VARYA: You ashamed to be Jews. You, filth. But you never be Aryan. God always spit on you. We Aryan, never you! Spits. Paa!
Her sister Poles guffaw and heavily nod agreement.
ESTHER: For once the Poles are right!
ETALINA: It’s disgusting!—cutting the Star of David in half?
MARIANNE: Why not?—if we can avoid the gas?
FANIA: Since when have you all become such Jewish nationalists? Suddenly you’re all such highly principled ladies?
ELZVIETA: Bravo! You get up on your high horse with them because you don’t dare open your traps with anybody else!
FANIA: I’m sorry; your contempt doesn’t impress me. Not when you’ve accepted every humiliation without one peep. We’re just a convenience.
ESTHER: The blood of innocent Jews cries out against your treason!
FANIA: Oh, Esther, why don’t you just shut up? I am sick of the Zionists-and-the-Marxists; the Jews-and-the-Gentiles; the Easterners-and-the-Westerners; the Germans-and-the-non-Germans; the French-and-the-non-French. I am sick of it, sick of it, sick of it! I am a woman, not a tribe! And I am humiliated! That is all I know.
She sits on a chair by the window, her face turned from them. After a silence . . .
MARIANNE: You’re all just jealous. And anyway, we’re just as much betraying the Catholics—our mothers were Catholic, after all.
Fania suddenly gets up and escapes through the door into the dormitory.
Cut to Fania, seated on a lower bunk, is sewing the upper half of her Star back on. Marianne enters and behind her some of the other arguers are approaching in curiosity.
MARIANNE: What are you doing that for? Fania is silent. Fania?
FANIA—glances up at the group with resentment, then continues sewing: I don’t know. I’m doing it. So I’m doing it.
She sews angrily—angry at herself too.
Cut to the barracks “street” outside the dayroom; through windows we see the orchestra and Alma conducting a practice session—phrases are played, then repeated.
The rhythm of a passing beam of the arc light ceaselessly surveys the camp, but here it is only an indirect brightening and darkening.
Coming to the corner of the building, Fania turns into the adjacent street just as a hanging bulb overhead goes out. Shmuel is standing on a short ladder, then descends, leading a wire down with him which he busies himself peeling back to make a fresh connection. Fania hardly looks at him or he at her, this conversation being forbidden.
The music continues in the background from within the dayroom.
SHMUEL: Behind you, in the wall.
Fania leans against the barracks wall; stuck in a joint between boards is a tiny folded piece of paper which she palms.
FANIA—a whisper: Thank you.
SHMUEL: Don’t try to send an answer—it’s too dangerous; just wants you to know he’s here . . . your Robert. She nods once, starts to leave. Fania? They are gassing twelve thousand a day now. Her face drains. He goes up the ladder with wire. Twelve thousand angels fly up every day.
FANIA: Why do you keep telling me these things? What do you want from me!
Shmuel makes the bulb go on, the light flaring on the wild and sweet look in his face. He looks up.
SHMUEL: Look with your eyes—the air is full of angels! You mustn’t stop looking, Fania!
He perplexes and unnerves her; she claps hands over her ears and hurries along the barracks wall. As she turns the corner she nearly collides with Tchaikowska, who is enjoying a cigarette. She is standing next to the door to her own room. Fania gives her a nod, starts to pass, when the door opens; a kapo comes out buttoning his shirt.
TCHAIKOWSKA: Two more cigarettes—you took longer this time.
KAPO: I’m broke—give you two more next time.
Marianne comes through this door. She is eating meat off a bone. She sees Fania, is slightly surprised, but goes on eating. The kapo gives her ass a squeeze and walks away.
Tchaikowska goes into the room.
Fania sees into the room—Tchaikowska is straightening the rumpled bed in what is obviously her room.
Cut to a barracks street. Fania catches up with Marianne, who is stashing the bone with some slivers of meat still on it in her pocket.
FANIA: At least share some of it with the others—for your own sake, so you don’t turn into an animal altogether!
MARIANNE: Jealous?
She walks away, flaunting her swinging backside, and enters the dormitory.
