“Jawohl, Herr Unterscharführer.”
He must have stared at the SS man with such wild desperation, Lubusch took pity on him and decided not to torment Edek with the empty exchange of pleasantries.
“I have it.” Lubusch said three very simple words, but all at once, Edek felt as though he’d grown wings.
His body almost weightless with a surge of exhilaration, he followed Lubusch’s hand with his gaze as the SS officer turned the key in the door with a look of a conspirator about him. His face nearly split in two when his namesake crossed the office, motioning Edek after himself, and extracted a neatly folded SS uniform from the bottom drawer of his desk.
“It’s just uniform and a belt; no gun or holster yet. I’ll get you those separately. And don’t fret. It’s been thoroughly deloused.”
The joke was not lost on Edek—it was usually the SS who were terrified to catch lice from the inmates, not the other way round—but Lubusch’s jest wasn’t the reason for the laughter of pure elation that Edek was presently desperately trying to suppress. His fingertips were reaching for the coarse material, skirting the very edge of it. He didn’t dare touch the brass buttons that gleamed seductively in the warm light of the room; not yet. It would turn a vague dream into a very real plan and, suddenly, Edek was petrified and excited about the possibility of such a miracle. He’d dreaded it and prayed for it, and now, Lubusch held it before him like some religious, sacrificial offering and, all at once, Edek couldn’t catch his breath.
“Well?” Lubusch had to nudge him into action. “Are you planning to stare at it or will you try it on?”
Edek didn’t hear him at first. He was still much too lost in his contemplation of the coveted garments.
“Try it on?” Edek blinked, the SS man’s words finally reaching him in the depth of his reverie. “Here?”
“Naturally. Or did you wish to parade in it on the Appellplatz?” Lubusch was laughing. “Put it on. The door is locked; no one will see you. Except for me, and I have to see how you carry yourself in it. I was thinking about it, you see.” He had dropped his jesting at last—it was also from nerves, Edek realized just then—and looked at Edek confidentially. “They can uncover you at once if you do something idiotic while wearing it. So I must see how exactly you’re planning to go about this.”
He stepped away and motioned for Edek to get dressed. Edek took the uniform from his hands with a mixture of revulsion and awe, once again cursing the camp instinct that made him obey authority without allowing any time for hesitation or consideration.
Edek was buttoning the tunic when he caught sight of his own reflection in a mirror that hung on the opposite wall. At once, he was paralyzed with shock. An inmate just a minute ago and now—a master of the world, arrogant and powerful, was glaring back at him from under the uniform cap with a skull and two crossbones.
“After you’re done admiring yourself—” Lubusch’s voice once again brought him back to himself, “walk over to me and present yourself as you would.” He took position by the opposite wall. “Let’s imagine I’m the guard who minds the gates. Walk toward me and salute me and report, or whatever it is you’ve planned to do.”
He hadn’t quite planned that far, but Edek was famous for thinking on his feet. Pulling his tunic down sharply to make the creases under the belt even more pronounced, he squared his shoulders and walked toward Lubusch, not quite in a rush but with purpose.
Lubusch nodded his approval at the sharp click of his heels and aimed an imaginary rifle at Edek’s belly. “I regret to inform you, but you’re quite dead at this point.”
Edek could only stare at him uncomprehendingly. “But… why? I saluted you just like you asked…”
Releasing a sigh, Lubusch looked like a kind teacher apprehending a failing student. “And that’s precisely why you’re dead.”
Edek followed Lubusch’s gaze that had stopped on Edek’s right hand in which the SS uniform cap was clasped; at once, he closed his eyes against his own stupidity. No SS officer would tear his hat off. Only the prisoners, trained into the position of slaves, were ordered, under the threat of death, to do so. “Forgive me, Herr Unterscharführer. Camp instinct.”
“Exactly what I’ve been afraid of. Now, salute me as an SS man would.”
Edek slammed his heels together and straightened his right arm out. “Heil Hitler!” The words tasted vile on his tongue, but there was no way around them.
