by Ellen Keith
“But what?” When he let go of her, she shuffled back against the wall, pressed her knees to her chest and rubbed her wrist.
“Nothing.” Her voice grew timid. “It’s horrible, that’s all.”
How desperate she seemed, curled up there, waiting for his attention like a pathetic lapdog. “What do you know about what it was like? You, idling the day away while men died all around me? What if I’d been killed?”
A strange expression flickered across her face, but he refused to consider what she might have been thinking. She got up to stand in front of him. “Don’t you think I was terrified locked in here? And can’t you tell I’m happy to see you?”
“Maybe I’ve spoiled you too much. Look how good you have it.”
Goebbels’ speech came to mind, his declaration about confidence, a weapon with as much power as any bullet, when wielded by the right person. Some people were born to lead. Others were weak and couldn’t see past the end of their noses. They’d drag down society if they were given free rein. That was why Germany needed the camps.
He put on his hat and adjusted it in the mirror before turning back to her. “You can all stop celebrating. We’ll rebuild and rearm. And each and every prisoner at Buchenwald will help Germany win the war.”
Chapter Eighteen
LUCIANO
MAY 17, 1977
BUENOS AIRES
SOMETIMES, LUCIANO SWORE HE COULD HEAR BELLS tolling. He pictured his mother dressing up for mass, the communion wafers, the sheen of gold from the altar. That church smell: musty air, flowers and competing eaux de toilette. Hands fluttering between pages of hymn books. Mamá would stay long after the pews emptied, praying urgently for his return. His father would not be with her; that, Luciano knew for sure.
Dear Papá,
Why did you make me stop going to church? Dear Papá, I miss Sunday mass with Mamá. Dear Papá, did you ever go to church, even as a boy? Did you—well, I know you never cared for religion. What is it you always say? Hell is, no—heaven is a place, heaven exists only for people who don’t have their feet planted on the ground. Yes, that’s it. But don’t you think . . . I wonder if that would change if you knew what it was like here in this darkness. Papá, the man who now has the cell to my left, he talks to himself. Recites things. In Hebrew, I think. His devotion makes me wish, I wish I had something to make me stronger, to give me hope.
Luciano strained his ears, listening again for those murmurs, but heard nothing and tried to call back the hushed, guttural sounds. Did his father remember when Luciano was eight or nine and they had the Austrian family over for dinner? One of Luciano’s friends from school, Michiel Rosenberg, and his parents. They weren’t friends for long, but Michiel had just arrived on a steamship from Europe. Mamá claimed it would be nice for the whole family to meet new people; she probably thought Papá would enjoy the chance to talk about the “Old World.”
You came home late. You came home late and sat down at the table in that alpaca sweater Nonna knit. The one you complained itched at the collar. With your knife, you lined up your potatoes rank and file. You were quiet and barely said a word.
Señora Rosenberg had asked if his father missed Germany. Papá told her he was glad to have gotten away in ’38, that he’d left just in time. She nodded emphatically, remarking that she’d wished they’d managed to do the same, but that no country would accept their people in those days. Luciano remembered the silence that had settled over everyone then. His mother stood up and made a big fuss clearing the dishes while his father stared coldly at the table, at some invisible centrepiece. Later that night, after the visitors went home and Luciano was in bed, he’d heard his parents yelling.
Mamá called you a brute, or was it callous, inhospitable? You—you threw something, something that smashed against the kitchen tiles, and you forbade her from inviting over guests without your permission. Everything needs your permission, doesn’t it?
For the longest time, he hadn’t understood why everyone was so uncomfortable at dinner. But lately, when his neighbour whispered those prayers, he thought back to that night. Unlike many of his friends, he’d never heard his father say a bad word against Jews, but he had a suspicion that their background was at the root of that tension.
Papá, you never talk about life in Germany. What was it like with everyone in Europe bracing for war? Men with guns, gathering in the beer halls, boys running foot races with the Hitler Youth? Did Munich fill with fear like Buenos Aires? Even though you had no . . . even though you left before the war broke out, it must have affected you. I get the feeling you’re harbouring some dark feelings. Did you feel guilty when the Rosenbergs visited? Maybe you felt terrible for what your people did, but that comes to those too cowardly to take a stand. Don’t forget, you also failed me when they came to take me away. Do you regret that, too?
