Stephen Shooster mad. He knocked me senseless with his stick, and I fell. Then he kicked me repeatedly as he cursed and yelled. Sasha was nearby watching, but he could not intervene. I got up dazed. That is when Katarzynski swung around and hit me full force in the face with that damned stick he always carried. I fell again. Stars filled my head, blocking the pain if just enough to remain conscious. Both my front teeth were broken. I tried to regain my footing as blood gushed from my face. Sasha bravely stepped in and pushed me, “Run, Malczyk, Run!” I ran to the opposite side of the barracks and hid in the open, as best I could. I don’t know what happened to Sasha for helping me, but the maelstrom was over as the rest of the prisoners filed into the barracks. There was never any lunch. Dinner was carried into the block by four men using sticks to hold the barrel. It always came through the back door near where I slept, as far away from Katarzynski as possible. Sometimes, deranged prisoners would attack the food. Katarzynski and his assistants would hit them with sticks. Once, he told one of the hâftlinge, “You want soup so bad? You shall have it,” and thrust the man’s head into the soup nearly drowning him. Later, it was doled out of the barrel in the form of a thin cabbage soup. Many times there was no bread. Since the solid food was spo- radic, I could never save anything. Even if I did, I had nowhere to keep it. This was a starvation diet. Thousands must have died of malnourishment. In Birkenau, I would consider starvation second only to the gas chamber as the cause of death. Disease might have been the official cause, but the weakness caused by having too little to eat made it almost impossible to fight diseases. Four times a week we received 35 grams of bread, three times a week we got 45 grams. This was combined with a thin soup that we got twice a day. At this rate of con- sumption, we could each live about seven months. With the cold, constant harangue, and back-breaking work, 4-6 weeks was tough. The only hope was to get transferred to another camp where it would not be so brutal. Everyone was trying to survive. Food was in short supply. There was little reason to attempt to take care of everyone. I was on my own except for Sasha and his friends. Many died in our block. Every day a few prisoners never woke up. They were piled in a corner. I was among only 600 who barely survived the selection from Szebnie. Most of these would never survive Birkenau. With no way to help myself, I knew our block- leiter was correct. Four weeks to live echoed in my mind. At the time of this realization, I was already there for a week. I was 17 years old, condemned, with only three weeks left to live. But this was not living. It was a walking nightmare. In desperation, I tried to figure out how to survive or even escape. The only
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