The Violinist of Auschwitz: Based on a true story, an absolutely heartbreaking and gripping World War 2 novel

by Ellie Midwood

  “Does a person need to be a celebrity to play the violin in this place?” Alma asked, sharper than she had intended.

  “Not necessarily, but it helps while trying to obtain one,” Hellinger explained. “To organize things in Auschwitz, it requires a lot of work. It will cost me, getting a violin for you. The only person who knows anything about music is this little Fräulein. Don’t hold it against me, but I had to verify it with her first.”

  Ima was already pulling at Magda’s sleeve as she searched the Blockälteste’s face with her pleading eyes. “Oh, Magda, dear, please, do get it for her! You will fall over with amazement once you hear how splendidly she can play. A true virtuoso; you take my word for it. You’ll feel as though you’re in the Vienna Philharmonic at once—”

  “Vienna Philharmonic, my foot,” Magda grumbled under her breath, throwing a glance in the direction of the door. “Even if I get one through Zippy, how is she to play it here in secret? Or do you suggest we stage an open concert here, right under Dr. Clauberg’s very nose?”

  “Dr. Clauberg and the SS Blockführerin leave at six.” Ima refused to surrender. “They won’t come back till the next morning. The compound shall be all but deserted. We’ll put a couple of girls as door watchers so they can alert us at once if someone approaches the block.”

  “What of Block 11? Don’t you think they’ll hear her play?”

  After a pause, Ima shrugged, a gentle, tragic smile appearing on her face. “They’re all condemned men there. Do you truly believe they’ll report to the SS the last beautiful thing they heard before going to the wall?”

  Much to Alma’s astonishment, the very next day Magda presented her with a violin. With the slyest of looks, the block elder produced it from inside the pillowcase and held it before bewildered Alma’s eyes with visible pride.

  “Zippy sends her regards.”

  Alma grasped at the violin’s neck with hunger other inmates displayed only at the sight of bread. “Who’s Zippy?” Alma inquired, out of politeness mostly.

  All her attention was riveted to the instrument, to which broken pieces of straw still clung from where it had been extracted from its hiding place. Slowly and with great reverence, Alma’s fingers caressed the lines of the violin. It had been eight months, eight excruciatingly long months, since she had held her own Guadagnini—her faithful companion that she had to leave for her lover’s safekeeping in Utrecht.

  Something caught in her throat when Alma remembered Leonard’s warm hands on her wet cheeks and his assurances that she would surely be back before she knew it and that her violin should be right there, with him, awaiting her return, just like he was…

  With a sudden chilling cynicism, she wondered whose bed her Leonard was warming now, much like Heini before him. In the course of the past few years, Alma had grown used to the men’s betrayals. Only violins stayed loyal. Her Guadagnini was with her when first husband Váša asked for a divorce; it was still with her when her lover Heini had fled, leaving her to fend for herself in pre-war London. The idea of Alma being the breadwinner in the family didn’t appeal to him, much like the discomfort of having to start from the blank slate with a woman he used to swear he loved more than life just weeks before they left their native Austria, with Alma’s father in tow. Poor Heinrich, Alma mused with a smirk, didn’t even have the guts to look her in the eye before beating his hasty retreat. She ran from Austria to save her life; he ran back to Vienna to save his—the life of comfort devoid of any unnecessary hardships.

  “Who’s Zippy?” Magda snorted softly, a conspirator’s look about her. “That’s for me to know and for you not to find out. Now, put it away and don’t even think of touching it until I tell you personally that it’s safe. Understood?”

  “Yes.”

  “You ought to say, Jawohl, Blockälteste.” When Alma looked up at her sharply, Magda softened the order with an unexpected smile. “You don’t have to give me their idiotic military response when it’s just us girls here. But you ought to say it when the SS wardens, Dr. Clauberg, or Dr. Wirths are present. And you ought to reply in the same manner to them, too, or you’ll get it from them, with a whip across your back. Well, not from Dr. Wirths; he’s essentially a reasonable man and not violent by nature. In fact, it’s thanks to him that we have bedsheets, nightgowns, towels, and even soap in our block. But the others, they’re far from being so charitable. They’re big on discipline, the SS.”

  As though not having heard her, Alma continued to stare at the violin with a blissful smile.

  Magda Hellinger had already turned to take her leave when she heard an unexpected, “Thank you, Blockälteste.”

  In spite of herself, Magda discovered that she was grinning. “You’re welcome, Your Highness.”

  That evening, the setting sun colored the underbellies of the clouds tender-pink. All over the camp, silence lay once the outside gangs had been marched in. Inside their cages, the guard dogs slept, locked up for the night. Only Block 10 was in wild excitement. Women, the ones who weren’t bedridden that is, moved their cots to free the space for a makeshift stage in the front of the room. Violin in hand, Alma shifted from one foot to the other in great impatience, her nerves strained to the utmost as though she were to play before the Vienna finest again and not this pitiful, suffering herd.

