A Lucky Child

The German police took Buergenthal and his parents to a location near Auschwitz, a concentration camp in Occupied Poland:

I was ten years old on that sunny morning in the first days of August 1944 when our train approached the outskirts of the concentration camp of Auschwitz. Actually, as we were to find out later, we were on our way to Birkenau, located some three or four kilometers down the road from Auschwitz proper. It was in Birkenau that the gas chambers and crematoriums had been erected, and it was here that millions of human beings died. Auschwitz proper was merely the public front for the Birkenau extermination camp. Auschwitz was shown to visiting dignitaries, whereas Birkenau was the last place on earth many of the prisoners sent there were destined to see (64).

Auschwitz was comprised of several camps. Men and women were in separate camps, and Buergenthal was separated from his mother immediately upon disembarking, unable to even say goodbye. Buergenthal and his father were placed together in camp E, known as the Gypsy camp because prior to their arrival it housed Gypsy families, all of whom were murdered. They were tattooed with their assigned numbers. Buergenthal was B-2930 and his father was B-2931:

[I]t was the only ‘name’ that mattered here. […] It remains a part of me and serves as a reminder, not so much of my past, but of the obligation I deem incumbent on me, as a witness and survivor of Auschwitz, to fight the ideologies of hate and of racial and religious superiority that have for centuries caused so much suffering to mankind (67).

By the time Buergenthal arrived in Auschwitz, they had stopped recording the names of inmates, only their numbers: “[T]hose prisoners who died in its crematoriums after the SS had stopped recording their names have left behind no trace of their presence in that terrible place. No bodies, no names; only ashes and numbers. It is hard to imagine a greater affront to human dignity” (68).

The barrack bosses and kapos, all inmates, “ran the camp for the SS and terrorized their fellow inmates, day in and day out” (69), beating and even murdering fellow inmates for minor offenses. Buergenthal describes how they restricted the food of unfavored inmates to hoard food for themselves. Auschwitz tested the morality of its occupants, and such camps became “laboratories for the survival of the brutish” (79). Buergenthal's cruel experiences lead him to question humanity: “What is it in the human character that gives some individuals the moral strength not to sacrifice their decency and dignity, regardless of the costs to themselves, whereas others become murderously ruthless in the hope of ensuring their own survival?” (70-71). Inmates receive two meals per day: for breakfast they received a bowl of black liquid and a small piece of frequently moldy bread; in the evening, they received only a “tasteless, watery turnip soup” (71). Muselmans were inmates who became “emaciated, walked around in a stupor [and] stopped eating altogether, and in no time died quietly” (71). This occurred frequently. Buergenthal and his father were assigned to a warehouse barrack, where they worked sorting clothing taken from inmates on their arrival to be shipped places unknown to Buergenthal. This assignment “was a lifesaving break” (73) for them. They were abused less, received more food, and slept in a bed with a blanket and a mattress—luxuries not afforded other inmates.

German officers frequently thinned the population to make room for new arrivals. An easy source for this was the infirmary. Inmates did everything they could to avoid the infirmary because it meant almost certain death. Every few weeks, the SS conducted periodic selections “under the supervision of the infamous Dr. Mengele, known as the Angel of Death” (74). Even when no selection took place, daily counting frequently included beatings and hangings. Mundek protected Buergenthal from such atrocities by hiding him in the barracks. During a selection in late October, however, Mundek could no longer protect his son. The selection was performed differently than the others and Mundek could not hide Buergenthal: “[O]ne of them motioned my father to the left and me to the right. My father tried to pull me with him, but an SS guard grabbed me while another kicked my father out of the barrack. That was the last time I saw my father” (77). Buergenthal attempted to escape out an unlocked door, but several inmates reported him. The guards caught him and beat him, and Buergenthal was convinced he was headed to the gas chambers. He was instead taken to the hospital camp F, which housed sick or quarantined prisoners. Their group was too small to warrant gassing. They were in camp F awaiting more prisoners, so their execution could be more efficient.

Buergenthal befriended a Polish doctor who protected him against contracting scabies from fellow inmates and later saved his life by altering his records:

[T]he SS had come during the night or very early in the morning and dragged out all the people who had been brought to this barrack with me. […] When we first arrived at this barrack, a red X had been placed on the backs of our individual index cards. My friend, the young Polish doctor, apparently tore up my card and issued me a new one without the red X. When the SS came in and demanded the cards with the red mark, my card was not among them. The doctor had saved my life (81).

Buergenthal was moved to the children’s barrack in camp D. The children’s camp “was the brainchild of a German political prisoner” who “convince[ed] the SS that it made no sense to get rid of the kids when they could be made to perform useful work in the camp” (82). In the children’s camp, Buergenthal was reunited with two friends from Kielce: Michael and Janek. They were assigned to garbage collection throughout the various camps of Auschwitz and became inseparable, like brothers. While collecting garbage near the women’s camp, Buergenthal and his mother saw each other for the first time since their separation. They could not speak or approach one another but seeing each other alive and not like a Muselman provided both some peace.

