Caps Off . . .. Zenon Rozanski

with heavy clubs and their fists.

      “Faster! Tempo! . . . Move on! . . . Get going!” sounded from all sides. The mass of the prisoners reached the stairs. Somebody fell. Over him another, over this one again others. The revolving living ball rolled down the stairs—cursing, moaning, pleading, screaming, rumbling, banging.

      “Move on! . . . Move on! . . . Faster!!!”

      Finally we are in the square. Three or four of those who were crushed were carried to the washroom located on the ground floor.

      “Man in front! . . . Line up!” Again there were screams. This time they came from the Blockältesten, and their helpers. The Stubendienste are running through the rooms as if possessed. Someone did not quite correctly line up. Bum! The clubs worked over all of his body parts which were extending over the line. Feet, hands, head; it does not matter where he hits. Everything is so fast, like streaks of lightning, as if in a mania.

      “Counting!” the command of the Blockältesten is ringing out. At number nineteen, someone has counted incorrectly. It is a foreigner, who is not familiar with the counting in German. The Stubendienste rush to him like hyenas, and already they had dragged him out of the line. One kicked him; the other hit him with the club. “Into the washroom with him!”

      “Counting!”

      This time it works out; but the position is not correct. For a change, there is one too many. Again a running around; again the clubs are in motion. It turned out that the congruence was very poor. Everything is repeated . . . Finally . . .

      “Block 11 . . . Stand to Attention! . . . Caps Off! . . . Eyes to the right!”

      The Blockälteste, holding the Rapportbuch in his right hand, his cap in his left hand, is coming from the front of the Company to the gate where Blockführer Gerlach has just appeared . . . A short report. Gerlach is scrutinizing everything. Slowly, he is inspecting the lines and is counting very accurately. He is looking into everyone’s face; this one he is hacking, another one he is hitting, and then he is moving on, dignified and full of himself. He has completed the checking of the count. Indifferently, he is looking into the book, comparing it. It is correct. Slowly, he is moving to the gate; he is walking through it to the appeal center of the camp in order to give a report to the Rapportführer, who is officiating at the desk.

      And in the meantime, we are standing. Straight. To attention, our heads turned to the right, motionlessly, almost not breathing. The Blockälteste, the Stubendienste, and the Kapos circle between the rows, observing the slightest motion. One is not allowed to move a limb; one may not rest; not even coughing is allowed.

      Someone is coughing just now. A short while later, he is already screaming . . . And again he is silent . . . This is lasting for about a quarter of an hour. Finally Gerlach is returning. He turned the Rapportbuch over to the Blockältesten . . . Finished . . .

      “Eyes straight forward! . . . Move! . . .”

      Pfum . . . It all passed luckily . . .

      “Work detail (Arbeitskommando), stand to attention! . . . ”

      Again movement. We fall into line for the march, rows of five. Three hundred human beings, all are running over the place in the small square. Everyone is looking for his row of five . . .

      And again clubs . . . Finally, we are standing. We are standing like this for a good half hour, ready to march out.

      Finally it is said:

      “In step! . . . Forward march! . . . Sing! . . .”

      “The blue dragoons, they are riding! . . .”

      I am marching in a row of five together with Ali. During the night, we had become somewhat stronger. I feel strong enough, but my behind is hurting; it is unbearable. From time to time, I palpate my body. Everything is swollen, hard, but the fever has subsided. Maybe phlegm will now not develop even though it is almost always a consequence of heavy blows . . . On the way, we pass by the Commandos of the Camp (work detachments), who are ready to march. I notice that some comrades are carefully searching for me in the rows . . . Someone is unnoticeably waving at me.

      “Hang in there!”

      I do what I can . . . We walk through the gate, and after a quarter of an hour, we have reached the gravel pit. On command, we run in all directions, each one to his group. I belong to Reinhold . . . The process by which one is added to the “new arrivals” is lasting for a week . . . Maybe I’ll make it through the day . . . I am very hopeful . . . We seize the carts. The number of “new arrivals” has increased. Some of the older ones had been transferred to us for disciplinary reasons. Reinhold is obviously in a bad mood. He is cursing more often than yesterday . . . That is a bad sign!

      I was the first one to push the cart, cautiously and carefully. Don’t push too fast because this will exhaust too much energy, and don’t go too slowly because Reinhold . . . He is already beating up someone . . . This time it is a Czech. We are just pushing along the edge of the gravel pit. A meter to the right—there is a slope. And there is a hole about fifteen meters deep . . . That gives Reinhold a new idea . . .

      “You pig!” he screams. “I shall show you how to push . . .!” He seized the cart out of the startled Czech’s hands and topped out the sand. “Get into the cart! . . .”

      The Czech stands there undecidedly. However, the club of the Vorarbeiter is helping him to make a decision. Cautiously he steps into the cart. With ease Reinhold is lifting the load. He takes a run-up into the direction of the hole, and he is letting the cart with its contents plunge into the hole . . . We hear a terrible scream, a rumbling . . . and . . .

      “Well done, Reinhold! . . .” The Kommandoführer is patting him on the shoulders with satisfaction . . . “Here, you have some cigarettes . . .”

      The face of the young henchman is beaming. The cigarettes disappear quickly into his pockets.

      “Yes, Kommandoführer!” fell his short answer. It sounded like the barking of a dog.

      “Get on with it!”

      We continued to push. Near a certain pile of sand, the car of the camp is parking. Vorarbeiter Gerhard stands near it. During better times, I had given him some soup once in a while. Surprised, he looked at me.

      “Man, how do you look?”

      I point towards Reinhold.

      “Pst . . .”

      He waved his hand aside.

      “He can do to me somewhere . . .” followed by an indicative motion of his hand.

      “Who has beaten you up like that?”

      “He over there!”

      “Wait . . . Listen . . .”

      Gerhard takes Reinhold aside. They talk about something, and, after a while, I hear my number.

      “Prisoner 8214,” I reported.

      “Shut up!” Reinhold looked inquisitively at Gerhard. “That one?”

      “Yes!”

      “You come to me during the lunch hour every day.” He turned to me. “And now leave the cart and come with me . . .” Without looking at me further, he goes forward. Gerhard squeezes about ten cigarettes and a piece of bread into my hand.

      Until lunchtime, I work at the sieve. I throw the loosely hacked gravel on it with a shovel. The finer gravel falls to one side, along with the sand; the coarser gravel falls to the other side.

      What a royal job!!!

      I am happy; I see the sun and hardly feel any pain. I shovel mechanically and let my thoughts wander.

      The noon gong.

      After I had gulped down my miserable soup, I run immediately to the hut. Reinhold is noticing me. He is bringing me a full bowl of soup.

      “Here is your grub . . . , and if Gerhard has deceived me, then you