Vasily Bunelik

1 

MAUTHAUSEN

“Aufstehen!”….Yet another day had begun, as usual for us, at 5.30am. We some hundreds of souls jump up in fear, to stow our bunks away, swill ourselves with cold water and stand in a queue for our rations - half a litre of black coffee. All this was done at fire-brigade speed for fear of being beaten up or even crippled.  No more than ten minutes was allowed for getting up, stowing bunks, toilets and 'breakfast'. Then came the lining up and roll-call.

A Czech from Moravia, by the name of Kolovrat, had the duties of Camp Secretary. He gave us some valuable hints: “It could happen that the corporal in charge will throw a prisoner’s cap towards the guard. God help you if you make a move to get it; the SS will mow you down.”

The block boss, or kapo,  was a convicted German criminal. But the Czechs somehow or other, found a way to stave off his heavy hand. I will never forget how Karel Ganush, on the day of our arrival at barrack No.9, with a knowing look in our direction, begged of the block-boss on our behalf, “Willi," he said, "these are good Russian chaps, they’ve never done any harm, please look after them and we will be for ever grateful to you. You see how helpless they are, one single blow from you could cripple them. You know how strong your muscles are.” 

The kapo solemnly nodded his head in assent and turned to me and Kiselyev, to give us a warning: “It may happen that when the SS are about, I shall not be able to hold back from hitting you with the stick. I’ve got to strike somebody when the SS are swaggering around otherwise they will beat me. So it's best not to stand up to my blows. In the worst case, I lift the stick up above my head, giving the impression I’m beating you with all my strength, but when I bring it down, I try to hold back to soften the blow. At that moment you’ve got to fall down and groan as if in pain. I don’t want to beat you, but I’m compelled to do so.” Kiselyev and I thanked the 'noble beast'  in anticipation for his having taken the risk in promising to take pity on us.  

At precisely 6am, the alarm bell rang out - this was the signal to start work.  They took us out and lined us up in the quadrangle, where tens of thousands of striped 'convicts' with camp numbers and various coloured markings and stripes on their backs and trousers, stood in columns, awaiting a five minute ceremony before being sent off to work. Where we would be sent was not known.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

2

 

April dawn in the Alps is very cold. The sun had already risen, but here, behind the high walls and mountains, sunrise seemed very slow. A penetrating wind was blowing, lifting a fine snow. I stood there shivering, with teeth chattering.  Someone tried to cheer himself up with a joke: "Spring is saying goodbye to winter. We’ll soon get warm when the Sun comes up; in the meantime we could all perish." Beside me stood an older chap, the marking on his hand confirmed that he was a Yugoslav. He saw how I was shivering and, concealing himself by sitting down amongst the column of men, quickly took off his warm jumper and gave it to me. “Take this my Russian comrade, or you’ll freeze to death.”

“But what about you?”

“I’ve got a vest under my shirt, put this on quickly.” I gladly took the jumper and put it on un-noticed, sitting amongst my comrades. 

That evening, on returning from forced labour, I got to know the name of that kind chap. He was from the Yugoslav town of Niš, an ex-engine driver and a communist. Before the war, he lived at No.50 Beogradska Street. Yes, I remember his address, the lines of his face, his deep Serbian voice, and most of all his limitless kindness; these things, I shall remember until the rest of my days.  Such people remain in one’s memory for a life time and serve as an example for all who meet them on life’s journey.

Manić Dobrivoje, as he called himself became a bosom pal of mine. He was outstanding from many of the others; he did not hide his past, he said:  “There is no point in hiding anything, when all is known to the Gestapo. Moreover, the fascists have just one way of dealing with everybody - death and only death. So why deceive yourself and others? I am proud to be a member of the Communist Party. But to be proud is not enough; we need to fight as best as we can, to fight so that our sons and daughters need not be ashamed of us.” Manić Dobrivoje was a great talker and spoke from the heart. I always tried to get into the Yugoslav’s barracks in the evening. Manić was a knowledgeable man and had seen a lot of life. 

During one of our evening chats, he told me about his participation in rescuing that great son of the Bulgarian people, Georgei Dimitrov. This is how it went: “I was called by the Resistance movement and told to organise the release of Dimitrov and to take him on my steam engine to the Austrian border, which was my usual run with my train. We were to get two scythes, straw hats like our peasants wear on the land, and to gather hay at the place where Dimitrov was to cross the border. The whole of this operation we did so professionally that we convinced ourselves that we were indeed farm-workers. It was just when we got the nod from the ‘border guard' that we realised it was time for Dimitrov to cross the border and for me to return to my steam engine.

 

 

 

 

 

3

When the Bulgarian secret police were searching the whole country looking for Georgei Dimitrov, he was already in Germany, where at a later date he acted as a witness for the prosecution of a band of fascists. How he made them squirm, you yourselves know from the Leipzig trials."

• “Who was the “frontier guard?” I enquired eagerly.

• “He is here ,but not in the barracks at present, he’s gone somewhere. He is a

• young communist called Lyubish Stoyanovich. I’ll introduce you to him 

• comrade.” The introduction to the 'frontier guard' took place a few days later. 

• He was quite young by appearance, just over thirty, a handsome, cheerful 

• Serbian from Belgrade.

