Something told Alma he didn’t mean the vomit on his boot.
“There’s no other way around it,” the man, whom he called Weidel, shrugged with resignation. “They started the whole rotten affair.”
“Shall we call for a medic perhaps?” Urschel inquired, squatting next to the corpse and inspecting it closely. “Or shall we have a smoke first?”
“Let’s have a smoke first,” the Kapo agreed, patting himself for cigarettes. “He is going nowhere, and I could kill for a cigarette now.” He suddenly barked out a mirthless, hoarse laughter. “Kill for a cigarette! What do you say to that? This place is making me into a regular comedian.” He suddenly kicked the corpse viciously.
“Don’t kick him,” said one of the waiters, a bespectacled man with a pale, intelligent face. “There shall be marks on the body during the autopsy and Herr Doktor will begin asking questions.”
The Kapo retreated from the corpse, holding both hands in the air in mock surrender.
“That’s Dr. Tellman,” Miklós commented into Alma’s ear, pointing to the man in glasses. “He was sentenced to hard labor for refusing to perform euthanasia on mentally ill patients. They’re all Germans here. Journalists, doctors, lawyers even. Some are communists. Some are simply men with consciences. First-rate men, all of them.”
Alma and Miklós still stood over the body of a man those first-rate men had just murdered in cold blood and yet somehow that last comment made perfect sense to Alma.
One of the waiters brought Alma’s violin case forward, along with her sheet music. “You’d better scram, children. It shall get very hot here very soon. It is my profound conviction that we shall worm our way out of this little predicament, passing it off as an unfortunate accident, but it will be better if we tell them that you were already gone by then, to spare you the interrogation.”
Outside, the snow was falling softly. The wind tossed the flurries of snowflakes about. Some melted instantly as soon as they touched the couple’s exposed cheeks; some shimmered with dull brilliance atop their wet eyelashes. Shadows loomed all around them, yet they sensed no threat in them that night. The air was clear and crisp, and their hearts were filled with hope and an odd, savage joy. They walked for a time together, Miklós carrying Alma’s violin case. They had just witnessed a murder and yet, Alma felt strangely serene. It was wrong and disgusting, but that night, she had no choice. She couldn’t force any remorse into herself no matter how much she searched her soul for it.
“Merry Christmas, Alma,” Miklós suddenly said. She didn’t notice how they reached the gates that separated the men’s camp from the women’s. Just one more barrack and the guard’s booth would come into view. “You do celebrate Christmas, don’t you?”
“Yes. I told you, I was baptized a Protestant and, later, a Catholic. I celebrate double. And today, triple.”
“Merry Christmas then,” he repeated again. “Tonight turned me into a believer as well. If the Christian God decided that enough was enough, I shall believe in him from now on. He made a Christmas miracle. He has proved it to me tonight that He does exist. I think, I actually like the fellow.”
Alma grinned lopsidedly. “Do you want to hear a joke?”
“Tonight is just the time for it.”
“Jesus’ mother was Jewish. According to the Nuremberg Laws, it makes him the first official Mischling.”
Miklós snorted, looked at Alma incredulously and closed his mouth with his hand to stifle his laughter. Her shoulders were shaking as well, but she wasn’t sure whether it was from laughter or tears. The latter found their way out at last, big and heavy. She wiped them with the back of her hand, annoyed, and hid her face in Miklós’ shoulder.
Chapter 25
January 1944
The new year came and, with it, relative stability. Not much by the world’s standards, but the matter of life and death in the hell of Auschwitz. The joint Sunday concerts given by both Music Blocks gained more and more popularity among the SS. Even Kommandant Liebehenschel attended each one. He was in excellent spirits now; according to Zippy’s reports from the camp office, Berlin approved of his new, “soft” approach and even authorized the system of rewards the new Kommandant had suggested for the inmates. Sofia scoffed at the news and shook her head in disgust. At last, someone had gotten it through his skull that rewards offered better results than punishment. It was all the same, though, she also concluded in resignation. The new Kommandant wouldn’t last long. He was too lenient for his higher-ups’ liking. Someone would spoil it for him yet, they would all see.
