“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you back to the girls so you can share it.”
Gita reaches up to his face, caresses his cheek. “Thank you.”
Lale sways, unbalanced by her proximity.
Gita takes his hand and begins to walk, leading Lale. As they enter the main compound, Lale sees Baretski. He and Gita release hands. He exchanges a glance with her that tells her all she needs to know. He aches at parting from her without a word, and with no certainty about when they will next meet. He walks toward Baretski, who is glaring at him.
“I’ve been looking for you,” says Baretski. “We’ve got work to do at Auschwitz.”
* * *
ALONG THE ROAD TO AUSCHWITZ, LALE AND BARETSKI PASS work details of a few men each, being punished with this Sunday work. Several SS guarding them call out a greeting to Baretski, who ignores them. Something is very wrong with him today. Normally he’s quite the talker, but today his whole body seems tense. Ahead, Lale sees three prisoners sitting on the ground, back to back, supporting each other, clearly exhausted. The prisoners look up at Lale and Baretski but make no attempt to move. Without breaking step, Baretski pulls his rifle from his back and fires at them repeatedly.
Lale freezes, his eyes locked on the dead men. Finally, looking back up at the retreating Baretski, Lale recalls the first time he saw such an unprovoked attack on defenseless men—they were sitting on a board in the dark. The first night he arrived at Birkenau flashes before him. Baretski is getting farther away from him and Lale fears he will take his anger out on him next. He hurries to catch up to him but remains a slight distance away. He knows that Baretski knows he is there. Once more, they arrive at the gates into Auschwitz, and Lale looks up at the words emblazoned above: ARBEIT MACHT FREI. He silently curses whatever god may be listening.
9
MARCH 1943
LALE REPORTS TO THE ADMINISTRATION OFFICE TO GET HIS instructions. The weather is improving slowly. There has been no snow for a week. On entering, he sweeps his eyes around the office to make sure Gita is where she should be. There she is, still seated beside Cilka. The two have become very close, and Dana and Ivana seem to have welcomed Cilka fully into their little circle. His customary wink to the two of them is acknowledged with suppressed smiles. He approaches the Polish girl behind the counter.
“Good morning, Bella. It’s a lovely day outside.”
“Good morning, Lale,” Bella responds. “I have your work here. I’ve been told to tell you that all the numbers today are to have the letter Z in front of them.”
Lale looks down at the list of numbers, and sure enough, each one is prefixed with the letter Z.
“Do you know what this signifies?”
“No, Lale, I’m not told anything. You know more than I do. I just follow instructions.”
“As do I, Bella. Thanks, I’ll see you later.”
Holding the instructions, Lale heads out the door.
“Lale,” Bella calls out.
He turns back to her. With her head turned toward Gita, she asks, “Haven’t you forgotten something?”
Smiling at her, he turns to Gita and raises his eyebrows at her. Several girls hold a hand over their mouth, eyes on the lookout for the SS who oversee their work.
* * *
LEON IS WAITING FOR LALE OUTSIDE. LALE FILLS HIM IN AS they walk to their workstation. Trucks are unloading their cargo nearby, and the men do a double take as they register that there are children among those being helped down, along with older men and women. They have never before seen children at Birkenau.
“Surely we’re not marking kids. I won’t do that,” Leon pronounces.
“Here comes Baretski. He’ll tell us what to do. Don’t say a word.”
Baretski strides up. “I see you’ve noticed that something’s different today, Tätowierer. These are your new companions. You’re going to be sharing from now on, so you better be nice to them. They’ll outnumber you by quite a lot—a hell of a lot, actually.”
Lale says nothing.
“They’re the filth of Europe, even worse than you. They’re Gypsies, and for reasons I’ll never know, the Führer has decided they are to live here, with you. What do you say about that, Tätowierer?”
“Are we to number the children?”
“You’ll number anyone who hands you a number. I’ll leave you to your work. I’m going to be busy at the selection, so don’t make me come over here.”
