Mr. Kasirer (Part IX)

After we were assigned to a barrack, we were given some food. They didn’t have bowls to serve it in so we took off our caps and used them in place of bowls. We were sent to a big empty building to get our food. A few days passed and the Germans decided this was not a good idea and we were sent to our barracks to eat. However, we were made to stand in the snow for a few hours until we received a little bit of soup. Many people got sick and died.

We were given another number which was not tattooed onto our hand. We were told to memorize it. My number was 121,907; my father’s number was 121,908. The next selections were quick in coming. They were selecting all the young men. When my number was called I did not respond for I didn’t want to leave my father. This group was sent to a camp in Czechoslovakia. I heard from a cousin of mine who was taken there that the place resembled a sanatorium.

A week or two passed before the next selection was made. Together my father and I registered for this transport. It was just about springtime on a rainy day. We stood in line after having been counted, waiting to board the train. Next to me stood a guard holding a rifle. Suddenly, he took the gun and shot himself. The S.S. came running. They refused to believe that a German soldier would commit an act of this sort. Instead, they insisted that he slipped in the rain and the gun went off and killed him. I didn’t argue.

Once on the train, after everyone had settled in, a guard began to shout, “Does anyone here speak Romanian?” My father wanted to respond to the call but I insisted that we wait to hear what he wanted. Sure enough, his next words told it all. “If I find someone on this train from Romania, I will hang him right here!”

When questioned by one of the Jewish Polish prisoners why he was angry, he responded with the following: “One time on a Friday afternoon I arrived in a town in Romania and I wanted to purchase a bottle of whiskey. It was already sundown and all the stores were closed and I couldn’t buy whiskey.”

The prisoner said to him, “If the front entrance is locked, you’re supposed to go around the back.” And then the unlikely happened. The prisoner said to the guard, “I like you; I can do business with you.”

The guard became infuriated. “You, a Jew, a prisoner?”

But the prisoner didn’t get nervous; he continued on. “You are not a German; you are a Romanian. Why can’t we do business?”

The guard was intrigued by this proposal and questioned the prisoner. “What type of business can you do with me?”

The prisoner continued on. “The next stop is Frankfurt, a small city in Germany. Next to the station there is a bakery that bakes the best bread. Take two people along with you and each of you buy two loaves of bread.” They tried to pay with ration cards from Auschwitz. The store owner was furious but there wasn’t much he could do. They returned with six big loaves of bread which was divided among all those on the train.

The train began to move. Again the prisoner approached the guard. He informed him that at the next stop the train would wait for half an hour. There the Germans were putting away potatoes for the winter. “Approach these Germans and ask them to give you a few bushels of potatoes.” The guard listened and returned with the potatoes. For three days we traveled and survived on potatoes. Imagine that the guards took orders from a Jewish prisoner!

On the third day of traveling, we arrived in Holzen — a place known for its beautiful trees. We walked across the town while the women of the town shouted, “Soldaten, Soldaten! — Soldiers, soldiers!” The S.S. were very rough. We were given a little soup and a slice of bread. This was to sustain us for the day. Finally we arrived at a camp consisting of just three or four completely empty barracks. There were no mattresses; sleeping accommodations consisted of bare planks of wood. In the morning we walked 10 km to a construction site where we worked. This routine lasted a couple of weeks, until workers in the area came and bombed the area, destroying everything we had built.

The Germans began making selections again. My father and I hid, to avoid being taken on the transport. That transport left and it was bombed on the way by the British, who thought it was carrying soldiers.

to be continued…

These survivors’ memoirs are being compiled by Project Witness.