Lubusch adjusted his arm slightly. “A bit higher and slightly more to the right. And look me in the eyes when you salute me. You’re not an inmate reporting to an officer; you’re my equal now. Not even; your rank shall be higher than whoever minds the gate, so look as arrogant as possible.”
This time, Edek strolled toward Lubusch, slower than before and with an expression of disdain painted on his face. “Heil Hitler,” he said almost conversationally as he clicked his heels, staring straight into the SS man’s eyes. The latter nodded appreciatively.
“You’re a quick learner, Galiński.”
“I have to be, Herr Unterscharführer.”
In Auschwitz, only the ones who could adapt survived.
“That much is true.” Lubusch’s tone turned wistful. He tossed his head, shaking off the melancholy and assuming his role once again. “Heil Hitler, Herr Unterscharführer.” He stopped, looking at Edek expectantly.
“Allow me to report—”
“No,” Lubusch stopped him abruptly. “You don’t report, and you certainly don’t ask for a permission to do so. He’s only a lowly guard, your subordinate.”
“Open the blasted thing—” Edek had picked up on Lubusch’s correction at once. “I’m late as it is. This stupid shit’s block elder,” he motioned to where Wiesław would stand, just by his side, “took his sweet time counting those bloody shits this morning.”
Lubusch began to grin. Edek’s acting was very convincing indeed. “I apologize, Herr Unterscharführer, but I will need to see accompanying papers. You know the rules…” He spread his arms in a defenseless gesture, smiling apologetically.
Rolling his eyes emphatically, Edek made a big show out of extracting an invisible piece of paper—the Ausweis that Mala had gotten for them—out of his breast pocket.
“Happy?” He regarded Lubusch with a thoroughly sour look. “Can I go now, or shall you come up with more bureaucracy?”
That last comment earned him a clap on his shoulder. Lubusch was nearly beaming now. “That’ll do,” he kept repeating, visibly relieved. “That’ll do splendidly.”
Edek was looking at him, at the young man’s face before him, and thinking what rotten business it was, this war-imposed division, this racial hatred that forced them into opposite camps. In different circumstances, they could have been friends.
“Herr Unterscharführer,” he began to say what he didn’t dare to even consider before that very moment. “I feel it will be wise for you to go on leave when we—”
Lubusch was already shaking his head. “If the truth comes out, the Gestapo shall get me regardless. It matters not if I’m inside the camp or outside. They are infamous for pulling wanted people from under the ground if needed, and rogue Germans even more so. It really is all right, Edek.”
Edek’s head shot up. Lubusch’s grip on his bicep tightened—an oddly friendly, don’t-worry-your-stupid-head-about-anything gesture.
“I’ve already decided everything for myself. I’ve never been a murderer, but I have been an accomplice to murder. If this is the only right thing I do in my life, even if I have to pay with my own, that’s fine with me. It’s a fair enough trade.”
“I would still prefer it if you didn’t die, Herr Unterscharführer,” Edek said, realizing that he sincerely meant it.
“I would prefer it if you made it out of here alive as well, Galiński. Do me a favor and do just that, will you?”
They shook hands, not enemies any longer, but two comrades parting before a difficult battle.
Twenty-Five
&n
bsp; It was just after lunch when camp leader Schwarzhuber marched inside the office and went straight to Mandl’s private room, completely ignoring Mala and Zippy who’d leapt to their feet to greet him. Even after he shut the door behind him, both women remained standing, staring at each other in tense silence. They had grown used to any irregularities in the camp routine meaning trouble for the camp’s inhabitants and the officer’s preoccupied look and sudden secrecy could mean only one thing: something was happening.
Subdued voices floated from behind the closed door, and abruptly it flew open, revealing a very displeased-looking Schwarzhuber and ashen-faced Mandl at her desk.
“Why am I not hearing your typewriters?” he demanded in his usual cutting manner. “Has anyone ordered you to stop working?”
Mumbling an excuse, Mala and Zippy took their seats and began typing as swiftly as possible, just meaningless words, simply so he would hear the clattering of the keys.
Satisfied, he slammed the door shut once again.
