to ask Albert for help. Everything now depended on Rachel’s backing me and Albert’s goodwill. The office windows were on the first floor. Albert and Rachel stood at the window. I watched them with my heart pounding. The policeman calling the names was suddenly changed. Then I heard the name “Mojsze Ostrowski”. There was no answer. Again, “Mojsze Ostrowski”. Nobody answered. I looked around and saw Albert making a slight movement with his hand as if he was pointing at me. I understood. Again, “Mojsze Ostrowski”. I shouted, “Yes!” and I ran across the square.

After the roll call, I met Róźka again, she said that Albert wanted to see me. The commandant was alone in the office. In an irritated voice he asked, “What are you doing here? You were supposed to be in the forest!” “I was, but I’m back.” And I told him the whole story. About the peasant, partisans, hunger, and fear. I don’t know what effect my confession had on Albert. He interrupted me, “This can’t go on,” he said, “I don’t want to lose my life because of you. Forget about our conversation we had before you took off. This is the first time you are addressing me, do you understand?” I nodded humbly. He continued, “Tomorrow we are going to Üfling. You will tell him that you escaped from Werk C. You wanted to be with your cousin and that’s it. Don’t even mention the forest. I will put in a good word for you, I will ask him to pardon you.”

I didn’t like the thought that my life depended on the changeable mood of a murderer but I had no other option. I accepted the sentence. I had an inexplicable feeling, completely ungrounded, which told me that this wasn’t my end yet. I felt that I would also survive this oppression.

I got new clothes, the old ones had been damaged in the forest. I also got food. Despite the optimism and some relief that fate seemed to be giving me yet another chance, I didn’t sleep that night. I bit my lips bloody and pinched my cheeks to give myself a healthy look. In the morning, I met Albert at the appointed place. The commandant called a policeman named Milsztajn. He gave me a chunk of buttered bread and a cup of sweetened coffee. I thought, “Is this the last meal of a doomed person or the beginning of a new life?” When I was through eating, Albert said, “Let’s go.”

Üfling lived on the other side of the barbed fence, in a small one-story house. A wicket connected the property with the backyard of Ekonomia. I saw the tension on Albert’s face. He was serious, a little pale. My heart was in my throat. Albert reminded me to say nothing about our previous meeting and nothing about the forest. Suddenly, on the way, Albert changed his mind, “You cannot predict Üfling’s reaction. He can shoot you on the spot. Better wait, I’ll go ask on your behalf.” I was relieved to hear this decision. Albert undoubtedly had some influence on Üfling, otherwise he wouldn’t have risked sorting out a difficult matter. I’m also sure that Üfling was well “greased”. And not only him. The Jewish leadership knew who to bribe and how. Bribery provided the “elite” with peace and, for a forced labor camp, a comfortable life. (This is called, “live and let live”.)

Albert entered the house through the wicket, I stayed outside. Within a quarter of an hour, I saw Albert and Üfling at the window. Albert pointed his finger at me. What impression I made, I don’t know, but I didn’t look like Goliath, that’s for sure. After what seemed like an eternity to me, I saw Albert exiting the gate. The smile on his face bode well. He came up to me and said, “Üfling was in a good mood, you’re pardoned, you’ll stay in Werk A. He was even amused that you had the balls to escape from Werk C and that you managed to hide for so long. But remember—there was no forest!”

I was overjoyed. Suddenly, everything seemed easy and simple to me. Seven ounces of bread and soup every day were like a dream come true. Ironically, while hiding in the warehouse and in the woods, I missed the hard work in Granatenpresserei. Strange what can make a man happy. “Starting today, you go back to your surname,” Albert said. I asked

why I couldn’t stay Mojsze Ostrowski. Albert explained, “Mojsze Ostrowski died. His file was accidentally left in the office. You can’t return to his unit. Everyone knew him there. There is no need to change your name, you’re legally in Werk A.” Albert told me to come to the office. There he unexpectedly announced, ”You will work at the Bauhof.” My heart leapt with joy! In my opinion, Bauhof was the best unit, I knew I wouldn’t have to toil. They did various improvements in the production and built small facilities there. Several Poles—specialists and around fifty Jewish heftlings worked at Bauhof. Most of the work was done outdoors. The work was varied, always in a different place, and without night shifts. Another upside was that some of the work took place outside the factory. On the other side of the wires it was easier to “organize” something to eat. I was happy.

