Giammai! - Black Messiah

-- Story of a Black Prisoner
at a Nazi Labor Camp, 1943-1945

By Ivan D. Alexander




1. Giammai's Notebook

They say that even truly crazy people believe themselves to be sane. Actually it was my friend Giammai who said this. If those years at the camp made us crazy, we did not know it.

I knew him when we were at the camps. His real name was Jeremiah, but everyone knew him as Giammai. He first said he was Egyptian, or Ethiopian, but at other times he said his father was American, that they lived in Paris before the war, and his mother was from Sicily. I believe this was true. At another time his mother was an African princess, his father a handsome Sicilian sailor. He was once even Algerian. He spoke several languages and was educated in a manner of speaking, he knew a lot. His skin was the color of dark cafe au lait, but the Germans called him "schwarznegger". I never knew really who his parents were, since the stories changed from time to time. But I knew Giammai, and he was a modest and most unusual man. In fact, I think he was the most unusual man I had ever known.

I now live in the suburbs of Paris with my husband and children. Those strange days of long ago seem like dull memories to me, perhaps I had tried so hard to forget them, perhaps because I was dulled then of my human senses and had to regain them one by one over the years to once again be a human being. I kept Giammai's notebook, that thick and soiled notebook he kept hidden beneath the grey bare mattress in his barrack. It still smells of sweat and the fetid air, the smell of humanity doomed to hell. And in its last pages over old dried stains of blood he wrote his last testament. It remains unfinished... But when I put it in my hands, I always turn to the page that is my favorite, the one that truly reveals to me the man's soul. On it is written in his tiny hand, for he needed to say much on each page, the words forever etched into my memory.

"I dreamt this morning that I was in the Garden of Eden. All the plants, so green, were nodding to me with each passing breeze, as if they knew me and spoke. It was not each plant by itself who knew me, but all of them together as if they were one organism that warmed at the sight of me, and I warmed at the sight of them. They liked me."

What powerful memories this brings back to me. My eyes tear even now as I write this. But I will be faithful to what he had written and what I knew of him in those terrible days of the holocaust. The story I am about to tell is of a world that was darkly shut off from all the things that are beautiful in the world, that makes each human being so very special, with joy and laughter, with ideas and dreams, with hope. It was a time when those who were doomed knew they lived only for today, for tomorrow they, like their families and friends, would be dead. That I survived compels me to tell this story that must be told.

* * * * * *

I loved him in my own way. My eyes first spotted him amongst the other prisoners dressed in the drab grey striped camp uniforms as he picked through the piles of clothing and valises left behind by the teeming mass of humanity that had been brutally marched off barefoot to the delousing chemical baths. It was not because he was dark skinned, and I had never seen a dark man before, but it was because of the way he moved. Amidst all the shouting and shoving and whistles of loud violence he moved slowly like a sage of the netherworld into which we had all fallen. His movements were strangely choreographed as his hands reached for the colorful remnants of what had been adornment for those no longer here. As he worked, his eyes turned to me and, after a long pause that spoke of thoughts confusedly fleeting like apparitions just before waking, he smiled. In that cold grey dawn, he smiled at me. It was a cavernous smile, his hollow eyes sunken in dark hollow cheeks, yet it nevertheless lit up his face into a human smile. The other prisoners doing like work did not notice him, nor me, and kept their slow pace as if we did not exist for them. In their minds, no doubt, we already did not. But in his eyes, I existed, and so though wretched I was after such a long and arduous train journey, hungry and thirsty, I smiled at him too.

My journey to the camps started when the Nazi soldiers sent my university director a list of those who were to be transported for labor. My name was on that list, though I did nothing to earn this. There were others who had consorted with the partisans, or who had run away from compulsory searches, or who had been denounced. But I was none of these. As my heart sank, we were all standing in the chill school yard under heavy clouds, my mind frantically tried to reconstruct why they had chosen me. True, I liked a boy who later ran off with the partisans. He had said he was against the Russian Communists and wanted to fight them. I did not really understand why he felt this way, for the Communists were there to bring us a better world. In Ukraine there were many who felt this way, but we were Swedes by blood, so did not take much part in all of the people's sentiments about the war. My father was a country doctor in our home town, and he always said, before being sent to work in Siberia, that all these terrible things were to pass, and to not become embroiled in their politics. Our Father Stalin was a good man, and would look after all of us. But I was innocent, and had no cause to be called. It was then the beginning of my journey, and the long and cold and difficult train full of crushed souls who cried silently in the dark, that brought me to this unloading station in the camp. I was not even sure where I was, and frightened, since for some reason I was not sent to the baths, but kept aside by the officers who selected us. In that smile was the first human touch I felt since I was taken from home.

"Kostia." That was his first word to me. He spoke passably good Polish, which I understood. "I will call you Kostia." But my name is..." I was about to protest when the Slavic guard gave us both a hard and dark look, his hand reaching for his wooden club, and we both turned away from each other. The Germans did not use their own to guard the prisoners, having their hands full at the front, so they used guards of all the undermensch nationalities for their police work. Mostly they were Slavic peoples, Czechs, Russians, Poles, Ukrainians, Lithuanians. All did their dismal work without feeling, though I believed some enjoyed it. But Kostia was to become my name at the camps.

I was standing there with the other women who had been chosen. It was hazy sunshine, though still cool. There were a dozen of us, all sad and weak with hunger, exhausted. We were all pretty women, despite our sad condition, and the German officers of the camp selected us personally. They made us understand we were to be household staff, that we were lucky not to be sent to the factories and farms like the other workers. We were not called prisoners, but workers. The head officer's interpreter was a prisoner, and he haltingly translated his words into some semblance of a mixture of Slavic dialects. But we understood, even if he had said nothing. We were chosen for something else, we were lucky, and now were left standing there, alone and weary of our fate.

We women were looking at the small pile of children's shoes that had not yet been taken away. Some were fine shoes, so that they stood out from the rest, of red or blue leather, comfortable, secure around the little feet they covered. The grey prisoners had removed the valises and now were scooping up the last of the shoes with shovels, to be carted away in wheel barrows. The families were told they would get them back later, distributed to everyone. But would they ever see them again? The ground was still muddy from the morning rain, and the shoes on the bottom were wet. I did not see the children now, after the initial tumult when herded off the trains. I wondered if they were too frightened to feel the cold ground on their bare feet. Were they Jewish? Or non-Jewish? They too were captives of a fate not of their choosing, lost in the confusion of this insane war. Like their clothing and shoes, discarded lives in a crazy world.

The young woman next to me had the courage to speak. She barely whispered, and did not look at me, but I knew she wanted my attention.
"My name is Tania? I am from Romania."
I did not answer immediately, but quickly looked around to see if the guards had heard. None motioned to us, so I whispered in answer.
"My name is Olgha. I am from Romni. But I live in Lviv now."
She looked up at me shyly and let a trace of a smile cross her lovely face. I think she, like me, found it funny that we came from different places that sounded alike. She was dark, dark eyes, dark hair, even her complexion was more swarthy than mine. Perhaps she had worked outdoors, but she was young and pretty to look at. I felt very white next to her.
Just then the officer, which we guessed was one of the camp's commandants, for he looked important, returned with two orderlies by his side, barking instructions at them.

The commandant was a small man, not taller than us women, sallow faced with small dark hollow eyes, looking serious beneath his officer's cap. In his grey SS uniform, he did not strike a gallant pose, as some men do. Rather, he looked soft and paunchy, which would have us women laugh, were he not so severe in the way he looked at us. However, the swastika and medals and braids on his lapels told us he was an important man. The man swaggered over to us. I had seen men like this before, and in their smallness they make themselves big, which I feared. We stared at him in sullen silence. He motioned one of the prisoners to translate for us.

"Meine Shatse!" he began. The prisoner immediately took over.
"His commandant, who is the law of this camp, says you are not to be afraid. You will be fed and taken care of, as long as you do as you are told. Be obedient and attentive in all the things demanded of you, and no harm will come to you. Disobey, and you will be punished severely. We do not tolerate speaking until you are spoken to. You must obey the guards, for they are here to protect you. Anyone caught doing other than allowed will be beaten. Obey, and you will be rewarded with warm food and comfortable clothes."

He looked around at us to see if we understood. Our eyes no doubt told him of the fear he was evoking, which made him glad. The translator continued as the commandant spoke, now more agitatedly.
"I have not had any disrespect in all my tenure here, and no one has dared to lift a finger against the guards. Anyone who tries, I warn you now, will not live to the end of the war. But if you are good workers, then you will be liberated when our glorious Fatherland has conquered all the inferior nations."
Now he was steaming beneath his cap and small beads of sweat began forming on his forehead, so he took off the cap pulled down severely over his brow. He was bald, with only a few thinning hairs pomaded down. We stared at him, when one of the women broke out into a light laughter. But she immediately stopped, realizing what she had done.
This froze the commandant. He stared over at her, put back his cap, and took three long paces towards her. There he stopped, looked her in the eye as if to challenge combat, and with his gloved hand struck her hard, once, and then once again.
The young woman, a pretty woman, skinny but with well defined lines, curly blond hair, blue eyes, flushed instantly from the affront. She had meant nothing, no more than the rest of us, that here was a small ludicrously insignificant man exuding such great power of self importance. But none of us laughed, for now we were shocked.
The commandant motioned to one of the yellow green uniformed guards, who immediately stepped up to him, and without salute, as we would have expected, began beating the woman with his fist. Then he dragged her away from us and lifted his club, and there beat her until she fell to the wet ground, barely conscious. Then the guard, a youth of perhaps no more than eighteen, in his last gasp of rage, for now he was getting out of breath, dragged the young woman back to the others and left her there.

The commandant then dismissed him, and the guard stepped back a few paces, his face still red from the strain of the beating. The young woman, we later learned her name was Lyuba, began coming to again, her face swollen and bloody, short of breath, moaning quietly. Then she broke into tears and cried softly to herself. The commandant resumed his command.

"Get up woman! You will not insult me again. And for you will be the hardest work in the kitchen, the hardest. You will clean latrines with the other prisoners until you are fit to serve me. Look at yourself! A shame! Look what you have done! And next time I will not be so easy."
Then looking around at the rest of us, who were now stooped in submission, our eyes avoiding his gaze, he pronounced.
"You will now be marched to your barracks, which are adjacent to the kitchen, and take showers to clean yourself of the filth you brought with you. I will not have smelly women serving in our officers's personal quarters."

With that, the small man wheeled and marched off, followed by his adjutant and orderly. The guards then barked an order at us to fall into formation, which did not mean much for we did not know what formation meant, but we were mindful of their clubs, and thus we marched off as we were told.

* * *

I looked into Giammai's journal again, to find the other page that always called to me, so much of him.

"I have looked into the eyes of God, and now I am cursed, for I can see what other humans cannot, that we are the damned, and this is a terrible burden on me."


2. The New Woman

The bolts shot back and doors rattled open. The train had just arrived in the grey early morning and ground to a halt. The German soldiers, one for every four Ukrainian and Polish prison guards, immediately began barking orders at the confused human cargo peering out into the daylight from inside the dark wagons. Mothers clutched children, men trying to look brave, but on all faces were fear. The German shepherd dogs barked, held by the chains in German hands. I was resigned to another day of unloading the trains, as were my fellow prisoners, knowing that the fate for this God forsaken cargo was sealed in some papers issued from Berlin. They were to be marked, tagged with tattoos, if they were lucky, and put to work at the prison factories and cultivation farms. If unlucky, they would be sent off within a day or two to die. Though it was not always like this. At the beginning of the war, this was even considered a model labor camp. Of course, it was opened for political prisoners, though who did not agree with the Reich, or simply did not fit in with it. But as the war progressed, things got prgressively worse.
Such was the day that I faced when I laid eyes on an attractive young woman amongst the passengers. She was in the women's car, and for them was a more sinister destiny. They would be put into the camp commandant's care.

" Los Schnell! Schnell!" The Germans yelled at them as they were being forced out the wagons that only days ago they were forced into. I knew they had ridden without food or water standing up, dirty, tired, afraid. I had done the same from France. Now we were in the heart of Germany, all thrown together from East and West, into that Aryan melting pot of the Third Reich, from which only a few would survive. This was decreed by God, and no man could undo what had been ordained for them. Whether God or Satan, none could tell.

The Slavic prison guards jockeyed for position to have the best shot at hitting the new arrivals, as if to show their German masters that they were good obedient dogs. They also competed against themselves, Poles against Russians, Ukrainians against Poles, Russians against Lithuanians, for they all secretly hated each other, each poisoned by their own putrefying nationalism, same as the Germans uniformly hated all of them. So theirs was a task to please their hateful masters with increased cruelty, so no one would be singled out as a slacker in this great cause of the Aryan race, a cause to which they too were doomed. As the prisoners hesitantly jumped down on weak legs from the meter high wagon floor, they were met with shouts and blows to their bodies, quickly separating men from women and children. Children cried, as did some of the women, and some of the men. It was a fearful sight to see grown human beings emasculated of their humanity before their children's' eyes. What were the children thinking as they saw this? If they survived, would they ever be normal adults? But I could not think of these things at length, or the blows would come my way if I slowed my pace of moving the human bodies towards their destined spots. There, they were ordered to leave on a pile their belongings, keep their coats, but cast off their shoes and unnecessary clothes. This made no sense, since the ground was still cold from the overnight rain, but then sensibility was not the norm here. It was to obey orders barked by the human captors and their dogs.

She jumped down from her wagon with only a small valise in her hand, which she tossed over to the pile and assembled with the other women who were directed to be together. Her hair was a long blond, her skin like snow with a touch of flushed color to her cheeks and lips, and she walked without a sign of fear in her blue eyes. I knew she was afraid, but she chose not to show it, a mark of a strong woman. From this group were taken some to go with the other women and children, leaving behind only the best looking ones, the selection proceeding through elimination of those less comely. I knew because every month the same selection took place, only a dozen or so would be taken from the hundreds. She was alone, not waving to any of the departing men. When the wagons were empty, the men were herded away in one direction towards the men's barracks, and the women and children towards another. Soon they were beyond the gates and barbed fences of the train staging area, pursued by barking and shouting, catching blows, on their way to see the "doctors", and then the "decontamination" yard. I was ordered to load up the valises into the wheel barrows manned by other prisoners. But this brought me closer to the woman I caught briefly in my eye. When I had gotten close enough, while the other women chosen were standing quietly together, as she looked over at me, I spoke to her.

"Kostia, your name will be Kostia."
She looked over at me, and I tried a smile, which was not easy, for fear was thick in the air. She half smiled back, puzzled, but looking at me. She was about to speak when the guard looked over at us threateningly, so I quickly let go her eyes.
She had fine eyes, intelligent, set in a fine face with high cheek bones, which is why the name "Kostia" came to me. It was one of those names that materialized out of the ether, as if whispered by an angel, not bony but fine boned. She was angelic in one sense, but also regal in another. If I had met her on some ancient battlefield, I would have dropped my bow and arrow and let her pierce me with hers. Perhaps it happened some long ago, but we cannot know such things. That she came into the camp is what happened, no more, no less, and that I am here is the same, no more.

The camp commandant, whom we called "Shwarz", a good name because he was a small dark man, had approached the women and began lecturing them. We prisoners knew the story well, obey or be punished, or killed. He then proceeded to demonstrate his sincerity by having one of the women beaten. I and the others were called away, to bring the last of the belongings into the sorting barracks, where most things would be confiscated for the Fatherland. The shoes would be repaired in the shoe factory, with wooden shoes given to the prisoners in exchange. What will be returned will be laid out on long tables, glasses, photographs, useless documents, with each prisoner given five minutes to identity what is his or hers, and then they would never see their things again. Unclaimed items go to the war effort. Nothing would go to waste.

The men had already been herded to their men's barracks, the women and children still undergoing humiliation, standing naked and barefoot in flea baths, the chemicals stinging them, hurting their eyes, children crying. This was the efficiency of the German machine in action, so that fleas and lice would not be spread in the barracks, but it did not work. There were more inside the barracks, which we could never kill, and learned to live with. In fact, we envied them, since they ate better than we. Prisoners were thin, surviving on one piece of coarse bread and a thin turnip or cabbage soup, with potatoes if lucky. The fleas had real protein from our blood. We joked they were German fleas, since they were so fat, as if fattened on sauerbrotten and sausages. They gave us coffee in the morning, but it was so diluted we called it pissenwasser. Tobacco was only available when the guards threw down their butts. Once we got jam, when the Red Cross people came by, but that was only once. In fact, we were hungry all the time.

I had not seen Kostia for a very long time, maybe six weeks, for we traveled in different groups within the large barracks compound. We I saw her again, she looked well, but thinner. We briefly exchanged glances, and then recognition, and then found a way to signal each other that we needed to talk. She still had her hair long under her camp kerchief, unlike the other women whose heads had been shorn.

"I need your help," she said urgently to me. "I..." Kostia quickly looked around to see if it were safe to talk. Her survival instincts had already awakened, as it did for all who wanted to survive. Determined it was safe she continued. "I need you to pass a message to Renato, an Italian in the men's camp. His wife, Livia, is desperate to see him, to talk to him. They are deeply in love, and she misses him terribly."
"It is a wretched fact of life here, loved ones separated, husbands from wife, children from their parents."
"She says she will die if she cannot tell him she loves him."
I understood, and knew how to reach the man, and said so.
"Tell her to wander near the fence towards the men's camp, just before afternoon roll call. And tell her not to throw anything to him, or they will punish them both... or kill them."
Kostia said she knew about this, that to give anything across the fence, a cigarette, a piece of bread, or God forbid a potato, even a note, was punishable severely.

We had a few moments together, so we quickly exchanged news. Kostia was working at the officer's mess as a servant, and as a kitchen helper. The other women were there too, except for the woman who was beaten, Lyuba, who had been further beaten, because she had a facial expression of mirth when she should not have. Kostia said it was in her nature, a gentle woman, but who could not help herself, for when she grimmaced under the most bitter circumstances, it looked like she smiled. So she was beaten until she could not walk, and then sent to the "clinic" for rest. The last she heard of her, she had been put to work in the fields outside the camps where they grew potatoes. This was very hard work, because the prisoners had to walk many kilometers to get there, and then, when totally exhausted and hungry, they had to walk back.

"The capo woman is very severe with us," she said after telling me the other things.
"Do they bother you, the men?"
"They like to tease us and touch our privates when we are near them, serving them at table, but they have not hurt us otherwise." She stopped and thought a moment. "I feel like they are watching us all the time, like we are kept animals fattened for eventual slaughter."
We both laughed a little at her wording, since fattened was not at all true to the camps. Rather, we were being starved for slaughter.
"And of the other women?" I had only this question, because I had to make ready to return to the laundry barracks where I was working, only here at the officer's mess to deliver clean linens. Our clothes were grey and dirty by comparison, so it made a stark contrast to carry the white folded linens, but there was little time to reflect on this. Then we could hear footsteps, and Kostia immediately turned away from me and disappeared into the door that led to the kitchen. We did not see each other again for another week.

There was a new thinness in Kostia, her eyes were taking on the hollow sorrow all us camp prisoners carried. It was from crying, from being eternally depressed, from being beaten or fearful of being beaten. The Slavic guards always looked for an excuse to beat us, because this elevated them in the eyes of the SS command. The commandant, Shwarz, would even publicly praise a guard for having given a good beating. When they beat us, they foamed at the mouth, they worked so hard.
The Germans loved their dogs in ways that seemed out of place in this horrible place. I watched an SS officer speak affectionately to his dog, pat it on the head, give it a morsel of food, while only moments later he had his whip out against a prisoner who had spilled some soup he was carrying, raining blows on this poor man who dared not cry out in pain. The dog was held back, but could not wait to tear into the unlucky fellow. It is so maddening to see officers swagger with their little whips, more like riding crops, tucked under their arms, pistol holstered and well oiled. But there is nothing we can do, but obey. Always "shnell!" Obey quickly, or you will be beaten. Some even laughed that the workers should be beaten when they get up and before going to sleep so they will not forget where they are, and so they will never think of disobedience. Such is the mind of the Aryans, that they must be obeyed all the time, and quickly.

I returned to the laundry with the soiled linens, which had sauces and wine stains. It was as if I were carrying the shrouds of pigs which had left their filthy saliva on them. The other prisoners then set to the task of boiling the linens, and to wash them with the caustic soap of the Third Reich which turned their hands red, and made their eyes smart. What these devils put in that soap we could not guess, unless it was the poison of their great leader, their Fuhrer, whose poison coming from his mouth infected all the things that were theirs. They are a poisoned race, not the superior race. This is the poison all of us had to eat everyday of our lives, until we sickened, and died.

I sent word through our camp network to find Renato. There were quite a few Italians, but there were more spies, so we had to be careful how we asked. If found out that a secret message was being passed, this could be taken as a grievous offence against the Reich, punishable by death. Death was merciful if a pistol shot to the head, but less so if starvation and dehydration, and ultimately hanging by the arms tied behind one's back, so to die slowly and in great pain. We were not human beings here, for we had fallen into the lair of the devil. I do not believe in the devil, so I had fallen into that horrible hole where one's soul is tested and tortured, at the hands of men. The devil is us.
Capos are the biggest devils, because they turn on their own. But as it is Christian to forgive, even the Jews must forgive, for the capos are only doing what they can to survive themselves. A good capo will assign you to an easy day's work if you are ill or hurt from beatings. An evil capo will make sure your suffering is doubled, so that perhaps you will not survive. If you are too weak to work, the capo can send you to one of the extermination camps. And yet, the prisoners forgave them, avoided them, begged them, kowtowed to them, anything to live a little longer, with a little less suffering.

But I had a capo friend who had managed to fool the Germans into thinking he was a cruel task master, when in fact he was not. This took great cleverness on his part. His name was Jan, a Pole.
"I have found the Italian you are looking for, but he is about to be transported to a death camp," were his solemn words. We both knew that his days on Earth were few, and my heart sank thinking of the poor woman who was searching for him. He told me where to find him. I went there on pretense of going to pick up soiled laundry from the guards.
"Giammai, be cautious," was his only other words to me.

"Is there laundry?" I asked of the first prisoner I saw, who was sweeping the parade ground.
"The guards have left a pile for you over there," he pointed to their building.
"I need to speak to Renato, special message from his barracks capo."
"He is at the shoe factory behind that barrack there," he pointed again. Then as if I had never asked him anything, he began his sweeping again, which was painful to watch, since he moved with obvious pain with each brush of the broom.
I found Renato hunched over his machine, hammer and nails in hand, working amidst the din of the factory. I came over to him, still carrying the bundle of soiled laundry, as if coming to collect more. When I was close to him, without looking at him, I whispered the instructions so that he could see his wife. Then I turned slowly and moved away from him. His face looked up at me, but I could not return the look, if we were to not arouse suspicion. The capo in charge of his section had his back to us, so we were not spotted.

That night, back in our dirty lice ridden barracks, under my thin foul blanket, I pulled out my little notebook from under the straw filled bedding where it lay hidden. In it, by the passing searchlights which shone through our grimy windows, I wrote the following memory to myself.

"I do not believe in the devil. The devil is a black beast like me. But he is kind next to these beasts who imprison us here. The real evil, black or white, is he who has a right to beat you, and torture you, and take away your life. The real devil is a man with a gun."

I put back my notebook into its hiding place, along with the dull pencil I sharpened with my fingernails. Then I lay back on the foul mattress and pulled the cover over myself, for the night was cold. I could hear the rain and wind outside. Around me lay exhausted men, some coughing, others moaning as they moved. The sound of snoring soon took over these sounds, and I too lay close to sleep, exhausted to where my body was no longer mine. Hunger lay in the pit of my stomach, but this I had gotten used to. Somewhere on my body I was being bit. It did not matter. Nothing mattered anymore.


3. The Meeting

When I found Livia, just before roll call, I quickly passed the words given to me by Giammai. It took some effort, since my Italian was minimal, as was her German. When she understood, she suddenly lost her pallor, her crushed sadness lifted by color returning to her cheeks, and she came alive before my eyes.
"Oh, God Bless you! You are a heavenly angel sent to me."
"Not an angel, Livia, only another sad woman like you." We both wanted to hug each other, but there was no time, for roll call would be in a short while.
We prisoners were given a few minutes to linger about the parade grounds before attendance was taken, where we were made to stand at attention for an hour or two, depending upon what the guards and SS had in mind. It did not matter the conditions of the weather, or whether or not you were ill. You had to stand at attention. If you fainted from hunger or weakness, you were taken away and punished. But we had a few minutes to linger, and this was an incredible freedom for us, to linger on our own.

They soon came from all directions of the camp, from the factories, from the fields outside the camp, from the latrines, all moving slowly like living corpses. The parade ground became a human sea of drab grey striped pajamas as they moved about like a large herd of sick human cattle. Livia was amongst them, with her daughter, one about sixteen, the other woman next to her was a childhood friend. They had met up at the camp, unbeknownst to the other that they had been taken prisoners. I watched as they slowly made their way towards the women's side of the fence where separated by two layers of barbed fencing was the men's side. Roll call was about to begin, and orders would be barked by the capos to fall into formation, and to stand at attention. Just then Livia saw Renato.

"Renato!" she yelled over to the men's side. It was like the voice of a wounded animal.
"Livia!" shouted back her husband. All had turned to look at them, for this was forbidden, to shout like this in the parade grounds.
"I love you Renato, I love you. Ti amo!" Her daughter also. "Ti amo Papa!"
"Ti amo, tesori miei! Ti amo Livia, mia moglie. Ti amo Gemma!"
Tears were forming in eyes who were closest to me, as they were in my eyes, but fear made me stop them, same as fear made the others stop theirs. It was not to be to let oneself fall back into feelings of love, of being a normal person with any feelings, not here. Perhaps not ever.
They looked at each other through the distant fences, sending kisses from their lips through their hands, when the capos rounded up the women and with blows of their clubs sent them away from there, bellowing at them to stand at attention while they hit them. The same happened on the other side, poor Renato beaten about the head by a guard. Shouting was allowed by the guards.

This meeting was relived like this for a few more days, though without them shouting their messages of love, they instead looking at each other from a distance, in silence, letting their eyes speak for them, or jesticulating with their hands. The other prisoners no longer noticed them, and even the capos ignored them. But the day came when Renato was no longer there, and Livia and her daughter were heart broken into a stunned silence. When I was with them again for roll call, I could not get two words out of them. They fell into a deep dejected silence, so that even when we stood together, it was like standing next to an upright corpse. Yet I was helpless, for I had done what I could, to at least say goodbye to each other. In the camps tomorrow never comes, with dreams and hopes and human feelings. Instead it is a perpetual hell of today.

We worked hard at our labors. Though those of us who were of the officer's mess staff worked under less grueling conditions, we nevertheless had the same hunger and exhaustion. But with our labor came a special humiliation. Our hours were long, fourteen hours or more, and our meals were not much better than for the other prisoners with whom we ate, though the cook might slip us a boiled potato if no one was watching. There was a great risk in this, for the cook, who also was a prisoner, and for us. What made it more painful was that we were degraded even further as individual human beings. In the officers's eyes, we were their playthings.

"Oh, come on Liebshun! Give me a little more beer, and warm it with your nice ass for me!"
They would stare at us, tell rude jokes which most of us did not understand, not being fluent in German, and had to silently endure their touching. We were not women who were proud of their womanness, but rather became ashamed of it.
It had been a long time since I tried to look at my face in a mirror. There was no point in it. My cheeks had gotten hollow, my lips lost their natural color, and my eyes, though still blue, had a new vacant look to them. When I did come across a mirror, I tried not to look into it. Once I found a small piece of a broken mirror which had been discarded by someone in the officers's quarters. I picked it up, and secretly found a place to look at myself. From that small sliver I could see my figure had narrowed, my breasts no longer womanly, and even my neck had become thin. I suffered from hunger like everyone, especially since it was my duty to serve the well fed SS men, those men who should have been at the front fighting for their glorious Fatherland, for their Fuhrer. Instead, their bravery was paraded in how well they beat the poor wretches who were trapped inside their grasp, who were surrounded by fences and machine guns, who endured their insults and blows silently, until they either stopped feeling them, or they died. I put back the broken mirror where I found it, resigned to the fact that it told the truth, and that I lived in a world that was a perpetual lie. I could not endure the truth anymore.

The commandant one day called all us women into his private chambers for a meeting. He kept us waiting for nearly an hour, while we stood at attention. Our kerchiefs hid the heads of those who had been shorn, though mine was never touched. I did not know why, but soon it would all come clear to me. I had been a fool thinking I had somehow escaped the sickness of the minds of our malevolent keepers. My education, the love given me in all my childhood, the self pride I felt for being who I am, my natural beauty, were all to be taken away from me. Before us stood that miserable small man who powered over us, and who was ready to show his manliness by striking us with his fists, or take the whip to us if his hand hurt. We were like frightened cattle about to be led to slaughter. But we were human beings, so we had a better understanding of what lay ahead of us. We simply did not know what it would really be.

