The final words were barely audible. Zelma clearly felt terrible to be the bearer of this bad news.
“That’s ridiculous. Most of the children would be dead by now if it weren’t for the nursery and school. Winter is a real problem. So many have died of starvation and the cold, but it’s not our fault we can’t provide more for them.” I was angry.
One of the Gypsy mothers got to her feet and pointed at me. She started shouting all the things she had apparently been holding back for months, everything she thought I was doing wrong. “Your children get better food than the rest. They get to live in this warm, comfortable place. Most of us have lost at least one or two children, but you’ve kept all five safe and healthy. You’re the doctor’s favorite, but the question is, what are you giving him in return? Has he promised to protect your children?”
Her face was twisted with a terrifying hatred. I had always tried to do everything possible to improve the living conditions for all the children. I decided it was better not to answer. Instead, I stood and went to the door.
“Where are you going, Frau Hannemann?” Zelma asked.
“I’m going to go barrack by barrack to talk with each and every mother,” I said, buttoning up my coat and heading out to the freezing street.
Silently, they all followed after me. Their presence was moral support. We went to the first barrack, and I entered with determination. The children and their mothers were huddled in the middle of the building, away from the walls. There was hardly any difference between being inside and being outside, though the reek of sweat, urine, and rotting wood took me back to my first days in Birkenau. The difficulties I had faced since then flashed before my eyes one by one. It was nearly impossible to remain sane in a place like that. Those mothers were true heroes, but fear had completely paralyzed them.
“I’m so sorry for the distrust between us. Life here in the camp is so hard. The winter is ruthless, and I know rumors fly about all sorts of things. We only want to help. We’re offering you the only thing we’ve got, which is our very lives. We don’t like having privileges,” I said. “I’ve begged the commandant to let the children sleep in the nursery barracks, but they’ve denied my requests. My fingers are raw from all the petitions I write. Sometimes I run out of paper to write them on. Herr Doktor has given us some help. It’s true that he also takes children for his experiments, but he himself told me they’re researching to find a cure for the gangrene that’s affecting our Gypsy children.”
I paused for a long moment and looked into the faces hardened by hunger and fear. They seemed like ghosts floating in a dark cemetery.
“But you have to trust us. Your children will receive a little more food than they would if they stayed in the barracks, and at least they can be warm for a few hours. I have no control whatsoever about the children they take to the camp hospital, but I will try to keep them as if they were my own children. I promise you.”
I knew there was little to nothing I could do if the guards took the twins or any other children, but at least I could attempt to stop the transfer and demand an explanation for why they were being taken. The mothers motioned to their children, and the little ones followed us out to the next barrack.
For the next three hours, we repeated the scene in every barrack in the Gypsy camp. It was exhausting, and by the time we were finished, we were freezing and spent, but at least 95 percent of the children had been allowed to follow us. Then I went to the hospital while the other teachers began their classes. It was already noon, and that was when I typically visited the sickest children. I had barely crossed the street when I witnessed something truly shocking.
The guard Maria Mandel was walking through the snow dragging a little wooden sled. Sitting on it was a Gypsy child about five years old, dressed in nice, expensive clothes. The child seemed to be enjoying the sleigh ride. Maria stopped right in front of me.
“Prisoner, I want you to take care of this child. His name is Bavol, and he is the son of the king of the Gypsies in Germany. His family is one of the noblest of all the Gypsies. His parents were chosen by Herr Doktor Robert Ritter to represent the German Roma. They say that they were even crowned in Berlin three years ago, and the archbishop officiated the coronation. It must have gone to his father’s head, because he organized a Gypsy rebellion in the Lodz ghetto, which is why they brought most of them here. The orders were to execute the parents, but there were no orders about the child. You’d better take good care of him. He’s worth more than the rest of all those brats combined.”
I was in complete shock seeing that beastly woman pulling the little prince on the sled. I looked at the child. He had such wide, dark eyes. His appearance was impeccable. No stain was to be seen on his blue velvet clothes.
“When classes are over, will you come for him?” I asked nervously. One never knew how Maria Mandel was going to react.
“Yes, of course,” she barked. “If I can’t get there, one of the kapos will come for him. The child is under my direct supervision. No one touches him.” Then she bent down, smiled at the child, and gave him a piece of chocolate. I had the distinct impression that the boy was like a pet to her, something to keep her entertained and give her affection. We cease to exist when there is no one in the world capable of loving us.
The guard started walking again toward the barracks at the front of the camp, and I looked at Bavol. I held out my hand to him, smiled, and asked if he’d like to come with me. The little prince said nothing but did return my smile. We went up the stairs to the nursery and I introduced him to one of the teachers. I studied the walls for a few seconds. The paint was dull in comparison to opening day, but it was still a wonderland in which to forget the tragedies of camp life.
“Do you like to paint?” I asked the child.
He nodded vigorously and dropped his arrogant posture to give me a big smile. I presumed that for years the world had treated the child and his parents like royalty, and now he was just one more victim of the cruel and arbitrary Nazi system.
