PAGE 3
This Way for the Gas, Ladies and Gentlemen
by
A cheerful little station, very much like any other provincial railway stop: a small square framed by tall chestnuts and paved with yellow gravel. Not far off, beside the road, squats a tiny wooden shed, uglier and more flimsy then the ugliest and flimsiest railway shack; farther along lie stacks of old rails, heaps of wooden beams barracks parts, bricks, paving stones. This is where they load freight for Birkenau: supplies for the construction of the camp, and people for the gas chambers. Trucks drive around, load up lumber, cement, people — a regular daily routine.
And now the guards are being posted along the rails, across the beams, in the green shade of the Silesian chestnuts, to form a tight circle around the ramp. They wipe the sweat from their faces and sip out of their canteens. It is unbearably hot; the sun stands motionless at its zenith.
“Fall out!”
We sit down in the narrow streaks of shade along the stacked rails. The hungry Greeks (several of them managed to come along, God only knows how) rummage underneath the rails. One of them finds some pieces of mildewed bread, another a few half-rotten sardines. They eat.
“Schweinedreck” spits a young, tall guard with corn-coloured hair and dreamy blue eyes. “For God’s sake, any minute you’ll have so much food to stuff down your guts, you’ll bust!” He adjusts his gun, wipes his face with a handkerchief.
“Hey you, fatso!” His boot lightly touches Henri’s shoulder “Pass mal auf, want a drink?”
“Sure, but I haven’t got any marks,” replies the Frenchman with a professional air.
“Schade, too bad. ”
“Come, come, Herr Posten, isn’t my word good enough any more? Haven’t we done business before? How much?”
“One hundred. Gemacht?”
“Gemacht. ”
We drink the water, lukewarm and tasteless. It will be paid for by the people who have not yet arrived.
“Now you be careful,” says Henri, turning to me. He tosses away the empty bottle. It strikes the rails and bursts into tiny fragments. “Don’t take any money, they might be checking. Anyway, who the hell needs money? You’ve got enough to eat. Don’t take suits, either, or they’ll think you’re planning to escape. Just get a shirt, silk only, with a collar. And a vest. And if you find something to drink, don’t bother calling me. I know how to shift for myself, but you watch your step or they’ll let you have it. ”
“Do they beat you up here?”
“Naturally. You’ve got to have eyes in your ass. Arschaugen. ”
Around us sit the Greeks, their jaws working greedily, like huge human insects. They munch on stale lumps of bread. They are restless, wondering what will happen next. The sight of the large beams and the stacks of rails has them worried. They dislike carrying heavy loads.
“Was wir arbeiten?” they ask.
“Niks. Transport kommen, alles Krematorium, compris?”
“Alles verstehen,” they answer in crematorium Esperanto. All is well — they will not have to move the heavy rails or carry the beams.
In the meantime, the ramp has become increasingly alive with activity, increasingly noisy. The crews are being divided into those who will open and unload the arriving cattle cars and those who will be posted by the wooden steps. They receive instructions on how to proceed most efficiently. Motor cycles drive up, delivering SS officers, bemedalled, glittering with brass, beefy men with highly polished boots and shiny, brutal faces. Some have brought their briefcases, others hold thin, flexible whips. This gives them an air of military readiness and agility. They walk in and out of the commissary — for the miserable little shack by the road serves as their commissary, where in the summertime they drink mineral water, Studentenquelle, and where in winter they can warm up with a glass of hot wine. They greet each other in the state-approved way, raising an arm Roman fashion, then shake hands cordially, exchange warm smiles, discuss mail from home, their children, their families. Some stroll majestically on the ramp. The silver squares on their collars glitter, the gravel crunches under their boots, their bamboo whips snap impatiently.
We lie against the rails in the narrow streaks of shade, breathe unevenly, occasionally exchange a few words in our various tongues, and gaze listlessly at the majestic men in green uniforms, at the close, yet unattainable, green trees, and at the steeple of a distant church from which a belated “Angelus” has just sounded.