The next day I was sent to work on the construction of a barracks camp, to which prisoners were supposed to gradually move from the stinking Ekonomia. The work was relatively light and no one was rushing you, Polish workers weren’t breaking their backs either.

Two days after my pardon and the beginning of a new life, Albert and the Ukrainian guard came to the construction site. I knew him from Werk

C. His name was Kozłowski. He and his colleague Ivanenko were the main enforcers. I heard Albert asking from afar, “Where’s the new guy?” The Vorarbeiter pointed at me. Albert stayed where he was. The Ukrainian rode up to me on a bicycle. My heart was pounding like a hammer. What now? Why are they looking for me? Why Kozłowski? The Ukrainian shouted to me, “Come on!”. I followed him. He took me to a grove. I called from afar, “Mister Albert, help me!” Albert spread his hands in a motion that could mean, “Too bad, I can’t help it.” We went deeper into the grove. I was in shock. I figured Üfling had changed the sentence and they were taking me for execution. Everything pointed to this. Albert’s gesture, the guard from Werk C, the grove. Kozłowski followed behind my back. I figured if he wanted to shoot me in the grove, I would hear the holster opening, maybe even the fuse opening. I was waiting for the shot. A familiar wall of white fog surrounded me. Suddenly, in an instant, I accepted my fate, stopped thinking, felt no fear. Come what may, let my misery be over. Minutes passed, nothing happened. We left the grove. I recognized the road leading to Werk C. The Ukrainian got on the bike and told me to run by his side. After a few yards, I stopped, and said, “I’m too weak. I can’t go on. Are you going to kill me? Do it here.” The Ukrainian got off the bicycle. I saw amazement in his eyes. What’s this, a Jew disobeying an order? He didn’t do anything to me. He didn’t beat me, didn’t shout, he walked the bicycle in silence. This is how I found myself in Werk C. Romanko met me at the guardhouse. I knew him from Werk A. The man was tall, slim, with a nice, delicate face. It was said that he hadn’t hit anyone nor had he killed anyone with his own hands. He had a reputation for being a kind man who allowed people to live. I was convinced that the new situation had to do with my escape from Werk C. Romanko let me know that I would be shot. Why did he warn me? It wasn’t necessary. Perhaps he wanted to know what a man felt when he was sure he was going to die? Soon a strange, unnatural thread of sympathy developed between us. It seemed as if a couple of friends were chatting with each other after a long separation. Our conversation lasted until lunch. A group of people carrying cauldrons of soup emerged from the gates of Werk. Romanko asked if I wanted to eat. Suddenly, I felt hungry, “Yes, please,” I said. Romanko stopped the group. I sat on the bench and ate. Romanko asked if I wanted to tell someone in Werk C about the sentence. Yes, of course. Why should I disappear without a trace? Someone should know that the teenager Josek Bajnwol was shot. I asked the policeman if he knew Luba Mącznik, he confirmed that he did. I asked, “Tell Luba that you met Josek and that he would be shot today.” Romanko listened to me with a smile. I wasn’t sure if the policeman would pass Luba the message. “Big deal,” I consoled myself, “many have disappeared without a trace.” I finished eating and returned to the guardhouse. Ivanenko showed up. Romanko said indifferently, “You’re going to die, bandit.” He took a riding crop from the wardrobe and asked with a smile, “Or maybe you want a few lashes before you die?” For a moment it seemed to me that he was joking. “Do a few lashes before dying make a difference?” I asked. He smiled again and put the riding crop back in the wardrobe. He called me a bandit the whole time we talked. Now he also asked, “Does the bandit want to say goodbye to me?” I said, “Sir, I’m not sure if I’m going to die, so I don’t know whether to say goodbye or see you later.” Romanko seemed uncomfortable.

