The Librarian of Auschwitz

by Antonio Iturbe

  “Bad, bad,” Dita mutters.

  Events don’t take long to unfold. On a morning seemingly like all the others, Lichtenstern calls classes to an end five minutes early, although no one else realizes it—he’s the only one in the entire camp who has a watch. He climbs with some difficulty onto the horizontal ledge of the stove. The children, who think morning classes are over before soup time, race around laughing and happily playing jokes on each other. No one expects it when the block chief raises the whistle to his lips, calling for attention.

  Just for an instant, the sound reminds the old hands of the much-missed Fredy Hirsch, and they fall silent; they know that something serious must have occurred if Lichtenstern is using Hirsch’s whistle.

  Lichtenstern says that he has important news. He looks tired, but his voice is decisive.

  “Teachers, students, assistants, I have to tell you that Birkenau–Auschwitz Command Headquarters has informed us that this block has to be vacated by tomorrow. That’s all I know.”

  By the afternoon, Block 31 is empty, only a warehouse again. Dita knocks on the door several times, and when Lichtenstern doesn’t answer, she uses the key they gave her weeks ago.

  She takes advantage of the fact that Lichtenstern is absent, and that there’s still a bit of time before curfew, to take out the library books one by one.

  She hasn’t leafed through the atlas for days and feels immense pleasure as she retraces the sinuous outline of the coastlines, climbs up and down mountain ranges, whispers the names of cities like London, Montevideo, Ottawa, Lisbon, Peking.… And as she does this, she feels she can hear her father’s voice again as he turns the globe. She removes the yellowing cover of The Count of Monte Cristo, a book whose secrets she was able to discover even though they were in French, thanks to Markéta. She whispers aloud the name of Edmond Dantès and works on imitating a French accent until she feels satisfied. The moment to abandon the prison on If has arrived.

  She also places H. G. Wells, her private professor of history, on top of the table. And the Russian grammar, Freud’s book, and the geometry treatise, as well as the Russian novel with no front or back cover that contains the mysterious Cyrillic script she failed to decipher. Very carefully, she takes the last book out of the hidey-hole—The Adventures of the Good Soldier Švejk with its missing pages. She can’t resist the temptation to read a few lines to assure herself that the rogue Švejk is still there, lurking among its pages. And there he is, in full flight, trying to soothe Lieutenant Lukáš after his most recent blunder.

  “Half the consommé soup in this bowl you’ve brought me from the kitchen is missing.”

  “Yes, Lieutenant. It was so hot that it was evaporating as I came over here.”

  “It’s evaporated into your belly, you shameless parasite.”

  “Lieutenant, sir, I can assure you that it was all caused by evaporation; these things happen. There was a mule driver transporting some casks of hot wine to Karlovy Vary who…”

  “Out of my sight, you animal!”

  Dita hugs the pile of pages as if it were an old friend.

  She devotes time to gluing some of the loose spines carefully with gum arabic and to using a bit of saliva on a cloth to clean the odd cover stained with dirt from the hidey-hole. She mends their wounds, no doubt for the last time. When she can do no more to fix them, she runs her hand back and forth over the pages like an iron to remove some of the creases. She’s not just smoothing them; she’s caressing them.

  When they’re lined up, the books form a tiny row, a modest display of veterans. But over these past few months, they’ve enabled hundreds of children to walk through the geography of the world, get close to history, and learn math. And also to become drawn into the intricacies of fiction and amplify their lives many times over. Not bad for a handful of old books.

  27.

  The workshops and Block 31 have already been shut down. Her mother is taking part in a conversation of the women led by Mrs. Turnovská. Dita sits at back of the hut, her back propped up against the wall. There are so many women that it’s hard to find a spot to lean against. Margit comes over to join her and settles herself as best she can on the tiny piece of blanket provided by Dita. She chews her lower lip, a sure sign she’s agitated.

  “Do you really think they’re going to transfer us somewhere else?”

  “You can count on it. I just hope it’s not to the other world.”

