* * *
It has been only a few days since the Russians left their hideout and tried to escape, and Rosenberg watches with a heavy heart as a group of SS soldiers escorts the chained fugitives into the camp with the Kommandant, Major Schwarzhuber, bringing up the rear. The prisoners have difficulty walking, with their clothes in shreds and their eyes so swollen there’s scarcely a slit to look through. The camp guards use whistles to order all the prisoners out of their huts. Together with those who are already out and about, they are forced to watch the spectacle. The Germans beat anyone who tries to avoid it. They want everyone to see, because punishment and executions are pure teaching tools for the Nazis. There is no better and more practical way of demonstrating to the inmates why they shouldn’t escape than to show them live and direct what happens to those who attempt to do so.
The Kommandant orders the patrol to stop in front of a barrack that has a pulley near the roof. People might assume it’s there to hoist bales of straw or sacks of grain, but it’s actually used to hang people. Schwarzhuber, enjoying the moment, gives a long, unhurried speech in which he praises the efficient way in which the Reich deals with those who disobey orders, and gleefully announces the merciless punishment that awaits them.
Before executing the fugitives, as if by way of a macabre service charge, they are given fifty lashes. Then, one by one, a rope is put around their necks. A lieutenant points to half a dozen men who are watching and tells them to start pulling on the rope. When they hesitate momentarily, he makes as if to draw his gun from its holster, and the six quickly set to work. As they pull on the rope, the body of the first fugitive, kicking and choking, begins to detach from the ground and from life.
Rudi gazes in horror at the man’s contorted face: his eyes—looking like hard-boiled eggs—forcing their way through his swollen eyelids, his enormous tongue, the soundless cries emerging from his twisted mouth, the end of the frantic kicking, the leakage of every conceivable fluid onto the ground. When he turns away, Rudi’s eyes catch sight of the faces of the other fugitives, who are barely upright and lean against each other as they wait their turn to be executed. They already see death as liberation. That’s why they accept the noose around their necks so meekly—to put an end to it all as quickly as possible.
* * *
Although the scene leaves Rosenberg deeply shaken, it doesn’t lessen his determination to escape from Auschwitz II one way or another. Alice has left him with a blurred, bittersweet memory, and above all, she has proved to him that nothing beautiful can blossom in this hell. Suddenly, the camp is suffocating him, and he finds it unbearable to be in such close proximity to death. He has to try to get away, even if he ends up dangling and kicking with a rope around his neck.
He’s made some initial contacts in camp BIId, where he is in touch with people who know their way around every chink in the Lager. One afternoon, he comes across František, the secretary of one of the huts he deals with and a prominent member of the Resistance. Many barrack Kapos have secretaries who act as their assistants and whom they protect. Rudi talks to him about his keen desire leave, and František tells him to come by his room the next day for a coffee.
Coffee?
Coffee is a luxury available only to those who have good connections with the black market, because you don’t just need coffee, but also a grinder, a coffee pot, water, and the means of heating it. Rudi keeps the appointment, naturally! He loves coffee, and even more than coffee, he loves being on good terms with well-connected people. He enters the hut—empty at this hour because everyone in this camp is outside working on the extension of Auschwitz—and heads for František’s room. He goes inside without knocking, but he’s the one who gets a surprise. His heart skips a beat when he sees that, apart from the secretary, there’s a uniformed member of the SS. The word betrayal hits him instantly.
“Come in, Rudi. It’s all right. You’re among friends.”
He hesitates briefly in the doorway, but František is trustworthy, or so he believes. The SS man hurries over to introduce himself, holding out his hand in a friendly manner.
“My name is Viktor, Viktor Pestek.”
Rudi has heard many things in his work as registrar, but he’s never heard anything as astonishing as the proposal the SS guard proceeds to put to him.
“Would you like to escape with me?”
Viktor explains his plan in great detail, and if truth be told, it’s not so harebrained, or at least not the first part: leaving through the main gate dressed in an SS uniform, without raising any suspicion, and catching the train to Prague. By the time the Germans realized the next morning that they were missing, they’d be arriving in Prague. The second part of the plan seems more insane to Rudi: getting papers for themselves and for two women, and then returning to Auschwitz to get the women out.
Rudi listens very carefully, and there’s no question he would be hard put to find a better way of escaping than leaving in the company of an SS officer, but something tells him it wouldn’t work. Perhaps it’s his heartfelt distrust of the SS that causes this instinctive negative reaction. But whatever the reason, he decides to decline politely, assuring the two men of his absolute discretion.
It turns out that František doesn’t have a coffeepot, only a sock filled with coffee that he submerges in an ordinary pot and boils on top of the stove. But the cooking pot coffee tastes wonderful. Rudi leaves the room thinking that the SS man talks too freely about his plans.
It is true that Viktor Pestek is starting to spread word in a dangerous manner that an SS officer is looking for others to escape with him. While it could be that many of those who hear the rumor won’t believe it and will think it’s a myth like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, Pestek really does exist, and he perseveres with his undertaking. He could go alone, but he needs someone who is acquainted with the clandestine groups within Prague, so that he can acquire the false papers he needs to get Renée and her mother out of Auschwitz as quickly as possible.
