“And then he committed suicide.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Miriam Edelstein’s sigh leaves Dita feeling empty inside.
“We don’t always have an answer for everything.”
The woman takes Dita by the shoulder and draws her close. They remain together for a long moment, during which their silence unites them far more than any words they could say. Then they exchange a warm good-bye and Dita leaves the hut. She walks along, thinking that maybe there isn’t an answer for everything. But Fredy said to her, Don’t ever give up, and she’ll never give up on her desire to find that answer.
The murmur of the classes in Block 31 drags her away from her thoughts. Ota Keller’s group is just a few meters away. The children are following his explanations very attentively, and Dita pricks up her ears so she won’t lose the thread the Nazis have cut. She misses school. She would have liked to go on with her studies and maybe become a pilot like the woman she had seen in one of her mother’s illustrated magazines. The woman was called Amelia Earhart, and she appeared in photos getting down from a plane in a man’s leather jacket, with a pair of flying goggles on her forehead and a dreamy look in her eyes. Dita thinks you would have to study hard to become an aviator. The mixed murmurs of several teachers reach the spot where she’s sitting, and she isn’t able to pick out the lessons of any individual one of them.
She watches Ota Keller teaching. They say he’s a Communist. Ota is talking to his group about the speed of light and how there is nothing faster in the universe; the stars they see shining in the sky are the result of the light photons they emit reaching our pupils after traveling millions of kilometers at breakneck speed. He hypnotizes the children with his contagious enthusiasm, his eyebrows move constantly, and his index finger wiggles like the needle on a compass.
It suddenly occurs to Dita that compasses, like the ones in aircraft, are difficult to understand. Maybe she’d prefer to be an artist rather than a pilot. It sounds like a good idea. It would be a way of flying without having to rely on so much equipment. She’d paint the world as if she were flying over it.
Margit is waiting for her when she leaves Block 31; she’s with her sister Helga, who is even thinner than before. Margit whispers to Dita that she’s a bit concerned about how gaunt her sister looks. Helga has had the misfortune to be assigned to a drainage ditch brigade and, thanks to the constant spring rains, they spend all day removing the mud that accumulates.
There are lots of inmates like Helga, who seem to be so much thinner than others. It’s as if the piece of bread and soup went in and straight through their bodies without leaving any trace. Maybe they are just as thin as the others, but there is something in their downcast expressions and the defeat in their eyes that makes them seem more fragile. There’s constant talk of typhus and tuberculosis and pneumonia, but not so much is said about the depression sweeping through the Lager like a plague. It happened to Dita’s father, too: People suddenly begin to switch off. They are the ones who have given up.
Dita and Margit try to cheer up Helga by joking around.
“So, Helga, have you found any good-looking boys around here?”
Helga stands there with no idea how to answer, so Dita tosses the question to her sister.
“Well, Margit, have you found nothing worth a second look in the camp, either? We’ll have to ask camp command for a transfer.”
“Wait … I have seen one boy in Hut 12. He’s gorgeous!”
“Gorgeous? Did you hear that, Helga? What a prissy way of speaking.”
The three girls laugh.
“And have you said anything to this cute boy?” asks Dita, continuing the game.
“Not yet. He must be at least twenty-five.”
“Heavens. Far too old. If you went out with him, people would think you were his granddaughter.”
“And what about you, Dita?” Margit counterattacks. “Is there no assistant in this entire hut who’s worth the effort?”
“Assistants? Nooo. Who would be interested in a boy with a face full of pimples?”
“Well, there’s got to be some interesting boy!”
“Nooo.”
“Not one?”
“There is someone who’s different.”
“Different how?”
“He hasn’t got three legs, that’s for sure.” And then Dita stops joking. “He’s one of those people who seem very serious, but he knows how to tell stories. His name is Ota Keller.”
“One of those boring types, then.”
“Not at all!”
“Hmmm. What do you think, Helga? The scene as far as boys are concerned is pretty disastrous, isn’t it?”
