Brothers Beyond Blood Read online

  Food was our biggest problem. The nearby farmers had stopped coming around and after our petrol got low, we were unable to go get food in the town. We grew a small garden and some of us hunted the surrounding wood. One day a farmer came with a cart with cabbages in it. We offered him Reichmarks but he refused, preferring gold or gems.

  That was just about the time I met your father personally. One day I was told to help out in the storage warehouse. There was a rat there that knew gold and gems.

  “What do you know of these valuables, Jew?” I asked, shoving him but not too roughly. The boy was thin as a rail, though tall, with brown hair and a small, bent nose, unlike the Jews shown on the posters pasted up in my hometown. The more I looked at the boy, the more curious I became. Take away the striped uniform and he looked like one of the boys I’d been with in school or the Hitler Youth. “Where are you from, boy?”

  Herschel looked up and frowned, then dropped his eyes, “I am from a town in Eastern Germany near Dresden, Teplice. My family are, or,” he mumbled, “were jewelers.”

  “Jewelers, huh? So what do you know about this stuff, Jew? Or should I call you Jew-eler?” I said in jest. I picked up some of the pins, necklaces, rings and bracelets, then let them slide through my fingers into a wooden tray.

  He slid down onto the floor and held the tray in his lap. “Come, sir, sit down here and I will teach you about gold and what I know of gems.” He looked at me appraisingly, “My name is Herschel. What is yours, sir?”

  I sat down beside him after leaning my heavy rifle against the wall. “I am Hans, Herschel,” and shook his thin hand. And from that day on I was the student of a rat - or the first Jew I had ever known.

  Later we became friends. Ironic, no? He would help me select some semiprecious gem or gold trinket to trade for food. We eventually made a small cache of the better items and buried them in a jar I’d taken from the kitchen.

  It seemed like each day we would have to bury a prisoner or two. By the time I had arrived, very few prisoners were shipped to us. The ones we had were sick and weak. After only one month, our population had dwindled to little more than one hundred prisoners and only seven guards. With the lack of food and petrol, we guards were in no better physical condition as the prisoners. So why did we stay? Why did we not leave as two guards did one day, just laying down their rifles and walking out the gate? I suppose that some of us felt it was our duty to stay and yet, with the war all but over, we knew that we would be punished as harshly as any of the prisoners, maybe even worse. I stayed because I had no one to go home to. No home, in fact. My school friends were scattered, father and sister dead. One day I realized that my only friend was Herschel. I treated him as an equal and brought him scraps of food. I tried to protect him from the abuses of the other guards. Granski was the worst. He said he enjoyed killing the rats, that he was doing the world a favor. I grew up quickly in this camp. Many times the farmer’s words came back to me: abattoir, hell.

  I wore shoes taken from the storehouse, a baggy pair of trousers, which barely reached to my calves and my uniform coat and hat. I had neither undergarment nor socks, for these had all fallen apart many weeks ago, and there were none to be had in the storehouse. Herschel gave what clothes he could to the other prisoners, and I assisted him. Our storehouse seemed to be the dispensary, clothing store, cooking utensil supply and shroud source.

  Oh, yes, we had lots of shrouds. In the beginning we received many hundreds of burial shrouds. Now we were tearing them up for rags and dressings for the many weeping sores. Yes, I lived with my friend in hell.

  Chapter 4 - Herschel’s Story

  Hans became my pupil. Most days we prisoners were roused from our pallets with a kick and were shoved ahead of guards to tables and benches for some food, though food was a polite term. These days every meal was a thin, watery gruel. Sometimes there were maize granules, pig feed; or small pieces of root vegetables, rarely meat. Two of the guards trekked into town and traded gold teeth or small pins for whatever they could find. Sometimes they would commandeer a cart and horse from a farmer to bring them back.

  A guard named Jurgen was the cook for both the guards and the prisoners. The war was nearing the end, and we were all starving, guards and prisoners alike. The prisoners wore striped uniforms, though rags were more like it, while the guard’s uniforms had deteriorated to a like state. There were few clothes remaining in the counting house and what was there were mainly children’s and women’s. The moths and rats had made Swiss cheese of most of them.