The next two days were frenetic. Our team of teachers arrived two hours before class to prepare the materials, and I burned a path between the barracks and the office making requests for all that we would need. Dr. Mengele agreed to give us extra food that day, and a kapo showed up with a fir tree for the party.
We spent all morning practicing Christmas carols and staging a pageant. We wanted everything to be just right.
On the evening of December 24, Christmas Eve itself, the party was ready. The littlest children would sing two or three songs, the older ones would put on the pageant of Jesus’ birth, and then there would be food for the children and their parents. We doubted that any of the guards would show up. For them it was easier to keep seeing us as animals or objects and thus avoid any hesitation when it came time to punish or kill us.
The celebration started right on time. Candles and garland throughout the nursery barrack evoked a distinctly Christmas ambience. The beautiful fir tree with little candles and ribbons turned the room into a spacious, homey living room.
The parents came in silently and got settled. Most of the men remained standing while the mothers angled for the best positions to see their children. Blaz and Otis were in charge of seating people to avoid any problems. We had strung up a long sheet as a curtain. Vera came out onto the makeshift stage dressed in a sort of tunic and addressed the audience: “Dear parents, grandparents, and brothers and sisters, today we are going to celebrate all together one of the holidays most beloved by children and adults alike, Christmas. The children have put a lot of love into preparing this program, so I ask you—”
Vera suddenly went stock-still, as if she had seen a ghost. I turned and first felt the cold that was seeping in through the half-open door. Then Maria Mandel appeared. Her uniform, impeccable as always, was partially covered by a large gray cape. People drew away from her in fear. We all thought that she was there to interrupt the event or that she would start beating the guests, but she merely leaned aga
inst the back wall and stayed quiet.
Vera found her voice again. “First the children will sing ‘O du Fröhliche,’” she announced.
There was timid applause, and my sons helped pull back the curtain. The children were dressed with little black bow ties and suspenders. Their bright white shirts shone in the candlelight. They looked at Maja, their teacher, and began to sing while Blaz accompanied them on violin.
The beautiful voices of the youngest children fluttered between the walls of the nursery while snowflakes fell outside in the dark night. The chorus transported us all back to happier Christmases. Our minds sought out images of presents, anticipation, and the magic that wrapped the stable in Bethlehem that night. Melancholy started to spread throughout the room, eventually overtaking us all. Suddenly, one of the children began to cry, and it did not take long for all the children to join in as they recalled the happiness and gifts of Christmases past.
The tears drowned out their voices, first just as a whisper, then as a torrent that dragged us all down with the sadness. I looked at Adalia, standing with the little girls, and from afar beheld the beautiful pearls that danced in her blue eyes. I thought of Johann, of whom I had had no word since our fleeting visit in Kanada. It was our first time to spend Christmas apart since we were teenagers. Perhaps this would be our last Christmas. There would be no more special foods, no more singing in front of the fireplace, no more presents beneath the tree the next morning or children impatient to tear into the colorful paper, their eyes as wide as saucers and joy oozing from every pore of their bodies.
I tried to rise above it. We could not let the night be ruined by gloomy thoughts or sorrow over those who were no longer with us. I stood up beside the children, took Adalia by the hand, and began to sing. At first, my voice was alone in the crowded room, but then the other teachers joined in, and soon the entire room was singing the beautiful carol.
The little girls sang two more songs, and then the older children acted out Jesus’ birth so gracefully. Emily was dressed as Mary, and Ernest was Joseph.
Then Zelma and Kasandra put on a puppet show for the children, who were sitting at their mothers’ feet by that time. Bavol, the little Gypsy prince, sat at Maria Mandel’s feet. She seemed to be enjoying the show, the first sign of actual humanity we had ever seen in her.
When it was over, everyone went to the tables and started eating. Though most of the adults had not tasted any of those delicacies in far too long, they left nearly all of it for the children.
Maria Mandel did not approach the table to eat. She put Bavol’s coat on him and slipped discreetly out of the barrack. As she went, I wondered what kind of soul those female guards had that allowed them to act with such brutality and cruelty. I also knew I would never get an answer. Evil is much bigger than an antisocial behavior or a psychological deficiency. Above all, it is a lack of love for one’s self and for others. The guard was acting like a mother that night, but I did not know how far she would be willing to go to save her new pet. Nazis always followed the rules. The party was their life, and any infraction might cut them off from the source of power and influence, turning them once again into the nobodies they had been before. Hitler had given them a reason to live. They were faithful dogs to a heartless master, but at least the master let them taste the leftovers of his cruel power.
An hour later, the families left the nursery barrack with something like happiness. Within a few minutes they would once again be in the insufferable reality of camp life, but they all thanked us for the unexpected gift that held out life to them, even for a moment. As the party drew to a close, the teachers helped me clean up. When everything was back in order, I put the children to bed. They were so tired they hardly put up a fight. Blaz and Otis had each received a gift of a little slingshot, but they could not take them outside the barrack because they were forbidden in the camp. The twins had received a one-armed doll and an old, dingy horse, but Emily and Ernest thought they were the most precious toys in the world that night. Adalia was clinging to her new rag doll and gave me a kiss as she curled up in our bed.