The words turned out to be prophetic. The news of some upcoming inspection spread around the camp like wildfire. Before long, everything was getting dusted off and put into presentable shape. Even in Alma’s barrack, the inmate carpenters showed up and began patching up the leaking roof around the skylight.
“What extravagance!” Zippy regarded their work in amazement. “Shall we truly have a solid roof now? I’ll be!”
“Some big shot must be coming then.” Sofia was much less enthusiastic. “That never ends well.”
“Oh, shut it, will you?” Zippy swung round to face her. “You’ll jinx us all!”
“It’s not a jinx; it’s experience speaking,” Sofia countered calmly. “Some official bigwig is coming—expect mass selections.”
“Rot!” Zippy snapped.
Sofia merely regarded her with pity and made no further comment.
Alma watched it all with a vague feeling of unease and could only smile helplessly whenever Miklós tried to shrug it off as well.
“We’ll worry about it when it happens. And now, let’s forget everything and play music. It’s the best way to spend Sunday afternoon.”
The SS were in exceptionally good humor that day. Even the carpenters were allowed to come down from the roof and sit on the floor, legs crossed, at the very back of the barrack, and enjoy their share of Beethoven. It was them who caused a commotion in the middle of “Sonata Pathétique.” Alma scowled at the noise; she never tolerated it among her audience and was known to stop the performance, even if it was the SS wardens who produced it. But Miklós, who was presently playing a solo, didn’t seem to even notice. Alma’s frown deepened when she saw the inmates jumping to their feet and making way for an SS guard and an inmate—or at least someone who appeared to be an inmate—who had just entered the barrack.
“Von Volkmann!” Laks, the men’s camp Music Block Kapo, muttered incredulously.
The inmate still heard him and strode straight toward the conductor of the men’s orchestra to shake his hand. “The very same, you veteran of concert halls!” He was visibly pleased to see Laks and grasped at his palm with great emotion.
Holding her violin by the fingerboard, Alma observed the scene in stunned silence. The inmate, if he was one, was hardly twenty years old and was so handsome, it was impossible to look away from him. He was all sunshine, with golden hair that wasn’t shaved but cut and by an obviously skilled and expensive barber; forget-me-not eyes with long lashes; sharp cheekbones and a square jawline that belonged on the SS posters for Aryan purity and race. But what astonished Alma the most was the pure adoration with which the present SS members were looking at the newcomer. Even in Hössler’s eyes there was a fatherly emotion, as if he were glad to be welcoming a prodigal son back into his embrace.
The young man walked up to him, and Hössler rose to his feet. The two exchanged warm handshakes.
Alma nearly dropped her violin and searched Laks’ face, feeling positively at a loss.
“That’s our former pianist,” Laks whispered to her, barely moving his lips. “The Berlin SS bigwig’s son. The local administration is terrified of his father. SS Gruppenführer von Volkmann is their superior and can make things very hot for them if they mistreat his little golden-haired scoundrel while he’s in their care.”
“Told you he’d be back before long,” his fellow orchestra member nudged his leader, making use of the commotion among the SS. “You
owe me a pack.”
“The bet was that he would return before Christmas. It’s January.”
“You arch-crook! Trying to weasel your way out of an honest bet?”
“I’m not and you have lost. It’s January, so you owe me a pack.”
“But he is back!”
“I never said he wouldn’t be. It’s the date that is important.”
They were still bickering amongst themselves, but their words didn’t register with Alma any longer. She was looking at Miklós in alarm. Oblivious to the news, he was also observing the unraveling scene with a look of surprise on his face, his palms lying flat on his lap.
“Whatever have you gotten yourself involved with this time?” Hössler asked, patting the strapping fellow’s chest. “These are not your own clothes, are they?”
“No, they’re disinfecting mine. The fellow said he’ll bring them to me, deloused, washed, and ironed, tomorrow morning. They gave me this sweater and a suit at the Kanada.”
“Is it your size?”
