Chapter TWENTY-FIVE
1942 Budzyń, a Polish labor camp
Following the meal, they were marched to the appelplatz.
Before them, seated on his snow white horse, was SS Oberscharführer Reinhold Feix, a thirty-three-year-old former barber and commandant of Budzyń, flanked by a squadron of SS officers, and a hideous little man with oatmeal skin, Otto the Small, his murderous wingman.
A nervous hush fell over the appelplatz as Feix, a Mauser hanging from a cord around his neck, dismounted and addressed the inmates.
“You have the good fortune of having been assigned to my camp. If you work hard here, you have nothing to fear.” Feix was well-spoken. A devoted father of two boys, he was an accomplished musician who spoke with the air of an educated man.
He was also a stone-cold monster.
“In my camp, you will be taken care of and fed. Personal possessions are not permitted,” he continued calmly. “Everything must be turned in. You will be shot if you are discovered with any money, jewelry, gold, or silver you have not yet surrendered.”
Then, whipping around, he pointed his riding crop at a frail, elderly man, a music teacher from Krasnik.
“Schritt vorwärts! (Step forward!)”
The hapless man did as he was bid.
“Schneller! (Faster!)”
The man hastened forward, removed his cap, and stood trembling before the steely-eyed Feix.
"Entkleiden! (Undress!)"
Again, the man did as Feix bid until he was altogether naked.
Spinning on his heel, Feix clucked his tongue, and the horse approached. Thrusting his boot into the stirrup, he swung himself into the saddle. Gathering the reins, he approached the quaking teacher and, in one swift motion, lassoed the reins around his neck and yanked hard. Slapping his whip against the horse’s flank, he commanded, “Hoch! (High!)”
The horse reared onto its back legs, letting out a high-pitched whinny.
“Höher! (Higher!)”
The horse reared again, its front legs pounding the air while Feix pulled the reins tighter, repeating the command. “Hoch! Höher! Hoch! Höher!”
All eyes fixed in horror on the maniacal Feix and the naked man as he dangled from the reins, gasping for breath. Hoch! Höher!
“We can’t look anymore. We put down our heads and closed our eyes. But the guards, they were forcing us to watch, hitting us with the whips.”
Finally, the man hung limp.
Detail from drawing by Warsaw Ghetto and death camp survivor Morris Wyszogrod of SS Untersturmführer Reinhold Feix, commander of Budzyń camp, strangling a prisoner with the reins of his horse in 1943. Credit: Matthew Kalman
Feix dismounted, wild-eyed. The sadistic torture seemed to have aroused in him a manic rage. “Now you have seen what will happen if you do not hand over your possessions!” he exploded. “We know you Jews have plenty of diamonds and gold sewn into your clothes!”
Pacing back and forth, stabbing his finger in the air, he screamed in a spittle-flying tirade, “If anyone tries to escape from my camp, ten prisoners will be shot on the spot, including the blockälteste!”
His face livid with rage, he strode toward his horse, mounted, unholstered his Mauser, fired a single shot into the teacher, spun the horse with his spurs, and took off.
The new inmates stood ashen-faced, sickened by what they’d just witnessed—a dark omen of the precarity of life in this hellish place—this Budzyń.