Such music should be banned—here, at Auschwitz, at any rate.
Alma wiped her face angrily and only slowed her steps when she approached the guard’s watchtower—running was a dangerous sport in this fine SS resort.
Almost as dangerous as permitting oneself to feel something once again.
Chapter 13
The inmate was beside herself with excitement.
“She didn’t lie—it truly is you. Alma Rosé, the violinist virtuoso!”
Grinning, the woman shifted from one foot to another, still standing in the door of the block and staring at the freshly mopped floor almost with admiration. She wore the women’s camp regular uniform of a dress of sorts that was three sizes too big. From a string, tied around her painfully thin waist, a food bowl hung and even a spoon. Alma had a suspicion the woman had to part with her ration bread for someone to make a hole in that spoon for her. But that was camp life for regular Birkenau prisoners—even the smallest favors had to be purchased, as charity and goodwill were alien concepts in dingy barracks where life had been reduced to the fight for survival. The very first ration was ordinarily traded for a personal bowl. The new arrivals quickly learned that the rations distribution Kommando didn’t care one way or the other if an inmate had one or not. The kinder types could make an indifferent offer to pour a portion into one’s cupped hands; mostly though, an inmate would receive a whack with a ladle on one’s forehead and no-nonsense advice to piss off. No bowl, no food. Now, off with you, you filthy carcass; you’re holding up the line!
The second ration was usually traded for a piece of a string to tie around one’s waist to carry one’s scarce possessions on it. The new arrivals discovered soon enough from their own experience that this was the only way to prevent the precious items from being stolen, as theft was just as widespread among the camp population as disease. Handing another ration to an inmate carpenter in exchange for making a hole in one’s spoon so that the spoon’s owner could sleep soundly without fearing it would be pinched from her by a fellow barrack-mate was a small price to pay for one’s peace of mind.
Regarding what constituted the woman’s belongings reminded Alma once again of her own detail’s privilege. Suddenly, she was overcome with shame for her clean clothes and for having an actual plate in her personal quarters that she never had to worry about.
“If you’re here for an audition—” Alma began, noticing a music magazine the inmate was pressing against her chest.
“No, no!” The woman uttered a brisk, embarrassed laugh. “I wouldn’t know from which side to approach a piano, let alone any other instrument. I’m not here for that. The Kanada detail has been a bit overwhelmed recently and their superiors called for additional manpower…” She tossed her head impatiently. “No matter. I was working there today and one of the Kanada girls, the regular ones, she gave me this.” With great ceremony, she held out the magazine toward Alma, a triumphant smile playing on her face. “She said, you’d give me bread if I gave it to you,” she finished in a barely audible whisper, her eyes downcast in embarrassment.
Mystified, Alma turned the magazine this way and that in her hands. It was old, dated 1931, and in Czech.
“Was the Kanada girl’s name Kitty? The one who gave it to you?”
The woman nodded with great enthusiasm. “She said you would love to have it. She would give it to you herself, but she didn’t know when you were coming next and couldn’t wait for you to have it. She said such things lift the spirits immensely.”
Old music magazines in a language she could barely read?
Not wishing to disappoint the inmate, Alma thanked her politely, brought her a piece of bread from her room and whatever hard cheese she had left—
“But you didn’t even look at it!” Instead of the food, the woman took the magazine from Alma’s hands and began leafing through the pages. At last, she produced a victorious, aha! “That’s you, isn’t it?” This time, she nearly shoved the well-thumbed periodical into Alma’s eyes.
At once, all color drained from the violinist’s face. With a trembling hand, she slowly reached for the publication. From the centerfold, her old self was gazing back at her, smiling serenely as her hand rested gracefully on the neck of her Guadagnini—royalty posing for a portrait without a care in the world despite the ominous clouds already gathering over her sheltered world. Somewhere in Germany, Hitler—still not a Führer, just a raving right-wing agitator that the general public refused to take seriously—was calling for a revolution and for a guillotine erected for her kind and there she sat, oblivious and in love, in her silver dress, her hair cut according to the latest fashion and framing her sharp profile in elegant dark waves.