Helga smiles in agreement. She’s embarrassed to talk about boys with her sister, who’s normally very serious. But when Dita is around, she makes everything seem less important.
That night, while Helga, Margit, Dita, and the rest of the camp sleep, a first officer of the SS enters the family camp without anyone noticing. He’s carrying a backpack.
He heads to the back of one of the huts and slides out the piece of wood that bars the door. Siegfried Lederer immediately emerges from the shadowy interior and silently changes his clothes. The beggar transforms into a sparkling SS officer. Pestek feels it’s preferable to wear a uniform with the insignia of a lieutenant because it’s less likely that anyone will dare to address the wearer.
They leave by the security checkpoint, where the two guards in the booth give them a respectful raised-arm salute. They walk toward the main entrance of the camp situated under the enormous guard tower, which looks like a sinister castle. Because it’s dark, the upper part of the tower, which contains the enclosed observation deck from which the guards keep watch, is lit up. Lederer is sweating inside his lieutenant’s uniform, but Pestek is walking confidently—he’s convinced they are going to pass through the control point without any difficulty.
They approach the checkpoint under the imposing tower. When the guards see the two soldiers coming, they—and their machine guns—swivel to face them. Pestek quietly tells Lederer to slow down so that he can go first, but to keep moving and, most importantly, to do so without hesitation. If Lederer looks assured, the guards won’t have any doubts. They won’t dare tell a lieutenant to stop.
With total self-confidence, Pestek walks a few steps ahead. He approaches the guards and, as if he were among friends and sharing a confidence, he lowers his voice and tells them that he’s going to take an officer recently transferred to Auschwitz for a stroll down to the brothel in Auschwitz I.
The guards don’t even have time to share a complicit laugh because the lieutenant, back ramrod straight, is already walking past. They all stand to attention, and the fake officer responds with a lazy nod of his head. Pestek joins his superior officer, and the two of them disappear into the night. The checkpoint guards think the two officers are lucky guys. And they are.
Pestek and Lederer head for Oświęcim station. From there, they are to catch the train for Krakow that is due to leave in a few minutes. If all goes well, in Krakow they’ll take another train to Prague. They walk in silence, trying to ensure that they don’t look as if they’re in a hurry. Freedom is scratching Siegfried on the back, or maybe it’s the officer’s uniform.
23.
The morning roll call is never ending. When it’s done, there are SS whistles and shouts in German. A guard arrives and gives the order for the roll call to be repeated. Many of the Czech Jews speak German, so the order produces a murmur of frustration in the hut. Another hour on their feet.… They don’t know what’s going on, but something’s happening, because the guards are noticeably nervous. One word is muttered from one row to the next: escape.
Later that morning, a thunderous rendition of “Alouette” sounds throughout Block 31. Avi Fischer conducts the choir with his habitual cheerfulness, and the children, no matter their age, delight in singing the song that has become Block 31’s anthem. Dita joins the chorus. They
are all caught up in the acoustic vibration of the music. Practically all of the 360 children in the hut empty their lungs to form a single voice of many parts.
When they have finished, Seppl Lichtenstern announces that it will soon be the Passover Seder meal and that the leaders of the children’s barrack are working hard to make it a momentous occasion. The children clap, and some even whistle enthusiastically. Rumors have been rife that the block chief has spent days trying to get hold of enough ingredients on the black market for the celebration. It’s the sort of news that makes the day-to-day more cheerful and provides an air of normality for the children. Another rumor that has spread through the camp with the speed of light is about the escape of an inmate called Lederer. That was why they had to have the second roll call and why they’d ordered that the heads of all male prisoners, including boys, be shaved. The Kapos kept yelling out the word hygiene, but it was all about spite. Luckily for Dita’s thick head of hair, the women were spared.
But what does it matter?
The Germans are particularly irritated by this escape because they say Lederer got away thanks to the collaboration of an SS guard who has deserted. Nothing could rile them more. Any rope, no matter how crude, will do to hang him. Margit told Dita that the guard in question is the one who used to meet Renée, but Renée’s not talking to anyone. Not about this, not about anything.
