“Herr Doktor has made it known that he will be at many of the selections, as he is looking for particular patients.”
“I take it being sick is not a criterion for him.”
Baretski doubles over laughing. “You can be so funny sometimes, Tätowierer.”
* * *
LALE GOES BACK TO WORK. A LITTLE WHILE LATER HE HEARS the whistling start up behind him again, and the sound shoots such a shock of fear through his body that he slips and stabs the young woman he is tattooing. She cries out. Lale wipes the blood that trickles down her arm. Mengele steps closer.
“Something wrong, Tätowierer? You are the Tätowierer, are you not?” Mengele asks.
His voice sends chills down Lale’s spine.
“Sir, I mean, yes, sir . . . I am the Tätowierer, Herr Doktor,” Lale stammers.
Mengele, beside him now, stares him down, his eyes black as coal, devoid of compassion. A strange smile stretches across his face. Then he moves on.
Baretski approaches and punches Lale hard on the arm. “Having a hard day, Tätowierer? Perhaps you’d like to take a break and clear the latrines instead?”
* * *
THAT NIGHT, LALE TRIES TO WASH THE DRIED BLOOD FROM HIS shirt with water from a puddle. He partially succeeds, but then decides that a stain will be an appropriate reminder of the day he met Mengele. A doctor who will cause more pain than he eases, Lale suspects; whose very existence threatens in ways Lale doesn’t want to contemplate. Yes, a stain must remain to remind Lale of the new danger that has entered his life. He must always be wary of this man whose soul is colder than his scalpel.
* * *
THE NEXT DAY, LALE AND LEON FIND THEMSELVES AT AUSCHWITZ again, to number young women. The whistling doctor is present. He stands before the parade of girls, deciding their fate with a flick of his hand: right, left, right, right, left, left. Lale can’t see any logic to the decisions. They are all in the prime of their lives, fit and healthy. He sees Mengele watching him. Lale can’t take his eyes away as Mengele grabs the next girl’s face in his big hands, twists it backward and forward and up and down, and opens her mouth. And then, with a slap to her face, he pushes her to the left. Rejected. Lale stares him down. Mengele calls an SS officer over and speaks to him. The officer looks over at Lale and begins walking in his direction. Shit.
“What do you want?” he demands with more confidence than he feels.
“Shut up, Tätowierer.” The SS officer turns to Leon. “Leave your things and come with me.”
“Wait a minute—you can’t take him. Can’t you see the number of people still to be done?” Lale asks, now terrified on his young assistant’s behalf.
“Then you’d better get on with your work or you will be here all night, Tätowierer. And Herr Doktor won’t like that.”
“Leave him, please. Let us get on with our work. I’m sorry if I’ve done something to upset Herr Doktor,” Lale says.
The officer points his rifle at Lale. “Do you want to come, too, Tätowierer?”
Leon says, “I’ll go. It’s OK, Lale. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“I’m sorry, Leon.” Lale can no longer look at his friend.
“It’s all right. I’ll be all right. Get back to work.”
Leon is marched off.
* * *
THAT EVENING LALE, GREATLY DISTRESSED, TRUDGES ALONE, head down, back to Birkenau. Something just off the track catches his eye, a flash of color. A flower, a single flower, waving in the breeze. Bloodred petals around a jet-black middle. He looks for others, but there are none. Still, it is a flower, and he wonders again about the next time he will be able to give flowers to someone he cares for. Images of Gita and his mother come to him, the two women he loves the most, floating just out of reach. Grief comes in waves, threatening to drown him. Will the two ever meet? Will the younger learn from the older? Will Mama welcome and love Gita as I do?
He had learned and practiced the art of flirting on his mother. Though he was fairly sure she didn’t realize what he was doing, he knew; he knew what he was doing; he learned what worked on her and what didn’t, and he quickly worked out what was appropriate and inappropriate behavior between a man and a woman. He suspected that all young men embarked on this learning process with their mothers, though he often wondered if they consciously realized it. He had brought it up with several of his friends, who had reacted with shock, claiming they did no such thing. When he questioned them further about whether they got away with more from their mother than their father, they all admitted to behaviors that could be construed as flirting—though they thought they were just getting around Mom because she was easier than Dad. Lale knew exactly what he was doing.
