A Lucky Child: A Memoir of Surviving Auschwitz as a Young Boy (12 page)

As soon as I arrived in Sachsenhausen, I was forced to accept that my feet were severely frostbitten. I had tried for a week
or more to avoid going to the infirmary, although the toes on my right foot were getting blacker by the day. Those on the
left foot were also rather discolored but not as badly as the toes on the right foot. I was afraid to go to the infirmary
because I knew from past experience in Auschwitz that the surest way to end up in the gas chambers was to enter the sick ward
of a camp. But my pain kept getting worse, and Michael and Janek — we stayed together after we arrived in Sachsenhausen —
kept telling me that I had nothing to lose by having a doctor look at my toes. They finally convinced me and helped me get
to the infirmary. On the way, I kept telling them that all I needed was some cream or other medication, and my feet would
be fine. I was certainly not going to stay in the hospital and let them kill me after they cured me, which was as likely to
happen in Sachsenhausen as it had been in Auschwitz.

When I arrived at the hospital, I was told to take off my shoes. A person in a white coat, who seemed to be in charge, took
a quick look at my feet and told me to lie down on a big wooden table. Then he stepped out of the room and soon returned with
some other men. Before I knew what was happening, two of them appeared on either side of the table. As if on command, they
grabbed my arms and legs and held me down. I started to scream, but a white towel or gauze was placed over my face, and I
could feel a fluid with a very strong odor being poured over the gauze — it was ether, I learned later. I was out almost immediately.
When I woke up, I was in a hospital ward in a single bed. As soon as I realized that the lower parts of both my legs were
heavily bandaged, I got terribly scared. “They amputated my feet!” I sobbed. That, I knew, meant death once the SS guards
embarked on their next regular hospital selection, looking for the sickest inmates to kill.

I asked one of the orderlies what had been done to me, and he said that two of my toes had been amputated. I did not believe
him and decided to see for myself. Although at that point I really did not feel anything because the anesthesia had not yet
worn off entirely, I started to complain of terrible pain. I continued to cry until a doctor came. After asking me some questions,
he began to take off my bandages. That really hurt, but I was not going to stop him: I had to know whether I still had my
feet. When I saw that my feet had not been amputated, and even though I could not really make out how many of my toes were
gone, I relaxed, totally exhausted and in even more pain.

Although the doctors had amputated only two of my toes, the others on both feet had also been frostbitten, though much less
severely. Over the next few weeks, they worked very hard to save the remaining toes. In the meantime, I was slowly recovering
from the operation. At first I walked on crutches but soon managed to move about with the aid of a cane or a single crutch.
I considered that quite an achievement because I had been terribly worried that I would never walk again. Now I began to believe
that the doctors and nurses were telling the truth when they assured me that my toes would grow back. “After all,” they would
say, “don’t you remember that when you were little, your teeth fell out and you got new ones?” “Yes,” I replied, “that is
true.” “It’s the same with toes — if they are cut off only once before you are twenty-one, they will grow back, just like
your teeth.”

Not long after my operation, a man who had been visiting another patient stopped by my bed. He wanted to know my name, where
I had been before I ended up in the infirmary, and whether my foot still hurt. He told me that he came from Norway, that his
name was Odd Nansen, and that one of his friends, also from Norway, was in a nearby bunk in my ward. Mr. Nansen returned a
few days later with cookies, a picture book with big letters, and a pencil. “You need to learn to read and write and to draw
pictures,” he said. Thereafter, whenever he came to visit, he brought me something to eat, usually sweets, which I had not
seen or tasted in years, and he always wanted to know what progress I had made with my writing. I later learned that the Norwegian
and Danish inmates of the camp received food packages from the Swedish Red Cross, which they frequently shared with other
inmates. Every so often, Mr. Nansen would also speak with the ward’s orderly, hand him something (usually tobacco or cigarettes),
and tell him to take good care of me. Soon I came to look forward to Mr. Nansen’s visits, not only because he always brought
me something nice, but also because we talked about many things, especially about what we would do once the war was over.
He sounded very much like my father when he kept saying that the Germans would soon lose the war, that I would then go to
school with other children, learn to read and write, and be reunited with my parents. Mr. Nansen also spoke frequently of
his wife and children in Norway. He expected to see them as soon as we were liberated and promised that I would get a chance
to meet them.