  One day, as we crouched in the sorting house, we were discussing the

  carat weight of gold. For some reason, Hans asked me what my family name was. Now he had rarely talked about family, his or mine. “Why do you ask, Hans?” I warily questioned. Was he trying to get some information from me?

  He shrugged, “Just want to know who I am working with.” I was taken aback. Working with? Not ‘had under me’ or ‘who my prisoner is’, but working with. I was almost loath to reply, but something compelled me to answer honestly. Hans had never abused me, never hit me. In fact he frequently gave me a crust of bread or an apple piece from his own larder.

  I drew in a breath and said, “My full name is Herschel David Rothberg.”

  He jumped up, dropping the gold chain he’d been fingering, “You’ve gone too far, Jew. You make jest of me.”

  I frowned, frightened, “Why? What do you mean, Hans, I mean, sir?” I covered my head with my hands and leaned against the wall, drawing up my feet in expectation of a rain of blows.

  He leaned forward, face almost touching mine. “My family name is also Rothberg, Herschel. How did you know? I never told you.” He was angry and perplexed. He drew away and walked in close circles, muttering to himself.

  I gaped, at him. “This is true? Rothberg? You are a Rothberg?” I couldn’t help myself. I started laughing. What a cruel joke. I, a Jewish prisoner in a concentration camp, a death camp, shared the same family name with my guard, a good German boy, a Hitler Youth. I laughed. Lord, how I laughed, holding my sides, tears running down my face.

  Hans understood the irony of it, and then he smiled. In a moment he started laughing too. Harder and harder. Oh, the paradox, that fate should give us this moment. Guard and prisoner shook with laughter, looking at each other and shaking with fresh gales. I gasped, “Maybe we are long-lost brothers?” I shouted and collapsed again in mirth. I had not laughed in many years, and it felt so incredibly good. If I were to die at that moment, I would still have my laughter to transport me to who knows where.

  After we had subsided, we two sat side by side against the wall. I was a bit taller than Hans. He was shorter but not quite as thin. His uniform trousers, worn through at the knees, were barely long enough to cover his ankles. I wore a pair of raggedy striped pants and a shirt that had once been a guard’s waistcoat; shoes for both of us came from gassed and dead prisoners.

  After a minute Hans asked me, “Where are your people from? Before coming to Germany, I mean.”

  I shrugged, “Someplace in Russia, my Grandpapa told us. I don’t remember where. And yours?”

  Now he shrugged, “Here. I mean Germany, as far as I know. Our family name many generations ago was Rothenberg, but somehow it got shortened to Rothberg.” We both mulled that over.

  Then, in a note of seriousness, he told me that the Commandant had left in the middle of the night in his auto, using the last of the petrol. Hans called the Commandant a coward and said, “There are only seven guards left to guard the prisoners.” He buried his face in a crooked elbow “I don’t know what will become of us.”

  “Why, what do you mean?” I asked.

  “Granski, the Polish guard, now fancies himself Commandant. He wants us to kill all of the prisoners and run away so no one can tell what we did here.” He sniffled and said, “But I have nowhere to go. My family was killed in an air raid. There are barely one-hundred of you prisoners left but I cannot let him kill all of you.” He turned a haggard
face to me, “What am I to do, Herschel? I have never killed anyone.” His agony was plain to see.

  I gasped, “You can’t let him do that, Hans. These men are walking dead now.” Most of the prisoners had been in the camp for years. The ones who are left had rheumatism, severe arthritis, tuberculosis, scurvy or a myriad of other ailments and diseases. I weighed just fifty kilos. We discussed ways to protect the other prisoners. Finally I demanded, “Who of the other guards are left?”

  In an strained voice Hans replied, “Just me; Jurgen the cook; Helmut; Karl, the boy who came just last week from Hamburg; Riger; and, of course, Granski.”

  I thought for a moment, “Listen, Hans, this is what you must do.” I grabbed him by a sleeve and thrust my face close. “Go into town tonight.” I whispered. “ Then when you get back, tell Granski that the British or Americans have parachuted into the forest near town and will be here by morning. That may make him leave during the night.”

