Auschwitz Syndrome: a Holocaust novel based on a true story (Women and the Holocaust Book 3)

by Ellie Midwood

  “I would so love to hold your hand now,” Franz confessed, softly and with sudden emotion.

  “Me, too.”

  “Once the war is over, I will take your hand and never let it go.”

  As we were nearing the guard tower, I was suddenly aware that I was smiling and quickly pulled the scarf over the lower part of my face. No need for them to get curious about such an unnatural expression on an inmate’s face.

  “Do you think it shall be over soon?”

  “It shall be over someday,” he replied pensively.

  “Who’s winning?”

  “So far, the Ivans.”

  I nodded, greedily taking in any bits of this new information he was willing to supply me with. Despite all the plans for our common future, I knew it all too well what a personal blow each defeat was for him. It was his country, after all, that was losing the war. He had all the natural right to be upset over such a turn of events.

  “Yes, someday it shall be over and we shall go and live in Vienna as free people,” he murmured again, after exchanging a quick salute with the guard overhead. “There won’t be any more Nuremberg Laws. We’ll marry and no one will be able to say a word against it.”

  “In Vienna?” I turned to him. His eyes, with a faraway look in them, were gazing straight ahead, as if he thought it possible to see the future if he looked hard enough.

  “Yes. I haven’t told you, have I? They gave us an apartment in Vienna. To me and my mother, that is. She has already moved; I have just received her letter.”

  “That’s nice. For your service?”

  He was silent for some time, then shook his head slowly. “The previous owners were Jewish. They were resettled a few months ago.”

  “Deported,” I murmured and bit my lip at once, guilty and annoyed at the same time, and not knowing what to make of my own emotions.

  “Deported, yes,” Franz suddenly agreed. “If I didn’t take it, someone else would have. You know how it is. A damned sorry excuse, I know but at least you shall live there with me and I thought that somewhat balanced things. Do you not think so?”

  I nodded, not quite sure how to respond to it right. Was there a right answer to such a question?

  “I assume your sister won’t have any place to go after the war either. She can stay with us for as long as she wants.”

  “Thank you, Franz. That’s very generous of you.”

  “It’s not generous,” he argued louder than he should have and threw an annoyed glare at the people shuffling behind the barbed-wire – half-frozen, stiff almost-corpses. We had reached the main camp. “It’s all… Scheiße,” he finished, or, to be exact, didn’t finish his thought, with an emphatic curse and oddly enough, it suited the situation just fine.

  When we reached the Kommandantur, I paused in front of the entrance despite it being quite simple and unguarded. Franz’s palm softly lowered onto the small of my back – such a needed gesture of silent support – prompted me forward. Still, I whispered, “you go in first,” and caught an amused grin from him. I hid behind his back as we walked along its corridors, which smelled of freshly waxed floors and woolen uniforms and did my best to blend in with the wall when he stepped inside the Kommandant’s anteroom, leaving me alone behind the padded double doors, much to my horror.

  I fretted without any reason, as no one paid me any heed. Two officers strolled past me, discussing the latest motion picture they’d seen in the officers’ quarters and didn’t even glance in my direction. An inmate did, though, a beautiful, busy-looking woman with a stack of files straining her arms. I’d never seen her before but knew of her. Her name was Mala, a Jewish woman from Poland, who had a privileged position as an interpreter and messenger, due to her ability to speak multiple languages and her sharp, analytical mind. She was a legend of sorts in the camp, the only other woman who was allowed to keep her hair, apart from us Kanada girls. She greeted me with a quick, friendly nod and I replied with the same, feeling strangely reassured by her presence here. I was still gazing after her with admiration as she walked, straight-backed and dignified, along the corridor, when Franz opened the door and signed to me to come in.

  Kommandant Liebehenschel received us in his office, furnished with dark wood, simple and welcoming without the dreaded Höss behind its desk. The new Kommandant was a relatively young man with somewhat sad dark eyes, dark hair, and a high forehead marred by premature wrinkles. His thin lips smiled surprisingly easily, at Franz at least. He motioned for us to step closer after the usual exchange of the salutes and once again, Franz prodded me gently in the back.