After the War, I tried several times to find my Yugoslav friends; I wrote to the town of Niš, in Yugoslavia, but there was no reply. Eventually, in 1959, I wrote to the President of the Yugoslav Federal Peoples Republic, Josef Broz-Tito, asking his assistance in finding my old friends. My letter was published in the Yugoslav paper 'Borba'. In my letter I wrote down the reasons for wanting to findManić Dobrivoje and Lyubish Stoyanovich and excused myself for troubling Comrade Tito.I waited two months for a reply. Then I finally received a message from the Yugoslav Embassy in Moscow: Manić Dobrivoje had died in Mauthausen. Lyubish Stoyanovich was living in Belgrade and his address is 1A. Geprata Street.  Soon came a letter from Lyubish. Whilst writing these words, I am recalling those far off, but unforgettable days and I can’t help thinking what magnanimity one must possess to care for others in concentration camp conditions, putting interests of others before one’s own, as did Manić Dobrivoje, Lyubish Stoyanovich, Karel Ganush, Oktave Rabaté and many others.

I now recall yet another of the many examples of mutual assistance between prisoners of various nationalities: After coming out of quarantine and being put into barrack No.9, 1 received from the block boss a plate, fork. knife, spoon and cup. This was just another way of tormenting us, since apart from the aluminium plate, into which they poured either beetroot water or spinach water once every 24 hours and black coffee into the cup twice a day, the rest of the table set was not brought into use. The block boss forewarned us that for the loss or the damage of even one of the issued items, you could lose your head or could lie severely punished. We new arrivals were issued with a towel each and a narrow cupboard, one between four persons. On returning to the barracks one day at meal break, we couldn’t find any plates in our cupboard. I summoned up courage and went to our barrack barber, who had among his duties the control of sanitary conditions and the orderliness of the cupboards.

When I told him of the missing plates, the barber, a German convicted criminal was comparatively patient, some called him decent. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

4

Hand punishment was considered a sign of humanity by the prisoners.  He was  sickened even to have to hit us with his open hand. On such occasions, the barber would put on white cloves and after the punishment, he'd tighten his lips and throw the gloves far into the corner. Then he would have someone wash the wretched gloves.

After hearing my report about the loss of the plates, the barber thundered: “Watch out, I’ll teach you all how to look after your plates.” He went into the middle of the barrack, then loud and clear for all to hear, he shouted, “Cupboard No.14.”

The four of us stood ready to receive our punishment rather than miss our meal.....

“Who’s in charge of this cupboard?” He demanded.

“I'm in charge.” I admitted.

“What’s this?” He asked, pointing to a finger mark on the handle of the cup. “A cup is only clean when you can see your face in it”

I stood speechless; to argue was not just useless, but dangerous. The barber repeated his question. I replied that I could not see anything on the handle. Then he put his white gloves on, stood with his left loot a little in front of the right and ordered: “Count, one two three four five six seven eight nine ten.” He struck me with his right hand to my left cheek and left hand to my right cheek.This procedure was repeated with the second, third and fourth comrade, after which, as if nothing had happened, he poured out for each one his ration of boiled spinach.

Two days later, a knife disappeared from our cupboard. I told the barber but he replied that he had not taken it and advised us tell the kapo about it.  Thieving in the camp, however insignificant, could not be tolerated and was looked upon as a high crime. If the thief was not found, the one who lost the item would be punished.  To speak to the block boss about it would be unsafe, even in cases where we were not guilty. Only Ganush could have saved the situation, but he was absent, so I didn’t know what to do.

Kiselyev lay sick in the hospital block and there was nobody about from  whom I could take advice. I had to tell the block boss the truth about the situation. He heard me out then warned me: “I’ll give you half an hour for the knife to be put back in place. I’m not interested how or where you dig it from. I shall check in half an hour. If the knife is not returned, I’ll knock your eyes back into the heads of the four of you.” He clenched his fists, raised them above his eyebrows to convince us and show us exactly where he intended knocking our eyes to.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

5

I hurriedly retreated, fearing the block boss might change his mind and carry out the 'eye surgery' immediately. On finding Lyubish Stoyanovich, I told him what fate awaited us. Lyubish asked me to wait a minute while he ran for a knife. I asked how he would clear himself with his block boss, to which Stoyanovich replied: “Our block boss is a Yugoslav and doesn’t grumble about little things.”

On returning to my hut, I informed block boss Willy that the knife had been found; I was on the point of telling him who got me out of that mess, but he shut me up—“That doesn’t interest me.” He said. “You could steal it, cut someone up to get it....In the camp we don’t punish for murder, but for the loss or the disappearance of a knife, you would have to answer.” He looked at his watch...“You’ve found the knife just in time. Another ten minutes and the four of you would have paid with your heads, that’s for sure. I have avoided punishment myself for 18 years, but in that time I’ve punched quite a few eyes. Lucky for you there are Yugoslavs in the camp. Other such soft-hearted fools we haven’t got”

• “Thank you Willy.” 

• "For what?” He asked in surprise. 

• “For your patience. You waited whilst I found the knife, you didn’t have to."

• “Yes, I’ve got patience, if only I could deal with these Yugoslav worms."

I was taken aback by the frankness of this bandit.