Lale’s emotional connection to his mother had shaped the way he related to girls and women. He was attracted to all women, not just physically but emotionally. He loved talking to them; he loved making them feel good about themselves. To him, all women were beautiful and he believed there was no harm in telling them so. His mother and sister subliminally taught Lale what it was a woman wanted from a man, and so far he had spent his life trying to live up to these lessons. “Be attentive, Lale; remember the small things, and the big things will work themselves out.” He heard his mother’s sweet voice.
He bends and gently picks the short stem. He will find a way to give it to Gita tomorrow. Back in his room, Lale carefully places the precious flower beside his bed before falling into a dreamless sleep, but the next morning when he wakes, the petals from his flower have separated and lie curled up beside the black center. Death alone persists in this place.
12
LALE DOESN’T WANT TO LOOK AT THE FLOWER ANYMORE, SO he leaves his block to throw it away. Baretski is there but Lale ignores him, preferring to head back inside and into his room. Baretski follows him and leans in the doorway. He studies the distraught-looking Lale. Lale is aware that he is sitting on a lumpy fortune of gems, currency, sausage, and chocolate. He grabs his bag and pushes past Baretski, forcing him to turn and follow him outside.
“Wait up, Tätowierer. I need to talk to you.”
Lale stops.
“I have a request for you.”
Lale remains silent, looking at a point beyond Baretski’s shoulder.
“We—I mean my fellow officers and I—are in need of some entertainment, and as the weather is improving, we were thinking of a game of soccer. What do you think?”
“I’m sure it would be fun for you.”
“Yes, indeed.”
Baretski plays the game and waits.
Lale eventually blinks. “How can I help you?”
“Well, now that you’ve asked, Tätowierer, we need you to find eleven prisoners to take on a team of SS in a friendly match.”
Lale considers laughing but keeps his gaze on a point over Baretski’s shoulder. He thinks long and hard about his reply to this bizarre request.
“What, no substitutes?”
“No substitutes.”
“Sure, why not.” Where did that come from? There are a million other things I could have said. Like, “Fuck off.”
“Good, great. Get your team together and we’ll meet in the compound in two days’ time—Sunday. Oh, and we’ll bring the ball.” Laughing loudly, Baretski walks off. “By the way, Tätowierer, you can have the day off. There are no transports today.”
* * *
LALE SPENDS PART OF THE DAY SORTING HIS TREASURE INTO small bundles. Food for the Romany and the boys in Block 7, and of course for Gita and her friends. Gems and currency sorted by type. The process is surreal. Diamonds with diamonds, rubies with rubies, dollars with dollars, and even a stack of currency he has never seen before, bearing the words South African Reserve Bank and Suid-Afrikaanse Reserwebank. He has no idea of its value, or how it found its way into Birkenau. Taking several gems, he goes looking for Victor and Yuri to make the day’s purchases. He then plays for a while with the boys from his block as he tries to formulate what he will say to the men in Bloc
k 7 upon their return from work.
In the evening, Lale is surrounded by dozens of men looking at him incredulously.
“You have got to be fucking kidding,” one of them says.
“No,” Lale replies.
“You want us to play soccer with the fucking SS?”
“Yes. This coming Sunday.”
“Well, I’m not gonna do it. You can’t make me,” the same person replies.
From the back of the group, a voice calls out: “I’ll play. I’ve played a little.” A small man pushes his way through the gathered men and stands in front of Lale. “I’m Joel.”
“Thanks, Joel. Welcome to the team. I need another nine of you. What have you got to lose? This is your one chance to get a little physical with the bastards and get away with it.”
“I know a guy in Block 15 who played on the Hungarian national team. I’ll ask him, if you like?” another prisoner pipes up.
“What about you?” Lale asks.
“Yeah, sure. I’m Joel, too. I’ll ask around, see who I can get. Is there any chance we can have a practice before Sunday?”
“Plays soccer and has a sense of humor—I like this guy. I’ll be back tomorrow night to see how you’ve done. Thanks, Big Joel.” Lale looks over at the other Joel. “No offense.”