THE guards arranged a bunch of chairs around the television set, which they cranked to full volume. Luciano, Gabriel and a few other prisoners passed by on their march back from the bathroom. The sports commentator announced that Luciano’s favourite soccer team, Boca Juniors, was playing a tournament match against River Plate for the first round of the Copa Libertadores. It must have been May 18, because he and Fabián had bought tickets to that match. He frowned at the thought of the two empty seats in the stadium. What an afternoon it could have been—just the two of them, laughing and drinking beer and snacking on choripanes, with no girlfriend around to distract Fabián.
Someone let out a belch and called out, “Who are you rooting for?”
No one replied, but Luciano recognized Shark’s voice. He was sure it was a trick.
“Take off their hoods,” Shark added. “I want to see their faces.”
A guard came around and removed their hoods one by one. Squinting into the light, Luciano saw for the first time the basement hallway, the plain pillars that ran down it toward the torture rooms and the large square floor tiles. It was a frighteningly inconspicuous room.
“You.” Shark nodded at Gabriel. “You a Bocas fan?”
A trumpet sounded on the TV. The spectators in the stadium rose for the national anthem, and something tightened in Luciano’s chest as the crowd began to sing.
Gabriel blinked nervously. “Yes.”
Hawk came over to take an empty chair. “Which of you cheer for River Plate?”
Two of the other labourers slowly raised their hands.
“Good. Our boys will be cleaning their cleats with Boca tears by the end of this.”
Shark cracked his knuckles. “Are you willing to bet on that?”
“I’ll wager Friday’s shift and a pack of cigarettes that River Plate wins two to one.”
“Friday is my sister’s birthday. Make it tomorrow’s. Three to one for Boca Juniors.”
The other guards went around the circle offering bets. Luciano shifted, eager to get back to work and out of their sight, but Shark turned to Gabriel. “Well, boludo, what’s your bet?”
Gabriel fidgeted with the pocket of his jeans. “I, uh, I don’t know.”
“Hurry up.”
“I don’t have anything to offer.”
The group of guards laughed.
“Give me a score,” Shark said.
“One to nothing, Boca Juniors.”
Luciano chewed his lip, certain he was next. Even though Shark cheered for Boca, he didn’t want to piss off any guard, didn’t want to know the consequences of losing. Shark turned to him.
“A draw,” Luciano said. “Nil-nil.”
Shark shook his head. “What a bitch answer.”
The other three labourers gave their scores while the match got going. Luciano waited for the guards to order them back to work, but their focus stayed on the game. Gatti was goalkeeper, his long hair dangling in his eyes as he darted out to join his teammates on the field. Parts of the crowd tossed blue and gold confetti whenever he made a save. Shark hooted and pumped his fist into the air, but Luciano and Gabriel stood still, not daring to make any noise.
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Shark waved a hand toward them in irritation. “What kind of fans are you? Cheer, damn it!”
Luciano let out a weak whoop. Hawk laughed and pulled a box from his bag. Medialunas, apple lattices, alfajores dipped in chocolate. Luciano’s mouth watered while the box made its rounds among the guards. Shark helped himself to three, emptying out the box.
It felt like the longest match Luciano had ever seen. He watched the guards, trying to gauge their moods.
When the ref called a disputable penalty against River Plate, Hawk and Shark started yelling at the ref, then at each other. “What was that, hijo de puta? Is your fat head too stuck up your ass to see the lines?”
“Shut up. Just look at the way that maricón is nursing his ankle!”
Luciano ran his tongue over his lips, imagining the flaky dough of those medialunas. In the final few minutes of the game, he tried to imagine himself and Fabián in the stands, arms draped across each other’s shoulders, singing and chanting as hard as they could.
The ref blew his whistle, calling the end of the match. A nil-nil draw. The players walked across the pitch to shake hands, and the guards grumbled, lit up cigarettes. Nobody mentioned the bet.
