I appreciated Anna’s ability to hold both optimism and realism in tension. She did not allow herself to be fooled as many other prisoners did. After a certain age, life can no longer surprise or confuse you all the way. Gypsies had been persecuted since they had arrived in Europe five hundred years before. Kingdoms, empires, and legal systems had tried to exterminate or assimilate them, yet while governments rose and fell, Gypsies kept doing as they had done for nearly half a millennium.
I could not hold back my news any longer. “Dr. Mengele has offered me the opportunity to start and run a children’s school here at the camp.”
She nodded, seemingly unsurprised. The idea sounded preposterous, like another bad joke for the Nazis to laugh at us, yet she hardly batted an eye. She just looked at me and said, “Well, what are you waiting for? Nothing worse can happen to these children than what’s already happened. At least they’ll have somewhere to play, to hide out and forget about this hellhole for a while. From the first time I saw you, I knew God had brought you here to ease our pain somehow. You were so lost, confused, and scared, but I could see a fierce determination in the back of your eyes.”
I answered with a hug and started to cry. For the first time since we arrived in Auschwitz, my tears were not out of desperation, rage, or fear; rather, the tension of the last few days had pummeled my heart. I had never known that having someone else’s life or death in your hands was even worse than feeling your own perilous position. I did not trust Dr. Mengele. Ever since he came, things at the camp had gotten even worse, but perhaps we could somehow leverage his vanity to help the rest of the prisoners. It was a risky game, but I was willing to try. The children would have somewhere to be that was clean, dry, and warm. They would get better food, and their outlook would brighten. It was worth a shot.
Though I had mostly made up my mind, I decided to go to the barrack where the doctors and nurses slept, to talk with Ludwika. She had been at Auschwitz longer than I and knew what it was like to work with the SS. She could give me a second opinion before I made my final decision.
When I went up the stairs and entered their door, I was surprised by the relatively decent conditions my colleagues lived in. Naturally, there were no luxuries, but they had beds with mattresses, sheets, and clean blankets, a table to eat at, and a small wood-burning stove in what served as a living room. Besides, they were eating foods that the rest of the prisoners hardly dared dream about anymore.
One of the new doctors, Zosia, Mengele’s assistant, was reading a medical text by candlelight. Books were another privilege reserved only for doctors.
“Do you know where Ludwika is?” I asked.
The Jewish doctor pulled her eyes away from the book for a moment and, somewhat annoyed, said in perfect German, “Was it your idea to save the baby? She’s been here in the barrack with us for two days now. If the SS decide to come poking around, they’ll kill us all. Dr. Mengele made it very clear that everyone with typhus or who had been in contact with a typhus patient had to be eliminated. Ludwika’s got the baby in our room. She’s alone almost all day until we get back in the afternoon. Anyone could hear her crying. Get that brat out of here ASAP.”
I had not expected that reaction. I did not blame Zosia for being afraid—I was too—but in all my interactions with Jewish medical staff up to then, I had detected a deep love for life and the determination to do everything they could for their patients. Ludwika came out of their room when she heard us speaking. She was carrying the baby. Frowning, she went up to Zosia and put the child in her lap.
“Fine, take her to the SS. You know what they’ll do with her. Isn’t that what you want? None of us may get out of here alive, but I’m not going to let the Nazis destroy my soul. As long as I’ve got an ounce of humanity left in me, I’m going to risk my life for others.”
The Polish nurse’s words seemed to get through to the doctor. Holding the child in her arms, she dropped her head and started to weep. Then she pressed the child tightly to her chest and started rocking back and forth, whispering a name. Ludwika and I stared at her, perplexed at what we were witnessing.
“My baby—they took him from me when I came to Auschwitz.” Zosia spoke so softly we had to lean forward to hear. “They ripped him out of my hands. They let me live because I’m a doctor, but my baby boy was eliminated. So when I saw this one, I just kept asking over and over, why does this baby get to live and mine doesn’t? I’m so, so angry. But she’s just a tiny baby. She didn’t do anything. A sweet little helpless newborn. Good God, how long will this nightmare last?”
She continued rocking back and forth, rocking out her pain with the child, until Ludwika gently took the baby and hushed her to sleep.
“I can take the baby. The doctor is right; if they find the child here, it’ll only cause problems. But there are dozens of children in our barrack, so the guards won’t notice another one. Besides, I’ve decided to accept the job of running the camp nursery school,” I added with a smile.
The two women stared at me in surprise. First, because it was highly unusual to see someone smile in Auschwitz. Only children and guards were allowed that luxury, though the malicious grins of the guards and the SS were poisoned with a mixture of indifference and disdain.
“A nursery school in Auschwitz?” Ludwika asked in disbelief.
“Yes, a nursery and school with swings, painted walls, cartoons, food, milk, and everything that children need,” I answered with heady glee.
Every time I said the words out loud, I felt a new rush of euphoria as I started to actually believe it might happen. I could see in my mind’s eye how we would decorate the place, the crayons, the notebooks, the blackboard and chalk. The children would have a full glass of milk for breakfast while we read stories that would help them forget where we were.
