Free Scheisshaus Luck by Pierre Berg; Brian Brock Page A

hunt.
    ‘‘Everybody get a pair of Fusslappen ’’ (foot rags), Herbert said, pointing to a tall stack of square rags in a corner. These were to be our socks. Snatching up a pair, I realized it was going to take some practice to fold the rags around my feet before they wouldn’t come apart in my shoes.
    ‘‘Now hear this!’’ he yelled. ‘‘It’s time to be processed and registered. You’re going to be given a serial number and a color triangle.
    They will be sewn to your coat and pants, and you will have the numbers tattooed onto your left forearm.’’
    An alarmed murmur shot through the room.

‘‘Don’t be sissies. It only hurts a little. Your women are being processed the same way,’’ Herbert added.
    I could picture Stella whimpering and biting her upper lip while being tattooed, as she did when we started to make love.
    The Ha¨ftlinge standing against the wall moved the tables and chairs behind Herbert; set stacks of green cards, pens, and inkstands on the tables; then sat behind them. Unlike others, I jumped quickly into one of the assembly lines. At the first table, a son of a Warsaw haberdasher sewed the number 172649 onto my jacket and pants. I sat down at the next table, where a German prisoner wrote my name and serial number on a card. From the corner of my eye I watched, alarmed, as the man next to me got tattooed. The bleeding numbers were taking up his whole forearm. The German processing me grabbed my left arm, dipped his pen into his white porcelain inkstand, and attacked my forearm with fast, little jabs. I clenched my teeth, but the physical pain was less than the realization that the numbers 172649 meant I was now officially the property of the Third Reich.
    ‘‘Will this ever come off?’’
    He shook his head. ‘‘It’s permanent.’’
    It took a few hours to complete our processing. I sat on a bunk PART II | AUSCHWITZ
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    across from the Block’s heating pipe, which ran the length of the barracks. I stared at the steel pipe in a futile attempt to keep my mind off of my predicament.
    Herbert climbed up on the stool again.
    ‘‘Those colored triangles next to your numbers aren’t there for decoration. They signify why you are here, because we are all in this camp for a reason. Red triangles are political prisoners, anti-fascists, communists, socialists, what have you. Black is for lazy, drunken bums who were sabotaging ‘the fatherland.’ Purple means you’re here for your religious beliefs. Yellow is for Jews and Jews only, and green signifies German criminals. I am sure you’ve noticed that I have a yellow and a green triangle. Take a good look, because you probably won’t see another one like it in the camp.’’
    The only colored triangles I saw around me were yellow and red; mine was red.
    ‘‘Oh, and I almost forgot,’’ Herbert smiled. ‘‘Pink signifies homosexual, so it would be wise not to bend over when you are next to a ‘pinkie’ in the shower.’’
    There were a few half-hearted laughs. I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not.
    ‘‘Soon you will be housed in another Block and assigned to a Kommando (work detail) depending on your aptitude and experience. Follow the orders of your Kapo (supervisor) and Vorarbeiter (foreman) or you will be punished. If you’re caught trying to escape you will be executed, and remember that nobody likes to stand in the cold while you are hanging. Stay in a perfect line when being counted and do not speak. Remove your cap in the presence of a German officer or guard or you will be punished. You will receive a meal in the morning and in the evening. You will also receive one at noon if you work in the factory. If you’re sick you may report to the HKB. Do not stay in there too long or you will be shipped to Birkenau and, trust me, that will be the end of you. If you get the crud or ringworm, you will stay at the Kra¨tzeblock, where they’ll have you sleep in blankets soaked in kerosene. Again, do not stay