As Baretski marches off, Leon stammers, “I won’t.”
“Let’s just wait and see what comes our way.”
It doesn’t take long for men and women, from babes in arms to hunched-over elderly, to begin making their way to Lale and Leon. They are grateful to learn that the children are not to be numbered, though some who present numbers seem too young to Lale. He does his job, offering smiles to children standing by as he numbers their parents and telling the occasional mother holding an infant what a lovely baby she has. Baretski is well out of earshot. He struggles most in numbering the elderly women, who seem to be the walking dead: vacant eyes, perhaps aware of their imminent fate. To them he offers a “Sorry.” He knows they probably don’t understand.
* * *
IN THE ADMINISTRATION BUILDING, GITA AND CILKA ARE working at their desks. Two SS officers approach them with no warning. Cilka gasps as one of them grabs her by the arm, jerking her to her feet. Gita watches as Cilka is marched from the room, looking back with confused and pleading eyes. Gita doesn’t see the administrative SS officer approach until she is struck across the head by a hand, a clear message to get back to work.
Cilka tries to resist as she is dragged down a long corridor to an unknown part of the building. She is no match for the two men, who, on stopping at a closed door, open it and literally throw her inside. Cilka picks herself up and looks around. A large four-poster bed dominates the room. There is also a dresser, and a bedside table with a lamp and a chair. Someone sits in the chair. Cilka recognizes him: Schwarzhuber, the head of Birkenau. He is an imposing man, rarely seen in the camp. He sits tapping his tall leather boot with his swagger stick. From an expressionless face, he stares at a space above Cilka’s head. Cilka backs up against the door. Her hand goes to the door handle. In a flash, the swagger stick hurtles through the air and strikes Cilka’s hand. She cries out in pain and slides down to the floor.
Schwarzhuber walks over to her and picks up his stick. He stands over her. His nostrils distend. He breathes heavily and glares at her. He takes off his hat and throws it across the room. With his other hand, he continues to hit his leg firmly with his swagger stick. With every whack Cilka flinches, expecting to be struck. He uses the stick to push up her shirt. Realizing what is expected, with shaking hands Cilka undoes the top two buttons of her shirt. Schwarzhuber then places his stick under her chin and forces her to rise to her feet. She is dwarfed by the man. His eyes seem to see nothing; this is a man whose soul has died and whose body is waiting to catch up with it.
He holds out both his arms, and she interprets this gesture as “undress me.” She takes a step closer, still at arm’s length, and begins undoing the many buttons on his jacket. A whack across her back with the stick hurries her up. Schwarzhuber is forced to drop the stick so she can slide his jacket off. Taking it from her, he throws it after his hat. He removes his own shirt. Cilka begins undoing his belt and zipper. Kneeling down, she pulls his trousers down to his ankles but can’t get them over his boots.
Off balance, Cilka falls heavily when he pushes her over. Dropping onto his knees, he straddles her. Terrified, Cilka attempts to cover herself as he rips her shirt open. She feels the back of his hand across her face as she closes her eyes and gives in to the inevitable.
* * *
THAT EVENING, GITA RUNS FROM THE OFFICE TO HER BLOCK, tears streaming down her face. Dana and Ivana find her sobbing on their bunk when they arrive a short time later. She is inconsolable and can only tell them that Cilka has been taken away.
* * *
IT WAS ONLY GOING TO BE A MATTER OF TIME. SINCE BECOMING the Tätowierer, Lale has had an entire block to himself. Each day upon returning there, he has observed the progress made on the buildings going up around him. Three crematoria now play their part in the planned extinction of an entire people. He is in a clearly defined camp, sleeping in the single room usually reserved in each block for the kapo, even though he is kapo to no one. He has always assumed that sooner or later the empty bunk beds behind him would be filled.