Alma Prihoda-Rosé. She was still married to Váša then. How quickly that marriage crumbled under the new regime unraveling its dark wings in the neighboring Germany.
In the bottom right corner of the article, an illustrator had drawn a sensual sketch of her—back turned to the public, exposed in a low-cut concert gown; an outline of a breast just under the violin; short waves of hair obscuring her face as though blown by the wind; a tiny foot peeking from under the hem of her dress in its elegant pump, the material hugging her tall, lean frame like the second skin pooling around her…
A crystal drop landed on the Czech words full of old glory, right next to the sketch. Alma touched her face and was astonished to discover that it was wet.
“You don’t like it?”
Dazed by the memories, Alma had all but forgotten about the inmate, who was presently searching her face with a tragic look about her.
“I thought you would like it…”
“Oh, I love it.” Alma forced a laugh and pressed the anxious woman’s hand with great emotion. “I love it very much. I’ll cut it out and put it on the wall above my table…” So it can remind me of who I once was.
Alma disappeared into her room and, after a frantic search, returned with a pair of warm socks for the inmate.
The latter was already shaking her head and pushing the pair back into Alma’s hands. “I can’t take them.”
“What nonsense! Of course, you can. Don’t be silly.”
“But you need them yourself. The winter is coming—”
“Precisely. And you’re barefoot.” Alma looked pointedly at the woman’s bare feet, stuffed into rough wooden clogs with a single leather strap holding them in place.
At last, pacified by Alma’s assurances that she had warm winter boots and woolen stockings, the woman relented. Bread and cheese wrapped in the soft warm wool against her chest, she was backing away, bowing her head ceaselessly in gratitude. If they sent her to the Kanada again, she would turn it upside down to find more photos of Frau Alma; Frau Alma could rely on her. She would see to it that Frau Alma had all the photographs of herself one could only find—
“Wait!” Alma called out to her, overcome by a sudden idea. She hesitated before she could voice it. It was much too strange, even for her; whatever the inmate would think—
To hell with what she would think. Having this piece of her lost life in her hands was much too precious. She wanted to give the Auschwitz pianist a piece of his. Alma knew that there were magazines with his photos in it—the girl from the Auschwitz brothel had seen one with her own eyes. She was sure that there were more around, buried somewhere among the Kanada riches.
“When you’re searching for my photographs next time,” Alma began carefully, “could you perhaps look for someone else’s too? I don’t know his last name, but his first name is Miklós. He’s Hungarian and he used to play the piano at the Budapest Philharmonic.”
“Miklós, Hungarian, pianist, Budapest Philharmonic,” the inmate repeated and play-saluted Alma with two fingers at her forehead. “Will do, Frau Alma!”
“Thank you.” Alma smiled warmly. “Your bread and cheese shall be waiting for you here.”
The woman turned swiftly on her heel and trotted awkwardly in the direction of the women camp’s barracks.
<
br /> Alma shook her head in disapproval at the disgraceful wooden footwear the inmates were forced to wear. Shivering against the cold, she shut the door and pressed her back against it, her eyes riveted once again to the photos.
Suddenly, a shot rang out, much too close. Growing cold with suspicion, Alma turned slowly toward the door. When she brought herself to open it, a groan of torment escaped her parted lips.
Hössler stood next to the body that lay still and flat against the ground, his gun still in his right hand. In his left one, he held a pair of Alma’s socks with bread and cheese wrapped in them. He waved them in the air triumphantly. “Caught a thief red-handed!” he announced with a proud smile. “Good thing I happened to be coming round for some wonderful Mozart of yours. If I was a minute late, she would have made away with her haul and we would never have found her. Here,” he said, approaching Alma and handing her the items.
