The Violinist of Auschwitz: Based on a true story, an absolutely heartbreaking and gripping World War 2 novel

by Ellie Midwood

  Outside the block, Sofia’s voice echoed around the compound as she counted her charges before admitting them inside. With great reluctance, Miklós dropped his hands from Alma’s face and took his seat next to her, but this time closer than before. She also shifted nearer him, until she felt the warmth of his thigh against hers.

  “So, the piano and the violin are female instruments,” she said, purposely changing the subject. Possible freedom was still much too painful to dream of, let alone the idea of sharing it with this man, without whom it would lose its very purpose. “Which ones are male?”

  “Why, the contrabass, of course. He’s the old German burgomaster with a Kaiser mustache who grumbles, with his bass voice, about good old times when his country wasn’t overrun by liberals and Jews.”

  A shadow of a smile stole over Alma’s face. “And what else?”

  “The drum, naturally. The drum is the Reichsmarschall Göring of the musical instruments. He’s full of himself, despite being entirely empty inside. He makes a lot of loud noise but no music whatsoever. One can only march to it but never dance—that’s why it’s the Nazis’ favorite instrument.”

  Alma became livelier. Her black eyes were now sparkling with long-forgotten joy. “What else?”

  Miklós looked at her—no, not just looked, caressed her with his gray, brilliant eyes. “The trumpet. The trumpet is not just some man, it’s Herr Minister of Propaganda Goebbels himself. Just like the drum, it can’t create any beautiful music one can enjoy, but it shrills and shrills instead until it wakes the basest instincts in people that are listening to him. Its marching music is easy to recognize and follow. It doesn’t require any semblance of intellect or sophistication. All one can do when one hears it is march to its tune.”

  Alma had to laugh. The characterization was much too accurate. “All right, Herr Steinberg. Enough with that Nazi rot. Let’s switch to something more pleasant. We have already established the fact that the piano is your favorite mistress. Now what do you have to say about my violin?”

  “Your violin? Your violin is just like you. All hard, rare wood outside; strings pulled to their utmost—they’ve withstood far too much but haven’t snapped yet by some miracle; and the most beautiful melody comes out of it, if one only knows how to stroke it right with their bow.”

  At that moment, the girls burst inside with their cheerful banter and Alma didn’t get a chance to tell him that, against all the odds, he certainly knew how.

  Chapter 21

  The velvet darkness had descended upon the camp. Somewhere inside the barrack, next to the furthest wall by which the stove stood, pot-bellied and blissfully hot, the girls were chattering in several languages at the same time as they cooked their rations. A tantalizing aroma of fried potatoes with a faint tinge of blood sausage—Red Cross supplies, no doubt—wafted through the air.

  Alone in her room, Alma was gazing out of the window and into the soft, cloudy night. It was almost inconceivable to imagine that somewhere past the crematorium, past the field with its mass graves behind it, past all those layers of barbed wire, lay freedom. Somewhere within walking distance from here, some Polish woman was roasting potatoes for dinner, smiling at the voices of her children playing outside in the snow. Somewhere, not too far away, a farmer was locking up his animals for the night inside the barn that was warm and snug and smelled of hay and wool. Somewhere, in a nearby town, a man was kissing a woman right in the street, and there were no curfews or yellow stars for them, and no SS to worry about. In a surge of torturous, impotent bitterness, Alma fell into her bed and buried her face in the pillow at the injustice of it all.

  In Auschwitz, she loathed the evenings the worst. The days were much too busy to inspire any opportunity to think. But then the evening roll call would come and, after that, the agonizing few hours of nothingness, of brooding thoughts that drove her to near madness, the mounting sense of despair and hopelessness and no escape from it all.

  The door creaked softly.

  “Thank you, but I’m not hungry,” Alma spoke into the pillow without lifting her head.