  At last, everything was arranged. Perfect silence descended upon the Experimental block. Stepping in front of her audience, Alma brought a bow to the strings and closed her eyes. The first long, tentative note probed the stillness of the descending night. It cut itself short, hesitated, then suddenly gained force and unraveled in a crescendo of runs and, all at once, the very name—Auschwitz—had ceased to exist for its victims. They weren’t here any longer; eyes closed, dreamy smiles on their exhausted faces, the women swaying slightly in time with the music, each immersed in her own world where beauty once again had its meaning, where lovers twirled them in their arms to a Viennese waltz, where their loved ones still lived, despite all, for music is eternal and so are the memories.

  In the corner, Ima was weeping soundlessly, holding her mouth with her nurse’s kerchief. Leaning against the wall, Magda was rubbing her chest as though it physically pained her, being reminded of the fact that something existed beyond this cruel world where her kind was being slaughtered in hundreds of thousands. Yet, she smiled, for along with the pain, the hope had ignited in her once again—hope that perhaps nothing was yet lost if such beauty could still find its way even behind the Auschwitz walls.

  Her fingers abuzz with the music, Alma opened her eyes and grinned mischievously at her stunned audience.

  “What are you all waiting for?” Her voice suddenly cut through the reverent silence. “Am I playing for nothing? It’s not just rude, it’s practically amoral to sit still when the waltz is being played. Dance. Well? Up and dance, ladies! I refuse to believe they made you forget how to dance.”

  For the first few moments, the girls exchanged bewildered gazes. The very idea appeared outrageous. But then Magda herself made a resolute step toward one of the cots, bowed theatrically, and offered one of the women her hand with a gallantry that would make any Old Empire gentleman proud.

  “Madame Mila, would you do me the honor?”

  Without any hesitation, the girl whom Magda addressed as Mila, enclosed her narrow palm into the Hungarian Blockälteste’s hand. Giggling with disbelief and delight, they began twirling around the small space near the improvised stage, barefoot and tangling in their long nightgowns. Soon, another couple joined them, and another, as Alma looked on, misty-eyed and finally at peace for the first time in months. With the power of her music, she made these women free for a few precious moments. Now, she could die happy.

  Chapter 2

  August 1943

  “Your Highness!” Despite the teasing manner in which Magda had addressed Alma, there was a definite measure of respect in her voice now.

  Not only that, the block elder had somehow managed to ensure that Alma would be
exempt from the experiments just so the Block wouldn’t lose their precious violinist who made them forget the horrors of their incarceration each time she played for them. Alma had a strong suspicion that such a preferential treatment had something to do with Sylvia Friedmann, Dr. Clauberg’s first assistant, who had become a sort of a permanent fixture at their “cultural evenings” as of late. Most certainly it was her who had agreed to strike Alma’s name from Dr. Clauberg’s list after Alma played her favorite Slovakian songs the nurse had requested.

  “What do you say to playing for a slightly different audience tonight?” Magda’s voice was bright with an artificial cheerfulness in it, but her eyes, averted in discomfort, betrayed the block elder. Behind her back, two newcomers, scrawny like scarecrows, were shifting from one foot to another. “These two girls are from the women’s band,” Magda continued. “It’s them, whom you hear playing every morning when the outside Kommandos—the work gangs—walk through the gates. ‘Work sets you free’ and all that rot. The SS think marching to work ought to be celebrated with music.” An expressive roll of Magda’s eyes was a clear enough indication of her attitude toward the infamous slogan that was emblazoned above the camp gates—Arbeit macht frei. “That was the reason why they organized camp orchestras in the first place.”

  Alma remained silent.

  “Good afternoon, Frau Rosé.” The younger woman stepped forward. A striped dress that hung loosely over her frame only emphasized her emaciated state. Oddly enough, her head wasn’t shaved—Alma could see the auburn curls neatly tucked under her kerchief. “It’s such an honor to make your acquaintance. We’re all huge admirers of your talent.”

  “My name is Hilde, and this is Karla,” her friend introduced them both. Just like Karla, Hilde spoke Alma’s native language but with a Prussian accent instead of Alma’s soft Viennese. She also wore the same striped dress and kerchief. It occurred to Alma that it must have been the band’s uniform of sorts.

  At once, they began talking over each other:

  “We heard from Zippy about the tremendous success of your cultural evenings—”

  “She plays in our little orchestra, you see—”

  “I play recorder and piccolo—”

  “And I’m a percussionist, but, to be truthful with you, all we can produce is the most atrocious Katzenmusik that the local Gestapo can use as a form of torture and brassy marches that are only good enough for the Aussenkommando—the outside gangs—to march to.”

  “Sofia, our band leader, tries to organize us the best she can, but we’re like monkeys to an organ grinder.”