Today, Lale returns to his block and watches the children running around outside playing tag. Life is never going to be the same. Several of the older children run up to him and ask questions he fails to understand. They discover that they can communicate in a bastardized form of Hungarian, albeit not always accurately. He shows his room to those now sharing his block, telling them in his sternest voice that they are never, ever to enter. He knows they understand this, but will they respect it? Only time will tell. He considers his limited understanding of Gypsy culture and wonders if he needs to make alternative storage arrangements for what is under his mattress.
He walks into the block, shakes hands with many of the men, and acknowledges the women, the older women in particular. They know what he does here, and he tries to explain it further. They want to know what is going to happen to them. A reasonable question to which he has no answer. He promises he will tell them anything he hears that might affect them. They seem grateful. Many tell him they have never spoken to a Jew before. He doesn’t think he’s ever spoken to a Gypsy, either.
That night he has trouble sleeping as he adjusts to the sounds of babies crying and children begging their parents for food.
10
WITHIN DAYS, LALE HAS BEEN MADE AN HONORARY ROMANY. He has learned that the word Gypsy is often used derogatorily by non-Romany people. Every time he returns to what is now officially known as the “Gypsy camp,” he is greeted by young boys and girls who encircle him and ask him to play, or to dig food from his bag. They know he has access to it—he has shared some with them—but he explains that he will give what he can to the adults to portion out to those in greatest need. Many of the adult men approach him daily, asking if he has any news of their fate. He assures them he will pass on anything he hears. He suggests they accept their situation as best they can and recommends arranging some sort of schooling for the children, even if it is merely telling them stories about their home, their family, their culture.
Lale is happy to see them pursue this suggestion, and delighted that the older women are given the role of teachers. He notices in them a tiny spark that wasn’t present before. Of course, his own return always interrupts whatever lesson is underway. On occasion he sits with them, listening, learning of a people and culture so different from his own. He often asks questions, which the women are pleased to answer—further educating the children, who seem more interested when Lale has asked the question. Having spent all his life in one home with his family, the nomadic existence of the Romany intrigues him. His life of comfort and knowing his place in the world, his education and life experiences seem mundane and predictable compared to the travels and struggles endured by the people he now finds himself living with. There is one woman he has often noticed on her own. She appears to have no children or family, no one who engages with her or shows her affection. Often she is just an extra pair of hands for a mother struggling with too many children. She looks like she’s in her fifties, though Lale has learned that Romany men and women often look older than their years.
One evening after they have both assisted with getting the children to sleep, Lale follows her outside.
“Thank you for your help tonight,” he begins.
She gives him a thin smile and sits on a pile of bricks to rest. “I’ve been putting children to bed since I was a baby myself. I could do it with my eyes closed.”
Lale sits beside her. “I don’t doubt it. But you don’t seem to have any family here?”
She shakes her head sadly. “My husband and son died of typhus. It’s only me now. Nadya.”
“I’m so sorry, Nadya. I’d like to hear about them. My name is Lale.”
That evening, Lale and Nadya converse long into the night. Lale does most of the talking, with Nadya preferring to listen. He tells her of his family back in Slovakia and of his love for Gita. He discovers that Nadya is only forty-one years old. Her son had been six when he died three years ago, two days before his father. When Lale asks for her opinions, he finds Nadya’s answers similar to those his mother would give. Is it this that draws him to her, that makes him want to protect her the way he wants to protect Gita? He finds himself sinking into an acute homesickness. He can’t ignore his fears about the future. Dark thoughts he has kept at bay, about his family and their safety, consume him. If he can’t help them, then he will do what he can for this woman in front of him.
* * *
A FEW DAYS LATER, AS HE ARRIVES BACK AT THE BLOCK, A YOUNG one toddles up to him. Lale sweeps him up in his arms. The boy’s weight and smell remind him of the young nephew he said goodbye to more than a year ago. Overcome with emotion, Lale places the child back down and hurries inside. For once, none of the children follows him; something tells them to keep their distance.
