The Auschwitz Protocol: The Sikora Files, #1

Chapter 1

Auschwitz Birkenau

My return to Auschwitz Birkenau was in the December of 1993. It was a short weekend break and I'd told my wife Luiza we'd visit the Wieliczka Salt Mines on the outskirts of Krakow. She was oblivious to the mark on my left lower arm where I'd removed the six numbers I'd been tattooed with all those years earlier.

I'd received it in 1943 in Auschwitz 1, just before my transfer to Birkenau (Auschwitz 2) and my serial number was 104627; underneath was a triangle representing I was a Jew.

I took it off with a knife, physically cutting the mark from my skin. It healed leaving a small scar and, as it did so, I’d deliberately picked and re-picked the wound to ensure the numbers never came back.

As we entered through the gates, we were met by the words ‘Arbeit Macht Frei’. They were words well known to me; ‘Work sets you free’ and in my thoughts were the many who didn't get to see their freedom.

A sadness filled me, and my head hung low but I was with Luiza so I pulled myself together. I'd come after many years of denying I'd ever been incarcerated in the camps. I had a mission to fulfil and I'd sworn to myself that before I died my story would be heard, but I had to remember everything, all the terrors and all of the nightmares that had been Auschwitz Birkenau.

Above me was the metal arch made by the order of the camp commandant, Rudolf Höss. Made by prisoners with metalwork skills, the slogan it bore was used by the Nazis at the entrance of a number of concentration camps; an insult to the many who perished at their hands, words that betrayed.

Höss would not have thought the words mere mockery, more likely a promise that those who were worked into an early grave would eventually find some form of ‘freedom’.

We walked around the site until I came upon the first gas chamber. Across a small patch of grass stood the hangman’s gallows. It was here that SS Obersturmbannfuhrer Höss met his death, after being sentenced by a Polish court. They hung him on a short rope.

He’d studied extermination methods, testing and perfecting the techniques of mass murder, and had introduced to the killing process Zyklon B, hydrogen cyanide, thus enabling his soldiers to efficiently murder up to two thousand people an hour and making it the chosen instrument of death in their ‘Final Solution’.

Here I was, standing where he died, the man who organized all this death. The silence all around me was invasive. Although many people were visiting, there was a stillness to the place, a shame. I held Luiza’s hand whilst I kept myself together. I couldn't let her see my upset, although, it would be perfectly understandable for anyone visiting this site of mass killing to show some sadness. I guarded my feelings and emotions carefully.

Block 15 housed the historical introduction to the site and blocks four to seven had been converted from barracks to a museum. Luiza was uncomfortable in here, especially block 5 inside which we found the shoes and a plaque stating they were forty-three thousand pairs. What stood out were a little girl’s red shoes. Somehow, because of the color, you were drawn to them. All the others seemed to have faded, over time, to a deathly grey but the red remained, focusing the mind; a little girl’s feet once fitted inside these shoes and they had coldly, efficiently, and as a part of a system, killed her.

Luiza wiped tears from her eyes. How could they? This, I wasn't expecting, it drew me into an awkward conversation so I squeezed her hand in an effort to quell her upset and we moved on through, past the window showing hundreds and hundreds of suitcases, names scrawled over them in the vain hope they would be returned; others bore the word ‘Waisenkind’ – orphan. The trust placed in their murderers tightened the fist around my heart.

Artificial legs and crutches filled the next display and the hair of some 140,000 victims of the camp filled the following. It had been cut from the heads of women and little girls after they had been gassed. They’d shaved the heads of dead people and used it as a ‘product’ to make mattress filling, cloth and socks.

Blue and grey striped uniforms in block 6 brought back memories. Flashbacks came to me which I didn't care much for but I had to endure. I recalled being in this very building as a new entrant when it was a barracks, barefooted and cold, clothes hanging off me. I blinked the thoughts away and concentrated; I couldn't allow myself to be overcome.