That night, there was yet another shocking incident. A young Pole by the name of Yanek, noticed during the day that there was some margarine in the kapo’s cupboard. He tried to wire in to it but the jar overturned, made a hell of a noise and woke up the block-boss, who caught the offender red-handed. To our surprise he didn’t even hit him. I asked Ganush how could this be explained. “It would have been better for him if he had been beaten.” Replied Ganush sorrowfully. “He has probably decided to do something horrible to him.”  

• “What for example?” 

• “Difficult to say, they'll think up a terrible death.”

Until morning, no one touched Yanek, but when all were lined up for work, the Camp Commandant roared out: “The margarine stealer, stay in camp.” 

The wretched chap stepped forward, visibly shocked and looking furtively around, as if seeking a defender. Whilst we were having 'breakfast' - black coffee, some sort of platform was being constructed out of chairs near our barracks. We went to work, not knowing the reason for the platform.

When we came back at lunch time, we saw Yanek tied to that platform and repeating over and over again: “I have stolen but will not steal again.” Beside the platform stood an SS guard gripping an ugly big branch and clouting Yanek to keep up his rhythmic recitation. When Yanek was suffering too much to keep going, the guard kept reminding him: “Go on .....Go on.....

 

 

 

 

 

 

6.

That evening we saw the “offender” again. The  guard had evidently got fed up with standing on the platform and with a blow to the fated man’s head, had knocked him to the ground. The block barber told us this with delight and that he had seen the end of the Pole’s confession and the way the SS guard took him a lump of margarine and ordered him to swallow it, but knowing that he was no longer able to open his mouth, the SS did this with a knife and filled Yanek’s mouth with margarine, barking at him: “Guzzle this honestly earned food” The half dead Yanek was silent. Then the SS started to put the boot in until he himself was exhausted. Leaving the 'live' corpse, the fascist gave the order to the barber: “Take him to the crematorium today so that they can fry the young Slav in margarine and send him to Welzwul for supper."

As the days went by, life became more and more unbearable. All that we had lived through up till now in Durchganslager, Adelwerke and Breslau Prison was nothing when I recall the punishment of a group of Commisars by the fascist bandits on the 1st. April 1943. I relate here in detail this incident and the heroism of these Russians, that will remain in my memory for the rest of my life.

This was Mauthausen: crematoria, SS, hunger, inhuman experiments on inmates, slow and ghastly death - All this took place, and about this, much has been told and written, but what happened soon after the punishment of the margarine thief, was enough to frighten the dead.  We were permanently in fear of death, so much so that sleep at night did not come easy. Then one night, we had a rude awakening:

"Aufstehen! .. Aufstehen!"…

Two or three minutes later and we were all lined up in the Square, shuddering from the cold and the early awakening: What had the fascists thought up now?

Suddenly, the barrack gate swung open and the whole square was lit up with search lights, in the beam of which we saw the outline of men in tattered uniforms, wounded, beaten, crippled, suffering from hunger and thirst. There were more than a hundred of them, surrounded by a tight ring of machine guns and dogs and, being beaten as they moved along, these men were holding each other up as they entered the camp of death. They were quickly forced into the centre of the square for all to see. Four of them dropped immediately and Herr Bachmayer roared the command “These to the crematorium.” The order was quickly complied with, even though they were still alive. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

7

Speaking through an interpreter,  Bachmayer turned to us.  “You see what they are: these are red Commissars, right?  You see what is left of them. . ." The commandant gave a taunting smile, he took one pace forward and pointed several times into the mass of prisoners.  The SS troops knew what he wanted by his half gesticulation.  They pounced and pulled out of the crowd another four.  “To the crematorium” shouted Bachmayer;  and the four of them were pulled away in torturing grips to the place from whence no-one ever returned.

The commandant stood in front of the prisoners,  hands clasped behind his back and vehemently continued.  “I want to know whether there is among you, even one who can pluck up the courage to declare now that he is a Commissar or Communist?  Then from the column, half tortured to death, one pushed forward. He could hardly support himself, but holding his head high, he summoned his last ounce of energy and shouted as loud as he could:  

"I, Morozov, Alexandr Dimitrovich, commissar and communist.  I was a communist, am a communist and I remain one”,  Then he turned his head towards the interpreter:  “You ask this fascist dog what else he wants to know.”

There was a deathly silence across the square, it seemed that time stood still.  The man who called himself communist Morozov stood there looking defiantly in the face of Bakhmayer.  Behind Morozov some movement began and another man came forward.  “My name is Ponomarev, also communist and commissar.”  Then two more stepped forward 

“I’m Fedulev Communist and Commissar,” 

“I’m Tikhonov, Alexandr Segeevich, communist and commissar.” Then more stepped forward, five six seven,  . . . twelve  All stated they were communists.  When the thirteenth,  Zablotny, Vassili Fyodorovich stepped forward the fascist with a distorted face madly attacked these brave men,  beating them with his whip.  As they were pushed back into their ranks, the voice of Morozov could be heard,

“Shoot me you facsist,  your destruction is not so far away.”  

This time Bachmayer went mad, but wanting to show his supremacy, he stepped back saying to the interpreter:  “Tell them,  that for their boldness, they will be shot last, when in a condition where they will not even remember their own names”  Then he added:  “Take these men to the special building brigade, don’t liquidate them until I give the order.  Bachmayer realised that in no way could what happened be corrected.  His mischief had backfired on him  Now he would be thinking in what way today’s fracas could be compensated.  It didn’t take him long.  On the 19th April 1943, on the eve of the fascist celebration of the birth of the devilish Fuhrer, he, together with his aide Shreitviser Szhultz, set up a bloody orgy of death:  they shot the commissars in front of all the prisoners, but before the execution they tortured them. The drunken executioners set up 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

8

a competition to see who could pot first the right eye, then the left, then the bridge of the nose. 

