Last Stop Auschwitz Read online

  The adjutant beckoned Hans and took him to the end of the line of young men. He felt that he had escaped a great danger. And, sure enough, trucks had arrived in the meantime and the old men and women were being loaded onto them.

  He saw now for the first time what it was really like under the SS, who began shoving, kicking, and beating people. Many found it difficult to climb up onto the beds of the high trucks. But the Sturmmann’s sticks guaranteed that all of them did their very best.

  An elderly woman was bleeding badly from a blow to the head. A few people were left behind; they couldn’t possibly get up onto the trucks and those who tried to come to their aid were chased away with a kick or a snarl.

  The last truck drove up and two SS men took an unfortunate old man by the arms and legs and threw him into the back. After that the women’s line began to move. He had lost sight of Friedel, but knew she was there somewhere. When the women were a couple hundred yards away, the men started walking too.

  The columns were heavily guarded. Soldiers were marching on both sides, guns at the ready. There was one guard for approximately every ten prisoners. Hans was fairly close to the end of the line. He saw the guards to his left and right signal each other. They looked around for a second, then the one on his left came up to Hans and asked him for his watch. It was beautiful and had a stopwatch. His mother had given it to him for his doctor’s exam.

  “I need it for my profession. I’m a doctor.”

  A grin passed over the guard’s face. “Scheisse, Arzt… A dog, that’s what you are! Give me that watch!” The man grabbed him by the arm to pull it off. For an instant Hans tried to resist.

  “Escape attempt, huh?” the man said, bringing up his rifle.

  Hans realized how powerless he was and handed over the watch. He had no desire to be shot “attempting to escape” on his first day in Auschwitz.

  When they were crossing the railway track, he saw Friedel in the bend of the road. She waved and he sighed with relief. After the railway line they passed a barrier with sentry posts that seemed to mark the grounds of the camp proper. There were storage depots for building materials, sheds, and enormous stacks of bricks and timber. There were small trains moved by manpower. Wagons, dragged by men. Here and there along the road were larger buildings, factories with the hum of machinery coming from the inside. And then more timber, bricks, and sheds. A crane, lifting up cement buckets. There was building going on everywhere, and everywhere was alive. But more than cranes and small trains, one saw the men in their thieves’ costumes. There was no motorization here; this was the work of thousands, of tens of thousands of hands.

  Steam is practical; electricity is efficient, able to be put to work hundreds of miles away; gasoline is fast and powerful. But people are cheap. That was clear from the hungry eyes. It was clear from the bare chests with ribs standing out like cords holding their bodies together. One saw it from the long lines of men carrying bricks, shuffling along in wooden clogs or, often enough, in bare feet. They trudged on without looking up or around. Their faces remained expressionless. No reaction to the new arrivals. Now and then a tractor pulling wagons full of bricks. The engine thumped slowly: oil engines. Hans couldn’t help but think of the evenings he’d spent on the water, lying back on his boat and listening to the freighters chug by. What life had been like back then, the things it had promised him! He steeled himself. He felt that he couldn’t start brooding now. He had to fight. Maybe he could make that old life come back one day.

  Then they were standing in front of the gate and seeing the camp for the first time. It was made up of large, brick barracks. There were about twenty-five of them. They were two stories high with pitched roofs and small attic windows. The streets between the buildings were well kept. There were pavements with tidy paving stones and small strips of lawn. Everything was clean, well painted, and shining in the bright autumn sun.

