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CHAPTER III

HINDENBURG'S ALMS

HEADS high and a stiff upper lip!" an elderly police sergeant encouraged us as our train neared the station of Hubertshof. "You'll get out some day."

When we stepped out on the platform we were turned over to a detachment of the Ninety-sixth SS, in charge of the concentration camp. The stormleader, displeased with the police sergeant's "laxity" and intent upon showing us without delay that things were run differently here, went to the trouble of kicking out of the train with his own boot a prisoner who took too long

about finding his bundle. Their rifles ready for action, the SS-men escorted us to the camp, which we reached about seven in the evening.

As soon as we'd been driven into the yard the gates were locked and sentries armed with automatic rifles were posted. There were no prisoners to be seen. The yard was surrounded by buildings on three sides and cut off on the fourth by barbed wire and a fence. A wooden shack flaunted a huge red cross: "First Aid Station." Black Shirts off duty looked us over in the hope of discovering old acquaintances among us; they swore and threatened, and kicked us from behind.

Even at first sight we could see a marked difference between the SS-men at the camp and those at Columbia. In Berlin they had been mostly sons of the urban middle classes, with a mingling of the intelligentsia and 1umpen-proletariat. ¹ Here at camp the majority were obviously recruited from the ranks of the rural population. They were less dandified and could hardly boast the sadistic refinements of their Berlin brethren. But what they lacked in finesse they more than made up for in honest brutality.

Two officers-a stormbanner leader (four stars in his collar) and a stormleader (three stars) engaged in conversation at the door of the Administration Building, now turned their attention to us. Having allowed the guards time to vent their spleen on us, they sauntered over.

"Hm--a fine crowd they've sent us! Which of you were Communists?"

Hands went up everywhere.

"Which of you belonged to the Socialist Party and the Reichsjammer?" ²

About twenty responded.

"Jews, step out!"

Three men fell out of line.

"What do you do for a living?" inquired the officer of the first.

"Attorney."

"Political organization?"

"I was a member of the SPG."

"Aha-functionary?"

"Reichstag deputy."

"Splendid!" cried the officer. "Tell me, what does your International say to the fact that we don't even ask for permission to hang youl"

The Social-Democrat was silent.

"Answer me."

"I don't know."

"Then I'll tell you. Lie down! On all fours-like a little dog. All right-pay attention now: Fido--how does the Second International talk?"

Silence.

"Fido," he repeated sternly, "how does the Second International talk? Bark, you dog!" he shouted.

"Wow, wow," barked the Reichstag deputy, one of the best-known figures of the former Reichstag and at one time a member of the cabinet.

The guards held their sides with laughter.

"You used to s - - t on the German workers," the officer said. "Here we'll put you in your element. I hereby appoint you director of the latrine."

A Black Shirt appeared. "The first ten men to the Personnel Department," he reported to the officer.

Moving at a trot, we crossed the yard to an office where a couple of SS-men registered and fingerprinted us, one at a time.

The procedure never varied. At the command "Next!" one of us would knock at the door, open it and enter. Once inside the office, we were obliged to say, "I beg leave to come in."

"You're in already," one of the troopers would bawl. "Who gave you permission to come in?"

Whereupon the bewildered prisoner would attempt to back out. A couple of Black Shirts standing outside would toss him in again. Back in the office, he would be greeted by a second storm of blows, and thus would be kept hurtling back and forth till his tormentors tired of the game. This was one of the minor forms of entertainment devised by the troopers in the Administration Department, in order not to fall behind their comrades on guard duty.

After "playing the piano" (being fingerprinted) we were placed on the scales.

"Again," said the guard, as I stepped off the scales.

Unsuspectingly I obeyed.

"Down."

"Again."

He accompanied his next "Down" with a blow on the ear that knocked me from the scales.

"There," he remarked complacently, "next time you'll be quicker."

While the remaining prisoners were being dispatched the guards on the courtyard drilled us in the rudiments of military field exercises.

"Up! Down! Up! Down!"

Over and over they made us fling ourselves, face down, into the mud, crawl on our bellies, jump up, run, and throw ourselves in mid-course to the mud again. The guards came to our aid with rifle butts and their boots. Slackers were mercilessly beaten.

After an endless series of torments we were dismissed with the promise, "You'll be gleichgeschaltet tomorrow," and were assigned to our sleeping quarters. I was put into Company Eight.

The prisoner in charge showed me where I belonged, and turned out the light. I found myself standing in the darkness of a cellarlike room whose oppressive air made breathing difficult. In undressing, I bumped my head against a post.

"Take it easy," whispered my neighbor good-naturedly. "Takes time to get used to these quarters." I was glad he was still awake.