In the group lead out for execution were 68 commissars, including  Sasha Morozov. The shooting lasted all day. Just five tortured souls remained alive, then the evil eyes fell on Morozov. He defiantly shouted out: “Hurry up, fascist bastard! Apparently, you’re needed at the front!"

The interpreter translated these words and Bachmayer, who was nervously aiming  at the forehead of Morozov, immediately lowered his revolver and ordered the interpreter to inform Morozov that his turn had not yet come. He, Bachmayer, would see to it that Morozov would plead for mercy and renounce Communism.

So for the time being, five of the sixty-eight remained alive: Morozov, Fedulov, Ponomarev, Zabolotny and Tikhonov.  These would be tortured until their end.

Hitler’s executioners wanted to break the Soviet people, bring them to their knees, but he failed. The will to win, the belief in the triumph of justice were stronger than death. 

Late that night Willie returned from the shooting, where he had helped the camp boss tie up the commissars. He breathlessly told the barber how they put gags in the mouths of the 'talkative' ones, and praised Bachmayer, most of all for his well-aimed shots: “Bachmayer never missed. If he stated he’d shoot the stinking dog in the left eye, then he hit the left . . . Miraculous shot. And remember, with a pistol at the thirty-five meters .. “

“And how did Schultz do? “

“Not bad either.  Only Karl was  aiming at the nose or mouth all the time. He missed once. Shraitvizer missed twice. Our kapo Schmidt requested permission to finish them off with a club or knife. 'Is it worth wasting bullets', he said 'let me stab them like pigs, I’ll slaughter them in five minutes' ... 

'You want too much fun. Let us also entertain ourselves,' replied Bachmayer  'and for your good intentions, I will report it to the Fuhrer, and will ask your early release from the camp'. . . "

“Lucky is this Schmidt. And how did those Soviet dogs feel? “

“Do you think that it interested me? I just wanted to know who’s the better shot.” 

I could not sleep, listening to the conversation between the two thugs. In the opposite corner, laying on one bed, were two survivors of the Soviet patriots - Commissar Alexandre Morozov and Alexandre Tikhonov who were unexpectedly released from the shooting. They shook with fear from the nightmarish experience as if in a fever. Sasha Morozov whispered through swollen lips: “Kohl Shitov, Vanya Sichushkin, will I really never see you again? How many do we have left? Sasha Saratovets ( Tikhonov V.B) Agh,. . .and Nikolai Kutuzov? But what I’m saying? He was exterminated first, on the day of his arrival here ... For a matter on which we were all involved but he took the blame himself: we wanted to cut a hole in the floor of the transport to make 

 

 

 

9

a way to escape.  And his relatives, would they know some day how how he was tortured? First they broke his bones in the arms and legs, and then let them suffer  for a long time and only on the third day, now in the camp...they shot him ... Seems he was still alive .. . " Sasha then lost consciousness. Alexandre Tikhonov, refreshed the head of his friend and namesake with water. 

In the morning the Czech clerk of our block, Kolovrat, unknown to the authorities,  found a Czech doctor, Podlagu,  and together they gave medical help to Morozov. 

Now Aleksandr Dimitrovitch Morozov, forester, lives in Upper Kayah district Kirov region, post town Sozim. Alexander  Tikhonov lives in the village Olonovka Novouzensk district of Saratov region, working as an agronomist, writer Yuri Pilyar lives in Moscow. The fate of my other comrades of the special team of builders, unfortunately, I don’t know. Perhaps now, after reading my memoirs, if anyone remembers me  'The Professor' they may respond. 

The construction team which included the Soviet prisoners, joined the other prisoners. It was called, as before, the commissars team. For some time I also had to work in this team. Among the many friends I made, closest to me was Sasha Morozov, who not only himself persevered in the face of death, but also helped me to escape . This was later in 1944 when I happened to be in a command with him, which was sent to the underground work camp at Leibnitz.

In Mauthausen our team was given the heaviest work, but in it we felt out of danger; Bachmayer strictly banned the kapo and SS to beat commissars and kept us for “nibbles”. 

“OK, commissars, begin!"  The kapo yelled, beating our backs  (not heads - this was a 'privilege'!).  Harnessed to a kind of cart we were exerting all our strength and pulling the  heavy loads up the hill. There, in the hollow between two peaks, we threw the rock down. In the enormous pit we chucked more than a thousand cubic meters, but the work seemed to have no end. Some monster had, you see, got the idea to build at such an altitude a football ground, and he decided to make this impossibility with the hands of slaves: to  climb the narrow and sharply sloping path to the appointed place and raise the ground in the Danube valley. The work was exhausting  to the point of collapse. We brought six cartloads before lunch, and six in the afternoon. From time to time we took shovels and levelled the land raised. 

The construction  zone was guarded by a squad of SS reinforced with alsatians. For the most trivial delay we were beaten on the back with sticks Once an SS guard came very close. Sasha Morozov whispered to me: "Maybe we could bump him off, Vassily , and get to the mountains! Taking his machine gun with us, if we failed to get out, then at least we’d die heroically."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

10  

Sasha tried to rise, but the alsation growled, reminding him of his whereabouts , he began to work vigorously with a shovel.