  It could have been a model village: a camp for thousands of laborers working on a great and useful project. Above the gate, in cast iron, the concentration camp slogan. Suggestive but dangerous: “ARBEIT MACHT FREI.” A suggestion that was intended to calm the unending multitudes who entered here. Here and through many similar gates in other parts of Germany. But it was only an illusion, because this gate was a gate to hell and instead of “Work sets you free,” it should have said “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”

  Because the camp was surrounded by electric fences. Two rows of concrete posts, neatly whitewashed, three yards high. Barbed wire on the insulators. The wire looked strong, hard to get through. But what was even worse was invisible: 3,000 volts! With nothing but little red lamps glowing here and there to show that the electricity was on. And every ten yards a sign mounted on the fence with a skull and crossbones and the word “stop” in German and Polish: Halt, Stój. Still, no barrier is sufficient unless every part of it can be kept under fire. That was why small watchtowers had been built every hundred yards, manned by SS guards with machine guns.

  No, there was no way out of this place, unless by a miracle. The people they encountered in the camp said the same thing, because now that they were inside the wire, they were much less strictly guarded; the SS men had mostly handed over the task to prisoners. Prisoners, to be sure, who looked very different from the thousands at work outside the camp. These ones were wearing striped linen uniforms that were cleaner and well-fitting. Often they were dressed almost elegantly, with black hats and tall boots. On their left arms they wore red bands with numbers on them.

  These were the Blockälteste, the heads of the various buildings, who organized everything in their block, running their own administration with the help of a clerk and distributing the food. They themselves did not go without; you could tell from their moon-shaped faces. They were all Poles and Reich Germans.1

  But there were also a few Dutch prisoners around. The SS and the Blockälteste kept them at a distance because the newcomers still had all kinds of valuables on them. Nonetheless a few managed to come forward. They asked for watches and cigarettes: “You’re going to lose it all anyway.” But most of the new arrivals still didn’t believe it and kept everything in their pockets. Hans gave a Dutchman a packet of cigarettes, but an SS man was watching and hit him. The Dutchman had already run off; he’d seen it coming in time.

  A man appeared, small but with a herculean build. He was apparently held in great respect.

  “So, lads, when did you leave Westerbork?”

  “Three days ago.”

  “Any news?”

  “Do you already know about the landing in Italy?”

  “Of course, we read the paper. How are things in Holland?”

  What could they say to that? They were more interested in hearing how things were here in Auschwitz, what their future would be.

  “Who are you?” asked one of the newcomers.

  “Leen Sanders, the boxer. I’ve been here a year.”

  The newcomers were momentarily reassured. So it was possible to live here.

  “Are there still a lot of people from your transport here?” asked Hans, who was already growing skeptical.

  “Don’t ask too many questions. You’ll see,” the boxer answered. “Keep your eyes and ears open and your mouth shut.”

  “But you look fine.”

  Leen gave a wise smile. “That’s a boxer for you.”

  “What will we have to do here?”

  “You’ll be assigned to the Kommandos that work outside the camp.”

  Again Hans saw the people outside before him, those work-machines, lines of them carrying bricks and cement, their expressionless faces, dead eyes, and emaciated bodies.

  “What happens to the old people they took away in trucks?”

  “Haven’t you ever listened to the BBC?” Leen asked.

  “I have.”

  “Well, then, you should know.”

  Then Hans knew everything. He thought of Friedel, whose line he had lost sight of. He thought of his mother, his brother,
of everyone he had seen leaving for Auschwitz. He thought of his studies, his practice, his ambitions. He thought once again of Friedel and their plans for the future. They were the thoughts of someone who was convinced he was going to die.

  And yet, doubts were already appearing. Maybe he would be lucky, maybe. He was a doctor—no, he didn’t dare hope, but he had to. He couldn’t believe that he would die here, but he couldn’t believe in life anymore either.

  A snarl brought him back to his senses. “Aufgehen!” They walked down Lagerstrasse between the big blocks. There were a lot of people out on the streets. Glass plates were mounted over the doors of some of the blocks:

  Häftlingskrankenbau

  Interne Abteilung

  Eintritt verboten

  Sitting in front of the hospital door were men in white suits with red stripes on the backs of their coats and along the seams of their trousers. They looked fit and healthy and must have been the doctors. These men hardly glanced at the new arrivals, but Hans saw that their lack of interest wasn’t the same as the indifference of the thousands outside. With all those work slaves it had been the exhaustion, the deep despondency, that had prevented any mental effort. With these handsome men it was a kind of arrogance. After all, they were privileged, the camp “prominents.” And what were they, the newcomers? Everyone was free to abuse and ridicule them.