  They meant well, of course, her little sparrows; they never failed to offer her a share of whatever meager provisions they were roasting on that stove, but she hardly ever accepted their generosity. “You eat; your bodies are still growing,” such was Alma’s default explanation. The truth was, most of the time, she was so sick to her stomach with this dog-like existence, her own body revolted against it, choosing to starve itself to death rather than continue to live like a slave to the Nazis.

  She felt the mattress springs sag as someone lowered themselves next to her and then, a palm in between her shoulder blades. It traveled along her spine to the small of her back and then up again, until it rested on her neck, gently massaging the muscles strained with tension.

  She didn’t have to see his face; she’d recognize the touch of those hands out of a million. He was caressing her, and the cold knot inside was uncoiling, the shadows were fading away; the world once again had its colors.

  “Countess.”

  “Mm?”

  “Are you asleep?”

  “Yes. I’m having the most wonderful dream and if you wake me up, I shall never speak to you again.”

  Alma felt his breath on her skin as he chuckled softly, covering her neck with featherlike kisses.

  “You don’t have to wake up. You only have to take my hand and follow me.”

  This time, Alma turned to look at him.

  “What is that?” Amused, she nodded at some sort of a rag tied around his neck in imitation of a fashionable bow tie.

  Miklós fixed it with theatrical seriousness. “Countess, it’s a gentleman’s duty to look his best when he invites a lady out.”

  Sitting up, Alma broke into a grin. “Just where are you planning to take me?”

  “The fanciest place around, of course,” Miklós replied, offering her his hand.

  Alma took it and marveled at his uncanny ability to stir her back to life when she was seriously considering going to the wire just minutes ago.

  They walked through the familiar passages, but all of a sudden, the maze of electrified wire had ceased to exist, along with the guard towers and machine guns and the SS dogs and the SS brutes themselves. Their steps were light because their hands were touching and that was all that mattered, for a few minutes at least.

  In front of one of the barracks, Miklós stopped and bowed to Alma with mock-gallantry.

  “Countess, allow me to welcome you into my humble home, the Family Camp.”

  He knocked on the door in a peculiar manner and, at once, it swung open, revealing a young boy with shining eyes and a head full of unruly, dark locks.

  “Herr Steinberg!”

  “We aren’t late, I hope?” Miklós asked.

  “Not at all. They shall begin in five minutes. Herr Hirsh has saved you seats in the front row.”

  “Make sure to mind your post.”

  “Always, Herr Steinberg!” The boy clicked his heels and play-saluted the pianist with his hand at his forehead.

  Once inside, Alma was looking around in amazement. In addition to the usual barrack signs in German—Your Block Is Your Home; Respect Your Superiors; Cleanliness Aids Good Health; Be Hard-Working and Obedient—this particular block’s walls were adorned with colorful drawings of boys and girls and animals and even musical instruments. But what rendered her speechless was the number of children who were engaged in putting the final touches to the improvised stage in the middle of the barrack. They acted confidently and were perfectly at ease, unlike the frightened little ones Alma was used to seeing on the ramp, right before Dr. Mengele would send them, with an indifferent flip of his gloves, straight to the gas chamber.

  Holding Alma by her hand, Miklós led her toward one of the bunks, next to which a young, good-looking man stood, holding what appeared to be a playscript in his hand. Just like the rest of the block inhabitants Alma had seen so far, he was attired in civilian clothi
ng and wore tall, polished boots that instantly classed him with the privileged caste. His dark, pomade-smoothed hair shining in the dim light provided by the candles, he was engaged in directing his young charges on stage. As soon as he saw Miklós, he brightened at once and smiled even wider when the pianist introduced Alma to him.

  “Frau Rosé!” he exclaimed, cupping her hand with both of his with great emotion. His German was almost as good as Alma’s, only a faint trace of the Czech accent still recognizable in it. “What an honor to have you here. I’m Fredy Hirsh. We have quite a number of your colleagues here. Mostly Czech, but they all speak German, so, after the performance is over…”

  Countless hands were already waving at her from the neighboring bunks. With a growing lump in her throat, Alma was thanking them for the warm welcome, for their kind commendations, for their memories of her father and uncle and exclamations—“I’ve never heard such excellent, perfectly sublime chamber music before!” She recognized their names and shook whatever outstretched hands she could reach and wiped the tears off her face at the mixture of delight and the most profound sorrow at the fact that all of these virtuosos were locked here, quite possibly to perish forever.