One of the SS pointed to one of our team, named Eugene Kozyrev, and with a nod his finger 'invited' him to follow. Stepping to one side, he took out his note book and started to read  something. Eugene could not understand. The SS called me over. I ran up, took off my cap, stood to attention, according to 'rules', deviation from which could cost your life. It turned out the fascist was asking Eugene whether he was at the front and how many Germans had he killed.

“I did not kill anyone," replied Eugene. 

“Who would believe you? I, for example, in service, killed …”(he looks in a notebook) “270 Jews, Russians and Poles. Mostly, of course, Jews, and you were at the front and killed no one? "

“No, I didn’t.” 

“But you did shoot?”

“Shoot, yes, but high, so as not to kill anyone.”

“And for what was Stalin paying you? What kind of soldier are you, not to shoot the enemy, but high? “ The fascist attacked Eugene and began beating him with his fists in the face, saying: “Take this, you animal,  so that you know in future, to shoot the enemy,  not in the air. Take this! and this! and this!.. "

The beaten Eugene, spitting blood, went back to work. Satisfied, the SS sat on a stump, put his machine gun on his knees. Our guys, continuing to work, quietly discussed the incident in their own way. 

“If I were in your place,”  Vasily Fedorovich Zabolotny, was first to express his opinion  “I’d have said that I shot Germans like dogs, are you scared?” And he got in reply:

“If you’re so smart, then go and tell him ... “

“I was not invited, and am not going to ask for it.”

After the lunch break the same procedure was repeated as with Eugene. But this time the SS guard called Zabolotny and me. Telling us how many he had killed on his account, he expressed regret that he couldn’t kill anyone from the team in order to add to the list. And only after this preamble he addressed Zabolotny:  “How many have you killed during the war, Germans, that is?"

“I didn’t count."

“Well, approximately?”

“Even approximately I can not say.”

“All the same, more or less. I hope that you were not shooting in the air? “

“It goes without saying, but to count the dead is very difficult.”

“Oh, I understand that it is difficult, but you can always estimate.” This bargaining between SS and Zabolotny lasted a long time. “So, we will assume that you have killed ten Germans. Yes? “

“OK let it be ten.” 

“No, I need to know for sure. Ten is ten , we like to be exact. So exactly ten? “

 

 

11

“Exactly. “

“But it is absolutely exact? “

“Exactly! Precisely! “

“Exactly ten Germans killed? “

“Exactly, I killed ten Germans. “

The fascist took a stick from his boot and began to beat Zabolotny.  “You killed ten Germans,” he repeated over and over, “and then thought you would eat bacon here? Bandit, murderer! You know that for every German killed a hundred dogs like you will die?..."

When Zabolotny came running back to us and took up his shovel, we cast fearful glances in the direction of the SS, fearing that he might think about 'inviting' someone else to him ... we were all silent, hard at work. 

Once the task of levelling the ground was completed, we were immediately transferred to another area of work: in a quarry, which was open even during the building of Vienna, the capital of Austria. Hence its name, The Viennese quarry. It was a rock face between two huge cliffs, which were 186 steps high. Using these steps, exhausted prisoners could barely go down, but it was much harder to climb upward, carrying the heavy rocks. 

We stand in line, while the kapo checks our load. Those that have chosen a stone smaller than that provided as 'standard' is severely beaten and a rock twice the weight put on his back [they used a wooden hod to hold the stone on their backs]  With such a burden,  the prisoner can hardly rise more than ten steps. The hapless fall, not withstanding the 'help' with sticks, being kicked ... by the evening they are burning in the crematorium ... 

With incredible exertion we climbed the steps one after another. A kapo 'encourages' each of us with a whip or a stick, urging: “Hurry! Hurry! Hurry up, you lazy dog!”

And the living corpses move, wooden shoes clacking on the stone, counting to one hundred and eighty-six. And the sound echoes far into the Alps ... 

Seeing the SS approaching, the kapo increases tenfold his effort, beating prisoners, even those who would clamber up without such treatment. With numb hands, trembling legs, I feel another moment, and I would fall. But nearby a number of shots speak for themselves. And some strength comes from nowhere. You could hear the German abuse of some victim. Suddenly a rock flies past us dropped from the top. Jumping on every step, it knocks into people, injuring them. And this, incidentally, benefits our superiors: it is from here every day the necessary 'raw materials' go to the crematorium. And although it was minor in comparison with the giant crematoria in other concentration camps, even so it accounted for not less than a hundred people in a day. And most of  the candidates for the crematorium gathered in the quarry, especially when leaving with the stone cargo on their backs. Therefore everyone wanted to avoid this dreadful place ...

 

 

 

 

12

Straining with all my strength, I climbed up to the last step and immediately headed back, afraid of the stick reminders. But the siren saves us.  We all lined up in a hurry: to delay also threatens danger. Checks are made for the presence of all prisoners and we return to camp. Many support the wounded. Next to the column on stretchers are the crippled, unable to move, and the dead. Theirs was the direct route to the crematorium. To account for them their numbers are removed, but the skin and bones go to the oven: their flesh  as on all the rest of us, long gone. 