  Margit fidgets nervously beside her. They hold hands.

  “I’m frightened, Ditiňka.”

  “We’re all frightened.”

  “No, you are so calm. You even joke about the transfer. I’d like to be as brave as you, but I’m really afraid. I’m shaking all over. It’s hot, and I feel cold.”

  “Once, when my legs were really shaking, Fredy Hirsch told me that the truly brave people are the ones who are afraid.”

  “How can that be?”

  “Because you have to be brave to feel fear and keep going. If you’re not frightened, what’s the advantage of choosing one thing over another?”

  “I saw Mr. Hirsch going past along the Lagerstrasse a few times. He was really handsome! I would like to have known him.”

  “He wasn’t someone you could get to know easily. He spent his life inside his cubicle. He did the Friday chats, organized sports activities, resolved problems if they came up—he was very friendly toward everyone … but then he would disappear into his cubicle. It was almost as if he wanted to keep himself apart.”

  “Do you think he was happy?”

  Dita turns toward her friend with a look of incredulity.

  “What a question, Margit! Who would know that? I don’t know … but I think so. It wasn’t easy for him, but I suspect he liked challenges. And he never got cold feet.”

  “You admired him, didn’t you?”

  “How can you not admire someone who teaches you to be brave?”

  “But…” Margit hunts for the right words, because she knows she’s going to say something that might offend. “But in the end, Hirsch did get cold feet. He didn’t hold up right to the end.”

  Dita gives a deep sigh.

  “I’ve thought a great deal about his death. They’ve told me this and that. But I still think there’s something missing, that there’s something in all of this that doesn’t fit. Hirsch giving up? No.”

  “But the registrar, Rosenberg, saw him die.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Although I’ve also heard that you can’t always trust what Rosenberg says.”

  “They say so many things. But I believe that on that afternoon of the eighth of March something happened that changed everything. The unfortunate thing is that we’ll never be able to ask him what it was.”

  Dita stops talking, and Margit respects her silence for a few moments.

  “And what will happen to us now, Ditiňka?”

  “Who knows? There’s no point in worrying too much. You and I can’t do anything. If someone decides to organize a revolt, we’ll hear about it.”

  “Do you think there’ll be a revolt?”

  “No. If there wasn’t one with Fredy, without him it’s impossible.”

  “Then we’ll have to pray.”

  “Pray? To whom?”

  “To God. Who else? You should pray, too.”

  “Hundreds of thousands of Jews have been praying to him since 1939, and he hasn’t listened to them.”

  “Maybe we haven’t prayed enough, or loudly enough so he’ll hear us.”

  “Come on, Margit. God is capable of knowing that you’ve sewn a button on a shirt on the Sabbath and punishing you, but he hasn’t discovered that thousands of innocents are being killed and many other thousands are being held captive and being treated worse than dogs? Do you really believe he hasn’t found out?”

  “I don’t know, Dita. It’s a sin to question why God does what he does.”

  “Well then, I’m a sinner.”

  “Don’t talk like that. God will punish you
!”

  “More?”

  “You’ll go to hell.”

  “Don’t be naïve, Margit. We’re already in hell.”

  Rumors continue to slither through the camp. There are those who say that the Germans are going to kill everyone. Others believe that they’ll set apart those suitable for work and kill the rest.

  The Priest comes into the camp without warning, accompanied by two armed guards. People pretend they’re not watching him, but they don’t take their eyes off him. The three Germans come to a halt at the entrance to one of the huts, and the Kapo instantly appears.

  She strolls anxiously around the immediate area and then points to a prisoner sitting along the side of the hut, a woman with a child resting his head in her lap. It’s Aunt Miriam and her son, Arieh. The sergeant informs her that he has direct orders from Kommandant Schwarzhuber: They’re going to transfer her and her son to be with her husband.

  Eichmann had told her they’d soon be together. In this instance, he was telling the truth. But Eichmann’s truths are even worse than his lies.

