The Tattooist of Auschwitz

by Heather Morris

  “No, I’m Slovak. However, I am here on behalf of the Russian army.”

  “Are you staying in the chalet?” asks another customer.

  “Yes.”

  To Lale’s relief, one of the shop attendants speaks up: “Are you here to see if we want to party tonight?”

  “Yes, yes, I am. Have you been before?”

  “I have. Don’t look so frightened. We all know what you want.”

  Lale looks around. There are two shop assistants and four customers.

  “Well?” he says cautiously.

  “Show us what you’ve got,” a customer says.

  Lale empties his pockets onto the counter as the women gather around.

  “How much can we have?”

  Lale looks at the woman who has been to the chalet before.

  “How much were you paid last time?”

  She waves a diamond-and-pearl ring under his nose. “Plus ten marks.”

  “OK, how about I give you five marks now, another five tonight, and your choice of a piece of jewelry?”

  The girl rummages through and picks out a pearl bracelet. “I’ll have this one.”

  Lale takes it gently from her hand. “Not yet,” he says. “Be at the bakery at six tonight. Deal?”

  “Deal,” she says.

  Lale hands her five marks, which she stuffs down her bra.

  The remaining girls peruse the jewelry and choose what they want. Lale gives them each five marks. There is no haggling.

  “Thank you, ladies. Before I leave, can you tell me where I might find some like-minded beauties?”

  “You could try the café a few doors down, or the library,” one of them suggests.

  “Be careful of the grandmas in the café,” one woman says with a giggle.

  “What do you mean, ‘grandmas’?” Lale asks.

  “You know, old women—some of them are over thirty!”

  Lale smiles.

  “Look,” says the original volunteer, “you can stop any woman you meet in the street. We all know what you want, and there are plenty of us who need good food and drink even if we have to share it with those ugly Russian pigs. There are no men left here to help us. We do what we have to.”

  “As do I,” Lale tells them. “Thank you all very much. I’ll look forward to seeing you tonight.”

  Lale leaves the shop and leans against a wall, taking a breather. One shop, half the women required. He looks to the other side of the street. Friedrich is looking at him. He gives him a thumbs-up.

  Now, where’s that café? On his walk there Lale stops three young women, two of whom agree to come to the party. In the café he finds three more. He thinks they are in their low- to mid-thirties, but they are still beautiful women anyone would want to be seen with.

  That evening Lale and Friedrich pick up the women, who are all waiting at the bakery as instructed. They are elegantly dressed and made-up. The agreed transaction in jewelry and cash takes place, with minimal scrutiny from Friedrich.

  He watches as they enter the chalet. They are holding hands, wearing resolute expressions, and occasionally laughing.

  “I’ll take what’s left over,” Friedrich says, standing close to Lale.

  Lale takes several notes and a couple of pieces of jewelry from his pockets and hands them to Friedrich, who seems satisfied that the transactions have been carried out correctly. Friedrich pockets the goods, then sets about patting Lale down, digging his hands deep into his pockets.

  “Hey, careful,” says Lale. “I don’t know you that well!”

  “You’re not my type.”

  * * *

  THE KITCHEN MUST HAVE BEEN TOLD ABOUT HIS RETURN, AS his supper arrives shortly after he has entered his room. He eats and then walks out onto the balcony. Leaning on the balustrade, he watches the comings and goings of vehicles. Occasionally the sound of the partying below filters up to him, and he is pleased that he hears only laughter and conversation. Back in his room, he begins to undress for bed. Fiddling around in the cuff of his trousers, he finds the small diamond he has placed there. He takes a single sock out of the drawer and stuffs the diamond into it before retiring for the night.

  He is woken a few hours later by laughter and chatter coming through his balcony doors. He steps outside and watches as the women clamber aboard the truck for the trip home. Most seem intoxicated, but none looks distressed. He goes back to bed.