"Are you hungry?" he asked quietly.

"Yes."

"Here's a hunk of bread."

He thrust into my hand a dry crust, which I ate ravenously. We had been given no food all day.

My bed consisted of a wooden frame with a straw pallet and a blanket. For the first time in four weeks I was able to remove my stinking underwear.

Outside, the sentry's searchlight played about the building. I drew the blanket over my head and fell promptly asleep.

It was still dark when we were awakened by the blowing of a whistle.

"Get up!"

The squadleader on duty was in good spirits. "Out of your stink-boxes!" he cried, snapping on the lights.

In the twinkling of an eye everyone was up. Beside me, above me, below me, prisoners were crawling out of beds, shaking up pallets, folding blankets together, running to the washroom, dressing, fetching their brown brew in mugs and army plates, devouring their morning slices of bread. It was all the work of a few minutes. The narrow passage between the two rows of

bunks swarmed like an ants' heap. It was impossible for us newcomers to get so much as a foot on the ground. Before I had fully grasped what was going on, thc orders of the guards and the squadleaders were ringing out:

"Outdoor squads! Fall in for work!"

"Dyke Number One! Forward-march!"

"Dyke Number Two! Forward-march!"

"Dyke Number Threc make ready to maroh!"

"Indoor squads fall in for inspection!"

I looked about helplessly.

"What are we supposed to do now?" I asked a bunkmate, who was swallowing his last bite of bread and hurrying out.

"Have you been assigned to duty yet?""No. We only got here last night.""Line up outside the First Aid Station," he said and was gone.

I dressed as rapidly as possible and made my bed. Two members of the company remained behind-an old man, long past sixty, obviously no longer fit for heavy outdoor work, and a prisoner assigned to cleaning duty. The old man seated himself at the table, which was forced in between the two rows of bunks at the lower end of the room, whetted a bread knife against the table's edge, and began cutting copies of the Volkiscbe Beobachter ³ to the proper size for use in the latrines. The other swept the passage, which was strewn with wisps of straw, breadcrumbs, dust, and bits of paper. Neither of them said a word.

"What are you here for?" I asked the old man, hoping to draw him into conversation. He threw me a sidelong glance.

"If you really want to know - I was caught smoking at the cinema."

Realizing my mistake, I tried to efface the bad impression I had made.

"I didn't ask out of curiosity. I just wanted to get the lay of the land here."

"You'll get it soon enough," he muttered. "Take your time."

Disheartened by the rebuff, I went out. Outside the First Aid Station the new prisoners were already lined up, standing stiffly at attention though there was no guard in sight. Nobody bothered about us. In whispers we agreed that, by comparison with Columbia and other SS barracks in Berlin. Life here at camp seemed to offer no special terrors.

Long after the outdoor squads had departed and the indoor squads returned from the morning inspection, we were still lined up outside the First Aid Station. At about ten, a squadleader (one star on his collar) approached us.

"Have you 'played piano' yet?"

"Yes, sir."

"Come along, then. Left-face; forward-march!"

He led us to the rear yard and put us in shape through a three-hour course in trotting, field exercises, and falling to the ground. He taught us the Hitler salute and must have drilled us a hundred times over in the proper manner of greeting any SS officer who happened to visit our sleeping quarters.

"The first one to catch sight of him springs up and cries, 'Attention!' Then the rest of you jump to your feet and stand at attention. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Down."

We threw ourselves, face down, to the ground.

"Company--wheel!"

We rolled from our stomachs to our backs.

"Company--wheel!"

We rolled from our backs to our stomachs.

"Now--the moment one of you sees even the shadow of my uniform, he's to report."

He retreated a few steps and tried us out.

"Attention!" yelled the prisoner who first caught sight of him.

"Too sloe. Back again! What's the matter, did they p--- in your eyes last night? How near do you want me to come before you can see me?"

He continued to train us along these lines until noon.

At one o'clock the prisoners left in camp lined up by cauldron, from which two prisoners ladled a helping into each tin dish. The whole's week's menu was posted on the kitchen door:

Monday---Peas and potatoes.

Tuesday---Turnips and potatoes.

Wednesday---Beans and potatoes.

Thursday---cabbage and potatoes.

Friday---Fish and potatoes.

Saturday---Noodles and potatoes.

Sunday---Rice and potatoes.

What we got that noon was potato gruel. What we got every other day for our main meal was also potato gruel. That was all we ever got.

Hungry though I was, I couldn't choke the stuff down and poured most of it into the barrel placed outside the dining room for that purpose. I was all the more surprised to see that most of the prisoners were not only swallowing their food ravenously but posting themselves outside the kitchen for a second helping. The "capitulation" here seemed general. There were quite a few, in

fact, who managed to get themselves third and fourth helpings.