And at this stage, thank God, they haven’t been caught.
Fate is fate. Dita is walking along the Lagerstrasse, eyes and ears alert for any sign of Mengele. But the person she spies is a high-ranking prisoner whom she’d occasionally seen on the other side of the fence. Dita has spent weeks racking her brains, trying to find a way to meet him, and now here he is, walking by himself with his hands in his pockets. He’s wearing trousers that look like jodhpurs, as if he were a Kapo. But it is the registrar of the quarantine camp, Rudi Rosenberg.
“Excuse me…”
Rudi slows down but doesn’t stop. He’s very focused on his own plan. There’s no going back anymore. The itch has become unbearable. Dead or alive, he has to get out of here. He can’t wait any longer. The day is set, and there are only a few loose ends to tie up to do with supplies. The ball is rolling, and he can’t allow himself any distractions.
“What do you want?” he answers grumpily. “I don’t have any food to give you.”
“That’s not what I’m after. I worked in Block Thirty-One with Fredy Hirsch.”
Rosenberg nods but keeps on walking, and Dita has to quicken her pace in order to keep up with him.
“I knew him—”
“Don’t kid yourself. Nobody knew that man. He didn’t allow it.”
“But he was brave. Did he say anything to you that would explain why he killed himself?”
Rosenberg pauses briefly and looks at her with a tired expression on his face.
“He was human. You all thought he was a biblical patriarch, a legendary Golem, or something like that.” He sighs dismissively. “He had created this aura of a hero. But he wasn’t up to it. I saw him; he was a man like any other. To put it plainly, he couldn’t take it anymore. He snapped, just like anyone else would have. Is that so hard to understand? Forget him. His moment is gone. Just focus on how you’re going to get out of here alive.”
Rudi, visibly out of sorts, brings the conversation to a close and walks off. Dita thinks about what he has said, and his hostile tone. Of course Hirsch was human; he had his weaknesses, as she well knows. He never said he wasn’t afraid; of course he was. What he did say was that you had to swallow your fear. Rosenberg is one of those people who knows many things—everyone says so. He has given her sound advice: Just think about yourself. But Dita doesn’t want to be sensible.
April has brought warmer temperatures, and the biting cold of winter has eased. The rain has turned the Lagerstrasse into a quagmire full of puddles, and respiratory illnesses have increased with the damp. The cart that picks up the dead in the camp each morning is full of bodies overcome by pneumonia. Cholera takes many of them, too, and even typhus. It’s not a sudden overall increase in deaths like in an epidemic, but a steady trickle.
April has brought not only a flood of water to Birkenau, but a flood of transports, too. There are days when up to three trains crammed with Jews arrive, spilling water and people onto the new platforms inside the camp. The children in Block 31 become unsettled; they want to go outside to see the trains arriving and wonder at the mountains of suitcases and packages piled up on the ground. Boxes and boxes of food, which they stare at greedily, their mouths watering.
“Look, a huge cheese,” shouts a ten-year-old boy called Wiki.
“And scattered over the ground … is that cucumbers?”
“My God, a box of chestnuts!”
“Oh, you’re right. It’s chestnuts!”
“If only the wind would blow just one chestnut over here! I’m not asking for much—just one chestnut!” And Wiki starts to pray quietly: “God in heaven, just one chestnut. Nothing more!”
A little girl of five with a grubby face and hair like a scrubbing brush takes a few steps forward, and an adult hand grabs her by the shoulder so she won’t go any farther.
“What are chestnuts?”
The older children laugh as they look at her, but then they grow serious. The little girl has never seen a chestnut. She’s never tasted a roasted chestnut or the typical November chestnut cake. Wiki decides that if God hears him and the wind blows over a chestnut, he’ll give half of it to the little girl. You haven’t lived if you don’t know what a chestnut tastes like.
