Child of the Concentration Camp (Part IV)

(Author: Don Krausz, Vol. 73, No. 3, Chanukah 2018)         

The Gypsies were not taken out of the camp. Instead they, we Jews and the rest of the camp were put into open coal trucks and sent to the Sachsenhausen concentration camp, 55 km away. This happened about January or the beginning of February 1945. It was winter, and very cold, exacerbated by our having to travel through the night in railway trucks that had no roofs. An armed guard was put into every truck and he sat on the edge of the truck facing us, his gun across his lap.

Those of us who had blankets were not too badly off; the others started collapsing from the cold and the biting wind. Then a man shouted at us to stand up. He had white hair, strange white- rimmed eyes, and we could tell from his number that he had spent many years in this concentration camp. He wore a red triangle, an old time Communist, and may well have been a fighter in the Spanish Civil War.

He ordered us to march on the spot with him, turned to face the guard and, placing himself two feet in front of that individual, he began to sing. He sang German songs that I had never heard before, bitter, harsh and violent Communist songs. He sang songs of the Spanish Civil War, of the early days of Communism in Germany, songs full of hate. And all the while he stood marching on the spot, staring straight into the eyes of the guard, while the guard stared back without blinking. And we marched with him, right through the night. After a while we warmed sufficiently to throw our blankets to those that didn’t march and were lying on the floor. It was one of the most inspiring moments of the two and a half years that I spent in camps.

It was still nightfall when we arrived at Sachsenhausen, one of the oldest concentration camps in Germany and where 96 000 men had died. As we marched through the gates we were confronted with barracks in fan shaped formation. On each barrack one word had been painted in giant letters the sentence: “THERE IS BUT ONE ROAD TO FREEDOM: OBEDIENCE, DILIGENCE, HONESTY, CLEANLINESS, SOBRIETY, TRUTHFULNESS, SELF-SACRIFICE AND LOVE OF THE FATHERLAND.”

Jews and Gypsies were removed from the other prisoners and taken to our new abode – when I saw it my heart sank. It was a group of four barracks completely surrounded by a fence made of railway sleepers and barbed wire, and with its own gates and guards. It was a camp within a camp and from tales that I had been told I recognized this as a Vernichtungs Lager, a destruction camp. It was in such blocks that people were put, usually without food and water, before they were sent to the gas chambers. It was the last stop before the terminus.

Our barrack was completely empty – no tables, no benches, no beds and with a layer of wood shavings on the wooden floor. It was mid winter and people slept in the spoon position, one body against the next and holding onto one another for warmth. If one wanted to turn over, all had to turn. I once woke in the morning to find that the person that I had held on to during the night had died, and I was hugging a corpse.

The only food we received was two boiled potatoes once a day. We used to peel them, as we had been told that eating the peels would cause dysentery. Anyone who has tried to peel a boiled potato knows that the amount of potato left on the peel is minimal and yet a queue of old men would form up in front of me waiting to receive my peels. I was only 14 years old, looked eleven and was so thin that when I put my hands around my waist, the index finger and thumbs of each nearly touched each other. Surely those men could have taken those potatoes from me? They could not have: they were already too weak and would come to us children in the mornings and ask us to fasten their shirt or coat buttons for them; they no longer had the ability to do so themselves. Otto and I were lucky: our Norwegian friends had been put into the Norwegian barrack where they had access to Red Cross parcels and once in a while they would come to the barbed wire and feed us tidbits.

Next to our barrack was a shed where tools were kept. The Gypsy boy that I had pointed out to the prisoner camp commander in Ravensbruck got hold of me one day with about six of his pals, dragged me into this shed and proceeded to give me the hiding of a lifetime, using the flat sides of spades. I don’t know how this assault would have ended, if a German individual whom I had not seen previously had not interrupted it. He took me to his rooms, cleaned me up and made me comfortable. Once I had regained my composure he began asking me about my background and we had quite a pleasant conversation. He then sent me back to my barrack but told me to return at a certain time the following day. At our next meeting we again had a friendly talk discussing politics among other things.