From one to two was rest hour. The prisoners either sat around in the dining hall or, forbidden though it was, stole back to their sleeping quarters. But when I attempted to join my company, I was halted by a prisoner who stood as though by accident in the doorway.

"You can't come in here now," he told me. "It's not allowed during rest hour."

"But you're here," I said. "And others have gone in before me."

"How long have you been in camp?"

"Since yesterday."

"Where do you come from?"

"Berlin."

"Were you at Columbia?"

"Yes."

He became more friendly.

"What were you arrested for?"

"Smoking at the cinema."

He laughed. "You seem all right, brother. Come in."

Inside there wasn't a soul to be seen. But from the upper tier of bunks a thin cloud of smoke rose to the ceiling. I clambered up and found bed after bed occupied by prisoners who were reading or smoking or sleeping. Hidden from view here in the "third story," they were warned by a system of signals from outside when danger threatened.

The sleeping chambers had been installed in what had once been a vaulted wine cellar, and each of them accommodated about a hundred men. Every inch of space had been utilized. Ranged along the walls to the right and left stood the bunks, built by the prisoners themselves-six feet long, thirty-six inches wide, twenty-eight inches high-rising to the roof in tiers of three, one on top of another with no space between. It took long practice to learn to negotiate these bunks. The two rows of bunks were separated by a passage five-feet wide. A window facing the yard, vell fortified with iron bars and barbed wire, admitted some light but could not be opened.

I had been given a bunk in the middle tier, and I did not discover until later that this "second story" was avoided by experienced prisoners as the least desirable of the three. It rose to about breast level and couldn't be "camouflaged"-that is, secured from the sight of officers on tours of inspection. The lowest tier had the advantage of complete darkness. If you drew your legs up you were pretty safely protected from the imposition of extra tasks and from the incessant calls for inspection, especially since this lowest tier could be adroitly screened by articles of clothing bung on the bedposts.

The popularity of the topmost tiers was accounted for by their inaccessibility. To reach them you had to work your way up by means of wooden blocks nailed to the supporting beams in addition to which, these wooden blocks were generally missing. The prisoners would break them off deliberately to make the upward climb more difficult for the authorities. This third story was in great demand by day but sleeping there was a torment. The indigestible black army bread and the daily potato soup did their work well. Every night the smells of a hundred closely herded men rose and hung dense under the ceiling.

The prisoners' few possessions were kept in cardboard boxes at the heads of their beds. Scrupulous order prevailed. Anyone who hid in a neighbor's bed during the day was morally bound to leave it immaculate. Theft of a prisoner's property was considered a serious crime.

"Have you got a smoke?"

I turned to find a comrade crawling down from above.

"No. I had to hand everything over."

"Wait a minute-I'll get hold of something."

He reappeared presently with two cigarette papers and a little tobacco.

"Here roll yourself one."

But seeing how awkwardly I set about it, he rolled the cigarette for me.

"Been assigned to duty yet?""No."

"Where do you come from?"

"Berlin."

"Do you know Fritz B.?"

"Possibly."

"He's in the Fourth Company. I'll point him out to you this evening."

At two the kitchen whistle blew. The indoor squads went back to work, the newcomers lined up once more outside the First Aid Station.

"Who knows anything about treating eye diseases?" the squadleader asked.

A doctor stepped forward.

"Good. You can take over the potato-peeling squad. And God help the man who leaves an eye in one of them."

We peeled potatoes in a shed till evening roll call. The kitchen knives distributed for that purpose were carefully counted and collected again at night.

Inspection was held in the rear yard. All the prisoners fell in by company and received their orders for the following day. Labor squads were redistributed, artisans assigned to special duty, and the names of those prisoners called whose hearing had been scheduled for the following day and who were therefore barred from outdoor duty.

"New men, fall out!"

We stepped forward.

"Any of you barbers?"

Two men raised their hands.

"Barber, two men for you."

The barber--a prisoner--took them in charge.

"Any mechanics?"

Nine or ten responded.

"I don't need that many. You and you and you--that's enough. From now on you're to work in the auto repair shop. Garage man!"

A prisoner came on the run.

"Here are three for you."

After a certain number of us had been selected in this fashion for indoor duty the rest of us were assigned to outdoor squads.

Inspection was followed by a free period of half an hour before bedtime. The life of the prisoners was compressed into that half hour, which they spent in the huge barrack hall that served as both dining and recreation room. Here they sat about in the evenings, played cards and chess, smoked, and talked.

The bunkmate who had rolled the cigarette for me in the afternoon beckoned to me.

"Wait here," he said. "I'll get hold of your fellow Berliner."

