A Murder in Auschwitz by J.C. Stephenson Read Free Book Online

another. This was a little speech that he liked giving. There was something powerful in telling men that they would live in misery and that this is where they would die. It was the most power he had ever enjoyed.
    “You go now to the mess hut and pick up a bowl and a cup. Wait in the queue with these. No cup, no water. No bowl, no food.”
    One of the other men spoke up.
    “Which of these are our bunks?”
    Langer’s brow deepened and his eyes darkened.
    “You call me ‘sir’ when you speak to me.”
    The man who had spoken stepped forward, and for a moment Meyer thought that he was going to challenge Langer’s authority. But instead he apologised for his disrespect and asked his question once more, this time adding ‘sir’ to the end of the sentence. This placated the Kapo and he laughed as he answered.
    “Where are your bunks?” repeated Langer, and pointed around him, laughing.
    “You can sleep where you want but you might need to do a bit of negotiation with the man who feels that you are sleeping in his bunk.”
    Still laughing, he walked out of the hut in to the relatively cool air outside. “Come with me,” he commanded, “I will take you to the mess hut.”
    His band of new inmates followed him.
    “The first of the work parties will be back now. Let them eat first. Then you get your cups, bowls and meal. If I see any of you jumping the queue...” and Langer drew his finger across his throat.
    “That is the latrines,” said Langer, as they passed a brick building from the days when this had been a Polish barracks. “Working there is a punishment. Being in this camp is a death sentence, but the only thing that will kill you faster than working in the latrines is an SS bullet.”
    Langer took them across the dusty compound to the location of the mess hut. A line of grey-striped men stood waiting for their food. There was an eagerness behind the sunken eyes and dirty faces as they all stared at the queue in front of them as it slowly moved forward. Those at the front scurried off like rats to corners of the yard to eat their only meal of the day.
    The new men were ignored with only a cursory glance as they were led to the back of the queue by Langer, who then walked off to the brick buildings near the entrance gate.
    None of the men talked. There was no chatting. No jokes. No laughing. Only the occasional cough or sneeze broke the silence of the men. And forward they slowly but surely moved, one eager step after another as they got one place closer to the front of the queue and food.
    Meyer moved forward one step, sometimes two or three steps at a time, until he reached the table with the piles of tin bowls and cups. Each man picked up one each and resumed their slow march to their edible reward for a hard day’s work.
    Slowly, they shuffled forward and the dust from the camp settled on Meyer’s prison uniform. With every speck of grey he lost some colour. He could see it happening before his eyes. He wondered how long before he looked like the rest of the prisoners.
    Meyer finally made it to the front of the queue and held out his tin bowl. The prisoner behind the counter poured a ladle full of thin soup into it, and a piece of black bread was unceremoniously dumped in the middle of the bowl, splashing some of the soup onto Mayer’s wrist. He then copied the man in front and filled his cup from the top of an open water barrel.
    Meyer then found a corner to sit in before quenching his thirst with the cool water. He then devoured the thin soup and black bread. It was insubstantial, but he hadn’t eaten for so long that to Meyer it tasted like food at the best restaurant in Berlin. It did not take long before it was finished. He looked into his empty bowl and ran his finger around the edge to pick up any of the watery soup which had stuck to the metal. He sucked his finger, enjoying the faint taste of salt and perhaps chicken. He surprised himself, feeling his heart fill with joy as he spotted a