  “My adjutant says you have some plans for Christmas, Unterscharführer?”

  “Jawohl, Herr Kommandant. One of my Kommando girls suggested an idea to organize a performance for the SS and I wanted to ask your opinion on this matter.”

  Kommandant Liebehenschel shifted the gaze of his brown eyes to me. They were big and not unkind. I smiled gingerly. “Herr Kommandant, we, the inmates, would like to thank you and your staff here in Auschwitz-Birkenau for everything you’ve done for us lately. If it is agreeable with you, we would like to perform for you and the SS staff as part of Christmas celebrations…” My voice faded on its own. Just then, I heard myself and how utterly strange it sounded, coming from a Jew.

  He still smiled easily, interested. “I think it’s a splendid idea. What exactly do you think to perform?”

  “Songs, traditional ones; some girls can dance very well…” I paused again and then, reassured by his so far non-hostile attitude, looked up at him again. “A play, perhaps?”

  “A play? A play should be fine, too. What sort of a play?”

  I turned to Franz helplessly. That’s what we should have been talking about on the way here and not how we were going to hold hands once the war was over. Grand organizers that made us – nothing to say.

  “Something classical, perhaps?” Franz was quicker than me at improvising. He had nothing to fear from the man behind the desk, not that I did either, as he was by no means the same sort as Höss but it was still a habit, to be afraid of anyone high-ranking. One never knew what could set them off, the SS. “Or, even better, something humorous? To lift the spirits of the comrades?” He beamed at the Kommandant. “Something with Krampus, with your permission?”

  “With Krampus?” Kommandant Liebehenschel arched his brow in surprise but then laughed, the easy laughter of a man who did it often. “You’re from Austria, then. I should have guessed by the accent. Which part?”

  “Lower Austria, Herr Kommandant. But my family now lives in Vienna.”

  “Your wife?”

  “My mother.”

  “You’re not married?”

  “No, mein Kommandant.”

  “Good for you. Despite all the propaganda, it’s the biggest mistake a fellow can make.”

  Franz’s body quivered with silent chuckles.

  “Why Krampus, though?”

  “He’s funny.” Franz shrugged.

  “He’s the devil, is he not?”

  “He’s the good devil. He looks terrifying but he’s actually a kind-hearted fellow. People just misunderstand him.”

  “Is that how you folk see him in Austria?”

  Franz shrugged again, another smile warming his face. “Children wait for him more than they wait for St. Nicholas, believe it or not.”

  “He’s supposed to whip them, put them into his sack, and drag them to hell! What sort of children do you raise there in Austria that they are thrilled to see him?” the Kommandant asked, laughing.

  “The fearless future leaders of the Reich, apparently.” Franz’s face drew into a wry smile after he threw a pointed look at the portrait of the Führer on the wall, his compatriot. Judging by the Kommandant’s delighted reaction, it was a smart answer. “They’re thrilled to see Krampus because he only punishes the bad children and besides, all that affair with the whipping and the kidnapping and dragging them to hell is not real and they know it. It’s play-pretend. That�
��s what makes it fun. They all know he’s only playing.”

  “I’m sold. Stage your Krampus, future leader of the Reich.”

  “Not me, Herr Kommandant. I don’t have the requirements for it. Now, the play-writing suits me much better.”

  The Kommandant’s shoulders were shaking with laughter again. He liked Franz. “Off with you, Shakespeare with chevrons! Prepare a detailed report for me with the exact date, time, and place.”

  “May we use the officers’ mess, Herr Kommandant? So that it’s not in the warehouse…” He glanced over Liebehenschel’s smart uniform. “Unseemly for you and other officers to sit there, in a sorting facility.”

  “Yes, you may.”

  “Thank you, Herr Kommandant.”

  As soon as we stepped outside, Franz, bursting with ideas, began his excited speech on what costumes we absolutely must put together and how exactly we should decorate the stage and what to use for Krampus’s horns when he suddenly stopped and regarded me quizzically.

