the guards continued to stalk between the lines.
“Registration will now begin!” With this order Hans Loritz turned on his heel and strode back to the building.
When he had disappeared the guards marched the first rank of prisoners to the door, where again they waited in line. The rest continued to stand in the sun. No one spoke. No one moved. The commandant’s words echoed in their heads and the roving SS guards ensured that there was no break in the ranks.
At last their turn came and their line moved forward. Kurt stood in front of a desk and gave his name, address and date of birth. The SS sergeant wrote it down meticulously in his ledger. He then looked up at Kurt.
“Why have you been arrested?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Kurt replied. As the words left his mouth he was struck a powerful blow in the back. He staggered forward, only just maintaining his feet.
“Stand to attention, scum!” screamed a voice behind him, and Kurt caught himself from turning and managed to draw himself upright again.
“You are here because you are an agitator, a dirty Jew stirring up other Jews,” said the sergeant, continuing in a bored drawl, without looking up. “Based on article one of the Decree of the Reich President for the Protection of People and State of 28th February 1933, you are taken into protective custody in the interest of public security and order. Reason: suspicion of activities inimical to the state… or as I said,” and now he did look up again, his eyes narrowing, “you’re a dirty Jew stirring up other Jews, and until you’ve learnt better, you’ll stay here… and work!”
Work Kurt did. Work they all did, from first light, throughout the day, until they dragged themselves back to their huts to sleep. The prisoners’ compound was surrounded by coils of barbed wire, overlooked by five watchtowers, where ever-vigilant sentries manned machine guns. The sleeping quarters were housed in bare concrete buildings that had once been an explosives factory. Within a wall and surrounded by a high electric fence, they stood in ranks on either side of a track that led to the parade ground. Kurt, Rudy, Martin and Manfred were assigned to the same hut.
Once their details had been taken, they were photographed, had their heads shaved, were stripped of their clothes and given prison garb, little more than ill-fitting white overalls. Any personal possessions they had, including money, had been logged in another ledger and taken from them.
“There is a canteen where you can buy what you need,” said the corporal who listed their effects. “The cost will be deducted from your money.”
“What happens when it runs out?” Manfred had dared to ask.
“Then you can buy nothing more,” snapped the man. “What do you think this is? A charity home?” He gave a harsh laugh. “Your family can send you more money. That is how it works.”
“But they don’t know where I am!” Manfred had not yet learned to keep his mouth shut. A sudden lash from behind made him stagger, crying out and clasping his neck where a dark red weal sprang to life.
Kurt, Rudy and Martin, waiting in line, kept their eyes rigidly ahead. The guard with the whip had turned his attention to them. He walked along the waiting line, flicking his whip at the unmoving prisoners, enjoying the fear in their staring eyes. The SS, indeed well trained for such work, had begun their work of dehumanising their prisoners.
Once their “registration” was completed, their group was lined up again, and clutching the few possessions they had been given, a few items of clothing, a bowl, mug, knife, fork and spoon, they were marched into the prisoners’ compound to the huts they’d been assigned.
As new prisoners they had to find bunk space among the already occupied bunks. Shuffling into the hut, they were confronted by a tall prisoner with an aggressive face, and few teeth.
“I’m Horst Kleiber,” he told them. “I’m the sergeant of this
“Registration will now begin!” With this order Hans Loritz turned on his heel and strode back to the building.
When he had disappeared the guards marched the first rank of prisoners to the door, where again they waited in line. The rest continued to stand in the sun. No one spoke. No one moved. The commandant’s words echoed in their heads and the roving SS guards ensured that there was no break in the ranks.
At last their turn came and their line moved forward. Kurt stood in front of a desk and gave his name, address and date of birth. The SS sergeant wrote it down meticulously in his ledger. He then looked up at Kurt.
“Why have you been arrested?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Kurt replied. As the words left his mouth he was struck a powerful blow in the back. He staggered forward, only just maintaining his feet.
“Stand to attention, scum!” screamed a voice behind him, and Kurt caught himself from turning and managed to draw himself upright again.
“You are here because you are an agitator, a dirty Jew stirring up other Jews,” said the sergeant, continuing in a bored drawl, without looking up. “Based on article one of the Decree of the Reich President for the Protection of People and State of 28th February 1933, you are taken into protective custody in the interest of public security and order. Reason: suspicion of activities inimical to the state… or as I said,” and now he did look up again, his eyes narrowing, “you’re a dirty Jew stirring up other Jews, and until you’ve learnt better, you’ll stay here… and work!”
Work Kurt did. Work they all did, from first light, throughout the day, until they dragged themselves back to their huts to sleep. The prisoners’ compound was surrounded by coils of barbed wire, overlooked by five watchtowers, where ever-vigilant sentries manned machine guns. The sleeping quarters were housed in bare concrete buildings that had once been an explosives factory. Within a wall and surrounded by a high electric fence, they stood in ranks on either side of a track that led to the parade ground. Kurt, Rudy, Martin and Manfred were assigned to the same hut.
Once their details had been taken, they were photographed, had their heads shaved, were stripped of their clothes and given prison garb, little more than ill-fitting white overalls. Any personal possessions they had, including money, had been logged in another ledger and taken from them.
“There is a canteen where you can buy what you need,” said the corporal who listed their effects. “The cost will be deducted from your money.”
“What happens when it runs out?” Manfred had dared to ask.
“Then you can buy nothing more,” snapped the man. “What do you think this is? A charity home?” He gave a harsh laugh. “Your family can send you more money. That is how it works.”
“But they don’t know where I am!” Manfred had not yet learned to keep his mouth shut. A sudden lash from behind made him stagger, crying out and clasping his neck where a dark red weal sprang to life.
Kurt, Rudy and Martin, waiting in line, kept their eyes rigidly ahead. The guard with the whip had turned his attention to them. He walked along the waiting line, flicking his whip at the unmoving prisoners, enjoying the fear in their staring eyes. The SS, indeed well trained for such work, had begun their work of dehumanising their prisoners.
Once their “registration” was completed, their group was lined up again, and clutching the few possessions they had been given, a few items of clothing, a bowl, mug, knife, fork and spoon, they were marched into the prisoners’ compound to the huts they’d been assigned.
As new prisoners they had to find bunk space among the already occupied bunks. Shuffling into the hut, they were confronted by a tall prisoner with an aggressive face, and few teeth.
“I’m Horst Kleiber,” he told them. “I’m the sergeant of this
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