The Dentist Of Auschwitz (11 page)

Krusche didn’t ask him anything further. My misdeed was then far more important to him, and pointing again at me, he said, “He will be replaced as group leader at once.”

“Jawohl,” Tadek said obediently.

“One of these days I’ll hang him,” Krusche said. This brought silence. “Does anyone in this group speak German?” he asked. At first no one responded, but when Chaim repeated it, his nephew, Chaskel, raised his arm and stepped forward. I knew Chaskel well. He barely knew Polish, and the German he spoke was just a broken Yiddish. As Chaskel took my place, I went to stand in line next to my father. Krusche then instructed Tadek to tell the foreman that I was to work at the hardest possible job, so that I might perish. An obedient “Jawohl” from the guard followed.

Krusche, of course, knew that I worked in the office. When we finally left, he gritted his teeth. Four hundred pairs of feet stomped through the gate, and a ribbon of men moved out. It was hard for me to keep up, walking with my legs wide apart. Getting bread from the bakery was now a dead issue.

Krusche’s threat terrified me. I knew if he wanted to he could hang me at any time. It was the norm for the Nazis to use hanging as an example, to warn others; they had hanged my friend Szymon, in Dobra. I walked out of the camp dejected, disgraced, and fearful.

Later on Chaskel came and apologized. He said he was “sorry.” After all, someone had to take my place. He said he hoped I bore him no ill will. I knew my relatively easy life in Steineck was over. What was the future? What would happen to me in Brodzice?

When we arrived at the workplace, Tadek told Witczak what had happened. Sensing some unusual conversation, Stasia opened the kitchen door and listened. Tadek then dutifully said to Witczak that he ought to send me to the hardest job at the site. I agonized on hearing it, but Witczak turned to the foremen. Shrugging his shoulders, he said, “OK. Take your men, and let’s go to work.” I wasn’t sure where I was to go. I did not think that returning to the office was my right, under these circumstances. But when I went to the shed, Witczak called me back. He ordered me to go to the office and do what I had done all along. Tadek once more reminded him of his orders from the Kommandant. “Yes, yes,” Witczak retorted. “I know.” Before Tadek could argue with him further, he was gone.

I knew that Witczak didn’t like to be told what to do, but defying an SS man put him, in my mind, in a different category. I feared that Witczak’s refusal to follow Krusche’s orders would anger Krusche even more. It reminded me that often when two people quarrel, the bystander gets the blame. Though they hated the Germans, the three Poles ran the project for them as if it had been their own. They must have known their diligence helped the Nazis. Perhaps we all did.

When I told Stasia how all this had come about, she said, “It was dumb of you to take such a risk. You know the Germans.” Then, with a look of patronage, she added, “Mr. Witczak said that the Kommandant is not running this company. We decide where people work here.” With this she walked out, holding her head triumphantly. I was grateful. There were certainly others who could do this work as well as I could.

When I asked Feivel why he had squealed, he turned away, mumbled something inaudible, and left me like a hunted fox. I still couldn’t figure him out. Had madness gained the upper hand with him? Perhaps hunger, hard work, isolation, and fear had jostled his mind. It was hard to believe how he, once a decent human being, could undergo such a change. The favors he may have expected in return from Krusche never materialized. When Kmiec and Basiak learned what had happened, they also were determined to keep me in the office. At this point my fate was in their hands.

At noon I left to meet Zosia. Along the way I stopped in the wheat field and dabbed tincture of iodine on my wounds. In the sunlight, I could see how bug-eaten my naked body was. I dressed and went to the edge of the forest. Seeing my battered face, Zosia wanted to know what had happened. I explained. I felt so humiliated and hurt that our meeting that day didn’t last very long. Romance was the farthest thing from my mind.

Tadek had not come near me much all day. But on the return to camp that afternoon, we spoke. He knew I had kept my word to him and did not tell Krusche about his involvement in getting the bread. He was still my friend, as he would prove later on. That evening Chaim told me that what he did to me hurt him as well—but he had no choice. I knew that under the new laws we had to live by, if he had disobeyed Krusche, he would have in the end also landed on the chair.