The barrack that housed my ward in the infirmary was constructed of wood, like most of the other barracks in the camp. It
had a few little windows and one or two round ventilation holes cut out of the ceiling. I had never noticed these holes. They
had always been closed until they were forced open one day. Not long after I had arrived in the infirmary, I realized that
more and more Allied airplanes were flying over the camp at night as well as during the day. They were on their way to bomb
Berlin. After a while, as the flights overhead increased and more bombs fell on Oranienburg, the Allies began to drop flares
around the camp’s perimeter to ensure that our camp would be spared. The sound of the bombing was terrifying and made our
barrack shake, but we felt safe, knowing that they were trying to protect us. Then one day, as the planes were again flying
over, there was a tremendous explosion that shook our barrack more violently than usual, followed by an even louder scream
from one of the beds. “They hit me, they killed me, the bastards!” I heard a man scream. Everyone who could sit up did. Then
we all burst out laughing as if on command. One of the covers of the ventilation holes had been forced loose by the explosion
and had fallen on the man. When he realized that it was not a bomb and that he was still alive, even he could not resist laughing.
I don’t remember ever laughing before, either in Auschwitz or Sachsenhausen. This was the first such occasion, and it brought
us some welcome relief, although, given where we were, there was something macabre about the laughter resounding around the
room.

Our SS guards gradually realized that the camp was the only place that could provide a safe haven from Allied bombing raids.
Soon we heard that many of them would bring their families into the camp whenever the air-raid sirens sounded in Oranienburg.
Oh, how we relished this information, and how it must have irked them. To think that the Germans now finally feared for their
lives and had to seek protection in our camp! That made us feel good, even though one or two stray bombs did fall just inside
the camp wall and killed a few inmates.

At regular intervals, a loudspeaker in our ward broadcast Nazi propaganda news. We had developed a special system for listening
to it. For example, whenever they reported that five German fighter planes had shot down thirty Allied bombers and their fighter
escorts, we assumed the opposite to be true. News from the Western or Eastern front was treated by us in the same way. Then,
one day, a special news item caught our attention: “The Jew Roosevelt, President of America, has died!” the announcer gleefully
repeated a number of times. Of course, we assumed that Hitler had died and started to congratulate each other. This time,
unfortunately, it was not Hitler but Roosevelt who had in fact died.

I don’t remember whether it was before or after the news of President Roosevelt’s death that Mr. Nansen came to see me as
usual. This time he looked very troubled as he told me that he and the other Norwegians would be leaving the camp within the
next few days to be taken to safety in Sweden. He said that he had tried everything to be allowed to take me along, but it
was unfortunately not possible. In any event, we would all be free soon and meet again after the war. He gave me a strong
handshake, wrote down his name and address on a piece of paper, and told me to take good care of myself. I was very sad after
he left and wondered whether I would ever see Mr. Nansen again. Much later I realized that Mr. Nansen had probably saved my
life by periodically bribing the orderly in charge of our barrack with cigarettes and tobacco to keep my name off the list
of “terminally ill” patients, which the SS guards demanded every few weeks “to make room for other inmates.”

Not long after Mr. Nansen left, I woke up one morning to the usual sound of the camp gong. The sun was not shining, and it
promised to be a rainy day. I remembered that the bandages on my foot would have to be changed again. This was always very
painful because too much skin had been cut off around the amputated big toe, leaving an exposed bone over which the doctor,
every few days, tried to pull the skin. The thought occurred to me that it would be wonderful if I woke up one morning and
found that my toes had begun to grow again or, at least, if I could find some excuse for not having the wound rebandaged.
At that point, the orderly came into the room without his usual list. Rushing through the ward, he announced that Sachsenhausen
was being evacuated. Everybody able to walk had to get up and line up on the
Appellplatz
.

