really get a taste of camp!"
We went off to work as usual, our bodies frozen. The stones were so cold that touching them, we felt that our hands would remain stuck. But we got used to that too.
Christmas and New Year's we did not work. We were treated to a slightly less transparent soup.
Around the middle of January, my right foot began to swell from the cold. I could not stand on it. I went to the infirmary. The doctor, a great Jewish doctor, a prisoner like ourselves, was cate-gorical: “We have to operate! If we wait, the toes and perhaps the leg will have to be amputated.”
That was all I needed! But I had no choice. The doctor had decided to operate and there could be no discussion. In fact, I was rather glad that the decision had been his.
They put me in a bed with white sheets. I had forgotten that people slept in sheets.
Actually, being in the infirmary was not bad at all: we were en- titled to good bread, a thicker soup. No more bell, no more roll call, no more work. From time to time, I was able to send a piece of bread to my father.
Next to me lay a Hungarian Jew suffering from dysentery. He was skin and bones, his eyes were dead. I could just hear his voice, the only indication that he was alive. Where did he get the strength to speak?
“Don't rejoice too soon, son. Here too there is selection. In fact, more often than outside. Germany has no need of sick Jews. Germany has no need of me. When the next transport arrives, you'll have a new neighbor. Therefore, listen to me: leave the infirmary before the next selection!”
These words, coming from the grave, as it were, from a faceless shape, filled me with terror. True, the infirmary was very small, and if new patients were to arrive, room would have to be made.
But then perhaps my faceless neighbor, afraid of being among the first displaced, simply wanted to get rid of me, to free my bed, to give himself a chance to survive…Perhaps he only wanted to frighten me. But then again, what if he was telling the truth? I decided to wait and see.
THE DOCTOR CAME TO TELL ME that he would operate the next day.
“Don't be afraid,” he said. “Everything will be all right.”
At ten o'clock in the morning, I was taken to the operating room. My doctor was there. That reassured me. I felt that in his presence, nothing serious could happen to me. Every one of his words was healing and every glance of his carried a message of hope. “It will hurt a little,” he said, “but it will pass. Be brave.”
The operation lasted one hour. They did not put me to sleep. I did not take my eyes off my doctor. Then I felt myself sink…
When I came to and opened my eyes, I first saw nothing but a huge expanse of white, my sheets, then I saw my doctor's face above me.
“Everything went well. You have spunk, my boy. Next, you'll stay here two weeks for some proper rest and that will be it. You'll eat well, you'll relax your body and your nerves…”
All I could do was follow the movements of his lips. I barely understood what he was telling me, but the inflection of his voice soothed me. Suddenly, I broke into a cold sweat; I couldn't feel my leg! Had they amputated it?
“Doctor,” I stammered. “Doctor?”
“What is it, son?”
I didn't have the courage to ask him.
“Doctor, I'm thirsty…”
He had water brought to m e … He was smiling. He was ready to walk out, to see other patients.
“Doctor?”
“Yes?”
“Will I be able to use my leg?”
He stopped smiling. I became very frightened. He said, “Listen, son. Do you trust me?”
“Very much, Doctor.”
“Then listen well: in two weeks you'll be fully recovered. You'll be able to walk like the others. The sole of your foot was full of pus. I just had to open the sac. Your leg was not amputated. You'll see, in two weeks, you'll be walking around like everybody else.”
All I had to do was wait two weeks.
BUT TWO DAYS AFTER my operation, rumors swept through the camp that the
We went off to work as usual, our bodies frozen. The stones were so cold that touching them, we felt that our hands would remain stuck. But we got used to that too.
Christmas and New Year's we did not work. We were treated to a slightly less transparent soup.
Around the middle of January, my right foot began to swell from the cold. I could not stand on it. I went to the infirmary. The doctor, a great Jewish doctor, a prisoner like ourselves, was cate-gorical: “We have to operate! If we wait, the toes and perhaps the leg will have to be amputated.”
That was all I needed! But I had no choice. The doctor had decided to operate and there could be no discussion. In fact, I was rather glad that the decision had been his.
They put me in a bed with white sheets. I had forgotten that people slept in sheets.
Actually, being in the infirmary was not bad at all: we were en- titled to good bread, a thicker soup. No more bell, no more roll call, no more work. From time to time, I was able to send a piece of bread to my father.
Next to me lay a Hungarian Jew suffering from dysentery. He was skin and bones, his eyes were dead. I could just hear his voice, the only indication that he was alive. Where did he get the strength to speak?
“Don't rejoice too soon, son. Here too there is selection. In fact, more often than outside. Germany has no need of sick Jews. Germany has no need of me. When the next transport arrives, you'll have a new neighbor. Therefore, listen to me: leave the infirmary before the next selection!”
These words, coming from the grave, as it were, from a faceless shape, filled me with terror. True, the infirmary was very small, and if new patients were to arrive, room would have to be made.
But then perhaps my faceless neighbor, afraid of being among the first displaced, simply wanted to get rid of me, to free my bed, to give himself a chance to survive…Perhaps he only wanted to frighten me. But then again, what if he was telling the truth? I decided to wait and see.
THE DOCTOR CAME TO TELL ME that he would operate the next day.
“Don't be afraid,” he said. “Everything will be all right.”
At ten o'clock in the morning, I was taken to the operating room. My doctor was there. That reassured me. I felt that in his presence, nothing serious could happen to me. Every one of his words was healing and every glance of his carried a message of hope. “It will hurt a little,” he said, “but it will pass. Be brave.”
The operation lasted one hour. They did not put me to sleep. I did not take my eyes off my doctor. Then I felt myself sink…
When I came to and opened my eyes, I first saw nothing but a huge expanse of white, my sheets, then I saw my doctor's face above me.
“Everything went well. You have spunk, my boy. Next, you'll stay here two weeks for some proper rest and that will be it. You'll eat well, you'll relax your body and your nerves…”
All I could do was follow the movements of his lips. I barely understood what he was telling me, but the inflection of his voice soothed me. Suddenly, I broke into a cold sweat; I couldn't feel my leg! Had they amputated it?
“Doctor,” I stammered. “Doctor?”
“What is it, son?”
I didn't have the courage to ask him.
“Doctor, I'm thirsty…”
He had water brought to m e … He was smiling. He was ready to walk out, to see other patients.
“Doctor?”
“Yes?”
“Will I be able to use my leg?”
He stopped smiling. I became very frightened. He said, “Listen, son. Do you trust me?”
“Very much, Doctor.”
“Then listen well: in two weeks you'll be fully recovered. You'll be able to walk like the others. The sole of your foot was full of pus. I just had to open the sac. Your leg was not amputated. You'll see, in two weeks, you'll be walking around like everybody else.”
All I had to do was wait two weeks.
BUT TWO DAYS AFTER my operation, rumors swept through the camp that the
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