“It’s fine enough, Herr Hössler. Don’t worry about me.”
Herr Hössler. Alma exchanged looks with Zippy.
“So, what was it this time?” Hössler repeated, satisfied with the matter of the youngster’s clothing.
“Distributing of the antigovernment propaganda in the area of Greater Berlin. Leaflets and oral agitation. Six months hard labor,” von Volkmann announced brightly with unmistakable pride in his voice.
“Hard labor, my foot,” someone grumbled behind Alma’s back. A few knowing chuckles followed.
“You just can’t stay away from us, can you?” It was Hauptsturmführer Kramer’s turn to shake the young fellow’s hand. Kramer was another camp higher-up whom Hössler had brought along to a Sunday concert one day and who had swiftly turned into the orchestra’s ardent admirer. He was a career SS officer, with a brutal, square face, the cold eyes of a murderer under heavy brows, a slash of a mouth prone to shouting abuse at the inmates, and an inexplicable love of Chopin.
“Why would I? You have all modern conveniences here. It’s a first-rate place to be. Safer than in Berlin, at any rate. Here, the Amis aren’t trying to land a bomb on my head each time I venture outside!” von Volkmann finished and burst into careless laughter.
“Communist propaganda?” Hössler inquired, genuinely interested.
“Pacifist. Lay down your weapons and surrender to the Allies to prevent further unnecessary bloodshed. Release all prisoners of war and concentration camp inmates and reinstate their citizenship and rights. We’re all brothers and sisters—”
Hössler was already waving his hand in front of his face. “That’s quite enough; we all get the idea. Your six months’ hard labor starts immediately. There’s your piano—off you go.”
Under Alma’s alarmed gaze, Miklós began to rise from his seat. He had been here long enough and knew the deal. The Aryan men were dear guests; he was merely a replaceable Jew. But, much to his astonishment, von Volkmann was already pushing him down by his shoulders in the most courteous manner.
“No, no! You sit, Herr…?”
“Steinberg,” Miklós supplied, blinking at the youngster.
“Herr Steinberg. You sit. This is your rightful place. I can’t play Beethoven to save my life in any case. I will assist you where I can, if that’s agreeable with you.” Getting a somewhat wooden nod out of Miklós—just like Alma, he was still stunned by everything that had occurred—von Volkmann turned to Hössler, a bright smile on his face. “Is it all right with you if we play four hands, Herr Hössler?”
From Hössler, a languid wave of the hand.
As such, they let the youngster amuse himself, but eventually their previously hushed murmurs turned into an open discussion.
“What shall we do with the other one?” It was Kramer who posed the question.
“Why, we’ll keep them both.” Hössler shrugged at his colleague.
To Alma’s relief, Mandl nodded her approval with great enthusiasm. She had grown to enjoy Miklós’ music just as much as everyone did. After he wrote a short song for her specifically as a New Year’s present, the leader of the women’s camp officially counted Miklós among her personal favorites.
“We can’t keep both.” Kramer looked at him. “Eichmann is coming with an inspection. How are you planning to explain two pianists to him?”
“Easily, Herr Kramer!” It was the youngster himself this time. “I’m a lousy pianist and can only play popular songs; no fancy stuff like Herr Steinberg here. The orchestra needs him more than me. Send me to an outside work detail instead. I’m strong. I can work for five.”
Kramer barked out a laugh. “An SS Gruppenführer’s son, in the outside detail! That shall go down well when he hears of it. Next thing you know, we shall be raking the gravel together with you for that stunt.”
Von Volkmann turned to Hössler, but the camp leader would also have none of it. “Forget the outside detail. You’re staying in the Music Block and that’s the end of it.”
“Herr Obersturmführer.” Alma heard her own voice as though coming from under the water. Blood was pulsing too loudly in her ears. “What’s going to happen to Miklós?”
Not the outside detail. Anything but the outside detail.
For a time, Hössler considered. “We’ll transfer him temporarily into the Kanada, under Wunsch’s charge. The Kanada is a good detail. Maybe even better than the Music Block.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “His Ausweis will be prolonged; he’ll still be able to come here and tutor your pianist girl or practice with you for performances.”