Around the barracks I met Karel Hanus. He alarmingly reports that near the main gate once again Korolevich stands, chained up,  at the wall,  his only misdemeanour was that he went beyond the boundary of his barracks to get a piece of bread from his Czech or Yugoslav friends. He needed urgent help. But how? 

“Take this bread, colleague,” asks Hanus," get closer to him, and from the edge of the barracks so as not to get noticed by the SS on the tower, call Valentine and throw the bread at his feet. Hungry he will not survive, but if he gets a little refreshment, he can endure the day. Later, Podlaga [the doctor] will place him in the 'Revere' (barracks for the sick), and then we can think of something - you, Vassily, have plenty of ingenuity. Think of how best to act."

I could not think of anything else but to use the courier who was always on duty at the gate. Handing him a bag of bread, I said, “You have been ordered to  give this to  Valentine Korolevich, chained by the wall."

“Who ordered it?” Asked the courier. 

“Tomorrow, you will know,"  I replied evasively, disappearing behind the nearest barrack. 

The gift reached its destination. Valentin received this support not only in food, but also in morale: the realization that in the camp he had true friends, gave him strength. A few days later, leaving the quarantine barracks, he wished to get acquainted with them. Having got closer to each other, we, Karel Hanus, Valentine Korolevich and I became strong friends. 

Fifteen years later, when fate would have it, I again met with Valentin Korolevich. He had settled in the village of Ternopil, Pustomytivskyi district, Lviv area. Having met after a long separation, we decided to work together to find our  foreign friends, and especially Karel Hanus, who, as it turned out, also did not forget his friends: he had published  twice in the Czech magazine “Prague-Moscow” his memories of the suffering and struggle in the Mauthausen death camp . 

Inevitably I want to go running ahead, to tell  what happiness I experienced, learning that my friends survived alive, happy and healthy. This happiness will be perceived more brightly when  compared to the grief that all of us, former prisoners of fascism, so well knew. 

  I listened in silence to my friend. And I had the desire to clarify something.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

13 “How many times were you, Valentine, chained to the wall in Mauthausen? I saw you  'crucified' twice.” Valentine moved away from the question. 

“It is important that we are alive, and now together.  I confess, if it were not for you and Hanus, we would not be sitting  here now, right next to each other” - and he smiled sadly with his toothless mouth. 

And I am even more grateful to my Yugoslav friends: Ljubish Stojanovic, Manić, Dobrivoje, and other comrades, whose names, and unfortunately, addresses I’ve forgotten. And how important it was to restore at least a written communication, I could not dream of more ... 

We remembered also Kayensko Agreshaego the Yugoslavs called him “the Yugoslav Michurin“ He died when I was in Mauthausen.  Also a priest from Belgrade, his name was Stojanovic too, forgotten his first name. He helped the Russians selflessly. Once he received the first and only parcel from Yugoslavia. In it was cake and other delicacies, cooked by his doting wife. So he gave the entire parcel to the Germans in exchange for a bucket of potatoes, which was boiled, mashed, and divided into 40 portions -  the number of Russians in his barracks and distributed to all, leaving himself the same portion. In the parcel were a hundred cigarettes, of which he left himself one, and ninety-nine  handed out to his “Russian brothers” ... Such examples are never forgotten for your entire life. 

“Yes," agreed Valentin, “not only remembered, but also an inspiring example of decent people ...” 

In 1959 on the eve of 42nd anniversary of the Great October Revolution I  invited Valentine to visit me, but on the first of November received a note from him:  “Dear Vassily, I am in the clinic of Lviv Medical Institute. Writing is hard for me, come to me in the dental department. V. K."

I visited him often, before and after the operation. They removed all the roots of his teeth, then operated on his stomach, leaving one third of the stomach. Lack of teeth for such a long time had had its effect: he fell ill with a stomach ulcer.  And silently suffered, never complaining, nor asking for anything from anyone. The evening of the sixth of November, I met with him in his ward, and only then he told me about how he lost everything bar a single tooth: 

"Obviously that courier reported that someone handed me the bread, and perhaps he had been spotted from the tower. So I was summoned for questioning. First beaten then interrogated, 'Who gave you the bread?' Well, I confessed, I did not know, but if I had known, I would not have said. 'Well, maybe this would help?"' They forced me to gnaw stone. Sparks flew from my teeth, I saw them. The pain was terrible, several times I lost consciousness. They poured water over me and again: 'Eat!' I began to ask one of the executioners that he’d better shoot me, and he smiles: 'To kill you we can do any time, just try and live without any teeth, so you know what is another’s bread and thank your benefactors, who gave it to you' ...”

“Valentine, why did you not tell me about it in Mauthausen?"

“And what would that have changed? And for whom would it be easier?”

 

 

 

14

Returning home from the hospital, I could not sleep that night, thinking about how much Korolevich had to suffer in fascist prisons. I’ll tell you one more episode to  present to the reader more fully the character of Korolevich. 

Mauthausen 1943: There was an execution of four young prisoners at the Appel Platz by camp authorities. This was done in front of all with a view to intimidation. An international underground organisation learned about the insidious plans and intentions of the Nazis and decided to show defiance. On the eve of the dreadful punishment  Hanus said: “You, Vasily, are requested to find a brave man who would comply with the international commission committee."

“Why look, I’ll do it."