  “Why do you look so upset? He agreed to everything and more. Do you not like the idea with Krampus? It doesn’t have to be Krampus. We can stage The Nutcracker for all I care…”

  He didn’t seem to understand my downcast gaze and my silence. Finally, we could chat openly, in front of everyone, as we now had a good enough excuse for it. We could spend days together planning and rehearsing everything. What else was one to ask for, if not such, almost freedom?

  “I like the idea with Krampus,” I replied quietly. “It was so nice, the way you described it. It just reminded me…”

  “What?”

  I sighed. “I wish it was all play-pretend here too. The whipping and the hell-dragging. How nice it would have been, if it was all one big joke and all the kidnapped people suddenly returned.”

  Now, he was silent too. Silent, and visibly upset, just like me. I almost wished I hadn’t said anything at all. What was the point of it?

  We wandered through the white, sparkling day. In this part of the camp, on the very outskirts of Auschwitz, the barracks and the prisoners and even the old crematorium were no longer visible, only the great fluffy waves of snow piled around us, as though in a fairytale. I slowed my steps. I wasn’t ready to be back in Birkenau yet. In Birkenau, it was all going to become real again, the death, the walking skeletons, the chimneys.

  As though on cue, Franz stopped as well and lit a cigarette. He stood in such a way that he shielded me with his body from the wind as he took deliberately slow drags on his smoke, looking somewhere over my head, covered by the thick scarf.

  “Me too, Leni.” His voice came in the form of a grayish, translucent cloud against the frost. “I so wish to wake up and realize that I only dreamed it all. This whole…” He made a vague gesture around with his gloved hand. I looked at his young, pale face. Suddenly, he looked at me with determination. “But not you. I would have died if I woke up and didn’t have you.”

  But me and this place were connected together in such a tightly twisted knot that it was impossible to separate us any longer. This time, I held my tongue so as not to upset him any further. “You do have me. You always will have.”

  This place broke me, broke me to such an extent that I couldn’t imagine life behind its walls anymore. With frightening clarity, I suddenly realized that he was just as connected to this place as I was and without him, I would have died too. Even if the war ended, even if indeed I became free again, I couldn’t imagine taking a single step without him next to me. I wouldn’t be able to step through a single door without the reassuring weight of his hand on my back. I wouldn’t be able to hide from the others behind anyone else but him. I needed him even more than he needed me. He needed me out of love but I needed him because, without him, I wouldn’t survive.

  He smiled at me and blew the smoke away from my face. “Krampus it is, then?”

  I nodded readily and, full of contentment, stepped onto the cleared path after him.

  Chapter 27

  Helena

  Weighed down by the bundles of clothing that would serve us as costumes, we waited reluctantly in front of the officers’ mess while Franz was communicating the Kommandant’s orders to someone inside. It was alien territory, an enemy territory held by the SS and we instinctively longed for the familiar comfort of our warehouses and barracks.

  Two SS wardens walked out of the mess but halted in their tracks as soon as they saw us, the pitiful bunch of tramps shifting from one foot to another under their scrutinizing gazes. We rarely saw female SS wardens in our Kanada detail. The women’s camp in Birkenau was their domain. Wolff talked about them, mostly in salacious innuendos; Franz only remarked once, coolly and in passing when I asked him about them, that they were the Ravensbrück’s rejects and that it would be wiser to stay away from them.

  They stood before us, gorgeous and disdainful, their round, healthy faces full of icy, cruel scorn.

  “What is this Gypsy gang?” one of them asked. Her hair had a platinum shine to it in the cold winter sun. Her uniform was gray and tailored to her slim figure under her cape, which was still unbuttoned.

  “An SS warden just asked you lot a question.” The second one pulled herself up. Her hair was styled in careful, onyx curls which matched her polished boots. We were all staring at their tips, afraid to lift our heads to meet their mocking gazes. “Shall I help you find your tongues?”

