Reflections:
Arrival in Auschwitz
by
IRVING ROTH
In May of 1944, when I was 14 years old, I was pushed into a cattle car with 90 men, women and children enroute to an unknown destination. There were no benches to sit on and barely enough room to stand. Two large buckets. one for water and one for waste were placed in the corner of the car. There was no food except for some scraps that families brought with them from home. I was hot and exhausted from lack of sleep and degraded from lack of privacy to perform toilet necessities.
Finally, in what seemed like eternity but was probably five or six days, the train stopped and the doors were flung open. It was dark outside, except for the glaring lights on a railroad platform, while armed guards appeared, yelling orders in German. "Heraus, mach schnell" (get out move quickly). We were all anxious to leave the smelly and crowded cattle car for a whiff of fresh air and to stretch our aching limbs when a peculiar odor permeated and stifled our breathing passages. A combination of burning feathers and horses being shod was the stench that greeted our nostrils.
The cattle cars were quickly emptied of its human cargo. About seven thousand people were herded into long lines under heavy guard . All I could hear were the cries of infants and young children. Parents tried to console their families but their eyes betrayed their intense fright.
In the distance, I saw the outline of buildings with huge chimneys spitting out orange-red flames. My cousin Meir asked me what those buildings could be that spewed flames at night? I told him that they were factories that converted human fat into soap. I also added, "if they make toilet soap out of me, I will refuse to bubble"! My family and I marched along the platform. My aunt Clara clutched her ten year old daughter's hand while my grandmother, grandfather, brother and cousins stayed as close together as possible. We soon came face to face with a Nazi officer holding a riders crop. His boots glistened and his uniform appeared crisp and well fitting. He glanced at my brother Andre and barked out "Links" (go left). He shouted the same at me. He then asked my grandfather what was his occupation? "A pensioner," he replied. The officer motioned right with his crop. Grandma, Aunt Clara and her young daughter were waved to the right as well. Little did I know that this was the last time I would ever see them .
The line on the right was comprised of elderly Jews and young mothers with their young children. They were led to buildings with the belching chimneys. Over six thousand human beings were herded into the basements of the four buildings. They were ordered to undress completely for showers that would clean and delouse them after the unbearable trip in the filthy cattle cars. To this day, I visualize my grandfather's humiliation of being naked in front of his daughter and grand-daughter. Instead of water gushing out from the showerheads, canisters of Zyklon B gas were dropped through the openings in the ceiling which slowly seared their lungs until they were asphyxiated. After a few minutes, the doors were opened, ventilation fans turned on and the Sondercomando entered the chamber in search of hidden jewelry and to extract gold teeth from the corpses. The bodies were loaded on elevators and transported to the ovens for cremation. By morning, all that was left of my grandparents, aunt and my cousin was smoke and ashes.