Soon, inmates heard reports that the Germans were losing the war and the Russians were approaching. One morning during the cold Polish winter, in late December 1944 or early January 1945, they were awakened by repeated announcements that the camp was being evacuated. They left the barracks with their minimal possessions—“a thin blanket, a spoon, and a metal container that served both as [a] cup and a soup plate” (86). The road was lined with thousands of inmates and children were ordered to the front: “It was freezing and a very strong wind was blowing through our clothes. As we stood there waiting, we were thrown a loaf of black bread. Then the order came: ‘Vorwarts marsch!’ (‘Forward march!’). The Auschwitz Death Transport had begun” (86). 

Buergenthal, like thousands of other prisoners, are forced to march from Auschwitz during the frigid winter: “Now, as I looked back on this vast murder factory, I felt victorious and kept repeating to myself, as if addressing Hitler directly, ‘See, you tried to kill me, but I am still alive!’” (87). But “the march had only just begun […] [a]nd what lay ahead turned out to be worse than anything [he] could have imagined” (88). The march was worse for the children, at the front of the procession, marching on fresh snow and tormented by the harsh winds. Marchers frequently died on their feet. Those who collapsed or sat were shot. Their bodies were then kicked into nearby ditches.

Buergenthal stayed with Michael and Janek. The three children relied on each other to remain strong, keep warm, and survive. During the march, while Buergenthal, Michael, and Janek secretly dropped to the back of the formation to rest among the adults, every child at the front of the procession was taken to a nearby convent and murdered: “Staying alive had become a game I played against Hitler, the SS, and the Nazi killing machine” (89). After a three-day march, they reached Gliwice, a Silesian industrial center, and entered an empty labor camp.

In Gliwice, they faced a final selection: “[T]hose among us who could jog to the other side of the field would live; the rest would be eliminated. […] [W]e held hands to support each other and ran as fast as we could […] and we made it across” (92). After a few days rest in Gliwice, they were herded into overcrowded open rail cars. Their rail car was so crowded that, despite it being January, body heat kept them warm. Many died in the rail cars and were simply thrown out. Their car gradually became less crowded “until it was no longer difficult to walk from one end to the other” (93).

Now, their bread was long gone; they were cold and starving. Buergenthal Imagined that his end was near, until “a miracle occurred” that saved them:

As the train moved slowly through Czechoslovakia, making frequent stops, we began to see men, women, and children standing on the bridges we passed under. They waved to us and shouted, and then loaves of bread began to fall into our train. […] [T]he Czechs kept throwing it at us from the bridges. Had it not been for that Czech bread, we would not have survived (94).

After approximately 10 days, they arrived at the Heinkel airplane factory. Buergenthal’s feet were swollen and discolored, but he was convinced they would improve after several days of warmth. One morning, about two weeks later, they left on foot for Sachsenhausen. Buergenthal was experiencing increasing difficulty walking, but his friends helped him. They walked through the German town of Oranienburg, where children threw stones at them, and entered the concentration camp of Sachsenhausen. Inscribed above the entrance was the slogan “work makes you free” (97). Buergenthal recounts this inscription as an adult:

This slogan, so utterly bizarre given its context, was no more bizarre than the policies that brought us to Sachsenhausen. In January 1945, Germany was fighting for its survival, and yet the Nazi regime was willing to use its rapidly dwindling resources—rail facilities, fuel, and troops—to move half-starved and dying prisoners from Poland to Germany. Was it to keep us from falling into the hands of the Allies or to maintain Germany’s slave-labor supply? The lunacy of it all is hard to fathom, unless one thinks of it as a game concocted by the inmates of an asylum for the criminally insane (97). 

Shortly after arriving in Sachsenhausen, Buergenthal was confined to the infirmary because his feet were severely frostbitten. In the Sachsenhausen infirmary, death became “routine, a nonevent” (99). Two of Buergenthal’s toes were amputated to save his foot. The amputation was not ideal, but if they took either of his feet, it was a death sentence.

In the infirmary, Buergenthal met a Norwegian named Odd Nansen, who taught him how to read, draw, and write. Odd took a liking to Buergenthal. The Swedish Red Cross sent Norwegians care packages, which the Nazis permitted them to keep. He gave Buergenthal food and candy, and he bribed the orderly with tobacco and cigarettes to keep Buergenthal alive. Odd reminded Buergenthal of his father and often told him “the Germans would soon lose the war” (102) and that he would go to school with other children. Odd took care of Buergenthal until he and the other Norwegians were taken to safety in Sweden. He tried to take Buergenthal with them, but it was not possible.

