So here I am, a student at the Auschwitz hospital. From the vast population of Birkenau, only ten of us were selected and sent here to be trained as medical orderlies, almost doctors. We shall be expected to know every bone in the human body, all about the circulatory system, what a peritoneum is, how to cure staphylococcus and streptococcus, how to take out an appendix, and the various symptoms of emphysema.

     We shall be entrusted with a lofty mission: to nurse back to health our fellow inmates who may have the ‘misfortune’ to become ill, suffer from severe apathy, or feel depressed about life in general. It will be up to us—the chosen ten out of Birkenau’s twenty thousand—to lower the camp’s mortality rate and to raise the prisoner’s morale. Or, in short, that is what we were told by the S.S. doctor upon our departure from Birkenau. He then asked each of us our age and occupation, and when I answered ‘student’ he raised his eyebrows in surprise.

     ‘And what was it you studied?’

      ‘The history of art,’ I answered modestly.

     He nodded, but had obviously lost interest; he got into his car and drove away. 

     Afterwards we marched to Auschwitz along a very beautiful road, observing some very interesting scenery en route. Then we were assigned guest quarters at one of the Auschwitz hospital blocks, and as soon as this dreary procedure was over, Staszek (you know, the one who once gave me a pair of brown trousers) and I took off for the camp; I in search of someone who might deliver this letter to you, and Staszek to the kitchens and the supply rooms to round up some food for supper—a loaf of white bread, a piece of lard and at least one sausage, since there are five of us living together.

     I was, naturally, entirely unsuccessful, my serial number being over one million, whereas this place swarms with very ‘old numbers’ who look down their noses at million-plus fellows like me. But Staszek promised to take care of my letter through his own contacts, provided it was not too heavy. ‘It must be a bore to write to a girl every day,’ he told me.

     So, as soon as I learn all the bones in the human body and find out what a peritoneum is, I shall let you know how to cure your skin rash and what the woman in the bunk next to yours ought to take for her fever. But I know that even if I discovered the remedy for ulcus duodeni, I would still be unable to get you the ordinary Wilkinson’s itch ointment, because there just is none to be had at the camp. We simply used to douse our patients with mint tea, at the same time uttering certain very effective magic words, which, unfortunately, I cannot repeat.

     As for lowering the camp’s mortality rate: some time ago one of the ‘bigwigs’ in our block fell ill; he felt terrible, had a high fever, and spoke more and more of dying. Finally one day he called me over. I sat down on the edge of the bed.

     ‘Wouldn’t you say I was fairly well known at the camp, eh?’ he asked, looking anxiously into my eyes.

     ‘There isn’t one man around who wouldn’t know you…and always remember you,’ I answered innocently.

     ‘Look over there,’ he said, pointing at the window.

     Tall flames were shooting up in the sky beyond the forest.

     ‘Well, you see, I want to be put away separately. Not with all the others. Not on a heap. You understand?’

     ‘Don’t worry,’ I told him affectionately. ‘I’ll even see to it that you get your own sheet. And I can put in a good word for you with the morgue boys.’

     He squeezed my hand in silence. But nothing came of it. He got well, and later sent me a piece of lard from the main camp. I use it to shine my shoes, for it happens to be made of fish oil. And so you have an example of my contribution to the lowering of the camp’s mortality rate. But enough of camp talk for one day.

     For almost a month now I have not had a letter from home…