The Will to Live

Every day, on their way to the Wannsee for bathing or boating, U.S. correspondents in Berlin pass a huge (3,500 inmates) D.P. camp. Last week, a TIME correspondent went through the camp gates and found Moische, a man with a will to live, and the kind of courage and enterprise that is needed by a war-wrecked world.

Two Million Needles. Moische was not any more attractive than the Europe that made him. He was dark and haggard, with sunken eyes, greasy hair and a limp. Yet Moische's story was a kind of 20th Century epic.

In Poland, where he grew up, Moische joined the Workers' Party. This made him suspect by the Communists. When Germany and Russia partitioned his country, he was sent to Siberia, to do forced labor in the mines. When Hitler attacked the U.S.S.R., Moische and many of his fellows were released. Moische wandered around southern Russia and, because he was bright and hardworking, came to be supervisor of a factory. He and his boss did a little black marketing and the Russians put him in jail. He served two years and went home to Poland, although he was a Jew and knew what the Germans might do to him. They picked him up and sent him to the big concentration camp near Lublin where 1,500,000 died. Moische did not die. He was there when the Russians liberated the camp.

By this time, Moische had a wife and child; with them he came to the UNRRA camp in Berlin. He did not sit back and wait for help. His world had fashioned Moische to be a black marketeer; he was a good one.

"Razor blades are pretty much in demand right now," said Moische last week in his hoarse, flat voice. "Yesterday we got an order for 50,000 of them for Poland, and we are getting them together now. In Stettin they will fetch a good high price. Most everything is scarce in Poland nowadays. Take sewing-machine needles. They are much better than gold or precious stones. We sent 2,000,000 to Warsaw recently. We buy them for 2 1/2 marks a package in the British zone, mostly through doctors who get interzonal passes easily and like to make some money; then in Poland we sell them for nine zlotys. Nine zlotys buys 4 1/2 pounds of butter over there, which we can sell in Germany for 1,350 marks. It does not take long to get rich that way."

One Thing Would Help. Moische is making money. But his troubles are by no means over. "My wife," he said, "has been quite sick again lately. We have the new baby now, which makes three of us besides myself; it is difficult for her to take care of everything." The wife lay In a double bed, and she looked desperately weary. But the sheets on the bed were clean. There was a white cloth on the table and flowers in the window, and the baby thrashed around happily in a clean pink woolen suit. There was an electric cooker--"The food from the kitchens has become a great deal worse recently," the mother said--and the clothes were hung neatly in the closet.

As the reporter got up to leave, Moische said: "One thing maybe you could do for me. I have a brother in New York--Brooklyn. I am a tailor by trade; I know materials. I want to work, and I can work. But I cannot write to my brother--it takes months, and I will never know if he gets the letter. I want to ask him if I can't come over to America. I am tired, and I want to make a steady living. Maybe you could send a letter for me. There will be nothing in it that is dangerous. That would be the biggest help I ever had from anyone."

He looked out at the crowds in the dirty camp streets, looked back into the room and shook his head. "If you could do that for me," he said slowly, "you would be saving our lives." He stretched out his hand and smiled a twisted smile. He said: "Auf Wiedersehen."

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