Alma recoiled, staring at him in silent horror.
“Oh! I beg your forgiveness.” Misinterpreting her ashen-white face and her eyes staring wildly at the gun in his hand, he quickly replaced it back into his holster. “It wasn’t my intention to frighten you. Here are your socks and your rations.”
When Alma didn’t stir, he scowled incomprehensively. “She stole them from you, didn’t she? From your room, while you were busy with rehearsals?” Now, there was a trace of uncertainty in his voice.
Alma slowly shook her head, feeling her lips quivering. “She didn’t steal it from me. I gave them to her,” she managed at last.
“Why would you do that?” He appeared to be outright puzzled with such behavior.
Because she was a human being who was hungry and cold, but you wouldn’t understand such reasoning, would you?
“Because she brought me this.” She showed him the magazine.
She brought me my life back and you took hers away from her. For nothing.
The night had come but sleep didn’t. With her head in her hands, Alma sat at the table with music scores scattered all over it, immersed in her thoughts, for quite some time. Darkness had flooded the room, along with a sense of growing despair and anguish; darkness, which even the scant light of the table lamp could not disperse.
From every corner, along the walls and floorboards, shadows were stealing towards her, brushing Alma’s ankles with their ghostly touch, threatening to drag her into the dark abyss. It was best not to think of what had transpired, of the woman’s body still lying outside while she played Mozart for Hössler with hands that were strangely steady, but now that the day was over, the horror had caught up with her. Her turn would come sooner or later. It was inevitable; she saw it clear as day now. Her eyes stared fixedly into the void, black and haunted, just like the night outside.
Lapsed in some apathetic, outwardly abstraction, she didn’t notice the commotion outside her door until a startled scream jolted her out of her dark musings. Music scores forgotten on the desk, Alma leapt to her feet and pulled the door open.
At once, an overpowering stench of alcohol fumes assaulted her senses.
“Who’s there?” she demanded with all the authority she could muster, despite her hand clenching on top of the door handle. She couldn’t discern anything in the dark barrack; she could only hear heavy stumbling steps and the girls’ frightened breathing. “Leave at once or I will report you to the administration!”
Only privileged inmates and the SS had access to alcohol in this place, but Alma had never seen an inebriated inmate wandering around the camp after the curfew. Although she had heard plenty of stories about drunken SS men looking for entertainment.
A shadowy form materialized in front of her, swaying slightly, like some dark, evil apparition. The scant light falling from her room reflected off the familiar belt buckle.
Our Honor Is Loyalty. An SS guard.
Her mouth suddenly felt very dry. She took a step back. He advanced toward her. Now, she could just see the leer on his freckled, round face. He hiccupped once, twice. His eyes, narrowed in a typical fashion of a drunkard, traveled up and down Alma’s frame, hidden only by a thin slip.
In spite of herself, Alma forced herself to square her shoulders. Her extremities turned into ice. Inside her chest, her heart was beating wildly, but her face remained dispassionate and stern.
“I said, leave at once!” She almost shouted this time. “Or you shall find yourself on the Eastern front, in one of their disciplinary battalions, for Rassenschande, before you know what hit you. In case you forgot, race defilement is still a criminal case for you, Aryans.”
For an instant, he appeared to hesitate. Then, his ideological education must have triumphed. A scowl replaced a lecherous grin. “Threatening an SS man?” he slurred, making a grab for Alma’s arm.
With the agility of a cat, she jumped to the side and snatched her coat from the nail on which it hung.
“Insolent Jewish slut!” he bellowed. “I shall teach you how to obey!”
They both stood inside her room now. Holding a coat in front of herself like a protective shield, Alma watched him without blinking. All of her muscles tensed with extreme alertness, like a spring ready to be released.