I made my excuses to Luiza, I'd have to get some fresh air. She nodded and said, Don't be long, Emil. I walked from the room, turning a corner just as my emotion burst from my chest. Holding my forehead, I gasped for air, oxygen seemed hard to come by. It was more of a shock than I had assumed it was going to be but I was determined to see it through.

I returned to Luiza, who seemed preoccupied with something or other. She asked me if I was alright. I lied and said yes, she held my hand in comfort, holding it close to her heart.

We walked to block 10. I knew this block. They experimented on people there; for the most part, they were mainly women. I was taken there one day with another. We were to remove some tables and were told to wait in the hall. The screams I heard were awful. It was a place from hell, feared by us all. 

After walking out of block 10 with a feeling of nausea from deep within and memories recalled that I didn't really want to remember, I asked Luiza if she was alright. Her response was a terse No, not really! I comforted her and we walked towards the exit as I told her, It wasn't a visit to enjoy but one to remember. She agreed and said she was sorry for being abrupt; it had been a shock, all that we had seen.

Why have you brought me here, Emil? she asked and I dithered a little in my response. Krakow is such a beautiful city, it would be rude not to visit and pay our respects to the fallen of the holocaust. I hoped she’d accept my explanation, thankfully she did. Yes, you’re right, Emil, she replied, quietly.

We continued towards the exit, Luiza had seen enough but I was disappointed to leave as I hadn't seen what I wanted to see, the photographs I'd heard of, somewhere on the Auschwitz site there was a wall full of photographs. I'd planned the visit to take in the faces of my past, to maybe recognize people and to find out their fate.

We walked to the small shop looking for water and a boy brought two small bottles from under the counter. I handed Luiza one and passed him ten zloty. We drank from the bottles which seemed to steady both of us, flushing out the poison running through our veins like an infection. Our walk around the site seemed to be slowly greying our bones yet I was glad we came. I would take on board what I'd seen and, somehow, I'd find a way to see the photographs I’d sought.

Most importantly to me, Luiza had not suspected anything and I hadn't let myself down which I’d been worried about. We joined the coach we'd arrived on and, whilst we waited for the others on our tour, Luiza talked of visiting the jazz club in Krakow. Rumour had it Nigel Kennedy the violinist played there, actually, he lived above the club, and she was a great fan of his.

We planned some lunch in the town, a traditional polish stew we'd looked forward so much to, but small talk wasn't where my head was right at that moment. My thoughts returned to my memories as I looked out over the site I once was a part of. I'd have to try to return without Luiza, I couldn't make her suffer for my needs.

As the coach pulled away, I looked back and an odd feeling of emptiness came over me, possibly because I'd not got what I came for but more likely because I was looking at the site of so many deaths. Perhaps the dead were reaching out and trying to drag me back.

Towards Krakow town, my mind wandered. I had to find out if they were still alive and what had happened in the years in between.

Had they had a good life or had the demons destroyed them? These were the thoughts that had filled my mind ever since I found out they were on the wall of ‘Life of the Prisoners’ in the museum.

Luiza pulled me from my speculation. It was awful to see the human cost of war. How could they hate so much? she asked. I don't know sweetheart, it's such a terrible thing to see, I said with a nervous heart. I’d known it would be difficult bringing her to the camp. I had expectations of failure and letting my feelings and emotions overtake me, forcing me to open up, which would have been the wrong thing to do at the time. She would know, when the time was right.

We were dropped off in the center and said farewells to the group then decided to seek out the Polish stew we'd planned. Later that night, we did indeed go to the jazz club and Nigel Kennedy entertained us for a few hours playing with a jazz-rock quintet.

We'd booked the Hotel Rezydent and it was beautiful, the room, finely decorated, came with an en suite bathroom. I'd got it through a broker in Greenwich and the cost was minimal, there was a good exchange rate at the time, I recall.

Sleep that night was hard to come by, my mind raced and I tossed and turned until, eventually, exhaustion took me away.