“None taken,” Little Joel replies.
Lale produces bread and sausage from his bag and lays it upon a nearby bunk. As he leaves, he watches two of the men share out the food. Each recipient breaks his portion into bite-size pieces and hands them around. No pushing, no fighting; an orderly distribution of life-saving nourishment. He overhears one man say, “Here, Big Joel, you have mine—you’ll need your energy.” Lale smiles. A day that started badly is ending with a magnanimous gesture from a starving man.
* * *
THE DAY OF THE GAME ARRIVES. LALE WANDERS INTO THE main compound to see SS officers painting a white line into what is far from an oblong shape. He hears his name being called and finds his “team” gathered together. He joins the men.
“Hey, Lale, I’ve got fourteen players, counting you and me—a couple in reserve if some of us fall over,” Big Joel tells him proudly.
“Sorry, I was told no substitutes. Just one team. Choose the fittest.”
The men look at each other. Three hands rise, and those volunteering to take no part walk away. Lale watches as several of the men stretch and jump up and down in the manner of a professional warm-up.
“Some of these guys look like they know what they are doing,” Lale mutters to Little Joel.
“They should. Six of them have played semiprofessionally.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Nope. We’re gonna kick their asses.”
“Little Joel, you can’t. We can’t win. I guess I didn’t make myself clear.”
“You said get a team together and Big Joel did.”
“Yeah, but we can’t win. We can’t do anything to humiliate them. We can’t tempt them to open fire on everyone. Look around you.”
Little Joel sees the hundreds of prisoners gathered. There is an air of excitement in the camp as they push and shove for a vantage point around the perimeter of the painted playing area. He sighs. “I’ll tell the others.”
Lale scans the crowd for one face only. Gita is standing with her friends and waves to him furtively. He waves back, wanting desperately to run to her, sweep her up in his arms, and disappear behind the administration building. He hears loud banging and turns to see several SS pounding large poles in the ground at each end to make goalposts.
Baretski approaches him. “Come with me.”
At one end of the field, the crowd of prisoners parts as the SS team enters. None of them is in uniform. Several wear clothing that will make playing a game of soccer much easier. Shorts, sleeveless shirts. Behind the team, a heavily guarded Schwarzhuber and Lale’s boss, Houstek, approach Lale and Baretski.
“This is the captain of the prisoner team, the Tätowierer.” Baretski introduces Lale to Schwarzhuber.
“Tätowierer.” He turns to one of his guards. “Do we have something we can play for?”
A senior SS officer takes a cup from a soldier beside him and shows it to his commandant.
“We have this. I believe it will make a more than suitable trophy. The inscription says ‘1930 World Cup.’ I believe the winners were France.” He shows the trophy to Lale. “What do you think?”
Before Lale can respond, Schwarzhuber takes the trophy and holds it aloft for everyone to see. The SS cheer. “Start the game, and may the best team win.”
As Lale jogs back to his team he mutters, “May the best team live to see the sun come up tomorrow.”
Lale joins his team, and they gather in the middle of the field. The spectators cheer. The referee kicks the ball toward the SS team, and it’s game on.
Ten minutes into the game, the prisoners have scored two goals to nil. While Lale enjoys the goals, common sense prevails when he looks at the angry faces of the SS. He subtly lets his players know to slow it down for the remainder of the half. They have had their moments of glory, and it is now time to let the SS into the game. The half ends two all. While the SS are given drinks during the short break, Lale and his team gather to discuss tactics. Eventually, Lale impresses on them that they cannot win this game. It is agreed that to help boost morale among the watching prisoners, two more goals can be scored, as long as they lose by one goal in the end.
As the second half begins, ash rains down on players and spectators. The core task of Birkenau has not been interrupted by sports. Another goal goes in for the prisoners, and another for the SS. As their appallingly inadequate diet begins to tell, the prisoners tire. The SS score two more goals. The prisoners don’t need to throw the game; they simply can’t compete any longer. With the SS two up, the referee blows his whistle for full time. Schwarzhuber makes his way onto the field and presents the trophy to the SS captain, who raises it aloft to muted cheers from the guards and officers present. As the SS make their way back to their barracks to celebrate, Houstek walks past Lale.