Shark glanced up at them and crossed his arms. “What are you still doing here? Get out, you sons of bitches.”
Luciano lowered his head to accept his hood and led the line of labourers back to the Documentation Office, still thinking of Fabián, his huge grin, his cheeks painted blue and gold.
TWO days later, when the prisoners were filing out of the eating area, Hawk hooked his fingers around Luciano’s shoulders. Luciano shook as he followed Hawk blindly to the stairwell, trying to figure out what awaited him. A new job? More torture? Something worse?
But Hawk didn’t take him all the way down to the basement. They stopped one flight of stairs early. Luciano had never been on this level, not since first entering ESMA, but had heard it contained military offices and the officers’ dining hall. The air smelled faintly like coffee.
Hawk stopped Luciano a few metres from the landing and raised his hood just enough to free his nose and mouth. “Your reward.” He picked something up and passed it to him: a telephone receiver.
Luciano felt his way down the phone cord to touch the rotary dial. The dial tone droned in his ear, making his heart beat faster. He wondered if it was really true or something to mess with him, to raise his hopes.
“You have one call. Tell your parents what good care of you we’re taking. Say anything else and you’ll regret it.”
Luciano opened his mouth in disbelief. What would he say; what could he say? He counted out the holes in the dial with his finger but paused when he found the number six.
“Excuse me,” he said, “can you tell me what day it is?”
“Friday.”
Friday morning, just after breakfast: his parents would both be at work. More than anything, he wanted to hear his mother’s voice, her gushing love. But if he had only one call, he risked getting stuck on hold with the hospital. Maybe they wouldn’t find her in time, and then he wouldn’t get to speak to either of them.
“Come on,” Hawk said, “you have one minute.”
Luciano dialled. His stomach did acrobatics as it rang. Two, three, four rings.
“Hello?”
Luciano didn’t answer, suddenly overwhelmed and unsure what to say. He wanted to reach out through the phone, to hug his father the way he hadn’t in years.
“Hello?” His father sounded gruff, fatigued.
“Papá.”
“Luciano? Son, is that you?” His father coughed and raised his voice. “Where are you? What have they done to you? Are you all right?”
Never had his father asked so many questions. Beside him, he heard Hawk’s loud, steady breaths. Luciano paused, trying to carefully phrase his answer. “They’re treating me well here. We get enough to eat and lots of rest. Please don’t worry about me.”
A muffled noise, silence. Then a heavy sigh. “They’re monitoring the call, aren’t they?”
Hawk tapped Luciano on the shoulder.
Luciano swallowed, pushing back tears. “I’m just fine, tell Mamá I’m doing fine. I have to go now, I’m sorry. Take care of yourselves and don’t worry.”
“Luciano, wait. I—”
But before Luciano caught whatever his father wanted to tell him, Hawk pressed the switchhook and the line went dead.
Chapter Nineteen
MARIJKE
AUGUST 24, 1944
BUCHENWALD
WHEN THE BOMBS STARTED FALLING, WE HAD nowhere to hide. We froze. Ran to the windows. Huddled under the table of the day room, all of us together. Some of the girls shrieked; others cried. Sophia rocked back and forth, and Gerda prayed. The roar of the planes, the smell of smoke and chemicals, the sense that the world was crashing down around us. If I’d had my thoughts about me, I might have had visions of home: 1940, the Luftwaffe criss-crossing our skies, the centre of Rotterdam flattened in an afternoon. Friends left homeless, acquaintances killed, and Theo clutching me in our neighbour’s cellar in Amsterdam, surrounded by half a dozen faces as frightened as these.
Instead, I sat there in the middle of the brothel, unable to move, to speak, to think. With each explosion, the chairs rattled against the floor. Men screamed in the distance. I covered my ears and squeezed my eyes shut, whispering Theo’s name over and over, the one thing that could keep me sane.