I left the guardhouse and went with Ivanenko. We barely walked a few steps when a terrible gale, storm, and downpour broke out. Ivanenko didn’t want to get wet, so we ran back to the guardhouse. Romanko was still there and we started talking again. I showed him a picture of Rachel. He said, “I remember her, she worked in the guardhouse.” Emboldened, I told him my story. About my escape from Werk C, about the fact that only a few days ago Üfling had pardoned me. I also mentioned that I don’t know why he’d changed his mind. I saw clear confusion on Romanko’s face. For the first time, he asked me about my name, surname, year of birth, and camp number. I gave him all the details and he went to the other room and closed the door. I heard him speak German, but I didn’t understand what he was talking about. After a few minutes, a German in plain clothes appeared in the guardhouse. Again, I was asked about my name, surname, number, and place of work. I answered. The German and Romanko quietly exchanged a few words. The German left. Romanko entered the other room again and through the door I heard fragments of the conversation, this time in Polish. Albert’s name came up a few times, but what it was about I didn’t know. Romanko came out to me and said, “Bandit, you’re going back to Werk A, now you can say, ‘See you later’”, and he called a sentry.

This time, I was going to Werk A along the road, and not like before, through the grove. I entered Ekonomia through the main gate. Albert stood there with his guards and a large crowd of people. When I went through the gate, Albert said, “Scram.” I didn’t wait for him to repeat his order and ran. From a distance, I heard the Werkschutz ask, “Where’s the prisoner?” Curious, I stopped at a distance. After a while, two policemen brought a pale, scared boy. The Werkschutz and the boy left the camp. Now the boy was going to be shot. I felt that I was somehow involved in this. When there was a chance, I asked Albert what it was all about—my return, the story with the boy… He muttered that it was a mix-up; the Werkschutz had turned up, gave a name similar to mine, and Albert thought that Üfling had changed his mind. That was why he sent a Ukrainian for me. For a long time, I believed in this fairy tale, but as I followed the course of events, I understood what really happened.

A few days before the attempt to send me to death, a whole shift of Jews and Poles had been arrested near the gate of the Werk. There was a gallows on the lawn. Someone stood on the platform and said that that Pole was doing illegal business with a young such-and-such Jew. The Pole would be hanged on the spot, and the Jew would be shot later. The Pole was hanged in front of the crowd, the Jew was imprisoned in the camp. How did this relate to my case? So the Werkschutz comes, gives Albert a document, and the Ukrainian knows only that he has to bring a Jew to Werk C. Albert wasn’t a bad man, but money simply played a role in this matter. The arrested boy traded, Albert could benefit from him, but from me, he could only get lice. A Jew is about to be killed, what difference does it matter which one? And this is how one more dramatic experience of mine ended. This time I was saved by heavy rain. My feelings for Albert got complicated—on the one hand, I felt gratitude for saving me earlier, on the other hand, I resented that he wanted to send me to hell for money.

I went back to Bauhof. I was doing pretty well. One day, I was assigned a job, a couple of miles from the camp. There was no guard escort, no one to watch me. The Germans knew there was nowhere to run anyway. For the first time, I was legally alone outside the factory walls and the barbed fence of the camp. I walked slowly, soaking up the summer sun. Blissful peace enveloped me, I felt good and light in my soul. I took my time, I wanted to soak up every moment of this semi-freedom. There was an apple core on the grass, I picked it up, and brushed it off. In fact, it wasn’t all that dirty, and even if had been… Who would have cared then? I was chewing on the core, it smelled amazing, and the taste was unlike anything I’d ever tasted in an apple. Today I’m sure that the wonderful smell and taste were just my imagination. (I remember Chaplin’s movie Gold Rush. Hunger made the man hallucinate. He was sure he was eating tasty pasta while he was rolling on a fork and eating his own shoelaces.). A few months later, I had a similar experience. In a labor camp in Germany, while working on the construction of a railway line, I found a chocolate bar wrapper. The packaging was yellow, faded, the letters were almost illegible, you could see the wrapper had been lying on the ground for a long time, getting soaked in the rain, and then drying off in the sun. Once I figured out that it was a chocolate wrapper, the sharp and pleasant smell simply made me dizzy. I let my friends smell it. Everyone concluded that it must have been a high-quality chocolate. We were all deluded.