"Meine Shatze!" This was a favorite expression of his, Shwarz, the small un-Aryan looking commandant, who thought of us as his treasure, his spoils of war.
"I have important men coming from Berlin, men highly decorated from the war, men who will inspect you laborers and report back to the Fuhrer." He puffed out his small chest as if he had spoken some great pronouncement, impressing on us how important this was.
"I want you women to be at your best behavior at all times, with showing very special respect for these very important officers. Understand?" We did not answer, for it might have been the wrong thing to do, so continued to stand at attention. The fat mouse continued.
"You are very lucky to be in my staff, because you are spared the hardships the other laborers must endure. I treat you well. I know the cook gives you extra food, and I turn a blind eye to this. But if you cross me, then I will punish him instead of you, for no infraction of the rules is forgotten. But I want you to be better than the others. This is war, and this is how it is. We have no choice in what happens to us, for the war must take precedence over all of us. So it is at great sacrifice to myself that I try to make your life easier here at the camp. Do not think this is easy for me. I am watched by other SS and Gestapo too. There is only so much I can do for you. But I do the best I can, and for this I hope you will help me."
A cold shudder went through us, because whenever a German SS asked for help, it was dangerous. One never knew if choosing to volunteer for anything asked by them meant an extra day of life, or the day of death. We had heard of the experiments performed on women by the doctors of the camp, and this was what we immediately imagined, that we had been selected for medical experiments. I had seen the results of these experiments, and it made my flesh crawl. Mostly they were Gypsy women and children, but it was horrible, to where the mind cannot accept it. Their skin had turned black, full of putrid sores, until their infections killed them. The commandant's request for help turned our hearts into cold fear.

"I am fond of you. You must understand, that I am about to ask you to help me. Now, I will speak with you individually. You may sit down where you can and relax. First I will call you," he pointed his finger at one of the new women who had arrived on the last transport. She still glowed with life, unlike those who had been here some months, now autumn turning into winter. She followed him into a side office. We soon could hear voices, more than one man's voice, and then after a longer time, we could hear the pleading of a woman's voice. Soon, she came out all red in the face and without looking at us went out of Shwarz's private chambers.
Women were called in one by one, until I was last. In each case, the result was the same, for shame was clearly written on their faces when they emerged. I wondered if Lyuba, who could not help herself smiling, would have had that smile as she exited now. No, she was the lucky one, I decided, in that she was not here. Then it was my turn.

"Come in," was the commandant's solicitous words. "This is major ... a name I no longer remember, who is to assist me in my selection." The major looked at me with cold eyes, but he nodded in acknowledgement to the commandant. I was not asked to speak, but told to listen carefully.
"You are last, because I am most fond of you. You work hard, you are clean, and your health is good. I do not know how to ask you this without embarrassing you, but the other women all understood what I am about to ask you." The major was undressing me with his eyes, showing some sign of life in them. "Would you please take off your work clothes?"

It was asked as a question, almost politely, but it was an order. I dared not refuse, though it had been a long time since I stood naked before a man. The last time was with my fiancée. I thought of him briefly, wondering what had happened to him, if he too was in some camp like this. He had been part of the resistance, both at the university and with partisans. I dared not think of him dead. Mikhail, I thought, save me.
I undressed without feeling, knowing that this is one more test of my humanity in hell. When my dress fell to the floor, I was totally nude, since they did not give us underwear, only socks for our feet.
"Take off your socks." The major spoke now, appearing interested in what he saw.
They both stood there examining me like some merchandise at the slave market, something to be sold or bartered, for a favor, for recognition in the eyes of some superior. It was no secret to me that I was to be a prize offered to some important man.
The major now approached me, and began looking at my pubic hairs which were still untouched, unlike those shaved off for other women.
"I told you," Shwarz said with pride. "I kept her special". The major nodded in agreement. His cold grey eyes studied me. He was a more or less handsome man, more Nordic looking, of athletic build.
"Put your hands against that table over there, and move your legs apart a little." The major was getting excited with these words. I was about to protest, fearing what they had in mind, when a voice in my head said to stay calm. I obeyed.
The major pulled out a cigarette from a silver case and began smoking it.
"Yes, I like her. This one will be reserved for Herr Himmler himself," he said with self satisfaction. "Would you mind if I spent some time alone with her?"
"No, not at all, bitte." With that the small commandant left the room.

When he had gone, the major began to unbutton his pants and taking them down. I turned in horror.
"No! You cannot!"
This stopped him short for an instant, already his hard penis showing beneath his military shirt.
"If you resist, you will be severely beaten," was his cold response. His heat did not go down. "Do not tell me you are virgin, like the other girls." He had a smirk on his face, a face I wanted at that moment to scratch with all my might. I froze, not knowing how to respond, when that same voice in my head said very calmly for me.
"If I am to be given to a very important man, he would not want soiled goods."
His leg muscles gave off a twitch, and he stopped advancing. It was as if something stopped in his heart pump, for his erection went down immediately. Fear. It was fear of a superior, that perhaps while I was in coitus with him, I might tell of the major. This stopped him. My face had grown hot and flushed, but my body trembled with cold. I looked over at my clothes on the floor. He followed my eyes, and then nodded. I immediately reached for them and hastily threw them over myself, and my socks, which I then stuffed into my wooden shoes. As I was about to leave the room, he reached over and touched my buttocks.
"You are a fine lass, young lady, a fine lass. An Aryan lass."

The fear and trembling did not leave me until I had gone back to my barracks and threw myself on the cold mattress in a flood of tears. I had come so close to being violated of my human being, so close to being fornicated into the last refuge of myself. My tears flowed until the call for formation was announced over the loud speakers, and I had to quickly rise, dry my face with the kerchief on my head, and make myself look normal again. But the fear had reached deep into my heart, and now I was afraid. But my fear did not make me weak. It made me strong.

I was ashamed, ashamed for what I had been subjected to. But I was more ashamed for the other women, because they were weak and succumbed to their fornicators. When I spoke with them again, I only very indirectly asked them what happened. Most would not say, afraid to talk about it. I asked Tania, the Romanian, who I knew was virgin.
"Are you still virgin?" Tears welled up in her eyes. "Shwarz?" She shook her head, and looked away.

How could that butcher of a man do this to such a fine woman? I felt the hatred in my heart turn cold, like the calm voice that told me what to do, what to say. And in that same calm way, I determined at that moment that I would do what I could to help these women. God help us, but we would not be used for the meat market again. I swore this so hard while standing at attention that I felt my nails bite into the flesh of my palms. I did not know how, but I swore to God I would do this.


4. Renato

I killed a rat today. I did not want to kill it, but it was hiding near where I hid my notebook. He might have gnawed on it, so I took off my wooden shoe and clubbed it to death. It was a wretch like me, lean and hungry, no doubt infested with fleas, no doubt a carrier of the black death. I did not feel a great pity for it, but killed it out of instinct, out of self preservation. In that notebook is all of my life, and I could not let it come to harm.
When the other prisoners came into the barracks, I had already skinned it, and since we were allowed a small fire in a metal bucket, as it was cold, I skewered it on a thin wire and had it roasting over the small flames. The smell filled the barracks, and if we had been discovered by the SS, we would have been punished for it. Cooking meat was not allowed in the barracks.
The capo, Jan, came in from work with the other men and asked what I was doing. So I showed him, and he smiled a wry smile.
"Mind if I have a taste? I have not had meat for many months, over a year."
This cheered the other men, who now also wanted a taste. There were sixty of us, so not enough to go around, so we decided to make a soup out of it, so all could enjoy the broth. But the meat would go to Jan and me, and a few morsels to some very weak prisoners who needed protein if they were to survive.

Now I was known at the men's barracks as the hunter. And all encouraged me to do it again. Snails had been eaten in the fields by nearly everyone, raw and fresh off the ground, wherever we could find them, though this too was punishable. The offense was a capital one, and anyone caught eating produce from the fields was summarily shot. I had seen a man hiding carrots in his trousers, until one fell out. The Slavic guard came over, made the mans stand before us all with his head down, and with one blow killed the man. We later learned he had done this before to smuggle them to a woman in the women's camp of whom he was fond. Another time a man was caught stuffing grass into his shirt. The German overseer came over to him on horseback and with one shot of his pistol killed him on the spot. Even a blade of grass was forbidden, for all belonged to the Reich, and we were not fit to eat it. The grass was for their livestock. Our food was several days old bread left over from the SS and guard's mess, with a thin spread of rancid smelling margarine, on some days, and the thin gruelly soup made of turnips. On good days we had lentils, and even more rare beans or a cooked bone, which at least gave some nourishment. The turnips were pig food, but most days this was all we got, and very thin at that, more like turnip broth. It was not enough to keep a working man fed, and though hunger gnawed at us daily, somehow we persevered. To not work was sure death, so with herculean strength we would rise every morning and by half past five in the morning arrange ourselves for our daily piece of bread. A thin warm dark liquid was offered later in the day, to torture us into thinking it was coffee, but this offered no nourishment except boiled water. Since we nearly all suffered from diarrhea, water was constantly needed to rehydrate, but not easily available. What water we got was given to us in buckets, it was unboiled, so the diarrhea never ended. So we should be excused for losing our humanity for a moment and relishing at the thought of eating a rat. With a few blades of grass thrown into the soup, it was nourishment.

We did not steal food from each other, which is surprising, but the Aryans had not yet reduced us to that. Nor was there cannibalism at the camp, though we had heard this happened in other camps. This was a working camp, and except for its usual brutality and killings, it ran almost normally. They had not yet taken everything away from us, for if they had, it would stop working and we simply would have accepted death. In our hearts, we all wanted to live, but when the spirit was lost, whether from punishment or ill health, or the loss of loved ones, we died. This would have been the case for Livia had Kostia not stepped in to help her. She said it was her doing to bring her to see her husband, and now it was again of necessity her doing to bring Livia back to life.

"Disziplin ist gut, mein Schönheit," I heard the officer say to one of the women. He was being kind to her, speaking in normal tones, not yelling as is commonly done. This SS man had developed a fondness for Slavic women, and was solicitous when his desire aroused him into humanity. The woman looked lost, not knowing how to take his advances. Then he would hold up a small piece of bread, and her heart would suddenly warm to the bait. If she had no other lover, or hope, she would give in to him, and be his mistress for a time, until he tired of her. You could tell which women had lovers, for they were slightly fatter than most. In spite of their wretchedness, some women, both Gentile and Jew, were quite beautiful. But it is more fair to say most women did not fall for this temptation. For those who did it meant an extra day of life with a little less suffering. But the consequence were as brutal. If they became with child, the children were taken away immediately, to never be seen again. If it was a fair and blond child, it might live in some orphanage somewhere, being half Aryan, to be added to the war fodder of the superior race. But if it was not, then it was killed immediately, sometimes before the new mother's eyes. This was a terrible price to pay for a piece of bread.

The Aryan devils had found that love was a tradable commodity. So they made sure that the men and women were separated, especially if they loved each other. Then it was easier to control them, with false promises of reunion, of a moment with their loved ones, even if only across a barbed wire fence. There had been stories of men and women so desperate to be together they would approach an electrified fence and grasp it, their fingers locked together in a final death grip, as their bodies convulsed from the electric shock. They were together for a brief moment before death. I had not seen this, but it was told. Most, however, did not resort to such desperation, but suffered quietly, nursing a hope in some far recess of their hearts, that they would be reunited someday.

This was the case with Livia, for she loved her Renato very deeply. So when a call went out that they needed volunteers to fix some machinery where I knew Renato had been sent, I volunteered. I then made my way with laundry to the officers' mess to find Kostia. She was not there at the time, and the orderly told me there was a meeting for the women. This was hard news, for I needed to see her, and I was about to leave when I heard hushed voices of the women returning to their work stations. I lingered, saw the capo woman, a strong ox of a woman named Svetlyana, barking orders at the women. They all looked dejected and ready to cry. When I had the chance, I quickly moved towards Kostia, when no one else was in sight, and grabbed her by the arm.

"What happened? Why are the women flushed and gloomy?"
I had pulled her into a broom closet and closed the door, so no one could hear us. We spoke in whispers.
"We were told Himmler will be here within a week. What are we to do? The girls are terrified."
She explained what they had been told they must do, and most were unwilling. I understood.
"Do they still menstruate?" I asked her. Knowing women who lose too much body fat cease menstruating, but I suspected these women were better kept.
"Yes, why?"
"Collect all their blood."
In the dark I saw her eyes grow wide with understanding.
"Then they could share it!" She almost burst out laughing with excitement.
"Yes. Pray there will be enough for all. It is a known fact that women menstruate with the moon, so if they are menstruating collect it, and keep it moist if you can."
"But it is unclean... Won't they get infections?"
"There is that danger, but there is no other choice. The German pigs are animals, but they still do not want their women unclean."
Kostia clapped her hands together once, from sheer excitement, when we heard footsteps approaching. We froze, she pressed against me as if we had become one. It was dark, but suddenly the door opened and light flooded in. We could feel a face looking in. It was Svetlyana. There was a tense moment when neither of us dared breathe. She held the door open a moment, like she was thinking of something, and then shut it with a slam. We both jumped, but did not let the other go. When silence had returned, we slowly unclamped our hold on each other. The danger was immense, had we been discovered, especially for me. For a dark skinned man to be found with the future concubine of Herr Himmler would have dealt me a most severe punishment. Kostia would have been made to cruelly suffer for this. I would have been killed.

Kostia got word to Livia that I was in search of her husband, and suddenly she began to speak again. Hope grew in her heart, and her daughter cried by her side. I had her explain that I could not be sure I would find him, but that I would try. If there was any miracle that I could get him back, I would. Livia fell to her knees in prayer.
When she saw me again, she kissed my hands and called me her Saviour. I lifted her head and said I am only a black man. I could promise no miracle.


When we got to our sister camp, we could not believe the horror. Word had gotten back how terrible conditions were here, but they could not be believed without seeing. When the truck brought us into the gate, a powerful smell of rotting humanity accosted us, we who were already hardened to camp life. In fact, the stench had made itself known even before we had arrived. Corpses were piled high at one side of the camp, before them were more corpses. The other corpses, those still living, were being put to work to dig the large mass grave into which they all would be tossed in. A gas chamber had been erected, with the mandatory crematorium to accommodate the dead. But this was a typhus epidemic, and those starved wretched human beings were dying from it. In this hell we pulled in and stopped.

"Schnell! Schnell!" the guards shouted at us. We could see from the turrets erected at intervals along the long barbed wire fence were machine guns pointing to us, as if we were going to escape, or start a revolution. It was madness, but the Ukrainian guards there were tense because of the typhus, and were as eager to pull the trigger to kill one more dying prisoner as keeping away from us. It meant nothing to them anyway, one more or less dead man. How these men would live with themselves through life if they survived this war was impossible to imagine for me. They should pray that they do not. The capos directed us towards the crematorium furnaces and put us to work to forge the parts necessary for its operation.

While working, I put out a clandestine word that I was looking for an Italian named Renato, who was an expert on fixing hinges for large metal doors. Later in the day, when we lined up for our very thin soup, even less filling than at our camp, for it had virtually nothing in it, I got word handed to me that Renato was still alive but ill with fever. This was bad news, I thought, and asked how I could see him. I was told his barracks had empty spaces, and I could stay there if needed. It was what I had hoped for.

Inside the dark barracks, as dusk approached, I found Renato. He was a mere skeleton of a man, perhaps handsome once, but now his face had the dark grey of a fever that had run its course, and he could barely lift it when I spoke his name.
"I pass word from your wife, Livia."
He looked up with confusion, his vacant eyes trying to find me in the dim light. I was surprised he had not been killed already, for he was too weak to work. But he was alive.
"She said to tell you, Ti Amo."
At that, the man raised himself on one elbow and began making an effort to sit up. I helped him raise upright, and he breathed out a long breath, as if he had been holding it in all this time. His face cracked a little, and his lips moved. "Ti amo..." he whispered. "Dove?" I knew Italian from my mother, so was able to speak to him easily. I explained how there were women in the camp who wanted to help his wife, and that I came to see if it was possible to bring him back. At this, he gained strength and sat upright with a new found vigor, the kind that men who are about to die will have.
"Did you eat?" I asked him. He shook his head. "Then here, take a small bite of this bread, only a small bite. I will go and see if I can find a way to bring you some soup. Live man, live! Your wife and daughter, they need you."
I had no idea how to find food in this God forsaken camp, but I inquired at where were eating the capos. In my pocket I had a small bar of soap I brought with me, currency in these horrific times, and showed it to the capo I judged to be more human than the others. He quickly put down his spoon and took me aside.
"What do you need?"
"I need a worker, a man who is in the barracks who is expert, and I cannot complete my task without his help."
"Which man?"
"I cannot give out names yet, but I can trade this soap for a bowl of soup, with potatoes in it."
He nodded, and took me back to the table, where he emptied his bowl into the one I brought with me. Renato would have a spoon. I then said, "and a piece of bread."
The capo broke his in half and gave it to me, which I quickly hid into my shirt. Then I gave him the bar of soap, which he also quickly hid in his shirt. Currency is currency, and if any others saw it, they would want it from him. This was the price of a small piece of soap, that a man's life may be spared.

I ran back as fast as I could to Renato, fearful that he would die before I got there. A guard shouted at me, and I explained I was from the other camp and wanted to return to my barracks before curfew, which he waved me on, calling me a son of a bitch. I nodded my head in submission and quickly moved on. My mission was not to be stopped by guards, or they may find more soap on me, so I hurried.
When I got back to Renato, he was still holding the bread, with maybe only two bites taken from it.
"Can you handle a little soup? It is still warm. And it has a potato in it."
The man took the bowl as if it were a chalice at communion and help it in his hands, and then slowly brought out his spoons from under his bedding, and began eating it like a child. Little bits of liquid dripped from his lips, as he had difficulty swallowing. Then another, and another. Soon he had the soup half eaten and he put the bowl down. With a skeletal arm he reached over to me and brought my head into his breast. There I stayed, quietly, while the man cried.

We abandon all hope where there is no one to bring us love. But the name of his wife, and the small food I brought him became his salvation for another day of life. We sat quietly together in the darkness without speaking, me chewing slowly on my bread, and he finishing the soup by carefully bringing each spoonful to his lips. By the time it was for me to find my place to sleep, all the others were already fainted dead from this world. Only us two were still awake, and Renato again took me into his arms, which already felt stronger on me. Before falling asleep, he quietly said to me, "Ti amo."

We completed the work assigned on the ovens, and with each day Renato gained more strength. His work was useful, though he clearly was no expert, but this was a ruse, so it did not matter. The capo who had helped me before became a sort of guarded friend, and after more bars of soap, I was able to convince him that we needed Renato at the other camp for more work. He was able to get me the signed papers for his transfer, glad to get rid of one more typhus ridden prisoner, and we all boarded the truck together. God help us, but now we were potential carriers of the disease, if not already infected. But my pulse was normal, and I did not suffer headaches, nor did the other prisoners who came with me. There was hope. When we drove through the gate, the corpses had already been thrown into the large pit, but new ones were being readied. We were glad to be rid of this place, and looked forward with anticipation to return to our own misery. It is better to be miserable where one knows, rather than dying in one that is unknown.

When we got back, I found a safe place for Renato in the laundry detail, so that he could recover his health. Jan helped me on this, for he was a good man. When I again had a chance to see Kostia, she gleefully told me the ruse worked. Himmler was disappointed, for he obviously liked her. I told her I had brought back Renato from the dead, and she clasped her arms around me with joy.
"Livia will be so happy! Oh, Giammai, you are a miracle maker. What a joy!"
Joy? I had forgotten what was joy.

That night in my barracks, after all had fallen asleep, I found my little book, especially well hidden this time beneath the floor boards. By the passing light of the guard tower, I wrote in my small print what had been with me all the way back from the other camp.

"There is no murder mystery here, for murder is what is normal, it happens daily. What is a mystery is why some of us live, and some of us die."


5. Herr Himmler

We lived in constant fear, a tiring exhausting fear, which anyone who had not experienced it would never understand. If I sound frantic in how I tell this story, it is only because that was how it was, that we were frantically, desperately, trying to survive. At any moment our life could end, and this was driven deep into our hearts in every waking moment, and even in our sleep. We lived in fear, and this fear was as much a mortal enemy as it was a salvation, for we had to survive, and the fear made us cautious.

Herr Himmler came with his delegation from Berlin to inspect our camps. We were told ours is a model camp of German efficiency, that we workers, they always called us worker and never prisoners, were well treated because of the good work done here. This was told to us as we had to stand at attention at the parade grounds, the women all dressed in their cleanest clothes. Warm coats had been given out to us, so that we could stand the winter cold, since it was winter, though these would be taken away later. The body learns to survive in the cold, feet frostbitten in our wooden shoes, trembling becoming a normal state, until we no longer noticed it. The speeches given I will not repeat here, for no doubt they are a matter of record and can be found. The message was the same, that if we do good work for the Fatherland, when the war is over, we will be rewarded with a normal life in the new Reich. These words sounded hollow to us, same as the warm coats were a lie. Himmler's coat was thick and spotlessly clean. Though he was not a big man, rather weak of chin, to us he looked like a god, while we wretched women stood hollow eyed, our spirit slowly draining from our bodies, cold and hungry, being given hope of a better life. It was a lie.

It was my war duty to the Reich to be Himmler's lover. How strange this seemed, like a monstrous paradox for the amusement of insane evil demons. How they must have laughed at what they had created. Where was God? I remember my mother and father praying quietly, since overt expression of religion was frowned upon in the new Soviet Ukraine, and me standing by them wondering what God they were praying to. Religion was superstition, we had been taught at school. Where was that God now? Where was the God of Love, the Creator who had made man in his image? What a monstrous joke it had all become. The only glimmer of God here was when someone touched you with kindness, and even that was accepted with fear, for it might mean that you had to surrender some part of yourself to accept it. It was dangerous to be kind, same as it was dangerous to accept kindness. This was the love that had been taken away from us. And in its place was put some perversion for the amusement of the SS officers, and for their top boss, Herr Himmler. It had fallen to me to be his concubine.

"Schnell, schnell, meine fraulein," the commandant ushered us quickly into a room together after the officers had been served their dinner. They were now talking loudly, smoking cigars and cigarettes, drinking in the next room. We were assembled for inspection, again told to look our best, for we were about to be honored by the great men of the Reich. Shwarz looked visibly nervous. This was a great moment for him to show off what he had so meticulously preserved for the enjoyment of the great heroes who were about to inspect us. If it all worked out well, he would be well reported to Berlin. If it failed, this could be a very bad mark against him. So he was nervous.

The officers were finished and now came in. They looked around, smiles on their red faces, for they had eaten and drunk much. We stood at attention as told, upright, chest out, feet planted firmly together, looking straight ahead. They filed before us, "shershun" they would say as they passed each one of us. They did not touch us, but looked into our faces and down out bodies, admiring and choosing what was theirs to have. We were their desert after a night of debauched dining. My heart turned cold as each one passed before me. Then Herr Himmler came and stood before me. I dared not look into his eyes. He mused a long moment, for he already knew I was his. "Uhumm", he said to himself, as if convincing himself that the selection was a good one. I was the meat he was promised, and it pleased him.

The capo Svetlyana was not in on our conspiracy, that we all had menstruation. But now it was time for me to reveal this to her, though I did not know how to do so. The commandant now addressed her.
"Are all the women clean?"
"Yes, mein Herr!" They had been bathed and made ready.
"Gut, gut..."
It was then that I overcame my fear and spoke out, in bad German.
"Mein Herr, if I may speak for the women?"
This caught them all by surprise, and there was a moment of silence as they tried to assess what was happening.
"What?!" the commandant shouted at me.
"May I say this to the capo, with your permission, for it is a sensitive matter."
He motioned that I move over to Svetlyana and speak with her, which I said very quietly when I faced her.
"The women are menstruating, my capo."
Her eyes grew wide, mixed with rage and fear, for she knew what this meant. It could be a punishment to her for not reporting this earlier. Now it would be a major embarrassment. She asked me if I was sure, since she was not menstruating. I raised my eyebrows, and shrugged, at great danger to myself, but had to make it look like it just happened.
The capo ox then took large steps and stood at attention before the commandant. In the yellow electric light of the room the air suddenly felt very hot and stuffy, like I would faint. But I held, as did the other women, trying not to tremble with fear.
She exchanged words in a quiet way, so that the commandant nodded without speaking. She came back to me.
"Are you sure?"
"I have seen their rags," I answered.
She nodded pensively and then returned to speak to the commandant. They exchanged words, and then she resumed her place at attention, satisfied that she was safe from further reprimand, since she had no power over the moon.

The commandant then turned to the officers, all of whom were busy talking amongst themselves, looking over our way from time to time.

"Gentlemen! We must find other ways to amuse ourselves this evening, since the moon has worked against us. The women are all dirty with blood."
This was met first with a stunned silence, and then they all burst out laughing. The men began pushing each other in boyish ways, saying that they moon was unlucky tonight. The women dared not blush, nor make a sound, for they were so frightened. We continued to stare straight ahead. One of the officers came over to the woman he had his eye on and touched her breasts, and then her ass.
"Very lovely, wie shun. Next time, I will take you next time."
The poor woman remained frozen in place.
Herr Himmler, being the top dog of the pack, did not do this, for he had to appear a gentleman, but his eyes looked me over once again. Then they all retired back to their dining room, with instructions to us to bring them more schnapps.
We were then dismissed, as the men began playing a phonograph with German marching songs, and cards were brought out. They did not want us around anymore, since we were dirty.

If the commandant was embarrassed by this episode, he did not show it. We were his currency, his wealth that he had built up, and we failed him. The next days our work loads increased, and the extra food from the kitchen ceased. In this subtle way, though we were not beaten, our punishment was being administered. This was only a warning, we knew, but it was one to be taken seriously. It would not happen again, for Svetlyana would make sure of it next time.
At the barracks, when the lights had gone out, all the women gathered around me, to thank me for saving them from doing what they did not want to. Each woman has her dignity, and though some would gladly give it away for a piece of bread, these women were not like that. It was not sex that was odious to them. We all like sex with the right man. It was the violation of their bodies against their will that was so horrible.
"It will not be easy next time," I warned them. "They will find a way to make us perform our assigned duty... or they will beat us into submission."
"How can we escape from it again?" one innocent looking child wanted to know.
"I don't know, my dear. I don't know. But God will help us."
I had almost begun believing that my words were the truth. It was a minor victory against these Nazi devils. We scored, for now. But I knew this too was a lie.

When Giammai came back from the other camp, and we had a chance to talk, he told me of how he had rescued Renato. I was so happy with joy, but we almost lost our lives for it. By chance the capo ox came into the room where she caught us talking, though it seemed she had not heard what was said.
"Back to work, you!" She pointed at Giammai, and to me, "It will be bad for you if I see you slacking again. Who gave you permission to talk to this prisoner?"
I did not answer but put my face aside, so she could strike it, which she did. Giammai left quietly with his bundle of dirty laundry without looking back. But in my heart I was glad, and the pain on my cheek felt good, for we had won again against these monsters. Livia will be so happy when she finds out her husband had been brought back from the death camp. I knew that this news would mean another day of life for her.

The typhus we all feared would come from the other camp did not happen. It was a miracle, because by all rights it should have, but it did not, not this time. The visiting delegation had left the next day, so we did not have to hear Himmler's speeches anymore. Our warm coats were taken away as expected, and we were once again forced to stand in the snow with our thin coats, all shivering and coughing. As I stood there in the cold, moving my feet in my socks to keep them from freezing, my mind set to wandering how we could deliver typhus infested lice to the officers's quarters. But there was no way to do this, since we would not know which lice had the disease, and since none came down with it here, we assumed that our lice were not infected. Still, it was a thought that kept me warm in the cold air. Funny to think that we had "our lice" and they had theirs...

As my mind wandered, all of us waiting for nothing in particular, since we all knew our work assignments and it was odd that the camp directors would waste so much time for nothing. Perhaps it was merely another way to dehumanize us, or perhaps some university educated doctor wrote some scientific paper on this, explaining how it is good to have the prisoners stand at attention for hours, as a way to make them rest. While stomachs rumbled from hunger, and some fainted, only to be beaten awake again by the capos circulating amongst us, I wondered what went through the minds of all of us standing there. I wondered what they thought of, of insanity as being normal, and sanity as being abnormal. Or were they even thinking at all? What hopes flickered in the hearts of those who had abandoned all hope?
I had hidden in my frock a piece of dark coarse bread I had stolen from the kitchen, I thought about it now. This I was going to take to Livia, so she could share it with her daughter. What could I do to make their lives here slightly easier? I do not know why they were important to me, but somehow I had adopted them as my own, my family that I did not have around me. Livia was not a young woman, fragile, and her daughter Gemma a lovely girl, large eyes that seemed to be always on the verge of tears. I wanted to help them, in the way Giammai helped them. Though they could see their other important human being only at a distance through a fence, it somehow helped them ease the burden of daily survival. Could I help others do this, I wondered? What can I do? What could any of us do? To help others seemed an impossibly monumental task, while standing at attention, feet freezing. Would I have swollen feet like the others? I moved my toes again, and I could still feel them. What a waste, I thought. What a waste of humanity.