The teachers don’t look at the packages of food, but at the bundles of broken people whom the guards are beating into formation so they can be put through the typical macabre routine of every transport: separating those who will be shaved, tattooed, and thrown into the quagmire where they’ll work till they drop from those who’ll be killed then and there. The six- and seven-year-olds in the family camp on the other side of the fence sometimes joke about the new arrivals. It’s hard to tell if they really are making fun of them and don’t care about the suffering of these strangers, or if pretending to their companions that they don’t care is their way of seeming to be strong and overcoming their own anxiety.
On the first night of Passover, families usually gather around the table and read the Haggadah, which tells of the exodus of the Israelites from Egypt. It’s customary for four glasses of wine to be drunk in God’s honor. The keara is prepared, a traditional plate on which the following foods are placed: zeroah (usually a lamb bone); beitzah (a brown egg, which symbolizes Pharaoh’s hard heart); maror (bitter herbs or horseradish, which symbolize the harshness of Jewish slavery in Egypt); charoset (a sweet mixture of apple, honey, and dried fruits, which represents the mortar used by the Jews to build their houses in Egypt); and karpas (a small amount of parsley in a cup of salted water to symbolize the life of the Israelites, always bathed in tears). And the most important element, matzah, the unleavened bread, of which each person around the table takes a piece. The last supper Jesus shared with his disciples was a celebration of Seder, and the Christian Eucharist arose from this Jewish rite. Ota Keller explains all this to his group of children and not one of them misses a word: Religious traditions and the traditional meal are sacred to them.
Lichtenstern has got his way—they’ll be able to celebrate Passover. Although they don’t have all the ingredients to allow for the celebration in the Orthodox manner, all the children are waiting expectantly when the block chief comes out of his cubicle carrying a piece of wood that serves as the special plate. Laid out on it in precise order are a bone of something that could be chicken, an egg, a slice of radish, and a pot full of salted water with some herbs floating in it.
Aunt Miriam has put beetroot jam into the morning tea to create pretend wine. She is also the one charged with kneading the bread dough. Valtr, one of the men who regularly helps with the hut’s maintenance tasks, has got hold of a thick piece of wire and bent
it to form a metal grill on which to bake the bread. The children watch the entire process, mesmerized. In a place where food is such a scarce commodity, they observe in amazement how a handful of flour and a little water give rise to a delicious bread with a mouthwatering aroma. Finally, a miracle.
The youngest ones, who have been chasing each other noisily at the back of the barrack, are soon told to be quiet, and a respectful silence charged with mysticism floats in the air.
Finally, six pancakes of bread are ready and are placed in the middle of the board. It’s not much for more than three hundred children, but Lichtenstern orders each person to take a tiny piece, just enough to be able to taste the matzah.
“It’s the unleavened bread that our forefathers ate during their escape from slavery to freedom,” Lichtenstern tells the children.
And they all start to pass in front of him in an orderly manner to receive their sacred little piece.
The children return to their groups, sit down, and listen to their teachers explaining the story of the exodus of the Jews while they eat their ritual bread and drink fake wine. Dita bounces her way between the groups, listening to the different voices telling their versions of the same extraordinary deeds that make up the long march through the desert under the leadership of the prophet Moses. The children are fascinated by these stories, and they listen attentively as Moses climbs up the steep slopes of Mount Sinai to get closer to that thunderous God, then the Red Sea parts to allow the Jews passage to the other side. It is probably the most unorthodox celebration of Passover night in history—it’s not even night, but midday. And of course they can’t eat the traditional lamb; there’s nothing of the Seder that they can eat. But, as a special treat, each child will receive half a cookie. The effort itself, however, and the faith with which they celebrate the festive day, despite all their deprivations, turns it into a moving ceremony.
Avi Fischer gathers together the choir and they begin to sing Beethoven’s Ode to Joy, at first timidly and then with style. Since it’s hard to rehearse anything in secret in this hut, most of those present know the words by heart from hearing it so often, and they launch into song as well, until there is a single, giant chorus of hundreds of voices.
The Librarian of Auschwitz Page 27