The monster was called Bartenschlager. Just hearing that name gave us shivers down our spine. Like Üfling, he shot and killed. When he showed up in Ekonomia, everyone fled in panic. One of the monster’s tasks was to empty the hospital and finish off the sick. He did it often, willingly, with obvious pleasure. Like Üfling, he had a free hand in killing Jews. The bastard appeared in the camp mostly in the late evening hours. He selected a few young, pretty girls, and took them outside the camp. These women were never seen again. There were rumors that Bartenschlagier and his buddies had sex with the girls and then killed them.

One evening, the Nazi showed up, drunk as usual. He noticed Edzia, my friend. He called her, she ran away, she wanted to hide in the toilet. However, he caught up with Edzia. Frightened, she passed out. He just kicked her and left her. Fainting saved her life.

The master and ruler of Bauhof was foreman Koperek. He was always drunk, and if he didn’t beat someone while distributing work in the morning, it was said that he was sick. He had a round, coarse face and looked like a bulldog. He spent his days walking around with his riding crop, beating people, and cursing in a drunken, hoarse voice. He had a diverse repertoire for making prisoners hurry up, for instance, not everyone could come up with phrases like, “You’re a worker the way a cunt is a nail and an ass is a machine gun.” Fortunately, there were days when I only saw him in the morning.

Most often I worked on the construction of a new barracks camp. The work was good, nobody breathed down our necks or rushed us. Some of us got involved in trading. The construction site wasn’t guarded. Poles tossed bread and other products over the fence. Our men bought and sold them in Ekonomia. I borrowed five zloty to buy a loaf of bread, for which I could get as much as ten zloty, but my shitty luck followed me everywhere. On my way from the construction site to Ekonomia, a Werkschutz stopped me. They found bread and, of course, took it. So my career as a freelance trader was over before it started.

Gradually people moved to the new barracks, also from Bauhof. One day, when we were returning from work, we were stopped at the gate. A German in an SA uniform pointed at people who were taken out of the line. Albert wrote down their names and numbers. I knew who the German was—his name was Lefler and he was the transport director. He picked those who looked fit, mostly tall men. I wasn’t one of them, so I was happy in advance that I wouldn’t get selected. Tough luck—he apparently liked me because he picked me without hesitation. Fear gripped me. The transport workers mostly worked at unloading the coal. I saw them in carriages, half-naked, be it summer or winter, black from the soot. They looked like devils from afar. The sight was terrifying! Unsurprisingly, it was backbreaking work. If I had been transferred to transport from Werk C, or after returning from the forest, I would have accepted the change with gratitude, but I got used to the easy life at Bauhof. That change struck fear in me, the blow was unexpected. We were ordered to report to the policeman responsible for the transport department the next day.

That night I dreamed that my little brother Moniek was lying by my side on the bunk, completely naked. A strange warmth radiated from his little body. Suddenly, my heart felt light, a blissful feeling overcame me—I have no words to describe it. In my dream, my little brother said to me, “Josek, Mom is waiting for you.” So I went ahead and suddenly, in the window of one of the barracks, I saw my mother. She waved her hand as if she were calling me. I came closer. My mother gave me a small pot with fried, seasoned groats in it. The smell of the tasty dish known from home hit my nostrils. I felt a piercing pain in my heart, a wave of longing seized me. Suddenly, my mother began to move back and drift away. On her lips, in her eyes, I saw a smile, as if she wanted to cheer me up. I woke up. I felt relieved. I reported for work in the morning with the hope that I would survive that test as well.

There was a roll call in Werk before we went to work. I looked around, wanted to see my new colleagues. The transport department consisted of about one hundred fifty men. There were a few prisoners standing in the front row, looking strong and healthy. They were clearly confident. I found out later that they had given themselves the title of “the rabbis”. Farther, in the center, stood a group of men who, though they looked strong, weren’t of the chosen caste. Finally, in the back, there were about twenty men whose posture wasn’t very impressive—I was among them. We were called “łajzy”—“schmucks”. I don’t know where it came from, but it wasn’t a compliment. The manager assigned me and two other “schmucks” to a job in a large food warehouse.

