Few lasted long in the camp. Most were killed almost immediately upon arrival. They were mainly the women with little kids, the too old, the too young, the too sick. Those that were not, that were kept alive because they were useful in some way, maybe, if they were lucky, made it for a few weeks. I'd been there for four months. By their standards a lifetime.

It was a place to learn the relative meaning of words. Where "lucky" simply meant non immediate death but a very likely one a short time later after spending that period of remission in a real life human, close approximation of hell. Before the war, before the camps, long before, "lucky" had meant to me someone who won a competition, perhaps a successful player in a lottery, something like that. Well I guess it was much the same here, now. Except that what you won if you weren't wiped out immediately upon arrival was not money but your life. But you weren't granted it for the rest of its normal, natural term, rather you were permitted the use of it for a short while longer, instead of a freehold over your body you were granted an indefinite lease by them which they could terminate at any moment and in return for which the rent you paid was to be compelled to become a minor cog in their commercial death process. Burning bodies, shovelling the remains into pits, pulling out gold teeth and the rest of it. I expect you'll be aware of what went on, no need for me to elaborate here and now on the well publicised facts.

I should point out though that it was only long after it was all over and I began to write about it that I reflected on the relative meaning of words like "lucky" and the irony involved. At the time, pure instinctive survival was just about the only thoughts that entered most of our heads and fine words describing the situation, trying to dream up smart metaphors, were not on our agenda all.

Because of someone's morbid, ironic humour, many places in the camp were named after countries. Not officially, it just became that way, nobody ever knew why. Even the guards used the names. The "hospital" for example was Canada. Even the word hospital was of course an irony in itself. In a place designed for mass killing, why would anybody want a hospital for the prisoners? In fact it was merely a yard where they finished off those no longer required, on an individual basis, who were not part of the mass killing operation, those like myself who had for a time been of some use to them.

So a trip to Canada meant certain death. But Canada, the real Canada, was not on anybody's mind at that time, in that place. In total contrast to Canada in the real world, Canada in the camp was the last place in the world to which you would want to go because the camp was our world.

The main place of mass killing was Spain. Again nobody knew why and it had absolutely nothing to do with the real Spain, no association whatsoever just as with Canada. It was just camp slang. The argot of death as geographical falsehoods. Not, as I said, that I pondered the reasons much at the time, I had somewhat more important things with which to contend. But afterwards I gave it some thought, talked with some other survivors. Nobody ever knew.

But following the style of national names, I invented one. Outside the wire was freedom. Not that anybody had any chance of getting there but you could see it so it became more than just the fields and trees that could be seen, it became a concept, an idea, something upon which to construct a castle of hope in your mind. I gave it the name New Zealand and it stuck. The only country name slang in the camp that meant something good. Everybody's dream was to make it to New Zealand for if you ever got there, it meant you were free.

Why New Zealand? I don't really know. Following the logic of camp irony where the worst areas were named after countries that might be considered attractive by many, you might think that somewhere attractive, in fact the most attractive place to which you could ever hope to travel from the camp, would be named after somewhere awful. But as I say this kind of reasoning meant nothing to us there, then.

I remembered as a kid being interested in simple geography. I used to read atlases and see this somewhat odd looking split country round the other side of the world. Australia was huge by comparison and I saw New Zealand as a kind of underdog. I had never even left Europe, it was all a kind of fantasy I had built up but the country had exerted a hold over me and I had later read much about it.

I had always thought I would go there one day, just for a look. My New Zealand dream. I remember hoping that the reality would be as good as, or better than, the image I had built up of the country. Then again I recall thinking that perhaps it was better if I never went there, in case my expectations were too high, in case I became disillusioned, in case my wonderful mind view of the country turned out to be just that, a mind view with the potential for being despoiled by reality. Maybe New Zealand of the mind was better than New Zealand on the earth. Or maybe it would be the other way round. I was not sure that I really wanted to know. That was all before of course.

Now New Zealand lay just out there, a few metres away but a million kilometres away.

All my family had been killed by them, except for one son who was with me in the camp because they had decided that like me, he might be of some use before they finished us off too. In the last couple of days he had contracted some disease and was weakening fast. I had managed to conceal this from them because they would have killed him instantly in Canada if they knew.

We all had the feeling that it had to be getting near the end. You could see that they were nervous. Anybody in the camp for more than a day because they hadn't been chosen to be killed picked up every little nuance of activity by them. Part of the survival mechanism. This made you instantly aware of any unusual events such as the guards changing at other than the usual intervals, of vehicles coming in and out apart from the normal traffic and so on.