“You have enough of your own to do,"

“And what is the mission? “

“When the Nazis are about to hang our lads, we want a loud shout: “Mützen ab!” (Caps off! )

I asked Korolevich, who could do it, and he did not hesitate to say: “Here is just the person!"

“Who? I must tell my comrades.” 

“I myself on the instruction of the underground."

The next day, when all the prisoners were rounded up on the Appel Platz and the condemned were led to the gallows, the call rang out over the whole area: 

• "Mützen ab!" 

The crowd of many thousands of prisoners, as one, paid tribute to their comrades, exposing their heads. The call was so demanding and expressive that even some SS took off their caps, but, realising their error, they started to run between the columns, hoping to find he that dared show solidarity with the 'criminals'.

The prisoners stood in silence, holding their hats in their hands. Bachmayer seeing in front of himself a solid wall of 'criminals' and not being able to immediately deal with them all, ordered  dispersion to  the huts without delay. 

The hanged bodies were immediately taken away, and the gallows dismantled. The Nazis felt the force of the international unity of the prisoners, which grew stronger every day. For our executioners this was a Pyrrhic victory, Karel Hanush reflected on the day’s events: “In future, I think they will not dare execute prisoners for their entertainment. We must find a way every time in our own way to land them a blow of our own.”

The coming days seemed to me doubly difficult. In the morning my friend Mikhail Vasilyevich was sent to the Revere, and I became dejected, knowing what are the kind of 'hospital' it was, where the Nazis disguised the mass destruction of prisoners under the  impression of natural death. I imagine the SS in a white coat, who cynically plays the role of a humane doctor. Here he comes with a syringe to Kiselev, intending to give him a lethal injection. Kiselev humbly extends his hand to the SS, thanking him, trustingly believing that after the injection it would ease his pain.

 

 

 

15

A deafening blow to the head from a stick interrupted my thoughts. I staggered, lost  balance and fell, spilling the twenty bricks, which I was carrying on my back in a specially made hopper. My friends  helped me back to my feet, and I quickly began to line up.  Returning to the barracks in the evening, I learned that my concern for the fate of Kiseleva was unneccessary. Clerk Kolovrat delighted me: “Kiselev is now under the care of  Podlagi. This doctor will not harm his patient.  He must be held in Revere as long as possible until he’s restored completely his weakened strength. “Everything will be fine, comrade Professor, as good as this beautiful May day. And meanwhile Octave Rabaté will sleep in your bunk with you. Do you mind? 

“Thank you, my friend!"

At ten o’clock in the evening I climbed to the third tier of bunks, getting ready for sleep, eagerly glancing at the door and waiting for the new companion, whose name was known in the camp without exception. I wanted to sleep so much, but I knew that today I would not. I waited. Suddenly at the open door appeared, boney  and thin, a sliver of a man with kind, intelligent eyes. He was supported by Kolovrat. I wanted to get down, but Kolovrat urged: “Stay there Professor”. 

Rabaté took the step to the second tier bunk, I caught hold of him by the top of his arms, which were, presumably, once strong biceps but now just tendons.  Kolovrat supported him from below. With this joint effort Rabaté was guided to his place. I gestured him to lie down, covered him with a blanket, trying to give him rest. But Octave, despite  weakness, was in a hurry to meet new comrades and friends. 

“Who are you? “ he asked me first of all. 

“Vassily Bunelik, I’m from the Soviet Union. 

“And the comrade next to you? Who is he? “

“It’s Korolevich, also a Communist. His nickname’s, ‘Valentine of Odessa’ “ 

“Well, my name is Rabaté Octave”

It got to well past midnight, and Rabaté was unable to say enough to end. I eagerly listened to his moving stories, occasionally asking if he wasn’t tired. Rabaté joked that it was the first time an audience of one person listened to him so attentively, and continued to talk about how he  came to Mauthausen. 

Rabaté’s story was long, tragic and yet instructive.  The gist of it is reduced to this: as soon as the Nazis occupied Paris, Hitler issued an order to the immediate arrest of all Communists, half of which were immediately shot, and half sent to concentration camps.  And those selected, would soon lose fifty percent of their weight, and may perish from weakness, disease ...  Rabaté did not included the details of the fascist methods of killing human beings: “You know well enough, I can see.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

16

Yes, the fascists tried all right: leaving him only skin and bones. With nothing left to lose. He would have us strengthen the propaganda of communist ideas, especially among those prisoners who were destined to learn in such difficult circumstances. 

I silently shake his hand, while agreeing with his opinion and advise at least a little sleep. He smiles in recognition and continues to talk about the treachery of the Nazis, about how they  shot seventy five percent of all French Communist prisoners . How the Nazis compiled a list of prisoners of Communists in alphabetical order  then one 'experienced' fascist leader noticed that the majority of French surnames begin with letters that make up the first half of the alphabet, and suggested that all Communists, whose names begin with letters of the first half of the alphabet be shot, and the second 'half' to be sent to concentration camps. So quite by accident Octave Rabaté remained alive. 

“I should have been first to be shot,"  Octave finished,  “as I was a prominent communist figure in France. But the fascists have their own 'logic' they can shoot me anyway anytime they want.”