“Well played, Tätowierer.”
Lale gathers his team and tells them what a great job they’ve done. The crowd has begun to disperse. He looks around to find Gita, who hasn’t moved from her spot. He jogs over to her and takes her by the hand. They move through the other prisoners toward the administration block. As Gita drops to the ground behind the building, Lale looks around for prying eyes. Satisfied, he sits beside her. He watches Gita as she runs her fingers through the grass, examining it intently.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for a four-leaf clover. You’d be surprised by how many there are here.”
Lale smiles, charmed. “You’re kidding.”
“No, I’ve found several. Ivana finds them all the time. You look shocked.”
“I am. You’re the girl who doesn’t believe she’ll get out of here, yet you are looking for good-luck charms!”
“They’re not for me. It’s true I don’t believe in such things.”
“For who, then?”
“Do you know how superstitious the SS are? If we find a four-leaf clover, we treasure it. It’s like currency for us.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Whenever we are in danger from the SS, we hand it over. Sometimes it stops them from hitting us. If we take one to a meal, we might even get extra rations.”
Lale gently strokes her face. That he cannot protect the girl he loves anguishes him greatly. Gita leans back down and continues her search. Grabbing a handful of grass, she throws it at Lale with a smile. He grins back. Playfully, he nudges her over and she lies on her back. Leaning over her, he plucks a handful of grass and slowly lets it sprinkle down onto her face. She blows it away. Another handful of grass goes onto her neck and the top of her chest. She leaves it there. He undoes the top button on her shirt, drops more grass, and watches it disappear down her cleavage.
“May I kiss you?” h
e asks.
“Why would you want to? I haven’t brushed my teeth for I don’t know how long.”
“Me neither, so I guess we cancel each other out.”
Gita answers him by raising her head toward him. Their previous fleeting kiss has ignited a year’s worth of longing. Pent-up passions collide as they explore each other. They want, they need more of each other.
The moment is broken by the sound of a barking dog nearby. They know that the animal must have a handler attached to it. Lale stands and pulls Gita up into his arms. One last kiss before they run back to the safety of the compound and a crowd they can melt into.
In the women’s camp, they spot Dana, Ivana, and Cilka and begin walking toward them.
Lale notices Cilka’s pallor. “Is Cilka all right?” he asks. “She doesn’t look well.”
“She’s as well as can be expected. Under the circumstances.”
“Is she sick? Do you need medicine?”
“No, she’s not sick. You’re better off not knowing.”
As they near the girls, Lale leans into Gita, whispering, “Tell me. Maybe I can help.”
“Not this time, my love.” Gita is encircled by the girls and they walk off. Cilka, head down, lags behind.
My love!
13
THAT NIGHT LALE LIES ON HIS BED, THE HAPPIEST HE’S BEEN for as long as he can remember.
In her own bed, Gita lies curled up next to a sleeping Dana, her eyes wide open, staring into the darkness, reliving the moments she lay with Lale: his kisses, the longing her body felt for him to continue, to go further. Her face grows hot as fantasies of their next encounter play out in her mind.
In a grand four-poster bed, Schwarzhuber and Cilka lie in each other’s arms. His hands explore her body as she stares into nothing, feeling nothing. Numb.
In his private dining room at Auschwitz, Hoess sits at an elegant table for one. Fine food rests on fine china. He pours 1932 Château Latour into a crystal goblet. He swirls, sniffs, tastes the wine. He won’t let the stresses and strains of his job impede life’s little luxuries.
A drunken Baretski stumbles into his room in the barracks at Auschwitz. Kicking the door shut, he staggers and falls awkwardly onto his bed. With difficulty, he removes the belt holding his sidearm and slings it over the bedpost. Sprawled on his bed, he registers the overhead light—still on, shining into his eyes. After an unsuccessful attempt to get up, he locates his weapon with a clumsy arm and pulls it from its holster. With his second shot, he kills the recalcitrant light bulb. His gun drops to the floor as he passes out.
The Tattooist of Auschwitz Page 9