Her head turned sideways, Mala strained to catch at least some snatches of the conversation, but Schwarzhuber was no idiot. Behind the mechanical noise of the typewriters, it was nearly impossible to hear anything at all.
“Anything?” Zippy mouthed at her from across the room.
Mala only shook her head. Zippy’s eyes widened when she saw Mala rising from her chair and signaling to her friend to continue to type.
“What are you doing?” Zippy hissed, not daring to raise her voice any higher. “Sit your behind down before you get us both killed!”
But there was far too much at stake to worry about such trifles as one’s life. As noiselessly as possible, Mala inched toward the door, pressing her ear against it. She could hear Schwarzhuber talking and, judging by the pauses in the conversation, he was on the phone with someone.
“Jawohl, Herr Obersturmbannführer… No, it’s no trouble at all. We’ll secure the entire perimeter beforehand… Yes. The crematoriums can manage five thousand in one night.”
There was obvious pride in the SS man’s voice. Mala felt her extremities slowly turning to ice.
“They’ve already sent the postcards home. Yes. Postdated, as you ordered… We shall be ready to receive the next batch already next week. Yes, of course, you may schedule the next transport. We shall be ready by then—”
Too preoccupied with Schwarzhuber and his sinister plans, Mala entirely forgot about Mandl also being in the room and felt her shoulders jerk when the women’s camp leader pulled the door open and came face to face with her. At once, Mala caught Schwarzhuber’s sharp glare on her.
“I was just about to knock, Lagerführerin,” Mala uttered the words she knew no one would believe. “I wanted to ask if you would like some coffee perhaps.”
Mandl didn’t have a chance to reply, as Schwarzhuber was already on his feet, promising to call back at once. “An emergency has occurred that needs swift dealing with.”
He crossed the office in a few long strides and grasped Mala by her forearm. She thought to protest, to try to weasel her way out of it, to claim that she didn’t hear anything as he was dragging her across the room. But she decided to say nothing at all. He would shoot her regardless, so why humiliate herself with begging in her last minutes on earth?
Out of the corner of her eye, Mala saw Mandl standing in the door—pale, wringing hands against her chest—and so very silent. Mala didn’t blame her for that cowardice, for the refusal to stand up for her secretaries. Under the Nazi regime, German women had been conditioned from an early age that a man’s word was the law to obey, and particularly if that man was one’s superior. It was the price they paid for a slightly longer leash and a measly bit of power thrown at them like a bone.
No, Mala didn’t blame her. She simply despised Mandl just then.
On the threshold, Schwarzhuber abruptly came to a halt and swung round, turning to Zippy.
Mala’s heart skipped a beat; No, not Zippy!
But it was much too late.
“You, Slovak bitch, do you need a special invitation?” He roared at Zippy, digging his fingers even deeper into Mala’s arm. She didn’t flinch, only watched her friend cross the room hurriedly in utter desperation.
“Herr Lagerführer, please, leave her be.” She would never plead for her own life, but Zippy’s was something different entirely. “She was typing the entire time, she couldn’t possibly hear a single word—”
The officer backhanded her with such force, she instantly tasted blood in her mouth. “Shut your trap!” he bellowed. “Sly Jew-bitches… We appoint you to privileged positions and that’s how you repay us? Dirty, scheming tramps!”
He was still raving as he dragged them both after himself down the stairs.
Mala tried to apologize to Zippy, only to receive another three slaps that left her ears ringing.
“Which part of ‘shut your trap’ do you not understand?!”
Mala had expected him to take them outside and dispatch them both next to the entrance, but instead, he brought them to the cellar.
“You’ll stay here until I decide whether to hang you in front of the entire camp or gas you along with your friends from the Family Camp,” he snarled, pulling the coal storage door open and shoving both women inside with such force that they landed on their hands and knees, scraping them.
The coal dust raised into the air by the women landing on the ground was still settling long after the SS man had slammed the door shut, bolting it from the outside. Feeling their way around in absolute darkness, Mala and Zippy crawled back toward the door and pressed their backs against it, coughing and rubbing their eyes to clear the black dust.