Lying on his bed, he thinks back to the last time he was with his family. The farewell at the train station as he left for Prague. His mother had helped him pack his suitcase. In between wiping away tears, she kept taking out clothes he had packed and putting in books “for comfort and a reminder of home, wherever you end up.”
As they stood on the platform, with Lale about to board the train, he saw tears in his father’s eyes for the first time. He had expected them from everyone else, but not from his strong, dependable father. From his carriage window, he saw his father being helped away by his brother and sister. His mother ran the length of the platform, her arms outstretched, trying desperately to reach out to her baby boy. His two young nephews, oblivious to their changing world, ran innocently along the platform, chasing the train.
Clutching his suitcase, which contained only clothes and the few books he’d allowed his mother to pack, Lale leaned his head against the window and sobbed. He had been so caught up in his family’s emotions that he hadn’t registered his own devastating loss.
Chiding himself for letting his situation get to him, Lale goes back outside and chases the children around, letting them catch him and climb all over him. Who needs trees when you have a Tätowierer to hang from? That evening, he joins a group of men sitting outside. They share memories and stories of family life, captivated by the differences and similarities between their cultures. With the emotion of the day still running high, he says, “You know, in another life I would have had nothing to do with you. I would probably have turned away from you, or crossed the street if I saw you walking toward me.”
There is silence for several moments before one of the men pipes up, “Hey, Tätowierer, in another life we would have had nothing to do with you, either. We would have crossed the street first.”
The laughter that follows brings one of the women outside to tell them to be quiet—they will wake the children, and then there will be trouble. The men retreat inside, duly chastened. Lale lingers. He’s not tired enough to sleep. He senses Nadya’s presence and turns to see her standing in the doorway.
“Join me,” he says.
Nadya sits beside him, staring off into the night. He studies her face in profile. She is quite beautiful. Her unshaven brown hair cascades down her shoulders and blows in the slight breeze around her face, so that she spends a good deal of time tucking it back behind her ears. A gesture so familiar to him, a gesture his mother made all day, every day, as wayward strands escaped from her tight bun or from under the scarf that hid it. Nadya speaks with the quietest natural voice he has ever heard. She’s not whispering—this is her voice. Lale finally works out what it is about her voice that saddens him. It is emotionless. Whether she is relaying stories o
f happy times with her family or talking about the tragedy of being here, there is no change in her tone.
“What does your name mean?” he asks.
“Hope. It means hope.” Nadya stands. “Good night,” she says.
She is gone before Lale can reply.
11
MAY 1943
LALE AND LEON’S DAILY LIVES ARE STILL BEING DICTATED BY the arrival of transports from across Europe. As spring becomes summer, they do not stop coming.
Today the pair is working with long rows of female prisoners. The selection process is taking place a small distance away. They are too busy to pay attention to it. An arm and a piece of paper appear before them, and they do their job. Over and again. These prisoners are unusually quiet, perhaps sensing evil in the air. Lale suddenly hears someone break into a whistle. The tune is familiar, perhaps an opera. The whistling grows louder, and Lale glances in its direction. A man in a white coat is walking their way. Lale puts his head down, attempting to keep to the rhythm of his job. Don’t look at faces. He takes the paper and makes the number, the same as he has a thousand times before.
The whistling stops. The doctor is now standing beside Lale, emitting a pungent smell of disinfectant. Leaning over, he inspects Lale’s work and takes the arm he is midway through tattooing. He must be satisfied because he moves on as quickly as he arrived, bastardizing another melody. Lale looks up at Leon, who has turned pale. Baretski materializes beside them.
“What do you think of our new doctor?”
“Didn’t really introduce himself,” murmurs Lale.
Baretski laughs. “This is one doctor you don’t want to be introduced to, trust me. I’m scared of him. The guy’s a creep.”
“Do you know what his name is?”
“Mengele, Herr Doktor Josef Mengele. You should remember that name, Tätowierer.”
“What was he doing at the selection?”
The Tattooist of Auschwitz Page 8