It was then that I began to have an idea. We had heard that when Himmler departed, there were new instructions to build a large crematorium, under pretense that the bodies of the dead prisoners would be turned into ossuaries for their family members to reclaim and returned home for burial. They could get back the ashes for only three pfennig, saying the prisoner died of natural causes. Who knows who's ashes they would get, since many bodies would be burned together... another monumental lie. What absurdity, that "natural causes" should be inhumanity, brutality, starvation and exhaustion. But this was what was being said openly. What was not being said, but I knew this because Giammai told me, was that the prisoners would be gassed first at the sister camp, and then burned. In time, they might even build gas chambers here too, he said. We had heard the war was not going well for the Reich, and that Tommies had already bombed Hamburg, and the Americans Dresden, and some of the other camps. It was only a matter of time before they bombed Berlin, maybe even here, or so it was said. This was why they wanted to start the gas chambers, to eliminate the evidence of what they had been doing to the Jews, and to all those who might bring evidence against them after the war. It was bad. This was a very frightening idea to all of us, that they would kill us so that we could not talk. In the Aryan eyes, it was a worthy final solution to their problems. Make them make shoes and clothing, work them to death, and then kill them. Only a twisted mind could cook this. But they should never get away with it. I thought hard about this, and decided that the children must be the first to be saved from this burning holocaust, this sacrifice of innocent lives to their monstrous god. We had to somehow organize to protect the children. I looked around me at all the drab grey faces standing in the grey light, half frozen. There had to be a way.


6. A Day of Rest

Sunday afternoons we had a day of rest. We worked in the morning, and then had the rest of the day to linger. Most of us slept, too tired to rest, just catching up on our physical need for sleep, and healing. Some of us gathered in small groups to gossip, chat about our hardships, compare mistreatments, or pass around news someone had heard. Much of this news was hearsay, so no real news was known, but many speculations were traded. For example, that the Soviet troops were already at Berlin, which was not true. Or that the Americans had taken over Italy, which most of us believed was true, but we had no way of knowing for sure. We also talked about Canada. I do not know why, but Canada sounded like a magical land to us, some place where people had rights, where you were protected from arbitrary arrests and abuse. It soon became a mythical land for us, where we all dreamed of someday escaping to Canada. But escape was not easy, though some had tried. Mostly they were caught, killed, or never heard from again. News was hard to come by, since we were not allowed to receive mail from outside.

It was this Sunday that Renato sought me out. He just wanted to talk.
"How are you Giammai?" He had begun to look normal again, though still lean like the rest of us. His wolfish face had returned to its normal color, and he seemed in good spirit.
"As well as could be expected, Renato, considering."
"Considering where we are, I suppose this is the best we could be." He sat a moment without speaking, and then asked me, "How long have you been at the camps?"
"I was arrested shortly after France surrendered."
"That long? Why, you have been here nearly three years!"
I nodded, thinking of how those three years were life lost, how I could never recapture them again, even if liberated tomorrow. It is a miracle I am still alive.
"And you?"
"God knows, it seems forever, though I was arrested only six months ago, with Livia." He sat quietly again, thinking of that dreadful day. "They came for us because we had been denounced. They said we distributed anti-Fascist pamphlets. Then they came and arrested us in our apartment in Bologna, along with our daughter. My son was away, thank God."
"So not your whole family is here?"
"No, Livia did not have to come, they would have let her go, but she insisted. So they came. They said they could not survive without me, and did not want to be separated. Anyway, we know they would have been arrested later and sent to some other camp."
"Ever wonder why fate would have it that we are here, and not others?" I asked, not asking anything in particular, just talking.
"I suppose it is God's will." Renato sat thinking to himself about God's will, and Livia wanting to be with him in this hell. I wondered if they had any idea what transport meant.
"Do you believe in God, Renato?" This caught him by surprise, his eyes told me so.
"Why yes. I am a Christian. Don't you? Are you not Christian?"
I felt I had to tell him, though I never shared this with others, since it was my personal matter. But somehow I came to trust Renato, in his simple ways, in him as a human being. And he obviously was grateful to me for saving his life.
"I was born Christian, Catholic, like my mother. But later, because of my dark skin, I had many Algerian friends, so I converted to Islam."
"Then you no longer believe Jesus is our Saviour?"
"Oh no, I have not given up Jesus. But I also embraced another religion of peace, that God is Love, and that He is merciful." I thought about it for a moment. "But I am not a good Mussulman either, since I do not believe everything in the Koran."
"Is the Koran against Jesus?"
"Oh, no, he is honored in the Koran, along with his mother Mary. But I discovered upon discussing it with others that either you believe in it completely, or you cannot be a good Mussulman."
"I don't know the Koran. Is it like the Christian Bible?"
"You mean the Jewish Bible? For it was written by Jews first, and later as the New Testament." I did not how to explain to him my doubt, but tried anyway. "You see, if you argue with a scholar of Islam, you can never win. Because if you doubt anything that was written in the Koran, then you are an infidel. And I had too many questions that cannot be answered by the Koran, or any religion, so I was automatically an infidel, which makes me a very bad Mussulman. A good Mussulman would never ask these questions that are impossible to answer from the Koran, like freedom from obedience."

We thought about this in silence some more, sitting under the cold light of winter in that Sunday afternoon, our day of rest. I had another thought.
"Think of it this way, Renato. If I am a Christian, and also a Mussulman, then I am really a Jew." This startled him, for he could not make out my meaning. "I will explain. Both religions have their roots going back to Cain and Abel, and through them in Abraham, a Jew. And both believe in one God, this is paramount. But so do the Jews, so they started this whole religious drama in the first place, not that I blame them for it. So you see, by being both, I am really Jewish."
This brought a smile to Renato's face.
"Then all the Germans are really Jews too!"
We both laughed, for it was true, that the Aryans too were Jews.
"But don't tell them, that we're all the chosen people, or they'll think, in their simple mindedness, that you're for Judaism, or you're against Christ."
"But that is madness..."
We both shook our heads, looking down at the grey soil beneath our feet, hard from the winter frost. Maybe we already were mad. How does one maintain sanityt in a place like this? Some men had made a small fire for their group, allowed on Sundays, but we stayed where we were, warm in each other's company.

"Why do you believe in God?" I asked him.
"You have to believe. That is all we have, He is in everything. And it is because he answers our prayers."
I looked around our camp, as far as the eye could see, it was miserable.
"Do you call this answering our prayers? Look around you."
Renato did as I said, and returned his attention to me.
"Indeed you are right. But God exists, I know this in my heart."
We both thought about it for a while, nodding in agreement, not looking at each other.
"I believe He exists also. But he is not All Good as the priests and mullahs and rabbis would have you believe."
"Why do you say that? Is God the devil too?"
"No, I do not believe there is a devil. It is a story to frighten simple people into submission." Renato did not answer, expecting to hear more. "I believe God is Everything, both good and evil. He makes all things possible, even the terrible things. It is for us humans, His children, to then choose what it is we want from Him. Look around you. What have we chosen?"
Renato could not understand me.
"I did not choose this, nor Livia, nor Gemma. We are the victims here. We had no choice."
"Yes. That is my point. We did not choose this because others had made the choice for us, and for that now we are their prisoners. They chose the power to enslave us here. But God made that possible, because he also gave us the choice to keep such evil people from power. And what did we do? We let them come to power. So you see, God lets us be how we choose. And we had chosen badly."
"Then you say God allows us to make mistakes?"
"Exactly. We make mistakes, and that is not God being evil, but merely God being God. Did He not say in the Bible 'I am that I am'? Well, that sums it up. God is not infinite good anymore than He is infinite evil. He merely is. Within that, we have to make our way."

Again we sat in silence, pondering what had become a deep discussion about God. The God given world we had was not beautiful, nor good. Rather, it was dreary and deadly, murderous, full of suffering. There was not a blade of grass on the ground. Birds did not sing in the trees. Only lice and rats and fleas were our wild life to share our miserable lot. Then Renato had an inspiration, which broke my sudden sadness.
"Then there is no devil!"
"Of course! The devil is what we chose to do to ourselves. Look around, we are in the devil's lair. But this is not God's doing... it is our own."
"Then as you say, the devil is to scare little children, or simple people into obedience."
"That is exactly right."
"But then was Jesus God?"
"Now you are asking a truly difficult question," I smiled at him. "Maybe he was, in the same way we are all God, and maybe he was not, in the same way we are all men."
The answer pleased Renato, who was a thinking creature after all.
"But you said you are a bad Mussulman..."
"I am, because I do not believe doing God's will is in any man's writings, sacred or not. Instead, I believe that to do God's will is what we do in every breath we take, every step, every single thing we do. It is impossible to not do God's will. Why, you may ask? Because God is everything, and in doing God's will, we do both good and evil."
"Ah, aha... I understand. To do God's will becomes a pointless thing, because we do it anyway. But I fear we are doing it badly... our doom is that we are doing things badly, within God."
"Yes. We are in a bad choice, not ours specifically, but how humanity chose to make itself. And here, we are damned in God's Love for us, since He let us choose this. Why? Because as Mohammed said, He is all compassionate."
"That is the ultimate forgiveness, to let human beings choose badly... But what about prayer? Does He not answer prayer?"

I was not going to ask him to look around again, since he had already forgotten. Instead, I thought to answer him gently.
"Remember, if the Christians are Jews, and the Mohammedans are Jews, then why should we think God answers our prayers, if He so far has failed to answer the prayers of His chosen people, the Jews." Renato looked truly pained by these words, so I had to add quickly. "But He does answer our prayers, mostly in ways we least expect."
This made him relax again, and once more allowed himself to feel the comfort of my company. His next words were his undoing, however.
"My, Giammai, this is so stimulating, to talk with you like this. When Livia and I went to the Comm..." He immediately stopped himself, realizing he had given himself away. We both looked into each other's eyes.
"It's okay Renato. Your secret is safe with me. I have nothing against any political group, though sometimes they do not see the consequences of what it is of God they are asking, even if they are atheists. But in return, you must not tell anyone I am Mussulman. If word gets back to the Germans, they will think me anti-Christ."
We both nodded to keep our secret. Renato, however, still had more he needed to say.
"Who knows what the Aryans believe. I think they believe in the devil."
We both chuckled at this, for it seemed right.
"Even those who fear the devil are believers, of a sort," I said. "The only thing to do with the devil is not to give him his due. Then he has absolutely no power. You see, in fearing the devil, we act in ways that brings the devil to us, by finding him in everything and everywhere. Remember God is all powerful, all compassionate, all Love. And because He is all these things, He even lets us conjure up a devil for ourselves."
Renato was following me keenly.
"So you say... the devil is what we have created, to torture ourselves with... So when we are accusing someone of consorting with the devil, we are really damning humanity... and ourselves?"
"Yes. Look around you. This is all the devil's work. But the devil is man..."
Renato smiled at this, and answered, "...who is in Berlin."
We both laughed, for he was right.

Before Renato and I parted company that afternoon, I said to him these words.
"Remember, Renato, God does answer our prayers. Did Livia not pray for your return? And here you are. Now pray for more miracles, because we will need them."
He gave me a grateful smile, truly a live man again, and it made my heart glad.
"I pray that we will be together again."

That night at the barracks I wrote these few words.

"God is everything. Even evil is God, as much as good. There is nothing we do not do that is not God's will, for in our every breath we take, He is truly the forgiving, the compassionate One. All the world's three great religions, they are really One."

I had to find Kostia again, if only because I feared. During the short respite of peace in the hell into which we had fallen there was always lurking just beneath the surface an evil malice that would snatch away our few short hours of rest. This could take the form of a roll call, or public beating, or execution staged for our benefit. Each such quiet Sunday afternoon could suddenly turn into a horror. There was gossip amongst the prisoners that the commandant was going to demonstrate such a horror, that one of us would be publicly punished for an infraction of the rules. The word going around was that some children were caught stealing food, and for this they would be made an example. Others said a gun was stolen from the soldiers.

As expected, roll call was announced, and we all had to drop whatever leisure we found, or the few extra hours of sleep in the barracks, and had to quickly assemble on the parade ground. The Slavic guards were standing at attention, capos herding everyone into place, sleepy souls dragging themselves from their beds, the sick and lame standing upright fearful of calling attention to themselves, the men standing to one side and women to the other. Between them were assembled the children, in the center, before the place where public beatings took place. We had begun to fear, that it was indeed a punishment, or execution. When all had assembled, the commandant strode in, followed by his adjutant and translator.


7. Katia

I stood as close as possible to where the women stood, near the front, where I usually saw Kostia. She was there and let me know she had seen me. I looked for Renato, and he was there too, near the side of the women, with his Livia only a stone's throw away. Though we faced some new horror, his eyes smiled inside, as did Livia's. Their daughter Gemma was standing with the other children, but closest to her father. In such a fashion, they were together, apart but in their hearts they were hugging each other's souls. For human beings, for all life, love is as precious as food.

Shwarz was standing before the whole congregation of prisoners, his small whip in hand, looking important. Two Slavic guard women brought before him two children, a boy and a girl. Though there were many of us in the camp, there were not so many children that we did not recognize them immediately. They were working children, who worked on the adjacent farms, and standing there before us the two small children, perhaps no more than eleven or twelve, skinny, were Valia, a blond Russian girl, and Mottel, a curly red haired little Jew. They had been crying, we could see, and their faces were swollen with tears. In their thin coats they were trembling, as much from fear as from the cold. In the thin grey clouds overhead, they were two pathetic little urchins, innocent before the world of their crimes, and yet they were here, no doubt guilty in the eyes of the officers in charge. The charges were read out by the translator.

"The two children standing before you are evil children, who had stolen grain from the horses of the Reich!"
A bag of horse feed was brought before them and placed on the large wooden table that had been placed there, usually used for punishment so the beating of the culprits would afford us a better view. The bag was lifted up by one of the women guards and placed on the table. It was a small bag of horse feed, probably oats. The translator continued as he stood tall with self importance, watching us.
"These children will now be punished for the benefit of all of you, so that you will not make the mistake of stealing ever again. They had been told of the severity of their crime and accepted the whipping they are about to receive!"
Valia and Mottel stared wide eyed at us, not looking at anyone in particular, just staring, frightened and humbled, their hands twitching at their sides.
"And now the commandant will address you!"

No one of us moved, nor dared speak. It was always such a horrible time to face the Nazis when they administered punishment. One never knew if it would be mild or severe, a beating or a killing. Shwarz walked up to the children and made them face him. They turned, heads downcast, and stood forlorn, their thin backs bowed before the great power of the Reich. It was maddening, yet none dared think so.

"So, mein liebshun, you thought it was gut to steal food from the horses? So, the horses do not need to eat, ein? And you thought these horses are less than people, so it was right to take their food, ein? Well, you were wrong!"
When he pronounced that they were wrong, both children jumped involuntarily, their frail hungry bodies trembling visibly. They had learned enough German to understand.
"These are the horses of the Reich! They are working horses, horses that provide us with food for the great cause, for the war effort! In your stealing, you are attacking the Third Reich directly, as if you had killed one of our soldiers! Do you understand what this means?"
His voice was raised on his last pronouncement, emphasizing the severity of what he was saying.
"You must be punished for this," he added more quietly. "I will punish you with a whipping, because you are only children and probably did not understand. If you had been adults, I would have you killed, but you are children. And we are merciful with children. Now, get up on that table. Schnell!"

Both children turned and tried climbing up on the table, it being nearly as tall as them, for them chest high. Their weak bodies struggled, but a whipping from one of the women guards send them clambering up with their last reserve of strength until they were standing up before us, so that we all could see. Little Valia was crying again, sobbing uncontrollably, while Mottel stood quietly, eyes downcast. Behind them was the great grey sky looking down at them, the great blanket of cold that looked down on all of us standing there, the sky made by God that at this moment was as impassive as the great greyness that covered us all. With a light leap, the two women guards jumped up on the table next to them, whips at the ready, waiting from a signal from the commandant. Just then we heard crying from amidst the children standing at attention between us adults. It sounded like a girl crying. All heads turned slightly to see who it was. Our eyes collectively focussed on a small girl, not far from where stood Gemma. This froze the whole procedure, and the punishment signal was not given.

"What is the meaning of this?!" cried the commandant. "Who dares to upset the necessary punishment? Do you want to join them too?"
Shwarz was visibly moved by this crying, and his momentary vulnerability to feelings of pity made him even more angry.
"Get over here! You, over here!" He shouted at the crying girl.
The young girl stepped forward, and all immediately recognized her. She was the inseparable friend of Valia's, a little Ukrainian girl named Katia. She tried drying her tears with her small hands, and walked quickly towards the commandant, who towered over her.
"So, you think it is necessary to show tears for these children, ein?"
Little Katia was very frightened, shaking in her grey coat, when she looked up into his face and mustered the strength to speak loudly.
"It was I who stole the grain! It was me, and I cannot have them punished for me!"
A look of horror came over Shwarz's face, that such a blatant confession was being made by this small girl. Further, it also meant his detective work was in error, that he made a mistake, which looked bad for him.
"Are you sure it was you? Are you not just protecting your friends from punishment?"
The two women were looking down at Katia angrily, because they were being denied the pleasure of administering justice with their whips, for which they were ready. The other two children began crying again. The other guards and capo looked impassively at them.
"Yes. I stole that grain from the horse barn," she said pitifully. "There was no one around, and I took it back to the barracks where I hid it."
"So!" Shwarz pondered his pronouncement a moment, deciding how to handle this. "So, you will be punished instead of them?" This made Valia and Mottel look at him with hope in their eyes.
"Punish me. Beat me, for it was I!" Saying those brave words, Katia began crying again, but not as loudly as before, more softly, like it was a resignation of her soul that she must be filled with pain and humiliation, a force so great against her small body that she could not resist tears.
"Yes. You will be punished." Then to the two women guards, "Take the children down!"
With those words, the two women pushed Valia and Mottel off the table, with a strong enough force where both fell to the frozen ground on their faces. When they jumped down after them, both gave a whack of the whip on their backs to hurry them back to their places in the parade ground. Without looking back, both ran to where they were supposed to stand. Now all attention was focussed on Katia.

A cold wind had picked up, and all shuddered from this sudden chill. The commandant stood there in his warm coat looking at the forlorn child before him, still crying. He decided what to do.
"All right, child. I have a better punishment for you, since you confessed of your own free will. I will not have you whipped, but perhaps you will remember this punishment better than if I had. Get up on that table!"
Katia struggled up as did the other children, she being as small as they. A sharp whip from Shwarz urged her on, as he struck her on her behind, and she made it up. She swayed like a reed in the wind, up on that table, exposed for all to see. Next to her was the sack of grain. Her crying had ceased, as she awaited her punishment with courage, and resignation.
"Now, are you hungry?" Shwarz asked her with loud sarcasm.
Katia did not answer, but he asked her again, louder.
"Yes, my commandant."
"Then eat. Eat all the grain you want. Eat it now."
A collective gasp went up from all standing, for we knew that eating raw unchaffed grain would kill her. Little Katia began reaching down into the bag of grain and took a small handful, and right there before all our eyes, began putting it into her mouth, chewing.

As we watched in silence this small child eating the raw grain, we were alternately filled with mixed feelings of envy and horror. As our hunger envied the mouthfuls of food she was taking, our reason was revolted by the death she was administering to herself. The commandant felt the need to add commentary.
"Watch her eat, my fellow laborers" he added in German, dispensing with translation. This was a speech for those of us who understood, but mostly for his own satisfaction. "She is eating what the Reich has surrendered to her generously. The horses will have one less mouthful, but she will be filled with their bitter grain. She thought she could steal this to the barracks, and roast it on an open fire, warm oats to be consumed when no one was watching. But this will not be. She will eat it all here, before all of you, so you too will remember. Do not think me merciless in administering this punishment, for she will go to her death with a full belly. In her last moments she will not know hunger. This is how we separate the wheat from the chaff, to make you better workers for our glorious Fatherland."
Katia had now eaten several mouthfuls, swallowing with great difficulty, for she had no water with which to take down the grain. When gusts of wind pulled on her, where she was in danger of falling off the large table, she steadied herself by crouching down, to scoop another handful from the bag. No longer crying, in this macabre way satisfying her hunger, she was filling her stomach with a volume of food she had not had for a very long time, a food that was poison to her. This sad scene seemed interminable, watching this small child eating death before us, her mouth moving with each handful of indigestible grain. Then she stopped, seemingly unable to eat another bite.
"What is the matter child? Not hungry anymore?" Shwarz motioned to one of the guard women to jump up on the table, which she did. At another nod, she pulled back her whip to strike her when Katia collapsed before she could strike. This infuriated the woman, again denied her right to administer punishment, so she gruffly pulled her up again, to stand upright. Like a swaying reed in the wind, Katia stood vacant eyed, looking out over us into the distance, a sick feeling coming over her. And then she vomited, before all of us. Shwarz was livid.
"How dare you! Strike her hard!"
The woman guard hit her with obvious satisfaction, and then again. Katia vomited again, a dry vomit of hard grain which rasped at her throat. She cried out, and then retched again. Then she fainted and collapsed on the table. The guard woman hit her again, but it was to no avail. She was not coming to.
"Take her down and force water into her!" Then the commandant looked around at all of us. "See? This is what happens if you steal grain. Let it be a lesson for all of you."
He turned and dismissed his guards, who then shouted orders to the capo to dismiss us.

Katia's lifeless body was pushed off the table. I looked over to Kostia, who was looking into my eyes. We both had the look of horror in us. We then both immediately moved towards the front where was the table and in unison picked up Katia's little body. She had the weight of a bird. The other children, deeming it now safe to approach, gathered around us, watching silently with their hungry faces. Bits of grain were still clinging to Katia's mouth, and she was still alive. She tried opening her eyes, but retched again, sending a few more morsels of grain flying out of her mouth. None of the children laughed, as some children are apt to do in their ignorance, but understood the terrible thing they were witnessing. Kostia took her up in her arms, as the little body tried to speak, but no words came from her swollen mouth. The grain had torn at her insides, and small flecks of blood came up with the last grain. Then she passed out again. Valia came over and stroked her forehead with her little hand, and began crying again. They were best friends, we all knew.

"What shall we do, Giammai?"
"Let us take her to her barracks, where she can be laid down and covered. I will see Jan."
When I found Jan, we consulted on what was to be done for Katia.
"She is much damaged inside, from that rough grain, so we must be careful," was Jan's response. "I have a little fish oil, which I give to sick prisoners when they are too weak to work, and I will get it for you. Give her a small spoonful, and let it work into her stomach. Then, maybe she can have a little soup. She will throw up again, but that is good. She must get rid of the poison."
With that I followed him to where he kept the fish liver oil, in a small pantry of the kitchen, and I took it back with me to the children's barracks. I found Kostia there, along with Livia and Gemma, both looking over the still body of Katia lying with her face to one side. A blanket had been put over her, but she was having difficulty breathing.
"Here, give her a little of this oil, it will coat her stomach."
"Maybe it will ease out the rest of the grain," answered Livia.
"Yes, I think that if it does, it will save her."
We woke her by sitting her up, and turned her head to take the medicine. Her lips parted a little, her brown hair falling in ringlets around her face, and her brown eyes opened. She swallowed with great difficulty, and obvious pain. We then laid her down again. In a few minutes she began coughing and retching, with more grain coming up, this time oily.
"This is good," said Kostia. "We want that greasy grain all up."
Valia and Mottel were both at Katia's side now, her best friend holding her gently in her thin arms, the boy watching with a frown. It was not a frown of anger, rather one of puzzlement, trying to understand.
Within the hour, much had been coughed up, and we laid Katia down again to rest. Livia stood watch over her small body, while Gemma clung to her mother. The other prisoners of the barracks, children, all stood and watched over us, as if guarding a sacred light that had entered into their dismal darkness. It was now dark, somewhere a pistol shot rang out, and soup had been called.

Such was our day of rest, that Sunday afternoon and evening, which we were to remember and not forget that stealing is a bad thing, especially stealing from the great horses of the Third Reich. That these horses would be worked to death was never considered, and perhaps eaten when too weak to work, for they like us were expendable for the great cause. What farmer had not suffered at the sight of his horses being led away by soldiers, never to be seen again. Horses that were their friends, their helpers, and now slaves just like us. It was perhaps no worse than seeing your loved family members led away by soldiers, yet it too reminded us of how weak we were before this evil that had risen amongst us. We are the doomed, all of us, in a cauldron of fear and hunger. Our reward may be in heaven someday, or hell, but for now, it is only for us to suffer.

Renato found me later that evening in the men's barracks and asked about Katia.
"She is in the hands of those who care for her," I answered. "Your wife and daughter are amongst them, and have given her a little warm soup."
"Will she live?"
"She is a very strong little girl, though she does not appear as such when looking at her. For her to confess, so that her friends would not be punished, is a heroic deed. If God is just, she will live."

That night the commandant shot and killed the man with the broom, a needed sacrifice to their monstrous god. I tried writing something in my little book, but to no avail. No matter what I wrote, I had to smudge it out again. It started, "I am trying in understanding something I cannot understand...", but finally I abandoned it, resigned to whatever I thought would not put itself to paper.


8. The Plan

Work is always harder in the rain. Water is wet and cold. Our clothing gets soaked through, and our movements makes the water clink to our skin. Like steaming apparitions in the grey rain we worked until the wet cloth chaffed at our skin. The winter rain had been streaming steadily all day, not cold enough to snow, but just above freezing. When it snows, then our wooden shoes become heavy with ice, and we slip or fall. But now the rain only made the cold ground heavy with mud, and we slipped on that instead. Each frail body would quietly shiver inside its wet clothes, trying not to think of days gone by, sitting by a warm fire, in the company of friends, sipping warm tea, or walking to the theater in the snow protected by a thick warm coat and hat, feet inside warm boots. In our thin prison garb we were nearly naked before the elements, and such we had to work.

Katia recovered, and now was helping me in the kitchen at the officer's mess. Having survived the public ordeal of punishment, everyone in the camp had a sudden fondness for her, wanting to protect her. It was as if she suddenly found a very large family who loved her, though we were pathetic ourselves. What we could not give ourselves, we tried to give to her. Even cold hearted Svetlyana took to her, and it was my influence to transfer her from the fields to the kitchen. Shwarz scowled when he saw her, stared at her, but said nothing and let it be. Only days earlier he had taken out his frustrated anger on the innocent broken old man who swept the parade grounds. While walking back to his quarters, he saw the man pushing his broom in his usual slow painful moves. He walked up to him, pulled out his pistol, and shot the man in the heart on the spot. This was the shot that rang in the dark as we all were reviving the poor little girl who had been cruelly punished. His life taken so another could be spared. This is what Giammai told me, that all things must always balance out in life.

When I saw Giammai on his daily laundry pick up, I pulled him aside while we were alone.
"We have to do something about the children," I said to him urgently.
"Yes, more are coming in every day, along with the new transports."
"We know what happens when there is overcrowding at the camps. They take the extra to the killing camps, those not fit to work."
"Even those fit to work are killed." Giammai's eyes looked sad and pensive, but then lit up suddenly. "Why not start a school for them?"
"A school? But who has the time?"
"Some of the old people could make the time, if we can get them away from back breaking work."
"We all speak different languages here, how can they teach them?"
Giammai thought about that a moment, nodding that this is a serious obstacle to a school. All the time we were alert to sounds around us, footsteps, voices in the distance. But we were still alone.
"Then teach them to sing. We can all learn to sing in any language," he responded.
"Ah, yes! We can make it into entertainment for the soldiers, so there would be a pretext for why we are doing this!"
Giammai smiled one of his enigmatic smiles. Then he turned and left abruptly as voices were approaching us.

There was no time to waste on this new plan. The officers were again talking about Himmler's return, which meant that his entourage would soon need to be presented with the women selected, those denied them the last time. This put a cold fear in my heart, but I had no time to think of this now. I wanted to hold onto the new idea of a children's singing choir, one which would melt even the coldest hearts. Surely even the Nazi Aryans have a heart for children's voices raised in angelic songs. From what I could overhear, we had two weeks in which time we could display the children's accomplishments, when Herr Himmler was here. When I mentioned this to Svetlyana, she looked at Katia and said this would be a good idea, if she could convince the camp commandant. Giammai made inquiries amongst the men to see who had musical training, as I did with the women. We found one music school director, Alexander, a Jew from Berlin, two orchestra conductors, one from Italy and one from Leningrad, and a number of trained voices. Maria was an opera singer, also from Italy, and she said she would teach them to sing in Italian. Franz had a beautiful tenor voice, and he along with some men's bass voices would compliment the children. Suddenly, the camp was alive with a new hope, a new dream of hearing beautiful music and singing, which would lift us up from the daily drudgery and remind us once again that we are human beings.