  They take Miriam and her son by jeep to Auschwitz I and escort them into a room where two guards are holding the handcuffed Yakub by the arms with a vise-like grip. Miriam has a hard time recognizing him inside his dirty striped suit and, even worse, inside the shredded skin barely sticking to his bones. It probably takes him a moment to recognize her, because he isn’t wearing his round glasses with their tortoiseshell frames. No doubt he lost them when he first arrived, and everything after that must have been a blur.

  Miriam and Yakub Edelstein have sharp minds. They immediately understand why they have been reunited. No one can begin to imagine what must pass through their minds in this instant.

  An SS corporal takes out his gun, points it at little Arieh, and shoots him on the spot. Then he shoots Miriam. By the time he shoots Yakub, he is surely already dead inside.

  * * *

  When the process to close camp BIIb is set in motion on July 11, 1944, it holds twelve thousand prisoners. Dr. Mengele organizes the selection, which takes three days. Out of all the huts, he chooses Block 31 for the process since, as it contains no bunks, it offers a brighter workspace. Mengele comments to his assistants that it is the only hut where the smell isn’t nauseating. Although he is a great fan of autopsies, Mengele is also a refined person who can’t stand bad smells.

  * * *

  The family camp has come to the end of its life. Dita Adler and her mother get ready to pass through the filter of Dr. Mengele, who will decide if they live or die. They’ve been ordered to line up according to their huts after their breakfast slop. All the inhabitants of the camp are agitated: People move about on edge and go back and forth, using up what might be their last few moments. Husbands and wives run to each other to say good-bye. Many couples meet in the middle of the Lagerstrasse, halfway between their respective huts. There are hugs, kisses, tears, and even reproaches. There is still the odd person who says, “If we’d gone to North America when I told you.…” They all spend what could be their final moments in their own way. Before the indifferent gaze of the SS soldiers who have arrived in the camp, the Kapos angrily blow their whistles to order everyone back to their own barracks.

  Mrs. Turnovská comes over to wish Liesl good luck.

  “Luck, Mrs. Turnovská?” says another of the women from their group of bunks. “What we need is a miracle!”

  Dita walks a few steps away from the bustle of people nervously wandering up and down. She senses that someone has stopped right behind her; she can even feel his breath on the back of her neck.

  “Don’t turn around,” comes the order.

  Dita, so accustomed to orders, stands rooted to the spot without looking behind her.

  “You’ve been asking about Hirsch’s death, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I know things … but don’t turn around!”

  “The only thing they’ve told me so far is that he was afraid, but I know that the fear of dying wouldn’t have given him cold feet.”

  “You’re right about that. I saw the list of inmates the SS were going to reclaim and remove from the quarantine camp to be brought back to the family camp. Hirsch was on that list. He wasn’t going to die.”

  “Then why did he commit suicide?”

  “You’re wrong about that,” comes the reply, but there’s hesitation in his voice for the first time, as if he doesn’t know how much to tell. “Hirsch didn’t commit suicide.”

  Dita wants to know the full story, and she turns toward her enigmatic speaker. But as she does, he breaks into a quick run through the crowd of people. Dita recognizes him: It’s the errand boy from the hospital block.

  She’s about to set off in pursuit when her mother grabs her by the shoulder.

  “We have to line up!”

  Their Kapo has started to lay about with her stick, and the guards are doing the same with their guns. There’s no time. Dita reluctantly gets in line next to her mother.

  What does it mean that Fredy Hirsch didn’t commit suicide? So then what? He didn’t die in the way they told her? She thinks maybe the boy has invented his story. But why would he do that? It was all a joke, and that’s why he ran off when she turned around? It’s possible. But something tells her that’s not the case: There was no smile in his eyes in that instant when she looked at him. She’s now more convinced than ever that what happened in the quarantine camp that afternoon bears no resemblance to what people in the Resistance are saying. So why would they lie? Maybe even they didn’t know the ultimate truth of what actually happened.