I went back to the main room and began writing in my journal. It had been quite some time since I had written, perhaps in refusal to keep safeguarding my memories. I had hardly begun when I heard the door open. I hid the journal in my coat and looked anxiously at the shadow whose contours were forming in the doorway. To my surprise, it was Maria Mandel again. With her body slightly hunched, she entered and took a few steps toward me. I began to tremble. That woman was never the bearer of good news, and everyone feared her. She came closer, and in the candlelight I could see her eyes were red and her look was fierce.
“They took him,” was all she said.
I knew she was talking about the child she had taken under her patronage, but I did not know exactly what she meant. I was too afraid to ask, though. She might react violently; maybe she came here to do something to my children.
“They took him. They just emptied the orphans’ barrack. They took a dozen to the camp hospital, but the rest will cease to exist within a few minutes.”
Her voice was hoarse, as if she had been crying for a very long time. I wondered, too, if she had been drinking, but she seemed sober that Christmas Eve night.
“Can I get you anything to drink?”
“No, I just didn’t want to be alone tonight. Everything that’s happened here . . .” She did not finish her phrase.
“I’m so sorry. He was a beautiful and intelligent child.”
“What do you know about it, whore? You’re a German woman with a bunch of trashy children by a Gypsy bastard. You’re nothing like me. People like you are pure rubbish. Keep your compassion for yourself. Pretty soon you’ll need it for your own brats.”
She glared at me and, for a split second, behind the immense layers of pride and evil, I saw a dim flash of something human. Then she turned and marched out into the snowstorm. Her words had gone through me like fiery daggers. What had she meant? Was she threatening me or just trying to let out her rage?
All human beings are irreplaceable, of infinite value, and nothing can substitute the life that is taken. That night we were celebrating life, the birth of the Christ child, yet many more children would have to die, sacrificed to the flames of hatred and evil. I bowed my head and thought about the message of the manger: Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, goodwill toward men.
The war kept taking its toll of death and desolation that Christmas Eve. I tried to fill my heart with love. I did not want hatred to eat away my insides. I had to love even my enemies. It was the only way to keep from becoming a monster myself.
FIFTEEN
MARCH 1944
AUSCHWITZ
Winter was drawing to a close, but we knew that spring was still a ways off in Poland. Snow still partially covered the camp, and it would give way to ceaseless rain and mud and a sad death toll. Food remained too scarce. Some families with more influence in the camp hoarded what was meant for others. Women without husbands at the camp, people from smaller Gypsy communities, and children bore the brunt of the unfair distribution of the meager provisions. The most privileged members of the camp were my former German Gypsy friends. Several times I had gone to barrack 14 to appeal to them to change their ways, but the answer was always the same: they would see the children of other mothers starve to death before their own.
In a way, the growing laziness of the camp guards, who were more interested in staying drunk and forgetting about the war that was making its slow, inexorable way to Germany, made them inattentive to camp life. We heard tales of the dissolute life the female guards led with the SS soldiers. We even heard rumors that Irma Grese was pregnant.
The Germans had closed Antonin Strnad’s school for older boys, and I was afraid they would shut down our nursery school at any moment. One Sunday morning, when we did not have class, my children were still sleeping in the back room when I heard a knock at the door. I got up and quietly opened the door, hoping not
to wake them.
“Frau Hannemann, allow me to introduce myself,” said a young woman with blue eyes. She spoke correct German, though her accent sounded Czech.
“Hello, please go ahead.”
“My name is Dinah Gottliebova, and I’m a painter. Dr. Mengele has sent me to paint the portraits of some of the Gypsies at the camp. I wanted to request your help. Since you’re the director of the school, you could perhaps help me gain access to the children and their mothers.”
The young woman’s request surprised me, but I knew Mengele to be keenly interested in anthropological and biological research. At first I could see no harm in painting the pictures of the schoolchildren. It would at least be something interesting for them, to shake up the torturous monotony of camp life. It seemed like just one more absurd Nazi command. The Nazis were obsessed with gathering information and keeping records of everything. Dinah was beautiful, with bright blue eyes and red-tinted hair. I later learned she was indeed Czech and that Mengele had asked her to document the Roma skin tones that photography was unable to capture.
“I can work up a list for you, and you could start tomorrow. I cannot guarantee that the adults will participate. People here at camp are extremely unhappy, and I’m afraid some would refuse.”
“Thank you so much for your help.”
“Would you like some tea?” I asked. The brew I was able to prepare was hardly recognizable as tea, but at least it was hot and tricked the stomach for a few minutes.
“Oh, tea is always welcome,” she said, smiling.
It did not take long to fix our drink. When I came back to where she was sitting, she seemed lost in the murals on the walls.
“Who painted these?”
“Well, they’re not as vibrant as they used to be. I did that one, but the bigger ones were done by a Gypsy named Zelma.”
Auschwitz Lullaby Page 15