We were called into the commandant's private quarters when the plan of a singing choir had spread through the camp. Our small group consisted of Svetlyana, Alexander, Maria, and myself, as we stood at attention waiting for the commandant to speak to us. Alexander was a small man, no more than forty but already prematurely grey, so he looked sixty. Maria was a fine featured woman, no doubt a beauty in her days, but now her skin looked yellow and thin. Yet when she spoke, it was like the sound of clear bells. Svetlyana was the biggest, a strong stolid woman, a survivor of Russia's glorious revolution. My hair had been cut, but not shorn out of respect, that I worked in the officer's mess. While we waited, a cold fear ran through all our hearts, that we would be denied, that the idea was dangerous and the children should be killed instead. Irrational fear is not abnormal here, since anything could happen without warning, especially cruel and merciless things. We all knew this from experience, so we stood nearly trembling with fear. When Shwarz entered, we were standing at our best, straight up, eyes front, chests out, like good soldiers of the Reich. We wanted to be good soldiers.

Shwarz addressed Alexander first.
"So, you want to teach the children to sing, ein?" Alexander stood stock still without moving a muscle, afraid to look the commandant in the eye. But I looked over to him, to see his face. It was not a hard face, such as I had seen many times before, but an almost friendly face. It was almost smiling. Alexander did not respond at first, but found the courage to speak.
"With your permission, my commandant, we would like the children to entertain the soldiers and guards of the camp, with your permission, Sir."
Shwarz straightened himself as if he was about to say something very important, as if the whole idea was his idea, that entertaining the troops was a good idea, his idea. I could tell from looking at his face that this was on his mind, though he had not said so. I prayed silently that I was right, that the children would be spared.
"Uh hmmm... so... so, the children make a choir?" He pondered this a moment, letting in all the ramifications of what this meant sink in, so there would be no mistake in his decision. We continued standing straight and still. He looked at each one of us individually, thinking. When he came to me, he said, "Mein fraulein, you like this idea?"
My breath came short, but I had to answer.
"Yes, my commandant. It would be good to let the children sing, for the troops."
I could see without looking at him that he was nodding to himself. That small dark man was filled with such self importance that each word he said had to be straight from his Aryan god, some living god giving speeches in Berlin, that each pronouncement he made was his pronouncement too, that there would be no mistakes here, like one nerve connecting them all together into one total organism. He turned around and walked away from us, leaving us confused, not knowing what to make of it. Just as he was about to leave the room, he turned to us.
"Very well. You will teach the children to sing, and make the choir a great success for our Reich. In ten days Herr Himmler will be here with news reporters from all over the Reichlands, even from other countries. So all will see how well we treat our laborers. You are dismissed." Then he turned away again, but looked back one more time. "Don't disappoint me, I warn you."

We had ten days! This filled us both with hope and fear. When Shwarz left the room, all four of us turned to each other, a smile on every face, a smile of disbelief. We dared not hug each other, for such show of affection was not suited here, but even Svetlyana had a smile, so we touched each others hands instead, not shaking hands, but just touching. That was allowed.

Within hours word got around camp and suddenly the place seemed alive with energy. The auditorium hall had not been used in a long time and needed sweeping, removing cobwebs, cleaning the windows of layers of grime. Everyone who could pitched in, after the evening meal, with a broom or mop or rags, or just their bare hands. Though they were tired from a long day at the factories, or the farms, they came to help. We only had ten days in which to get everything prepared, the children trained, and rehearsed, their clothes cleaned for a good presentation to the gentlemen of the press. They must see how desperate our situation is, even if we put on a good appearance for them. The officer in charge allowed us to use the laundry to clean their clothes, and we washed them over and over again, to get rid of the lice, their hair cut if not already shorn, and trimmed if shorn, so at least to look even. So much depended on this choir, though none of us knew what that was, except it had to be good. Some even dared to hope that word would get out into the world, and the camps shut down, out of shame.

Svetlyana wanted to know our menstruation schedule, so that nothing would go wrong this time. She would not be embarrassed by her commandant's Shatze again. Alexander and Maria hastily put together a program, enlisting the aid of others who knew music, to remember how it went, and the words. All had to be done from memory. Out of the goodness of his heart, or so he said, Shwarz let us borrow a victrola, one you cranked by hand, but all the music were marching songs. Except we found one which was Mozart's Don Giovanni, and another of a Shakespearean play set to music, in German, the Merchant of Venice. And then we found out there was a secret collection of popular songs, even American ones, but these were forbidden to us, so we had to work with what we had. And we did, for the children learned the words to Mozart's Italian opera easily, their clear heads absorbing the melodies with the same hunger they had in their bellies. Jan, the capo, managed to exchange with the infirmary a little more fish liver oil, which the children drank greedily, and within a couple of days their cheeks gained a healthful color. They became more cheerful, and stronger. For the men, those who would accompany the children, he found a small bottle of alcohol based cough tonic, so their coughs would not interfere with the singing. Noses were dried, sneezes suppressed, eyes and ears cleaned. We had begun to build a choir.

In the days that followed, our children could be heard singing in their barracks. This was an especially happy time for Livia and Renato, since they were both allowed evenings together to hear the choir practice, and though they could not show open affection, their happiness was well written on their faces as they sat together, sometimes hands touching. Gemma was part of the choir, though her voice was not strong, but she was encouraged to sing with the others. Valia and Katia were inseparable, which was good because both their voices carried sweetly together. In fact, Katia proved to have a beautiful voice, now what her throat was healing, and color coming back to her thin cheeks. Their little friend Mottel sang with the tenors. Deep bass voices brought in the support their higher voices needed. It was wonderful to hear them sing, mostly men from Russia and the Slavic nations, those who knew some Italian, for such singing was common there. Whoever could spare a small piece of bread would bring it, and it would be shared, a tiny morsel at a time. This was how practice went for the week that followed, and we all held our breath, for it all seemed impossible.

"Kostia", Giammai whispered to me while we were doing final rehearsals the day before the great day. Himmler and his group were arriving later that evening, and all had to be ready before curfew was called. So there was still much to do. We were allowed two great swastika flags, one for each side of the stage, and light was brought in so that they would not sit in the dark. This helped us, because it also lit the stage, though at an angle, so the children would not be singing in the dark.
"What is it?" I asked him, a certain dread coming up inside me, since by now I knew his voice, and by what timber it was good news or not. This was not good news. My mind raced ahead trying to understand what could go wrong now, now that we were so close.
"You know Boyko?"
"The Ukrainian war prisoner? All know of him, but I do not know him."
"Well, he is friendly with the Slavic prison guards, that's how he is able to trade with them to get vodka sometimes."
"He has a bad reputation amongst us in the camps," I answered.
"He a devil sly fellow, but he is useful sometimes, when you need something done."
"Yes, so I am told, for a price."
"That is what he overheard the guards talking about, that there will be an entry price."
"But how? Who has money?"
Giammai inclined his head, since the was sad news.
"The word from the guards is that they overheard German officers laughing, saying that it will cost three pfennig to attend the concert. They laughed that it would pay for the children's bones even before they were cremated..."
Shock began setting in, that they would kill the children anyway, maybe once they finished singing. I had to dismiss this horrible thought, or I would go crazy.
"They can't charge all of us money, we do not have any."
The Giammai let one of his wolfish grins, which I could see only half well, as it was already winter dark.
"I have a plan." I looked at him in disbelief, for how could such a plan possibly come together now, with only hours before the concert? "There is a pool of money we had collected over the past three years, to help those who will escape so they could buy food on the outside."
"People actually escape? I had heard they were all killed."
"Most are, but a few make it. The money we have is not much, but Boyko said he would allow us a loan, at high interest, if we could pay him back."
"How can we pay?"
Giammai again gave me his cunning grin.
"With bars of soap. Lots of them."
I finally breathed normally again.
"Oh, you are a gem, an angel."
He sat back, since we were both sitting on the floor of the auditorium, our backs against the wall.
"No, not a gem, a giammai." He smiled. "Did I ever tell you why I am called Giammai?"
"Because that was the name your mother picked for you?"
"Yes, in part, that is true. She wanted a girl, to be named Gemma, but got a boy, Jeremiah. But she said 'Giammai' , which is 'never' in her tongue... so the name stuck." He lit his face in a smile, as I did mine. "My mother was a headstrong woman, and my father knew better than to argue with her. He was happy to take his fishing pole to the Seine, or play his saxophone under the bridge."
"You are wrongly named, Giammai, for you are 'forever'. I would have called you 'Sempre'. Sempre Amore. I would have loved your father."
"I believe you would have." He touched my hand.

It was raining outside.


9. Arias from Heaven

The English were first to come. They always seemed to have money, which was collected at the entrance by one of the women guards. These English mostly kept to themselves, since they were all war prisoners, the same gaunt faces we had, but there was a pride in them. In their characteristic way, in either small groups of two or three, or individually, they spread themselves evenly amongst the seats provided for the audience. Then came the German prisoners, who always seemed to have something more, so that their three pfennigs worth was not a great sacrifice for them. Missing were the Slavic prisoners, of which there were many, and the Jews, who also suffered deep privation. I knew Giammai was gathering funds for them, which they would accept as a loan, though some could never pay it back. It did not matter. There were twenty children singing, and six adult men, but most wanted to see these, even if they themselves did not have children, or had children who died. The thirst for music, for something cultural and elevated, to break the back breaking monotony of camp life, was strong in them. I made last minute preparations, to make sure all was in place on the stage, and checked the victrola to see if the records we needed were there. All seemed in place, and slowly the audience filled. The first three rows, set separate from the other seats, were reserved for the SS and their guests.

The rehearsals, only nine days in length, already spread news that the voices were beautiful, and the singing angelic. Though it was cold, a large crowd had gathered outside, those without money hoping that somehow they might snatch morsels of music coming from inside. When Giammai came with the necessary pfennigs, their hands were out like so many sad beggars, hoping against hope they could gain admission, including a few children not singing who wanted to see them. I went over to him.
"How are you going to distribute the pfennigs?" I asked.
"There are so many, I do not have enough for all. I must choose only those who have either children performing, or those who have children who..."
He did not finish, but I knew he meant those who died. The children got the first coins. When he had done as much as he could, a only a few coins were left, he looked at me with despair.
"Give that to the Gypsy families."
He understood immediately, that these were the families whose children were being used in the medical experiments. Sometimes they would see their children, amidst much weeping for what had become of them. But more often, they would see them only for the last time. Their broken hearts may not mend with the sweet voices of the children, but they were the most deserving to hear them.

Then the SS men came in. A silenced hush fell over everyone when they strutted in, their sharp crisp grey uniforms emblazoned with the emblems of their Reich. They sat themselves in the two rows back from the stage. The first row was empty. The silence continued when Herr Himmler came in followed by the camp commandant, and these followed by a retinue of journalists. The top man of the SS and his commanding servant walked erect, eyes straight, when all the other SS men stood up as one, and most of the audience rose also, out of required respect. Some of the English remained sitting. The journalists did not have the military bearing, nor the hunched humility of the prisoners, but walked wide eyed and casually as civilians. Yet, in their eyes, there was awe, and pain. The Slavic guards remained outside.
When Himmler sat down in the first row, all sat down also, and we were ready to begin. But this would not be without first a short speech by their Herr leader, the usual about what a great camp we had here, a speech which he delivered from the stage. When he had finished, and all clapped and the SS rose, this was followed by the obligatory raised armed "Sig Heil", to which all responded, except the prisoners in the audience who remained seated quietly. Then it was Shwarz's turn to make a presentation. Under the bright lights on their Nazi flag, he walked up the three steps to the stage platform.

"This evening will be a special musical presentation by the children of the workers who labor here with duty and diligence for the great Reich. We all know these are difficult and trying times for us all, for war demands this of us. It is our sacrifice for the Fatherland. Our distinguished guest, and the journalists present, will not be disappointed by what these fine children have achieved. I have heard them sing. We are proud to have such talented and dedicated children in this model camp, which is a testimony of how well we treat them, and for which they are grateful. Please, enjoy the presentation."

He stepped down with obvious self satisfied importance and took his seat next to Himmler. The stunned silence following his words only punctuated how absurd was his speech, what an incomprehensible lie, since all knew how terrible conditions were at the camp, though for that brief moment, we actually believed it was a good camp. After he sat down, he and Himmler exchanged some words, at which both laughed. Then he nodded over to Alexander to signal he was ready. The bare bulbs hanging at the rear of the auditorium were extinguished, so only the lights on the flags lit the stage.

Alexander, or Sasha as he was known affectionately to us Russians, ushered the children up on the stage, all taking their appointed places. The small ones, like Valia and Katia, were to the front, with the taller children, like Mottel, were in the rear with the five adults. One male singer was to ill to attend. Maria stood by and when the children were all assembled, took her place as their choral conductor. The children looked clean and bright, eager to show off what they had learned in such a very short time, thanks to the arduous labors of Alexander and Maria. Franz, our tenor was standing to one side. And besides him was my post, where I was to work the victrola. From the stage, which was lit by the great lights shining on the flags of the Reich on either side of the stage, we could see over the crowd that had gathered for this musical recital, with quite a few of the prisoners standing at thedarkness of the rear, since there were not enough benches for all of them. All eyes, even those barely open from their tiredness, were faced forward on the stage, eager to hear the children sing. Renato and Livia were sitting together, a rare moment allowed, looking with love in their eyes at their young Gemma on stage. The children in the audience had bright smiles, seeing their friends up on stage.
I knew Shwarz was right, that they would not be disappointed.

Maria nodded to me, and I placed the victrola stylus on the spinning record. This was how our recital was to begin, with the opening bars of Mozart's overture to Don Giovanni. Quietly and then more loudly, the overture filled the hall with sounds that we almost never hear, the sound of music. It seemed as if all the lights suddenly turned bright again and lifted the usual grey gloom in which we lived, so that now there was light pouring over the audience. I knew that at her next nod, I was to raise the stylus with the mechanical lifter that held it suspended exactly over where, if lowered, it could pick up the music again without interruption. It was a fine German made model which worked with precision and of high sound quality. Maria nodded my way, and the music dissolved. In the next breath, as if it had only stopped to breathe, the air of the hall was once again filled with sound. It was the voices of the children singing an aria.

The selected arias were from the opera, the women's voices carried by the children, and the men sang the parts by the rogue Don Giovanni. One Russian male voice carried the bass. It was immediately beautiful, as if a full orchestra was playing along with them. But there was no orchestra, the victrola was silent, and all the beauty that flowed from them was only from their lips. It worked perfectly, the children knew the words in Italian as if they had spoken it naturally, and their little faces brightened visibly when they themselves realized how wonderful they were. The selections, choreographed by both Alexander and Maria, were largely from the first act, from the movements in the opera which were sung by ensembles. I had seen the opera once in Kiev, so knew something of how it looked, but here there were no props, only the voices to create the images of illusion in our minds. And at that moment, it was as if we were transported to the canals of Venice, with the blue waters shimmering in the evening light, peasants preparing for a wedding feast, a grand mansion their backdrop, so the stage was the most elegant edifice imagined. The women's voices were well modulated, mimicked by the high clear voices of children who learned how to sing in harmony under Maria's tutelage, the men becoming Don Giovanni. When that aria ended, another began with Katia's clear voice singing, I thought the part of Donna Anna, which gave us the illusion that she was Anna, and the other children were but orchestra in her support. From my spot, I could see the audience was moved, smiles slowly fixing themselves on their faces, even the faces of the Aryans. They were loving what they heard, and the love that flowed from the children was as pure as the musical notes which had come from Mozart's marvelous soul. That they had learned to do this in only nine days was truly a miracle.

When the second aria ended, in that moment of silence, I lowered the stylus back on the disk and the overture once again picked up where it had left off, which played for a couple of minutes, before Maria signaled me. She then turned and faced the audience. I watched her visible transformation from camp prisoner to diva, that moment when the gods enter a body and take possession of it. Her voice lifted and from her mouth came the most heavenly sound of love and pain and regret, of deception. She was singing the aria by Donna Anna upon the death of her father at Don Giovanni's sword. The newspaper men, and the English, sat with their mouths open as she became the grieving Donna. The Germans looked fixedly at her, trying to understand how this prisoner, a mere laborer in their eyes, could produce such pure beauty. The other prisoners had tears, for death was never far from them, and grieving, though they did not understand the words, they knew the emotional pain. It was something they were all too familiar with. Maria, the opera star, captured this to heart rending perfection, and tears formed in my eyes.

Then Franz stepped next to her and when her aria ended, his began. He sang the part of Mazetto, the tragic groom betrayed by his beloved Zerlina in the arms of Don Giovanni. There was no orchestral support for him, but his clear beautiful voice filled the voids as if his was the only natural sound allowed to mortals. In the stunned silence of the audience, the air vibrated with heaven's harmony, the aria of pain and defeat, of love and hope, all to end in heartless betrayal. Franz, a tenor, a Czek, sang this aria from the depth of his heart, a deep void into which none could enter, and yet which here was now bared before us, a genuine openness for all to see. Mazetto, as seen by Mozart, was a tragic man, in love and yet betrayed. Franz at that moment was Mazetto.
When his aria ended, Maria signaled to once again continue Mozart's overture. I carefully lowered the stylus and the audience finally shifted in their seats, as if their momentary paralysis was too much to bear, the burden too great of not moving a muscle while they listened transfixed. And when the stylus went up again. I could hear the children, as if angelic professional singers, take in air to begin the next two short arias.

By the bright lights on the Nazi flags I watched Himmler's face look up tragically at the singing chorus, himself moved to imagining being at a fine opera house in Berlin. Shwarz showed an uncharacteristic sadness, as if remembering some long time ago when he was a fine human being, but now was cast into the hell he himself had created, for his Fuhrer. What did such men think at times like these, when their humanity surfaced once again? Could it last? Could their hearts really soften, or is it all in vain, and the gloom of our greyness will reassert itself as soon as the sounds of beauty are forgotten? As the children sang, they were now the three masked women who came to torment Don Giovanni, themselves having been betrayed, with the men alternately singing Giovanni's or his accomplice Mazetto.
I like Mozart, his music, but am not so fond of his librettos, since he seems to have a rather poor image of women.
It started to snow outside, so the sounds from inside the hall were carried over the crisp white blanket beyond the windows, lost in the silence of the snow flakes falling to the ground. We could see, from the stage the faces of the prisoners pressed against the glass panes, looking into the light inside, catching glimpses of the children's faces, and snatching what small sounds of their voices made it outside. Their prisoner's caps were getting covered with snow, but they preferred standing where they were to the cold barracks, for here was a human warmth which they did not have inside the grim, dreary multi leveled platforms on which they rested their tired bodies. Here, in the small circle of light around the stage, was a warmth more comforting than the finest linens in a hearth lit home. Here was life, and love, and the heavenly voices of children who captured the soul of the Creator. Their voices were alive.

The overture played for another minute when silence returned, and then Katia stepped to the front facing the audience. Her little frame took a deep breath, and she closed her eyes, her body trembled from cold, then steadied as I lifted the stylus. I looked out into the audience and by the faint glow of distant light I saw Giammai standing at the back, an easy face to find because of his darker color. From far away I could see his moist eyes looking at her. He loved that little girl, as did so many of us, that little girl Shwarz punished for stealing grain from the horse trough. As she stood there, her head erect and ready, we all felt the joy and pain of her being there. And then she sang, a solo, alone.
It was the part of Zerlina, in Italian, which she did not know, but it was flawless, as if her fine mind had miraculously memorized the words to perfection, and with the words all the nuances of what those words meant. She sang of begging for forgiveness, of accepting Mazetto's wrath with her, of even accepting being beaten. How strange that Alexander and Maria should have chosen this aria for her, and yet she sang it so genuinely, that it was the perfect choice. Did she understand what she was singing? Did Maria explain it to her? Perhaps she did, and this is why Katia sang it with such conviction, such true emotion, because it was her. It was her who could not betray her friends into punishment, she who loved Valia and could not bear to see her beaten. Valia was in the chorus with the other children, but they were silent at this moment. This was the moment for Katia, for the little girl whose true soul showed in her courage, was now in her voice singing beautifully the regret and love she felt while confused by deceit. Hers was a deceit of forced captivity, of being made to live this cold life behind barbed wire, while Aryan children played in their warm homes with their toys, or went to school with their friends, bringing presents to their teachers. In her voice was not defeat, however, not the voice of a child deprived of life and love, but rather a voice of victory, of rising above this gloomy reality of camp life. Her thin famished face glowed rosy, her eyes half closed in the manner of a person in trance, and from her lungs and lips flowed melody trained not in hours and years of practice, but from deep inside her heart from toil and sadness. She was alive, not a little girl, but a living woman, not a destroyer but a bringer of life, and in this was her victory.

It was a dangerous thought, and I immediately dismissed it, that in being alive and victorious in living, we were challenging the authorities of the camp. I quickly involuntarily looked over to Himmler and Shwarz, but realized what I was feeling was only inside myself, for they showed no expression of it, merely listening to the singing. The other SS officers sat quietly also, watching and listening, though perhaps some of them might have been better enjoying a beer hall to this opera. But they were well trained in discipline and, being in the company of their boss, they fained interest even if it was not so, for they feared authority more than their own boredom. Yet, somehow this music was instilling something into their souls, something they have long forgotten, something that is taken away from a human being who has faced death daily, or caused others to die. The soldiers, unlike the prisoners, were the force here, while the prisoners drank in every drop of life coming from the stage they could. For them, this music, these angelic voices, were survival itself, a reassertion of their soul that had been taken away from them. Little Katia, with all the others, was giving them their lives back. God was not absent from this hall, but rather was the force that would bring them victory over death. Giammai had said that to me once, that God is the force of Life no one can take away from us, even as they kill us.

Two more arias followed, closing with the one where the chorus, now sung by all the children, sang "ti lascio, o cara, addio", it was as if Mozart's soul was in the great hall with us. But not just Mozart, but also God, and all the living souls who had died for eons, they were here too. The audience was visibly moved, for the prisoners faces showed tears glistening in the light reflected from the Nazi flags. Even Himmler's face showed emotion. When the last aria ended, for this aria as had been arranged was sung with the full support of orchestral music from the victrola, the momentary silence that followed exploded with applause from every hand in the audience. Even outside, I could see out there in the snow, people were clapping. The English prisoners were the first to stand up, followed by all the others, as they stood up and applauded, even the SS stood up, such was the great reward of love from the audience for the singers. It was all done with human voice, supported only little by music, for this music came from the human soul. No one present missed that, as the children were bowing to the audience, for all were now standing in loud approval of what they had heard.
"Bravo!" and "Encore!" was voiced over and over again. But the children were not prepared for another aria, so there was a dilemma, since no one expected this demand. Yet, here it was, and something had to be done.
Maria and Alexander, our Sasha, now consulted after the bows. They came over to me and asked what should be done.
"I know the children had sung, on their own, Borodin's Prince Igor, the March of the Slavs. Maybe they can sing it now?"
Alexander's eyes brightened even more, since all eyes on stage were bright with their success. He knew the children sang this, for reasons unknown, but they liked it, so he had taught them the words in German rather than Russian, for fear this song might otherwise offend the Aryans.
"Good idea! I will guide them with my lips, incase they forget the words. I will go and tell them now, so they can prepare themselves."

Sasha took command of the stage, and when satisfied all eyes were on him, conducted with his hands the March. The bright eager faces flush with excitement raised their voices and fulfilled the promise of an encore. All the prisoners, especially those Slavic, immediately realized what was being sung, and stood up on their feet, and though the words sung were German, they who knew it embraced it with Russian, and began singing along. This lasted a minute or two, going extremely well, but the SS Aryans began to feel uncomfortable, for now they understood what was happening. In a moment, Herr Himmler stood up, looking around, and Shwarz likewise jumped to his feet.
"Halt!" he shouted.
Alexander shrank visibly, as any prisoner would at this terrible word, and I did likewise, unsure of what was happening. The children stopped singing, and the prisoners's voices died out as well. Something had gone terribly wrong. Himmler was about to walk out, when Shwarz put his hand on his arm and nodded that it was better to let him handle it. Herr SS boss sat down, and the commandant called Alexander, a German Jew, down from the stage.


10. For the Fatherland

The prisoners had made a mistake, for they forgot where they were, and in their joy had forgotten that theirs was not freedom but servitude to the Reich. In singing the Slavic March they had voiced resistance, not overt physical resistance, but a resistance of their soul to their captivity. This was what so angered the SS, and it was for this the commandant called the singing to a stop. He had to stop it, or it would have appeared that he too endorsed the Russians advance on Germany, since the war was already not going well for the Fatherland, and the battle for Leningrad had now gone wrong. Alexander, the talented but humble music conductor jumped down from the stage and stood meekly before the commandant and Himmler, expecting a beating. None came. The press corps was there to witness everything, and a public beating before them would have looked bad. So instead Shwarz said in a calm voice that the encore was inappropriate, and a more suitable one should be sung instead. Then he did something truly unexpected, Sasha being a Jew, he shook his hand and commanded him on the fine performance, though it was Maria who had done most of the work. That did not matter, for here was a public display of approval that suddenly changed the mood from pure fear to hope once again. Alexander jumped back up on the stage, smiling, and faced his singers.

"Please, my children, we need to sing something that will make the Germans happy." He stood there at a loss, not knowing what else to do. I thought they might once again sing one of their beautiful arias, which made the Aryans so happy, since they were composed by, in their minds, one of their own. But it was not what was to be, for little Katia broke away from the others and came to the fore. And there, in her clear high voice, began singing in German the national anthem. Immediately, Sasha raised his hands and began directing, so all were now singing the national anthem as best they could.

This had an electrifying effect, and I could see Kostia looking relieved at this sudden turn of events, for it was good. Not that anyone wanted to sing that hated song, but now the Germans had no reason to complain, and all the children joined in.
Katia was presently joined by her friend Valia, her sweet thin face ringed by golden hair raised in song, so they both stood together, while Mottel stayed behind with the men. Incredible to believe, their singing went rather well. How they learned a German song on their own is beyond my understanding, and now the Germans stood up to sing, even the German prisoners were singing. The other prisoners rose too, but remained silent. The English prisoners also rose, not to sing, not out of respect for the hated Fatherland, we all knew this, even the Germans knew, but out of respect for the children. And the Jews and Gypsies, men and women stood up, even they did it for the children.
The faces that had been glued to the frozen windows through the whole performance were now melting away one by one, leaving behind only the drippings from the snow. They too were leaving, out of respect, for the beauty of the performance was now tarnished by this odious song. But the Germans sang resonantly with bravado, even as their lauded Reich was slowly caving in throughout their new empire. We also knew this, though none dared say it out loud. It was near the beginning of a new year, and with it would come the beginning of the end of the great Fatherland. Not all at the camps knew this, but I knew it, because I had been told by the English officer in charge.

When the song ended, the Germans were shouting "Bravo!" while all the others stood mute. Even the journalists were mute. Herr Himmler stood up and signaled the end of the evening. Without a word, he turned and began walking out of the hall, followed by his SS soldiers. A couple of the journalists wanted to interview Alexander and Maria, and Franz, and had taken steps towards them, when a stern word from Shwarz made them turn back. But the children did not notice any of this and were busy congratulating each other on the stage, even giving each other kisses and touching hands over how well went their performance, so that those who stood in the audience and watched them could not help but shed a joyful tear. All were so starved for real affection. These were their children, collectively, even if their own were already dead. And it was in their joy they shared, for their own children, that their eyes teared. The end of the presentation of Mozart's Don Giovanni was a loud tumultuous ending, a happy and sad occasion, for none knew when they would be called again to make such beauty together. And for a brief moment, evil had gone back into itself, into hell. As the last prisoners left the hall, to step out into the snow filled darkness outside, as the children were being led outside by Maria, Kostia came over to me.

"What do we do now, Giammai? I may be called at any moment to present myself to Himmler, to whom I am promised."
She shuddered as she said this, her eyes wide with fear.
"We can't use the old ruse, can we?" I tried a smile to console her, but she was truly afraid, if not disgusted. "The press corps is here. Maybe this time it will be different. I think you are safe."
"They are civilians, and they are powerless," she responded despondent.
"They are the eyes and ears of the Reich, and I do not believe what our commandant arranged here with his so called 'treasures' is what the Aryans would like to have get out. I will listen and see if it is otherwise, and if it is, I may have a plan."
"How could you help?" Kostia truly was tormented. Himmler put a cold fear in her heart.
"I know something of Svetlyana no one else knows."

In fact, early the next morning, the whole party of journalists, Himmler included, departed out the gate in a noisy motorcade, to head down to Berlin, no more than a two or three hours away, which is vexing, since he could return whenever he wished. But Kostia was safe, for now. There must be a way to save her from prostitution against her will, but this will have to be dealt with later. At present another more important issue was at hand. The train convoys were beginning to arrive with greater regularity, bringing their distressing cargo of doomed human beings. They were emptying the ghettos of Eastern Europe, or so told me Jan, and now more Jewish families were arriving. Some of them were rerouted directly to the death camps. For them there was no hope. But those who landed here, families with children, had to be saved somehow from this tragic persecution by the new evil, the new Reich. Amongst them could be great future minds, or artists, or perhaps even future opera stars and ballerinas. When little Katia sang her aria solo, it broke my heart to think that she had been almost lost. Such a beautiful little soul, and so mistreated by the devils who had the power to take lives at will. Kostia was right. There had to be a way to save the children. Maybe we adults were doomed, but the children had to be saved, even if we must die to do so.

