Coco Schumann 1924 – 2018

“It was also usually not a problem to get an instrument at Auschwitz as some of the arriving musicians had managed to bring them along until they were taken away at the infamous ramp by the so-called Canada commando. This command, the same one that had “greeted” us, consisted of privileged inmates who collected everything the arriving prisoners had brought with them and transported the confiscated property to one of thirty warehouses. These rooms, filled with mountains of personal effects from what can be called the prisoners’ last luggage, were called “Canada” because, for Poles, the country was the epitome of wealth and riches. The prisoners in that command understood how to turn their work to their own advantage by putting aside some of the loot to use later for barter inside the camp. Our camp elder had just lost his gypsy band, and he immediately agreed to Heinz’s proposal. Heinz led us to the hall where the instruments were stored among other items and said: “Look around, it’s all there.” I chose a Selmer guitar made by a French company that had also made guitars for Django Reinhardt. I had never played on such a fine instrument before. I did not think about the previous owner – it was the only way. I had gotten used to the disappearance and murder of people, as much as I could ever get used to something like this. Rather intuitively and because of the shock of the past few days, I sensed I could not afford any further sentimentalities. There was one and only one principle that mattered here: “Every man for himself.” In this context, it also meant becoming a small part of the rampant inhumanity. If I did not want to die in this death camp, I had to focus on saving my life at the expense of humaneness and feeling. So Otto Sattler and I wound up playing music again on our first evening in Auschwitz – in front of the camp elder, a professional criminal with a taste for folksy music. We played songs from the Reeperbahn, the famous red light district in Hamburg and Paul Lincke songs, all at his request. He grabbed a chair and two sticks and drummed along with the music – just as I had done when I was four, at the home of my grandparents. One of the next transports from Theresienstadt brought Martin Roman and Eric Vogel. We immediately set about planning a band led by Roman. It was easy to convince the camp elder. They all competed to have the best camp band. The SS did not do anything to interrupt the competition. They applauded the performances. A lot of them even liked the music – they had grown up at the same time, in the same environment, with the same influences as I had. The difference that separated us was made clear to me in a horrible way that day at school at the blackboard, but it did not have anything to do with music. We musicians were a welcome “diversion” from the monotonous, gray, “lethal” boredom of daily life in the camp, and we quickly became an essential part of this macabre world. Roman got the musicians who had come from Theresienstadt together and founded his band. If a matching instrument could not be found the musicians received another and had to fake their skill as best they could because their life might depend on it. Eric Vogel could not find a trumpet. We gave him a mandolin and made sure our dangerous audience would not notice anything. The difference between Theresienstadt and Auschwitz was very clear to us. It was the difference between living in the naive hope of being set free and trying to stay alive for the next couple of hours. Next door in the “D” block, a band played that either cynically named or had to name itself Wesola Piatka (The Happy Five). We could not make contact, except talking briefly through a fence when both bands were performing open-air concerts. After a few weeks we were not required to play only for private “amusements”; instead, we were integrated into the “official” camp routine like the other bands. By now we had earned some privileges, received special rations and did not have to live in the common barracks sharing a bunk bed with six or seven other inmates. The pecking order in the camp became established among the prisoners with time. Any resistance to the camp and block elder, who were bosom buddies with the SS pack, resulted in paying with your life. Nobody had the will or the strength to object to the privileges of a few prisoners like us. Whoever did not get an extra ration, whoever did not have his bowl filled from the bottom of the soup pot was soon done for and lost weight until his bones stuck out. Whoever walked around like a Muselmann (Muslim), as they called the walking skeletons, would be sent to the gas chamber in a couple of days. We were in a privileged situation not just because we were musicians and artists but because of our previous stay at Theresienstadt. It was not clear why this was the case. Any prisoner from Theresienstadt could be sent to the gas chambers, but not one of us was ever tattooed. Apparently somebody thought they could use us for barter. After all, prisoners from the “model concentration camp” had a certain fame; we heard rumors that in some cases sums going into the millions were flowing for inmates in order to buy their freedom.”