LITMIR.BIZ

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for the hospital barrack,” I lied outrightly.

      Tom Mix became more condescending.

      “Well, that’s certainly your luck, get lost!”

      “I ask permission to leave!” I was already running away in a complete about-face.

      At this point, I had really regained my senses and was coolheaded. When I had reached the Block, I crawled into the cellar and rolled myself a cigarette from the tobacco waste that I had found on the previous day. Now I could indeed deliberate more calmly and purposefully.

      Well then, SK! . . .

      What the entire camp considered more horrible than an execution: The Punishment Company! (SK) . . .

      Instinctively, there arose before my mind’s eyes the daily image of the people in the SK column as they were returning from work.

      A long line of human shadows that came staggering on their legs and with their wooden clogs made the cobblestone pavement resound in marching step. At the end of the line, they always carried the victims of the day . . . corpses of those who had been shot to death, murdered, or beaten to death with clubs, or those who had, during work, died of “natural causes.” And the marching step was drowned by the song of the Punishment Company (SK), “The blue dragons they are riding . . .” which they screamed out with their last strength.

      As soon as this song started resounding, bit by bit the streets were deserted. For a too curious glance at the lines of the Punishment Company (SK), one could end up in there oneself . . .

      During the following days, I ate. I ate in the camp as never before and as never afterwards. The block senior (Blockältester), actually a rather decent chap, relieved me from work for the rest of the days which still separated yet from the day on which I would be walking through the gate of the Punishment Company [SK]. The comrades slipped me some of their own meager portions. And in the evening, after the roll call, I was ordered to come to the block clerk, where a bucket of soup was awaiting me . . .

      I ate. With cold calculation, I ate until I got stomach cramps. Whenever I became nauseated, I paused, lay down for one or two hours, and then continued to eat. Keep eating, eating as much as possible! . . .

      About a week later, after the morning roll call, my number was called. A handshake from my comrades, a pat on the shoulder, an encouraging glance. “Hang in there!”

      An hour later, accompanied by the camp senior (Lagerältester) and the Blockführer, I walked through the gate of Block Number 11.

      In the square, which was enclosed by three high walls, there were three similarly convicted prisoners. Across from the stairs which led to the SK, there was a block which was used for beating. There was a wooden rack into which the feet would be placed; the upper part of the body would be placed on a special bench, whereby the buttocks were stretched outward.

      The numbers were determined, and then we were lined up and we waited.

      After a quarter of an hour, the command fell:

      “Attention, eyes to the right!”

      Fritzsch arrived in the square, accompanied by the camp physician, 1st Lieutenant, SS-Obersturmführer Entreß, and the Rapportführer.

      There was a brief announcement: “Four prisoners have lined up for punishment.”

      Rapportführer Palitzsch opened the folder and called my number.

      I jumped out of line as if pricked by a needle.

      In a monotonous voice, Rapportführer Palitzsch read aloud to me the memorandum from which I learned that because of my acts of sabotage, which consisted of my stealing from the SS kitchen two mess tins filled with garbage, I was sentenced to twenty-five blows with a cane and to the Punishment Company (SK).

      Immediately afterwards, Blockführer Gerlach ordered that I pull down my pants.

      The camp physician cast an interested glance at my buttocks and noticed briefly,

      “Healthy!”

      Simultaneously, I tried to pull down my underwear together with my pants, but an energetic punch from Gerlach indicated that that was not allowed. One was permitted only to pull down the pants.

      I placed my feet into the rack, lay down on the bench, and stretched my hands forward. These were seized by Bunker Foreman (Bunkerkapo) Kurt Pennewitz. He stretched me so tightly that it rattled in my bones.

      I clenched my teeth and waited. In the meantime, Blockführer Gerlach tested the flexibility of the bullwhip.

      “When he is beginning to whip you, then start to count out loudly!” Kurt suddenly whispered to me.

      Only later did I realize how valuable this remark had been.

      Indeed, the lashes were counted only from that moment when the one who was whipped himself began to count out loudly. Sometimes, he was given to understand only after the twentieth lash that he should begin the counting.

      The few seconds that passed from the moment I was ready to receive the lashes until the moment I actually received the first whip, seemed longer to me than hours. It lasted incredibly long . . .

      Finally.

      Finally . . .

      One . . . , a short, burning pain, as if scalded, as if stabbed. The pain is felt throughout my entire body. The fingertips, the skin on the shaven-bald head—everything is hellishly painful.

      Two . . . Five . . .

      The interval between one blow and the next seems like an eternity. As if they were lightning, my thoughts cross in my brain. Why doesn’t he beat me? What is he waiting for? Does he indeed perhaps intend to finish me off with a shot to my neck???

      Eight . . . Twelve . . .

      Confused thoughts. Fear . . . Everything is already burning and pinching. Don’t scream . . . And yet one would like to scream . . . Perhaps it would even be better to scream; then they might perhaps stop the beating?

      Sixteen . . . Nineteen . . .

      No! One may not scream. A few, who showed any weakness, were killed. One has to be stronger than one really is.

      Twenty-two . . .

      Still three . . . two . . . one blow!

      “T w e n t y–f i v e!”

      In this shout my entire pain discharged. But it sounded triumphantly!

      I had not screamed, not even once.

      Kurt Pennewitz let go of my hands.

      “Now you’ll have to report the reception of the punishment to the Lagerführer,” he again whispered to me.

      The feet which I pulled out of the rack were very heavy. It was difficult to place them together while standing to attention. But they closed nevertheless . . .

      “Prisoner 8214 is reporting obediently to have received the punishment,” I was able to say in one breath.

      “Pull down your pants!”

      The camp physician cast another glance at my behind.

      “Okay. Bend your knees!”

      After a quarter of an hour, I found myself in the cell of the Camp Bunker. It was the custom that the convicted prisoner was given three days of a more intensified arrest.

      The stony floor cooled my burning buttocks wonderfully.

      2

      On the morning of the fourth day, the key rattled in the lock of the door. I got up and stood at attention.

      When the door opened, a beam of light fell into the cell, which gave the broad-shouldered Private First Class (SS-Rottenführer), Gerlach, the appearance of a silhouette.

      “Come!” . . .

      On the

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