It actually was Fritz B. We greeted each other as casually as possible.

"I'll have to get you into my squad. We've got a crackerjack Schieber. ⁴ I'll talk to him. He'll fix it up tomorrow."

A whistle sounded at seven-thirty. Fifteen minutes later the sleeping quarters lay in darkness. Outside, the guard patrolled the main corridor.

I was falling asleep when I grew aware of a figure creeping silently into my bed.

"You're Billinger, aren't you?"

"Why?"

"I attended your school for functionaries in Bernau last September. Remember the tall fellow- from Frankfurt? He's here too. Watch out for him. He's been squealing."

"What's become of the other comrades?"

"We got out a paper until June. Then the whole local group was nabbed. That jolly girl who was always carrying on hanged herself in prison."

"Where's Redel?"

"They haven't caught him yet. But they've arrested his wife and mother, and they're holding them until he gives himself up."

"How was the morale among the comrades?"

"The old ones were sticking tight. But some of the newer Party members are upset and critical. A few deserted but they didn't give us away."

"Where do you work?"

"In the shoe shop. Come and see me tomorrow evening. I'm off now. Good night."

"Good night."

Shortly after the rising whistle had blown next morning, Fritz appeared in our company quarters.

"What squad were you assigned to yesterday?"

"To Dyke Number Two."

"Come quick. One of our men has reported sick. Our Schieber will take you in his place. I spoke to him."

A Schieber was silently chosen by a group of prisoners from among their number as their trusted leader. It was his business to carry on negotiations with the guard and to decide all "organization questions," one of the most important things being that of the "socialization" of extra bread rations. By tacit agreement he was relieved of his share of the work, which the other prisoners took over. In return, however, he was called upon to exercise all his skill and ingenuity, all his resourcefulness and inventiveness, in dealing with the Black Shirts. If his work failed to satisfy the labor squad he was forced to retire in favor of a man better qualified to handle the problem.

After subjecting me to a sharp scrutiny the Schieber took me aside and said, "Fritz recommended you. You can join our squad. But if you have any idea of trying to escape, say so at once. I can't take the responsibility for anything like that just now."

He accepted my assurance that for the present I entertained no intention of flight.

The march to the place where we worked was a delight. I found myself once more enjoying the sensation of stretching my limbs and breathing the fresh open air. No sooner had we left the little town behind us when the Schieber took his pipe from his pocket.

"May we smoke?" he asked the SS-man marching at his side.

"At ease--march!" the latter ordered. We might smoke and talk to each other.

The comrades of the work squad were all prisoners of long standing. They had been in custody for months and many of them had been confined in several other concentration camps before having been brought to Hubertshof. The Schieber picked his men carefully, and his squad enjoyed an enviable reputation among the prisoners. It was known to be trustworthy and solid.

Fritz walked beside me and gave me pointers, the most important of which was to do nothing to make myself conspicuous-either as a good prisoner or as a bad one. The moment I got back to camp that evening I was to change my trousers, and eventually to borrow from some other prisoner a pair of old ones. I was under no circumstances to wear a hat. That would brand me as an intellectual in the eyes of my fellow prisoners and attract the notice of the Black Shirts. I was to exercise the utmost caution in camp. The administration had established a systematic spy service in each company. He gave me the names of the two informers in my company who were sailing under false colors. I was on no account to reveal to any stranger the reason for my arrest. "If anyone asks you why you're here, tell him you said du ⁵ to an old woman."

"Do your people know where you are?" he went on.

"No, I haven't been able to write yet."

"Write tonight. The Schieber will get it out."

I cast an involuntary glance in the Schieber's direction. He was walking at the end of the column now, deep in conversation with the SS-man. Fritz followed my glance.

"He's all right, I'm telling you. He's got them all where he wants them." I looked skeptical. "You can take my word for it. He knows how to handle them. The things that fellow's done--! Well--never mind. You'll see for yourself."

A two-hour march brought us to our destination. Fetching our tools from the construction shack, we built a fire and set to work. There were only three men to guard us.

I was unaccustomed to the work but did not find it difficult. The Black Shirts paid no special attention to us; they sat around the fire and talked; nobody drove us, and the tempo of the work was fairly slow.

At the end of an hour we breakfasted-for the first time on a slice of larded bread. At one we lunched on the second slice, and at four or thereabouts we started back. The Schieber walked beside me for a while.

"Party?"

"Yes."

"Expecting anything special?"

"Not just now. I ought to send a letter. Everything would be all right then."

"Take a run out to the latrine after bedtime this evening. You can give me the letter there. But put the address on a separate scrap of paper. No date. And if anybody comes along, wipe yourself with it."