  “They’re here on Kommandant Liebehenschel’s orders.”

  We all breathed out in relief at the sight of our Kommandoführer who had stepped out of the mess with two men in tow. One of the SS wardens, the blonde, turned to face him.

  “Are you setting up another Gypsy camp in our own headquarters now?” She tilted her head to one side, a coy smile curling her lips.

  “We’re staging a Christmas play for Herr Kommandant and his staff,” Franz replied without any emotion.

  “Shouldn’t they be working instead of performing?” The same blonde motioned her brilliant head in our direction.

  “Shouldn’t you mind your own affairs instead of sticking your noses in your superiors’ business?” came the intentionally rude reply.

  We all held our breaths. To say something of this sort to the SS wardens in front of a group of inmates! But Franz was an SS man and cared little for his female compatriots’ feelings judging by the looks of it. Not paying any heed to the couple, he calmly motioned us inside and told the two men, accompanying him, to take our bundles from us.

  They had already cleared the space for the stage and arranged the chairs around it in neat rows. Later, we discovered that they were the inmates who worked as waiters in the officers’ mess – another highly coveted and privileged position which every single inhabitant of Auschwitz would have killed for. In hushed whispers and amid work, they inquired if we needed anything to be “organized” from the canteen. We thanked them profusely and took whatever they slid in our pockets, with gratitude. Not for ourselves; later, we would share it with the girls from Birkenau, who had to replace us for the time being. All of them were from the women’s camp and didn’t have much meat on their bones under their striped dresses. Neither could they bring themselves to pocket anything from the abundance of the Kanada riches – some, out of personal values and some, out of fear of finding themselves on the wrong end of the Kapo’s stick. They were beaten much more than us and even under the new Kommandant’s command, they couldn’t force themselves to overcome the old fears.

  One of the waiters, who was busy slipping a triangle of the SS-canteen cheese into one of the girls’ pockets, froze in his place as Franz turned around when the waiter had least expected it and caught him red-handed. Holding his breath, the waiter stepped away from the young woman slowly, awaiting the punishment any moment now.

  “What are you doing?” Franz demanded in measured tones. “Distributing Reich’s property?”

  The waiter blinked once, twice; it was a nervous twitch more than regular blinking. What could one answer to that? Before he could o
pen his mouth and dig himself a deeper grave, the SS man threw over his shoulder, “I don’t want to see this happening again,” before turning his back on the couple.

  Do it if you must, but not in front of my eyes. I have no desire to explain why I allowed this to the Political Department, even though Grabner is no longer in charge of it.

  Wet with sweat from such an unexpected lucky break, the waiter applied his best to decorating the stage to the best of his abilities and even managed to commandeer a few rolls of insulation from somewhere – perhaps, even the roof of the mess itself – “to make the snow under Herr Unterscharführer’s Tree look swell.”

  Rolls of yellowish cotton-like clouds made the latter arch his brow skeptically.

  “I’ll put it back right after the performance, Herr Unterscharführer,” the waiter rushed to reassure his favorite new superior. “No one will even notice anything.”

  “Take care that they don’t. I’m responsible for all this. If something goes amiss or—”

  “On my mother’s grave, Herr Unterscharführer!” The inmate even rolled his eyes to emphasize his point.

  SS guards – mostly men and a few wardens among them – came and went, invariably stopping by our improvised stage just to be chased off (as long as their rank was lower or that of his own) by Franz, who guarded the play’s contents with the fearlessness of a true playwright.

  “Quit your spying, you louts!” he shouted at them, half-serious. “I’ll report you to the Kommandant for interfering with official SS business!”

  “You’ve got yourself set up nicely, with that official SS business!” one of the SS men was quick to see the joke.

  “Do you need more actors in your gang?” another one chimed in, his teeth shining white in the artificial light.

  “Yes, I need more vagabonds and you look just the part!” Franz bared his teeth in a snarl in reply to all the taunts. “Now, change into those rags and step on the stage and my girls will carry the duty for you, in the meantime. They look more capable at any rate.”