He persists, and eventually, he comes across someone prepared to take part in his scheme. His name is Siegfried Lederer. He’s one of the inmates of the family camp and a member of the Resistance. He’s another person infected by the obsession to escape; he’ll do whatever it takes to get out of Auschwitz.
That afternoon, Pestek meets with Renée. She arrives as she always does, very serious, a bit ashamed, her hands clasped in front of her, and her head bowed.
“This is our last time together in Auschwitz.”
Viktor has spent days talking to her about the escape, but she couldn’t bring herself to believe him.
“The great day has arrived,” he tells her. “Well, part one of it, anyway. First I’ll get out of here, and then I’ll come back for you and your mother.”
“But how?”
“It’s better you don’t know the details. Any slipup could be fatal, and it might even be that I have to change my plans on the run if things don’t turn out as I anticipate. But don’t you worry about a thing. One day, you’ll walk out of the entrance to the camp and we’ll be free.”
Renée looks at him with her pale blue eyes, and she coquettishly pulls one of her curls down to her mouth in the way he loves so much.
“I have to go now.”
Renée nods.
At the last moment, she grabs him by the sleeve of his jacket, holding him back. “Viktor…”
“What?”
“Be careful.”
And he sighs happily. There’ll be no stopping him now.
* * *
And nothing will stop Dita’s eagerness to discover what happened to Hirsch that caused him to commit suicide. She has spent several days hanging around the workshop in search of Alter, all to no avail.
But sometimes you have to grab luck by the throat.
She cautiously approaches what seems to her to be the last group of men leaving the workshop at the end of the day.
“Excuse me…”
The tired men give he
r a friendly look.
“I’m looking for a man … without any hair.”
The men exchange looks that suggest that at this late stage in the day their brains are working slowly. They don’t seem to understand what this young girl is after.
“Without hair?”
“Yes. I mean, bald. Completely bald.”
“Completely bald?”
“Of course!” says one of them. “She means Kurt, for sure.”
“I guess so,” Dita replies. “And where might I find him?”
“In there,” they reply, pointing inside the workshop. “He’s always the last to leave. It’s his job to sweep, clean, and put everything in order.”
“A tough task,” comments one of the men.
“Yes, that’s what happens when, on top of being a Jew, you’re a Communist as well.”
“And bald, to boot,” points out another of the men sarcastically.
“It’s an advantage to be bald. The lice slide off your head.”
“And on days when it snows, they skate on top of your head,” adds the sarcastic man.
They walk away, laughing as if Dita weren’t there. She waits outside for a long time and finally, the man with no hair emerges. And indeed, Mrs. Turnovská was right when she said that he’d be recognizable by his nose.
Dita starts to walk beside him.
“Excuse me, but I need some specific information.”
The man gives her a dirty look and quickens his pace. Dita accelerates to a trot and catches up.
“You see, I need to find out something about Fredy Hirsch.”
“Why are you following me? I don’t know anything—leave me in peace.”
“I don’t want to bother you, but I have to know—”
“Why are you talking to me? I’m just a workshop sweeper.”
“I’ve been told you’re something more—”
The man brakes and gives her an angry look. He checks this way and that, and Dita suddenly realizes that if Mengele comes across her right now, it will be the end.
“They gave you the wrong information.”
The man starts walking again.
“Wait!” shouts Dita, annoyed. “I want to talk to you! Would you rather that we shouted at each other?”
A few heads turn toward them out of curiosity, and the man swears softly under his breath. He grabs Dita’s arm and takes her into the narrow space between two huts, where there is less light.
“Who are you? And what do you want?”
“I’m one of the assistants from Block Thirty-One. I’m trustworthy. You can ask Miriam Edelstein about me.”
“Fine, fine … talk.”
“I’m trying to understand why Fredy Hirsch killed himself.”
“Why? That’s simple—he got scared.”
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what you’re hearing. He chickened out. He was asked to lead an uprising, and he didn’t have the guts. End of story.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t care if you believe me or not. That’s what happened.”
“You didn’t know Fredy Hirsch, did you?”
The man comes to a complete stop at Dita’s comment, as if he’d been caught doing something wrong. Dita tries hard to prevent her anger from turning into tears as she speaks.
“You didn’t know him. You know nothing about him. He never walked away from anything. You think you know a lot, that the Resistance knows everything … but you don’t understand a thing.”
“Look, kid, what I do know is that the order was transmitted to him from the leaders of the Resistance, and what he did after that was take all those pills in order to wipe himself off the map,” answers Alter, annoyed. “I don’t know why there’s so much interest in him. The whole business of Block Thirty-One is a pantomime. The whole family camp is a pantomime. Hirsch and the rest of us have played the Nazis’ game. We’ve been their helpers.”
“What do you mean?”
“This camp is a front, a cover-up. Its only purpose is to cover up the truth in the face of international observers who may come here to discover if there’s any basis to the rumors that have reached some countries that the German camps are slaughterhouses. The family camp and Block Thirty-One are a stage set, and we are actors in the play.”
