Free Scheisshaus Luck by Pierre Berg; Brian Brock

to put on the shirt, which was old and came down to my knees, before I was shoved outside. On the way down the steps I was thrown a pair of canvas shoes with wooden soles. I never dressed so quickly as I did getting those rags over my wet body.
    The pants were short and so tight that I couldn’t button them, and my arms were lost in the sleeves of the coat. I put on the shoes. One was too small and I was swimming in the other. My days as the
    ‘‘Shithouse Dandy’’ were definitely over. Looking about, I found some comfort in the fact that I wasn’t the only one with an ill-fitting uniform.
    ‘‘ Los marsch !’’ commanded the Prussian, and two hundred and forty new Ha¨ftlinge (prisoners) followed him down a cinder path.
    Though everyone seemed to be stumbling, not walking, I could barely keep up with the group. The damn shoes were burning my feet. Despite the frozen ground, there were men carrying their shoes to walk faster. Soon I was, too. The cinders cut my feet, but at least I wasn’t lagging behind.
    A gray dawn was rising behind a range of snow-covered mountains. On one side of us was a long row of Blocks and on the other a barbed-wire fence. Hanging from it was a sign with skull and crossbones and a streak of lightning.
    In front of one of the Blocks a band of Ha¨ftlinge were loading one of the dump trucks with living skeletons. Half naked, these devastated souls laid on a wooden pushcart waiting their turn to be tossed like trash onto the truck’s bed. They possessed a nightmarish serenity that I had never seen before. Their bodies looked as if life had literally been wrung out of them. They had the legs of storks and their pelvic bones protruded like those of a bankrupt coachman’s cab-horse. They stared at us with eyes so sunk into dark-rimmed sockets that I wondered what kept them from falling into their skulls. We marched past and not a word was spoken. They PART II | AUSCHWITZ
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    weren’t being taken to any hospital—that I was sure of. You don’t treat a man like that if you want to nurse him back to health.
    ‘‘Worse than you can imagine.’’ It sure wasn’t an exaggeration.
    What hardships would we have to endure, and for how long, until we were heaved onto the back of a truck? Had I been stripped of a future along with my warm clothes? Thankfully I was distracted from my dread when we were swallowed up by one of the Blocks .
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    C H A P T E R 6
    The barracks smelled newer than the one we left. We were massed in a large, open area in front of rows of three-tier bunks, which were braced at the rafters. Against the wall to my left was a group of hollowed-faced Ha¨ftlinge and a couple tables and some wooden chairs. When the last of us was inside, the Prussian left without a word. A little man in his thirties walked over from the wall and stepped onto a stool in front of the rows of bunks. On his striped uniform were a green triangle and a yellow triangle forming the Star of David. It was a relief to see a man standing in front of us who wasn’t reeking of savageness.
    ‘‘ Halt die Fresse! ’’ (Shut up!) he yelled in a high-pitched voice.
    ‘‘I have important information for you. My name is Herbert. I am the Blocka¨lteste (barracks supervisor). I am the law while you’re in quarantine. Do not forget it. I will give you a few minutes to swap your uniforms and shoes for something better fitting. This will be your only chance.’’
    Somebody translated it into French so everyone understood that we were now human clothing racks. We eyed one another up and down, then the grabbing, swapping, pulling, and chasing began.
    I dashed from one man to another, sometimes trailing a potential 55
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    SCHEISSHAUS LUCK
    fit from one end of the Block to the other while they, too, hunted.
    Somehow I managed to get a uniform that hung comfortably on my body. I even got my hands on a pair of shoes that were only a tad big before Herbert called off the