The warehouse keeper was a German. Later it turned out that he had embezzled on a large scale. He didn’t steal a bag of sugar or pasta, but he did things so that whole carriages didn’t reach their destination. The warehouseman was the dispatcher of all food here. It was distributed among the Jews, Poles, and Germans, who had their colony near the factory.

Work in the new place started pretty well. To allow the inspectors to do inventory, the designated three inmates, including me, moved full bags from one place to another. It didn’t take long for us to figure out the opportunities here. Somewhere, in some corner, a sack of sugar “accidentally” broke. Each of us made a tube of paper, scooped sugar in it, and left with it “to relieve ourselves”. We hid the closed tubes among coal. Bags with pasta or groats also ripped accidentally. We weren’t supervised and I left when I wanted to. I worked in the warehouse for three days and collected a large amount of various foodstuffs. In the evening, I would take them to the camp, sell them, and buy bread with that. I made about one hundred zloty. It wasn’t much, but for a hungry man like me, it was precious. I could buy twenty-two pounds of bread with this money!

The work in transport was undoubtedly hard, but lighter than I’d imagined. I worked mostly unloading the coal. The division of labor depended on the number of carriages that arrived that day. There were twenty tons of coal in a carriage. Three or four prisoners were assigned to unload one carriage. The factory consumed enormous amounts of coal, especially the power plant. The coal for the power plant was in the form of fine dust. The dust burned the eyes, got in the lungs, all pores were saturated with black dust. Clothes, too, turned into black armor. I didn’t have a change of clothes. I found a piece of sacking somewhere. I stripped naked and covered my lower body with this rag. I worked like that even in winter. Frost penetrated me all the way to the bones, but when I worked fast it felt less severe. The dust clung to your sweaty body and shielded you against the cold. I wasn’t the only one working naked. It was enough to take a look and again the same comparison came to mind—“a bunch of black devils”. Sometimes we had access to the baths after work, but most of the time, I washed under the tap. I washed off the layers of soot with icy water and put on the only clothes I had.

Bread was distributed according to the places of work. I didn’t live with the transport workers, but I got my provisions in the “rabbis’” barrack. I got my share and, even though I was a stranger among them, they never tried to cheat me.

I wasn’t one of the “guys” who were important and felt at home there. They disregarded me and I was given various original nicknames, for example, “der gehirter kosm” or “di gebyrte maiden”, roughly translating into “the fucking intellectual” or “the fucking priss”, sometimes, for a change, “di gefikte psyjle”—“the fucking virgin”.

Most of the “rabbis” came from the small town of Kozienice. They had never seen a movie theater in their lives, and they probably hadn’t touched a single book. I think many of them were illiterate. One evening, after eating the rations, I told them the plot of a crime movie. And soon, every evening, they asked me to tell them a movie. I sat on the bunk and talked, and they listened with admiration. The “literary evening” lasted about an hour. When I didn’t remember the exact plot of a film, I made something up on the spot. I improvised, divided movies into parts, often, in the most interesting place, I interrupted, saying, “To be continued tomorrow.” And of course, the next day I was eagerly awaited. I was starting to enjoy clear respect, my popularity was rising, and they stopped giving me nicknames.

Postscript
Josef Bainvoll, born in 1925 in Łódź, was sent to the labor camp in Skarżysko Kamienna at the age of 14. In 1944, he was taken to Buchenwald, and then to Teresin. There he was liberated on the last day of the war. Part of his family died in 1942 in Treblinka, and his father in 1944 in Auschwitz. Josef left for Palestine in 1946. He fought in the Israeli War of Independence. He was wounded twice. In 1988, he wrote an extensive autobiography. He is the author of several stories about life in Nazi camps and about pre-war Jewish life in Poland. His short story “Fidler” was published in Midrasz (no. 132, 2002). Josef Bainvoll died in 2002 in Santa Monica, California.

Fragments of Jozef Bainvoll’s extensive autobiography were selected by Anita Halina Janowska, who secured the publication rights from the author.