There wasn’t enough air in the car for everyone.
Sour sweat dampened our clothing. We stood pressed against one another with our mouths open, we shouted, air, air. We beat on the door. Screamed for an hour. I lost my voice. Finally they opened a narrow strip above. We climbed over the dead and the frail in order to breathe. We climbed on them as if they were our staircase to life.
Through the window I saw we had reached Weimar. There was a prominent sign there. From Weimar they took us to Camp Buchenwald. I knew it from the sign.
We arrived at Bloc 55. The first thing a prisoner with a wounded hand said to me was: careful, they’re looking for children, and in a moment I threw myself onto the third tier of the bunks. The barracks door would open, and I was on top, just as I did at Auschwitz. My brother Avrum told me when to come down. After two days the loudspeaker called my brother Avrum to report. We knew by the number they called.
Avrum came to say goodbye but in the end he said nothing. He looked at me and trembled. His face was white as a sheet. I fell upon him, oy, oy, oy, it’s a mistake, they mistook the number, don’t go, Avrum, don’t leave me alone. Tears wet Avrum’s shirt. The trembling of his chin increased. His mouth stretched up and to the sides as if he was telling me many important things. He was breathing very fast, and his nose ran like a tap. The loudspeaker called Avrum’s number again. I was afraid. Avrum jumped and hugged me hard. I wept into his ear, I want to stay with you, what do we do, Avrum, let’s go together. Avrum refused. I felt as if both our ribs were breaking, and then he pushed me, breathing in and out, dried my face so I’d see him more clearly, left. I ran after him to the door. The guard at the entrance wouldn’t allow me to leave. He gestured, go back to your place or you’ll get it. He had a baton in his hands. A baton with an iron knob at the end. I wanted to shout, Avrum, Avrum, wait for me. I opened my mouth wide. Closed it. Went back to my place on the third tier.
I felt myself falling, falling, as if into a bottomless pit. As if they’d tied me to a heavy weight and thrown me into a dark place among strangers. I lay on my bunk and cried for an hour, until they brought a new prisoner to Avrum’s bunk. I immediately turned my back. Couldn’t bear to see someone else beside me. I got down. I knew I was angry enough to kill that prisoner. Two hours had passed and I still couldn’t calm down. A German from another Bloc came into the barracks. I didn’t have time to climb up.
We were ordered: Line up, don’t move. The German half-closed his eyes and scanned us slowly. Back and forth. Back and forth. He had a crooked smile and puffiness under his chin. Like a pocket full of food. His eyebrows were joined like a fence and he had a pointed belly under his belt. He held white gloves in one hand, tapping them against his other hand. As if the gloves were helping him to think. Back and forth, back and forth. I stopped breathing. The German put on his gloves and took me and four other children. I followed him, oblivious to anything.
Outside, the late-afternoon sun was warm, the beginning of summer. Bright light filled the spaces between the blocs. I searched for Avrum in that bright light. Examined the parade grounds. I saw trucks with tarpaulins. I didn’t know if there were prisoners inside or if they were empty. I never saw Avrum again, never saw him again.
The German with the white gloves took us to Bloc 8. Things were good for us in Bloc 8. Food on time. Lights out. A shower every day. Beds with blankets, clean sheets. A place with discipline and the color white. Fifty or sixty children with Baba – Uncle Volodya in charge. A fat man with a fat nose and a fat voice, and a large handkerchief in his hand. He liked to travel with his handkerchief on his bald head, pat-pat-pat-pat, but also to wipe children’s tears with it. It was mainly at night that he wiped and fondled everywhere. I was quiet, almost unmoving, when he wiped and fondled. I barely breathed and my mouth was closed.
A doctor came into the bloc every morning.
Doctor had alert ears like an antenna. Doctor said hello, how are you, children. Doctor laughed with white teeth, and I saw the slight tremor of the antenna. Doctor would choose a child and leave.
In the meantime, Baba Volodya fondled children. Baba Volodya pinched cheeks and sent kisses to the ceiling. Children jumped on Baba. Children hugged Baba. Children said thank you, Baba, thank you. Thank you for the good food. The clean sheets. The shower and hot water.
And I saw method: children who went with doctor didn’t return to the bloc. Their beds remained empty. I didn’t understand. Healthy children leave with doctor. Plump children leave the bloc. Children with color in their cheeks don’t come back to sleep in the bloc.
I hung onto Baba Volodya’s shoulder, asking him, where do the children go, Baba, and why don’t they come back to the bloc to sleep, what’s going on here, Baba, huh? Baba didn’t respond. I felt knives in my belly. I felt I had no air left at the open window. Every time the doctor came in I would catch Baba Volodya’s eye. Catch his eye and hold it. As if I were hanging onto his shoulder from a distance, as if telling him, you’re my father, you’re my father, and you won’t leave me alone like my first father, d’you hear me? Only when the doctor left did I leave Baba Volodya and breathe in from the deepest place possible.
I started wandering around, asking questions.
I walked the length of the bloc. And back again. I walked back and forth, counting. I asked, where do the children go, where, and got no answer. I went over to stand near the older prisoners. I knew they were old-timers by the numbers on their clothing and their silence. They neither asked nor answered, just stood there staring nowhere. I said, tell me, where do the doctor and the children go, where is that building?
One said, there’s a special place for experiments on young ones and a place for experiments on grownups. Doctor and child go to a place for experiments on young ones.
I said, experiments, what are experiments, what do you mean, tell me, I don’t understand. He had an eye infection that leaked like a slug.
He looked at me without seeing me, as if thinking about me, then, finally, he said, go away, boy. My blood pounded fast in my veins, tam-tam, tam-tam. Someone else with a swollen belly who had heard me stuck to me. My blood pounded even faster.
My new friend said, be careful. I don’t go anywhere near that place. Every child goes into a pot with gas, they close the lid on his head, like with soup. There are other cases. They examine some children according to a clock: how long can they live without air. Some last for a long time, others not at all. They die the minute the clock is set.
I stamped my foot and ran back to the bloc. I grabbed a freckled boy by the neck, calling agitatedly, boy, wait. What does it mean when the doctor leaves with a boy and returns without. Tell me, is it true they cook him in a pot? Cut him?
The boy said, don’t know, and ran away as if I were holding a butcher’s knife. I didn’t give up. I ran outside. I caught a short prisoner with saliva on his chin.
Asked, what are experiments, and why do healthy children leave beds empty, huh?
He asked, where.
I muttered, in Bloc 8.
He sat down, are you in that bloc?
I hit him on the shoulder. Shouted, tell me, now, what’s going on in my bloc.
He rolled his tongue and said, they inject a needle with a substance into the boy’s vein, but first they talk to him nicely. Then they measure how long it takes for the substance to reach the heart. For some it takes three minutes. For others one minute. For some even less. But you should know it doesn’t hurt to die like that. They die well there, without a nasty smell.
I asked who talks such nonsense, the one who dies?
The man said, no. Not the one who dies, and he wanted to go.
I tugged at his shirt, the doctor says so?
No.
So who says it doesn’t hurt, who? The prisoner turned and walked off.
I decided to escape from Bloc 8.
I heard they were looking for a cook for the women’s camp. I told Baba Volodya