Ludwika could not recover from the shock. “But who has authorized it?”
“Dr. Mengele. A few hours ago he asked me to consider it,” I said.
Now Zosia chimed in with renewed incredulity, “It was Dr. Mengele who came up with this idea?”
“Yes, the man himself. I could not believe the Germans would do something like that in this place.” I was beaming, no longer holding back the hope that surged through me.
Yet my two colleagues were less than enthusiastic. I chalked it up to their long stay in Auschwitz. The camp was capable of emptying the world’s most loving heart.
Ludwika asked, “What answer did you give him?”
“I haven’t answered anything yet. I wanted to get your opinion.”
She shrugged, the child still in her arms, and said in a serious tone, “My opinion doesn’t matter. The children would have a better life, and I think that’s reason enough to accept. I’ll help you as much as I can with whatever you need.”
I went and hugged her. Zosia studied me from her chair, and I could see fear in her eyes. I presumed that for a mother who had just lost her baby it must be difficult to hear of other children getting to go to a nursery. Then I took the baby from Ludwika and asked for her things. I would take her back to our barrack that night.
“I wanted one more night with her, but it’s better for you to go ahead and take her. It’s a bad idea to love anyone in this place. Everything you try to hold on to in this camp disappears. Better not to have any attachments.” Ludwika had steeled her face.
She went to their room and got the baby’s few things. She handed me a knapsack with a few diapers, some clothes, an old rattle, and a blanket.
“Thank you both so much for your support. I’m impatient to see Mengele tomorrow and give him my answer,” I said, leaving the barrack.
I was not one to get swept up in wishful thinking, but I must admit that that night, for the first time since our arrival in Birkenau, I felt something resembling happiness. My feet walked lightly down the muddy road, and when I showed up in barrack 14 with the baby in my arms, a group of women huddled around me. It was amazing to see how even in that place, a newborn caused the same reaction
as anywhere else, a mix of tenderness and love.
My children crowded around to look at the child. Eventually Adalia opened her eyes wide and asked, “Did you have another baby? Is this my new little sister?”
All the women burst out laughing, though the idea did not sit well with the twins. They crossed their arms and huffed.
“No, sweetie, this baby doesn’t have a mama, and we’re going to take care of her for a while,” I answered.
Anna took the baby and started to rock her. Little by little the crowd went back to their koias.
“I’ll keep her with me tonight. You need to rest,” the old woman said.
“Are you sure?” It was not easy to sleep with a baby. Anna was already quite old, and the camp had depleted her strength a great deal.
“It will be a joy to feel a baby’s skin against me again. I had five of my own. I saw three of them die, and I hope I don’t survive the others. The only family I’ve got left with me now is Fremont, my youngest grandson. They caught us as we fled to Slovakia. We had family there, but some peasants reported us to the soldiers near the front. A few more hours and we would’ve been out of reach of this nightmare. Two of my sons managed to escape in the confusion when they took us to an improvised camp where they were rounding up all the Jews, Gypsies, and homosexuals. Then they packed us on a train and sent us to Auschwitz I. They let us keep our clothes, but they shaved our heads when we got there. Life was a little less terrible there than here. The buildings were made of brick, which at least kept out a little of the cold. But at the end of March they brought us here, and we joined the prisoners who were finishing up building the barracks. We had the misfortune of being among the first occupants.” The sadness on Anna’s face took my breath away.
When someone’s feelings surfaced, we all seemed to crack. The only way to survive was to try to think as little as possible and numb your feelings.
The children and I went to our bed. The three little ones surrounded me like newborn chicks burrowing into the mother hen. The two older ones stayed just a bit farther, anxious to tell me about their adventures from the day, though they knew they should wait until the younger ones were asleep.
“Today has been so interesting,” Otis said very seriously. Sometimes his posture, the way he moved his hands, made him seem older than he was.
“So interesting? Do tell.” I was intrigued. His big-kid air amused me.
“My friends and I have been inspecting the part of the camp behind the sauna. Men who were covered in soot and smelled like smoke came from the other side of the fence. They went into the sauna and showered. We stayed outside and watched. They looked really sad and hung their heads. One of them ruffled my hair as he went by. His name’s Leo. He isn’t very old. I think he’s only eighteen.”
My son’s story surprised me. I had heard that some other members of the camp used our showers, which were apparently some of the few in Birkenau with hot water.
“One of my friends asked them if they were bakers. The men gave a funny smile and said yes, and my friend told them the black bread they were baking tasted horrible. They laughed really hard at that and then the SS escorted them out toward those big houses at the back.”
The story was more concerning than amusing to me. We all knew the rumors, but we tried not to think too much about it. Sometimes it was easier to avoid certain things. Like how some of the young women were forced into prostitution in exchange for food. The kapos picked out the girls who were all alone so the family would not get in the way. Virginity for Gypsies was extremely important.
I myself had been subjected to the handkerchief test at the party on the night before our wedding. Though I was not a Gypsy, I had to show my fiancé’s family that I had not been with any man before Johann. It was embarrassing. My in-laws knew that I had loved Johann from early on. Nothing and nobody had taken what I wanted to give my husband.