During his stay in the Sachsenhausen infirmary, Allied planes were heard flying overhead with increasing frequency, on their way to bomb Berlin and the nearby town Oranienburg. The Allied pilots dropped flares around the camp’s perimeter to ensure it would be spared. This continued until Sachsenhausen was evacuated. Most inmates in the infirmary, however, could not be evacuated because they couldn’t march. Buergenthal was still in a lot of pain, but he forced himself into the evacuation with the other inmates for fear that if he didn’t, he wouldn’t survive. Gathered for roll call prior to evacuating, Buergenthal waited for hours. He spotted the doctor who saved his life and asked if he may march with him, thinking it better to march with a friendly person. The doctor agreed but told him they likely wouldn’t leave until the morning, and that he should rest in the infirmary and the doctor would retrieve him before he left. When Buergenthal awoke, however, the doctor had left him behind. Fearing for his life, Buergenthal ran outside and noticed the camp was deserted. Hours passed and Buergenthal resigned himself to the fate of assassination by the SS. Eventually, the gates to the camp opened. It was not German SS officers who entered, but rather Russians yelling “Hitler kaput” (111)! By leaving Buergenthal behind, the doctor had once again saved his life. He was liberated:

I climbed on the desk and pulled down Hitler’s picture. I threw it on the floor, shattering the glass and the frame. I spat on it and stepped on his face so hard that my feet began to hurt, but still I went on until the picture was torn to pieces. Then I pulled out all the drawers from the filing cabinets and let the files fall to the floor. My work completed, I sat down behind the desk in the soft leather chair and picked up the telephone receiver. The line was dead, but I spoke into it anyway, telling my imagined listeners that Hitler and all Germans were dead (112).

A Russian officer told Buergenthal that Russian doctors would arrive to care for the sick, but everyone else could leave the next day. Fearful that the Russians would be delayed or that the Germans would retake the camp, Buergenthal left the next day on foot with a friend, Marek, for Poland:

I did not know where my parents were, nor where or how we would be reunited. But even though I had seen many people die in the camps, it never occurred to me that my parents might not be alive. I was sure that they would find me as soon as they were liberated (114).

Buergenthal and Marek left the camp and “did not look back, either because [they] were afraid that some SS guards would suddenly give chase or because [they] did not want to be reminded of what lay behind” (115). A Polish military truck gave them a ride to a nearby deserted German town, and there they found a house to occupy with five Hungarian Jews. The house was stocked with food, which they ate:“I could barely swallow more than a few bites. Marek claimed that my stomach must have shrunk during all those years of near starvation” (116). For the first time in years, Buergenthal was able to wash himself well: “No more prisoner; I thought, but then realized that the water and soap could not rid me of the one thing that would serve forever as a reminder of the concentration camp: the blue tattoo with my Auschwitz number on the inside of my left arm” (117).

Polish officers frequently visited their house, ate, played games, and made advances on the Hungarian women living with them. The Polish officers convinced the 10-year-old Buergenthal to join the Polish army in the heavy artillery division. He received a uniform, boots, and a small pistol. Buergenthal was severely underweight. Nothing the Polish officers tried allowed Buergenthal to put on weight: “‘Why not try vodka?’ [one] suggested. And out came the vodka. First a spoonful, then two, and finally half a kieliszek (tumbler), followed by little pieces of bacon. It worked like a charm: within days, I began to eat normally” (121).

Buergenthal’s company received orders to move on to Berlin. As they moved slowly, they heard heavy artillery and machine-gun fire in the distance: “Death and destruction were all around us” (123). They reached a park near the Brandenburg Gate, already occupied by Soviet troops. Shortly after they arrived, Berlin capitulated, and the battlefield turned into a carnival. After the celebration, Buergenthal’s company “was ordered to move out in pursuit of German troops that had retreated from Berlin” (125). The reversal of roles resonated within the young Buergenthal: “It was quite an exhilarating experience for me to see German officers tremble in fear in front of us, when only months earlier they had inspired fear in all who had to appear before them” (125). Shortly after, Germany surrendered:

I was not sure whether to be happy or sad. Of course, I was happy that the war was over and that we had been liberated. But when the soldiers spoke of their families and of home, I was reminded that I did not know where my home was. I had no home without my parents, and I did not know where they were. I was sure that if I had survived, they must have survived too and that they would find me! In the meantime, my company was my home. But what would happen to me when all the soldiers went home? I decided that there would be time enough to answer that question, and for all I knew, it might never present itself since I was sure my parents would find me before the army was disbanded (126).

That did not happen, and Buergenthal went from the army to a Jewish orphanage in Otwock, Poland, to wait for his parents and finally attend school.