The following morning, I woke to the sound of the telephone ringing, I must have dropped off around 5 am, it was the morning call we'd requested from reception. Morning sir, this is your wake-up call, came down the line. I thanked him, replaced the receiver and checked my watch. Oh, just half an hour more, Luiza begged. If we do that we'll miss breakfast, I responded. Oh ok, she reluctantly replied. We showered, dressed and descended the stairs, all the while my mind occupied by the letter.

We’d endured the procedures and system of rule the SS and the Kapos subjected us to simply to stay alive and it haunted me. I'd been a police officer in the Policja until 1939 when all hell broke loose with the outbreak of the war. I was a fit young man, nineteen years of age, the world was my oyster and I had dreams like any other young Polish boy. The Germans changed all that.

Up until 1955, I'd spent years in recovery after what I'd been through and it took all my strength to return to the person I was before, both mentally and physically. I'd lived my life until I met Luiza, that same year, as a troubled soul, a victim of hate, but when I met her my life changed, it blossomed, so much so I was able to put my previous life to sleep and attempt to forget what I'd been through.

Now it seemed it was only a temporary hibernation. I was destined to finish what had been started all those years ago, justice had to be served.

Luiza and I visited the salt mines at Wieliczka and lit a candle in memory of the victims of the Holocaust. It was an extraordinary experience. The Chapel of St Kinga was the most impressive of all, hand-carved from the salt in the mine, the whole thing was a wonder to see. At seven hundred years of age, the mine was, as the guide told us, the oldest Polish company.

For a while, I forgot about the camp, my mind was distracted by the sights and beauty around me but, as Luiza lit the candle, I once again returned to it in my thoughts.

The letter I'd received some three weeks earlier played on my mind, it was addressed to me and signed off by an ‘Aleksy Markowski’, a name not familiar to me. Within, it explained six people were on Auschwitz’s ‘The Life Of Prisoners’ wall that should not be there.

They were Kapos, displayed as supposedly normal prisoners, their photographs placed on the wall as having died in the gas chambers, but they hadn’t. Somehow, they’d escaped liberation by the Soviets and were seemingly alive and well. Further reading told me the intention; the rules the Kapos had lived by would be used to capture and punish them, they would be their downfall. Lukas Baur, an Austrian block leader, would be the first.

The position of ‘Kapo’ was given by the SS. They were prisoners themselves and they'd supervise work details and daily living, often dealing out beatings or worse – collaborators who brutally forced the other prisoners, whether they were sick or starving, to hard labour and, frequently, close to death.

They were often violent criminals, more brutal than the SS, as their position depended on the guards’ satisfaction. I had first-hand knowledge of many Kapos. I recalled the beatings I'd taken from my block leader when I first entered Auschwitz and a shudder went through me. There were, of course, one or two decent Kapos who tried to help with food or easier work details but they were the exception, the rest of them were selfish, only interested in saving themselves.

There were three levels of Kapo: camp leaders, block leaders and room leaders. For some it wasn’t just self-survival, some began to view it as a career and they would do whatever it took to ingratiate themselves with any SS man who could further their aims.

Upon liberation, some of them were beaten and killed for their crimes, by fellow prisoners. Despised for what they'd done; they were given swift justice. The ones who survived found themselves on trial in a post-war world; most would be sentenced to life, some to a death sentence.

I couldn’t ignore the fact that from all the people who’d survived Auschwitz, I'd been chosen by Aleksy Markowski, whoever he was, to identify the missing Kapos and bring them to justice and the letter shocked me when it arrived out of the blue. Addressing me quite personally, it named me by my full name and seemed to be from a person who had known me either in the ghetto or within Auschwitz. Maybe he was a prisoner himself; Markowski had my attention.

I'd decided straight away to book the weekend break as an initial focal point of the project ahead of me and I'd use the information I'd received in the letter, the name given and also Markowski himself.