  Too many questions at a time when the answers might come too late. There are thousands of people in the family camp, but they all have to pass in front of the compass-needle eye of the mad Dr. Mengele, which points toward life or death.

  Groups have been going into and out of Block 31 for hours, and nobody knows for sure what’s happening. They’ve been given their lunchtime soup, and they’ve been allowed to sit on the ground, but tiredness and nervousness caused by the wait have left their mark on the women in Dita’s group. And rumors are rife, of course. The healthier inmates are being separated from the ill and the unproductive ones. Some of the women comment that Dr. Mengele is deciding who lives and who dies with his customary indifference. The male and female prisoners have to enter the hut naked so that the captain can examine them. Someone says that Mengele has at least had the decency to have the men and the women go in separately. They say he doesn’t even look at the naked women in a lustful way, that he looks at everyone with absolute indifference, that he occasionally yawns, tired and bored with his task as examiner of human beings.

  A cordon of SS soldiers controls access to Block 31. The groups who won’t go through selection that day stroll tensely around the camp. The teachers try to keep the children occupied until the last minute. Some groups sit behind the huts and try to organize guessing games or whatever else they can come up with. Even snooty Markéta is playing Drop the Handkerchief with some of her girls. Each time she picks up the handkerchief, she furtively lifts it to her face to wipe away her tears. Her eleven-year-old girls, who are running around full of life, arguing and fighting over who managed to touch the hanky first … will the Germans consider any of them old enough to be part of the workforce, or will they kill them all?

  Finally, Dita is lined up with the women from her hut in front of Block 31. They make them undress and put their clothes on top of huge piles, which are starting to form a mountain range of rags on the surface of the mud.

  She feels more concern for the nude body of her mother on public display than for her own. She turns away so she won’t see Liesl’s wrinkled breasts, her exposed sex, the bones sticking out from under her skin. Some women have their arms crossed in an attempt to hide their intimate parts as best they can, but most don’t care anymore. There are small groups of SS soldiers on either side of the lines. They are at ease and off duty, and they spend the morning eyeing the nak
ed women maliciously and making loud comments about the ones they fancy. The bodies are squalid, their ribs are more curved than their hips, and there are girls who have barely a wisp of pubic hair between their legs, but the soldiers are desperate for some distraction, and they are so used to seeing the skeletal thinness of the inmates that they cheer on the women as if they were luscious beauties.

  Dita tries to peer over the wall of soldiers to see what’s happening inside the hut by getting up on her tiptoes. Despite the fact that both her own life and her mother’s are at risk, she can’t stop thinking sadly about her library. The books are still in the hidey-hole, stored underground and sleeping deeply until someone finds them by chance and opens them, thereby restoring them to life, just like the Prague legend of the Golem, who lies inert in a secret place waiting for someone to resuscitate him. She now regrets not having left a message with the books in case some other prisoner trapped inside Auschwitz finds them. She would like to have said, Take care of them, and they’ll take care of you.

  They have to wait naked for several more hours. Their legs hurt, and they become weak. One woman sits down because she can’t take any more, and she refuses to stand up despite the shouts and threats of a young Kapo. Two guards haul her off to the hut as if they were carrying a sack of potatoes. The rest of the women suspect that they’ll have thrown her directly onto the reject pile.

  Dita’s turn finally comes, and enveloped by murmurs and prayers, she and her mother walk through the entrance of Block 31. The woman just in front of them is sobbing.

  “Don’t cry, Edita,” whispers her mother. “Now’s the time to show that you’re strong.”

  Dita nods. Inside the hut, despite the tension in the air, the armed SS soldiers, and the table in front of the chimney where Mengele pronounces his sentence, she somehow feels protected. The Germans haven’t removed the children’s pictures from the walls. There are various versions of Snow White and her dwarves, princesses, jungle animals, and ships drawn in many colors from the early days when there were still some drawing classes. She realizes how much she misses being able to draw in Auschwitz as she used to in Terezín, to turn the chaos of her emotions into a picture.