  * * *

  FOR THE NEXT SEVERAL WEEKS, LALE AND FRIEDRICH MAKE their twice-daily trips into the village. He becomes well-known there; even women who never come to the chalet know who he is and greet him in passing. The boutique and the café are his two favorite places, and soon women gather there at the time they know he will arrive. His regulars often greet him with a kiss on the cheek and a request for him to join the party that night. They seem genuinely upset that he never does.

  One day in the café, Serena, a waitress there, says loudly, “Lale, will you marry me when the war is over?” The other girls there giggle, and the older women tut.

  “She’s fallen for you, Lale. She doesn’t want any of those Russian pigs, no matter how much money they have,” one of the customers adds.

  “You are a very beautiful woman, Serena, but I’m afraid my heart belongs to someone else.”

  “Who? What’s her name?” asks Serena indignantly.

  “Her name is Gita, and I am promised to her. I love her.”

  “Is she waiting for you? Where is she?”

  “I don’t know where she is right now, but I’ll find her.”

  “How do you even know if she’s alive?”

  “Oh, she’s alive. Have you ever just known something?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Then you’ve never been in love. I’ll see you girls later. Six o’clock. Don’t be late.”

  A chorus of goodbyes follows him out the door.

  * * *

  THAT NIGHT, AS LALE ADDS A LARGE RUBY TO HIS WAR CHEST, a terrible homesickness overtakes him. He sits on his bed for a long time. His memories of home have been tainted by his memories of the war. Everything and everyone he cared for is now only visible to him through glasses darkened by suffering and loss. When he manages to pull himself together, he empties the sock onto his bed and counts the gems he has managed to smuggle over the weeks. Then he wanders out onto the balcony. The nights are getting warmer and several of the partygoers are out on the lawn, some lounging about, others playing a kind of game of tag. A knock on his bedroom door startles him. Since the first night, Lale has locked his door whether he is in the room or not. Rushing to open the door, Lale sees the gems on his bed and quickly pulls the covers over them. He doesn’t spot the latest ruby falling onto the floor.

  “Why was your door locked?” Friedrich asks.

  “I do not want to find myself sharing my bed with one of your colleagues, several of whom, I have observed, have no interest in the girls we bring them.”

  “I see. You are a good-looking man. You know they would reward you handsomely if you were so inclined.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Would you like one of the girls? They’ve already been paid.”

  “No, thanks.”

  Friedrich’s eye is caught by a sparkling from the rug. He bends down and picks up the ruby. “And what is this?”

  Lale looks at the gem, surprised.

  “Can you explain why you’ve got this, Lale?”

  “It must have gotten caught in the lining of my pocket.”

  “Really?”

  “Do you think I would have left it there for you to find, if I had taken it?”

  Friedrich considers him. “I suppose not.” He pockets it. “I’ll return it to the vault.”

  “What did you want to see me about?” Lale asks, changing the topic.

  “I’m being transferred tomorrow, so you’ll be doing the morning run and pickup on your own from now on.”

  “You mean with someone else?” asks Lale.

  “No. Y
ou’ve proven you can be trusted; the general’s very impressed with you. Just keep doing what you’re doing, and when it’s time for everyone to leave here, there might even be a little bonus for you.”

  “I’m sorry to see you go. I’ve enjoyed our conversations in the truck. Look after yourself; there’s still a war going on out there.”

  They shake hands.

  Once Lale is alone, securely locked in his room, he gathers up the gems on his bed and puts them back in the sock. From the closet he chooses the nicest-looking suit and puts it aside. He lays a shirt and several pairs of underpants and socks on the table, and slots a pair of shoes underneath it.

  * * *

  THE NEXT MORNING LALE SHOWERS AND DRESSES IN HIS CHOSEN clothes, including four pairs of underpants and three pairs of socks. He puts the sock containing the gems into his inside jacket pocket. He takes one last look around his room and then makes his way to the vault. Lale helps himself to his normal amount of money and jewels and is about to leave when the accountant officer stops him.