Then one day the sound of distant artillery gunfire, the signal that it probably could not go on much longer. The end of the world, that world, was indeed nigh.

What sound makes you happy, makes you hopeful? Church bells for some joyous occasion like a wedding? Your new born baby's first cry? For me at that moment it was the muffled boom of distant artillery signifying the end.

What kind of end though, for us prisoners, remained very much open to question. The problem was the fear that they would very likely try to kill all remaining survivors so that there would be no witnesses left to their crimes. We realised this but there wasn't too much we could do about it. Hiding somewhere was just about the only slight possibility of avoiding death.

Then, frantic activity in their buildings as they started burning records, obliterating their history of industrialised killing. The distant gunfire became closer. They started blowing up their own installations. Panic had set in amongst them and this was the most dangerous moment for us.

They were gunning down people and we had no means of defending ourselves against this so the only possible way to escape this was to seek concealment. I was pretty certain they would run away very shortly because they didn't want to be caught due to the fact that that the attackers were Russians who would show them no mercy. In consequence it was probable that they would not waste too much time investigating every potential hiding place in the camp since the Russians' arrival was imminent.

Strangely perhaps I recall clearly that unlike them, I didn't panic. I had been through too much, had lived for so long facing death at any moment and, having survived thus far through that much adversity, I possessed a sewer rat's instinct to continue to do so.

It actually surprises me now, thinking back on it, how I could remain so cool. I grabbed my son and we ran to the latrines and jumped into what I can describe only as a metre deep pit of liquid, rotting shit and there we stood for many hours holding rags, torn from the rags we wore, over our mouths. We were not the only ones to have this idea. It was the least likely place for them to search for people, one reason being the likelihood that a whole posse of diseases probably lurked there waiting to infect anyone who go too close and they were afraid of that. I looked around the pit and noticed that several other prisoners had come to the same conclusion. We were all literally in the same shit together. Nobody dared make a sound.

If you are going to attack a place like that, the tactic would be to do this from more than one side at a time, thus forcing the defenders to spread out. The Russians needn't have worried, the defenders had no intention of defending, running was now uppermost in their minds. Because this had been so quick, they hadn't got around to killing all of us that remained before tanks, followed by heavily armed foot soldiers, burst through two sides of the camp at once. The gunfire ceased and it was over.

We crawled out of the pit, covered in stinking shit. I had to drag out my son who now was almost too weak to walk. Instead of the barked commands of German we heard the more melodic military shouts in Russian. I spoke some Russian, where I came from was not far from the Russian border and as often happens in border areas, people would know quite a bit of the language on the other side.

The Russians were on the move westwards, were not going to hang around for long because of us miserable survivors, there was no military reason for them to do so for they had far more important goals on their mind. Despite this they helped us wash, fed us, gave us some clothes and a doctor gave some medicine to my son which enabled him to start recovering.

They had rounded up some of the guards who hadn't got out in time. I had been in the army of my home country before this, knew a bit about military stuff unlike almost everyone else in the camp who were civilians. An officer came up to me, held out a gun. I recognised the model. An automatic. He wanted me to kill a group of the guards who were whimpering away begging for their lives. I took it from him. It was heavy, more likely I was weak. I looked at these men. I could not do it. I could hardly believe it but I could not do it. I handed it back, shaking my head.

I have told this story many times to people who were not there and often they say "Well I would have done it alright, after what they did to you and all those others who never made it." But they were not there, cannot imagine. I could not do it. I do not know why but I could not.

Faced by what were amongst the most evil people in all of history who a few hours before would have killed me and my son without a thought, who had happily killed thousands in this place including most of my own family in the previous months and years for no reason at all, men, women children it did not matter, now they were defeated and obviously afraid, I could not do it. I surprised myself at that moment I remember. I know that until that point the idea of killing them was inviting. Of getting back at them, in a minuscule way, for the millions they and their companions had murdered here and in similar places. But when the opportunity dropped on to me, I turned it down.

The officer shrugged, took the gun back, opened fire and down they went. Nobody gave it a second glance. In common with the other remaining survivors I felt nothing. Not happy, not satisfied, not sated vengeance, nothing. Although to my own surprise I could not kill them myself it mattered not at all to me that someone else did so.

Then we had to get out of there as soon as we could. You do not stay in a place of death with its personal memories one second longer than necessary.

My son said, "We going to New Zealand now Dad?"

"Yeah we're going to New Zealand."

And slowly we walked a couple of hundred metres, all the way round the world, to New Zealand.