Stephen Shooster Chapter Nine Liberation
January 15th, 1945, The entire Buna complex a ghost town with the only sign of life at the krankenstube (infirmary). Composed of two barracks, the infirmary was now guarded by only a few elderly soldiers. We were the last of camp Buna. There were about 400 total beds, of which all were in use, but not for long. About 25-30 of us could still walk, the rest were deathly sick. Many had injuries from the sustained bombing. Some were missing appendages. Others were far worse. We were all in a race against time. When one of the unfortunate passed away, the icy cold inside the build- ing preserved the body. By the time we moved them, they were like blocks of wood. We stacked them outside. The snow-covered their grey skin and tattered blue and whites. Malnutrition was as deadly as any other injury. At least there was still a doctor and a male nurse, but they had to support the entire infirmary; they couldn’t do much. Even if they could, there were no materials, no medication, no running water, no electricity, and, worst of all, no food. Nothing but the roof over our heads, and the useless old guards who would not even let us scrape the ground outside the fence to look for a potato. This would be our last stand. The outcome was far from clear. The result could easily go either way, life or death hung in the balance. The most prevalent thing on our minds was that somewhere, we knew, a short distance beyond the fence, there was a small cache of frozen potatoes, not far from the gates, and we wanted to find them badly. To treat my neck wound and attempt to clean any infection, the doctor used the only thing he had, melted snow. With this, he did the best that he could. I was one of the lucky ones, especially since I was well fed before the camp cleared out. Even though my wound was severe, it did not stop me from moving around, and as soon as I was tended, the doctor put me to work. My job was to clear the beds of those that died. I discovered a room with a pile of frozen limbs. I took one look at them and closed the door. I have no idea why they were collected instead of destroyed. Many of the bomb- ing victims were at the infirmary, but only some had lost appendages. This was too big a cache of body parts to account for those injured. I am positive I never saw anyone in the factory or during the roll call with crutches or a missing limb, except a few Nazis who returned from the war, and since the bombing had been going on for months, the owners of these lonesome limbs were most likely ashes now. Fatigued, I closed the door and tried to forget that gruesome sight. After moving a few bodies each morning, I did not have much to do. None of us did.
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