MAN FROM THE CAMP

 

If I had to choose between hell and a concentration camp, I would choose hell without hesitation. I think hell at least has some somewhat fair rules. You're sent there for your own faults, not for being born in the wrong part of the world. In the camp, they could kill you for a poorly made bed, for taking off your hat too slowly, for nothing.

I remember my number perfectly. I'll never forget it. The tattoo on my hand isn't easy to get rid of. 20452. Low because I arrived at the camp in 1940 and was one of the few who survived five years there. Yes, I was a number. Five digits. Nobody.

I remember the selection in the camp yard. Despite the cold, we were ordered to strip naked. The SS men walked among the prisoners, examining us like cows or pigs at market, and pointed. You to the left. To work. And you to the right. To the gas. The camp commandant, on the very first day, made us realize how we could escape. There was only one way out: through the crematorium chimney.

I had one faithful companion in the camp, who never left my side. His name was Hunger. He walked with me every step of the way for all those years. They say true hunger is when you look at a friend as if they were a piece of meat you could eat. It's true. I was truly hungry more than once.

I never would have thought people could eat bones. Like dogs. It turns out they could. There were even those who ate the corpses of prisoners being transported to the crematorium. At first, I didn't believe it. Then I was disgusted. And finally, I understood.

How happy I was when I found a crust of dirty bread. Or a cigarette butt that I could trade for half a bowl of soup. Theft of bread, though always punishable by death, was commonplace. People risked their lives for a piece of bread. Incomprehensible to those who had never been in a camp.

I also couldn't break free from my second good friend. I couldn't call him a friend, or even a colleague, even though he'd been with me for so long. They called him Pain. Sometimes it was mental pain, but much more often it was physical, resulting from beatings. Beaten for appearance, nationality, working too slowly, for wanting to survive. For everything. For nothing. Beaten on the back, stomach, head, every part of the body. With hands, feet, sticks, shovels, anything. To punish. To torture. To kill.

The third inseparable companion was Work. Daily, long-lasting, beyond endurance. Senseless, calculated to destroy a person. Work and Pain always went hand in hand. Like lovebirds. They inevitably led to the exit from the camp. The one we learned about on our very first day in this place, forgotten by God and man. Every day, we carried prisoners from work on our shoulders, along with the smoke. "Arbeit macht frei." "Work makes you free." Yes – free. Like smoke in the wind.

And so, for five years, the four of us wandered around the camp. We were an inseparable quartet: me, Hunger, Pain, and Work. Work wanted Freedom to join our crew, but I resisted, because somehow I didn't miss the crematorium chimney.

I often saw kapos and SS men finishing people off for fun. Although I wasn't entirely sure if we were still human. We were treated like toys. They tried to outdo each other with ideas to send us to that other, supposedly better, world.

The most hated was SS man Hans. A huge, over two meters tall, powerfully built brute. Apparently, before the war, he had been a great boxer and refused to stop practicing. His favorite pastime was killing people with a single powerful blow of his enormous fist. He usually succeeded. Then, he would be as happy as a child at a playful prank and leave. However, if someone managed to get up after his punch, he would fly into a rage. He struck again, and then inevitably killed, and then selected a few more to practice his striking power on. It was said that he had to kill at least ten Jews every day to satisfy his murderous urges.

Once, Hans pointed a finger at me. In my mind, I had already said goodbye to life. He positioned me for the blow, took a powerful swing, and struck, using the strength of his arm to twist his body. Before Hans's fist connected with my jaw, I was already falling backward. This trick saved my life, because it made the blow much less severe. The SS man approached me, kicked me in the kidneys, and, satisfied, declared me dead. Everything pointed to it, because I lost consciousness and, to make matters worse, shat myself with fear. By some miracle, I made it out alive, but my jaw hurt terribly for a month.

An acquaintance from my town, a beautiful young woman, was sent to the camp with her young son. She didn't even survive a few hours. I heard the SS men made a mockery of her. They surrounded the woman and took her son. One of them put a gun to the child's head and told her he would shoot her unless the mother stripped naked, sang, and danced for them. The desperate girl, to the bastards' delight, did as they asked. The SS men laughed until they were giggling, then shot the boy anyway. When the distraught mother leaped to her dead son, they shot her in the back of the head as well.