Cut to Fania playing the piano with the orchestra. (A light piece—airy, popular music.) The keyboard starts tilting. The orchestra stops, breaking off the music.
Four kapos are turning the piano on its side, onto a dolly.
Fania rescues her music and skitters out of the way, astonished and frightened. Alma and the orchestra look on in silent terror as the piano is simply rolled out of the building through the door to the street. Does it mean the end of the orchestra? All eyes go to Alma, who is clearly shocked and frightened. After a moment, as though nothing had happened:
ALMA: Let us turn now to . . . to ah—she leafs through music on podium—the Beethoven . . .
GISELLE: Madame?—if I could make a suggestion . . .
ALMA: I’m sure this will soon be explained . . .
GISELLE, desperately: But why wait till they “explain” it, Madame! I used to play a lot in movie houses . . . on Rue du Four and Boulevard Raspail . . . And I could teach you all kinds of Bal Musette numbers . . . you know, real live stuff that won’t bore them. I mean, listen just for a minute!
She plays on her violin—her face perspiring with anxiety—a Bal Musette, lively, dance music. . . .
Enter Frau Lagerführerin Mandel, and Commandant Kramer, with two SS aides.
All but Giselle spring to attention.
TCHAIKOWSKA: Attention!
Giselle looks up from her violin, nearly falls back in a faint at the threatening sight of the big brass, and stands at rigid attention.
MANDEL: At ease. The officers have decided to keep the piano in their club for the use of the members.
KRAMER, to Alma: I thought you could manage without it, Madame.
ALMA: Of course, Herr Commandant . . . it was only a little extra sound to fill out, but not imperative at all. We hope the officers will enjoy it.
KRAMER: Which one is Greta, the Dutch girl?
An accordion squeaks . . . it is in Greta’s hands.
ALMA: Come!
Greta comes out of the orchestra, accordion in hand. Kramer moves, inspecting her fat, square body. She hardly dares glance at him, her eyes lowered.
KRAMER: Open your mouth. In terror she does so. He peers in at her teeth. Do you have any disease?
GRETA—a scared whisper: No, Herr Commandant.
KRAMER, to Alma: Dr. Mengele tells me she’s not a very good player.
ALMA: Not very good, no, although not too bad—but she . . . she works quite hard. . . .
KRAMER: But you could manage without her.
ALMA, unwillingly: Why . . . yes, of course, Herr Commandant.
Cut to Fania, flaring with anger at Alma.
Cut to Kramer, signaling one of the SS aides, who steps forward to Greta, preparing to take her off. Greta stiffens.
KRAMER, to Greta: My wife needs someone to look after our little daughters. You look like a nice clean girl.
General relief; Greta is simply rigid. Mandel takes a coat from the second SS aide and hands it to Greta, who quickly and gratefully puts it on. The first aide leads her to exit, and she nearly stumbles in her eagerness to keep up with him, her accordion left behind.
KRAMER, turning to Alma: This Sunday you will play in the hospital for the sick and the mental patients. You will have the Beethoven ready.
ALMA: Yes, Herr Commandant.
I must ask your . . . toleration, if I may—our cellist has typhus and now without the accordion we may sound a little wanting in the lower . . .
KRAMER: I will send one of the cellists from the men’s orchestra—they have several from the Berlin Philharmonic—he can teach one of your violinists by Sunday.
ALMA—the idea knocks the breath out of her, but . . . : Why . . . yes, of course, I’m sure we can teach one of our girls by Sunday, yes.
Kramer turns and strolls out.
MANDEL, as though the orchestra should feel honored: It will be very interesting, Madame—Dr. Mengele wants to observe the effects of music on the insane.
ALMA: Ah so!—well, we will do our very best indeed.
Mandel walks over to Fania.
MANDEL, pleasantly: And how are you, these days?
FANIA, swallowing her feelings: I am quite well . . . of course, we are all very hungry most of the time—that makes it difficult.
MANDEL: I offered to send an extra ration this week before the concert on Sunday, but Madame Alma feels it ought to be earned, as a reward afterwards. You disagree?