  The lights were dimmed even further, leaving only the candles highlighting the stage. On Fredy Hirsh’s signal, the audience hushed itself. From the corner of the barrack, two uniformed men appeared, one with a Hitler mustache clearly painted under his nose and another one carrying a pillow under his military jacket to imitate a protruding stomach. Just the sight of his buttons that were threatening to burst any moment now sent the audience giggling. Nestling next to Miklós atop one of the bunks, Alma recognized one of the uniforms as a Great War Austrian one; the second actor’s attire she wasn’t familiar with.

  “They’re both Great War veterans,” Miklós, as though reading her mind, supplied in a hushed whisper. “The SS permitted them to keep the uniforms and even their military awards.”

  The actor with a painted mustache bent over the improvised desk littered with crudely drawn maps and began moving tin soldiers from one position to another, making childish battle noises under his breath. A few people snorted with laughter. The pillow-bearing actor knocked on the wooden plank of one of the bunks.

  “Reichsmarschall Göring here, mein Führer. Allow me to come in?”

  At once, Hitler straightened out and smoothed his uniform, taking on a grave air. “Ja, you may enter, ja.”

  Göring climbed onto the stage, slammed his heels together and straightened out his arm in the salute. “Heil Göring!”

  “What did you say?” Hitler swung round, staring at Göring wrathfully.

  A picture of injured innocence, Göring gave a shrug. “I said, Heil Hitler, mein Führer. Did Reichsführer Himmler give you that chamomile tea again that makes you hear all sorts of oddest things?”

  The audience burst into laughter.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Last time you drank that tea, you began insisting that God himself spoke to you and appointed you as his messiah to save Germany from Judeo-Bolsheviks, mein Führer. You said it on air, too, before Minister Goebbels could censure it properly. We received a lawsuit from Churchill; he claims, as he heard it on the radio, he began laughing so hard, he choked on his scone and almost died. The Pope sent a telegram to the Reich Chancellery as well and demanded we don’t bring God into our affairs; they’re starting to lose parishioners.”

  “Those are Catholics. We don’t care about those. We persecute them as well.”

  “Do we?”

  “Are you reading my persecuted groups memos at all? What do I send my weekly updated versions to you for at all?!”

  “I do, mein Führer.”

  “Whom did I recently add to the updated list then?”

  Göring appeared to be searching his memory in great urgency. “The Italians, after they switched sides?”

  “That was a lucky guess. Who else then?”

  “The Japanese?”

  “Why would we persecute the Japanese?”

  “They’re barbaric Asiatic hordes?”

  “Bolshevists are barbaric Asiatic hordes!”

  “But mein Führer, Bolshevists are Russians, are they not?”

  “No, they’re international Jewry! How difficult is it to follow my line of thought on racial superiority?!” Banging his fists on the desk, sending tin soldiers flying all over.

  In the audience, someone exploded, causing the entire block to howl with laughter once again. It took great effort for both actors to contain themselves as well, but they managed to keep their faces straight.

  Göring, under his breath, wiping his brow with his handkerchief, “Extremely difficult, when you change it twice a day, you miserable oaf.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said, they shall be serving meatloaf for lunch today, mein Führer.”

  “What? Meat again? When will you quit that barbaric practice of slaughtering poor animals?”

  “But mein Führer, we slaughter humans in droves…”

  “Precisely. Those are humans. We don’t care about those.”

  Once again, the barrack was in uproar. Immersed in this communal hilarity, Alma roved her gaze around and discovered that in the past few minutes she had entirely forgotten that she was in the camp, that this was not an actual stage and the actors wore their real war uniforms and not costumes.

  It’s all right to laugh about death, she recalled Miklós’ words. We, like no one else, have deserved this right.

