Free Journeys with My Mother by Halina Rubin Page A

comforts – my father said loneliness was the worst. Those who had another person for company were lucky.
    Like others before and after him, Władek passed the time by telling himself stories, recounting his favourite books and films while he walked and exercised to keep warm. Sometimes he’d look through the small gap between the stonework to see prisoners passing to or from work. On clear nights he’d watch the sky, waiting for a star to come into view before it disappeared, taking away its wonder. Every two hours, the guard banged at the door, waking him from sleep, forcing him to answer. Nothing could distract him from the hunger. The camp administration boasted that the cost of feeding one inmate was on a par with the price of a daily paper. Those in karcer were cheaper to feed. Every second day he was given half the normal food ration and on other days only water and a piece of bread, which had to last till the following day. Common sense demanded that one resist the impulse to devour all 350 grams at once and save at least some of it for later.
    After seven days – the usual length of the punishment – the prisoner re-emerged semi-blind, feverish, even hallucinating, often too weak to walk unaided. None of this, of course, freed him from work or beatings.
    One of the many torments of Bereza was the latrine. With only four holes for squatting, and timing in the hands of the supervising guard, the process was as fast as it was distressing. Whoever was at the head of the running group – the inmates were not permitted to walk, everything had to be done on the trot – was at an advantage.
    In Władek’s dormitory there was a fellow, M., who always managed to get there first and, once there, did not move for the entire time, mocking the unfortunates who had to relieve themselves wherever they could. From the point of view of the supervising guards standing some distance away, it was a comic spectacle. Especially because the toilets, covered by then with faeces, had to be cleaned with one minuscule rag.
    Władek’s patience ran out. At dusk, once everything had quietened down, he walked calmly across the room to M. and, with all his might, slapped his face. In the large and silent dormitory the sound was loud, like one wooden board hitting another. M. started wailing, which immediately brought the guard’s attention.
    â€˜What’s the hell is going on?’ the guard demanded.
    â€˜I admit hitting M.,’ Władek reported, standing to attention as regulations required.
    â€˜You have no right hitting another human being!’ roared the guard. ‘You have no rights at all, you son of a bitch!’
    A bit rich coming from the guard, thought Władek, but kept this to himself. ‘I report that I did not hit a human being but M. He is a scoundrel.’
    Everybody seemed gratified. It was a long time coming to M. who was also known for stealing bread from the others. Even the guards were impressed. Nevertheless, Władek was given the usual treatment of seven days in karcer . He thought it was worth it. Especially given that from then on, he was hardly ever hit.
    My recalcitrant father was involved in another well-known incident, minus the comic element. It happened in February when, as part of a working gang, he was ordered to load chunks of icy snow onto a large platform to be pulled away. The platform was exceedingly heavy and the gang could not move it. The guard was beside himself with fury. After much swearing and screaming, he decided to show them who was in control. He ordered everyone to crawl along the wet snow. The men moved gingerly as the slush had a way of getting inside the sleeves of their coats. This only made the guard more furious.
    Several hundred meters away there was a ditch covered with thin ice. Despite a brief hesitation, the men kept moving. By the time Władek, the last of the group, got to the ditch, the ice was already broken. He