I lay on the lowest bunk of a three-decker bed, wrapped in a
blanket. I was not cold. I was not hungry. I had drunk enough
cold water to quench my thirst. I had gotten rid of the lice. You
might say that I felt happy. Around me people were asleep. A
ray of hope crept into my heart. Maybe here, in Stutthof, ^* . I
would manage to last through the war. After three nights and
three days of a terrible trip in a stifling, closed freight car, without
food or water, we had stopped suddenly in a pine forest. A cold
snow mixed with rain was falling, but the trees were green, and
the leaves made a rustling noise. It had been two years since I last
saw a tree. There were no trees in the ghetto and none in the
Bialystok ^† . prison, and maybe because of that their aroma and
rustling struck me as being unusual.

On the very first evening I drank water -- simple, cold water --
from the sink. But I had been dreaming about one drop for three
days and nights of travel in the closed freight car, during which
time my tongue had dried out like a piece of leather. I kept hear-
ing a terrible hum in my temples, and one thought kept going
through my mind, that I might die before having had a drink of
water. Right after our arrival, a Polish kapo from Poznan took us to
the toilet, where there were sinks with running water. I could not
tear myself away. It had a taste of heaven, and to this very day I
can still feel that taste in my mouth. We were the first Jewish
transport to arrive in Stutthof, a motley crew who shared nothing
in common but the tragedy of having been born Jewish. No won-
der we met with little sympathy from the other prisoners. Nobody

-3-