esswork on his part and he strove to make it sound convincing to his tormentors） and who among the farmers supplied the underground movement with food。 It was not until they took him to another room and pletely immersed his body in water； pulling him up just before he lost consciousness； repeating the process several times； that he admitted his own parents were involved with the partisans。 Only when lighted cigarettes were pressed against his testicles and no more information babbled from his broken lips was the Gestapo sure there was nothing left for him to tell。
The next day Janusz was driven to Zamek Lublin； a hillside castle that served as both prison and courthouse。 There； in an old chapel that had been transformed into a courtroom； the dazed youth was sentenced to imprisonment。 He was lucky： others with him found guilty were dispatched to a room next door and instantly shot。
From Zamek Lublin he was taken to Majdanek； a notorious internment centre just east of the city where many thousands of Poles； Hungarians and Czechoslovaks were being held； and it was here that Janusz received the tattooed number on his wrist that forever would identify him as the unfortunate victim of a Nazi concentration camp。
Once he had recovered from his injuries； he began to realise he had certain advantages over many of the other inmates which might possibly help him survive： he was young and had learned to exist on a limited amount of food for a number of years （on this point he was soon to discover that at Majdanek 'limited' meant hardly any at all）； he was cunning； already a natural scrounger； he held scant remorse for any personal misdeeds （the thought of what had befallen those he had betrayed …including the fate of his parents …hardly disturbed him）； he was not Jewish。
And there was one particular aberration of character that would eventually ensure his survival under the worst of circumstances； but that was not to be appreciated until much later。
His clothes were of a black…and…white striped material； thin and coarse and loose…fitting； his bed was a plank of wood on damp ground。 His panions were the starving。
Janusz became used to raving hunger once more。 He dreamt of great plates of sauerkraut； sausages； boiled pork and pickles； with coriander seeds mixed in。 And often he dreamt of when he was nine years old； of the night his father had stolen the tiny pig； how his family had feasted； the park lasting for days； thin soup made from the bones lasting even longer。 He would wake from the dream in the darkness of the night； his sunken eyes wide and staring； the succulent memory vanquishing the moans and smells around him in the rough hut。 He would remember other details of that clandestine night； and juices would run from his open mouth。
Time passed and Janusz mentally sank into himself just as his flesh physically sank into his bones。 Yet there was ever one bright； although tormenting； light far him。 Unlike many of his fellow internees far whom food had bee almost an abstract thing… they still craved it； still licked their bawls which had often contained only watery； meatless soup； a piece of black bread and sawdust； but the less they were fed； the more unreal to them became true sustenance…he never relinquished that one glorious memory of his family's night feast all those years ago。 It became an obsession with him。 And oddly； a driving force。 Where others slowly drifted down into their own private abysses of despair； Janusz's thoughts constantly stretched towards his vision； perhaps as a drowning man might reach for a swooping seagull。
He worked as hard for his gaolers as his enfeebled body would allow （and with considerably more eagerness than on his father's farm） and was never averse to mentioning any subversive talk he might hear in the barrack huts during the night； always willing to point out potential troublemakers to the German guards。 He became a pariah among the prisoners for； although they could only guess he was an informer； it was his readiness to serve the Third Reich beasts that he was hated for。 Fortunately for him； there was too much dread in their hearts and too much passion sapped from their souls for them to take vengeance。
Then one day； Janusz and two dozen or so others were marched from the camp to a hillside that was used for mass executions。 They were instructed to wait beside several open pits。
The number of Unerwunschte…undesirables' as the Nazis referred to Jews…was too many to count （years after the nightmare Janusz could not remember if there had been hundreds or if there had been thousands） as they were lined up before the pits in groups。 There they were machine…gunned； most of the bodies toppling into the open graves。 It was the task of the working party to throw in those who had fallen the wrong way； then arrange the bodies so that the next batch could be heaped in on top。 When the pile reached a certain level； they were to cover the pit with lime and soil。 Before that was done though； there was a special job to perform for a chosen few。 Janusz was one of the chosen。
An SS captain provided Janusz and three panions with pliers and short blunted knives； their orders were to pull any gold teeth they could find among the corpses and to cut off any rings that had not already been confiscated。
This was no shock for Janusz； because his mind had long since decided to protect him from such traumas。 He crawled among the still warm corpses； giving them no more regard than if they were freshly slaughtered livestock。 Dead meat。 That's all this great tumble of arms and legs was。 White carcasses。 Some still pink…coloured。 Like the little pig 。 。 。
No one was watching as he lifted the hand of the plump woman； the flesh of her finger swollen over the rim of her gold ring。 The Gestapo had been merciful： they hadn't cut the jewellery from her while she was still alive。 He sawed at the finger。 No one was paying any attention。 He slid the ring off。 And drew meat from the fingerbone with his teeth。 He swallowed。 The woman's eyes opened。 She looked at him and he fought to keep the bloodied morsel down。 It lodged in his throat as life went from the woman's eyes。 He swallowed again； once； twice。 The meat was accepted。
That was the real beginning of Janusz Palusinski's survival。 He had found a food supply。 He was filled neither with joy nor shame； merely relief that he had a means to exist。
Exist he did； even though he was violently ill for days after that first eating of human flesh； his stomach was not accustomed to such richness。 He was lucky to recover； for his general weakness might have allowed permanent damage。 But Janusz was resilient； if nothing else。 From then on he was more cautious about how much he cut from the piled corpses； often concealing small segments in his loose clothing to be consumed late at night beneath his thin blanket。 The amount he was able to eat was never enough to have any marked effect on his physique； and that was fortunate； for such a change would have been easily noticed amidst the walking skeletons of the Majdanek concentration camp。 But it was sufficient to strengthen him and thus renew his desire to survive。
Disaster； for him； came months later when for no apparent reason he was taken off the burial detail。 Perhaps the German soldiers themselves had grown sick of his eagerness to crawl among the dead； or perhaps they felt he had bee too privileged。 Whatever the reason； Janusz's specialist services were no longer required。 His condition deteriorated rapidly with no regular sustenance。
He became as the others of the camp； a shuffling corpse； eyes enlarged as his skin shrivelled； his bones jutting with deep hollows between。 He began to have fits of coughing that drained him of any strength he had left； and bloodspots speckled his palm when he took his hand away from his mouth。 Delirium soon followed。 Finally he was moved to a but where those who were dying were left without food or care； their passing hastened by lack of both。
He had no idea of how long he had lain there； it could have been days； it might only have been hours。 But something had drawn his senses towards one focal point。 It was a smell。 Familiar。 From