  “Wait. Take extra today. We have two very senior officers from Moscow arriving this afternoon. Buy them the best.”

  Lale takes the extra money and jewels. “I might be a little bit late coming back this morning. I’m going to the library, as well, to see if I can borrow a book.”

  “We’ve got a perfectly good library here.”

  “Thanks, but there are always officers in there, and . . . well, I still find them intimidating. You understand?”

  “Oh, OK. As you wish.”

  Lale walks into the garage and nods to the attendant, who is busy washing a car. “Lovely day, Lale. Keys are in the jeep. I hear you’re going alone today.”

  “Yes, Friedrich’s been transferred; sure hope it isn’t to the front.”

  The attendant laughs. “Just be his rotten luck.”

  “Oh, I’ve got permission to be back later than usual today.”

  “Want a bit of action for yourself, do you?”

  “Something like that. See you later.”

  “OK, have a good day.”

  Lale hops casually into the jeep and drives away from the chalet without looking back. In the village, he parks at the end of the main street, leaves the keys in the ignition, and walks away. He spots a bicycle leaning outside a shop and casually wheels it away. Then he hops on and cycles out of town.

  A few miles away, he is stopped by a Russian patrol.

  A young officer challenges him. “Where are you going?”

  “I have been a prisoner of the Germans for three years. I am from Slovakia and I am going home.”

  The Russian grabs hold of the handlebars, forcing Lale to dismount. He turns away from the soldier and receives a firm kick up the butt.

  “The walk will do you good. Now fuck off.”

  Lale walks on. Not worth arguing.

  Evening arrives, and he does not stop walking. He can see the lights of a small town ahead and picks up his pace. The place is crawling with Russian soldiers, and even though they ignore him, he feels he must move on. On the outskirts of town he comes across a railway station and hurries over to it, thinking he might find a bench to lay his head down for a few hours. Walking out onto a platform, he finds a train but no signs of life. The train fills him with foreboding, but he represses the fear and walks up and down, peering inside. Carriages. Carriages designed for people. A light in the nearby station office catches his attention, and he walks toward it. Inside, a stationmaster rocks on a chair, his head dropping forward as he fights the need to sleep. Lale steps back from the window and fakes a coughing fit before approaching with a confidence he doesn’t really feel. The stationmaster, now awake, comes to the window, opening it just enough for a conversation.

  “Can I help you?”

  “The train, where is it headed?”

  “Bratislava.”

  “Can I travel on it?”

  “Can you pay?”

  Lale pulls the sock from his jacket, extracts two diamonds, and hands them to him. As he does so, the sleeve on his left arm rides up, revealing his tattoo. The stationmaster takes the gems. “The end carriage—no one will bother you there. It’s not leaving until six in the morning, though.”

  Lale glances at the clock inside the station. Eight hours away.

  “I can wait. How long is the journey?”

  “About an hour and a half.”

  “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  As Lale is heading for the end carriage he is stopped by a call from the stationmaster, who catches up to him and hands him food and a thermos.

  “It’s just a sandwich the wife made, but the coffee’s hot and strong.”

  Taking the food and coffee, Lale’s shoulders sag and he can’t hold back the tears. He looks up to see that the stationmaster also has tears in his eyes as he turns away, heading back to his office.

  “Thank you.” He can barely get the words out.

  * * *

  DAY BREAKS AS THEY REACH THE BORDER WITH SLOVAKIA. AN official approaches Lale and asks for his papers. Lale rolls up his sleeve to show his only form of identification: 32407.

  “I am Slovak,” he says.

  “Welcome home.”