When I fell asleep that night, I had a strange feeling. I saw myself on the gallows, and I woke up in a sweat. I wasn’t willing to see Krusche make good on his threat. Life was still too precious to lose it here, in this godforsaken place. The next day Zosia said that she thought I ought to escape. The question was, Where would I go? Returning to the ghetto was out. Besides, I could not leave my father.

My bruised face turned colors. One eye was purple and half shut. My stomach throbbed as if I had a screwdriver turning inside my guts. When I ate something, the ache subsided for a while, only to return with more vengeance. My two terms of biology in school were of no help in diagnosing myself. I felt as if I were returning to a nightmare each day as I came back to Steineck.

I feared being caught by Krusche in the first aid room. But when Goldstein called me, I had to go. The place felt like a torture chamber, and I left as quickly as I could. At roll calls I hid behind my father to escape Krusche’s stare. Our guards were now extra cautious when we passed the forbidden bakery every morning. I wondered if the bakers knew why we weren’t buying bread from them anymore.

Tadek let me know that Krusche, hearing his orders were not obeyed, had reminded the guards that his orders concerning me must be followed. When we got to Brodzice, Witczak was irritated by that order. “We don’t take orders from your Lagerführer,” he said with finality. I went to the office, uneasy about what the future held for me. I didn’t like my role in this power struggle. I remembered an old saying: “In a two-man fight for power, the innocent are most often hurt.”

Shortly before noon I went over the hill in back of the barracks and undressed. My underwear was bloody and crawling with pests. Once more I tried the experiment. I covered my clothes with soil and waited for the bugs to appear. But as before, it didn’t work. I returned to picking off as many as I could and killing them one by one.

The next day we got a note from Pola:

We are happy you found someone as kind as Zosia. Our condition has worsened. We get only a kilo of bread each day and soup. Josek no longer has to report each day to the labor office. He works steadily at cleaning the army barracks. With the help of our friends, our former neighbors, we still manage. But that is not true for most here in the ghetto. Young and old are dying of hunger every day. I wish I had better news for you.

How are you, and Papa? Please write.

It had been raining for days. Our clothes, now threadbare, were drenched and foul-smelling. I continued to dread the return to camp and Krusche. What if he asked me where I now worked? What if he found out his orders had been ignored? For a Pole to thumb his nose at a Nazi officer was unprecedented. This time, I thought, Witczak had dared too much.

When the bell rang early each morning, I opened my eyes. Then, shunning the reality of another miserable day, I closed them again. Papa tugged on my blanket, and I knew I had to get up.

With Krusche present at roll calls, tension grew. We had to count, yelling our names aloud over and over again. Whoever failed to shout was in for a lash or two. One morning Krusche asked Tadek where I was working. Tadek said that despite his reminding Witczak, I was still working in the office. Krusche was furious. Gnashing his teeth, he pointed his index finger at Tadek and bellowed, “I’ll be out there. Tell them I’ll be out there today. Understood?”

“Jawohl, Herr Lagerführer,” Tadek dutifully answered. I was now in the middle of a conflict between Krusche and Witczak. I knew I would be the loser in the end. When I told Witczak about Krusche’s intention, he seemed unworried. I also told Basiak that I would go to work elsewhere to avoid controversy. But he also said no. Kmiec was annoyed as well. “That son of a bitch,” he said. “We don’t interfere in his affairs. Once and for all he has to learn not to interfere in ours.”

Stasia, who listened to it all, had a helpful word. “Bronek, you see, they like you. You are different than the others.”

“Stasia, it is because you know me that you feel this way,” I said. “All inmates are like me.” Nevertheless, I was grateful that Witczak had stood up to a Nazi in defense of me, a Jew.

Halfway through the morning I noticed that a car drove up to the office and stopped. Krusche got out with two SS corporals in tow. Kmiec went out to greet them, and Witczak joined them shortly. At first they spoke casually and went to inspect the work sites. Half an hour later they returned. Krusche and his two companions got in their Mercedes and left. Witczak and Kmiec returned to work, without saying anything to me. Later I saw Witczak with Stasia. I knew she would know what had happened. When she came into the office, her face beamed. She looked as if she had good news. “Did you hear,” she said to me in a whisper, “what Witczak told your Kommandant?”

“No, Stasia. What did he tell him?”

