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Kasriel K. Eilender, M.D.

THE BARBER OF GOERLITZ - A MEMOIR

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

"I understand that

you speak and read

German."

I said:

"Yes, I do."

The war went on and so did business as usual in our camp. The shops had been performing under strict control of the Germans as well as the foreman. However, the group of the nonskilled workers, who came with me from the city of Slonim in May 29th, 1942, were doing very poorly. They were dwindling rapidly under the conditions of starvation, beatings and selections on Sundays by the plumber doctor and others. In October of 1942, only eight people remained. Finally, they were told to pick up their clothing, which was a bunch of miserable rags, and go for a bath.

They never returned because the bath was a blood bath. They had been killed at the local cemetery where most of their fellow prisoners preceded them.

The only remaining people from our group were those working in the different facilities and shops. I continued to work in the soapmaking factory. However, the atmosphere was getting tenser since my boss apparently was concerned that if there were two soapmakers, his chances of survival might be lessened.

In the meantime, he lived like a king. He had food, many suits and many beautiful shirts, which of course, he could not wear. There had been rumors that he had some connections in the city and was selling the clothing of the killed ones and was getting vodka, cognac, etc. for it.

Among the Russian prisoners of war were individuals who looked very distinguished and probably educated. In particular there was a gentleman with gray hair, good looking with a mustache, and the rumor among us was that he was a full colonel in the Russian army. Of course, the captors did not know about it and he worked on a tractor outside the camp during the day, and returned to the barracks at night.

As it turned out later, he was the chief and organizer of an underground group in the camp of Mogilev. Later on, while working with the tractor in the field, he did escape into the woods and joined the Russian partisans, who had been very numerous in the area. They also had connections with our group in the camp.

On one Sunday, just after the general lineup and head count, a middle-aged distinguished-looking Russian prisoner approached me and said: "I understand that you speak and read German." I said: "Yes, I do."

He also added that he admired my Russian. I answered that I had graduated from a Russian high school. Then he said that he would like to talk to me, and he would see me the following Sunday. I surmised that this individual must have been an officer, and I was wondering what he would like to talk to me about.

During the next meeting, he said to me that many of the German officers and noncoms came to the tailor shop frequently for different repairs and measurements, and some of their clothing was wrapped in German newspapers. The Russian prisoner said, "It is very important and interesting to scan the newspapers for all kinds of information that might include some front-line reports as well some other news. We would appreciate it if you could read it and give a briefing to one of our people." I agreed and automatically I became a part of the underground group, not knowing yet that they were planning to break out from the camp, to join their comrades in the underground in the forest of White Russia. I continued to translate the most important events from the German newspapers and relayed the information to the partisan members in the camp.

As the events turned out later, this saved my life. The danger for me was not from the Nazi side at this time, but from my boss who felt that my being an additional soapmaker minimized his chances of survival. One of us had to be killed since the Germans kept to a minimum the skilled people they needed.

The camp commandant Koelblinger used to inspect all the shops very frequently. He was accompanied by a noncom named Adams, more then six feet tall, with blue eyes, a big face and huge hands, and by a young, pale police lieutenant who hardly ever spoke, and gave the impression of being homesick and depressed. Each foreman had to stand at attention and give a report about production. Such inspections were fraught with all possible dangers, including being beaten or killed. Nobody knew what to expect from these kinds of visits.

During such one inspection, my boss Lipa Rosenthal reported that there was not enough fat to produce soap, hence he did not need me anymore in the shop. This could have been a death sentence for me or some other disaster. The colonel asked Adams, who was also one of the executioners in the camp, "What are we going to do with him?" Adams looked at me, and said: "Well, I will put him in the wood chopping hall."

This was the end of the "good times." Not only did I lose my quarters, but I was also exposed to a starvation diet as well as hard labor.

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