  28

  BRATISLAVA. LALE STEPS OFF THE TRAIN INTO THE CITY where he has lived and been happy, where his life should have been playing out for the last three years. He wanders through districts he used to know so well. Many are now barely recognizable due to bombing. There is nothing here for him. He has to find a way back to Krompachy, some two hundred and fifty miles away; it will be a long trip home. It takes him four days of walking, interspersed with occasional rides in horse-drawn carriages, a bareback ride on a horse, and a ride on a tractor-drawn cart. He pays, when he needs to, the only way he can: a diamond here, an emerald there. Finally he walks down the street he grew up on and stands across from his family home. The palings of the front fence are gone, leaving just the twisted posts. The flowers, once his mother’s pride and joy, have been strangled by weeds and overgrown grass. Rough timber is nailed over a broken window.

  An elderly woman comes out of the house opposite and stomps over to him.

  “What do you think you’re doing? Away with you!” she screams, brandishing a wooden spoon.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . I used to live here.”

  The old lady peers at him, recognition dawning. “Lale? Is that you?”

  “Yes. Oh, Mrs. Molnar, is that you? You . . . You look . . .”

  “Old. I know. Oh my lord, Lale, is it really you?”

  They embrace. In choking voices they ask each other how they are, without either letting the other answer properly. Finally, his neighbor pulls away from him.

  “What are you doing standing out here? Go on in, go home.”

  “Is anyone living there?”

  “Your sister, of course. Oh, my—she doesn’t know you’re alive?”

  “My sister! Goldie is alive?”

  Lale runs across the street and knocks loudly on the door. When no one answers immediately, he knocks again. From inside he hears, “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

  Goldie opens the door. At the sight of her brother, she faints. Mrs. Molnar follows him inside as he picks his sister up and lays her on a sofa. Mrs. Molnar brings a glass of water. Cradling Goldie’s head lovingly in his arms, Lale waits for her to open her eyes. When she comes to, he offers her the water. She sobs, spilling most of it. Mrs. Molnar lets herself out quietly as Lale rocks his sister, letting his own tears flow, too. It is quite some time before he can speak and ask the questions he so desperately wants answers to.

  The news is bleak. His parents were taken away only days after he left. Goldie has no idea where they went, or if they are still alive. Max went off to join the partisans and was killed fighting the Germans. Max’s wife and their two small boys were taken—again, she does not know where to. The only positive news Goldie has to offer is her own. She fell in love with a Russian, and they are married. Her
name is now Sokolov. Her husband is away on business and is due back in a few days.

  Lale follows her into the kitchen, not wanting to let her out of his sight, as she prepares a meal for them. After they have eaten, they talk late into the night. As much as Goldie pushes Lale for information about where he has been for the past three years, he will only say he has been in a work camp in Poland and that he is now home.

  The next day he pours his heart out to both his sister and Mrs. Molnar about his love for Gita and how he believes she is still alive.

  “You have to find her,” Goldie says. “You must look for her.”

  “I don’t know where to start looking.”

  “Well, where did she come from?” Mrs. Molnar asks.

  “I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Help me to understand this. You have known her three years, and all that time she told you nothing about her origins?”

  “She wouldn’t. She was going to tell me on the day she left Birkenau, but everything happened too quickly. All I know is her last name: it’s Furman.”

  “Well, that’s something, but not much,” his sister chides him.

  “I’ve heard that people are starting to come home from the camps,” says Mrs. Molnar. “They are all arriving in Bratislava. Maybe she’s there.”

  “If I need to go back to Bratislava, I need transport.”

  Goldie smiles. “So what are you doing sitting here, then?”

  In the town, Lale asks everyone he sees with a horse, bike, car, or truck if he can buy it from them. They all refuse.

  As he is starting to despair, an old man comes toward him in a small cart drawn by a single horse. Lale steps in front of the animal, forcing the man to rein it in.

  “I’d like to buy your horse and cart,” he blurts out.

  “How much?”

  Lale pulls several gems from his pocket. “They are real. And worth a lot of money.”

  After inspecting the treasure, the old man says, “On one condition.”

  “What? Anything.”

  “You have to take me home first.”

  A short while later Lale pulls up outside his sister’s house and proudly shows off his new means of transport.

  “I haven’t got anything for him to eat,” she exclaims.