Dita falls silent. The bald man shakes his head.
“Stop brooding over it. Your friend Hirsch became frightened. That’s only human.”
Fear …
Dita suddenly sees fear as a type of rust that undermines even the strongest convictions. It corrodes everything; it destroys all.
The bald man walks off, nervously glancing to his left and right.
Dita stays in the side street. The words boom inside her head and block out everything around her.
A set decoration? Actors in a play? Nazi puppets? Their entire effort in Block 31 has been to benefit the Germans?
She has to put her hand against the side of the hut to steady herself because she feels dizzy. The entire family camp is a lie? None of it is real?
She begins to think that maybe it has to be so. Truth is put together by destiny; it’s nothing more than a whim of fate. A lie, on the other hand, is more human; it’s created by mankind and tailor-made to purpose.
Dita heads off in search of Miriam Edelstein. She finds her in her hut, sitting on her bunk. Her son, Arieh, is saying good-bye as he heads off to walk along the Lagerstrasse with some other boys before the evening crust of bread is handed out.
“Am I bothering you, Aunt Miriam?”
“Of course not.”
“You see…” Dita’s voice hesitates; Dita herself hesitates. Her legs are shaking again like pistons. “I’ve been talking to a man from the Resistance. He told me an incredible story: that the family camp is a cover-up for the Nazis in case observers from other countries come to investigate.…”
Miriam nods silently.
“So it’s true! You knew it!” whispers Dita. “So the only thing we’ve done all this time has been to serve the Nazis.”
“Not at all! They had a plan, but we’ve carried out our own plan. They wanted the children to be abandoned like junk in a warehouse, but we opened a school. They wanted them to be like cattle in a stable, but we’ve made them feel like people.”
“And what use has that been? All the children in the September transport have died.”
“It was worth it. Nothing has been in vain. Do you remember how they used to laugh? Do you remember how wide-eyed they were when they were singing ‘Alouette’ or listening to the stories of the living books? Do you remember how they jumped for joy when we put half a biscuit in their bowls? And the excitement with which they prepared their plays? They were happy, Edita.”
“But it lasted such a short time—”
“Life, any life, is very short. But if you’ve managed to be happy for at least an instant, it will have been worth living.”
“An instant! How short is that?”
“Very short. It’s enough to be happy for as long as it takes a match to be lit and go out.”
Dita is silent as she weighs up how many matches have been lit and gone out in her life—and there have been lots. Many brief moments in which a flame has shone, even in the midst of the deepest darkness. Some of those moments have occurred when, in the middle of some huge disaster, she has opened a book and buried herself in it. Her small library is a box of matches. As she thinks this, she smiles with a hint of sadness.
“And what will become of the children now? What will happen to all of us now? I’m scared, Aunt Miriam.”
“The Nazis can strip us of our homes, our belongings, our clothes, and even our hair, but no matter how much they take away from us, they can’t remove our hope. It’s ours. We can’t lose it. You hear more and more Allied air raids. The war won’t last forever, and we have to prepare ourselves for peace. The children have to keep learning, because they’re going to find a country and a world in ruins, and it will be t
hey, and you, the teenagers, who will have to rebuild it.”
“But the fact that the children’s camp is a Nazi trick is awful. The international observers will come, the Germans will show this to them, they’ll hide the gas chambers, and the observers will see that children survive in Auschwitz, and they’ll go away deceived.”
“Or not.”
“What do you mean?”
“That will be our moment. We won’t let them leave without knowing the truth.”
Then Dita begins to recall the afternoon before the September transport left, when she came across Fredy on the Lagerstrasse.
“I’ve just been reminded of something Fredy said the last time I spoke with him. He made some comment about a moment when a crack would open. It would be the moment of truth, he said. And we had to take the risk. He said you had to shoot a goal in the final second when they were least expecting it, to earn the win.”
Miriam nods in agreement.
“That was the plan. He gave me some papers before he left. He was writing much more than reports for the camp command. He’d put together facts, dates, names, a complete dossier of what’s going on in Auschwitz, which he’d prepared to hand over to a neutral observer.”
“Fredy won’t be able to hand it over anymore.”
“No, he’s no longer here. But we’re not going to give up, are we?”
“Quit? No way. Count on me, for anything. No matter the cost.”
The deputy director of Block 31 smiles.
“But then why did he surrender at the last minute and commit suicide?” Dita persists. “The Resistance people say he got scared.”
Miriam Edelstein’s smile suddenly freezes.
“The man from the Resistance said that they asked him to lead a revolt, and he got cold feet. I told the man he had no idea what he was talking about, but he seemed so sure of himself.…”
“It’s true that they suggested he lead a revolt when they were already certain that the entire September transport was going to be sent to the gas chambers. I’ve been told that by a source I trust.”
“And he rejected the offer?”
“A revolt consisting of a contingent of families that included old people and children facing armed SS soldiers wasn’t exactly a terrific plan. He asked them for time to think it over.”
The Librarian of Auschwitz Page 26