Christmas came and went, with only a half day off. There was not celebration, no lights or tree, no garlands to remind us of the birth of He who has said that it was a commandment from God to love one another. This was not even thought of, as we huddled miserably trying to keep warm. The food was the same, no Christmas dinner. Some found ways to give little gifts to each other, a piece of string tied around a crudely wrapped satchel. Often, all it contained was a small piece of bread. What could we give each other? We had nothing.
It was the same for the new year, except the commandant thought it glorious to announce the new year with marshal music from the Third Reich. So we were tortured with listening to their grotesque celebration of past victories. For us, they sounded more and more like hollow victories, more like defeats, from what we heard of how the war went. In the beginning, when I first arrived here, the prisoners were mostly young men and women, rounded up in the East, or West, who had in some manner fallen afoul of the Nazi authorities. Many were Germans, for having in some way offended their great leader, or sympathizers of communist and socialist ideals, many were intellectuals. Kostia tells me it was the same in the Eastern countries, where the German army was first made welcome as liberators from Father Stalin's oppressive system. They came from Russian occupied Ukraine, or Poland, or Czechs, or Slovaks, or Latvians. The first soldiers to come into these lands were light handed, often university students put into uniform, so not so vindictive. Their lighting fast blitzkriegs were testimony to their intelligence, good equipment, and the skills of their officers. But their successors, the occupiers, were of a different cut. These were criminals, men who relished in slaughter and punishment, that which they themselves have had all their lives. Now they would pass it on to those who were conquered, the undermensch, the less than human, while it was them in their actions who proved to be just that. To torment the local population, to watch them suffer, to hang and kill innocent young boys because the men were not there to catch punishment, this was their specialty. And mercy, to love one another, or even basic legal rights as a human being, those were simply not part of any equation. To any civilized people, what the occupiers did to the conquered lands was unconscionable.

This was the world from which now came the new arrivals. But these were not merely young men and women conscripted into hard labor. These were whole families brought over, sometimes together, sometimes broken up at the origin of transport, so none knew where the other family members were. These were a tragic people, and though they began shipping like cattle mostly Jews, many non-Jews were amongst them too. Of course all these too were conscripted to labor, but it was of a different make. While we earlier prisoners were in some mentally twisted way actually valued for our labor, so were more or less kept alive, these new arrivals were to be exploited to the maximum benefit of the Nazi machine without any regard for their welfare. No doubt some brilliant theoreticians in Berlin calculated how many could be packed into each camp, and from their ill treatment how many would survive, and thus since few would expectedly survive, it was reasonable to pack as many into the camps as possible. To use them. Then kill them. This was their highly intelligent solution to their Fuhrer's program. And no doubt, those whose works were thus published received accolades, feted at lavish parties, spoken of highly, well rewarded. And this was the most twisted thing of these Aryan devils, that they rewarded a system which saw human beings, real live thinking hoping dreaming loving human beings, as merely numbers to be exploited and discarded as quickly as possible. This, the great minds reasoned, was the way to start the new year, to rid themselves of the pestilence of people who did not fit the mold they had created for their great Fatherland. And all who fell into this destructive cauldron of pain and death were the inevitably hapless victims of these demented minds, those who had the guns, the SS criminals, who had so physically dehumanized their prisoners that they felt absolutely no pity for them. To kill one was no more of discomfort than slaughtering a barnyard animal. No, it was more satisfying than killing for food. This was killing for its own sake.

But the great Nazi machine was not consistent in its brilliant machinations. Oh yes, they immediately shipped those who were of no use to them, the old, the sick and weak, the very young, right to the sister death camps. What good were four year old children in the factories, or farms? Only more mouths to feed, and there was scarce little food already, to become scarcer as the new year dawned. No, the unnecessary human cargo was disposed of as quickly and efficiently as possible. Even the prisoners of war, mostly Russians and Ukrainians from the Soviet Army, were also executed upon arrival, if they had been lucky enough not to be executed when captured at the front. More mouths to feed, for what? Only to make them strong enough to rebel, to foment communist ideas? Of course they had to be eliminated. But the machine sometimes failed, and some survived, worked like the rest of us, or just forgotten who they were, methodically numbered, and then anonymously worked to death. The Aryans kept meticulous records of everything, and yet somehow those records meant nothing. Some would live and some would die, with no apparent logic. It was no better for the others brought here, captured partisans from many countries, all those who wanted to rid their land of this evil machine that had suddenly turned their world upside down. If the machine had not killed them immediately, then they too would be used temporarily, ground up, and then destroyed. This was the land the new arrivals from the Jewish ghettos of the occupied territories were suddenly thrown into, with the promise made to all of us, that if you worked hard you would be taken care of. It was all a lie.

As I sat by a small fire on a Sunday afternoon, it was then I met Yacob.
"Would you mind if I sit by you, sir, to warm myself a little?"
Yacob was a very small man, who somehow sifted through the grinding gears of the great machine and lived this long.
"No, please, sit." I gave him my name, which he had to repeat a couple times. "I had not seen you in the camp before."
He looked at me with his pitiful brown eyes, his hair shorn off badly at the scalp, so raw cuts still showed.
"I came from Krakow," he said hesitantly, as if remembering something forgotten, "with my family."
"Your family is here at the camp?" I felt this was a good fortune for him.
"I do not know. We were separated upon arrival, when they were taking the corpses off our wagon, she was led away. I have not seen her since."
"Was she healthy? Good looking? How old are your children?"
His eyes looked over into mine with that deep pity of a man who already knows, but cannot accept what he knows, so lives with a tiny flame of hope.
"My youngest is two, and the older boy is five."
"Ah..." I could not continue. I knew what this meant. This poor little man, who I later learned was a tailor, had no family. After a long silence, we looking into the small flames which barely gave off any hope of heat, he spoke again.
"You are a dark man. A Negro? I had never seen one before."
I nodded, half smiling to myself, that I am a Negro, still alive, a dark skinned man in this world of white skinned Aryan monsters. That too was a mystery.
"My mother was not Negro, so I am of mixed blood," I answered him without purpose. "I am the Moor." He looked at me puzzled. "Do you know Othello?" He shook his head and continued looking at me. After a long silence, we both staring into the small flame, he asked.
"Is it true they are going to gas us? I mean, those who are Jews?"
Again his sad eyes looked over at me, testing my eyes for some inner honesty, to see if I could reply to what he was asking.
"There is talk, Yacob, there is only talk."
"But do you believe it?"
"A crematorium was built, because there is no more room to bury the dead."

That night I wrote into my little book, as I looked out into the cold night sky full of stars. "Where is the God of the Jews? Where is the love of Jesus? Where is the compassion of Mohammed's Allah? Where is the beautiful eloquence of Shakespeare, or the music of Mozart?"

There was no answer.


11. Crematorium

Commandant Shwarz addressed us Sunday, after we had all gathered for roll call after our morning labors. On this overcast cold afternoon, while most of us would have been better off catching up on much needed rest, we were instead kept standing an extra hour while he prepared himself to deliver to us what was presented as very important news.
When he was ready, Shwarz stepped up to the punishment table and with the help of a stool, climbed atop so all could see him. He stretched himself his full length and, with the usual translator at his side, delivered his speech.

"Fellow laborers! You no doubt have noticed our camp had become more crowded. This cannot be helped, since we must obey the directives from our Fuhrer to root out the undesirables from the great society of the Third Reich. This does not mean that you, my fellow laborers, are such vermin, only that we have no other place for them at the present. They will be kept separate as much as physically possible from you, and do not be encouraged to befriend them. These Jews, Communists, homosexuals, Gypsies, are not the same as you who are prisoners of war, or qualified laborers for the Reich. By next month, we will commence construction of our crematorium, because the one at our sister camp is running full capacity. I do not want you to think this is a negative thing, but rather that it is a positive. As you know, there had been many deaths at our camps because of illness, and this is a regrettable fact of life. The crematoriums will offer the families of these who unfortunately died the ability to reclaim their ashes, so they can be handled for proper burial. I will ask for volunteers who will assist us in establishing this crematorium, and for those who volunteer, I will make every effort to ease their burden of work demanded, and to offer whatever extra food I can muster for them."

This last sentence really sent a ripple of shock and awe amongst all the prisoners, for it was important news indeed. Food. But all of us who had survived this long knew this would mean more killings were immanent. Jan, who stood next to me, said "This is bad news."
Almost from that afternoon the camp separated into two camps, one of those who saw themselves as laborers and the other those who knew they were vermin. The latter was becoming an increasingly larger group. There was also another division, between those who were hopeful for more food and better working conditions, a majority, and those who like Jan and myself knew this was indeed bad news. We were a distinct minority. What we understood, those of us who were the veterans of this miserable life, was that the killings would now intensify. What surprised us, however, was that no gas chambers were to be built, which was a puzzle. How were they to kill so many for the new crematorium?
Disease had taken its toll, and by springtime, many had succumbed again to a new outbreak of typhus, along with other horrible diseases. The burial ground was full, so corpses were beginning to pile up by the wall that separated the compound from the world outside. Some of us joked grimly that if the bodies got high enough, we could use them as step ladders to get over the top. It was not uncommon to hear pistol shots as the SS soldiers executed prisoners too weak to work. Nor was it uncommon to know someone who had just been clubbed to death by one of the Slav guards, since this was their way to carry out their duty without actual weapons at their disposal, except for the sentries who would relish the thought of target practice on any hapless prisoners who had it in mind to escape. So even if we used the new step ladders of dead bodies, we would be mowed down once we reached the fence.

We quickly rounded up the needed men, and women, to start construction. Many were called to carry bricks or mix concrete. I was assigned to the metal works, since I already had experience in this, and the same was assigned to my friend Renato. We both sought out Yacob to help us with this, for which he was grateful, for it meant a better condition for him, though he was distinctly one of the undesirables. But we never talked about this. Instead, he kept making an effort to find news from his wife and children, but there never was any. Some told him they had been sent to another camp and would be reunited after the war. This was a strong hope in him, though most of us knew it was a hopeless hope. I liked Yacob, because he was a small unassuming man, almost childlike, a man who would not have ever harmed anyone. And yet, in this mad world, he was considered a dangerous threat to the great Aryan nation envisioned by the twisted minds in Berlin. This was also the time when the commandant called me into his private chambers.

"Why do you think I called you in here, Schwarznegger? Hmm..?"
I stood stock still, straight up, eyes front, trying not to faint from fear, for in my mind I was sure this was a prelude to some terrible punishment, or death. Being called a blacknigger seemed nothing to me next to their terrible punishments. I did not answer.
"I have been watching you. You are well liked by the men, and you seem to know your way around. How long have you been with us? Hmm..? About three years or more? I can look up the records, but that is not important. What I want you to do is to keep an eye on everything that is happening around you, and to report to me. I assure you this will make your stay with us more enjoyable. There will be special little prizes for you for the information you bring us. And..." He paused here while I struggled with my fear. "And, I will appoint you capo. So now, when you return to work, you will be capo of the men who had been assigned to the duties you had been carrying out. And this means that you have the right to punish any who do not do their work as demanded.... and it also means that you will be punished if they are not." Shwarz gave me a kind but severe look. "Understand?"
"Yes, my commandant!" I answered too quickly, trying to get away from his poisonous presence in my mind.
"That is good. Once a week, you will report to me personally. But if there is cause, then my door is open and you may come and report as needed. That is all."

At my first opportunity, I sought out Kostia. She had just been reprimanded by her capo for spending too much time in the children's barracks, and was told that it was not her business to attend to their needs. Her business was to attend to the needs of the SS officers whom she was appointed to serve. She was still flushed.
"They're going to kill us!" were the first words out of her mouth.
"No, they are going to kill them, not us. We are the damned who are destined to witness their deaths. Has anyone told you otherwise?"
"No..." she shook her head sadly. "I am afraid for the children. They are so small, so defenseless. All the women are so afraid."
"I know, but we bought time." I thought of how I could cheer her up a little, seeing how depressed she was. I knew depression taken to its limit was death. "I think the children are safe for now. Jan and I have worked out a plan to hide them if it should come to that."
"Oh, you angel. You always think of everything."
"No, I wish it were so. But we do what we can, those of us who still have our soul, to protect the innocent. But my news is more serious."
"How?" She seemed like a lovely little girl when she asked this. Her blue eyes looked at me wonderingly, a flame of hope lit up behind them, a moment when the soul can breathe and be itself, though what I was about to tell her would no doubt dash it again, as all things here always do.
"I cannot tell you yet, since the plan had not yet been put into action. But my vexing news is that I had been appointed capo of my men."
"Is that not good news? You should be proud."
"Oh, Kostia, you are innocent. No, I am not proud, for with the assignment comes a horrible obligation, which if I carry out as expected, I will be as monstrous as them."
She understood, and we talked some more, but then I had to leave, since there was more demand on my time now.

Springtime is usually a time of renewal, of rebirth and flowers, or gardens showing their first green shoots promising a fine harvest. At the camps, however, springtime was merely an uninterrupted misery, though the weather had turned warmer. But the great machine of Aryan horror continued on its grinding path, taking down souls with it, mercilessly fed by their cries for help, or mercy. That we were completing the work on the new crematorium merely accentuated these cries, for next to the crematorium, unannounced, was going up a separate building. Those of us who had the regrettable privilege of seeing it, and there were very few who were allowed into it, we knew what it was. They were building us a large gas chamber.
Though I was still technically employed in the laundry, which meant I was also overseeing the very high pace of activity there, since there were many prisoner garments to wash now and disinfect. These were not the garments to be returned to the prisoners from whom they were taken. These instead were the garments of those who had been sent off to the other camp, to their death. Now these garments were being processed for the Fatherland, so that they could be recycled efficiently there for the Aryan families. But these duties, which now increased due to the increased volume of transports coming in, were being passed on to others, since my new duties took my time at the building of the new crematorium.

It seemed they were very actively cleaning out the Jewish ghettos of the occupied countries. This was a horrific thing, since the families arriving were mostly unsuspecting of what lay ahead for them. The came well dressed, with courteous manners of real people, sometimes even offering to help as they were getting of the transports. My duties, along with the others, as were now also Kostia's and Renato's, were to help the families get off the trains. From the West, their trains were often quite comfortable, normal trains. From the East, they were the wagons used to transport animals, and most often this was also the miserable condition of the human beings who arrived. Nearly all had the star of David sewn to their coats, coats which they were allowed to keep. All other possessions were confiscated upon arrival, whether from the East or West. Our jobs were to make these families feel welcome, as best we could, though we too looked as miserable if not more than the new arrivals. But now there were so many of them, that it was difficult to process such volume of human beings with needs, hopes, fears. Hopes and needs were met by us not at all, while fears were soon realized as families were split off into different groups, so that often this was the last time they will ever see each other. What had been a large labor camp with hundreds of prisoners per section was now become an extremely overcrowded camp with thousands per section. Into this cesspool of humanity more and more innocent victims arrived, as the great Aryan machine swept itself of its detritus of human beings. This was the world which the commandant had suddenly plunged me into, for now I had to spy on them, and report them so they could be more efficiently killed.

"Food is getting scarce," Jan said to me one evening as we sat together before curfew.
"They have so many mouths to feed, that it goes beyond reason why so many are being sent here," I answered.
"We were a labor camp before, not good, very bad for everyone. Now it is getting worse."
"And now they are building us a crematorium."
"To process more bodies. And there is the newly built gas chambers, though they are never called that."
"They call them showers."
We both gave off a short laugh. As veterans of this miserably pig sty we were hardened to camp life reality, the perpetual exhaustion, the hunger, that we had accepted it as normal. But now that too was going to change, and for the worse.
"What do they hope to achieve?" I asked, already knowing the answer.
"Death. They want to kill as many as is humanly possible."
"If they lose this war, there will be hell to pay."
"They know that," answered Jan. "And they will kill all witnesses."
This sent a shudder through both of us, since we were working on the camp's main secret, and so our lives were not to be spared.
"We can't escape this, for if we do, many will be killed in our place."
"They will die anyway," was Jan's cold logic.
We sat there thinking, the evenings were getting warm again, as spring had brought us a hint of summer. Not the kind of spring that makes your heart glad. Rather, it was the kind of spring that was grey and cheerless, merely less cold. We had finished our thin meal of turnip gruel and dark bread, and now were doing nothing in particular. When suddenly Yacob burst in.

"They are taking women to visit the new showers," he said, visibly shaken.
"Already?" I could not believe they were going to use those places this soon. They were only partly finished. "Children too?"
"Yes. And old men or women, they will going to the baths also."
"Yacob," interjected Jan, "do you think they really need a shower?"
He shrugged, not understanding why Jan was saying this.
"They are not showers, Yacob," I added, hoping to break the news to him gently. "They are the necessary prerequisite for the furnaces. Their bodies will be burned there."
A look of pure horror came over Yacob's face, then he sat down next to us, his face in his hands.
"They don't know?" Tears were welling up in his eyes.
"No, they don't know. We must do whatever we can to keep you, and ourselves, from going in to those showers. Especially the children."
"Which children are being taken?" Jan wanted to know.
"The new arrivals."

We were two capos powerless in the face of pure evil. Neither of us wanted to do what was being demanded of us to do to our fellow prisoners. We had to report misdeeds, so that the culling can begin to take place to fill the new furnaces. Neither Jan nor I had reported anyone, and this was a great danger to ourselves. But our work on the furnaces and the killing showers was done, apparently, and now we were no longer needed. To stay in our appointed post, which meant to not join the others in the showers, we needed a strategy.

"Yacob, anyone planning an escape?" I asked.
"It is know around the camps that the English and some of the French, a man called Alain, are planning escapes."
Jan and I looked at each other.
"What of the Russian soldiers, the prisoners of war?" Jan asked.
Yacob shook his head to show he did not know.
"Okay, here is what we will do." Jan brought us closer into a huddle. "We will keep the Germans informed that there may be an escape being planned, but we still do not have names. This will keep them interested, but not incriminate anybody."
"Then we can work to keep them from escaping, so that the plan can be worked for a long time," Yacob figured quickly.
"That is a good plan, to keep the Germans guessing, needing our information, but at the same time telling the English that their scheme was discovered, so they need to be more secretive."
"Ach! That is good!" Yacob clapped his hands together. "Then the English and Germans will be watching each other, and take their minds off of us."
"Were it so," I answered. "The Germans will still be after us, they have quotas to fill. If only this war would end."
"They are bringing more Ukrainian guards, because they hate the Jews."
"No they don't, anymore than others hate them. It is irrational, I know, but they are being taught to hate by their Nazi masters."
"Why the Jews?" Yacob's voice was plaintive. We only shrugged.
"We need to look out for each other," added Jan.

Then curfew was announced and all had to return to their sleeping barracks. When I got back to mine, it was already full from floor to ceiling, though a narrow spot on my bunk was left open for me. Their tired eyes looked at me as I entered, I an important capo whom they either looked up to or feared. Being a black man made that even more sinister for some of these white faces looking at me, too tired to move, too beaten to care. On those faces were written the harsh reality of what was already happening to this camp. I wanted to smash all their faces with the star of David, to put them out of their agony. But they only wanted to sleep, to live another day. Renato next to me was already asleep.

That night I wrote in my little book. "We live in a state of perpetual controlled fear. This fear weaves its way through every fiber of our lives. We act within it as if it were normal. But in this land of Kant and Schopenhauer, this land where reason was meant to rule, it is the most heartless inhumane abnormality imagined."


12. A Woman's Right

"Lyuba died."

These were my first words to Giammai when I saw him again. It was during the hour when men and women are allowed to visit each other. Now that the camps had become so filled, with so many new arrivals, even beautiful Jewish women groomed for Shwarz's monstrous harem, men and women were allowed to mix more freely. This was something new, where they were allowed to visit each other evenings, for a "social hour", as the Germans called it. It was supposed to encourage more cooperation from the prisoners with their oppressors. But even that was monstrous, since in their docility, they were less likely to understand. They were being mellowed for death. This was what Giammai told me.

Livia was happy to see Renato again, and even Gemma stopped her daily crying. Though none of us looked like the human beings we were when we arrived, at least there was some precious time in the day we could look forward to, even if only for an hour. But the killings did not stop, rather they intensified. We were not allowed to go near where the showers were, those next to the crematorium. That was where Lyuba went, when she became too weak to carry the heavy sacks of hair that had been cleansed for shipping. Her job was to take the sacks from the storage area to the waiting train wagons. But she fell and could not get up. A capo beat her again, but she did not move. The next day, she was in the first detail of women sent to their showers, and she did not return. None of them did.

"Did you see the smoke from the chimneys of the new crematorium?" Giammai asked me. His eyes showed a great deal of sorrow, as if he could not bear the burden of knowing anymore.
"Yes," I answered, not yet aware of what was happening.
"That was Lyuba."
"Oh! Dear Lyuba. She never hurt anyone, she was so kind." Suddenly the dark reality of what the crematorium was all about entered the pit of my stomach. I had known, but never believed what was being talked about. Now it was true. "Poor Lyuba. Her name means Love...." I cried softly, thinking of her dead.
Giammai put his arm around my shoulders.
"Dear Kostia. We must all help each other to keep ourselves from their grasp. How are the other women in your group?"
"They can't kill all of us," I answered, suddenly feeling a hardness in my heart.

Svetlyana announced to us to make ourselves ready for an important visitor. Now that the crematorium was finished, Herr Himmler was to inspect the camp. He had not been here since his last visit, she said, because he was so busy with other duties in Berlin, having to minister to so many camps throughout the Reich.
"You girls have three days in which to make yourselves beautiful. I want your hair combed and washed, and I will provide makeup for you, so you can rouge your cheeks and lips. The commandant is very keen to have you look your best. He has specifically ordered your hair not be cut, unlike the other camp women. When you are with your appointed officers, you will show a pleasing face, smile, make small talk to make them feel welcome, and make them happy. You will be given very expensive lingerie to wear, so be careful with it, as you will need to give it back later. Whatever they ask of you, it is your duty to obey them. Do you understand?"
Then she added, for the benefit of some of the new women, that she would not tolerate any excuses that it was their moon, so to be careful.

All the women stood in their own personal state of shock. Were we not so afraid of our capo, we would have cried. I looked over to a very pretty young Jewess named Ribah. We had become friends of late, and she looked bewildered. I knew she had a husband in the camp, and this was especially hard on her. But none of this mattered to the commandant, nor to our capo. We were like well bred horses that were supposed to perform as the beautiful animals we were when taken out of our stalls. We were Shwarz's "Shatse". Tania, my Romanian friend, had nearly a smirk on her face. She had been here as long as I, and had been ignobly used by the Major on another occasion. Our eyes met, and I could tell that her smirk was one of hardened derision, of hatred for what was being done to us. I am sure my eyes looked the same to her. We were supposed to make our officers happy. Well, we would see about that, even if it meant our death. We needed to do something, some plan that could once more save us from this terrible fate cast upon us.

"Giammai, you had said once you had a plan. We need it now, for in three days we are to entertain the officers visiting with Himmler, and I am still promised to him."
I spoke rapidly, but just above a whisper, since there were spies everywhere and we could not risk being overheard.
"Let me talk to Svetlyana in my own way. I will go there now, since I know what she does in her time alone."
He left without another word, without explaining what he had in mind. Then he came back just as the social hour was almost over. His eyes looked dark.
"I failed you Kostia." He sadly shook his head as he said this. "I tried, but I failed."
"What was said? What happened? Tell me."
"Remember I once said I knew something of her that no one else did?" I nodded that I remembered. "You see, when she first came to the camp, that big ox of a Russian woman, there were no pretty women gathered yet. That was Shwarz's idea later, as a way to collect tradable trophy, to gain influence with the top SS. Back then, all the women were shorn and put to work without further thought. But Svetlyana put up a fight, she did not want to be like the other women."
"So what happened to her? Did they punish her, beatings?"
"No. They made an example of her not to the other prisoners, but to the SS men. They raped her, repeatedly, until she was so used she could not stand."
"Oh, how horrible. Those monsters!"
"I know. It is hard to imagine men acting like that, like a pack of wolves lunging repeatedly into that ox. But that was what happened to her."
"How do you know this?"
"Because she has a weakness." Giammai looked at me to see if I knew what he was talking about, which I did not. "She likes vodka too much, and I keep her supplied with it."
"So you promised her more vodka?"
"Yes, much more than usual. I get it from Boyko. But she said that she was told she may soon be promoted, to commander of the women guards, and she did not want to spoil that chance. I then told her that if Germany loses the war, it would be better she were never promoted, or she will be punished for her crimes.""
"But she did not listen?"
"No. I offered to have some camp prostitutes take your places, which the women would have done gladly. But your capo was too afraid to risk it."
"So we have nothing to fall back upon," I said quietly, dejected with hopelessness in my heart. This was the end of me as a human being, I thought.
"We do not have much time, but let me check with Jan, to see if he knows something we can do."

But there was nothing anyone could do. Things were changing in the camp, and even Jan had no solution. We checked with that detestable fat faced Ukrainian Boyko, who made me ashamed we came from the same land, and he said that other than giving us prostitutes in our place, there was nothing he could do. He also said the German officers would never accept the prostitutes, since they were far from beautiful, just camp women who knew how to survive. There was nothing to do, but to protest. It was at a great risk, I knew, but I had to protest. So I went into Shwarz's office to speak to him.

While I waited outside, I could hear voices coming from his private office. The commandant was stern, but the voice answering him was not wavering either. I knew it immediately. It was Giammai. He was in with his weekly report.
"My commandant, the laborers in section three and four have been raising a petition."
"A petition? Are they crazy? Do they not know how they will be punished for this?"
"I understand Herr Commandant, but this petition should please the Reich. They want to improve productivity at the paint factory, how to make more paint to cover the armor and tanks of the great Reich."
"Ah? So they have an idea that could make things better?"
"Yes Sir. These workers, mostly Judes, but some English and Italian workers, have put together a proposal which they signed. It should improve production by a third, so they say."
"Gut. We will look at that proposal. But this is not the kind of news I am seeking. I want to know more of what the English prisoners are planning. How do they plan to escape? This I need to know, and I want names!" A loud rap from a stick on the desk was heard, which made me jump.
"Understood, Commandant!"

When the door opened, I was sitting on a bench in the front room, guarded by a Slav guard who eyed me suspiciously, since I had come without my capo. Both Shwarz and Giammai looked surprised to see me. I immediately came to attention and announced my identification number.
"I am here to see the Commandant with a petition, Sir!"
Shwarz looked bewildered, his mouth open.
"What's with petitions all of a sudden. I am not running a democracy here. This is not Canada. What do you want?"
"We women have our rights as human beings, Sir! Some of us women..." But he cut me off.
"You have rights? You have rights, eh? What makes you ever think you have rights? Are you in America?" Shwarz was growing visibly red, foam forming on his lips. "Do you know what it is like in America, where they have rights?" He said this with full contempt. "Look at this schwarznegger. You know him, this I know. What rights do you think he would have? Have your read Uncle Tom's Cabin? He is less than dirt."
I was about to speak in protest, when he slammed his stick against the door to silence me.
"You have no rights! You are a scum woman! You will do as you are told!"
He stared hard at me.
"No, I will not!"
Shwarz's eyes grew wide with disbelief, that I could talk to him like that.
"Oh? So we have a revolutionary here? Well, we will see about that! You will be punished publicly this aftenoon after roll call. There will be no dinner for you..."
He was about to call on the guard to take me away when Giammai quietly moved over to him and said in a calm voice.
"May I suggest, Herr Commandant, that she be punished in a way that will not show the marks. I know women guards who can do this expertly."
A smile came over Shwarz's face.
"Ah, I see." I thought he would now punish Giammai as well, but he said instead, "So that she will still be available for Herr Himmler. Yes. That is gut. I will explain to him what happened to her, and he will enjoy her so much more knowing she is in pain. Very good!"

As the guard came in to take me away, I threw an evil look at Giammai, my betrayer. But he gave me a calm look, as if to say to be quiet. I was taken into the holding cell for prisoners who are to be punished. The dried blood on the wall told me what kind of room that was. When the door slammed shut, I sat down on the floor and cried.

That night I was beaten. The women guards shoved me onto the punishment table with brutal force. I had been stripped down to a thin prisoner's garment. As I looked over the crowd of prisoners forced to watch this beating, I spotted Katia's eyes looking at me, her little face full of sadness. Her little friends were there with her. As the commandant read the charge against me, to which I only half listened, something about insubordination, I continued to look for faces I knew. Giammai stood with his head down. Livia and Gemma were wringing their hands, a sad bitterness on their faces. Renato, who now stood next to them, was visibly shaking his head from side to side, a look of pity in his eyes. There was no mention of my request to be treated as a human being, since petitions are strictly forbidden. I could not see Svetlyana's face, because I knew she was behind me, with the other women capo and guards. When Shwarz had finished, the two women tied my hands to the hanging ropes from the overhead post and my feet to their footings. There I stood in the fading light, arms and legs stretched as if I were an animal skin left out to dry. Then they hit me.