The barrack was suddenly very quiet. The silence was interrupted only by the closing of the door as the orderly left the ward.
There were people with me in this big drab room whose legs had been amputated, and others who were in body casts. Others still
were in the final throes of some terrible disease. Certainly none of these individuals could leave. I decided that I could
make it and started to get dressed. So did a few others in the room. They must have been thinking what I was thinking, and
that made all of us hurry. Camp evacuation meant long marches and overcrowded trains, like those that had brought me to Sachsenhausen.
But it also meant that people who could not walk would be shot wherever they were found — on the roadside or in their beds.
I imagined seeing the SS guards with their big boots walking from bed to bed in the infirmary, shooting everyone left behind.

I found my cane and a piece of bread and limped out of the room, leaving behind the moans of those who could not get out of
their beds. In the small hospital yard, separated from the other barracks by a wire fence, people were hurrying toward the
gate leading to the
Appellplatz
. As I followed them, I suddenly realized how fast I was walking. My foot did not seem to hurt. I only hoped that the SS would
not notice me with my cane. I knew that I had to be evacuated with the camp’s other inmates if I wanted to stay alive.

When I reached the
Appellplatz,
I started to look for Janek and Michael. They were nowhere to be seen. I wondered whether they had been shipped to another
camp, for they had visited me only once shortly after my operation. Hundreds of people were standing around on the
Appellplatz
with blankets over their shoulders and pots or canteens in their hands. The SS guards were in full combat dress. They appeared
nervous, and the dogs that were their constant companions barked much of the time. I managed to walk unnoticed to a spot near
the rear of a column. Now a long wait began. Many hours passed. Rain started to fall, making standing difficult. I ate the
piece of bread I had saved from the day before. The nerves on my right foot began to twitch, giving me the sensation that
the amputated toes were still there. I could feel them wiggle and pressed my left shoe on my right to stop it. That did not
really help much. I was very tired and finally sat down.

After what seemed a long, long wait, the first column started to move out through the main gate under the administration building.
At that point, I noticed a group of five men with blankets and rucksacks on their backs. They stood close to where I was sitting.
One of them was a doctor I knew from the hospital who had always been very kind to me. I limped over to him, and he greeted
me with a smile. “Doctor, may I march with you?” I asked. “Yes, of course,” he said, looking at my cane and the oversized
shoes I was wearing, given to me in the hospital. “We are going to try to leave with the second transport tomorrow morning.
Half of the camp is leaving today and the others tomorrow. You should go back to the hospital and get a good rest.” “But,
doctor, are you also going back to the hospital?” I asked. “I don’t want to stay behind.” He assured me that he was and told
me to join him and his friends as they walked back to the infirmary. On the way, the doctor asked me whether my foot hurt.
I lied and told him that it did not. I was afraid to tell him the truth because I feared that he would not want to take me
along if he thought that I could not make it.

During our walk back, the doctor and his friends reported that the front was getting closer, that the Soviet troops were nearing
Sachsenhausen and Berlin, and that we would soon be liberated. I had heard similar talk before the evacuation of Auschwitz.
People said that you could hear the sound of artillery from the approaching front if you put your ear to the ground and that
the war would soon be over. That was in January 1945, and now it was already April, and I was in yet another camp. That explains
why I was not particularly excited about all this talk of our impending liberation. Besides, I could never quite believe that
there would actually come a time when the war would be over and I would be free and able to go to school. Once, when Mr. Nansen
told me that after the war I would learn to read and write in a school with many other children, I remember wondering whether
school would be like a big concentration camp for children, but where there would be lots of food and I would never be hungry
again.