Took me to his private rooms in a concentration camp? Only the barrack leaders and top officials amongst the prisoners had their own quarters. Who was this man and what was he doing living in a Vernichtungs lager? He did not wear the usual striped uniform but a combination of uniform and civilian dress and a peaked cap. That did not mean a thing; Germans loved wearing uniforms. I also do not remember him having the usual triangle and number that we prisoners wore.

He was definitely a Nazi: once I asked him what he thought of the camps and the genocide of the Jews. “Look, Don,” he said, ”I like you, you’re a nice fellow, but you are a little Jew and if we don’t do something about it you will become a big Jew and that is no good.”

This line of thinking need not have surprised me. Once in Ravensbruck I saw a guard beat a nine-year-old Jewish boy with a truncheon. I later watched that guard go off duty and walk through the camp gate to his house a little way down the road. His children came running out to meet him and he picked up the youngest and tossed it in the air like any normal father would. This was a man who liked children. I asked myself “What goes on here?” Then I realized that to this guard we were not children but a different species, Untermenschen, subhumans. If you come across a snake or a rat and kill it, do you stop to enquire whether it is young or old, a female or a baby?

My next meeting with my newfound saviour was a little different. He asked me to tell him about my stay in the men’s camp, how long had I been sharing a barrack with the Gypsies and how did I feel about them. What was he after? Finally he came to the point: the Gypsies had originally come from Auschwitz, Jews came to Auschwitz with diamonds hidden on their person, Jews were gassed at Auschwitz and before going to the gas chambers would dispose of those diamonds, sometimes even throwing them on the ground in their despair. Survivors of Auschwitz picked up those diamonds or managed to obtain them through other means. There was a strong likelihood that the Gypsies had diamonds.

All this was perfectly true and I knew which Gypsies had diamonds. It was also true that to hide so-called Valuta from the Germans in a concentration camp was punishable by death. If I betrayed Gypsies to this Nazi there was a fair chance that they would be tortured to reveal any others who had diamonds and that they might eventually be hanged. If they were and it would be impossible to hide my connection with this man, then my life was not insurable. It being so obviously near the end of the war, there was also the possibility that no hanging would take place, but that my Nazi would say nothing and keep the diamonds for himself. In any case this would not endear me to the Gypsies.

I began to lie for all I was worth, literally. He had me standing in front of him with my back against a wall and looking me straight in the eye, while he lay back in a chair with his hands behind his head and his feet on a table and threw question after question at me. I had shared a barrack and sleeping quarters with Gypsies. I had seen them get dressed and undressed every day. What did they have in their pockets? Did they ever boast to others about, or show off, the valuables that they had? If so who were the individuals involved? How was it possible that some one like myself, who had proved most observant during our previous conversations should suddenly be struck blind and dumb when the subject of diamonds cropped up? He insisted that I tell him what I knew. I denied any knowledge, but he caught me out in lie after lie. Then he got up and said: “Come, I want to show you something.” He took me to an adjoining room that had instruments of torture and punishment hanging on the wall: whips, chains, thumbscrews, etc. He said he would be most reluctant to have to use these on me, but had to have the information that he knew I possessed. I was told to think about this carefully and to come and see him the next day. I left his quarters with soiled pants and yet he had not laid a finger on me.

I was unable to sleep that night. What was I to do? The Gypsies did have diamonds and I knew who had them. I also had no good reason to protect them. But I did not want to co-operate with the Nazis or the Gestapo, to which this German might well belong. There was no way out but to continue to deny any knowledge and for how long could I manage to do that? I warned Otto and the others to keep away from me in case they were implicated; I did not tell them what I had experienced, in case they talked and the Gypsies got to hear about it and killed me before I could give evidence.

The following day I went to what I felt would be my final interview with this man. I was told that he was no longer there, having been transferred elsewhere. I never saw him again.