At first, I thought I would faint, for the blow was to my kidney, then another to the other side. They were pummeling me from both sides, taking turns so they would not get in each other's way. Then they came forward and hit me in the stomach, so all the air came out of my lungs, and I could not breathe. They never hit so hard, but hard enough, so that the blows would not show. And they hit me repeatedly in different parts of my body, even my breasts. The pain had spread to every part of my body, and I thought I would faint, but I did not. Instead, I began seeing the world in red, in an unreal kind of red, like I was no longer alive, but I could still see. I thought it was blood on my eyes, but nothing flowed from me, my poor body absorbing those hateful women's blows. No woman should endure such pain, better to die quickly, but this pain went on for a very long time. I realized then that women could be as cruel as men, and more cunning. I do not remember much after that, because my mind became confused. I remember being cut down, and picked up off the table, carried away by men. That was the last thing I remembered.


13. Svetlyana's Revenge

When I woke up, I was very hungry. It was my little Katia who was standing by me, looking down at me, holding a ladle with water for me to drink. I took a mouthful, but it hurt as swallowed, but I threw it up. When she held for me a spoon with soup, I turned away, revolted by food, though my body was famished. The pain still came from inside me, from every part of me, even between my legs. They had left no part of my body untouched, those Asiatic Slavs knew cruelty well. The barracks where I lay had a large audience, all looking down at me with pity. I was ashamed to be so weak, so helpless, but I could not move any part of me without wincing. I thought I had died, and this was what it was like to be a broken corpse, but I was still living.

"Does it hurt, Auntie?"
I was Valia's little famished face looking at me, her golden head asking me in her sweet voice, in Russian. I could only answer with a groan, for I hurt.
"Here, this pillow will help you rest your head, Auntie." Valia had a funny way of calling me her aunt, for no reason. I could feel her little hands move my head up to place a soft pillow under it. Where she found a pillow, I had no idea, except if it were stolen from the cache of confiscated goods, those that belonged to the new arrivals. I suspected so, which was a dangerous thing to do. I had forgotten of my petition for my rights. For now, I only wanted to rest, to be left alone. When they realized I only wanted to sleep, my audience turned away. Only Katia stayed behind to watch over me as I again drifted off into mortal sleep.

The next day I could rise again. Though pain racked my whole body, I was able to stand, and was ordered to report to the officer's mess for work. Walking there was painful, as if my bones inside my limbs had been broken. Breathing was difficult, for I felt my sides broken inside the ribs. When I arrived at my work, the other women took pity on me and assigned me the easiest tasks they could find. I did not have to wait on tables that day, though Svetlyana told me that I was not excused from my duties the next day, those I protested. It was the harsh light of reality that hit me upon walking back into the officer's mess, that I was a sex slave, that I had no rights as a human being, none at all. That the men of power had all the rights, and I was their possession. It was revolting to me, and again I thought of dying, maybe of suicide. What monsters could create such a world for another human being? But I lived.

The day came and went, and I did not see Giammai that day, though I wanted to tear his eyes out. When I inquired about him from Jan, he only shrugged. Miserable that I was, I wanted to kill him for his suggestion to beat me. Only as the pain subsided the next day did reason return, that if not for his suggestion, my punishment might have been worse. That day I did see him, and I gave him the look he knows when I need to speak to him.
"What did you do to me?" I was so angry I wanted to strike his face.
"No, my dear Kostia, what did you do? Did you think they would ever listen to reason? They only know fear, and they fear their superiors all the time."
"But you told him to beat me!"
"There was no other way. They would have used the whip on you, and that fair flesh of yours would have borne the scars for the rest of your life. I knew what I was doing."
He gave me a serious look, as if he was in no mood to discuss this at length. "Look, I spoke to Svetlyana again. I can't promise that I succeeded at anything, but I will try until the very last. If there is any hope to spare you the humiliation of being used like warm meat, I will do so."
I did not answer him, still gripped with an inner anger I could not let go. My orders before I left the officer's mess was to make myself look beautiful, which I thought was an outrage. So we met while I was walking back to the barracks to wash and put on the clothes given, which would make me look a whore. Giammai looked at me long and hard.
"You're a fighter, Kostia. It is people like you who survive, those who fight. But you cannot fight them head on, you must be clever. The Germans are not the brilliant people they imagine themselves to be. Oh, yes, there are very brilliant ones, and there are kind and loving ones, but not here. Not in this camp. What you have here is the scum of their world, given power to do with us as they please. This is our bad luck, to be here. But fight them, be smart, and give in when you have to, but outfox them. I know you can do it."
Giammai suddenly had a far away look in his eyes, as if he saw something far away, or a distance into the future. He did not say anything, so I spoke.
"What can I do?" My anger had subsided, and now I merely felt weak.
"Talk to Svetlyana."
He turned and left without another word.

There was no reasoning with his request. What an absurd notion, that I talk to my capo, the woman who no doubt relished in seeing me punished. As the evening wore on, my pain became intense again, that I thought I would faint. But I dressed as told, made to look cheap and coquettish for the men, for Himmler. The idea sickened me, to spend intimate time with that revolting weak chinned bespectacled man. Perhaps if he were a handsome man, I could have stood it better, or perhaps not. But this man was the furthest image from an Aryan, except perhaps the commandant, who looked like a dark weasel. I hated them both equally. They were cowards, fighting on the front for their wretched Reich in the camps of innocent and defenseless human beings, children, women. What glory were they being decorated for? And they had medals to prove their worth. For what? For killing innocent Jews? For killing starved workers too weak to work? For separating families so they could quietly kill the small children and mothers, especially pregnant mothers? What revolting refuse of humanity were these men. At that moment, I hated all men, even Giammai.

"Look, Valia! An angel!"
"Oh, Katia, will you stop seeing angels everywhere. That's Kostia, you know."
"They're just camp prostitutes," their little friend Mottel replied, with sarcasm in his voice. The young boy already understood. It hurt me.
The children stared at me wide eyed. I must have looked a sight amidst so much drab, the grey reality of our camp life. Without our camp uniforms, we women who were dressed elegantly, or cheaply, were a bizarre array of colors amidst the mud and grim colorless walls of the barracks. It made me ashamed to arrive with the other women all dressed up for the evening. When I made it to the officer's mess, I saw Svetlyana looking at me from the corner of her eye. I took in a deep breath, and did as Giammai said. I spoke to her.

"Please, as a woman to a woman, help me. I do not want to do this."
Svetlyana did not answer me immediately, as if thinking of how to say what she wanted to say. Then she answered me.
"You are a young woman with ideals. This is a bad thing. You should think first of self preservation, then if you survive, can you think of your ideals. Do you know what I did before the war?" I shook my head, surprised that she would confide something of herself to me. "I was a kindergarten teacher. That's right, I know it shocks you. But I held small children in my arms, taught them to sing, helped them when they were crying, watched over them while they took their naps. I was a soft and loving teacher. Look at me now. I am a monster."
As she said this, a softness showed in her face, one I had never seen before, something that told me that she had seen me and Giammai that time we were together and she looked into the closet, but that she did not give us away. In that moment, I saw her as a human being, not as a capo. My eyes teared at the thought, of what Giammai had said happened to her, this big gentle woman who had been turned so hard. Now she was allowing that other self, the one she had to bury at the gate of this camp, the woman who was a woman, shown to me. She suffered as we all had, and maybe more, so she learned to survive.
"Was there a child in your life?" I asked her, without forethought.
Her eyes welled up. And she took in a deep breath.
"A child was born to me at the camp, nine months after I arrived, a boy."
"Is he here?"
"No, they killed him immediately, saying he was the son of a Russian swine, without a father."
My arms reached out to her and held her, as her large arms reached out to me and embraced me, and we held each other like this in silence. She did not cry, nor did I. We merely were two human beings holding each other, giving each other the strength so many had tried to take away. When I felt her grasp slacken, I spoke first.
"Giammai said I should talk to you."

The men had arrived, we could hear in the next room. But we had time to talk, woman to woman. I told her my fears, and she told me hers. She was terrified that if she failed to deliver me to Himmler, it would be very bad for her.
"But what if the Germans lose the war?" I said, "then it will be very bad for you later."
She understood, and also heard stories that the Russians were advancing, that things were not going well for the Nazis, that they might lose the war.
"I will do something for you, something I would have never done for anyone, not while here in the camps. I will protect you."
She then went on with her plan, which I knew was really Giammai's plan, and as she spoke, I realized what he had done for me. He had created in this broken woman, this large stallion who could not be broken but was, not an enemy but a friend, an ally. Instinctively, I knew I could trust her, that her offer of help was genuine.
"And I will add something to the vodka bottle which I got from Jan, saltpeter."
"But that is known to take away a man's desire."
"Yes. It will go into all the bottles kept in the rooms." The she sucked in her breath. "And I will stand by the door, and am willing to take your place if he insists and is still able. He will be drunk, but he may still be able."
We gave each other a strong embrace once again, for now there was hope, for both of us.
For me, it was to save my honor, to not violate my body. For her, it was to save her soul.

That night, after dinner, as all the men chose their women and retired to private chambers in the officers's quarters, I was taken by the arm by the great man himself, Himmler, the head capo of all the SS. He had been drinking heavily, which I thought was a good start, as were most of the men. Tania was taken by a very young officer, perhaps not more than in late teens. She gave me a sarcastic wink as they walked away. My body ached desperately, but I was fortified inside from the drink I had also been given, as a way to make me more friendly. My dress was ridiculous, but this was what the men wanted, a cheap looking whore. Though I stand as tall as Himmler, in my high heels, I was actually taller. My blond hair had been combed and fell over my shoulders, my breasts showing seductively through the think satin red dress. Herr SS himself had a broad grin on his mousy face, his spectacles sliding down his nose. He was not striking at all, and except for the coldness in his eyes, seemed hardly the leader of men. Yet, in this strange world created by their hateful Fuhrer, he was.

"Come here, my Shats, he cooed solicitously." It turned my pained stomach to hear him speak so. "We will have a very good time together, I promise this to you. You are a very lucky girl. A beautiful girl."
When we got to his room, which was lavishly furnished, so out of character for the grey grimness of the camp, he sat down on the plush bed and began taking off his jacket.
"Come, sit next to me, and help me undress. I always have an orderly do this, so you can be my orderly, and I your officer of state."
He was smiling to himself, as if he had said something clever, when I saw the bottle of vodka left prominently for me by Svetlyana.
"My dear Sir, may I pour you a drink, so that we may have a more merry time together?"
"Ach, of course! What makes you happy makes me happy." He again smiled in that self satisfied way. I poured us both a drink. "And when I undress, you undress, no?"
He began fumbling with the buttons on my dress, trying to reach around me, while I undid his shirt buttons. We both took a drink from our glasses, though mine was the smallest I could manage without giving myself away. When he touched me where it hurt, I involuntarily gave off a cry.
"Ah, yes, I have been told. You had been a bad girl. I like bad girls. If it hurts too much, tell me."
"Yes, mein Herr, I will cry with pain if it hurts."
"Ah, good, good." He again took a drink, and I raised mine to my lips. I could tell the drink, being pure Russian vodka, was having its effect on this stupid man's brain. I remembered Giammai's words, "be clever".
When he stood unsteadily naked before me, and my clothes were also dropped to the floor, which I carefully picked up and folded neatly, anything to waste time, he lunged for me like an animal.
"Oh, Sir! But you are impatient! You know a girl likes to be teased a little, to warm her so she will be better." I gave him the best smile I could manage, while holding back the desire to vomit. The saltpeter had no taste, but it left a strange sensation in my belly, or so I thought. Or was it the beating I had received only two days earlier? In fact, there were a few marks on my body, blue bruises, but Herr Himmler didn't seem to notice them. I did not care if he had.

I kept refilling his glass while he was, on my request, licking my back with his tongue, even down to where what little food I had eaten would find its way back out into this miserable world. This coy play went on for what seemed an eternity, at one point my glass spilled, and he gleefully refilled it, while taking deep drafts from his. This was as it should be. This pathetic species of a man was becoming more and more drunk with each swallow, and his speech was turning to slur. He would look at me with eyes lost in the stupor of strong alcohol, and smile admiringly, then fumble with himself, to no avail.
I could feel Svetlyana's presence in the room, though I knew she stood by the door, listening outside. I had given her the signal if I needed help, three high laughs, but there was no need. Her plan worked, and the excitement the great man of the SS had felt upon entering the room was visibly diminished, which was of some concern to him. He tried playing with his privates, but nothing worked. It was dead. Soon he tired, and the drink had worked on his brain as we had hoped, for he rolled over and asked if it was all right to close his eyes a moment. He never woke again but slept naked and sprawled on the luxurious bed, while I quietly dressed and made ready to leave.

At the door Svetlyana stood still like a large sentinel, who at my signal would have come into the dark room and taken my place.
"How did it go?" she asked as soon as I closed the door behind me.
"He has a paunch, ugly legs, and became more and more pathetic as the night wore on."
Svetlyana was visibly pleased.
"Good! Then he will remember nothing, and if he should ask, tell him he was magnificent. This would please him greatly, and never make him think he was such a fool. He did not touch you?"
"Pooh! He tried, but got nothing more than a finger in me. I will wash myself thoroughly."
"Good girl. You're a good girl. God bless you."

The next morning, since I had to arrive early to make ready for serving the morning meal, the men came down to breakfast with bravado. Though they spoke German, I understood all they said. Herr Himmler, not to be outdone, had the same voice of bravado, exclaiming what an excellent night it was, and gave my buttocks a pinch when I was within reach. This hurt more than all the previous evening. All the men congratulated him for having such a fine partner, and he never let on that in fact it was a very unsuccessful night, one of which he most likely remembered nothing. To them, he was their leader, their top wolf, and this made him more glad than if in fact he had gotten anything. At night, when I had reached my barracks in the dark, I washed myself of his filth from head to foot, so disgusted I was by his touch. And when I again saw Svetlyana, she had a new smile on her face. Her revenge worked, and we both smiled at each other.
The other girls were not lucky, and now a new bitterness, a hardness was showing on their faces. We did not talk about it, though Tania confided in me that her officer was gentle with her, even shy, that she felt motherly towards him. She said his name was Hans. Still, she was unhappy to have been used for this purpose. Ribah only cried, and would not go near her husband for days. When I saw them together again, they both looked as if they had been crying.
Giammai never mentioned to me how he had spoken to Svetlyana at length. It was her who told me later. What he said, she did not reveal, but whatever it was, it changed her heart. Now I was worried for her, because without her hardness, it may become harder for her in the camp. In fact, this was not so, and soon we had a new capo, for she was promoted to camp commandant of the women guards. Shwarz was most pleased with her. But even that did not save her in the end.


14. The Children

We had gathered the children together to rehearse another performance, this time with more time allotted them. Shwarz had made some vague remarks that there would be another important delegation from Berlin, and the conquered lands, to see our model camp. So we wanted to do our best, if this proved true. Where there had been a few dozen children earlier, by summer they were in the several hundreds, more if you count the dead ones, then it would have been in the thousands. The news of the delegation again filled us women with dread, for we were the chosen ones for their special pleasure. But this was not on my mind at the moment. What was important was to give the children a chance to survive this maddening "model" camp.

Sasha and Maria were both hard at work preparing the choreography of the musical play they would put on. The Nazis, again vaguely, had requested Shakespeare's "The Merchant of Venice", to be sung in German. But the choreography was not going well, since only Sasha spoke German well, so this was a problem. Livia and Renato, as did Giammai, all came to help, but the play was going badly, much to our fear. Yacob knew better German, and so his help was welcome, but he had no musical ear. In effect, even after two weeks of hard work, there was nothing but discouragement in the air.

Then children started arriving from Hungary, the newest conquest of the great Reich. These were mostly Jewish children, and some had musical talents worth developing, if they were not first sent to the gas chambers. A new despair set into the camps, now that they were becoming even more crowded than before, and even the children's natural optimism was beginning to plummet to new depths. While singing, they would sometimes stop, and then begin crying, unable to continue. The fear that the Nazis had so careful orchestrated into camp life was now reaching a maximum climax. There was no way to please these terrible masters, for no matter how much beauty we gave them, they only responded with more hardship. The more love we gave them, the more it was returned with hate. It was as if some unwritten law was followed known only to the Nazis. In this way, even the children were now ultimately doomed. Since all the very young ones were dead, only those old enough to work were there to know. And they all knew this. They understood they were doomed.

"Katia's been dreaming of angels again," little Valia told me in a matter of fact voice, as if this is the most natural thing to do.
"Has she been having nightmares?" I asked.
"Oh, no! She said the angels are beautiful, and she wanted to spend all her time with them..." She paused as if thinking about it. "She said even Mottel was with them, all golden light around a sky blue halo. She cries when she wakes up, but only because she is so happy to see them, and does not wish to wake."

This was a bad sign, I thought. The children were wishing for death, to escape the horrible world into which they had been imprisoned. Their childhood was being taken from them, and they were being cast into adults without the necessary transition of the years of romantic dreams, without the hopes of innocence preceding maturity. Still, this was better than those who were killed immediately upon arrival, clutching their mothers, too terrified to cry. What of those children? Their lives were taken in a martyrdom of innocence, in a grey winter of their lives which would never see sunshine again. Those children were already dead upon arrival.

"I worry about Gemma," Livia said to me, while we were waiting for the whistle announcing curfew. "She had gotten so depressed of late."
"Does she need more food?" I hoped to offer something of solace to her, since I could see from her gaunt face this too was taking a toll on her.
"Oh, thank you, Kostia. There is never enough food, but if you can get an extra potato, we can share it."
"I will try, tomorrow, and bring it to you."

In fact, all the women had become more depressed, though through their physical exhaustion, the mental tiredness was not as noticeable, just another layer of pain buried beneath their already desperate misery. The talk had turned more and more to the children, how to save them, how to make them survive until the end of the war.
More and more rumors were circulating that Germany was going to lose the war, that the Soviets were pushing back the armies of the glorious Reich, that Leningrad rose from its ashes and the Red Army was approaching. This made the SS more desperate, more cruel, so that even the Slav guards were ordered to be especially harassing with us.
"Not a moment of rest for them!" became their new motto. The "them" was us, and we were reminded of this daily with public punishments. Now that there were so many of us, it was easy to find someone who did not fall exactly into line. Most were beaten with clubs so their skin turned black, or whipped until their flesh was raw. But not infrequent were hangings, publicly for all to see, so that we would be more careful. Fear, intense fear, would make us more passive. Others simply disappeared, though on the nights when they disappeared, pistol or rifle shots could be heard from the area of the camp closest to the gas chambers and crematorium. This was how our camp was being turned from a labor camp into a death camp. And even those of us who earlier dared hope that our labors were needed for the war machine, it had become obvious that it did not matter. If we were the model camp, how horrible were conditions in those that were not?

Though our camp had far more women than men, it was the same on their side. Giammai brought me news daily, to let me know what was being said over there.
"The say the English have an escape plan."
"But if they escape, we'll all be punished!" I said feeling dread crawl through my body.
"I know this, and they know this, so they are waiting. The English are good men." Giammai looked at me through the small window that separated us. I had just passed to him an extra two potatoes, which had been uneaten by the SS men, as the kitchen cook looked the other way. He liked Giammai, more like a man likes a woman. "But I am under terrible pressure to report to the commandant their plans, and I cannot do so."
"Can you invent something that is untrue, something that will send them in the wrong direction?"
"I already confessed that they had planned to dig a tunnel."
"What did Shwarz do?"
"He wanted to know where it would lead to." Giammai gave me a smirk.
"What did you tell him?"
"To under the officer's barracks, so they could capture their weapons and take over the camp."
"That's a lie! They would never do this."
"Of course. They never even planned a tunnel, since it would be too easily discovered. But the SS are keeping extra watch around their barracks, listening for sounds."
"Do you know how they plan to escape?"
"I do, but I must not talk about it, to anyone."
"Are you going with them?"
He gave me a wolfish grin. "Not without you."

Giammai took the potatoes and hid them inside his underpants, so that it would look like he had soiled himself. But no matter where those potatoes had been, they will be a moment of salvation for the poor souls who needed that little extra nourishment to carry through another day. I still had two more potatoes, and these I saved for the children, since I am allowed to visit their barracks before morning roll call, to check up on them. In my small way, I too had become an informer, though it was not surprising to find out that all veterans of this camp life had become informal informers, even if only to tell lies to the SS. It was Svetlyana who told me to do this, as a way to save myself. When I got to the barracks the next morning, there was a great commotion.

"What is happening?" I asked the first child I saw.
"Valia and Katia had seen monsters!" answered the wide eyed serious face who replied.
I made it through the throng of children who were gathered around the two girls, asking them to tell their story again.
"They had big eyes and a large head, but small like us. And they wanted to kidnap us, to take us away."
"Who? Do you mean the monsters? Did you want to go with them?" a boy asked.
"No! Yes, them! We were too afraid. We knew they would kill us," Valia answered.
"They would have put us into a large pot and boiled us," Katia added solemnly.
I then took charge of the madness.
"Katia, Valia, why are you telling them such stories? You should be making ready for roll call." I secretly slipped them a small potato each. Their little hands took them without a word, and slipped them unseen into their frocks.
"It's the truth, auntie Kostia. We did see them." Both girls were nodding as one.
"Where were you to see these monsters?" I asked, now curious.
"We had gone to the latrines, since it was still early and no one was there... You know how I hate to do it in front of others."
"But the monsters were not other boys, as some of the women said," added Valia. "We know they were not the boys."
"Maybe you were dreaming, and then told each other this story," I offered, trying to bring some reason to them.
"No! They were not a dream. They were real!"

When I saw Giammai again, I told him what the children told me. He looked pensive, almost sad at the news.
"Katia later told me the monsters were sent by the angels. But that makes even less sense than what she told you."
"They are under so much stress, those poor little girls, as are all the children."
"And their minds are beginning to show this... This is why they start seeing visions, strange monsters, angels. And yet, I cannot help but think that they actually saw something." Giammai again looked off, thinking. "I wonder if they really did see some strange beings from another world, here at the camps. It is possible."
"Why do you say this? You think there really could be something to the story?"
"One of our men had reported the same thing." He looked at me serious. "Think of it, Kostia, if you were from another world, wouldn't you want to come and see what we have done to ourselves?"

Cursed by the devil, forgotten by God, we were left to our own imaginings, a madness for our religion. When the men got together for a Jewish prayer of the dead, Giammai yelled at them. He told them "How can you still believe in your God? Look around you! Are you mad?" He said the men looked up at him, and then quietly resumed their prayer without interruption. Perhaps we are mad. But if there is no redemption from this madness, then at least we must save the children. They are our last hope in this world.

In time, we gave up on rehearsals for the new show. It simply was not working. Nor did we ever hear of this request for performance again. Somewhere in the wheels of the camp's machinery, the request was lost. Maria and Sasha were not unhappy to dismiss the children. Though they had actually begun to sing in German passably well, they were relieved. It was not a language easy for them, they being from so many countries, and it was not in their hearts to memorize the words of their oppressors. When the children sang Italian opera, it came from their soul, and they miraculously memorized the words though they did not know their meaning. It was not the same this time, and it showed when they rehearsed. No one said how good they were, and most did not speak of them at all, for it was an embarrassment to us to hear how they struggled. Rather, it all stopped without notice, without regret. And we were all glad to be spared having to put them through what was so obviously not in their hearts.


15. Informer

"Yes, my commandant!"
Shwarz had called me in for a special session with him, to make me report on what I had learned of the escape plan. In fact, there was no escape plan, except the one I devised in my own imagination. I had drawn up a plan to have the English soldiers, with the help of the French and Italian men, to quietly kill the Slav sentry just before they changed the guard, and then have them take on their uniforms and weapons. Those on the perimeter were allowed to carry pistols, for the officers, or rifles for the regular men. Then when the replacements came, to kill the SS man in charge, and to have the sentries come over to their side. This was how I had painted it for him. But this plan would never work, for the Slavs had been so impregnated with hatred of the prisoners that they did not identify with us, though they too were as damned as we by the Nazis. It was just they do not know it. With their uniforms, their guns, they thought they were on the same side.
"I want you to report to me new information every week, and if you do not, then I will take ten children and have them shot. That will be the price for your failure. Every week it will be ten children." Shwarz gave me a hard look, watching me closely for any movement that would betray my future failure.
"I understand, Sir! There will be reports for you, so you can catch the perpetrators of this evil plan, Sir!"
"Gut. This is what I want. So give me the name of their ring leader, the one who is behind this scheme. They must not succeed, or it will look bad for me. But if their escape succeeds, then it will be you who will hang for all to see. I hope I am making myself clear."

There was no need to answer him, for I was dismissed with those words. I quickly found Jan and asked what to do, since I was now in a mess I could not extract myself from. He was very calm while listening to me raving like a lunatic.
"Give them what they want."
"But how? I have no idea if anyone there is a ringleader. How can I condemn an innocent man to be killed? I have nothing against the English. They are noble men."
"Killing is what happens here, Giammai. It is a fact of life. But now that you have put yourself in this position, this position of power, then you must accept your duty. You must name a man to be killed."
"You speak like a philosopher..." I answered, lost in my misery.
"I was a teacher of philosophy in Wroclaw, if you could imagine such a world..."
Jan looked away, as if seeing his old university again. "Do you know Plato's Republic?" he asked me at long length.
"I have read some of it, yes. But this camp is no ideal republic."
"Exactly. Here noble men, natural aristocrats, have no chance of survival. Here is it the savage who wins, the one who can gain the most at the expense of another. He survives. So why do you have moral scruples against naming a name? If you are an aristocrat, then you now wear the same grey garb of all the other prisoners."
"But you have not stooped to this low level," I reminded him, Jan being someone I held in some esteem.
"I am not without guilt, I assure you. And it is true that I have tried my hardest to promote to authority men I trust and respect. Like you, for example. Though from what you tell me, this turned out not in your favor."
"I don't know what to do. I cannot go against my nature and condemn innocent men. I am not a Nazi, like these devils who keep us prisoner here."
"Yes, that is true. But not all men here are good men. Is there anyone you would like to see removed? You now have the power to do so."
I thought about it a long moment, that the one I would like removed was Shwarz, or Himmler, but such thoughts were to no avail.
"I don't know..."
"Yes, you do." Jan looked directly at me. "What about Boyko?"
"The profiteer? He has bought his way out of every danger. If I inform on him, the Germans will tell him who it was, and since he will wiggle out of his bad state, I will be killed by his henchmen."
"That is true, he is a slippery snake. But if he goes, that does me a favor."
"I don't understand? Isn't he the one you barter with when you need things?"
"There will always be someone to replace him, like the Wasyl who works for him. I think I can work with him."
"But why? Why would you want Boyko removed?"
"Because he discovered our tunnels."
I stared at Jan, not believing what I was hearing, him telling me this, I who was to name the ringleader of a planned escape. I could not respond. He continued.
"Do not think what you are thinking. These are not tunnels to escape. They are to hide people, if needed. They do not lead anywhere, but are mere caves along the edges of the latrine."
"You had been digging caves?"
"The Germans do not like the dirty latrines, so they keep away from them. And if they send a man down into them to inspect them, I have someone meet him there, to pay him off."
"But what if they threw grenades into them?"
"The tunnels are at a right angle, dug underneath the buildings, so there will be less danger of collapse from heavy vehicles passing over them. And if a grenade goes off, the refugees would feel the blast, may get splattered, but avoid the shrapnel, though their hearing would be bad for some days."
We both laughed a little at this, thinking how noisy such a blast would be, from inside the caves.

We discussed this some more, and it became clear to me that Jan wanted Boyko removed, for his own reasons. In fact, I learned later, it was because Boyko hid his treasure in one of the latrines, and thus discovered the caves. So to Jan, he was a serious liability, and to have him killed would be a message to the others who knew to keep quiet. I did not dislike Boyko, even found him useful and cooperative when I needed things, though he was bad to bargain with, clever at extolling the highest price. Still, he was trustworthy, and always delivered what was promised. I did not know Wasyl, but Jan assured me I would find him the same. So it was set. I would have one man killed to save ten children, and hope for the best, until next week.

There is no glory in being an informer. Shwarz had Boyko led away to the killing part of the camp, and I am sure it was his soul rising in the smoke of the next morning. Whether or not he was ever told who it was who spoke against him, I will never know. But the weight of guilt would lay on my breast for my lifetime. And yet, some part of me was glad, to have helped Jan, to have saved the lives of ten children. But the more I thought about it, the worse my mind became. I was not proud of my humanity anymore. I had now become a beast just like them. Jan was right, this is not Plato's Republic. It is a jungle of the worst kind instead. Not here to be found noble beasts, but broken men.