A return address was given as the Hotel San Georgio, Naples, Italy. I phoned them and asked after him several times but was told he wasn't available. I left my number and waited for him to call back. On the run-up to the weekend break to Krakow, I’d heard nothing so we took the trip anyway.

Luiza enjoyed the remainder of the holiday, we made the most of the city, it was cold but we were well wrapped up and a few shots of vodka helped keep the chill away. The opportunity to return to the camp did not materialise.

Our return flight to JFK was another ten and a half hours leaving Krakow mid-afternoon and arriving early evening. Our son, Daniel, was at the airport to pick us up. Born in ’66, he was brought up in a peaceful household and, at that time of our life, we'd chosen to settle into our home in Idar Court. A beautiful boy who'd always made us proud. His sister Lena was a year younger but you wouldn't know it, she always was the older of the two. They both lived close by, had partners and fussed over us terribly. Lena would be at our home making sure we had a meal to eat after our long journey.

As I entered the house, Max, our black Labrador, performed his usual greeting by picking a slipper up in his mouth and excitedly offering it as a welcome gift, his face alight with enjoyment as his tail wagged so much his rear end swayed from side to side. He was a good boy, a full breed with the strong, wide shoulders such hunting dogs were known for and his adoration for his mother, Luiza, was obvious to see; a real character in our house who everyone loved.

Before buying Max as a pup, I'd had the opportunity to buy an Alsatian but resisted because of my memories of Auschwitz. They’d used those dogs to tear prisoners apart and the memory of that was just too much for me to have one as a pet.

I noticed the answerphone had messages but decided to take them the next morning; it had been a long hard day.

We slept well that night, the long journey took its toll on us and we fell easily into a deep sleep, waking only once in the night to let Max out. I woke before Luiza and put a pot of coffee on. Looking over at the answerphone, I remembered the messages.

I pressed the play button and the machine leapt into action. Hello, this is Aleksy Markowski, I'm returning your call. I can meet you in the coffee house in the ‘Bruce Museum’ on the 23rd at 11 am. Don’t worry, I’ll identify myself but I know who you are. The answerphone clicked as it ended the call. Stood for a while wondering, I grabbed a piece of paper, wrote down what the message had told me and pressed delete.

No need to worry Luiza yet, she didn't deserve any of this. What was going to happen was unknown but I felt duty-bound and compelled to listen to what Aleksy Markowski had to say.

The days ahead were a complete blur to me, I had only one thing on my mind and that was the meeting. What would he tell me and what did he know of the men he would name? Most importantly, why now, all these years later? The world didn’t seem interested anymore. These were answers I'd get from the meeting, along with many others from the questions I'd collated since I received the letter.

Time seemed to drag between our trip to Krakow and the 23rd and my curiosity ran wild. I also felt nervous for reasons of my own. Luiza and I very rarely spent time apart so I'd have to make something up so she wouldn't want to come with me. I felt like I was betraying her by lying, but it was all in the cause. I'd tell her I was meeting an old friend, someone she didn't know and tell her it would only be for a few hours.

When the day arrived, I was up early. I'd been playing Karl Jenkins ‘The Armed Man’ when the track ‘Benedictus’ came on. It brought a tear to my eye as I thought of all those poor souls walking into the gas chambers. It was a beautiful piece of music that made your heart pound with emotion, the cello pulling away at your soul. Coincidence? Maybe subconsciously I'd put it on knowing I needed to feel pity for those lost souls of Auschwitz.

Classical music was in both our hearts, we had a collection of music of all genres but classical was a joint love and Karl Jenkins was certainly a favourite.

As I said goodbye to Luiza, my nerves took hold of me. I didn't know what to expect and, for a moment, it crossed my mind not to go, but as fast as it came to me, it departed. I'd dressed smartly, I don’t know why, I guess it felt like an interview or that I should be respectful to Markowski or something along those lines.

Passing the harbour, the Bruce Museum was a fifteen-minute walk from home.