In the meantime things were going from bad to worse. I had been given the job of removing the corpses from the barrack every morning. This involved dragging or carrying them to the gate from where they would be taken away on carts or stretchers. Actually, I was quite unemotional about this, even though I was only 14 years old. It did not mean anything to me. After the war I met a friend of my parents, a Mrs Laufer, who had been in Bergen-Belsen. She told me that one of her most devastating experiences was walking over the bodies of babies in that camp and realizing that she did not feel any emotion.

At the time she had three young children of her own.

On one occasion our potatoes, instead of being handed out were simply thrown on the floor for every one to fight and scramble over, much to the amusement of the barrack leader and his friends. I did not join in this free-for-all, preferring to do without and when I looked around I saw four others stand aside. Five out of six hundred – were we less hungry than the others?

The barrack leader was a Rumanian with his nation’s hatred of Jews. He was also a sadist and used to enjoy prohibiting us from going to the toilet. Some of us were children ranging from five years old upwards. I remember one such occasion when we had all been locked away from the toilet, which consisted of a pit dug between the barracks with a log on top for a seat. I think that the prohibition was for Jews only that time. The door to the barrack was open and a guard had been placed there with a pickaxe handle to enforce this order. There had been some pitiful scenes with some of the children who eventually had to use the inside of the barrack, much to the discomfort of the others who would beat them. Came nightfall and the guard at the door sat himself on a chair with his club between his legs. I watched him closely until I saw that he had fallen asleep. Then I got up and crawled on my stomach between the legs of the chair on which he was sitting. I thought that if he detected me I would throw him over, chair and all, and run back into the darkness of the barrack. I returned the same way that I had come.

There was a German prisoner who used to come and talk to some of us. He would select a Jewish boy of about seven or eight, crouch down in front of him, affectionately put his hands on the boy’s shoulders and proceed to tell the child very gently that he was employed building a gas chamber for Jews. From time to time he would reappear to inform us of the progress that he was making. He did not live in our four barracks, so he must have taken some trouble to get to us in order to convey his information. By that time we had Jewish children with their fathers or older relatives in that Vernichtungs lager, except that the men stayed in a different barrack. Of all the inmates there I had probably been in the camps the longest and the fathers would come and ask me what I thought of this gas chamber story. I told them that they were dealing with an obvious sadist, and to ignore him completely.

Not very long thereafter the barrack leader came and told us all to prepare for transport. We would be leaving that night. We started gathering the few belongings we had, but he told us not to bother – we would not need them. Once again I was asked what I thought of this. I had a strong conviction that nothing would happen to me, so I told my interlocutors to take this instruction to prepare for transport whence it came: from a sadistic antisemite. I went to sleep as usual, and we were not disturbed that night, but the following morning, when some of the children went to the other barracks, they found them empty and their relatives gone.

I now determined to get out of that death camp at all costs. One day I noticed two men dressed in white coats coming in to the barrack. Their red triangles were marked NL (Netherlands). They were Dutch doctors. I introduced myself and asked them for assistance. They answered that they could do nothing for me. However, they worked at the camp hospital and if I could get there they would be able to help me with food. I was also told their names and where to locate them at the hospital.

We had developed the symptoms of malnutrition: emaciation, boils, sores around the mouth and eye infections. These used to suppurate, and when we awoke in the morning our eyes would be glued shut and our faces covered with dried pus. One’s first task in the morning was to feel one’s way to the wash room and wash one’s eyes and face. The barrack leader would not allow us to go to the hospital for treatment, nor did he call for assistance. He knew that people were dying daily in his barrack. His responsibility was limited to ensuring that no infectious diseases broke out, for if they did, then he and the rest of the camp could be affected.

So for one whole week I only washed my eyes in the morning to enable me to see and allowed the pus to accumulate on my face. Then I presented myself to the barrack leader and asked to see a doctor. The Block Alteste took one look at me and sent me to the hospital accompanied by a guard. The Dutch doctors there made sure that I was fed, given medical treatment and, most important, a note stating that I was to return daily. I don’t remember how, but I know that I got Otto to come to the hospital as well.

