the water stopped and we pulled ourselves through the window-like exit into cooler air. In the next building they gave us the prisoner uniforms: a shirt, socks, trousers, a jacket, and sandals with wooden soles. My faded trousers were too large around the waist, yet didn't go down much further than my knees. I didn't care. I didn't care about anything. Pray, Jew, Pray - (Barrack # 63) "Attention!" The skinny German officer paced in front of the ragged formation and stared coldly at each prisoner. I could hear the clump of his boots as he moved to the front of the line. "Pigs!" The thin wavering voice of one who is not intelligent, with its nasal quality of superiority, bounced off the cement walls. Someone coughed in spasms. "You will not last three weeks, any of you." He paused for effect. "Weaklings!" He was getting great pleasure at having the thin bodies shake because of his presence. He began moving down the line toward me, commenting in prophetic tones the end of each man. "You...you will last one day, You will be shot, They will use you for experiments." The dark green of his uniform stood before me. He was thin, and wisps of blonde hair showed beneath the Nazi-emblemed cap. He looked at my dirty jacket and saw the Jewish symbol. His eyes bore into mine. "One of the Jewish capitalists, huh?" "Call me whatever you like," I said. He stared at me, and his lips tightened. To talk back usually meant instant death. "So! You are a fresh one," he sneered. "What is your name?" I told him. "I could have you shot any time." He waved his arm at us. "You will all be dead." He looked back at me. "You are not afraid?" "If you're going to kill us, do it now and get it over with." He turned white, and the sound of his breathing seemed to be the only sound in the barracks. He stood, feet planted, glaring his threats through narrow eyes. "You will all die!" He turned sharply and walked away. I knew that if it came, it would not be from the orders of such a stupid man. But somewhere a feeble voice began praying, and soon reverent whispers came from all around me. The Samaritans Two weeks later The bunk-like berths in the barracks were three high, ten-by-eight square, and lined with newspaper to soften the boards. Since there were twenty assigned to a berth we changed places with those standing every few hours. I was in a berth when I heard voices talking below me. Listening closer, I realized they were talking in Dutch. I looked down over the 28 boards. Two layman prisoners were talking, ignoring those around them. The layman prisoners had special privileges. None of us knew for sure what they were entitled to do, but they were free from severe treatment by the officers. "Hey! Are you Dutch?" They looked up. One, a little larger than the other, spoke through thick lips. "We're from the 'big' barracks." The "big" barracks were those that housed the helping prisoners and were supposed to be much better than the others. The smaller man spoke. "Are you Dutch? What's your name?" "I'm from Amsterdam. My name is Gus Havas." "Do you know Bart Tunderland?" he said. "I knew him. He's dead. His wife received a letter in Amsterdam saying so." I climbed down from the berth. "He's alive," the other man said, stepping closer. He had a rich, quick voice. His dark eyes searched my face, and I noticed that he had a thin scar on his cheek that traveled half the length of his face. "He's here." "Here? Alive?" "Sure, he's alive," the bigger one said. "He's in the 'big' camp." The dark-eyed, hatchet-faced one nudged the other, and they moved away and whispered in low tones. The big one paused, looked over his shoulder, and looked at me. Then they both came over. "You go with us." "Where?" "Never mind, you go with us." Barrack #39 Bart Tunderland Barrack #39 was larger than the common barracks, and there were tables, chairs, lights, and shelves for each prisoner to put his belongings on. There were people talking, smoking, and eating. It was like heaven, clean and, though not luxurious, it seemed so to me. "Come on. Come on. Relax. It's all right. Sit here." They gestured at an open spot, and I sat down next to someone who offered me a cigarette. A cigarette! In the other barracks prisoners were starving, crying for food, while here life seemed real again. The person across the table turned. "Gus!" "Bart!" Amazement and joy welled up inside of me as we embraced and blubbered greetings. Tears welled up with the joy. "You're alive!" "Yes. Yes. I'm alive. God help us all." The Garden The next day "Hey, you don't have to go with the rest." A Dutch prisoner beckoned to me. "I'm from the 'big' barracks. They've arranged it." "How?" "Never mind. You don't have to go." A chance, a hope to live again, flashed up inside me, then dimmed. 29