hut. I’m in charge of everything in here. You do what I tell you, at the double, and we’ll rub along. You don’t, you’ll be in dead trouble because then we’re all in the shit. Got it?” They got it, but it was almost impossible to comply with all the regulations. The first morning, Kurt was struggling to make his bed. His was a top bunk, and as he wrestled with the bed sheet his feet disturbed the bed of the man below him.
“Watch your sodding feet!” roared the man. “They’ll be here in two minutes!”
In less than that time, two SS guards came into the hut and checked the beds and the cupboards. Manfred’s cupboard was deemed to be untidy, though he had only the socks and the mess tins handed out to him the previous day. One of the guards upended the cupboard onto the floor and then beat him with steady blows of his whip until the contents were replaced. Everyone else in the hut stood to attention in silence as this punishment was inflicted, each praying that his bed, his cupboard, would pass muster.
Life in the camp was sheer hell. Every morning they got up at first light, and once the hut had been passed as tidy by the guards, which seldom happened at first inspection, Kleiber led the section out to parade as a platoon for roll call. Then it was labour. Hard labour. The camp was to be rebuilt, extended, to accommodate more prisoners, with improved quarters for the SS guards and their families. All the old buildings had to be torn down and replaced. Everything was done at the double, and any man seen flagging was kicked or beaten.
Kurt and Manfred were on the same work detail and spent much of their day as human draft horses, pulling huge wagons laden with stone from place to place. Always at the double, always at the mercy of the whips and rifle butts. Rudy, who was older and smaller, was on a similar work detail, but he struggled to keep up. He needed glasses, but even though it meant he had difficulty in seeing where he was going, he seldom wore them.
“Take ’em off, mate,” advised Horst Kleiber. “They always pick on blokes with specs, think you’re intellectuals!”
He was right. After two such encounters with the SS guards, Rudy took his glasses off.
Horst had been arrested several years before because he was a Communist. As an old hand, he knew how best to work the system to make life fractionally easier. He was a fierce hut sergeant, roaring at anyone who risked getting the whole hut punished, but he was also scrupulously fair when it came to division of food, his Communist principles allowing every man equal shares. Kurt, Manfred, Martin and Rudy were the only Jews in the hut, but though Horst would probably have had no truck with them outside, here he ensured that they received their fair share. He was responsible for discipline in the hut, and that affected everyone alike. As the four friends settled in, other inmates taught them tricks that helped them escape the attentions of the guards. No one in the hut wanted to draw the attention of the SS.
As the weeks progressed there was an awful inevitability about their lives. They had each been allowed to send one postcard to their family at home, to say where they were, and to ask for money.
“They make a nice little profit on their canteen,” Horst pointed out when Kurt expressed surprise that they were allowed to communicate with the outside world. “They need you to have money to spend so that they can insist on your spending it!”
The canteen provided some of the necessities of camp life. It was possible to buy, at a price, a little extra food, and although this was often almost inedible, they ate it anyway; anything to stave off the ever-present gnawing hunger. Clothes had to be repaired, and precious funds had to be used to buy needles and thread. Clothes in disrepair were the excuse for further beatings at the hands of the guards.
Rudy grew steadily weaker. The others helped him whenever they could, but on work detail it
“Watch your sodding feet!” roared the man. “They’ll be here in two minutes!”
In less than that time, two SS guards came into the hut and checked the beds and the cupboards. Manfred’s cupboard was deemed to be untidy, though he had only the socks and the mess tins handed out to him the previous day. One of the guards upended the cupboard onto the floor and then beat him with steady blows of his whip until the contents were replaced. Everyone else in the hut stood to attention in silence as this punishment was inflicted, each praying that his bed, his cupboard, would pass muster.
Life in the camp was sheer hell. Every morning they got up at first light, and once the hut had been passed as tidy by the guards, which seldom happened at first inspection, Kleiber led the section out to parade as a platoon for roll call. Then it was labour. Hard labour. The camp was to be rebuilt, extended, to accommodate more prisoners, with improved quarters for the SS guards and their families. All the old buildings had to be torn down and replaced. Everything was done at the double, and any man seen flagging was kicked or beaten.
Kurt and Manfred were on the same work detail and spent much of their day as human draft horses, pulling huge wagons laden with stone from place to place. Always at the double, always at the mercy of the whips and rifle butts. Rudy, who was older and smaller, was on a similar work detail, but he struggled to keep up. He needed glasses, but even though it meant he had difficulty in seeing where he was going, he seldom wore them.
“Take ’em off, mate,” advised Horst Kleiber. “They always pick on blokes with specs, think you’re intellectuals!”
He was right. After two such encounters with the SS guards, Rudy took his glasses off.
Horst had been arrested several years before because he was a Communist. As an old hand, he knew how best to work the system to make life fractionally easier. He was a fierce hut sergeant, roaring at anyone who risked getting the whole hut punished, but he was also scrupulously fair when it came to division of food, his Communist principles allowing every man equal shares. Kurt, Manfred, Martin and Rudy were the only Jews in the hut, but though Horst would probably have had no truck with them outside, here he ensured that they received their fair share. He was responsible for discipline in the hut, and that affected everyone alike. As the four friends settled in, other inmates taught them tricks that helped them escape the attentions of the guards. No one in the hut wanted to draw the attention of the SS.
As the weeks progressed there was an awful inevitability about their lives. They had each been allowed to send one postcard to their family at home, to say where they were, and to ask for money.
“They make a nice little profit on their canteen,” Horst pointed out when Kurt expressed surprise that they were allowed to communicate with the outside world. “They need you to have money to spend so that they can insist on your spending it!”
The canteen provided some of the necessities of camp life. It was possible to buy, at a price, a little extra food, and although this was often almost inedible, they ate it anyway; anything to stave off the ever-present gnawing hunger. Clothes had to be repaired, and precious funds had to be used to buy needles and thread. Clothes in disrepair were the excuse for further beatings at the hands of the guards.
Rudy grew steadily weaker. The others helped him whenever they could, but on work detail it
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