We made several useful contacts there. One was a Dutch doctor who was in charge of the terminal tuberculosis ward. Nobody would enter there, so I could eat undisturbed. He did warn me of the danger of contracting TB, but being Jewish and considering where I had come from, I felt that the risk was worth taking. Otto was not so sure, and did not accompany me, wisely as it turned out, for years later when my lungs were X-rayed in South Africa, tuberculosis tubercles were found.

My second contact was a Pole who worked in the hospital. The first time I spoke with him he gave me his office number and told me to come and see him on my next visit. When I duly arrived I met him as he was leaving his office, so he told me to wait for him there. I entered his room and found myself standing in the hospital mortuary. The room was filled with three-tier beds bearing naked corpses lying head to toe. Many were of young men, and all had their numbers written on their thighs in blue indelible pencil. I spent some time looking those bodies over and even experimenting with them. I had been told that in cases of malnutrition one could develop oedema in the limbs, so that if one pressed a finger into the flesh, it would leave a depression; the flesh would not readily return to its original position. I don’t remember the result of my experiment though.

My Polish friend eventually returned, gave me some food and we had a pleasant conversation. It is rather indicative of the brutalizing effect that the concentration camp had on its inmates. Where else would one send a fourteen year old to be on his own with all those corpses?

I told my Dutch friends about the disappearance of more than half our number at our “camp”. They told me that there was nothing that they could do for Otto and me unless we managed to make our way to the Dutch barrack, whose number I was then given.

Right behind our barracks was a section t hat ha s become notor iou s. P r i nter s, forgers, printing plate experts, jewelers and mathematicians inhabited it; some of them were Jews and I had the opportunity of meeting one of them. It was here that Sterling notes were forged, with which the Germans tried to flood the world, and which were used to pay non-German contacts and spies. It was also rumoured that some of the gold and silver that the Nazis had plundered was stored in that barrack. A 2008 film called The Counterfeiters dealt with this barrack.

One day we heard a loud commotion, followed by shooting. I went to investigate and found that a number of prisoners from the main camp had attacked this forgery section and were attempting to loot it. The guards had opened fire on them and there was pandemonium. I also noticed that the German guard at our rear gate had left his post in order to have a better view and was standing a few meters from the gate, which was open. This was the opportunity that I had been waiting for. I quickly returned to our barrack, called Otto, grabbed my blanket, ran back and then we slowly and nonchalantly ambled out of that gate and made our way to the Dutch barrack.

Upon our arrival there we were put in the care of a tall blond man by the name of Nobel. Mr. Nobel had been a member of the Rotterdam police force and had worked in their photographic department. He had been caught falsifying papers for the Resistance. Up to that moment we had not attended a roll call in Sachsenhausen, possibly because of the nature of the camp where we were staying. It is therefore possible that we were not missed from our barrack, and I don’t know how the barrack leader of the Dutch barrack accounted for us; we did not stand roll call there either.

It is difficult after all these years to describe the relief that I felt to be rid of those horrible Gypsies. I cannot speak for Otto but I did feel pangs of conscience for having left behind our Jewish friends, but under the circumstances, what else could we do?

Two events stand out in my memory of our time in the Dutch barrack and they were both air raids. The American Super fortresses would fly over in groups of about 70 planes each and I once counted 15 such groups. These were the dreaded 1000 bomber raids. They flew so high that those giant planes appeared to be the size of one’s fingernail and their contrails made streaks across the whole sky. The earth would tremble with the roar of their engines, and when they dropped their bombs on Berlin, 25 km away, the barracks would shake.