  They arrived at Block 26, the Effektenkammer. Leen explained what that meant. It was here that the prisoners’ personal effects, clothes and other valuables, were stored. Above the windows you could see long lines of paper bags, each containing the property of one man. If somebody was going to be released from the camp, he’d get it all back.

  Their clothes would not be stored. Jews were never released. There weren’t any legal proceedings involving them. As they hadn’t been sentenced to any punishment, they couldn’t be freed.

  Sure enough, between Blocks 26 and 27 they were ordered to undress. All of their clothes and everything they had on them was loaded onto a wagon. They were only allowed to keep a leather belt and a handkerchief. Hans tried to hold on to a few of his best instruments, but they were on to him in no time. A scrawny man with a band on his left arm—Lagerfriseur—was checking everyone. Those who had tried to keep something back had to surrender it after all and got a blow for good measure. Hans asked if he could keep his instruments. The man grinned and pocketed the lot.

  There they stood. Now they had lost everything. The process had been slow, but now it was complete. Had not Schmidt, the Commissioner-General for Public Security in the Netherlands and Rauter’s2 representative for Jewish affairs, once said, “The Jews will return to the land they came from, as naked as when they arrived here”?

  Schmidt had not gone into detail about when those Jews had come, in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and that they hadn’t really arrived naked, but had often brought great treasures with them from the countries that had expelled them. Nor did he mention the historic rights of Dutch Jews, granted to them long ago by decree of William of Orange.

  But how could he have spoken of the work of a Dutch hero who had fought for freedom? You couldn’t expect that from heroes of Nazi oppression, who would not die with a patriotic prayer on their lips, but take to their heels to try to save their own skin.

  Hans consoled himself with that thought. There was no doubt that he was in a bad position, but still: his fate was dark; theirs was certain. They would definitely fall and then, of all their victories, only one would be left: their victory over the Jews. Slowly but surely the Dutch Jews had been pushed toward their ruin.

  1940: All Jews sacked from public office

  1941: Banned from practicing liberal professions, banned from using public transport, banned from shopkeeping, banned from theaters and parks, sport, and everything that makes life beautiful; permitted capital capped at 10,000 guilders, later 250 guilders

  1942: Start of deportation, the ban on life itself.

  Slowly, because the Dutch would not have tolerated “their” Jews being exterminated at a time when the terror in Holland still hadn’t taken hold.

  Now they were standing stark naked in the burning sun, which beat down on their bodies for hours while the rituals to turn them into Häftlinge were completed.

  Standing behind a long bench were six barbers, who cut off their hair and shaved their heads and bodies. They didn’t ask if Sir would care for some powder or a scalp massage. They were rough, annoyed at having so much work to do on a hot afternoon. With their blunt razors they tore out the hair more than shaving it off, and they manhandled and sometimes hit anybody who didn’t turn and twist enough to let them get everywhere easily. When the barber had finished, you got a note with a number to take to the tattooist. Hans got 150822.

  He just smiled scornfully as the number was jabbed into the skin of his arm. Now he was no longer Dr. van Dam; he was Häftling no. 150822. What did he care, as long as he could one day become Dr. van Dam again? If he could only become Dr. van Dam again.

  And then that thought was there again, rolling back and forth in his head like an enormous ball and making a sound like a gramophone spinning out of control. Until a thump from behind brought him back to his senses.

  They went into the washroom about fifty at a time. Inside were rows of showers next to each other. Three men had to share each shower, which gave a trickle of lukewarm water: too cold to soak off the dust and summer sweat, too hot to freshen up. Then a man wearing big rubber gloves came and smeared stinking disinfectant under their arms and over their pubic area with a single swipe.