Back at camp, we were fed with the same stuff from the cauldron which the indoor squads received at noon.

It had gone sour. Before long there was a general rush for the latrines-diarrhea.

The Reichstag deputy was there, working like mad. A Black Shirt entered. "Why don't you report, director?" he demanded.

"What am I to report?" the "director" stammered.

"The number of your clients."

Making a hasty count, the deputy reported, "Latrine occupied by thirty-eight clients." It wasn't until a roar of laughter went up that the harassed man realized that the Black Shirt was only having his fun with him.

I retired into the company quarters, climbed into the upper tier of bunks and wrote to Julius. He was to get hold of the list, code it and destroy the original, notify the Party, and turn my work over to Otto. He was also to write Kathe that she was on no account to return because of me.

The Schieber was waiting at the latrine, where I gave him the letter and the address.

In the course of the days that followed we newcomers were put through the process of gleichschaltung, ⁶ known also as "Hindenburg's alms." At each evening inspection the officer on duty would call the names of those who were to be examined the following day. The average daily quota was ten men. They were ordered to line up outside the Administration Building promptly after rising next morning, and to wait there till they were summoned upstairs. The waiting was an important factor in the tactical plan designed to shatter both body and spirit.

My comrades in the work squad described to me what went on at these ceremonies, and gave advice as to how I should conduct myself.

"The minute they pull you across the table," counseled Richard Schultz, a huge forester, "squeeze as hard as you can till you dirty your pants. Then they'll stop using the blackjack. That's what I did. When it gets too bad for them, they'll let you go."

Schultz was a native of Silesia, feared in his home town as a notorious poacher and smuggler. As a Party courier he had crossed the Polish border undetected again and again, until an affair with a girl had brought him to grief. His "bride" had been secretly informed that he was playing her false, and in a jealous rage had betrayed him to the Nazis while he was en route with a batch of literature.

"Keep your hands off the women, boys," he would say. "There's not one of them worth a damn."

There was constant friction between him and Kummerer, a gamekeeper whom Schultz met for the first time in our camp and who couldn't forgive Schultz his poaching.

"A fine comrade you are!" Schultz would jeer. "A proletarian mustn't eat roast rabbit, I suppose? That's only for the capitalists, what?"

All the others took sides with Schultz, and Kummerer was furious both with the forester and himself. His professional pride was always at war with his class consciousness.

Our conversations were mostly about the possibility of being released from "protective custody," and experiences in previous camps and prisons. When I told them I had been at Columbia they asked no further questions. The reputation of Columbia had spread to every worker's family, every penitentiary, every concentration camp. Nobody in our work squad mentioned his previous political activities; nobody gave the slightest hint what he intended to do when he got out. These things were not discussed. But the men told each other in great detail how they fared at each stage of their imprisonment. They argued as to where there were more beatings, in the small or the big camps. They explained with great precision just why the short but stocky SS-men were more powerful floggers than the tall ones; and they laughed when they recalled how they squirmed out of this or that tight spot. I could hardly bear it. Only later I understood that this was not the result of insensitivity or resignation. It was the superior equanimity of people sure that their hour would come. They reacted differently from the intellectuals; and their calm reaction was a thousand times more dangerous for the oppressors than any individual indignation. They could wait-for years, if necessary. They would forget nothing. Their life had taught them to subordinate every private emotion and to act as a mass. Someday they would take revenge, systematically and with the precision of a machine.

Between the evening meal and inspection, I limped over to the shoe shop.

"Can you hammer down a nail for me in a hurry?" I asked Felix, the comrade from Bernau.

"Sit down and take your shoe off," he replied. The guard was deep in an adventure magazine. "There's nothing to worry about here," Felix said softly. "He won't bother his head about us. What did they give you for supper tonight?"

"The menu said cabbage and potatoes."

"That stuff! How do you like our sanitarium food?"

"Hogwash."

"That's where you're wrong. The hogs won't eat it. They tried to feed them the potful that went sour yesterday, but the beasts wouldn't touch it. You get a marvelous view of what goes on from this place."

"Do you people get different food?"

"I should say so. We take what we want from the SS cauldron."

"You seem to get along pretty well here."

"You bet we do. These are the soft jobs. The tailors over there are still better off."

"What do you make here?"

"Everything the gentlemen require. High boots, sword belts, uniform caps, free of charge, and free delivery. The material's bought by the camp. So maybe you can imagine what goes on here. Yesterday I earned twenty cigarettes and sixty pfennigs."

"How?"

"Very simple. You see, I have no right to hand anything out. The finished articles are supposed to be delivered at the Administration Building and paid for there by the Black Shirts. But when one of them comes along and gives me the wink, I make it my business to stroll over to the latrine, and he takes what he wants. There's always something in it for me. Do you know any trade?"