“Jewish slut…” he repeated, and fell backwards, against the metal frame of Alma’s bed. “It’s a big honor and you don’t appreciate…” The gaze of his bloodshot eyes landed on her violin. “A musician then… Figures… You’re all arrogant, stuck-up bitches…” He hiccupped again. “Must have been going with every Jew banker who came to your concerts… That’s where all of your jewels are from. Robbing honest Aryan folk to dress up their Jew bitches in diamonds and silk.”
“Both of my husbands were Aryan,” Alma hissed spitefully and made another leap back when he swiped with his hand to catch her wrist. “And I never accepted presents from anyone. I earned all of my money myself, unlike you; it’s you and your comrades who dig into our hard-earned money in the Kanada every day because you, yourselves, don’t amount to anything, you ignorant, pathetic bunch.”
“You insolent whore!” he roared and went for her again.
Alma jumped onto her bed and all but made it across and to the safety of the exit, when a hand closed around her ankle and yanked hard. She yelped in pain when her forearm hit the metal frame; she could swear she heard the bone crack. Her bow hand, her most precious possession, broken by some drunken SS pig!
Suddenly infuriated to the point of blind, savage rage, she twisted and kicked with all her force, digging her heel square into the guard’s face. He cried out in surprise and released her at once, clutching at his broken nose instead. Alma was already on her feet, on the other side of her bed. In front of the door, she paused, threw a quick glance at the enraged man, who was getting up using a wall to steady himself, and then slammed the door after herself, leaving him inside.
“I’m getting the guards!” she screamed over her shoulder as she charged, barefoot, toward the front barrack door—both for the frightened girls’ sake and for the SS man to hear. She could only hope that he would have enough sense to disappear instead of going after one of her charges instead.
Holding her right arm pressed tightly against her chest with her left hand, Alma made it past two neighboring barracks when she came to an abrupt halt. For a few moments, it was just darkness, her heart pounding with violent force and her breath coming in harsh, erratic gasps. In another instant, she suddenly burst into hysterical, shrill laughter that refused to stop, even when she clasped her mouth with her good hand.
She was getting the guards! Indeed!
Alma shifted her weight from one foot to another so that they wouldn’t sink too deeply in the freezing mud. Her shoulders were shaking uncontrollably. All around her, eerie darkness lay and the long, rectangular shapes of the barracks, like some grotesque, giant coffins in which their victims were buried alive. Alma’s eyes watered. A searchlight swept the ground in front of her. She knew that in this grave stillness her laughter could be heard for tens of meters and yet, for the life of
her, she couldn’t bring herself to stop.
Did she imagine, for one moment, that she was back in Vienna and had human rights for the local police to protect? It was one of them, the guards, who was just about to assault her, and she wished to invite more of them into the barrack?
The searchlight blinded her for an instant, slipped past her but returned at once and fixed her with its bright yellow glare. Standing in a pool of light in the middle of the blackest night, Alma laughed in its face and opened her arms in an insolent gesture.
“Shoot!” She didn’t recognize her own voice as it echoed wildly around the compound.
But no shots followed. Only the sound of two pairs of boots running through the wet mud.
Alma’s arms dropped. The throbbing in the right one intensified. It was swelling with blood; she could feel it, just as she could feel the icy needles beginning to prickle at her fingertips.
Broken, to be sure.
Everything was broken. There was no coming back this time.
Just as abruptly as it started, her laughter had ceased. She was waiting for them with calm resolve as one waits for a hangman on the gallows.
Against the blinding light, they were two black shadows closing in on her. Alma stared at their faces but could see nothing except translucent vapors coming out of their mouths in short, quick gasps.
Not quite reaching her, they came to a stop as though the circle of light itself didn’t permit them within its limits. With a muzzle of his rifle, one of them probed at her left sleeve.
Scowling, Alma turned her head to see what he was studying with such apparent interest.
Blasted Kapo’s armband.
The Violinist of Auschwitz: Based on a true story, an absolutely heartbreaking and gripping World War 2 novel Page 14