  After they had been sprayed with a Flit gun,3 they were rein, which was a far cry from what we would call “clean.” They were still half wet and sticky from sweat and disinfectant. Their skin was burning and the nicks and scrapes from being shaved smarted, but at least they were free of lice and fleas.

  It was not easy to quickly find something that fitted in the large piles of clothing. The corridor of the Bekleidungskammer, as Block 27 was called, was dark when you came in from the bright sunlight and you had no idea what to actually take. You were pushed, shoved, and yelled at, and if that didn’t make you go fast enough, they hit you until you had gathered up some clothes. An undershirt, a coat, and a pair of linen trousers, a hat and a pair of wooden shoes or sandals. They weren’t given enough time to find the right sizes and looked like clowns in their convict uniforms.

  One man’s calves were showing; another was stumbling over his trousers. One was missing one of his coat sleeves; another had to roll his up. But all of the clothes had one thing in common—they were all equally dirty and patched, cobbled together from pieces of blue-and-white striped material.

  Now dressed, they were standing in front of the block again. The day was almost over, but the heat of late summer was still weighing heavily on the camp. They were hungry and thirsty, but no one was brave enough to ask for anything. They waited for another hour in Birkenallee, the street that ran behind the blocks: sitting on the edges of the pavement and on the benches by the strips of lawn, or simply lying stretched out on the street, exhausted and overcome by the misery they had been plunged into.

  Registration tables had been set up in the street. All conceivable facts, personal or otherwise, were noted down: professional and other characteristics, particularly diseases—tuberculosis, venereal diseases—and once again the familiar questions about nationality and the number of Jewish grandparents.

  Hans was talking to Eli Polak, a fellow doctor. Eli was a broken man. He had seen his wife when the trucks were at the train. She had fainted and they had thrown her onto the back of a truck, followed by their child.

  “I’ll never see them again.”

  Hans felt incapable of consoling him. He couldn’t lie. “You don’t know that,” he answered, but with little conviction.

  “Have you heard what happens in Birkenau?”

  “What’s Birkenau?” Hans asked.

  “Birkenau is an enormous camp,” Eli answered. �
��It’s part of the whole Auschwitz complex. On arrival they tell all the old people and all the children they have to shower and take them into a big room. In reality, they gas them. Then they burn the bodies.”

  “But it won’t be like that with all of them,” Hans said, forcing himself to comfort him.

  Then the soup arrived. Three kettles. Everyone was supposed to get one liter. They queued up in a long line. A few of the pushiest helped dole it out. They ate from large metal bowls, dented, with bare patches in the enamel. As there weren’t enough bowls to go round, they put two liters in each bowl and you had to share it with someone. There were also spoons. About twenty. Those who didn’t get a spoon had to drink from the bowl. That wasn’t difficult. The soup was only thin. It had the odd hard bit floating in it and there were discussions as to whether they were beech or elm leaves. But none of that mattered. Most of them were still well nourished, and then it doesn’t make much difference whether you get a liter of hot water or a liter of food in your stomach.

  Suddenly they were being hurried up: “Quick, it’s almost roll call!” They slurped down the hot soup as fast as they could and were taken to a large wooden warehouse that had been built between two blocks. It was a laundry. In one half, clothes were being washed in big cauldrons; in the other there were showers. Hans counted one hundred and forty-four. Along the walls were benches where people could get undressed. They sat on the benches and waited.

  They heard that after the roll call, which was held outside at that time, they would be traveling on to Buna. The man from the administration who told them was bombarded with questions: “What is that, Buna?” “Is it good there?” “Do you get soup like this there too?”

  He said it was all right. You had to work in a synthetic rubber factory. The food was good there because you were in the service of an industrial concern. The man gave a knowing smile.

  Hans discovered a Belgian.

  “Have you been here long?”