  Yes, they laughed about death; they laughed, fearlessly and insolently, right in its ugly face and this small act of resistance made Alma nearly choke with pride for these brave Family Camp people, for their resilient spirit, for their refusal to submit.

  Alma grasped Miklós’ hand and, in a surge of emotion, kissed it before he could stop her. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

  He was looking at her tenderly, drinking in the delight painted clear as day on her animated, flushed face. “I wanted to show you what other inmates feel, when you play your music for them. You make them forget where they are, just like these fellows made you forget. They did, didn’t they? I can tell by the look on your face. I’ve never seen you so happy, so carefree before. Here, it is the biggest gift, having something that makes one forget. You give them that. I want you to remember that, whenever you feel as though your music is useless. In this place, it’s almost as important as bread. And you give it away in spades, my generous Almschi.”

  His lips brushed hers just for an instant but, suddenly, Alma felt as if she had grown wings.

  A sharp whistle coming from the boy standing sentry at the barrack’s door interrupted the performance, sending the two actors scrambling. With old wartime agility Alma had never expected from two elderly veterans, they clambered atop the top bunks and were instantly buried in blankets by their fellow inmates. Children, attired as gnomes, were already marching along the stage and singing a cheerful song in German. A beautiful girl with a crown of glossy black hair had joined them and was clapping her hands when the door to the barrack swung open and in walked Hössler flanked by two SS men.

  Fredy Hirsh was already saluting him from his place in front of the improvised stage.

  The habitants of the block made a big show of getting out of their bunks, but Hössler motioned them to remain in their places.

  “Snow White?” He motioned his head toward the children in their gnome caps.

  “Jawohl, Herr Obersturmführer,” Fredy inclined his head deferentially. “As you requested. We were just in the middle of rehearsals.”

  Hössler approached the stage, interested. On cue, Fredy Hirsh motioned for the children’s play to continue. Apparently, the Birkenau camp leader found the young performers perfectly delightful; dipping his hand inside his pocket, he extracted a handful of candy and threw it on the improvised stage.

  “Their German has improved significantly,” Hössler remarked to Fredy.<
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  “I’ve been tutoring them personally every day, Herr Obersturmführer.”

  “Commendable work, Hirsh. Carry on.”

  With that, Hössler and his entourage were gone.

  A unanimous sigh of relief echoed around the barrack, accompanied by a few nervous chuckles.

  “They’re gone!” the sentry boy called from the door, his small face still glued to the hole in between the planks. “You may continue.”

  “Close call, mein Führer,” someone commented from the top bunk and the entire barrack exploded once again.

  In the middle of all that gaiety, Miklós sat gazing in Alma’s eyes as one enchanted. Twilight hung over the barrack; the candlelight’s frantic dance threw fantastic shadows over the bunks and painted walls. Warm light lay softly around the pianist’s frame. Alma was looking at the stage and he was looking only at her, as if no one else in the world existed.

  “I should have brought my violin along. I could have played for them after the play was over—”

  He interrupted her mid-word, “I think I love you, Almschi.”

  For an instant, Alma started. The confession had caught her unawares. It was much too soon for this; much too unexpected; the setting much too inappropriate. But the passing shadow of something profoundly painful in the pianist’s eyes—he couldn’t have waited for the liberation to tell her this; for them, it may never come—made Alma understand his reason. In Auschwitz, each day counted. It was important to say the words while one was still alive.

  Her hand shifted to the back of his neck, caressed the dark stubble of his hair at the nape of it as she regarded him with tenderest affection. “But you barely know me.”

  “I do. I’ve loved you since I first met you. I’ve loved you since I first heard you play on the Prater. I think, I’ve loved you my entire life without personally knowing you. I loved the concept of you, the dreamlike version of you I constructed for myself. I was searching for pieces of you in all those other women, but something was always missing. And now, you sit before me, whole and real, and I feel I have never been happier. I feel it was worth getting myself into this place just to meet you.”