  “But then what will we do, Herschel?” Hans was near tears.

  Shrugging, defeated, I put my arm around the older boy and pulled him close and whispered, “We will wait. The war will end soon, no? The Allies are nearby. The planes pass every night and the bombs are close to us. It can’t be long now.” I scrambled to my feet, pulling Hans up. “Now take me back to the barracks and go to town quickly.” I knew I was taking a chance giving a guard orders, but by this time, Hans and I were more comrades than guard and prisoner; Hans and Herschel Rothberg.

  Chapter 5 - Hans’ Story

  I had come to this remote camp as a young boy. I had been protected by family and had belonged to a group of fellow boys much like the Boy Scouts; the Hitler Youth. I enjoyed my time with the other fellows, even when we were ordered to beat and round up Jews. I was told that the Jews were stupid, a sub-human species. They were also depicted as clever, money manipulators and, we were told they made items of gold and jewels stolen from our good German people. I had some trouble believing the claim that Jews were stupid; yet clever, and that they controlled all of the banking in the Reich. How could that be?

  We took the Jews we arrested to a holding pen near the railroad yard in my town. I was told that this was happening all over Germany, and once all the Jews, Gypsies, homosexuals – I didn’t know what this meant until later – and ‘enemies of the state’ were rounded up and sent to work camps, Germany would reclaim her rightful place as the leader of nations in the world.

  My Papa used to tell me how bad things were after the Great War, a war we lost and then were treated very poorly by the Allies. It was Der Fuehrer who made us see how great we could be again. I was proud to be part of our recovery.

  When I arrived at the camp, I was appalled. This was not a large camp, just six rough wooden buildings for the prisoners, and three somewhat smaller ones to the left of the gate for the guards and German support personnel. A cookhouse and kitchen for the guards and Commandant was next. Directly beside the gate was the main administrative office where the Commandant, Major Boettcher, his aide Sergeant Mueller, and a secretary worked. The camp was surrounded by high barbed wire strands and had tall watchtowers in two of the corners. The camp was designed to hold almost one thousand prisoners, though I couldn’t see where we could feed this many or even house them. I was disgusted at the condition of the prisoners. How could we keep these men working if they were in such poor physical condition? It took me only a couple of days to see that this was maybe once thought of as a work camp but was now an extermination camp. I was sickened and did everything I could to stay away from the gashouse. But one day I was ordered to help supervise the removal of bodies from this place.

  That was when I met Herschel. He was about my age but taller. He moved swiftly and did the jobs assigned to him without lagging. I had no need to strike him or abuse him in any way. However, some of the other guards abused the prisoners whenever they could, I think because they were bored. After a while, I saw him, not as a rat, but as a boy near my own age. He and I might have been friends back in my town.

  He did not have the look of the stereotypical Jew: curly black hair, hooked nose, grasping hands that were on all the propaganda posters. He instead, had dark brown hair, green eyes, but with pale skin. His features were regular, and he often smiled. In our later discussions, I found him intelligent, respectful, quick, and most astonishing of all, not beaten down as most of the other prisoners seemed to be.

  After a time, I tried to insert myself between the other guards and Herschel. I escorted him to the storehouse where the dead prisoners’ belongings were sorted and kept until they could be sent to Berlin. Sometimes I was able to give him some food from the guard’s kitchen.

  As the war ground on, the trains grew fewer, then stopped. The prisoners ceased coming, and the belongings remained in the storehouse. No vehicles came to claim them. No further orders came from Berlin or Dachau. What is more, the supply trucks with our food stopped coming.

  That is when Herschel started instructing me in the lore of precious metals and gems. I was an apt pupil, not long out of school, and the thirst for knowledge was still strong in me. Daily, I roused him with a light kick or a shove from his pallet in Barracks 4 and escorted him to his place in the kitchen area so he and I could eat what little food was available. Then we were off to the storehouse for the day’s instruction. Sometimes one of the other young guards and I would go into the nearest town with a small bauble Herschel would select, and trade it for food or petrol, when there was some available.