"How can I live with myself?" I confessed to Kostia the next evening, when men and women were allowed the social hour together. I had been crying softly, holding back the need to sob loudly. She took my head into her breast.
"You nor I, nor anyone here, is free to be as we want to be. Do not blame yourself, for it was his time."
"By my hand, by my mouth, a man is killed."
She caressed me, comforting me with her quiet presence. I was lost in some deep chasm of remorse, from one I thought I could never emerge.
"Look over there. See how Renato is holding Livia's hand. And look at Yacob, how he is talking to one of the new women who arrived from Hungary, a pretty woman. So you see, life goes on."
"But I am not like most men. I love you Kostia, but it is all in the mind, my body does not know how to respond."
"Do you like little boys," she asked, teasingly. But I was in no mood for jest.
"No, certainly not that. No... It is something else, like my body was made for some other purpose, not just to live like other human beings. I don't know really, what it all means."
"Do you see angels too?"
"Sometimes I wish I did, I even envy Katia for seeing them. Is there a God?"
"If there is, I am sure He will forgive you. Isn't it said He is all merciful, that God is Love?"
I shook my head, like trying to remove some fog from within.
"It is idle talk. I do not believe there is a God, not one for us humans. If God were merciful, none of this happening to us here would be. But it is reality, and if God is everything, then He is even this."
"Listen to me, Giammai. You cannot think that what evil things men do to each other is God's work."
"Are we not God's work?"
"You and I were born of a woman. And I am a woman. No, it is not God's work that gave us life in the flesh. It was a carnal knowledge of each other. And now I learn that you are not able of this knowledge..."
"Oh... It is not that I am not able, for I have known women. It is that here, I am not able." I looked up into her eyes, those deep blue eyes looking down at me. "You know how Katia has difficulty using the latrine when others are around? Then it is like that. There are too many people in the world."
"We live and we die, my dear Giammai. That is how God created the world. And what we do with ourselves in it is a mere footnote in all of Creation. We give ourselves too much importance to think that God will come and rescue us at every false step we take."
She held me closer, like a mother holding a small child.
"You are wise, my dear Kostia. And your arms are a great comfort to me."

A week passed, and my terrible ordeal resumed.
"I want more names!" Shwarz slammed his swagger stick on his desk to emphasize the point, white spittle dripping from his lips. He was enraged because I had not given him a new name, and a week was up.
"Please, Sir, I beg of you. Do not kill children..."
"Ha! You are a pathetic man. Do you not think I like children?"
"Do you have children, Sir?"
"Would you like to see their picture?"
He reached into his drawer and pulled out a very nicely framed photograph. He showed it to me. In it were three young children, two boys and a girl, and an elegantly dressed youngish woman, not unattractive.
"They are a fine family, Sir."
"I know. And sometimes I miss them. But we are at war, so there is no room for my feelings here. What do you think we do every day, when the trains arrive? Hmm? Do you know how many children we kill every day? Hmm?"
I could not answer, having worked on the reception detail, a sarcastic name given our duties to help the new prisoners disembark from their cattle cars. Shwarz was staring at me, so I felt I needed to say something.
"I know, Sir. There are many every day."
"Do you think we like our work? Hmm?"
"I do not know, Sir."
"We do not, but it is necessary, for the success of the Reich. We must eliminate those undesirable poor excuses of human beings, including their children, especially their women and children. That is work we must do, like it or not. And that is your job too, now that you are my capo. It is necessary."
"But the children who survived are such lovely children..."
"Oh, yes, they are. Remember last year when they sang? Was it not beautiful? It almost brought tears to my eyes, and even the same for Herr Himmler. But we did not cry. We dared not cry. You see, we could not. So children must die. That is how it is."
"Are there not enough children dying already, with all due respect, Sir?"
"You are a sentimental fool, schwarznegger, a sentimental fool. And because you are such a fool, it must be your race, that I will make your job more interesting. I need ten children sent to the gas chambers tomorrow. Orders, you understand?"
I looked up at him in disbelief, knowing where he was taking me.
"But I... but I will have a name, Sir!"
"That is not my point. Name or no name. I need ten children killed, tomorrow. And you will select them. That is all."

What does a man do who is committed to hell, and is at its threshold? I could not speak another word, not to anyone, for that whole day. Nor was sleep possible that night. I had to procure ten young lives for destruction, and no number of bars of soap would change that. I was doomed to my evil deed, that or death to myself. Suicide suddenly seemed a sweet solution, but the children would still die. So I had to fight the nausea of my life and live. There had to be a way.

First thing that morning I met with Jan again, and told him all that had happened. He looked truly sad, suddenly a nearly broken man, but he kept his poise about him.
"Then we will have to hide the ten we will deliver to them," was all he said. We were to meet again in one hour.
My hour was spent in supreme anguish, one that I could not tear myself away from. I avoided all human contact. Walking forlorn in between my rounds, I looked at the state of the camp around me. There were many men idle, and in the women's camp it was the same. There were more people than needed for the work done, so many simply idled away the hours with nothing to do, but think of their hunger, their sadness, the loved ones they would never see again. The light of the day, though it was late summer and still warm, felt cold on my face, my whole body trembled. Somewhere on some distant battle field war raged, men were being killed, and their horses, and any civilians caught in between the madness of men and guns and bullets rushing at each other towards destruction. Bombs fell in Hamburg, so we heard, the Allied air forces delivering their deadly cargo on people hiding in their cellars, many to be buried alive. It felt as if all the eyes of the dead were on me, though I was only feeling this from the living languishing in the camp. Their hollow faces and listless eyes spoke deep into my soul, that we were no longer human beings, but chattel, slaves of a war machine that had gone mad. When the whistle blew for roll call, Jan approached me.
"It is all set. Here is how the plan works."
He then laid out the plan in the few minutes we had before assembly at our appointed spots. By the time the second whistle blew I could have jumped into Jan's arms, I was so relieved. The plan was brilliant, and I quickly took my place amidst the crush of humanity with a new hope in my soul. They would live, they would live. But still, others would die.

When the roll call was over, it was my duty to bring the ten children to the commandant. I did this at random, selecting children for a "work detail" and they followed me obediently, like the good children they were, unsuspecting. When they were put aboard the truck to take them to their "work", I turned away and found it in my soul to ask God for help. I prayed, truly prayed, as I had never prayed before.

"Oh God, God of the Jews, God of the Christians, Mohammed's God, God of all humanity, please deliver me and the lives of the children I had selected from the hell we had created in our own image on Earth."

The monster had to be fed, and ten children died. But they were not our children. Rather, the trains brought new lives for death daily, and it was with those children the names were exchanged, so that the identities on the list were switched, and though in name and number our children died, it was the nameless children selected at the station who died for them. When this was done, our children were brought back to one of the work stations, and there put to work. They never suspected how close they came to death, and were cheerful when they returned to the barracks, for their work was light that day. They fed and watered the horses.

It was the prayer I wrote into my little book that night. And I had to repeat it over and over again every time ten children were selected. Thank you God. You listened.


16. A Calm

The Americans were in northern Italy, or so Giammai told me. He said there was a radio at one of the factories, and the prisoners secretly listened to it sometimes, so they knew. He also said the Russo-Ukrainian armies had reconquered Ukraine from the Nazis, my homeland, and this made me glad. The partisans in Poland had turned against their oppressors and with the help of the Soviets were pushing them back everywhere. After Leningrad held and salvation arrived in a food convoy over the ice, and Stalingrad was free of the Nazis, the war had turned. The Germans were everywhere in retreat, even in Greece, in the south of France, in Africa, Bulgaria. A major offensive against them had been launched in Normandy, so Paris was being liberated. Italy was no longer ruled by Il Duce. We had begun to hope and talk of the end of war. We, those of us who had survived for so long this horrible camp life, who had witnessed so much death and suffering, we had begun to hope. God willing, even they who no longer believed in God, believed that our liberation would arrive soon.

Under the dark winter skies, the terrible chimneys kept spewing out their human victims. They arrived by rail, by road, by forced march, secretly in the night, and their lives were arbitrarily decided at the gate, whether to live or die. "To the left, to the right." Some were selected from among us, the survivors, too weak to work, or whose eyes had turned watery, or teeth were bad. All perished by the same arbitrary selection of the SS guards. And those whose lives went up the chimneys, their ashes were carefully spread by the prisoners over the farm fields that would grow the grain and cabbages and potatoes of the Master Race, of which some small portion would find itself into our bowls. We too were eating the dead, as if in some horrific sacrificial communion with the demonic god of the Aryans who had us under his terrible spell. We ate murder. In our bowels were the remains of those whose souls went up the chimneys. In our survival was their redemption. This was what Giammai said.

Shwarz kept up his terrible promise to select ten children every week, but our children survived, by the grace of God, and with Jan's help. Even Svetlyana was in on what was happening, but the SS never knew. As far as they were concerned, they were fulfilling their duty with efficient tallying of the names of those who died. It never occurred to them to actually count the children in the camp, for if they had, they would have found out. If it ever occurred to them what they were doing, if it kept them awake at night, like it did all of us, this we never knew. The war machine needed the elimination of the undesirable elements of its glorious new society, and this was what the chimneys were telling them, that they were succeeding in their Fuhrer's mission of annihilation of the subspecies of the human race, the weak, the helpless, the innocent, the Jews, the dark races, the Gypsies, the Communists, the thinkers, the true believers, the Jehovah Witnesses, the Baptists, the homosexuals, the old and very young, all burned and spread on the fields of their new land. They did this with great efficiency, with impeccable reason, with following orders to the letter. It was necessary for their glorious Reich.

So while Germany was falling, their cities burning under the bombings of British and American planes, and their war was grinding ruin into their land, killing its people, a quiet calm fell over the camp. We sat quietly without thought of escape, without worries beyond the day's small allotment of food, without passion, without dreams of a future life, but only of surviving, a day to day hope of survival. And we listened to our secret radio, listening to the beginning of the end. If there was any glimmer of life left in us, during this terrible winter of waiting, it was a small hope that our camp would be liberated soon. We knew this was a real hope, because the Germans were beginning to act desperately. They stepped up the killings, demanded more work from the factories, started issuing irrational orders, like we had to fulfill our quotas before dark, which was impossible in the short winter days. Punishments intensified for the slightest infraction of the rules, while an extra hour of social time was allotted to the men and women who wanted to spend time together. And the medical experiments were discontinued, as if from fear of reprisal from the conquerors when they arrived, their horrors discovered. The doctors ran away. Now even the Gypsy children dared hope, and the women who found themselves pregnant. No more experiments on their babies, or themselves.

But our hope was premature. There was still suffering to be had, even a very deep suffering by those who had been so careful, who had learned how to survive, even profit, from this miserable camp life. The depth of depravity of the human mind had not yet expressed itself to the fullest, and while we waited in the winter calm, new evils were being hatched in insane minds.

While the prisoners existed in their vast sea of decrepit human beings swathed in striped prison rags, looking for an extra scrap of food, a piece of wood to burn, a fallen piece of coal from the train, an extra onion or carrot for vitamins, a potato peel for nourishment, anything to survive another day, winter covered its sad children with snow or rain. We had become apathetic to pain or hardship, and it did not even bother us to stand in the cold rain, drenched to the skin, in that sad sea of humanity. The camp was never built to hold so many souls together, but the trains kept coming, now mostly from Hungary. But these suddenly stopped, and we knew something was happening. In a few days, during roll call one morning, Shwarz addressed us all.

"I know there are rumours about the camps that our glorious Germany is losing the war," he told us. "I want to assure you that this is not so, that these are vicious lies spread by the communists in our group, and that these rumours must stop immediately. If anyone is caught speaking of this again, they will be severely punished. To show how untrue these rumours are, you will now receive an extra onion in your cabbage soup, so that you will be healthy to work productively for the great Fatherland, of which you are all a needed and necessary part. I want you all, each and everyone one of you, to think or yourselves as our important workers, and to give extra effort in all you do. You are not doing this only for Germany, but you are doing it for your own future. "
He then pointed to the chimneys spewing ash into the ashen grey sky.
"You all know there had been plague and typhus epidemics in the other camps, unlike ours. The sick and dying are brought to us to take care of them in the adjacent camps, but we cannot succeed in saving all of them. Some will die, and because we have no place to bury them properly, we are cremating their remains so that the ashes can be sent back to their families. This is a tragedy of war, but it is beyond our control, that illness will claim the lives of those who are unlucky. I do not want you to think that the chimneys are evidence of eliminations of any of our laborers. You, our workers, are needed for the war effort, and to succeed in the construction of our new Reich, for which you will be remembered, and rewarded accordingly. But discipline must be maintained at all times. I will not tolerate any more lies from those who want to sow dissent within this camp, which is a known to be a model for all the other camps. If anyone has a specific contribution to make to me, or to our staff, report this immediately. I personally will hear every report given by anyone. Long live Germany! Long live the great Reich!"

I looked over to the Russian prisoners of war, of which there were fewer, decimated by disease and death. Their eyes were staring straight ahead, as if at attention on parade, staring into space at no one in particular. Then I looked over to the English, some of whom were Canadians and Australians, and Americans. They were looking straight at the commandant with an obvious derision in their stare. Then I looked over at the women, and their eyes were downcast, while the children were simply looking without listening. Then I looked over to Giammai, who at the same time looked over to me. We both shook our heads in unison, for what Shwarz was saying was insane. Did he hear his own words? It made no sense. His words were madness for a world gone mad.

The Slav guards had begun to act nervous also, turning their usual brutality on us, while alternately trying to befriend us. Were they finally realizing on whose side they were? Did it ever occur to them that the Nazis had only used them for their horrible purpose, and they too were now expendable? Rumours had surfaced that some had been arrested and sent to the gas chambers. Now there was fear in their eyes, for they were beginning to understand. But for them there was no escape, they were trapped by their own submission to the Master Race, and now they were about to be held accountable. Were it possible for them to shed their skins and hide amongst us prisoners, they would have done so, but that was impossible. They were doomed to their fate with that of the SS. And soon the war's terrible end would turn against them too. The fear had begun to show in their eyes, which made us glad secretly in our hearts, but which also increased our fear.

There was no more talk of Herr Himmler, nor of his visits to inspect his "model" camp. We do not know what had happened to the people in Berlin, those who issued orders to the camp's command. It was as if suddenly the camp was left to its own, to manage as best we could without guidance from the top. Word had gone around that the Fuhrer had survived an attempted assassination, but now remained in hiding. The transports had slowed to a crawl, but the chimneys kept spewing their red ash into the night. The work details sent there never reported back, which made us more afraid. It was as if a sudden silence had fallen on our world, as if the dead were demanding accountability in the only language they had for us, their silence. Were we all doomed to the same fate, to be burned? But who would scatter our ashes if none were left? Nothing made sense anymore.

"Tania, what's to become of us?" I asked my Romanian friend one late evening as we were preparing to lie down on our filthy bedding for the night. We had both survived this long, from that first day we arrived together.
"Hans tells me the women are safe. Not to worry about what we are hearing."
Tania had taken a German SS officer for a lover, a young man, sweet of face and so out of place here. She had met him at the special evening with the SS officers. He was a university student, a chemist, and was put into uniform late in the war. He now managed the chemical works at the paint factory. But even there the work had slowed, now that orders were few, so he could spend more time with her. She seemed please with him, and even imagined herself in love. All knew this was a dangerous thing, to fall in love with a man of the SS, for he might turn on her at any moment, as had happened many times before. One day she could disappear and never heard from again. But she seemed unconcerned, and fared well for it.
"Is it true the SS had been asking about Svetlyana? I heard they said she had hid children from the gas chambers."
"I heard of this too. Hans told me. But do not be afraid for her. She is very highly regarded by the German officers, for her work as capo of the women guards. And doesn't she look sharp in her uniform?"
"You sound like you are on their side now," I countered without thinking, being so bone tired that I did not know what I was saying. But a hurt look on her face told me I made a mistake.
"I am on no ones side, Kostia. I, like you, just want to survive."
"But what if the Russians come? What will you do?"

We did get an extra onion in our cabbage soup, as promised, which was also odd and made us suspicious. But the occasional potato was now gone, and the very rare soup bone had totally disappeared some time ago. Though we had onions, our hunger increased, and there was no way around this. The evening bread was sliced thinner now, so all suffered equally, even the Germans. There was less food in the officer's kitchen, which meant there was less food to steal for our friends, or those in the barracks most in need. There was now less food to go around.

Then Sasha, our beloved Sasha was taken away one day, and never seen again. The children sang no more, there was not need, it was no more in their hearts to sing. Since now even they learned of how they had been saved from death. This was the silence that fell over the camp, that we all held our breath, for the monster god of the Aryans was about to breathe his hot breath on us again. Now we feared for Maria. She was not a Jew, but these things did not seem to matter anymore, and anyone who fell off the survival list was called by death equally, Jew or Gentile. Giammai said that God cast a blind eye on the plight of all of us miserables in this life. If there was ever a need for a Messiah, the time had come. Like a calm before a terrible storm, we held our breath, afraid to breathe.

Only the English held their calm. In their dignified way, they resisted internally all that was happening around them. They suffered like we all did, but they had an understanding, a valued self worth that perhaps the rest of us did not have. It was because they came from a land of freedom, Giammai told me, and this is why they could bear the suffering better. They knew there was another reality, and that this world we all shared here was but an illusion, a malevolent illusion created by demented minds. And yet, how powerful they were over us. But they could not get our souls, not our souls. It was in this that the English gave us strength, and though we did not have much contact with them, we could see how they carried themselves, all like gentlemen and officers, of dignified bearing even though they too suffered hunger and punishment. They suffered these without showing weakness, they suffered with dignity.

Packages suddenly began arriving from the world Red Cross. We could not believe our eyes. Even letters from families, some posted more than a year ago. What treasures these were! I did not get any letters from home, but just seeing others open theirs was like opening a window on the world for the rest of us. There was a world outside after all, maybe a world of normalcy, where normal people lived, though to us, from far away, they seemed more a world filled with angels than human beings. We had been brought down by our Aryan masters so low. Then there was word that some of us would be transported away from here, to Norway. That sounded too good to be true, and no one believed it until the commandant one day presented a person during morning roll call, to tell us that some of us would be transported away from the camps. Then the man from the Red Cross spoke, and he explained that a terrible mistake had been made, and that families on the outside had requested that some of the laborers be released. He spoke with great civility, though we could tell from his face he was also much distressed. We must have looked so horrible to him. From the depths of our fallen state, it was hard to believe him. We were sure this was only another trick to get us into the chimneys.

We learned later it was all true, that the packages were from the world outside. The Germans were realizing suddenly how desperate they were to appear human again, after having been so inhuman with us. It is not that the prisoners blamed Germans, not the people. It was that we knew that those who had gained power over them were the malevolent creations of a mad man, and in his madness, he drove all of us to the brink of the same craziness. They made us believe that their madness was normal, and that it was we, the ordinary people, who were bad. We no longer trusted, no longer believed, no longer loved each other, for fear had so entered our souls. We did not even know who we were anymore.


17. The Saviours

Renato had tears in his eyes when he came to me.

"They took Gemma," he sobbed quietly. "They took Gemma."
His body began trembling all over.
"This is madness. Who's rounding up the children?"
Renato sucked in his breath.
"Shwarz is taking them personally. He said there had been foul play, that the children he demanded were not being gathered."
"Of course, the trains had stopped."
This was serious. We had a problem. The usual scheme no longer worked, and the evil demanded more children to be sent to their destruction.
"Was Katia among them too?"
"And Valia, and Mottel, they were all in the truck together."
"This is very serious. We better go and find out what is happening."

We hurried to the waiting truck only to see the women sobbing violently when we got there. Livia ran over to Renato.
"They're taking our daughter! What are we to do?"
"Hush my darling, hush. Giammai is here and he will help us."
These words tore through to me into my heart, that they had such faith in me. But I was powerless, at a loss. I did not see Jan anywhere, only a crowd of women gathered to see their children for the last time. The children were sitting in the back of the truck under the grey tarp without a sound. They looked glum, only occasionally looking up, up towards the chimneys. They understood where they were going.
"I must find Shwarz. I am going to his office now." I then turned to the Slav women guards who were keeping watch over the truck.
"Do not move this truck until you have authorization from your capo, from Svetlyana. There had been a mistake made, and I am going to see the commandant this minute."
The women gave me a blank stare, wanting to obey their orders, but also fearful of making a mistake. I showed them my black armband.
"I am a capo, and you must not disobey what I tell you, understand?"
They did not respond, but looked at me with their stupid faces. Only Svetlyana could stop them from this desperate transport. "If you disobey me, you will have to answer to the Red Cross."
These last words brought a light of understanding into their eyes, and they too suddenly became afraid.
"We will wait for word from our capo, Schwarznegger," their senior answered me. Suddenly, this had become my name.

I told the women and Renato to stay with the transport at all times, and to go with them if they started to move with it, but stay with it. The I ran off to Shwarz's office to find the man responsible for this evil deed. I found him sitting at his desk in his private chambers, two men Slav guards at the door, in their black gloved hands large wooden truncheons. They glared at me as I passed them by, but they knew me from past visits and did not stop me.

"What is the meaning of this?" Shwarz looked up from the stack of papers before him.
"I saw the children of our camp readied for transport to the gas chambers, my commandant. There must be a mistake, Sir."
"Why do you think this is a mistake? You had been hiding children for months, in direct disobedience of my orders. What do you say to that, hmm? Is the mistake not yours? Now you will be punished, and the children will be punished with you. They must die, as will you."
He delivered this as if it were the most normal thing to say in the world.
"The Red Cross will find out, Sir. And it will be known that you personally killed these children, the same children who sang so beautifully for you."
"You forget your place, Schwarznegger! How dare you threaten me!"
"With all due respect, Sir, but I am only saying the obvious. Think of your children!"
He set his jaw and nearly growled his next words to me.
"How dare you bring my family into this!" His small black un-Aryan eyes glared at me. "I have orders from Berlin to remove all the children. All of them! You think this is easy for me?"
"What orders, Sir? When there is no communications with Berlin anymore?"
My voice was pleading now, no longer able to contain the sorrow that had embedded itself into me. We had survived so long, and now all seemed hopeless, lost.
"Do not become sentimental, and do not mix into what is not your affairs. You had orders which you disobeyed, repeatedly. Now they must be corrected. So the children must go. Now, go and attend to what you must do. I will call for you when you are finished."

With that he dismissed me, and I was left speechless and confused, not understanding what was happening. Shwarz returned his attention to his papers, as if I had never been there. I walked out and ran back to the truck. When I got there, the women were still sobbing, trying to talk to their loved ones for a last time, comforting them. When they saw me, I could tell from their eyes the look of desperation they felt inside.
"Livia, find Svetlyana and tell her it is urgent she come here."
Livia broke away from her Gemma, letting go of Renato's hand, and ran as fast as her thin body could take her, back towards the women's barracks where she hoped to find the women's commandant.
"What are we to do?" Renato spoke quietly to me, a deep sadness in his eyes.
"I don't know, Renato. Something has to be done, but I don't know. Have you seen Jan?"
"Yes, he was here earlier."
"And he did nothing to stop this?"
"He said it was the commandant's orders, and he could do nothing."
"What monsters have we become! How could he say that?" It gave me a thought. "I will go and find him right now, and talk to him. There must be something that can be done."

When I found Jan at the leather works, where they were preparing well tanned skins for shipment, I rushed up to him and told him what was happening.
"I know, Giammai, I know. But there is nothing we can do now." He looked at me with his intelligent understanding eyes. "You, like me, must bide your time."
"Bide my time? Are you crazy? They're about to kill them!"
"Don't raise your voice, or you will panic the workers here. Just do what I say, and wait."
There was no plan, there was no hope, nor was there time. The children were about to be taken away, forever. My heart felt tight in my chest, and could not bear this burden anymore. I ran back to the truck. When I got there, Svetlyana had arrived and was talking with the women guards.

"Svetlyana! You must help us. They cannot take our children away!"
A hardness I had not seen a long was now visibly projecting from her.
"There is nothing we can do, these are orders that must be obeyed."
"But they are children! Think of when you had children in your care, when you were a teacher. How would you have felt if they took those away from you?"
"That is not the same. Then we were civilians. Now we are soldiers. These are different times, and you cannot compare the two."
"You helped Kostia. You helped me. Now you must help these children!"
"No. I am powerless as you. Orders, you understand?"
Svetlyana turned to the women guards and gave them instructions to drive away.
I jumped on the back of the truck.
"If you take them, then I will go with them too, even if it is to our doom!"
"You're a fool, Giammai. But do what you will."

As we drove away, I watched Renato and Livia holding each other in their arms, crying audibly. They had made it this far, with their daughter now in the truck with me, and I at a loss, as we were all at a loss. I looked over to Katia, but she did not look afraid. I instinctively came over to that brave little girl, she who now was able to offer comfort to me.
"Are you not afraid, Katia?" Her sweet face looked up at me with dreamy eyes, as if she had just come from some wonderful party and was so happy to have danced and talked with friends, to have eaten cakes and drank hot chocolate.
"I have seen my angels today, and they were beautiful."
I put my arm around her frail little shoulders. The other children watched us, fear in their eyes, even the eyes of her best friends. Katia looked up at me.
"Do you always see angels when all is so dark?"
I looked outside at the early morning light, the cold penetrating every part of our bodies, the truck rolling slowly over the uneven ground. The engines foul smoke enveloped us like an evil cloak of blackness.
"They told me not to worry, that it will be beautiful."
"Death, beautiful? Oh, Katia, you are an impossible human being. How did you become who you are?"
"The angels, they are always with me."

We lumbered past the gate held open by the guards, which they then closed behind us without looking at us. They knew who we were. They knew where we were going. Our eyes for the last time saw the dismal barracks in the distance, them receding from us, already receding into memory, into that recess of the mind where things past are stored. Stored for what? Soon life itself would be a lost memory, this chapter of existence extinguished forever. It was only a kilometer to the burning chambers, but it seemed leagues away, an interminable ride along the route of death taken by so many others. We were now only one more shipment of human beings sent to their destruction.
When we got to the holding station, where they have you undress for the gas showers, there was a small group of men and women standing. There were ten of them. Then when we rounded a corner, I saw Jan standing. It was not expected. I did not understand why he was here, how he got here, when he was just a short time ago at the factory. We were ordered to get out. "Schnell, schnell!" In our confusion, we jumped out.

"Giammai. You must do exactly as I say. Go and take the children over there, and keep them quiet. I want no disturbance from them." Jan said this to me with urgency.
"What are you doing? Who are these standing there?"
"They are the names you have on the list aboard this truck."
"You mean they will die?" I asked wide eyed.
"They are volunteers, who had been chosen long ago for this work."
"A sacrifice? They are a sacrifice?" I looked over at them, they holding their eyes downcast, hands folded before them, almost more apparitions then live men and women.
"You will know who they are."
I walked over to them. To my horror, these were faces I knew.
"Yacob? My friend. Why are you here?"
Yacob looked up at me and gave a feeble smile.
"I am going to see my wife and children." Then he looked away.
"No! I will go for you!"
"No, Giammai, my dear friend. You don't understand. I want to go. You must live... to tell all the world our story..."
"But you, Maria! How could you go? This is madness!"
She shook her head, tears in her eyes.
"I can never live again in the world I came from. I will never sing again. Either I do this... or I slit my wrists." Then she and Yacob put their arms around each other.
Tears welled up in my eyes, with the depth of understanding that these wonderful human beings were willing to let go their lives for their children. They loved these children so much that they would martyr their own lives to death, without even assurance that they will succeed in saving the souls of their children. But they would try.
"May your souls be received by God with open loving arms."
"We will be. Our God is Love."

Jan hurried the children into a building adjacent, with instructions to be still and silent. Then he processed the papers necessary for this transport and led the waiting men and women into the undressing room. Behind them rose thick smoke from the chimneys. It was as if we were at the entrance of the gates of hell, and these wonderful human beings, each one a beautiful soul, was about to be swallowed by the horrible monster on the other side. I turned away with a heavy weight in my stomach. I could look their way no more.

When I joined the waiting children, Kostia was already with them, as was Svetlyana. Neither said a word to me. They had come in from the officer's quarters not far from these buildings, and were dressing the children in adult prison uniforms. How they managed to get small sizes, I did not know, but the children looked like workers, no longer children. It was as if this was their right of passage into an adult world, into a world where now they would have responsibilities of grown men and women. When done, and they were all marched away, I turned to Jan.

"You are the saviour, Jan. You and Kostia and Svetlyana. You have the light of God on you. You are the saviours."
"No, my friend. We are only doing what we can, what we must."
"You will hide them? In the pits under the latrines?"
He nodded, not needing to explain.
"But I have bad news for you."
"Shwarz?"
He nodded again.

I rode the empty truck back to the camp, and when I got there, the guards directly led me away from the gate. I was taken to the commandant's office and told to wait there. Though it was officially already spring, the day outside was still mired in winter. All through the nights we could hear distant bombings going on. Now, as I waited here, the bombing had resumed, and their distant hollow blasts reached all the way to here. American and British planes were dropping their deadly loads on the poor humans below. I could not imagine what it must be, to have falling from the sky man made metal casings filled with such destructive power. Alive one moment, and dead or maimed the next instant, as fire breaks out all around you, the cries and screams of the wounded, the crashing of buildings amidst flames. What hell have we unleashed on our world?