My father was with me in the block. Not long, only three months. One day he committed a terrible offense. He didn't notice an SS man and didn't take off his hat. The German called his friends, and they made a game of it. They ordered him to carry a large stone along the long street between the barracks. My father was already very weak from hard work and lack of food. He dropped the stone after only a few dozen meters. Beatings forced him to pick it up and continue. He carried it a short distance and dropped it again. A few hard blows forced my father to exert all his strength again. So he picked up the weight and carried it a few meters. And so he dropped the stone several times, and the SS men forced him to a superhuman effort with terrible blows. Finally, he collapsed near a well and, despite their powerful kicks, he couldn't get up. He screamed in pain, but those bastards knew no mercy. They hit upon the brutal idea of ​​covering him with straw and setting him on fire. After they did this, my father stopped screaming. He howled like a whole herd of slaughtered pigs. The SS men, seeing that he truly couldn't get up on his own, doused him with water from the well. My father knelt before one of the executioners, put the barrel of his rifle to his head, and clasped his hands, begging for the finish. The fascist pigs only laughed as if it were a good joke. Then the two of them pulled him to his feet, calmly explained something, and pointed him to the line of guard posts. My father nodded, gritted his teeth in pain, and moved toward the guard towers. He was incredibly battered and burned. He took a few steps and collapsed, exhausted. The SS men approached him, one of them shot him in the head with a pistol, and left, leaving my father in the middle of the street. Like a broken, useless toy.

I saw it all from the barracks window. That day I cried for the last time.

I still remember vividly how my younger sister broke down and went to the wire. We were standing in the square for roll call. She stepped out of line and headed towards the guard posts. She looked back, searched my face, and when she found it, she smiled sadly. I'd never seen such a sad smile in my life. She waved me goodbye. Then all I could hear was: "Halt! Halt!" And two shots. They pierced me as if I'd been shot in the heart. I no longer had a sister. I no longer had anyone in this damn camp. I was alone among thousands of living dead in striped uniforms.

Each shot meant crossing off a number from the camp roll. At first, it took me a long time, especially when a child was killed. Then I got used to it and became indifferent. Everyone got used to it and became indifferent.

I envied the people who had the courage to go to the wires. They were at peace. No one beat them, starved them, humiliated them, or abused them. No one treated them worse than a dog. I'd never had such courage. I was a coward, and against all odds, I'm still alive. Who knows why? No one needs me.

Before the war, I was a very religious person. After leaving the camp, I never went to synagogue again. I even stood outside at my daughter's wedding. God forgot about me when I was in need. He clearly had more important matters on his mind. I'm not vengeful, but then I forgot about him too. Other people remembered God, prayed to him day and night for a way out of the camp. They left. Just as the commandant said. Through the crematorium chimney.

I won't shake hands with the Germans for anything. Now they apologize to the whole world and tell us to forget what happened and forgive. They say God forgives. Maybe so. But I never did.

*****

I remember the day the camp was liberated. People laughed with joy and cried with happiness. I didn't cry or laugh. I had forgotten the simple act of laughter, and my eyes had long since run dry of tears.

When I returned home from the camp, my mother didn't recognize me at first. No wonder – I was only twenty-four, but I looked fifty. I weighed thirty kilograms, was stooped, and limped severely. In fact, I still limp. Then she hugged me, kissed me, and cried as if she'd found a long-lost treasure. I didn't cry, even though I wanted to. I couldn't anymore.

After the camp, I was never truly happy again. Ill, physically tired, and mentally devastated, I could no longer feel any deeper affection for anyone. Something inside me was burned out forever. That's why my two marriages fell apart, and why my children no longer want to visit their old, grumpy, bitter father.

My life has no meaning. I'm tired of my aching heart, my lungs, my nightmares, and my loneliness. I bought a gun because I wanted to end my life. I lacked the courage to aim it at my temple and pull the trigger.

*****

And that's why, Your Honor, when that damn neo-Nazi blocked my path in the city park and said, "Now, you fucking Jew, give me all your money or I'll make this a second Auschwitz for you," I shot him in the head without a second thought, killing him like a dog.