Pierre Berg - Scheisshaus Luck

“Throw his pajamas back into the pit,” he said in German, then grinned. “Although, it would be fun to dump it at the doorstep of the SS barracks.”

I chuckled in agreement. “What a waste. He was worth three Muselmänner .”

“And now I’ve got to write an accident report.” the Voribeiter said as he left.

By the time I shoved the body into two cement bags it was bleached and well done.

When the Kommando arrived at the camp’s gate that evening, the Kapo announced to the guards, “Ninety-nine and one dead.”

The man’s body was on a warped plank shouldered by four Häftlinge . I wasn’t one of them. I had gotten my extra ladle of soup.

As luck would have it, on a late summer Sunday I was again assigned to Kommando 15. Because of my screw-up that rainy Easter, I tried to wiggle my way out of it, but my Blockästester wasn’t passing out favors that day. It was four months ago, a near lifetime in Auschwitz, I consoled myself. Kommando 15’s Kapo and Vorarbeiter could easily have been demoted or died. Lining up in the Appelplatz, I saw that was not the case. I hoped that they wouldn’t remember me. My ribs couldn’t withstand another round of their soccer kicks.

Again, a pathetic parade marched to waiting freight cars in the plant. We passed the glass warehouse, which was now nothing more than a heap of splinters and shattered glass. I felt a hand on my shoulder, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

“ Bonjour , Pierre,” whispered a familiar voice.

Hubert was grinning from ear to ear and looking fit without the jaundice. I could have hugged him.

“I’ve been looking for you.”

“And I’ve been looking for you.”

“Never at the same spot at the same time, I guess,” Hubert laughed.

Mon ami told me his Block and Kommando number and how his survival had been going. “I’ve got a janitor job in one of the buildings that’s still standing.”

“You’re lucky. Mine went poof.”

We lined up for a count next to the train cars. After giving his instructions to the Vorarbeiter , the Kapo retreated to the crudely assembled shack that was his office. The Vorarbeiter moved along the line, writing down our identification numbers. He stepped up to me. Gazing at my feet, I rattled off my numbers. He began to write them down, then suddenly stopped. I looked up to find him staring at me, nonplussed. His reaction puzzled me, but I kept a blank face. He quickly regained his composure and continued down the line. What the hell was going on? He looked scared, as if he saw me as a threat. Did he believe I had been punished for my Easter nap and was looking for vengeance? I sure wasn’t a physical threat to him. He was well fed. When he divided the Kommando into work gangs and left me out, I became concerned. Had he been punished for allowing me to wander into the warehouse and was now planning to even the score?

As Hubert and the others started working, the Vorarbeiter grabbed me by my jacket. “The number on this jacket isn’t yours!”

His face was flushed red as he shook me, and his breath was pungent with garlic.

“And who do you suppose it belongs to?”

His behavior frightened me, but strangely I felt I had the upper hand.

“Roll up your sleeve.”

“Why?”

“Do what I say, Drecksack !”

I pulled my sleeve up. I remembered that he had copied my number from my arm. What was the big deal?

“You have a nine on your coat and a three on your arm.”

“I beg your pardon, but I have a nine on my arm.”

He grabbed my forearm and examined it closely.

“Goddamn! What cretin tattooed you?”

“He didn’t bother to sign his masterpiece,” I chuckled nervously.

“You dare laugh?” He shook me. “Don’t you know that someone was hung in your place?”

I was staggered.

“What do you mean?”

“Because a three was written in the report. A three instead of a nine.”

“Are you sure?”

I had assumed that either he or the Kapo had failed to turn in a report or that it had been lost. “Go to the latrine and be quick about it!” he ordered.

“Why?”

“Move before I bash in your skull!” He hissed, raining blows on my back. “If the Kapo sees you, we’ll both dangle from a rope.”

The latrine was deserted, but I took down my pants in case of an inspection. With my cap, I kept a swarm of big blue flies at bay.

The stink was nauseating, but I barely noticed. The Vorarbeiter ’s words kept ringing in my ears: “Someone died in your place.” It was my neck that was supposed to be stretched. I was the one who should have been fertilizing the cabbages, but I was alive, and all because of one wrong number. A three instead of a nine. What shithouse luck.

I could imagine how he must have screamed his innocence and the sinister smirks and savage beatings he received in return. Had he been a young man, middle-aged, a father, a good man, a fair man? I squeezed my eyes shut. My temples pounded. No, I couldn’t allow myself to ponder who he was! This wasn’t the place to burden one’s self with such questions. Suddenly I saw Jonny. I hadn’t thought about him for a long, long time. I fought back tears. Was I cursed? Did my life depend on the blood of others?

I looked up to find the Vorarbeiter walking slowly toward me.

What now? Was he going to drown me in this stinkhole? He sat next to me without dropping his pants.

“Weren’t you there for the execution? A man hung for trying to escape on Easter Sunday? They rushed it because of the lousy weather.”

“I was in the HKB.”

“I missed the whole thing, too. Never got a good look at the man’s face.” He turned to me with a smile. “I must’ve had a really silly look on my face when I saw you. Thought I was staring at a ghost.”

“I wish I could disappear like a ghost.”

“Why did you try to escape?”

“I didn’t.”

I recited the answer I had prepared that miserable Sunday. “I didn’t try to escape. I was being nosey, and when I looked into the warehouse, the wind slammed the door and I was locked in.”

“To be honest, you were so muddy I’m not sure now what I wrote and God knows what that illiterate Kapo put in his report. It’s no wonder Hans screws up all the time; he’s been in jail almost all his life.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Like most communists I was arrested when Hitler came to power. I met Hans in prison.”

“Why is he such a prick?”

“Because he’s a thief and murderer. How did you come to speak such fluent German?”

I couldn’t believe that I was having a social hour with this man.

“I spent a few vacations in Berlin.”

This really interested him. “Which area?”

“Charlottenburg at the Litzensee.”

“Your father must be a rich bastard.”

“Some of his friends are.”

“I’m from Wedding.”

The Wedding district of Berlin was a working-poor ghetto and a hot bed of communism. There had been years of vicious street-fighting and gun battles between the communists and the brown shirts of the fledgling Nazi Party.

“How many languages do you speak?” he asked.

“Four, and I understand a few more.”

“You’re lucky. I can barely speak mine.” He stood up. “Get to work, and stay away from Hans or we’ll both be swinging.”

I pulled up my pants and followed the Vorarbeiter . He eyed me.

“Kid, nothing is going to unhang that poor bastard now. Understand?”

I nodded. I understood. In the life I had known before I might have confessed and restored that poor man’s name, but in this world that would have served no purpose.