“You’d have loved hearing it, Bronek.” Her admiration for Witczak was obvious. “This Kommandant of yours hates you,” she muttered. I agreed. Who knew this better than I? “But, you know, Witczak isn’t afraid of him!” Now her face took on an expression of patronage.

“What happened?” I urged her on.

“Krusche insisted we put you to hard work here, but we, I mean Mr. Witczak, doesn’t care what he wants. Witczak told Krusche that we know what’s best for the company and he will keep you working right here in the office.” Though I couldn’t know what the final outcome of this would be, I admired what Witczak had done. I continued on my job and had the benefits that came with it. The most important one, of course, was that I could go on seeing Zosia.

I know I lived a life of double standards—while I dreaded being in camp, going to Brodzice each day was a relief. In the meantime, my face, partly black from Krusche’s beating, now turned green and yellow. The sores in my mouth had healed, but the pain in my stomach grew worse.

An unexplained magical love drew me to Zosia. Her love returned a lot of what had been so abruptly taken from me. I saw her now as often as I could. The next time we met was a cool day. She was wearing a thin dress, and as we sat down, she began to shiver. Then the sun broke through and warmed our small hideout. I looked at her. She was exactly the girl I had dreamed I would find someday. At that time, when I could no longer think of myself as being human, she made my life worthwhile. We remained sitting there, watching swallows swooping effortlessly, catching insects in the air. We could have stayed together for hours.

Witczak broke his habit of never seeming too friendly to me. He sat down and asked me where I was from, why I was in camp, and other such questions. But he didn’t say anything about the conversation he had had with Krusche about me, nor did I ask him about it. At the end of our talk, he ordered me to check with each foreman, to see if all inmates recorded at our camp were at work.

It was heartbreaking to see some of our people standing ankle-deep in mud, lifting fourteen-kilo shovelfuls of dirt onto the wheelbarrows. The skin on their hands was calloused and cracked. Some even had open wounds. When I told Basiak about it, despite his sympathy, he said that as long as the camp sent them, they had better be put to work. On our way home, clouds grew thicker, and suddenly it began to rain heavily.

At the food line inmates milled around, trying to barter cigarettes at the kitchen window for anything edible. The cigarettes were discarded butts rolled in plain paper. Usually the policemen and the cooks were their best customers. Once I saw an inmate picking up a thrown-away cigarette butt. Seeing this, the foreman stepped on it and squashed it. Ahead of me in the line was David Kot, a friend of mine. “Take the ladle down to the bottom, please,” he said. He passed by me mumbling disappointedly. There wasn’t a single potato in his soup. We were a sorry lot, looking like the unsociable creatures portrayed in propaganda. Some days, the sight of my body filled me with disgust. I was sickened seeing what the bugs had done to me, and sometimes I even felt them crawling inside me.

It was October 1941, a month after the second anniversary of the Blitzkrieg, which Hitler claimed would catapult the Third Reich into a thousand-year reign. We were resigned to Churchill’s prediction: “This will be a long war.” Our hopes for a quick ending to our misery looked very dim. We were distressed by a new rumor that special Nazi units were killing entire Jewish communities. My father would not believe it. It seemed so outrageous that those who feared it, they refused to believe it. One day I saw Papa chanting quietly. It was the holiest day of the year, Yom Kippur. It was inconceivable not to fast or worship on the day of atonement. Yet here, this most solemn day passed like any other.

As we went to work that Yom Kippur, I recalled a particular incident when my brother and two friends of his were once seen in a restaurant on this holiday. At the next services in the Temple, our unduly pious rabbi insisted that, in the eyes of God, that crime disgraced the entire community. All of us, he said, must pray to the Almighty for forgiveness.

If God is really for us, why is all this happening? Has he decided that we do not deserve better? I wasn’t sure of many things I once was told to believe. I questioned God and my faith in him. Did he really exist? I knew that my father would never agree with my thoughts. He would never waver from his beliefs.

Each day my stomach pain became more intense. This did not escape Zosia’s notice. She advised me to tell our camp doctor. “We don’t have a doctor in camp,” I replied. After a minute of silence, she said that she had an idea. She would go to a doctor and make my symptoms hers. Whatever he prescribed for her as medication she would bring to me.