Fania glances past Mandel to Alma, who is near enough to have overheard as she turns pages in a score. Alma shoots her a fierce warning glance.
FANIA, lowering her gaze in defeat: It’s . . . not for me to agree or not . . . with our conductor.
Cut to Alma’s room. Alma is pacing up and down, absolutely livid, while Fania stands with lowered gaze—this could be her end.
ALMA: How do you dare make such a comment to her!
FANIA: I don’t understand, Madame—I simply told her that we were hungry. . . .
ALMA: When they have managed to play a single piece without mistakes I will recommend an extra ration—but I will decide that, do you understand? Fania is silent. There cannot be two leaders. Do you agree or don’t you?
FANIA: Why are you doing this?
Alma doesn’t understand.
FANIA: We are hungry, Madame! And I saw a chance to tell her! Am I to destroy every last human feeling? She asked and I told her!
ALMA, a bit cowed, but not quite: I think we understand each other—that will be all now. Fania doesn’t move. Yes?—what is it?
FANIA: Nothing. Makes a move to go. I am merely trying to decide whether I wish to live.
ALMA: Oh come, Fania—no one dies if they can help it. You must try to be more honest with yourself. Now hurry and finish the Beethoven orchestration—we must give them a superb concert on Sunday.
Alma walks to a table where her scores are, and sits to study them. Fania has been reached, and turns and goes out, a certain inner turmoil showing on her face.
Cut to Etalina, being coached by a young cellist, a thin young man with thick glasses and shaven head. Most of the orchestra is watching them avidly—watching him, the women standing around in groups at a respectful distance, the Poles also.
His hands, in close shots, are sensuous and alive and male. The camera bounces such shots off the women’s expressions of fascination and desire and deprivation.
Fania tears her gaze from him, and tries to work on her orchestrations—on a table.
Cut to the cellist’s hands. He is demonstrating a tremolo. Etalina tries, but she is awkward. He adjusts her arm position.
Cut to Paulette, just entering the dayroom from outside. She is barely strong enough to stand. Michou rushes to her with a cry of joy. Fania sees her, and leaps up to go to her; and Elzvieta also and Etalina.
ETALINA: Paulette! Thank God, I don’t have to learn this damned instrument!
Cut to the group helping Paulette to a chair; Paulette is an ascetic-looking, aristocratic young lady.
FANIA: Are you sure you should be out?
ELZVIETA: Was it typhus or what?
ETALINA: She still looks terrible.
FANIA: Sssh! Paulette? What is it?
For Paulette is trying to speak but has hardly the strength to. Everyone goes silent, awaiting her words.
PAULETTE: You’re to play on Sunday . . .
ETALINA: In the hospital, yes, we know.
FANIA: You don’t look to me like you should be walking around, Paulette. . . .
PAULETTE, stubborn, gallant, she grips Fania’s hand to silence her: They plan . . . to gas . . . all the patients . . . after . . . the concert.
A stunned silence.
FANIA: How do you know this?
PAULETTE: One of the SS women . . . warned me. . . . I knew her once. . . . She used to be . . . one of the . . . chambermaids in our house. So I got out.
Alma enters from her room, sees the gathering, then sees Paulette.
ALMA: Paulette! How wonderfull! Are you all better now? We’re desperate for you! We’re doing the Beethoven Fifth on Sunday!
Paulette gets to her feet, wobbling like a mast being raised.
FANIA: She’s had to walk from the hospital, Madame—could she lie down for a bit?
PAULETTE: No! I . . . I can.
She gets to the cello, sits, as though the room is whirling around for her. Etalina rushes and hands her the bow. The orchestra quickly sit in their places.
ALMA, at podium: From the beginning, please.
The Beethoven Fifth begins. Paulette, on the verge of pitching forward, plays the cello. The pall of fear is upon them all now. Fania has resumed her place at the table with her orchestrations. She bends over them, shielding her eyes, a pencil in hand.
She is moved to glance at the window. There, just outside it, she sees . . .
Shmuel, at the window. He is pointing at his eyes, which he opens extra wide.
