
There are windows that are half open even in winter. After the roll call one
sees women’s heads of all colors and shades in the windows, and from
the blue, rose-colored, and light green robes emerge arms that are whiter
than sea foam. Fifteen heads, I believe, and thirty arms, not counting the
old madam, whose heavy, epic, legendary bosom watches over the heads,
necks, arms, and so on. Madam usually does not stand by the windows but
acts like a Cerbera at the cathouse door.
The camp vips crowd around the bawdy house. If there are ten Juliets,
there are at least a thousand Romeos, and, by God, they are not the worst.
There is pushing and shoving and keen competition for every Juliet. The
Romeos stand by the windows of the opposite block, shouting, signaling
with their arms, and beckoning.The camp elder is among them, and so are
the camp capo, the physicians from the infirmary, and the capos of various
details. Many a Juliet has a regular swain, and in addition to vows of eternal
love and promises of a better and happier life together after the camp, in
addition to disputes and reproaches one can hear conversations that pri-
marily concern soap, perfume, silk panties, and cigarettes.This is how the
cathouse looks from the outside. One can enter it only by way of the office
and with a card that one receives as a reward for good, industrious work.
Borowski describes how a camp-wise Pole from the first transport—‘‘his
number is smaller by a third than the last digits of my number’’—gained ad-
mittance to the brothel.
He gallops into the office, stops, and as soon as one of the approved num-
bers is called and not claimed, he cries, ‘‘Here,’’ grabs the pass, and trots
over to the madam. He presses a pack of cigarettes into her fat paws, she
gives him a whole series of mainly hygienic treatments, and the freshly
sprayed young man rushes up the stairs with big leaps. In the corridor the
Juliets from the windows are walking around with their robes nonchalantly
wrapped around their bodies. From time to time one of them approaches
him and asks en passant, ‘‘What number do you have?’’ ‘‘Eight,’’ he says and
looks at his card to make sure. ‘‘Oh, that’s not me, that’s Irma, the little
blonde,’’ shewhispers a bit disappointed and flits off in the direction of the
window.The young man walks up to door numbereight. He quickly reads a
posted notice that says that one pleasure or another is forbidden on pain of
internment in the bunker, specifies the things that are permitted, and gives
the number of minutes one can stay. He heaves a deep sigh in the direction
of the spy (the peephole in the door) through which the female colleagues
sometimes look, occasionally the madam, the leader of the Whorehouse
Commando, or even the ss camp leader himself.
Sexuality n 407