"Electrical engineering."

"No good. They have no use for it here. But I'll try to find a place for you in the shop. You'll be well taken care of here."

At this point a trooper walked in.

"He wants his boots," Felix whispered. "He can whistle for them."

"Boots ready, shoemaker?"

"Just finished them ten minutes ago. I'll take them right over."

"Too long to wait. I'll take them myself."

"I can't very well let you do that. They'll hold me responsible."

"Oh, rot! Hand them over."

"I really couldn't. Stormleader Nolte issued strict orders again today that everything was to go through the administration."

"Cut it out," said the Black Shirt, furious now. "Hand those boots over."

The guard, looking up from his book, said, "You know perfectly well, Weicholt, that the shoemaker's not supposed to hand anything over."

"Is that so? What about the dining-room set in the carpenter's shop? Does that go through the administration, too? And the club chairs for the adjutants?"

"I'd advise you for your own good to shut up," the guard roared. The SS-man went out, slamming the door behind him. Felix grinned.

"Why didn't you give him the boots?" I asked. His face hardened.

"He was one of the worst when they killed the fellow from Hamburg. We've sworn vengeance on him."

"When did this happen?"

"Four or five weeks ago. A perfect picture of a man, I tell you. And what a comrade!"

"Why did they do it?"

"Refused to be gleichgeschaltet. A fellow from Company Two, who saw the whole thing with his own eyes, told me about it. I'll tell you some other time. Inspection's any minute now.

"Schinderknecht" ⁷ was on duty that evening. His real name was Meisel. Having served for twelve years in the imperial army, where he had risen to the rank of a corporal, he had eventually been rewarded for his faithful services with a post as jailer. Two years earlier, however, having reached the age limit, he had been pensioned off by the Social-Democratic Braun government. He considered this a personal affront, to be avenged on all Social-Democratic prisoners. Anyone laboring under the delusion that such a man would retire at sixty-five and spend his last few years in peace does not know the Prussian "twelve-year man." Schinderknecht offered the Nazis in charge of our camp his services. He was given the rank of squadleader and-without pay, "solely for the honor of the thing"-- devoted his days from morning to night drilling prisoners. Having cultivated the art of baiting prisoners for years, it had become second nature with him. He was hated, but despite his obscene threats and invective no one took him seriously. This was due partly to his stupidity, but chiefly to the fact that he was no favorite with the Black Shirts either, who took advantage of every occasion to make him a laughingstock.

That evening Schinderknecht had been assigned the task of assembling a new work squad, and went about drafting his men from other details. When he reached us, the Schieber stepped forward and reported, "Dyke Number Two, thirty-five men, full strength."

"You can kiss my tail," yelled Schinderknecht, "with your full strength. You, you, you and you-over to the Borwege squad."

"The embankment administration," persisted the Schieber, "ordered thirty-five men, and we can't give any of them up."

Schinderknecht planted himself in front of the Schieber, roaring so that the veins in his neck turned purple. "Then where do you expect me to get my men from, you bastard? Want me to jerk them out of my

"Sergeant," replied the Schieber tranquilly, "that's something no one could ask of you."

Uncertain what to make of the reply, Schinderknecht eyed the Schieber suspiciously. He was greatly mollified, however, by the form of address. He never failed to react to sergeant.-

"If," continued the Schieber, hastening to take advantage of the situation, "if I may presume to advise the sergeant . . ."

"Well?"

"There are still ten men in the bunker. They could be put to work by day."

"What ten men are they?"

"From Company Three."

"How long have they been in the bunker?"

"Fourteen days."

"I'll have a look. Guard!"

A sentry came running up. "Take charge. I'll be right back."

He returned before long with the ten prisoners, made a note of their numbers for the new squad, and had them taken back to the bunker.

I learned from Fritz after inspection that the bunker was the camp prison-a windowless room about thirty feet square, where the prisoners lay on the bare cement floor, when there was room for them to lie at all.

Two weeks previous, pamphlets about the camp and its most vicious tormentors had been discovered in Company Three. There bad been a succession of fierce "examinations" but no one had squealed. To break the morale of the company the stormleader had ordered ten men into the bunkker, with the threat that the would all remain there till the culprits confessed.

Everyone knew that he was in dead earnest-in the literal sense of the word, since more than one prisoner had already been driven to suicide by the unbearable conditions of life in the bunker. Here was an opportunity to get the incarcerated men out in the daytime at least, and our Schieber had availed himself of it.

"That was a good job," Fritz told him after inspection.

"We haven't heard the last of it yet," the Schieber replied. "Wait till the old man finds out they're working. I'll have to think something up."

