Maybe it’s because of those cursed clogs I was given in their place, which tore at my feet and made them bleed. Or maybe it’s because the boots were from home, a remnant of Radom taken from me. Perhaps. All I know is that when I got to Auschwitz and I was made to undress, I had to give up my boots—soft, brown leather, lace-up boots that came up high on my calves. I had to take them off and throw them onto an enormous heap of footwear—shoes and boots, all worn and rough, piling up in an ever-growing mound, the plunder of war. Seeing that vast and growing pile, I knew that whatever was going to befall me in this place, I was never going to see my boots again; I was never going to get my boots back. That was terrible to me, an indecency, to be bereft of my own boots. The rolling doors of the metal boxcar slide open, and I have a brief moment of relief, almost of hope. I have heard rumors about Auschwitz, vague suspicions about it being a death camp, about people being forced to breathe poisoned gas, and the few days I have spent on the train from Tomaszów to Auschwitz have made these rumors seem real.