There reached a point when the sky fell silent, and so did we. We waited, hesitated, before inching back to the windows. Trees obscured our view, but smoke billowed toward the brothel. Wilhelmina and Bertha moved across the room to the front entrance. They were the new brothel staff, middle-aged prisoners recruited from Ravensbrück. Nobody knew why the SS women had been replaced, but I hadn’t failed to notice how the timing had coincided with Karl’s decision to save me for himself. Wilhelmina opened the door and called out to a guard who was running by. He shouted back that the bombers had passed, but the factory and SS barracks had been hit.
We girls stared at one another, all of us stricken, unsure what to feel, how to react. Sophia, normally so quiet, was the first to speak up. “They say Göring will soon need to go on a diet if he wants to fit in between the two fronts!” A joke she must have heard from Friedrich, her brothel beau. She punctuated it with a little laugh, empty and tinny, but this grew until she truly was laughing, and tears of relief trickled down her cheeks.
As the minutes passed, we shed our fear. We began talking of the Allied approach, realizing they had spotted the prisoners’ blocks and knew of our existence. Hope bubbled up like uncorked Champagne, but in the hours that followed, it became tempered by the moans of the injured lining up outside the infirmary blocks. Some of the girls had first-aid training and begged Wilhelmina to be allowed to go help. She debated this until a nurse from the infirmary came over to ask us himself. All of their doctors had been directed to the SS hospital.
The wounded filled the space between the brothel and infirmary, some propped up against the walls of the blocks, most lying on the ground. They held their arms, their legs, where the shrapnel had left deep gashes. A few had lost a limb. It might have resembled a battlefield, were these men not in prisoner stripes and too emaciated to ever climb out of a trench. We brought them pitchers of water, applied gauze to quell the bleeding, while I tried to keep my queasiness at bay. It didn’t take long before one of the girls called out to Sophia. She was standing over a man who was motionless, his uniform stained and torn. Sophia ran over and knelt beside him, pressed his lifeless hand to her lips, and I knew it was her Friedrich.
TWO days after the air strike, Sophia turned twenty-five. Given everything that had happened, and the peculiar brew of grieving and relief this had fostered, I didn’t know whether it would be appropriate to mark it, but I hoped it might cheer her up after Friedrich’s death. I’d been planning a celebration for weeks and had convinced the girls to save the sausages and flasks of alcohol they’
d received from the prisoners for the occasion. When I’d first mentioned my plans to Karl, he brought me some pens and scraps of paper and promised to look into arranging a cake from the SS canteen, but I didn’t dare ask if he’d remembered that promise. Right after the bombing, he’d come to the brothel absorbed in bitter thoughts, seeking nothing but reprieve.
On the afternoon of her birthday, luck paid us a visit. One of the waterlines had burst during the air strike, and the new brothel supervisor announced that it still hadn’t been fixed. We all grinned, aware that a water shortage would guarantee a night off. While Sophia tidied our bedroom, I enlisted some of the girls to help decorate. We covered the day room with signs to remind her of her beloved Paris: the south wall became the Champs-Élysées, the windows the Seine, the table a patisserie.
As we finished our preparations, Wilhelmina entered the room to set out our dinner, and the corners of her mouth turned up in amusement. I took another look at the signs and blushed. They were crudely drawn in pen without a speck of colour. Childish, not festive. But when Sophia came in, her face lit up at the sight.
I gave her a hug. “Happy birthday!” The rest of the girls filed in and gathered around. For once, everyone was smiling.
They fed us a meagre dinner that night, nothing but boiled turnips and potatoes. Meals from the SS canteen would be postponed until things returned to normal. For Sophia’s sake, I tried to conceal my disappointment. After we ate and cleared up, Wilhelmina and Bertha left the room, and we sat in a circle, some of us on chairs, others on the floor. I pulled out my violin in front of the girls for the first time and played the most joyful pieces I knew.
They applauded when I finished. “Oh, Marijke,” Sophia said, “do you ever belong onstage.”
I smiled and took the opportunity to bring out the sausages and gin. “Here you go: the men at Buchenwald send their best wishes. Let the celebrations begin.”
The others laughed, while Sophia poured everyone a drink. I held a hand over my cup. “None for me. I can’t stand the stuff, and we don’t have any water to wash it back. But let me propose a toast: to our dearest Sophia on her birthday, may she always find beauty and happiness in life.”