What he could possibly think up, nobody knew. But he had his own contacts.

Everything happened as he had foreseen. When the stormleader in charge of the camp police was informed next day that the ten men from Company Three had been put to work, he raised hell with Schinderknecht. At inspection that evening Schinderknecht stopped the

Schieber and said bitterly, "Fine piece of advice you gave me, you dumb dog. Now I'm in the devil's own mess with the old man."

"In your place, sergeant, I should talk to the administration. Orders are that all men fit for work should be assigned to outdoor duty. We need the money," said the Schieber in the tone of one who was conscious of his responsibilities.

Schinderknecht, who was primarily interested in carrying out the camp commandant's order to assemble the new work squad in full strength, swallowed the bait for the second time.

"Whom do you think I should talk to?"

"Stormleader Spindler," the Schieber egged him on. "Spindler and nobody else." Schinderknecht walked on. The Schieber stood looking after him with a grin.

The dissension between the administration and the police department affected the entire camp, split the SS officers into a "radical" and a "moderate" wing, and constituted a determining factor in the fate of each one of the prisoners. Without any knowledge of its basis it manifestations were inexplicable, and seemed to rise from purely personal causes. It was obvious, for example, that some of the SS officers disapproved of the maltreatment of prisoners while they were being gleich-geschaltet. When one of the troopleaders caught sight of the bloodstained back of a prisoner in the washroom one morning, he shook his head ostentatiously. And it was no secret that the camp commandant had, on more than one occasion, interrupted the activity of the flogging officers of the Police Department in charge of the hearings, when he felt that the screams of the beaten men had been ringing too long in his ears. Most of the prisoners explained the difference in attitude by classifying one group as the "decent fellows" and the other as "the beasts." But when the subject came up at work the following day, I found that our Schieber had a different theory.

"Do you know what our camp really represents?" he said. "The camp's a stock company. And we're the capital." Some of the men laughed. "It's no joke," he went on. "The concentration camps all over Germany have been formed into a stock company, and they've got to finance themselves. The municipalities pay two marks a day for every one of us. And the administration gets from fifty to eighty pfennigs a day more from the private contractors to whom they farm us out. But the camp itself has to provide the salaries of the SS officers and the guards. The government says it has no money. Naturally, the administration's interested in holding on to every prisoner as long as possible. The more prisoners they have and the fewer who are incapacitated the more profit they make. What do you suppose Spindler in the Administration Building cares whether we get a dose of Hindenburg's alms every day or not-so long as the swine don't beat us to the point where we're out of commission for a week afterward? Because that runs straight into money. And I know of at least twenty cases where the police of the locality from which the prisoners came have suggested their release. The municipalities have no money either-they don't want to keep on paying forever. But the administration writes back that the conduct of Prisoner X has been unsatisfactory and that he's not fit for release--though they've never so much as laid eyes on Prisoner X."

The Schieber was right. Now that I had the clue I was able to recognize the political differences among the Black Shirts as a form of economic war. The camp had attracted a swarm of parasites-at least thirty SS officers and no fewer than a hundred and fifty SS-men. Most of them had been unemployed and would have been forced to subsist on the wretched state dole if the camp had not offered them the opportunity of power and gain.

Some of the officers were members of Goering's secret police. They were paid by the Prussian government and were not dependent on the camp for their income. These were the floggers who confined prisoners to the bunker or weeks at a time and abused them savagely at the hearings. These were the "radicals" who had no interest in the permanent existence of the camp and could give their feelings free rein. Under their dominance fell a certain number of guards who were impressed by their dash.

The "moderates," on the other hand, were bent on turning the camp and its prisoners into a permanent source of revenue. It worried them to have rumors of camp abuses spread outside and stir up the populace. They wanted "law and order" in the camp, stabilization, two and one-half marks per prisoner per day, plus their own maintenance, augmented by every conceivable form of bribery and corruption.

The officers whose income came directly from the camp were interested in all the opportunities it afforded for making money, especially the higher officers who did not live in the camp but had apartments or houses in the beautiful little town of Hubertshof. These officers were now the lords and masters of the entire valley in which our camp was located. They were now Society in this region, and it was considered a great honor to be invited to the teas and dinners given by their wives and mistresses. Just as the business man separates his life at the office from his life at home, so these officers moved in two distinct worlds; and just as it is bad form for guests to talk shop with a business man in his home, so no reference was made at the gay parties of Hubertshof to the day's routine at camp. The larger the camp became, the more its activities expanded, the richer these officers became and the higher their social ambitions rose.

