there,” I once said to my father, my voice trailing off as the unlikelihood of this sank in. My father said nothing in reply.
I was permitted to stay in the same barracks as my father and brother. The terrible isolation and loneliness that had plagued me receded. The three of us shared a bunk, with David and me on the top and my father on the bottom. The Emalia factory operated around the clock, with mostly non-Jews working days and Schindler’s Jews assigned to the night shifts. Schindler had expanded his factory beyond pots and pans to producing war material. My brother and I worked through the nights on a machine that made casings for the detonators on bombs. Our shifts were twelve hours, with no breaks for meals. At times Istruggled to stay awake doing the repetitive work. If I looked like I might drift off, David nudged me and vice versa. At dawn I ate my ration of bread, returned to the barracks, and fell exhausted into my bunk.
It was on the “Jewish shift,” as the night shift came to be called, that I began to know Schindler personally. I had heard plenty of stories about the wild parties he threw in his offices on the second floor of the factory, parties that went late into the night. Now, at my workstation, I could hear the laughter and music. After the festivities, Schindler still had the energy to make his rounds of the factory. When he entered our work area, I could smell his cigarettes and cologne before I saw him. Always elegantly dressed, he would meander across the room, stopping to chat with men working at different stations. He had an uncanny ability to remember names. I had grown used to the fact that to the Nazis, I was just another Jew; my name didn’t matter. But Schindler was different. He clearly wanted to know who we were. He acted like he cared about us as individuals. Sometimes he paused at David’sand my machine and struck up a conversation. Tall and hefty, with a booming voice, he would ask me how I was doing, how many pieces I had made that night. He stood quietly waiting for my answer. He looked me in the eye, not with the blank, unseeing stare of the Nazis, but with genuine interest and even a glint of humor. I was so small that I had to stand on an overturned wooden box to reach the controls of the machine. Schindler seemed to get a kick out of that.
I must admit his attention frightened me at first. Schindler was a Nazi, after all, and he had enormous power. When push came to shove, I reminded myself, he would side with his fellow Germans. That was to be expected. Furthermore, Schindler had our lives in his hands and could dispose of us at any moment.
Gradually I began to fear him less and actually looked forward to his visits. Never knowing when he might stop by helped keep me awake and focused. I felt proud when Schindler talked with me, although my pride was tinged with anxiety. I think Schindler in fact took a shine to me.He would point me out to visitors and say that I was an example of how hard his Jews were working. I had had enough narrow escapes by then to know that it was best not to be conspicuous, not to stand out, not to make myself a possible target. So when Schindler singled me out, I still felt uneasy. Sometimes he would even gesture toward all three of us, my father, my brother, and me, and say we were “a family of machinists.” With a certain sense of pride, he would add, “experts,” although I knew that was an exaggeration in my case. Then an SS officer with a skull and crossbones on his hat and a loaded pistol on his belt would come closer and watch me work. I didn’t dare look up. I barely dared breathe. I knew that if I messed up, the punishment would be severe for all of us, simply because a Nazi was watching.
Weak, malnourished, and sleep-deprived, I wasn’t much help to the Nazi war effort, but Schindler didn’t seem to care. One evening he stopped by my workstation and observed me as I stood on my wooden box completing a casing.
“How many of
I was permitted to stay in the same barracks as my father and brother. The terrible isolation and loneliness that had plagued me receded. The three of us shared a bunk, with David and me on the top and my father on the bottom. The Emalia factory operated around the clock, with mostly non-Jews working days and Schindler’s Jews assigned to the night shifts. Schindler had expanded his factory beyond pots and pans to producing war material. My brother and I worked through the nights on a machine that made casings for the detonators on bombs. Our shifts were twelve hours, with no breaks for meals. At times Istruggled to stay awake doing the repetitive work. If I looked like I might drift off, David nudged me and vice versa. At dawn I ate my ration of bread, returned to the barracks, and fell exhausted into my bunk.
It was on the “Jewish shift,” as the night shift came to be called, that I began to know Schindler personally. I had heard plenty of stories about the wild parties he threw in his offices on the second floor of the factory, parties that went late into the night. Now, at my workstation, I could hear the laughter and music. After the festivities, Schindler still had the energy to make his rounds of the factory. When he entered our work area, I could smell his cigarettes and cologne before I saw him. Always elegantly dressed, he would meander across the room, stopping to chat with men working at different stations. He had an uncanny ability to remember names. I had grown used to the fact that to the Nazis, I was just another Jew; my name didn’t matter. But Schindler was different. He clearly wanted to know who we were. He acted like he cared about us as individuals. Sometimes he paused at David’sand my machine and struck up a conversation. Tall and hefty, with a booming voice, he would ask me how I was doing, how many pieces I had made that night. He stood quietly waiting for my answer. He looked me in the eye, not with the blank, unseeing stare of the Nazis, but with genuine interest and even a glint of humor. I was so small that I had to stand on an overturned wooden box to reach the controls of the machine. Schindler seemed to get a kick out of that.
I must admit his attention frightened me at first. Schindler was a Nazi, after all, and he had enormous power. When push came to shove, I reminded myself, he would side with his fellow Germans. That was to be expected. Furthermore, Schindler had our lives in his hands and could dispose of us at any moment.
Gradually I began to fear him less and actually looked forward to his visits. Never knowing when he might stop by helped keep me awake and focused. I felt proud when Schindler talked with me, although my pride was tinged with anxiety. I think Schindler in fact took a shine to me.He would point me out to visitors and say that I was an example of how hard his Jews were working. I had had enough narrow escapes by then to know that it was best not to be conspicuous, not to stand out, not to make myself a possible target. So when Schindler singled me out, I still felt uneasy. Sometimes he would even gesture toward all three of us, my father, my brother, and me, and say we were “a family of machinists.” With a certain sense of pride, he would add, “experts,” although I knew that was an exaggeration in my case. Then an SS officer with a skull and crossbones on his hat and a loaded pistol on his belt would come closer and watch me work. I didn’t dare look up. I barely dared breathe. I knew that if I messed up, the punishment would be severe for all of us, simply because a Nazi was watching.
Weak, malnourished, and sleep-deprived, I wasn’t much help to the Nazi war effort, but Schindler didn’t seem to care. One evening he stopped by my workstation and observed me as I stood on my wooden box completing a casing.
“How many of
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