Plunder by Menachem Kaiser (suggested reading txt) 📗

is not padded and is not introduced gradually. The first sentence is “We are on the train.” Abraham and his wife and child have just been deported from the Łodź Ghetto and are being taken to Auschwitz (which even in August 1944 was something of an unknown: Abraham’s wife asks, “What is Auschwitz?” “A town in Upper Silesia,” Abraham responds). Immediately upon disembarking Abraham is separated from his wife (“Women to the right! Men to the left!”) and then his son (“[The SS officer] takes my child and says: ‘Children with the women.’ ”). The scene is told quickly and with blank resignation.

Abraham does not tell us the name of his wife. He does not tell us the name of his child. What that means I can’t really say, other than it is clear that this is how Abraham prefers to present his ghosts.

The disembarkation and separation occurs on page two. Every subsequent page is marked by pain, privation, suffering, decay. I don’t know how to summarize a book like this. It is a litany of inhumanity. An endless series of beatings at the hands of Germans, Ukrainians, and kapos; laments of hunger; obsessive descriptions of pathetically meager rations; machinations of survival; ravages of lice, frostbite, infections; the body falling apart; the mind falling apart.

It is an astonishingly unsentimental book, hauntingly (and, in a literary sense, admirably) unadorned and straightforward. The bleakness is unmodulated and unadulterated. This is not a story of hope or faith or even of perseverance—​that Abraham happens to survive is a meaningless accident, not fate but chance. God or any parallel power is absent. The universe is cold and dead. But you can’t even contemplate that, because you’re too hungry. If occasionally Abraham does ask grander questions, one gets the sense that it’s only when he cannot help himself, that he is of the belief that even to wonder is a kind of capitulation. What is there to say? Life has been reduced to a black narrow corridor. Wake up, work, absorb the kapos’ sticks, eat your soup, try and stay warm, try not to die (or when the time comes try and figure out how to most effectively kill yourself), try to stay sane.

The question at the book’s core is not whether Abraham will survive—​a foregone conclusion—​and not even really how he survives—​scavenge, steal, and luck, like everyone else—​but why: Why hold on? Why not just let go?

They only want to murder us with this work anyway. Is my work not a curse? Am I not prolonging my suffering in vain? Oh, how good it would be if I died! How blissful! How quiet! I would not feel anything anymore! I would not think anything! I would be liberated! No, I can’t think about it! I have to live! Maybe my child is alive? Maybe he is living in better conditions than me? And what will he do without his father when the war is over? I must live and endure everything. I cannot orphan my son, and leave him in neglect. And maybe my wife will survive? I have already failed enough, giving up my child without a word of protest. Why did I do this? Why? When the SS man told me to leave them, I didn’t say anything and left my child at the mercy of fate. No! Not in the hands of fate—​in their claws, in the claws of those tormentors and predators! No! Worse even: not predators—​German SS men. Why didn’t I immediately realize the horror of my act? Oh, if I were with my child! I would live only for him! I would know at least who I am suffering for, and that it is worth suffering! No, I have to live ruthlessly!

Now I decide. I have to live like an automaton, without thoughts, without feeling. I have to persevere to the end for my child, whom I hurt so much, giving him to the SS man without a word.

In his child Abraham has found a will to live, but it is precarious, built from the flimsy stuff of ghosts and hopes. A few months later Abraham encounters a friend from Łodź who had been a Sonderkommando in Auschwitz. Abraham asks if he had seen his wife and child. The friend from Łodź replies that not only did he see them but in fact he took them to the ovens himself. Fighting to remain calm—​he wants the truth, not sympathy—​Abraham asks the friend from Łodź whether he’s sure. The friend confirms: “What, you think I didn’t know your wife and child? I will tell you how they were dressed. Your wife was wearing a bright English coat, and your son was wearing brown knickers and a turtleneck.”

His reason to live is dead; Abraham decides to kill himself. “How should I do it? Hang myself? No! Too much pain. I’ll throw myself in front of the train! It will kill me quickly! I will be rid of my thoughts, suffering, feelings, and trouble. Only one moment—​and then a great eternal rest!” The next day Abraham, feeling content, fulfilled, determined, even happy, lies down in front of a moving train. But he is thwarted, even here, his body on top of the vibrating tracks awaiting release. The train does not crush Abraham, only slides him harmlessly forward. He grabs at the ground to increase his resistance, but to no effect. The train stops and he’s still alive. There is no out; the suffering is bottomless.

In April 1945 Abraham makes a relatively undramatic escape to a nearby village and persuades an unnamed German woman to hide him in her cellar. He stays there for a month, living in a box meant for storing potatoes, until a Soviet soldier opens the lid and shines a light in his face and tells him he’s free. Reluctantly he leaves his hiding spot, wanders about. He finds peas on the ground and begins to collect them. A Soviet soldier stops him and brings him to