The commandant came in. He had just finished his breakfast, and a small piece of egg was still pasted to his cheek. He saw me look at it and instinctively brushed it away. He took his seat at his expansive desk piled with important papers. The roar from the distance had died again, the planes having delivered death and now turning back across the Channel, or to their air bases beyond the German lines. The war was grinding to a halt, but its terrible power was still felt here, in this camp. Its awesome power was still reverberating within these wall, still a steady pressure on our miserable lives. The Fuhrer's evil had not yet been fully conquered.

"So! You wanted to be a hero. A martyr? Is that it?"
He looked at me with a near smile on his face, a malevolent joy in squashing an insignificant insect, reveling in the last days of his power. He did not understand the war was over, that he had lost. Or did he?
"I am sorry, Sir. I did not understand how necessary it was to kill children."
"No, you did not." He motioned to one of the guards, who walked up to me and hit me with all his force on the back of my head. I nearly swooned from the blow and fell to my knees. When I regained my full consciousness again, I looked straight into his eyes.

"You have been defiant for a long time, Schwarznegger. And I had been lenient with you, because I had read Uncle Tom's Cabin. But... I see this was my mistake. You had not been grateful for what I had done for you. You did not understand that it was I who kept you from death, from extermination. Did you know I had you listed in our files as Italian? Hmm?" He looked at me, trying to gain my compassion for him, but I had none. "No. You did not know this. So what am I to do with you?"
"Kill me, Sir, like you have the thousands who had died before me."
"Ah... a martyr." He said this with derision. "No. You will not die so easily. But I have killed the spirit in you, haven't I? Your children are now going up in smoke, up the chimney." Again his malevolent smile surfaced.
"When the Russian armies come, it will be your turn."
He looked at me with some insane amusement, as if I had just told him a funny story.
"We shall see... we shall see."
Just then Jan and Svetlyana were marched into the room, and were ordered to stand at attention. They did not look at me.

The guard hit me again from behind, into my back with his truncheon, and it hurt intensely. My breath came short and again I thought I would swoon. My two witnesses did not move. Then Kostia was led into the room. The room turned suddenly dark, and I do not know if I was still awake or asleep on my knees. When the commandant spoke again, I only heard him in some distant echo between my ears. I was ashamed.

18. Sentence

He was like a cat playing with his mouse. Except his small black eyes were now narrowed, like in a cornered rat about to attack.

"How many times I have told you, Giammai, not to cross me?"
It was the first time this name was ever used by him, and it made an impression on all present. Normally, we are just numbers, or called by some foul epithet, or just blacknigger. But here he used a real name, like something out of a movie, that we could not believe or understand.
"And yet you defy me over and over again. Ein? How many times? Are you insane to defy me? Will you never stop?"

Giammai opened his mouth, but the pain on his back was still strong and he could not answer, though he wanted to. I looked on helpless, as did Jan and Svetlyana standing next to me. We could not move, nor dared to speak. We were silent witnesses to the malevolence coming from this small man, this tiny fractured mirror of his great Fuhrer.
Finally the small figure kneeling on the floor sucked in his breath and spoke.

"You are mad. You are all mad." Shwarz strutted over to him, looked at the guard standing behind the man on the floor, but did nothing. Then he walked back to his great desk, and sat on its edge.
"You think us mad? Mad huh? You, you who are a nothing, think we are mad? It is you who is mad. You, a pathetic small version of a man. You are without support now, you are alone."
He points to us. "Look at your friends. They will do nothing to help you. Not lift a single finger!"
"I am without friends. And I am prepared to die alone."

I was about to speak, to say "No! We are with you!" But Shwarz lifted a finger, to signal to us to not talk. When we were small children, and if we were noisy and talking in class, the teacher would make us put our hands on our heads, to keep us silent. It was like that. That finger, when it went up, was like us putting our hands on our heads, or over our mouths, and we dared not speak. Then Giammai spoke again, feebly, with great difficulty.

"Listen. The bombs are falling again." We listened and in the distance could hear the blasts. "It is over. You had been conquered. The war is over, and now it is for you to pay for what you had done."

This time, it was Shwarz who sucked in his breath.

"You cannot speak of victory. There are no tanks outside the gate. And when they get here, they will find you hanging, a dead man."
"My revenge will be in hell, where you are going. Of this, I am certain, and if I go there with you, I will torment you until the ends of time."

The great commandant did not respond, though his stature seemed diminished by these words, as if he too knew he was going to hell. Then he spoke again.
"You will have lots of company in hell, my friend. All those I sent to the chimneys will be there with you."
Giammai looked up at him and smirked.
"And they will all torment you too."

Then Shwarz turned to us.
"So. What shall we do with him? Hang him publicly? Or kill him quietly, privately behind the barracks so none will think him a hero?"
It was Jan who found the courage to speak first.
"A martyr's death is too good for him, Sir. I say hang him in chains out in public, not to kill him, but for all to see how powerless he is."
"And you?" he turned to Svetlyana.
"It is better not to kill him right away. As Jan says, hang him publicly so that all the others will fear. They will not make this mistake."
He then turned to me, but did not ask me. Instead, he thought about it, dangling one leg off the desk, swinging it as if thinking.
"Uh hmm... I think that is right. We do not want him a martyr, or it may inflame others into rebellion." He sat there, thinking some more. Then he stood up very delicately, as if preparing to ask someone to dance. The guard eagerly awaited orders to strike again.
"Kiss the floor on which you kneel, scum!"
Giammai gave him a defiant look, refusing to budge.
"No."
At the slight twitch of an eyebrow, the guard standing behind him pushed him down hard so that his teeth crashed on the wooden floor. When he lifted his eyes, there was blood streaming from his mouth, and over his eye.
"Kiss the floor I said. Stretch your hands towards me, and kiss the floor."
Giammai stretched out his hands, since he was already in a prone position. But he turned his mouth away from the floor. This infuriated the small commandant, and he took a large step over to him and stomped with his steel heeled boot on his hand hard, until Giammai screeched in pain. Blood began flowing from his broken hand. Giammai gasped for air, but would not kiss the floor. So Shwarz stepped on it again. Another loud cry escaped the poor man's lips. He hid his face, brow against the hard floor. We waited, silent, silenced by the fear we all had in our hearts. The guard looked on, awaiting more instructions, eager to please. None came. Shwarz sat back on his desk again, thinking.

Finally, as if tiring of his game, he simply said "The devil take you. I'll take care of you later." Then turning to the guard. "Put him in iron shackles and lock him to the hanging posts, spread eagle.'" Then he turned to us, his stunned silent audience. "I will have him killed later. First I want all to see him thus, like this, a chained animal, an African black in chains, so they will all understand. You can be a laborer, or you can be a prisoner. It is always your choice." He stopped to listen to the bombings in the distance.
"No roll call today."

Giammai smiled when he looked up again. His face was bloody, his eye turning dark, but he smiled. He had refused to kiss the floor, and for him, and us, this was victory.

When I saw Giammai again, he was a forlorn figure dangling from chains anchored against the solid posts used for hanging, spread eagle. His face was swollen, the blood dried in patches, down his shirt, in small puddles on the floor of the scaffold. None dared go near him, as if their very proximity would somehow involve them in his pain. Instinctively, like caged animals, they paced at a distance, but would not approach him. Only Renato came near him to offer water, of which Giammai took a swallow. The pain only let him take one.
I did not approach him either, out of fear, out of shame, that I did nothing to help him. Neither was Jan around, though I knew he felt the same shame inside. I did not know of Svetlyana, and did not see her. By evening it was raining, the steady rain of springtime, not cold but wet and streaming. Giammai hung pathetically in the open, no canopy to protect him from the rain, which was washing the blood away. He would lift up his head at times and stick out his tongue. But then the head would fall once more.
I had seen how others had been tortured, hands tied behind their backs, left hanging this way until their shoulder joints burst and they died in terrible agony. But this could not have been much better. A strong great man of virtue hanging like this, refusing to be dehumanized further, defiant in all his pain. Finally, I could stand it no more. I had to speak to him.

It was already dark, near curfew, and I stole over to where he hung, a cup of soup cradled in my hands.
"Giammai," I called to him. "May I approach you?"
"Yes, Kostia. You may always approach me." He looked up, trying to make out my features through his blood stained eyes.
"I brought you some soup, and a crust of bread."
"You eat it, dear Kostia. As you see, I am a dying man."
"No! You will not die."
"Ha..." He did not finish his words. I came up to the scaffold and carefully poured the liquid into his lips, which he drank gratefully. When he had taken some swallows, he spoke again.
"Do you know where I was?" he asked me.
"No, where my beautiful Giammai?"
"Ahh... I dreamt I was in the Garden of Eden. I was in paradise... I was in the tropics. The warm breezes were making the palms sway, and I was eating oranges..." He smiled at me, as if he truly had come from there.
"Oranges? I had forgotten about oranges. How sweet they are. My father had brought some from Crimea..."
"Yes. They are so good to eat, sweet and full of vitamins. I was eating them, by the sea shore, watching black children swim... How are our children?"
"They are safe."
"Poor things. So close to death, and God knows where they are now, it is no comfort for them."
"But they live, as will you."
"Oh, Kostia. I tire of this life... I wish I could see angels, to tell me how beautiful everything is."
I cried a little before I could say another word.
"You are beautiful, Giammai. You are beautiful."
Tears were forming in his eyes, and he looked away.
"I am a black man, not beautiful."
"No! You are beautiful. Don't ever forget that! You are beautiful!"

We both cried on each other, my holding his unbroken hand, his left, he placing his head on my shoulder. Then we could hear the distant bombing again, except now it sounded closer. In a few moments the rain stopped, and we both listened in the distance. No one else was around us, just him and me, both looking into each other's eyes. I reached over to his lips and kissed him with mine.
"I love you, Giammai, I love you."
"And I love you Kostia, I love you."

Suddenly the sirens went off in the adjacent town, and we could hear commotion coming from there, people shouting. In the camps the prisoners ran out of their barracks, some running in circles, not knowing where to go. There were no shelters dug for them, so they were out in the open. And then the skies lit up over us with flares, and we could see great airplanes passing overhead. Then it began. It was as if the Earth had turned against us and shook with all its might. The bombs began falling all around us. Not on the camp directly, but all around the camp there were loud explosions and debris flying through the air, raining splintered wood and brick on us.
"Giammai! I must get you out of here!" I yelled over the fury.
"Let them kill me! It would be merciful."
"No! I will get the keys!"

I ran off, knowing Jan or Svetlyana would know how to get the keys, but as I was running there, Renato was running towards me.
"I have the keys!" he shouted over the loud roar of bombers and bombs.
"God bless you! Get him down, quick!"
Now the light of fires and explosions was all around us, guards running in opposite directions, SS officers scurrying to their shelters. They had shelters, but the rest of us were left out in the open. I thought of the children hiding in their caves. If a bomb fell there, they would all die. Burried alive.
"Give me the keys!" I shouted. "You go and get the children out of the latrines. It is not safe there!"
Renato did as I said and ran off towards the barracks beneath which they were hiding. I ran up the scaffold ladder and undid the locks which held the upper chains, then undid the lower ones, then found the key for the shackles around his wrists and ankles. Giammai was free. By the red light of the furious bombings I could see his smile, he was happy, as if enjoying this hell suddenly unleashed on us. Fire and bits of Earth were flying around, a bomb fell on the edge of the camp sending up a loud flash towards the sky. They might have hit stored munitions, for the fire released more explosions. The sky was red with fire, the roar of bombs falling, and airplane engines all around us. I could not tell if they were American or Russian, but it did not matter. It was the end. We were being liberated.

"Take me to the barracks, Kostia. I need my notebook."


19. Great March

News came the front had come within ten kilometers, and there was a new order.

"Evacuate! Evacuation!"

The Germans had already mostly deserted, and only a handful were present to direct the camp operations. The translator, Shwarz's ever present attendant, was now in command. The commandant was nowhere to be seen. The Slav guards were abandoning their posts. Some had donned prison uniforms, but still held onto their weapons. Prisoners were running about, gathering up their few belongings, hoping to take some treasure with them, a sweater or blanket, something that would help them survive. I had only my notebook, that was all I wanted, and it was for this that I immediately made my escape. It was where I had left it, well hidden under the soiled bedding of the barracks, untouched by any hand. I took it in my good hand and opened it, where I had last written my prayer. With great difficulty, I took up my pencil in my broken hand and began to write.

"This is my last will and testament." It was so painful, but I had to write what was on my mind. It was the words that came from my soul.

"To my beloved Kostia, Olgha, I bequeath this notebook and all that is in it, for her to preserve and cherish. To tell the story of what a life we led in this living mortuary of our camp existence." Blood broke open from my hand and dripped onto the page. I kept writing.
"None can imagine how we clung to our humanity, only to have it stripped away daily. But we survived, those who survived, and we became something more than human beings. We became Everything, like God, we were everything. We were good and we were bad, we were heroes and we were monsters, just like our captors. We saved lives, and we took lives, so that no one soul was pure, nor was anyone to blame. It was survival in a hell allowed by God. If there were saints amongst us, they were too young to understand the full truth of where, of what we were. For us who were present of mind, the truth was too terrible to contemplate for too long, or we would go mad. We were mad. We were insane and we did not know it, just as our captors were insane, imagining themselves sane while they were mad. Death was our daily companion, and we watched our friends marched off to the chimneys, never to be seen again."
I stopped, while others were running around the barracks, shouting. The sun was rising onto a new day, and it promised to be clear, a sunny day, a spring day. Renato came in to urge me to hurry, that the capos were gathering all the prisoners together. We would march away from the front, away from the Russian soldiers who were advancing, and be taken west. I did not hurry. But I did inquire of the children, and he said they had already been assembled. When I asked if they were fine, he only held his nose, and smiled. I smiled back at him. It was truly the end. I continued writing.
"Forgive us for our trespasses as we forgive those who trespassed against us, and deliver us forever from this evil, that it will never, never, never happen again. In the name of Allah, of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate, no human being should ever do this to another ever again. No children should ever have to endure what we had endured. No woman with child should ever see her baby killed again. No father or mother should ever see their children taken away, to be slaughtered. What we had done, in the name of rightness, was a travesty, and we are all to blame for such hideous transgressions against the beauty of the human soul."

Kostia came in, to urge me to hurry. I told her I would be done in a moment. She kissed my hand, the one bleeding.

"No single race, nor single people, no matter what their religion, what their skin, no matter what they believed or not, should ever be singled out for destruction. This was the most horrible thing, that a people would be sent to their death only because of who they were. God, never, never let this happen again, for if we are the devil, then deliver us from ourselves. Amen." I thought a moment longer, and then added this.
"With all my love forever, to Olgha."

I signed it Giammai, and closed its cover.
My hand hurt terribly, but I would not let it drop from that bloody hand, though now it stained the cover. I could not let it go, until Kostia spoke again. I looked up at her, and saw her blue eyes look at me in a panic.

"No, I am not dying," I said to her, and she lit up with a smile.
"Of course you are not dying! You're only hurt. We're being led out of this terrible place, going to the West. That's where freedom is. We're being taken to freedom!"
"Ah, freedom... I don't what that is anymore. It's been so long... much can still happen... I am not going to go."
"What do you mean you are not going?"
"I am not well, I feel it in my heart. If I make the trek with you, all of you, I will be killed, or die by the side of the road."
"But you must come! The Russians are almost upon us!"
"Teh Russians... Are they not liberators also?"
"They are drunk and cruel, and the will rape the women and kill the men."
She was visibly shaken having spoken those words.
"Oh, not me, they will not kill me. But you... we have reports that your soldiers found in the camps were led off to Siberia, or killed summarily at the station once the train pulled onto Soviet soil. Do you know why?"
"No." She shook her head, but she knew why.
"Because the soldiers and men and women were called traitors. Traitors to the Fatherland. So you see, it does not stop. It continues, the killing."
"But we are going west, to where the English are."
"That is where you must go, go to Paris. Go where people are civilized, and I will join you later."
"Oh, Giammai, how can I make you understand? If you fall into Russian hands, you will be sent off to labor camps behind the Urals!"
"I don't know... But I will not go there, trust me. My destiny is elsewhere, if I live."
I took into my hands the little notebook into which I had just written.
"Take this. I give it to you. In with it I share with you my soul."

I took the notebook in my hands, and pressed it against my lips. Then I reached down to that great man lying down, his eyes closed, and pressed my lips against his. At that moment, I believe our souls merged, and we were one.

"God bless you, Giammai. You have done so much for me."
He smiled and opened his eyes.
"Not nearly enough, beautiful Olgha, not nearly enough to save you from all that happened here."
He used my real name, a name given to me at birth.
"There was nothing else we could do, my beloved. We were all prisoners together."
"But I sent innocent children to their death. And I blasphemed by condemning an innocent man. I am a sinner, unforgiven."
"God will forgive you. You were not one of them."
"God will forgive them too. Even someday, the survivors will forgive them."
"The Jews, the Gypsies? They were singly destroyed. Why?"
"I do not know. But it must never happen again. Now go, you must join the others. You have a difficult march ahead of you."
We both looked out into the daylight beyond the grimy windows.
"See, the sun is shining. It is a sign of freedom."
"But clouds are forming. Even freedom is not without its price." He took hold of my hand with his one hand, and squeezed it. "Promise me one thing, Kostia. Promise me that you will survive."
"I will survive."

I turned to leave, clutching the notebook to my breast. Then I turned to him.
"Will you remember me?"
"I will always remember you. I am in you, as you are in me."
"Then follow me. I have always followed you. Now you follow me. Come when you can. Come see freedom."
"Ahh... I hurt... I will try."

I left Giammai where he lay, left him to his pain, his memories, praying that I would see him again. Strange that at that moment I had no thought at all of my past life, of Mikhail, of my parents, or my childhood friends. Before me was a road laid out into the west, towards the setting sun, and the east was suddenly only a blur of what had been.

When I arrived at the gate, a sea of humanity was already streaming past the now empty guard towers. The Ukrainian and Slav uniforms were laying about the entrance, as if they too were liberated from their own personal hell, next to the SS uniforms, their evil deeds left behind in those soiled grey, or yellow green, jackets and trousers trampled underfoot. Not to be found laying about were striped prison uniforms, nor the blue ones of the laborers, all taken. Amongst those leaving were also the English, and they held their squads in formation. The Russians, Ukrainians, Poles, and Italians, the few French and Greeks, all were making their way out the gate as best they could, without order, without a commanding officer, but making a mad dash for their freedom. It was a grand escape for all who could walk. Those who could not, too weak, or who would not, too broken, stayed behind, watching us helplessly. Some SS troops held onto their pistols, other soldiers still had their rifles, so that they would march us together through their villages and towns under their watchful eyes, to protect their countrymen from any damage we may cause. To their eyes, we were still the wretched of the Earth, capable of stealing or doing other harm, which was so far removed from the truth. But they too had gone insane, and so believed themselves useful with their guns.

We marched in columns, more or less, four abreast. When someone faltered, we helped them up, watching over our shoulders if someone would come and hit us, or put a bullet behind our ear. But none attacked us.
The towns people, or the villagers where we were passing through, stood as if watching a macabre parade, their heads cast down. We passed burned, bombed out houses. When they felt moved, the villagers would walk with us and offer us water, or bread, a hard boiled egg. If they were too shy, they would toss an old dried out apple or carrot at us, or boiled potato, which we grabbed, then shared with those around us. These morsels, what was thrown at us, these were the first tastes of freedom. That we were the wretched of the Earth, all knew this.

I saw Tania with her young officer.
"Hans! Tania!" I called to them. They held hands together and waved with the other, cheerful in their sad tired state.
"Walk with us, Kostia!" I joined them. Hans was wearing a loose fitting prison uniform, striped like the rest of us. Somewhere a shot rang out behind us, but he said not to look back, to only keep walking. When would it ever end, I wondered, when will the killings stop? But instead we talked of how easy, and yet hard, it was to leave the camp behind, the only life we knew for so long, and of the future that lay ahead of us. Hans said he would take Tania to America, once he was free to leave Germany. Occasionally bombers flew overhead on their way to their missions, but none were dropped on us. What were the pilots thinking of as they flew high up in the sky? Did we look like so many ants on a long trail to nowhere? Where were we going? Who was leading us? We did not know. We only knew that we were on the great march together to freedom, to the American side, to the English, to Canada.

When I left them, I made my way to see our children, and they all walked together under the watchful eye of Svetlyana, also dressed in prison uniform, just like she was long ago.

"Katia! Valia! Where's Mottel?"
"He stayed behind with the sick, those too weak to move. He said they needed food, and he was going to feed them."
"God bless him, little Mottel. And thank God you children are safe."
"We all know what you did for us, Kostia. You and Giammai. The angels told me."
"Oh, yes. The angels. They surely were with you, with all of us here."
I then caught up with my superior, my capo.
"Svetlyana, wait. May I walk with you?"
"Why yes. But why are you not going East?"
"Because I am afraid of the East."
"You heard stories? That they execute prisoners because Stalin calls them traitors, that they did not die for the Fatherland?"
"Yes. Maybe they would not have hurt me, but all who wore uniforms, either before the war or during, would be executed. The stories coming from there are frightening."
"Stalin. What a strange man, not unlike their horrible Fuhrer here. Look at all these people watching us marching by. Do you think they are all evil?" We both looked at the forlorn faces of sadness watching this parade of broken human beings. "No. You see, they too were victims, even if they believed in what they were told."
"Lying is a terrible evil, for it hurts us while we are not aware we are being hurt."
We all stepped aside for a fast moving motorcade of German soldiers. Their helmets missing, though some still clung to their weapons, they seemed in a great hurry. But they too were heading West, not East towards the front. It was over and they knew where it was better to surrender.

At night, we would sleep where we could, in a ditch off the road, in a hay barn, or those of us who were lucky, covered by someone's kindness, under a real roof. We had forgotten what it was to be warm and fed and comfortable. Sleep came fitfully, since our dreams still bordered on nightmares. But we slept, knowing we were out.
The next morning, it was raining, and there was a hushed whispered being passed down the long line of escaping prisoners. A woman had been killed that night. I went over to where a crowd had gathered by the side of the road to see who it was, and my heart stopped. The large woman lay there, blood drying on her head where the mortal wounds were, where she had been bludgeoned to death. It was Svetlyana. God have mercy on that poor large gentle woman. Word was that the Russian women did it, out of revenge.

How will it end? The killing. When will it ever stop? Oh God, help humanity...

When I reached the children to tell them, an attractive young woman was with them, offering to look after them. I had seen her at camp, though I did not know her. She was from Poland, and her name was Barbara. She said that once the children were delivered to the west safely, she would return to her homeland. She wanted to see her family, her mother and sisters. I told her maybe I would too, maybe someday.

Then I saw Jan walking hand in hand with Livia and Renato and Gemma, shoulder to shoulder. I went over to be with them. We talked of Giammai. Livia and Renato both called him their Black Saviour. Giammai, the man who would help all men and women, and never want anything in return. If only he were here with us.


20. Last Entries

I was looking through Giammai's notebook, and came across an entry I had never seen before, one written long ago, on the day of my arrival. It said in simple words what I always knew.

"Today I saw a beautiful woman at the train depot when we were offloading the passengers. Her name is Olgha, but I called her Kostia, and she smiled at me. If I were in love, I would be in love with her."

Oh, Giammai, where are you?

Shortly after the war I was living in Paris with my recently married husband, an assistant professor of philosophy. We had a very small flat in the Left Bank, the Latin Quarter. Because it was so dismally small, his teaching salary could not afford much, I took a walk outside. It was a lovely summer day and the cafes had people lounging, drinking lemonade or wine. I sad down at one and ordered coffee, real coffee, with a pastry, a real pastry. At the next table were some dark skinned men talking, which made them sound like they came from the islands. As I waited for my order to arrive, I heard the name Giammai mentioned, and then mentioned again, so I eagerly leaned over to them and listened, not believing my ears.

"Oh, mon, he be a shaman now, a great man."
"In the islands, where they have banana trees and beautiful brown skinned women."
"Yeah, mon... in paradise."

This elicited a laugh from them, and they turned their talk to something else.
I sat frozen, unable to think, momentarily unable to breathe. It was as if I had heard his voice again. I wanted to ask them if they were talking of the Giammai I knew, since who else has such a name, but I could not. Something inside me told me to not ask, and my throat stayed frozen without uttering a sound. The coffee and pastry came. When my trembling hand raised the cup to my lips, I smelled oranges through my tears.

* * * *

I never heard of Giammai ever again, and in time it was a name that only passed into my memory. Only the soiled little thick, black booklet I have in my possession reminds me that I once knew such a man, such a wonderful man. For me he was always alive, somewhere, on this Earth, or in paradise. He has mixed his soul with mine, and I could never forget that.

I stayed in touch with Katia, who also was in Paris, now studying voice at the conservatory. Her name already appeared in supporting roles at the Parisien opera, and she was very happy. She spoke often of Maria, how she was her early mentor, her inspiration. She also stopped seeing angels, for there was no need anymore.
Her friend Valia, who had grown to be a tall woman, became a school teacher, working with small children, in the south of France. But we all lost touch with Mottel, though he wrote to us from Berlin for a time. He stayed with Giammai for a few days, but when the Russian soldiers came to liberate the camp, he said he was moved out. He believed Giammai was moved too, after his hand was treated, but not to the same center for displaced persons. Some said he had left for Canada, others for Jamaica, or maybe even to the fishing boats off Sicily. So we do not know. But he is somewhere.

Jan returned to Poland, back to the university where he taught before. My husband said that it is hard to imagine that after all his trials in life, after all he had seen, and done, he was not the best teacher of philosophy any student could ever have. But there too we lost touch with him, in time.
My family and I became very close through correspondence, and they were all so relieved that I had survived. They had survived the war too, though many other families lost loved ones. I learned from the letters my mother took in Jewish orphans during the war, telling the Nazis they were nieces and nephews from the Carpathians. After the war, they were returned to their parents or relatives, those who were still alive. I never asked about Mikhail, and they never mentioned him. I think he is dead. But I had not yet gone back to see them, since conditions were still bad for those who had been captured by the Nazis, those who did not lay down their lives for the Fatherland when they had the chance to do so. My life in Paris was too dear to return, not yet. I loved my husband, and he loved me, and we both loved our children. It would have been a tragedy after all this time that he and our children would lose me to imprisonment behind Stalin's barbed iron borders, never allowed to see them again. I could not chance it. I dared not return, not yet.

Livia and Gemma returned to their native land, Italia, to their home and loved ones in Bologna. We wrote many times to each other. Renato stayed behind in Germany, working for the Americans, where he had a well paying job. But his health was broken after the long march, and after a couple of years he sickened and was hospitalized in one of the military hospitals. There he died.

Our children came, and they truly are a gift from God. I can never gaze at their sweet little faces and not think of all the children who did not make it to become beautiful human beings. To compensate for my sadness, I gave them even more love. I cannot love them enough. May God grant them that they will never be tormented in this life as I was, not ever.

And what of me? I live with my fears, my terrible memories, and at times when no one is around, I cry to myself, quietly. I think back to the vast sea of humanity transported aboard those crowded cattle cars... So many people. So many people...

I swore to Giammai that I would survive. And if the memory becomes unbearable, I reach for an orange and smell deeply of its rich tropical scent. Somewhere over the crystal clear blue waters under a warm tropical sky, I can see him on his boat, skin dark and glistening in the light. For me, this is the image I have locked forever into my heart. For me, he will never die.
THE END


In Memoriam
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I wrote "Black Messiah" in commemoration to my Mother and Father, Catherine and Leonid, both of whom had survived the Nazi labor camps and found refuge in the American sector after the war. It is also in memoriam of the names of their friends, some of whom had survived, and some who had not. My father's wife Helen, and my godfather Lyman, also both survivors who had gone through such terrible hardships, and yet in their souls are such beautiful and gentle beings, that I marvel at them. My mother, when she talks of the camps, which is seldom, she cries.

It is also written in commemoration of the six million innocent Jews who had been murdered in those terrible years, and of the millions non-Jews, of all nationalities, including Gypsies, who had perished at the hands of their captors. Their only crime was that they had gotten in the way of the insane Nazi war machine. The Nazi's crime was against all humanity, and their murders must never be forgotten. Most of all, it is written in commemoration of all the innocent children who suffered, some of whom were damaged for life, or decades, but many who were never heard from again, never able to reach their mature years.

I owe a special thanks for Judith Pinczovsky-Jaegermann, whose heart wrenching "Memories of my Childhood in the Holocaust" moved me to tears. In her story I witnessed how a beautiful soul survived unimaginable inhumanity. And also with thanks to all the other survivors of those terrible times, who came forth to tell their story, or who suffered in silence. And for the brave American, British, Soviet, and all the Allied troops who liberated these camps to reveal to the world what horrors lay inside. Also to the foreign communities of survivors, Poles, Jews, Ukrainian, Russians, Lithuanians, Italians, Hungarians, Czeks, French, English, Americans, Germans, who often in their personal agonies held their silence, but when they were able, they talked. To all, dear fellow souls, Thank You.

--IDA