All this was not unknown to the prisoners in the camp. Especially in the workshops, where valuable materials were handled, they had much to tell about the bribery and corruption which sustained the social life of Hubertshof. Once the comrades gained confidence in me as a newcomer they talked freely about their various experiences in this regard.

"Troopleader Kall was raising hell today. The hide he bought for shoe leather eight days ago is all gone, and only four pairs of soles to show for it. 'They're a bunch of thieves,' he kept yelling. 'All grabbing as much as they can get.' But he got his own pair of boots out of it too."

A fat cabinetmaker told with considerable relish the story of how the camp commandant's house had been furnished.

"First they bought oak, solid timber, recorded in the accounts as construction material for the camp. They bring me the measurements on paper, and I start working. Dining-room table, chairs, china closet, buffet. I put five men on the job. A week later they ordered a bedroom. The commandant's in a hell of a hurry. Comes to our shop every day to see how we're getting along. When the stuff is finished, nobody comes for it. I notify the administration once, nvice, three times.

Nothing happens. The stuff's in my way. I can't tackle anything else. Finally I ask the commandant myself why the furniture hasn't been sent for.

" 'A few days more,' he tells me. 'We're just moving and we haven't decided yet how to place the things.'

"'So that's it,' says I to myself, 'he's moving again. And it's only two months ago he moved into a new house.'

"Another week goes by. He comes to me and says, 'Listen, Kuleke,' he says, 'very awkward business. But I can't use the furniture. We've taken a larger place that's partly furnished, and the oak pieces aren't suitable. My wife wants Caucasian walnut; What are we going to do now?'

" 'Oh,' says I, 'very simple, sir. Well just make Caucasian walnut.'

" 'Yes,' says he, 'but now that I've gone to the expense of paying for the oak furniture . . .' As a matter of fact it didn't cost him even five marks. He doesn't pay for the work and the wood's paid for by the camp. 'Now that I've gone to the expense of the old furniture,' says he, 'it'll be a little more than I can manage. I'll have to buy the wood all over again.' As if he bought the wood the first time. Anyway, I saw the lay of the land.

" 'May I offer a bit of advice, sir?' I says. 'Why don't you sell the oak furniture or exchange it for Caucasian walnut?'

"'I've thought of that myself,' he says. 'But these days who's going to pay for such solid work? Do you know anybody?'

"'Mm . . . yes . . .' I says. 'I might know somebody, but there's a catch in it.'

" 'Let's hear it,' he says.

" 'Herr Commandant,' I says, 'if there's anyone from whom you can get your money it's from Strauss' furniture store in Market Street.'

"'Well,' he says, 'it's an awkward business. I've already told my wife that it can't be done. After all, Strauss is a Jew.'

" 'That's the catch,' I said.

"'It's an awkward business, very awkward,' he says, shaking his head.

"Next day he comes back. 'Kuleke,' he says, 'do you know this.Strauss?'

" 'Sir,' says I, 'for the past thirty years.'

"'Hm,' says he. 'I've talked it over with my wife. She's for it. But not a soul's to find out. Now listen-I'll take you along in my car tonight and you can talk to Strauss. But the furniture belongs to the camp, you understand, not to me. It seems that three hundred marks and the Caucasian walnut would be a fair price.'

"That evening he has his chauffeur call for me, and we drive to Market Street.

"'We'll wait a little way up the street for you,' says he.

"I go in to Strauss. His old woman opened the door.

"'Ach, Herr Kuleke,' she says. 'Think of seeing you again! How good it makes you feel when the old customers find their was back!'

"'Good evening to you, Frau Strauss,' says I. 'Is the old man home? I'm in something of a hurry. My car's waiting.'

" 'Right away, right away," says she and calls the old man. He's a fine fellow-there's no getting around it. Many's the good turn he did me without letting the old woman know.

"'Glad to see you again, Herr Kuleke,' says he. 'Did you come through all right?

"'It's all right, Herr Strauss,' says I. 'Listen, Herr Strauss. I've got a deal for you. I have a dining-room set and a bedroom set of solid oak, first-class workmanship.

Trade me Caucasian walnut for them and pay me three hundred marks into the bargain, and you can have them.'

" 'Do you call that a deal?' says the old woman.

"'Can't be done, Herr Kuleke,' says he. 'Who's going to buy solid oak from me these days? You know as well as I do what's going on.'

" 'Herr Strauss,' says I, 'I haven't got much time. The camp commandant's waiting for me down there.'

"They both jump up; she runs to the window and peeks through the curtain.

"'I can't do it and I won't do it,' says he.

" 'Jacob!' says the old woman. 'Do you want to ruin us? Take the furniture from the commandant.'

"Old Strauss said nothing more. The commandant got his three hundred marks and his Caucasian walnut."

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