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Learning to Sew at Auschwitz
Posted By Martin Greenfield On December 13, 2014 @ 5:00 am In Culture | No Comments
As a young man, Martin Greenfield was sent with his family to the Nazi concentration camp at Auschwitz. He survived the Holocaust and went on to be one of the most successful tailors in America, making suits for Presidents Eisenhower, Clinton, and Obama, among many others. The following is excerpted from his new memoir, ‘Measure of a Man.’
Because my father was a ghetto leader, our family was put on the very last transport from Mukačevo to Auschwitz. We were not told where we were headed. I remember standing still and quiet inside the cattle car, my brother’s small hand wrapped tight inside mine. We arrived in Auschwitz at night. The train creaked to a slow stop. We waited for the door to fling open, but it didn’t. People inside our cattle car craned to look through the opening in the car. Hours passed. Left overnight, the occupants were forced to relieve themselves inside the cattle car. My family huddled together to stay warm and calm.
The next morning, rays from the sun pierced our car and warmed our bodies. Sunlight flooded our cattle car as the door unlatched and opened. I remember thinking at that moment that nothing bad could happen on a day as beautiful as this. My youthful optimism was unprepared for the reality we were about to step into.
We hopped down from the cattle cars, and gaunt, sullen prisoners hustled us away.
“Out! Out! Hurry! Hurry!” yelled the inmates.
We were told to leave behind our bags and any items of worth we brought and to join the herd ambling toward the gates. It was larceny on the grandest of scales. In an instant the Germans seized generations’ worth of toil and striving. Although we didn’t realize it then, Hitler’s mass killing machine had been designed for ruthless efficiency, extracting every ounce of value from every possession confiscated. Prisoners with gold fillings had their teeth yanked and put in buckets of acid to burn away the dross of skin and bone; the hair shorn from our heads was used to make delayed-action bombs—nothing wasted, everything exploited.
Standing there, shuffling forward, robbery was now the least of our worries. I was too short to see over the adults. But as we got closer to the front of the line, I could make out Mengele. He did not look like the monster he was. He was handsome, even.
With just a few families now in front of us, I did not know what to do or expect. Finally, it was our family’s turn. Mother clasped Rivka’s hand and held my baby brother tight in her other arm. Mengele stood before us, quiet and calm. He looked us down and up before silently motioning for Mother to put my brother down. Mengele wanted to send Mother to the right and Sruel Baer to the left. But Mother would not let go of my brother; she clenched him closer. This time Mengele commanded she let go. Mother refused. So, with a flippant shrug of his shoulders, Mengele pointed for Mother, my baby brother, my younger sister Rivka, and my grandparents to all go to the left. To avoid panic or an uprising, the Germans calmly told us the separation would merely be temporary, that we would see one another and be reunited later inside.
We wouldn’t.
“See you later,” my mother said looking back at us over her shoulder.
“See you later,” I said waving.
I did not know it then, but with a flick of his baton, Mengele had sealed our family’s fate. That moment, standing there in the Auschwitz selection line, was the last time I ever saw my mother; my baby brother, Sruel Baer; or Rivka.
Mengele ordered Father, Simcha, and me to go to the right. I was glad we had Simcha with us. That is, until the men and women on the right were separated and Simcha was taken away from Dad and me. For the longest time, I could never understand why Mengele did not send her to the left to be burned. Now, however, I think I know the answer, and it haunts me: Simcha was a tall, beautiful girl with silky blond, hair—one of Mengele’s genetic obsessions. Inside the camp I heard stories about the things the Germans liked to do to young, pretty Jewish girls. But no brother can let such thoughts linger too long, so I hoped it was only a rumor.
With Simcha gone, it was just Dad and me. The men and boys were then taken to an area where we were told to strip naked. Our shoes and clothes were seized. They then shaved our heads and bodies before splashing a disinfectant on us that burned like hell.