During an air raid we would be confined to our barracks. Sachsenhausen, like most large concentration camps, was surrounded by factories, all working for the German war effort. One day the Americans paid us a visit. We watched them from our windows and saw what their modus operandi was. First one plane would drop a smoke bomb on a target, then the following group of bombers would all drop their bombs wherever that smoke bomb hit. One would see the smoke bomb drop among the factory buildings and a few seconds later all those buildings would vanish in a cloud of smoke, and the whole camp would shake from the impact of the explosions. It was an awe inspiring and exciting spectacle, and as afraid as we were, it was a source of immense gratification to see the Germans suffer.

The barracks were made of wood with wooden crossbeams and in ours a chimney protruded through the roof, although its stove had long since been removed. When the bombs dropped there would be a roar as if a train was passing overhead. This would allow us a few seconds time to seek cover. We were lying prone on the floor during this bombardment, when someone shouted:”Stay clear of the beams!” Very sound advice, for if a beam crashed down on one, serious injury or worse could be the result. But how does one avoid lying under a beam in a wooden barrack? We were still feverishly changing our positions when the bombs hit; our barrack seemed to have been spared, and yet a terrified cry was heard. Then every body burst out laughing: one of the men had been lying under the chimney; the soot therein had shaken loose and covered him from head to toe.

The next raid was more dramatic. Again the Superfortresses came over, again the first smoke bomb streaked down to land amongst the remaining factories, which would vanish. But then a second smoke bomb fell right outside the wall of the camp and when the dust and smoke cleared, we saw that part of the wall had disappeared. The third smoke bomb landed amongst our barracks.

Between our barrack and the next was a tiny, underground air raid shelter. Nobel and I looked at the guard with the machinegun and saw that his knees were shaking. We could already hear the roar of the descending bombs when we jumped out of the window, ran past that guard and dived headlong into the shelter. When we surfaced we found that our barrack had survived, but its rear wall had vanished. Of the barracks behind ours only burning ruins remained, and the cry was heard: “Leichentrager, leichentrager!” (Stretcher-bearers).

It was in the Dutch barrack that Otto and I received our first Red Cross parcel. Every Dutchman received one, Otto and I had to share. So I took myself off to find the German barrack leader, knocked on his door and when invited in found him and his German underlings sharing a Red Cross parcel. My protests resulted in a mighty kick and the door being slammed behind me. I suppose that half a parcel was better than none.

I have not told how we came to be accepted by the Dutch. After I had spoken to the Dutch doctors in the destruction camp, I decided to remove the red and yellow star with the letters UNG for Hungarian from my clothes – definitely not allowed, but by that time I don’t think that anybody noticed or cared. It was about one month before the end of the war. I spoke Dutch, had no papers and could tell where I had lived in Rotterdam – who was to question me?

The Death March

On or about 19 April 1945, Sachsenhausen was evacuated due to the approach of the Russians. The whole camp was in turmoil, with everybody, guards, off icials, and prisoners mixing freely. While awaiting the evacuation, Otto and I happened to find an unconscious man sitting on the log that served as a toilet seat. He was bent double, with his head and arms hanging between his legs, and saliva dripping down from his mouth and nose. We went into the Dutch barrack to get assistance for him, but those who were there just laughed at us. The Dutch tended to be a cut above the other prisoners, but such was the brutalization of the camp that a request for assistance only aroused merriment.

We were evacuated one barrack at a time, and every prisoner was given a loaf of bread and a sausage, so I was told. It was already pitch dark when the turn of our Dutch barrack came, and we took our blankets and marched out. By that time there were no more rations to distribute, so we received no food at all. Before long we noticed a red glow behind us; it seemed that Sachsenhausen was burning. We had not walked far when a terrible sight presented itself. Right in front of us lay the corpse of an old man in a pool of blood. He lay on his back with his mouth open, his white hair and pale face glistening in the moonlight and his head surrounded by a halo of blood. His arms were stretched out above his head as though in surrender, and his eyes looked straight up at the heavens that had forsaken him. We were forced to walk over that body, our first but not our last.