  I was worried that Granski, the older Polish guard, would kill all of the prisoners and possibly the rest of the guards. Several times he said, “If the Allies find out what has been done here, they will kill us all.” He was referring to us guards and support personnel.

  At Herschel’s suggestion, he and I worked out a plan. I took some gold teeth and started walking to town. Security was now lax, with the few remaining guards in almost as poor condition as the prisoners. I was very weak, so I sat by the side of the road and fell asleep. I really did not have to go into Keffer to complete the ruse. I knew there was no food in the town.

  I awoke in total darkness, disoriented and groggy. What woke me? Bombers overhead roared and dropped their bombs in the distance. I waited until they turned back and then hurriedly returned to the camp. Each time I left, I found it more and more difficult to return, but now I had Herschel as my friend, and I couldn’t leave him to Granski.

  Everything worked as we had planned. Well, almost. I rushed into the guard barracks and found Granski seated at a table eating the last of a piece of cheese. The other boys were asleep.

  I whispered, “I heard that an American paratroop unit has landed on the other side of the town and might be upon us by morning.” He jumped up and ran to our small larder, threw food into a cloth bag and grabbing a pistol, which he tucked into his belt. I followed him to the prisoner’s kitchen, which he ransacked for what little food he could find.

  A tall, gaunt prisoner who helped Jurgen, our cook, came in and asked, “What is happening?”

  Soon two more prisoners crowded in, and the three made a feeble attempt to stop him. Granski drew the Luger pistol and shot them. Bang, bang, bang and the three fell dead at my feet, their blood pooling around and under them. At the noise, Herschel came in and stopped short. Granski turned the pistol on him, and I could see his finger tighten.

  “Don’t try to stop me, Jew,” he spit.

  Before he could shoot, I stepped between them. “Take what you want, Sergeant. No one will stop you,” I said in as calm a voice as I could.

  Granski jammed the pistol back into his belt and ran out without another word. We hoped to never see him again. I couldn’t have stopped him nor would I. Granski ran through the open gate and disappeared down the road, the bag bouncing against his rounded back.

  After that, we just waited, waited for the end and whatever that would bring. We foraged in the nearby wood and ate whatever we could catch or dig up. It seemed that the world had for
gotten us, which was just as well.

  Chapter 6 - Herschel’s story

  When I heard the gunshots, I ran from my pallet in Barracks 4. Hans was standing over three bodies, looking down in horror. Granski stood with his back against the wall, waving a Luger pistol and looking wild-eyed “They were going to attack me,” he screamed. Then he aimed the pistol at me.

  Just before Granski pulled the trigger, Hans stepped between us and said something to Granski. My heart stopped and I stood still, not daring to move. I looked down at Dovee, Mr. VanGelt and Professor Steiner lying in pools of blood, and then looked up at the pistol. I don’t remember what Hans said, but Granski stuck the pistol in his belt and ran out. I couldn’t move.

  “Herschel, are you all right?” Hans shook me by the shoulder.

  The tears ran down my face. I looked at him, “You saved my life, Hans.” I looked down again at my friends and sighed. By now several more of the prisoners were gathered in the doorway to our little kitchen. “Please help me bury these good men.” I went out to get my cart, and we placed the bodies on it, taking them to the mass grave at the back of the camp. Hans pointed a hand torch before us.

  Rabbi Shmuel said a short prayer and we carried them down into the trench and laid them out. I shoveled enough dirt to cover them for the time being and climbed up, Hans helping me. We walked back to the barracks slowly, not talking. I bid him a good night and tried to sleep. At my count, we were down now to ninety-seven prisoners and only seven guards.

  The next day was overcast, low dark clouds hanging over the camp. How appropriate, I thought. When we gathered for morning count, only Hans and two other guards emerged. I saw movement in the guards’ barracks, but none of the others came to the muster. I’m not sure why we bothered every morning; force of habit, I guess. After the muster, most of the prisoners just sat against the walls of the buildings. Some went to the kitchen, and I walked toward the counting shed.