Cilka's Journey
Page 33
He hasn’t yet reached the showers but finds himself shivering. What have I done? He’s just spent several days telling everyone around him to keep their heads down, do as they’re told, don’t antagonize anyone, and now he’s gone and lit a fire inside a building. He has little doubt what would happen if someone pointed him out as the arsonist. Stupid. Stupid.
In the shower block, he settles himself, breathes deeply. Hundreds of shivering men stand shoulder to shoulder as cold water rains down on them. They tilt their heads back and drink it in desperately, despite its rankness. Many try to lessen their embarrassment by covering their genitals with their hands. Lale washes the sweat, grime, and stink from his body and hair. Water hisses through the pipes and hammers the floor. When it ceases, the doors to the changing room reopen, and without command they walk back to see what has replaced their clothes—old Russian army uniforms and boots.
“Before you dress, you must visit the barber,” a smirking SS officer tells the men. “Outside—hurry.”
Once again, the men fall into lines. They move toward the prisoner standing ready with a razor. When it is Lale’s turn, he sits on the chair with his back straight and his head held high. He watches the SS officers walk the length of the line, assaulting the naked prisoners with the ends of their weapons, offering insults and cruel laughter. Lale sits straighter and lifts his head higher as the hair on his head is reduced to stubble, not flinching when the razor nicks his scalp.
A shove in the back by an officer indicates that he is done. He follows the line back into the changing room, where he joins the search for clothing and wooden shoes of the right size. What is there is dirty and stained, but he manages to find shoes that more or less fit and hopes the Russian clothes he grabs will do. Once dressed, he leaves the building as instructed.
It is getting dark. He walks through the rain, one of countless men, for what seems like a long time. The thickening mud makes it difficult for him to lift his feet. But he trudges on determinedly. Some men struggle or fall to their hands and knees and are beaten until they get back up. If they do not, they are shot.
Lale tries to separate the heavy, sodden uniform from his skin. It rubs and chafes, and the smell of wet wool and dirt brings him back to the cattle train. Lale looks to the heavens, trying to swallow as much rain as he can. The sweet taste is the best thing he’s had in days, the only thing he’s had in days, his thirst compounding his weakness, blurring his vision. He gulps it down. Cupping his hands, he slurps wildly. In the distance he sees spotlights surrounding a vast area. His semidelirious state makes them seem like beacons, sparkling, dancing in the rain, showing him the way home. Calling, Come to me. I will provide shelter, warmth, and nourishment. Keep walking. But as he walks through gates, this time bearing no message, offering no deal, no promise of freedom in exchange for toil, Lale realizes the sparkling mirage has gone. He’s in another prison.
Beyond this yard, disappearing into the darkness, is another compound. The tops of the fences are lined with razor wire. Lale sees SS up in the lookouts pointing rifles in his direction. Lightning hits a fence nearby. They are electrified. The thunder is not loud enough to drown out the sound of a shot, another man falling.
“We made it.”
Lale turns to see Aron pushing his way toward him. Drenched, bedraggled. But alive.
“Yeah, looks like we’re home. You look a sight.”
“You haven’t seen yourself. Consider me a mirror.”
“No thanks.”
“What happens now?” says Aron, sounding like a child.
* * *
Going with the steady flow of men, they each show their tattooed arm to an SS officer standing outside a building, who records the number on a clipboard. After a forceful shove in the back, Lale and Aron find themselves in Block 7, a large hut with triple bunks down one wall. Dozens of men are forced into the building. They scramble and shove each other out of the way to lay claim to a space. If they are lucky or aggressive enough, they might share with only one or two others. Luck isn’t on Lale’s side. He and Aron climb up onto a top-level bunk already occupied by two other prisoners. They’ve had no food for days and there isn’t much fight left in them. As best he can, Lale curls up on the straw-filled sack that passes for a mattress. He pushes his hands against his stomach in an attempt to quell the cramps invading his guts. Several men call out to their guards, “We need food.”
The reply comes back: “You’ll get something in the morning.”
“We’ll all be dead from starvation by morning,” says someone in the back of the block.
“And at peace,” a hollow voice adds.
“These mattresses have hay in them,” someone else says. “Maybe we should continue to act like cattle and eat that.”
Snatches of quiet laughter. No response from the officer.