This apparition set the tone for what was to follow for the next two weeks. We were made to march 53 km that first night and the next day before we were allowed to sleep and about 30 km most days thereafter. Fifty three km is the distance from Johannesburg to Pretoria. Some days we did not have to march at all, possibly because of fluctuations in the front line. All in all we must have marched some 150 km. Everyone who could not keep up was shot. Even though I saw no casualties among our Dutch group, we kept on passing and stepping over the bodies of those who had gone ahead of us.

Thirty kilometers a day is no problem for a soldier with a full pack. We were starved, emaciated and with little strength except our will to live and the force of our despair. Otto and I, who had survived on two potatoes a day for the past three months and were not used to getting Red Cross parcels, could not keep up with the Dutchmen. Slowly but surely we dropped back and the others, egged on by the guards, overtook us. Soon we were in the last row and still dropping back towards the possibility of imminent death by shooting. Then a few Dutchmen detached themselves from the column, picked up Otto and carried him. Two others took hold of my arms and dragged me along. In the days that followed I was to see men leaving their column in order to grab a few potatoes lying at the side of the road. A burst of machinegun fire would follow. These Dutchmen had risked their lives to save ours.

It was after this incident that the Dutchmen placed us children at the head of the column, so that they would all march at our pace. This worked, the guards did not object, and we continued in this fashion for the remainder of the march.

During that first night’s march, I became utterly exhausted. Then we passed a wagon drawn by prisoners and laden with the guards’ private possessions. It had been piled so high that a lot of the baggage had fallen off and the guards were shouting and swearing. As we passed, a guard told me to climb on top of the wagon and ensure that nothing more fell. I climbed on top and promptly passed out; arguably, this wagon saved my life.

I do not know how long I slept on top of that wagon but everything collapsed again, trapping my Dutch blanket. I quickly joined the prisoners who were helping to push that cart, hoping that in the darkness of the night my disappearance and dereliction of duty would not be noticed. I did not push that vehicle but hung on to it and let it pull me along. Then I became aware that there were several soldiers’ knapsacks hanging from the back of the wagon. Waiting for a cloud to cover the moon, I surreptitiously put my hand in the sack dangling in front of me and felt a loaf of bread. Slipping it inside my overcoat I made my way back to the Dutch column marching alongside. That loaf was speedily divided between Nobel, Otto and me. It was the only food that we were to eat during the first three days of that march.

After a few days I noticed men taking their shoes off and soaking their feet in a stream. Their feet would swell and when told to resume marching they could not get their shoes back on. Under those ghastly circumstances this in itself was a death sentence. I determined not to make the same mistake and during the fourteen days duration of that march never once took my boots off. It was as well, for when I did remove my footwear once the war was over, the condition of my feet horrified me. I have flat feet and am sure that this was caused by that march.

During the fourteen days of the march we walked either for three days at a time without food, or the next three days without water. We would march through grain fields and try and capture a handful of grain. When we went through forests we ate the leaves of the trees that we could reach. We once crossed a stream and half of us jumped into it to drink, despite warnings that it was probably typhoid infested. One day we marched into a village and stopped to rest in the market square. Otto, Nobel and I went to reconnoiter and discovered a water pump in the backyard of a house. Happily we slaked our terrible thirst – water bottles we did not have. The pump made a squeaking sound and suddenly there was a roar. The whole column had heard it and about 800 men were rushing toward us. We got out of the way just in time.

Once I saw the dry stone of a plum or a similar fruit lying in my path. I picked it up and sucked that pip whenever I was thirsty. It was probably my imagination, but from time to time I would taste the fruit that had covered that stone. It also helped to keep my saliva flowing. The scenery would change; forests would alternate with fields and I did not notice the moment of transition, such was my stage of exhaustion.

All this time we were being strafed by Allied planes. It would reach a point where we just had to hear the first sound of a diving aircraft and we would literally hurl ourselves off the road, down thirty-foot embankments, falling and rolling as we went. A German farmer passed us with his wife and children sitting on a wagon; half an hour later we passed them, all lying dead on the side of the road. We saw a German army ambulance with its Red Cross emblem driving towards the front, laden with ammunition. Every moving creature and vehicle was liable to be machine-gunned.