Time passed. Gradually it became light. The bell rang out at Appel Platz.  Rise! I help Octave Rabaté come down from the third 'floor' bunk. Thanks to the ingenuity of the Czechs, Octave could be left at the barracks. They brought him a bucket of warm water, a rag, brush, liquid soap, soda, Kolovrat explained:  “Your windows don’t need washing, they are already clean, but keep a wet cloth on the glass anyway. Once you spot the SS, pretend that you are carefully cleaning the window. If you get tired of standing at the window, sit on a stool and start to shine these small pieces of glass they are here specifically for this.”

The camp commanders allowed no more than two people to remain in the barracks during the day. The Czechs often used this opportunity to assist desperate comrades. I also, during my stay in barracks number 9 had this duty a few days. In the evenings with Rabaté, we were often joined by Koralevich, but soon he was sent to Goosen, a 'branch' of  Mauthausen a few kilometres away. My friendship with Rabaté grew stronger with each passing day. We lived together from May 1943 through the month of March 1944. In the camp conditions that is quite a long period of time! 

Being under one blanket, we collectively discussed and outlined plans to work among the prisoners, discussed the propositions that came from comrades, ran errands, gave assistance to those that became fallen in spirit, I admired the unusual energy of Rabaté who could so stoically endure all hardships, remaining always equally persistent and unshakeable. Rabaté often liked to emphasize: “The fascist school is very hard, but it will wake up the consciousness of the non-political, which they had hoped to transform throughout the world. In the class struggle there is no place for evolution. Time is working against us. And the Nazis, understanding that,  unwittingly accelerate the process of maturation of the class consciousness”

 

 

 

 

17

My need to be always next to this admirable communist increased when Kiseleva was sent on 'transport' from the Revere.  Learning about  Mikhail Vasilyevich leaving in an unknown direction, I shared my grief with Rabaté. Perhaps wanting to divert my attention from the gloomy thoughts. Octave told me his biography. I still remember many vivid pages of the life of this miracle-man, fighter, Communist. 

Born Octave Rabaté May 13, 1899 in Paris, in an area where at that time  Lenin lived in exile. Octave had even seen Vladimir Ilyich [Lenin] frequently  but as a boy did not realise what a great man lived next door to him. Octave’s father was a simple worker, a gravedigger, his mother a cook. His father died in 1915. Octave went to work at a factory, where he was involved in the struggle against imperialism. During the Great October Revolution he was a member of the committee on the restoration of international relationships, participated in strikes, and in 1919 joined the ranks of the Socialist Party-leading the fight for its participation in the Third International. In July 1919 he was elected secretary of metallurgists in Pantien-Auberville and then Secretary of the Communist Youth Union. In the years 1920-1922 he led one of the first groups of soldiers - Communists of Tendeville (Marseille).

After demobilization he returned to his old position at the factory, where he was elected a member of the central council of association metallurgists section de la Septembre (Paris) and head of the Communist Youth Union. In 1939 he was elected secretary of the National Federation of Metallurgists. He went to Moscow and was a participant at the Plenum of the Comintern. About 1925-1928, he was elected to the Central Committee of the French Communist Party. He was arrested and jailed for speaking against the war in Morocco. 

In 1927 he became a delegate to Congress and a member of the Central Council of Profintern. In 1935 he was elected secretary of the French Committee of the struggle against fascism, led by  Henri Barbusse and Romain Rolland. In 1937-1939, he led the propaganda department of the Central Committee of the French Communist Party. 

In 1940, mobilised, he engaged in underground work. He was arrested by police in the south of France and handed over to the Gestapo May 27, 1942. Condemned to death, he arrived at Mauthausen in April 1943. 

In the spring of 1944 I was sent to “transport” and I found myself in the Leibnitz work camp [about 250km south of Mauthausen], having lost forever,  it seemed, my friend Octave Rabat. Only in 1958, I accidentally came across the book “In the dungeons of Mauthausen”, by our comrade in misfortune Valentin Ivanovich Sakharov, about the suffering and struggle against fascism. In this book Sakharov remembers our friend Rabate. I immediately sent a telegram, please inform me the address of my  French friend. I got this answer: 

“Rabate works as editor of  L’Humanite in Paris.” The same day, I wrote 

a letter. Soon came a letter of response, then the second, third, fourth ... And now they comprised a whole file. From many of his photos his eyes look out with  kindness, insight, unshakeable courage . Here’s a photo, which shows the traditional march to the graves of the Communists by the Veterans of the Communist Party . In his

hands Rabate  holds a banner, of the DK Communist Party of France 

in which he served over 30 years. Next to  Octave 

marches Maria, his wife, friend, and member of parliament. 

All  Rabate’s letters are imbued with simplicity and sincerity. Learning that 

I’m going to write memories of the death camp and that in these memories  a place to him will be given, he pleads: 

“Only I beg you, Vassiliy, do not make me a hero. But you know that we only served as a communists.  What can I add to this genuine modesty? 

In one of the first letters sent to me from Paris, Octave reports that in the winter 1957 he, along with his wife, stayed two months in the  

Soviet Union, in Kislovodsk. I could not calm down after this 

message: at that time I was also in Kislovodsk. And we never met!  Or  perhaps, had met, but not allowing for such a possibility, passed by each other ... 

Keeping quiet about such features,  as courage, heroism, 

generousity, Octave Rabate wrote about the dead 

heroes  with love and pain.  Already in his first letter to me he remembered our common friend 

the Czech Kolovrat, 

​