And then, from deep in the dormitory, a hesitant “Mooooooo …”
Laughter. Quiet, but real. The officer, present but invisible, doesn’t interrupt, and eventually the men fall asleep, stomachs rumbling.
* * *
It’s still dark when Lale wakes, needing to take a piss. He scrambles over his sleeping companions, down to the floor, and feels his way to the back of the block, thinking it might be the safest place to relieve himself. Approaching, he hears voices: Slovak and German. He is relieved to see that there are facilities, albeit crude, for them to shit. Long ditches run behind the building, with planks of wood placed over them. Three prisoners are sitting across the ditch, shitting and talking quietly to each other. From the other end of the building, Lale sees two SS approaching in the semidarkness, smoking, laughing, their rifles hung loosely down their backs. The flickering perimeter floodlights make disturbing shadows of them, and Lale can’t make out what they are saying. His bladder is full, but he hesitates.
In unison, the officers flick their cigarettes up into the air, whip their rifles around, and open fire. The bodies of the three who were taking a shit are thrown back into the ditch. Lale’s breath catches in his throat. He presses his back against the building as the officers pass him. He catches the profile of one of them—a boy, just a kid.
As they disappear into the darkness, Lale makes a vow to himself: I will live to leave this place. I will walk out a free man. If there is a hell, I will see these murderers burn in it. He thinks of his family back in Krompachy and hopes that his presence here is at least saving them from a similar fate.
Lale relieves himself and returns to his bunk.
“The shots,” says Aron, “what were they?”
“I didn’t see.”
Aron swings his leg over Lale on his way to the ground.
“Where are you going?”
“A piss.”
Lale reaches to the side of the bed, clutches Aron’s hand. “Hold on.”
“Why?”
“You heard the shots,” says Lale. “Just hold on until the morning.”
Aron says nothing as he clambers back into bed and lies down, his two fists curled against his crotch in fear and defiance.
* * *
His father had been picking up a customer from the train station. Mr. Sheinberg prepared to lift himself elegantly into the carriage as Lale’s father placed his fine leather luggage on the seat opposite. Where had he traveled from? Prague? Bratislava? Vienna, perhaps? Wearing a fine woolen suit, his shoes freshly shined, he smiled and spoke briefly to Lale’s father as he climbed up front. His father encouraged the horse to move on. Like most of the other men Lale’s father ferried around with his taxi service, Mr. Sheinberg was returning home from important business. Lale wanted to be like him rather than like his father.
Mr. Sheinberg did not have his wife with him that day. Lale loved to glimpse Mrs. Sheinberg and the other women who traveled in his father’s carriages, their small hands encased in white gloves, their elegant pearl earrings matching their necklaces. He loved the beautiful women in fine clothing and jewels who sometimes accompanied the important men. The only adv
antage of helping his father came from opening the carriage door for them, taking their hand as he assisted them down, inhaling their scent, dreaming of the lives they led.
Also by Heather Morris
The Tattooist of Auschwitz
About the Author
HEATHER MORRIS is a native of New Zealand, now residing in Australia. For several years, while working in a large public hospital in Melbourne, she studied and wrote screenplays, one of which was optioned by an Academy Award–winning screenwriter in the United States. In 2003 Heather was introduced to an elderly gentleman who “might just have a story worth telling.” The day she met Lale Sokolov changed both their lives. Their friendship grew, and Lale embarked on a journey of self-scrutiny, entrusting the innermost details of his life during the Holocaust to Heather. She originally wrote Lale’s story as a screenplay—which ranked high in international competitions—before reshaping it into her debut novel, The Tattooist of Auschwitz. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
Note from Heather Morris
Additional Information
Afterword: Vorkuta—the White Hell
Acknowledgments
Map
Excerpt: The Tattooist of Auschwitz
Also by Heather Morris
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
First published in the United States by St. Martin’s Press, an imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group
CILKA’S JOURNEY. Copyright © 2019 by Heather Morris. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Publishing Group, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.
www.stmartins.com
Map by Sophie MacDonnell
Cover design by Michael Storrings
Cover photographs: woman © Ildiko Neer / Arcangel; building © Francisco Goncalves / Getty Images; stripes © M Ede / Shutterstock.com
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-26570-8 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-26815-0 (international, sold outside the U.S., subject to rights availability)
ISBN 978-1-250-26579-1 (ebook)
eISBN 9781250265791
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.
First U.S. Edition: October 2019
First International Edition: October 2019