Alma breathed out in relief. The Kanada was a very good detail. She thanked Hössler softly.
The SS had departed first. Next, the men’s orchestra began packing their instruments. It was then when von Volkmann had suddenly exploded.
“We ought to do something! This is not right!”
“What’s not right, pup?” Laks asked him with amicable indulgence.
“Removing Herr Steinberg from his position simply because he’s Jewish! Have you just heard him play Beethoven? Bach? I was sitting next to him; he didn’t even look at the sheet music. Played the entire affair with his eyes closed, from memory!” He regarded Miklós with unconcealed admiration.
Miklós stood before the SS General’s son, pale with amazement and profoundly touched, and still couldn’t quite take it in that the boy addressed him, an inmate and a Jew, Herr Steinberg and with a polite, Sie.
“He ought to be in the orchestra, not me!” von Volkmann continued with conviction. “He has the talent, the requirements for it. And I ought to be in the outside detail—”
“Let’s get going, outside detail,” Laks mocked him, dealing him a good-natured clap on the shoulder. “The curfew is going into effect soon. You must have lost the habit for it while there, in the capital.”
“There’s also a curfew in the capital now,” von Volkmann announced quietly and through his teeth. “And an order for complete blackout because we’re getting bombed by the Amis and the Brits with envious regularity. All thanks to our Führer,” he spit out the last words—a slogan which had turned into a mockery—with such hatred, it sent a shudder down Alma’s back.
The SS were wrong about him all along. He wasn’t rebelling against his father and neither was he horsing around with all that German resistance business; he genuinely loathed them, the system they stood for, and, most of all, the madman they followed. All of a sudden, Alma felt a surge of respect, gratitude, and hope at the sight of this Aryan poster child, who chose to stand up for what was right, no matter the consequences.
Laks only looked at him sorrowfully. “I’m sorry about your city. There’s nothing to be done about it. And now, let’s get moving.”
But the young man wouldn’t budge. “It’s not fair what they’re doing.”
“Life is not fair.”
“Something needs to be done.”
“There’s nothing to be done. Let’s go.”
“No.”
Suddenly, the SS Gruppenführer’s son headed toward the exit near which the carpenters were gathering their instruments, grabbed a hammer, put his palm against the wall and began smashing his own fingers. The inmates froze in their places, their mouths wide open in horror. A few of Alma’s girls released frightened shrieks.
Everything was over before they knew it. Von Volkmann turned to face them, holding his hand with bloodied fingers up as some sort of macabre trophy. Tears were streaming down his face—the body’s purely physical response, no doubt—but he was smiling brightly nevertheless.
“There. It’s all fixed. Now, I can’t play at all. They will have to send me to a sorting detail and Herr Steinberg shall stay where he belongs.”
“You hot-headed idiot,” Laks uttered, his eyes staring wildly at the young man’s mangled hand, but his tone was somehow tender and full of some unspoken emotion they all felt but didn’t know how to express.
It reminded Alma how her father was escorted out of the Vienna Philharmonic, how a similar young Aryan had instead mocked him as he went. She looked at this one and his brave, noble face, and was suddenly overcome with a profound gratitude for his keeping his humanity when he had all the reason not to.
Chapter 26
February 1944
Day and night, the slamming of the heavy hammers echoed around Birkenau. From the camp office, Zippy brought daily snippets of rumors—about Hungary supposedly shifting its allegiance toward the Allies, about someone important named Eichmann (the name repeated with a measure of fear even by the SS) and his upcoming inspection, about the possibility of the German invasion of its former ally and about the plight of the Hungarian Jews, who would surely be the scapegoats in all that mess and would soon enough find themselves among the camp population.
“It’s the second ramp that they must be constructing,” Sofia concluded, watching the train tracks crawling closer and closer to their block.
The Violinist of Auschwitz: Based on a true story, an absolutely heartbreaking and gripping World War 2 novel Page 26