“Forgive me, please,” Mala rasped, searching for Zippy’s hand. “You warned me and I didn’t listen.”
“It’s all right. I’m not mad. Well, a little mad, but not at you. I’m mad at myself for being a chicken and not going to that door myself.”
Mala couldn’t see her friend’s face in the darkness, but she could tell that Zippy was smiling.
“We were right then,” Mala said, wiping her busted lip with the hem of her skirt. “They will gas them. Only, now there’s no way to warn them. God damn it,” she suddenly cursed out loud and slammed her fist into the metal door.
“Did the door have it coming?”
“No, but I feel slightly better now.”
Zippy laughed vacantly and then gasped as something occurred to her.
“What?” Mala tensed up as well.
“Alma’s lover, Miklós, lives in the Family Camp. Technically he belongs to Laks’ Music Block—Miklós is a pianist—but he specifically requested to be placed in the Family Block after they transferred him from Auschwitz. I think he has friends there, old acquaintances from the music world. He took Alma there once to see a play. She was positively glowing when she told me about it.”
“Alma Rosé? Your conductor?”
“Yes.” Judging by the sound, Zippy was biting her lips. “God, I hope they don’t liquidate him along with the others. Alma loves him to death. She won’t survive it.”
“I’m sure they’ll take him off the list. You said he belongs to Laks’ detail. He’s not part of the Family Camp.”
“The trouble is, one never knows with the SS. Mandl adores his playing though. I can only pray she spares his life just for the sake of his talent. Because if she doesn’t, Alma—” She receded abruptly, as though terrified of her own thoughts. “We still have the Sonderkommando underground,” Zippy continued after a pause, nudging Mala with her shoulder. “The SS must have told them how much coke to prepare for the next Aktion. They’ll put two and two together. Kostek will warn them in time. There’s still a chance that there may be an uprising.”
“Even better. There will be an uprising and we’ll sit it out in this blasted basement. I wish he would have just shot us and got it over with.” The sarcasm in Mala’s voice was evident.
“Speak for yourself, Joan of Arc. I rather enjoy my life. And don’t
arch your brow at me; I know you’re doing it even if I can’t see your face.”
“It’s for the best that you can’t see my face. Whether they hang us or gas us, I’ll look like a right beauty for the occasion, thanks to Herr Lagerführer.”
“Does it hurt?” Zippy dropped her jesting, her tone growing concerned.
“Only my heart.”
Engulfed by the darkness, they both went silent, knowing what the other was suffering.
As soon as an SS man appeared in their block and demanded whether anyone could drive a truck, Edek knew that something was up. With a deep sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he volunteered for the task and was immediately driven toward the camp’s garage with shouts and blows. He’d grown tender and rather spoiled in the fitters’ detail; the block elder was a decent enough fellow and the Kapos didn’t slave-drive them too much. Even the SS left them pretty much alone, but today it was Edek’s profound suspicion that something major was occurring that had gotten the guards so agitated.
No one told them anything specific. The SS merely shoved them toward their respective trucks—there were sixty or even more of those altogether, according to Edek’s quick calculations—and told them to follow the leader. That was the extent of the instructions.
Next came the Kapos. Some vicious-looking, hulky Green Triangles with the faces of murderers and heavy wooden batons clutched firmly in their great paws. Like a small, well-trained army, they hopped into the trucks and pulled the tarpaulin down as though to conceal their presence from the general camp population. Edek didn’t like the sight of them at all.
The sheer amount of SS, in steel helmets, with submachine guns at the ready and dogs straining on the leashes they held wrapped around their wrists, stunned Edek as the column of trucks crawled slowly forward along the main camp street—Lagerstraße. They were virtually everywhere, grim and watchful, seemingly waiting for any sign of a revolt to exterminate at the root at once. His fingers clasping the steering wheel with such force that his knuckles turned white, Edek knew that there could be only one explanation for the gray-green mass of uniforms and steel.
The Girl Who Escaped from Auschwitz: A totally gripping and absolutely heartbreaking World War 2 page-turner, based on a true story Page 21