Cut to Fania, startled. Then, lowering her hands from her eyes, forces herself to see, to look—first at Paulette, and the orchestra, and finally at . . .
Alma, conducting. She is full of joyful tension, pride, waving her arms, snapping her head in the rhythm and humming the tune loudly, oblivious to everything else.
Cut to Paulette feverishly trying to stay with the music; her desperation—which those around her understand—is the dilemma of rehearsing to play for the doomed.
Cut to Fania, at one end of the dormitory corridor between bunks, wringing out a bra and heavy stockings over a pail. Her expression is tired, deadened; she has been changing, much life has gone from her eyes. Nearby, in dimness, Tchaikowska and another Blockawa are lying in an embrace, kissing; Tchaikowska glances over, and with a sneer . . .
TCHAIKOWSKA: Now you do her laundry? —the contessa?
Fania takes the bra and stockings down corridor to Paulette’s bunk, hangs them to dry there. Paulette is lying awake, but weak.
PAULETTE: Thank you. I’m troubled . . . whether I should have told the other patients—about what’s going to happen. What do you think? Fania shakes her head and shrugs. Except, what good would it do them to know?
FANIA: I have no answers anymore, Paulette.
VOICES: Shut up, will you? Trying to sleep! Sssh!
FANIA: Better go to sleep . . .
Across the corridor, Charlotte is staring at Michou with something like surprise in her expression, self-wonder. Michou turns her head and sees Charlotte staring at her, and shyly turns away.
Fania now climbs into her own bunk, lies there open-eyed. Other women are likewise not asleep, but some are.
Fania lies there in her depression.
She shuts her eyes against the sounds from outside—the coupling of freight cars, a surge of fierce dogs barking, shouts—her face depleted. Now Charlotte’s head appears at the edge of the bunk. Fania turns to her.
Charlotte timorously asks if she may slide in beside her.
CHARLOTTE: May I?
Fania slides over to make room. Charlotte lies down beside her.
CHARLOTTE, with a certain urgency: I just wanted to ask you . . . about Michou.
Now the
ir eyes meet. Fania is surprised, curious.
Charlotte is innocently fascinated, openly in love but totally unaware of it.
CHARLOTTE: What do you know about her? I see you talking sometimes together.
FANIA: Well . . . she’s militant; sort of engaged to be married; the kind that has everything planned in life. Why?
CHARLOTTE: I don’t know! She just seems so different from the others—so full of courage. I love how she always stands up for herself to the SS.
FANIA—slight pause; she knows now that she is cementing an affair: That’s what she says about you.
CHARLOTTE, surprised, excited: She’s spoken about me?
FANIA: Quite often. She especially admired your guts. Slight pause. And your beauty.
Charlotte looks across the aisle and sees Michou, who is asleep.
Cut to Michou, emphasizing her hungered look in sleep, her smallness and fragility.
Cut to Fania and Charlotte.
CHARLOTTE: She’s so beautiful, don’t you think? I love her looks.
FANIA: It would be quicker if you told me what you don’t like about her.
CHARLOTTE, shyly laughing: I don’t understand what is happening to me, Fania. Just knowing she’s sleeping nearby, that she’ll be there tomorrow when I wake—I think of her all day. I could see her face all through my fever . . . I just adore her, Fania.
FANIA: No. You love her, Charlotte.
CHARLOTTE: You mean . . . ?
FANIA: You’re seventeen, why not? At seventeen what else is there but love?
CHARLOTTE: But it’s impossible.
Fania softly laughs.
CHARLOTTE: Are you laughing at me?
FANIA: After all you’ve seen and been through here, is that such a disaster?
CHARLOTTE: How stupid I am—I never thought of it as . . .
FANIA: In this place to feel at all may be a blessing.
CHARLOTTE: Do you ever have such . . . feelings?
FANIA, shaking her head: I have nothing. Nothing at all, anymore. Go now, you’re still not well, you should sleep.
Charlotte starts to slide out, then turns back and suddenly kisses Fania’s hand gratefully.
FANIA—she smiles, moved: What a proper young lady you must have been!
The Penguin Arthur Miller Page 108