Ab ou t a we e k a f t e r we h a d lef t Sachsenhausen, our column reached the top of a hill. Below us lay a tiny forest with paths leading into it from various directions. From our vantage point we could see columns of prisoners being driven into that forest on every path. All going in, none coming out. I had heard of this procedure; this looked to me like the preparation for a massacre. Upon reaching the forest we were told that we would spend the night there. The Germans were placing machineguns around the perimeter of the forest. I detached myself from the Dutch group, called Otto and began to look around. Eventually I found a fallen tree, which Otto and I maneuvered so that we could lie alongside it, keeping that log between the guns and ourselves.

I do not know what was meant to take place in that forest, maybe the whole thing was a symptom of my paranoia. But that night the earth started shaking with the sound of artillery fire. The Russians had broken through and we were hastily made to continue our march.

Another episode featuring forests happened when we had been plodding all day in pouring rain. Again we were sent into a forest and told to spend the night there. I borrowed a knife, climbed a fir tree as high up as I could and on the way down cut off every branch that I was able to reach. With those branches Otto and I built a shelter and lay down on the sodden earth to sleep. When we awoke the next morning our shelter was gone, and we were lying in a pool of rainwater. Some Poles had waited for us to complete our work and had then removed those branches to use for themselves.

I must tell you about sleep on this march. With sunset we would stop for the night at the nearest forest or farm. I hardly ever remember lying down, such was my exhaustion, and assume that I must have dropped wherever we halted. What I do remember very vividly was having to get up the next morning. My legs would not obey me – it felt as if they had been fastened to the ground. It was an agony that had to be overcome, and quickly too.

One day we stopped to rest at a place where two prisoners were sitting. When we were ordered to resume marching those two did not move. A German soldier repeated the order – still the two men did not obey, sitting there and staring blankly into space. One was so close to me that I could have touched him. The soldier loaded his rifle and repeated the order:”Get up!” I wanted to scream, “Don’t shoot!” but did not have the courage. A shot rang out, and the man nearest to me fell onto his side. Not a muscle in his face had moved. The remaining prisoner got to his feet and continued walking.

Sixty years after this horrible event I spoke of it at St. Stithians School for Girls in Johannesburg. By that time I had spoken at about 200 schools. I know what I can and cannot relate if I want to keep my composure. I always mention the above story to indicate what I had seen on this Death March. But this time one child in the front row asked me how I had felt and for a moment I relived the whole experience and broke into tears.

Many years later I was to deliver the eulogy at the graveside of Annush Strauss, one of the members of our Association of Holocaust Survivors. I told how Annush had been through the same experience as I, but had found the courage to tell the executioner that if he decided to shoot a woman who could no longer walk, he would have to shoot her first. The soldier slowly put his gun aside and the woman was saved. She survived to live in America. In telling my story, however, I did not mention that Annush at that time was 34 and I was 14.

Not long thereafter we awoke one morning to find the ground littered with yellow leaflets. They contained a message from the Allied commanders in the area stating that they knew exactly which German units were operating there and that unless the shooting of prisoners stopped, those implicated would be held responsible. I saw no more shooting after this. I was tempted to pocket one of those leaflets as it would have made a dramatic memento, but saw a guard watching me and became afraid. Out of the 45 000 prisoners who had left Sachsenhausen, 6000 were shot during the march. In 2005 I saw statistics that put the numbers that left Sachsenhausen on that Death March at 36 000 and the death toll at 18 000.

About the thirteenth day of our march we went through a village near Hagenau in Mecklenburg Schwerin. The inhabitants lined the streets to watch us. Suddenly a little boy called out, “Mother, those are children.” “No,” the mother answered, “Those are bandits”. A bandit who looked like a six-year old? I think that this little episode accurately reflected the thinking of the German population despite their avowals after the war of “Wir haben es nicht gewust” – We did not know.