Once Otis fell asleep in my lap, Blaz started to tell me about his day. My oldest never ceased to amaze me. He was always looking out for the younger ones, and his ability to face the situation we were living in was astounding.
“The little ones don’t know how to keep their mouths shut. It’s better we don’t know what goes on in those houses at the back,” he began.
“That’s true,” I said.
“So is it true about the nursery school?” he asked.
“How do you know about that?” I pulled back, taken by surprise.
“People are already talking about it. You know there are no secrets here,” he said seriously.
“What do you think of the idea?”
He was thoughtful for a few moments. Blaz was a deep thinker and did not like to answer without turning the matter over first.
His large dark eyes were starting to disappear in the darkness that spread throughout the barrack. “Do you really think they’ll allow it?” he asked.
“They’ve asked me to run it,” I answered.
“The Nazis never do something for nothing. I’ll try to figure out what they’re after.”
His perspective surprised me. He had divined the spirit that moved the immense camp. Though we did not understand the inner workings of Auschwitz, we had figured out that everything had a reason; everything was geared toward some purpose. We were only a handful of cogs in the wheel of a much larger and more complex machine. My son was right about that: nothing happened without a definite purpose. Someone higher than Mengele had authorized him to open a nursery and school, so the doctor had to have supplied a convincing reason. In the middle of a war it was not easy to obtain all the supplies we were going to need.
“Don’t go poking around trying to learn anything,” I told him, fully aware that he would disobey.
“Don’t worry. I’ll help you any way I can. Do you know yet what ages will be there at the center?” he asked.
“It’s all happening so fast; I haven’t had time to plan anything yet. Tomorrow is going to be a really long day. We’d better sleep now.”
“Yeah, I’m worn out,” he answered, giving me a kiss.
“I love you, Blaz,” I said while I pulled the blanket over him.
“I love you too, Mom.” I could tell he was smiling.
I lay down and tried to sleep, but my mind kept turning everything over. That night I did not think about the husband I had not seen in weeks, or about what would become of our children, or about food. I could only think about the project. “A nursery school in Auschwitz,” I said over and over to myself. Was it a cruel joke? Was it actually possible? I could perhaps save the camp’s children, give them even a few hours’ respite from the brutality all around us. It was worth a try. As a mother, I owed it not only to my own children but also to the rest of the little ones wandering around the camp half-naked, starving, with the haunted look of suffering.
EIGHT
MAY 1943
AUSCHWITZ
That morning I waited impatiently for Dr. Mengele to arrive. I had hardly slept a wink. When they called us for the morning count, I quickly got the children dressed and, after downing the abhorrent coffee, headed for the medical barrack. I did not typically arrive that early, but I did not want to lose any time. Anna had stayed with the baby we decided to call Ilse. None of us had been able to discover the child’s real name. In a way, Ilse was the nursery school’s first child, since now we were allowed to care for and protect the children.
Hearing the sound of a car’s motor, I leaned over the rail. Ludwika showed up and came to stand beside me, her shoulder touching mine. I’ve never wanted to see Dr. Mengele so much before, I thought as a military car stopped beside the barrack. A light rain was falling, but I barely noticed it for the chill that ran up my spine.
Dr. Mengele walked through the mud with his firm, sure gait. His black boots shone and his uniform had recently been ironed. His hat was soaking wet, and the look of total indifference on his face made me tremble. He came up the few stairs that separated us, humming a tune under his breath. After glancing
at us with palpable disdain, he nodded in greeting and went inside to change.
I did not dare detain him. Typically we had to wait for the SS to address us. A few minutes later, Mengele returned to the stairs in a white uniform holding a metal clipboard with a few blank pieces of paper.
“Frau Hannemann, would you be so kind as to come with me?” he asked, hardly looking my way.
We walked in silence to barrack 32. My heart was beating wildly, and I had to work hard to keep my breathing steady. He stepped back to let me pass, and I walked into the laboratory. Few of the medical staff had been allowed into Mengele’s inner domain, only his direct assistants. The doctor was very jealous over his experiments and projects.
“I presume you have an answer for my proposal?” he said, tossing the clipboard onto the table before turning to look me straight in the eyes.
The doctor was not the typical blonde-haired, blue-eyed SS official. According to rumors, some of his colleagues called him “the Gypsy” because of his black hair and dark eyes.
“That’s what I wanted to see you about,” I said with a faltering voice. I was trying to order my words carefully, as if each syllable carried great weight. I was afraid he would have changed his mind.
“Then you . . .” he began, leaving the phrase incomplete.
“I would like to take on the responsibility of running the nursery school at Auschwitz, but I will need you to procure the necessary materials. I do not want it to be a place we just stick the children. I’m envisioning a space where the little ones can forget about the war and the losses they are having to face.” My tone was resolute. I had managed to conquer my nerves.
“But of course. When I made the proposal, I was absolutely serious. You’ll have everything you need. I want the children to be well cared for, for them to lack nothing. You can work with two or three assistants. A couple new nurses arrived a few days ago. I’ll have them sent over tomorrow. The supplies will also begin arriving tomorrow,” he said, smiling for the first time in our exchange.
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