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Chapter 40 Little black-haired Gypsy girl And when you have buried everywhere Free thought, individuality— When no one has a dream anymore, The flood closes in tremulously. —HERMANN STEHR These verses of Hermann Stehr often went through my head.1 No, they no longer had any dreams, the authorities and powers of the Third Reich. They only knew murder, horror, power, greed, oppression, and deprivation of the rights of those who had fallen victim to their power. They were no longer human beings. I, too, like so many others, feared that I would completely break down, physically and mentally. I had reached the point where every evening I wished that I would not have to live through a new morning. But morning after morning the sinister camp siren sounded shrilly over our barracks. And our parole was always, again and again: down from the cot, down from the sacks, filled so miserably with straw or meager wood shavings; a thoughtful, deep breath; and then a new, long, cruel day to be borne again. What would it bring? Who of us would be led away into the house of horror today? Who would get a caning? Who would get the death injection? Who would no longer lie among us during the next night? Hermann Stehr (1864-1940) was a German author of novels, novellas, and poetry, notable for the deep current of religious mysticism that runs through his work. Because Stehr's work was sanctioned by the Nazis—Stehr himself even held a post in the Reichsschrifttumskammer (the Reich's chamber of writing)—it is somewhat odd that Nanda uses his poem as an epigram here. 215 The Blessed Abyss Yes, my thoughts wandered fearfully in this way every new morning . They accompanied the wonderful, tranquil sunrise, which should have brightened even our darkness, should have warmed us through, since it could not be forcibly kept from us. In the camp there was a sick, lovely little Gypsy girl. Sometimes, when I dared to make a forbidden visit to the sick in the sick bay, I liked to stand at her grievous sick bed for a few seconds as well and look into this young, sorrowful, beautiful, and harmonious little face. She lay there like a little, black Madonna with unfathomable eyes shaded by extremely long lashes.2 She was always content, she always smiled at me. She lay in a huge hall, together with many other sick people, bed upon bed, row upon row. The air was miserable. No invalid could heal in there. One day my little Gypsywas dead, too. She had probably also been given the death injection. All of us who had been especially fond of this child assumed this was the case. This time I could not find out for certain. Aside from a fewyoung inmates, an older Pole also worked as a nurse in Sick Bay II. She sacrificed herself in a touching manner for her fellow prisoners and did them numerous little acts of kindness, especially in their extremely lonely and tormenting hours of death. She had (no one knew how) an entire little Madonna in her possession, which she held in high esteem. And she told me, beaming, how the poor, dying creatures became quieter at the sight of this Madonna, and prayed with her silently. Now, I knew from experience that the dead bodies were usually stuck into coffins or boxes as quickly as possible, and I really wanted to see my little Gypsy once more. Cautiously, I crept around the sick bay. Just don't get caught! I held a little wreath of forget-me-nots hidden under my apron, which I wanted to bring the dead child as a last salutation. Inmates had brought these flowers back from outside labor, with permission of a friendly overseer, for the service room of the block director. I quickly bound together the little wreath, as I had often done as a child with my siblings in the meadow. I bound my tears into the wreath as well. I thought this little wreath would look especially good on the little black-haired head. And even if she died in the concentration camp, she would have a little wreath of flowers. I succeededwith myintentions. The old inmate's nurse, withwhom I got on well, probably suspected my desires. She also knew howvery attached I had been to this child. When she saw me going secretly back and forth in front of the sickbay, she...

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