Ferka
“You should have just hit him; that would have gotten the point across well enough for even a dumb gypsy to understand,” Armin chuckled. “But that one got your message well enough. Maybe he’s not as stupid as he looks.” I thought of those blue eyes and shifted uncomfortably.
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I
t only took ten more minutes for the prisoner to complete his part of the wall— working calmly but quickly, with a fluid effortlessness that betrayed the hidden strength within his still-lithe form. After a quick, final flourish with his spade, he dropped from his perch atop the wall, bare feet sinking slightly into the muddy ground. He turned towards me, and smiled. “Kamerad Klemens! The shadow moves as the sun commands, and I have done as you commanded, no? What other work do you have for me to complete, may sigo sar te may khav, eh, kamerad ? Before I eat my next meal?” Again disconcerted, I opened my mouth to stutter out some form of reply, but was saved from potential embarrassment when Waldhar, the commanding officer of the camp, strode out into the yard. “Übersetzer!” he bellowed. “Translator!” The strange, blue-eyed Romani turned towards the other Nazi officer, “Hier, Mein Herr.” “Another file has arrived from Berlin. My office. Now.” The prisoner nodded once, and obediently trudged through the mud towards the administration building. But he paused in the open door, and turned back to me. I was still staring at him, openmouthed. “Kamerad Klemens!” he called, his voice ringing across the commons. “Hatch till the dood wells apré.” “What?!” I yelled, “What the hell is that supposed to mean? And since when do you speak German?” He was gone, and the door snapped shut behind him. I sighed, putting my hands on my hips as Armin laughed in my face.
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I later learned that the strange new translator had been discovered in the Łódź Ghetto.
He was Romani, but spoke German, English, French, and Polish fluently, as well as some Hebrew and Russian. He was a valuable prisoner, extremely valuable, so he was sent first to a transit camp and then a concentration camp. Kamerad Waldhar had been ordered to keep the translator “comfortable.” Since he was bunked in one of the barracks I was responsible for, I was told I would have to provide any of his approved privileges. But the new prisoner turned down the food from the officer’s hall, gave up his mattress, and refused to wear his civilian clothes. I was surprised to learn that the man had volunteered himself for labor detail. The new translator caused no trouble and was an eager volunteer and a reliable worker. The
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