I’m not certain, but I do not think my father wanted the Germans to know we were father and son. We did, however, stand together in the tattoo line. That is why the serial numbers put into our arms were in order. My father’s was “A4405.” Mine was “A4406.” The “A” meant Auschwitz.
At least Dad and I are still together,I remember thinking. At least Brother and Sister are with Mother, Grandfather, and Grandmother.
But those thoughts ended as quickly as they began.
A few hours later, in a quiet moment, my father pulled me close and whispered.
“I’m going to talk to you very seriously,” he said. “Together, we will never survive, because working together we will suffer one for the other. We will suffer double. We must separate.”
“No!” I cried. “You cannot leave me!”
“You must listen!” he said sternly. “It is the only way.”
I shook my head no as if to shake away his words. The thought of his leaving me made me dizzy. It was a level of panic only a child on the edge of abandonment can feel.
“On your own, you will survive,” he said. “You are young and strong, and I know you will survive. If you survive by yourself, you must honor us by living, by not feeling sorry for us. That is what you must do.”
Today I am grateful for those words. They echo in my heart even still. It is a cruel thing, feeling guilty for surviving. But my father erased any future guilt and replaced it with purpose. It was a gift only a father’s wisdom could give. It gave me a reason to go forward, a reason to be. It does still.
But back then I was just a stubborn teenage boy, so I argued. A lot. Still, Dad would not give in. His mind was made up, his words rehearsed. Soon, very quickly, a flood of anger filled me, because boys do not know any other way to show sadness to their father. I knew he loved me, but I could not understand. That night, lying in the dark, his decision went through my heart like a spear. How could he do this? I thought. How could he leave me alone in the world? In this hell?
***
The Germans dragged me to the laundry. Whether they wanted me first to perform a simpler task than mechanical work, or whether this was a punishment for trying to flee, I do not know. But after my sprinting stunt I was eager to show the Germans I was a hard worker who could be of use.
My first job in the camps was washing Nazi uniforms. I knew nothing of the task. In Pavlovo we had a maid who washed all my clothes. Still, I grabbed a brush and an SS soldier’s shirt and scrubbed hard and fast. After working my way about halfway through the pile, it happened. I scrubbed so hard the bristles ripped the collar. The face of the pacing soldier at my station flushed red. I do not remember his words, but I remember his baton. He beat me until I bled. He needed to make an example out of me for the other prisoners. When he was finished with my flogging, he balled up the torn shirt and threw it in my face before huffing off.
The shirt was trash to the soldier but not to me. I kept it. Working in the laundry was a nice man who knew how to sew. He gave me a needle and thread and taught me how to sew a simple stitch. I mended the shirt. To this day I still don’t know why, but when I got up the courage, I slipped the soldier’s shirt on and wore it under my striped prisoner uniform. It was a crazy thing to do, because none of the other prisoners had a shirt. But I did it anyhow. From that day on, the soldiers treated me a little bit better. They thought I was somebody—someone who mattered, someone not to be killed. The prisoners treated me a little bit better as well. You must remember that some of the kapos (supervisors) were Jewish prisoners, but they could be brutal. They wanted to please the Germans, so some of them would be hard on us so the Germans would not punish them. Sometimes the kapos were harsher than some of the Germans. When I had my soldier shirt on, however, that did not happen. When I wore the shirt, the kapos didn’t mess with me.
The shirt means something, I thought. And so I wore the shirt. In fact, I ripped another one on purpose so I could have two.
The day I first wore that shirt was the day I learned clothes possess power. Clothes don’t just “make the man,” they can save the man. They did for me.
Of course, receiving your first tailoring lesson inside a Nazi concentration camp was hardly the ideal apprenticeship. I would have much preferred to hone my craft on Savile Row or in the mills of Milan. Looking back, though, that moment in the camps marked the beginning of the rest of my life. Strangely enough, two ripped Nazi shirts helped this Jew build America’s most famous and successful custom suit company.
God has a wonderful sense of a humor.
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