I didn’t answer. Hendrik glanced at Gyuri with disdain. To me he said, “Remember what I told you. One week." Then he turned on his heel and left the block.
Shivering, I put my clothes back on my wet skin. I had no towel to dry myself. A few spigots down the line, Vilmos was doing the same. He coughed as he slipped his shirt over his depleted torso. I didn’t like the sound of that cough. It rattled and had a moist edge to it. A cough in the real world was nothing to worry about, but here it could be a death knell. Vilmos was the only friend I had in this place. I feared losing him more than my own life.
Our washing done, we hurried out to get our breakfast. In front of each of several large metal containers, a crude, ever-shifting line of prisoners was forming. Each container was filled with either a coffee substitute or a weak herbal tea. One could never know which of the two beverages would be offered that day. Not that one was markedly superior to the other. Both the coffee and tea had a suspicious hue and emitted an even more suspicious odor. Their taste was equally criminal. That was the extent of breakfast in Auschwitz.
Vilmos and I, with Cyuri between us, joined one of the lines. I untied the string that tethered my metal bowl to the loopholes in my waistband. It was then that I noticed that Cyuri did not have a bowl.
"Where’s your bowl?" I asked him.
He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders like a fearful, confused child. “I... I don’t know. I had it with me yesterday. I must have lost it.”
A flash of anger heated my face. I had risked bodily injury to protect Cyuri from Hendrik. Vilmos and I had each given up a precious piece of bread on his behalf. My stomach groaned at the thought of it. I was about to lambaste Cyuri for his carelessness, but the sight of his hapless face stayed my tongue. My anger subsided. Much to my surprise, it seemed I was still capable of feeling pity for another human being. “Don’t worry about it, Gyuri,” I said. “You can share mine.”
The tea was bitter and lukewarm. I shut my eyes, tilted my head back, and drank the whole thing in one long swallow. I tried pouring the liquid directly into the back of my mouth, so that as little as possible touched my tongue. It was easier to get it down that way. The tea was poor in nutrients, but in Auschwitz every little bit could make the difference between living and dying. Besides, thirst was as much of a hardship as hunger, since we had no access to fresh water. The tea was hardly water’s equal when it came to quenching thirst, but it was better than nothing.
When Gyuri got his portion, he gazed dubiously at the brownish brew. He lifted his eyes to Vilmos and me. “Is this all there is? There’s nothing else?”
“I’m afraid not,” Vilmos said. “Not until midday.”
“Are they trying to starve us? To kill us off slowly?”
“Or quickly,” I said. “It depends on their mood. Go ahead. Drink it. Don’t think about it too much. Don’t look at it either. Just gulp it down and get done with it.” Cyuri nodded and raised the bowl to his lips. His mouth twisted as the tea hit his taste buds. His eyes turned wet. “Is it always this bad?”
“Yes,” I said.
Cyuri handed me the bowl. “Here. You finish it.” He looked downcast and dejected.
“It’s all right,” Vilmos said, putting a hand on Cyuri’s shoulder. “You’ll get used to it.”
He’ll have to, I thought, or he’ll be dead very soon.
3
A second gong proclaimed the end of breakfast. We hurried to the Appellplatz, the large square where roll calls took place, to join our work unit, known in camp parlance as a kommando.
In Auschwitz there were all sorts of kommandos, one for each of the various jobs our German masters had for us. Some kommandos were small, numbering a dozen men. Others employed hundreds of prisoners, though these were divided into subgroups. Not all kommandos were equal. Some were downright cushy compared to others. Being assigned to the right kommando could dramatically raise a prisoner’s life expectancy. The wrong one could kill a man in days.
Our kommando was allotted eighty men. Among them, our Blockschreiber announced, was Gyuri.
"Thank God,” Gyuri said, evidently relieved that he would not be separated from us.
I gave him a look. What was he talking about? What kind of God allowed a place like Auschwitz to exist on His earth?
Our Kapo, a grim-faced Slovakian Jew, among the first of our people to be sent here, yelled at us to get in orderly lines often. "Move it, you lazy bastards. Move."
A Kapo was like a foreman, or perhaps overseer was a better word, considering we were nothing but slaves. He was responsible for the work his kommando did, and he had near absolute power over us. He could shout at us, curse us, beat us, or worse—anything to get our productivity up. His position was precarious, though. If the Germans decided that he was failing in his duties, or that he was too soft, he would be stripped of his title and returned to the general population of prisoners. Such a downfall could have grave consequences. A former Kapo was unlikely to survive his first night back among regular prisoners. Every Kapo knew this, which was why many of them displayed a brutality that rivaled that of the SS guards themselves.
As with Blockaltestes, some Kapos managed to keep their humanity intact. They walked a fine, dangerous line—doing whatever they could for the men working under them, all while maintaining a facade of uncompromising toughness to satisfy the Germans. Our Kapo was not such a man.
We formed lines as ordered. Around us, other kommandos did likewise. It was like watching an army gather into formation. Only we weren't soldiers. We were nothing. Just flesh and bone covered by rough, dirty uniforms comprised of a striped cap, trousers, and shirt. Most of us suffered from one ailment or another. Some of us had one foot lodged firmly in the grave. None of us had had a decent meal in weeks or months. None of us had known the joy of a good night’s sleep for as long. And we were all marked for death.
We were about to head out when we heard a roaring bellow. My head spun so fast my neck ached. A shiver of fear ran up my spine. Twenty or so meters to my right was the most frightening man in our camp, almost as frightening as the Germans themselves.
It was the Lageralteste, the camp senior. He was the prisoner functionary in charge of the men’s camp, the most powerful prisoner among us, answerable only to the SS. The king who ruled over us with ultimate authority.
He was an ox of a man, tall and muscular, with broad shoulders and a deep chest. He did not suffer the hardships the rest of us bore. He did not know hunger. Did not know the agony of trying to sleep wedged in between other prisoners. His position afforded him every privilege but freedom. On his feet were leather boots instead of clogs. On his torso was a tailored jacket that had probably belonged to a rich Jew who had gone up the chimney. An inverted green triangle had been sewn to his jacket over his heart, indicating that he was a criminal—not a political prisoner and not a Jew.
He was German and one of several criminal prisoners the Nazis had brought here. Chosen for their criminal history and penchant for brutality, these prisoners were used by the Nazis to rule the rest of us with an iron fist. Word had it that the Lageralteste was a convicted murderer, and I could well believe it. I had seen him kill for almost no reason. He seemed to have an appetite for it.
You did not want to attract the attention of the Lageralteste. His mood was notoriously fickle. One could never know when he would erupt.