yourself,â they reminded one another throughout the long afternoon.
That night, the three brothers sat next to each other, silent, all that remained of the Edelman family of Krasnik, Poland. Everyone else was gone, they were sure: their parents, their sisters, and the men whom their sisters had married, the nieces and nephew, so small, so young. Sarah was fifty-five years old and Abraham sixty-four.
Moshe had expected all that long day to feel a wave of grief once he had left the demands of work and the prying eyes of the guards, when he could sit privately and allow his heart to follow its will. But there was nothing. How awful it now seemed to him that he had eaten his evening soup as always, so soon after learning that his entire family, Hadassah, everyone he had ever known, had no doubt perished. Was it possible that his experiences, the horrible things he had seen during these twenty-nine months in the camps, had so fully displaced everything else in his brain that he could no longer feel emotion about something he had not actually witnessed? It would not surprise him if that were the case. He felt little emotion anymore about anything, to be honest, even the things he did see.
He glanced at his brothers, hoping for some sign or spark that would carry him to a reaction that he knew he should be having, but they remained silent, too. Even Zalmen, who always had something of importance to say when circumstances required it, had nothing this night.
The brothers had shared the belief during all the long months at the camp that the misery they were enduring was enough for one family, that it would spare their parents, sisters, and other loved ones. Now they knew no such scorecard was being kept.
Moshe and his brothers contemplated escape from time to time, even discussed it occasionally. Such thoughts, however, had to take into account the prospects of post-escape survivability as well as the consequences of success. The results of the few efforts that had been launched had dampened everyoneâs enthusiasm for such ventures.
In November 1942, three men scaled the fence at the plant and dashed into the woods. Residents of a nearby village found the escapees and turned them in. All of the prisoners were ordered into the yard to watch as Dimitry hanged the three captured fugitives, not in the conventional way, but upside down, to increase their agony. As they dangled by their ankles in the bitter cold, Dimitry slashed at them with his whip. Hours later they finally died, stripes of blood frozen in place on their backs.
âIf anyone dares to embarrass me again, this is what will happen to you!â shouted Feix, his face red with fury. âOr worse!â
Still, escape attempts were set in motion from time to time. It wasnât easy for a man to keep within the narrow ground between desperate flights for life and becoming a Muselmann, the camp term for someone who had given up. The ditch filled with men who had veered to one side or the other.
A few months after the hanging of the three escapees, another man escaped, and this one was not apprehended. Feix made good on his arrival-day speeches. He picked ten men and ordered them to strip as the entire camp stood at attention. The naked men were marched to the ditch where Dimitry ordered them to their knees and shot them, slowly, one by one. The foreman who had oversight responsibility for the escapees went to the gallows.
Sometimes death came predictablyâa rule broken, or a badly timed glance at a guard; sometimes it was random bad luck. One spring morning in 1943, Feix arrived as the march to work was about to begin. He gestured with his whip at first one man, then another, according to no method or reason that seemed apparent, and those men were told to step aside. Soon 105 had been grouped and stripped, Mosheâs friend Laibel and his father among them. All were ordered to run toward the ditch. Laibel and his father, in motion, reached toward
That night, the three brothers sat next to each other, silent, all that remained of the Edelman family of Krasnik, Poland. Everyone else was gone, they were sure: their parents, their sisters, and the men whom their sisters had married, the nieces and nephew, so small, so young. Sarah was fifty-five years old and Abraham sixty-four.
Moshe had expected all that long day to feel a wave of grief once he had left the demands of work and the prying eyes of the guards, when he could sit privately and allow his heart to follow its will. But there was nothing. How awful it now seemed to him that he had eaten his evening soup as always, so soon after learning that his entire family, Hadassah, everyone he had ever known, had no doubt perished. Was it possible that his experiences, the horrible things he had seen during these twenty-nine months in the camps, had so fully displaced everything else in his brain that he could no longer feel emotion about something he had not actually witnessed? It would not surprise him if that were the case. He felt little emotion anymore about anything, to be honest, even the things he did see.
He glanced at his brothers, hoping for some sign or spark that would carry him to a reaction that he knew he should be having, but they remained silent, too. Even Zalmen, who always had something of importance to say when circumstances required it, had nothing this night.
The brothers had shared the belief during all the long months at the camp that the misery they were enduring was enough for one family, that it would spare their parents, sisters, and other loved ones. Now they knew no such scorecard was being kept.
Moshe and his brothers contemplated escape from time to time, even discussed it occasionally. Such thoughts, however, had to take into account the prospects of post-escape survivability as well as the consequences of success. The results of the few efforts that had been launched had dampened everyoneâs enthusiasm for such ventures.
In November 1942, three men scaled the fence at the plant and dashed into the woods. Residents of a nearby village found the escapees and turned them in. All of the prisoners were ordered into the yard to watch as Dimitry hanged the three captured fugitives, not in the conventional way, but upside down, to increase their agony. As they dangled by their ankles in the bitter cold, Dimitry slashed at them with his whip. Hours later they finally died, stripes of blood frozen in place on their backs.
âIf anyone dares to embarrass me again, this is what will happen to you!â shouted Feix, his face red with fury. âOr worse!â
Still, escape attempts were set in motion from time to time. It wasnât easy for a man to keep within the narrow ground between desperate flights for life and becoming a Muselmann, the camp term for someone who had given up. The ditch filled with men who had veered to one side or the other.
A few months after the hanging of the three escapees, another man escaped, and this one was not apprehended. Feix made good on his arrival-day speeches. He picked ten men and ordered them to strip as the entire camp stood at attention. The naked men were marched to the ditch where Dimitry ordered them to their knees and shot them, slowly, one by one. The foreman who had oversight responsibility for the escapees went to the gallows.
Sometimes death came predictablyâa rule broken, or a badly timed glance at a guard; sometimes it was random bad luck. One spring morning in 1943, Feix arrived as the march to work was about to begin. He gestured with his whip at first one man, then another, according to no method or reason that seemed apparent, and those men were told to step aside. Soon 105 had been grouped and stripped, Mosheâs friend Laibel and his father among them. All were ordered to run toward the ditch. Laibel and his father, in motion, reached toward
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