  “And it just so happens that today is one of the SS wardens’ birthdays and we thought—”

  “No.”

  Startled by such a categorical dismissal—the first thing to fly off Alma’s lips that she kept pursed into a tight, unyielding line—the two girls exchanged anxious looks.

  Next to them, Magda only snorted softly with good-natured disdain. “I told you she’d refuse. Her Highness doesn’t realize where she is yet. If she were assigned to an outside gang for a couple of days, where they’d make her hurl rocks from one pile to another purely for the SS’s amusement, that would teach her fast enough how not to turn her little nose away from such opportunities. But we have spoiled her here already.”

  “I’m not playing for those Nazi pig farmers,” Alma said. Seeing the band girls’ faces transform with growing horror from such insults being thrown around with such carelessness, she grinned darkly. “Pig farmers,” Alma repeated slowly and with great relish. “That’s precisely what they are. The scum of the earth that crawled out of all the crevices and flooded the entire continent with their filth. You wish me to play for them? Why would I waste my talents? They wouldn’t recognize good music if it hit them full-on in their faces.”

  Chalk-white and wide-eyed, Karla was already shaking her head so vehemently her auburn curls came loose from under her kerchief. “You mustn’t say such things here! People will report you to the Kapo, or an SS Blockführerin, for a piece of bread and it will all be over for you!”

  “All the better. Report me yourselves, if you like. Makes no difference to me.” It wasn’t mere bravado; she truly didn’t care one way or the other if the SS took her to the wall and shot her for her long tongue.

  Magda was outright laughing now. Have you seen anything like it? her very face seemed to reflect. “Highness.” She stepped closer to Alma’s bed. “Don’t be daft. Get up.”

  Alma didn’t move.

  “Well? Shall I help you find your legs? What’s the difference who you play for, us or the wardens?” Magda pressed.

  “There’s a great difference for me.”

  “The girls are right; someone will report your refusal to play and you’ll land yourself in the neighboring block for your arrogance, where the camp Gestapo will make things hot for you.”

  “They can beat me to death, if such is their wish. It’ll change nothing. They can kill me, but they won’t make me play.”

  “I’ve seen pigheaded people in my life before, but this is something new entirely.” Magda shook her head. “I did what I could,” she told the band girls before taking her leave. “That’s your trouble now. I have my own affairs to attend to.”

  For some time, the three women observed each other silently. Karla was the first one to clear her throat.

  “Frau Rosé, I know you’re from Austria… We’re neighbors. I’m from Germany. Your family is well-known there, too, among artistic circles. What great philanthropists your father and your uncles have always been…” Her voice trailed off. She was watching for Alma’s reaction, almost with desperation.

  “What does my family have to do with anything?” Alma exhaled, growing tired of the conversation.

  Family. The word had long lost its original sense. The Nazis came to her native Vienna and took it all from them; scattered the Rosé clan all over the world. Some fled, including Alma’s brother Alfred and his wife. Some stayed, hoping for that collective madness to pass, her elderly father among them. But the madness was only gaining force; every day, some new anti-Semitic law was added to the endless list, and soon, old friends could no longer visit the Rosé house and Alma’s father, Arnold Rosé, the former venerable concertmaster expelled from the Philharmonic, was now prohibited to play music written by German composers under his own roof. Alma was almost relieved that her mother had passed away and was no longer around to see it all. Her heart would have most certainly broken at all the inhumanity and terror Hitler’s Brownshirts were unleashing on the population.

  Family. In the end, it was only two of them left, Alma and Arnold—her beloved Vati, who had turned from a celebrated musician into an old broken man before her own eyes in the course of only a few months. Only when he realized that there was no place for him anymore in his own country did he allow Alma to take him away, to the safety of London.

  Family, Alma thought, and suddenly felt profoundly miserable.

  For a moment, Karla appeared to search for the right words. “Perhaps, if not for yourself—trust me, I understand your sentiments perfectly well—but for the others, for us, would you consider…”

  Another uncomfortable pause.

  Alma’s brows knitted together.

  At last, Karla’s fellow bandmate released an exasperated sigh. “What she’s trying to say is that if you play for them, along with us, they will give the entire band extra rations. As we’ve already told you, we’re not particularly good at what we do, so we need someone… with education.”

  “Yes, with education and experience—” Karla added.

  “And talent—”

  “Yes, definitely, talent.”

  Hilde continued, “What we’re saying is that when we play well, they give us extra bread and sometimes even sausage. And we could definitely use some bread and sausage.”

  Alma’s features softened. A faint smile appeared on her lips. “That’s the entire trouble? You should have just said so from the very be
ginning. I have never refused a charity concert in my life.”

  “You shall play then?” Karla’s entire face lit up, as she clasped her hands in front of her chest.

  “Yes, only…” With a disgusted grin, Alma pulled her nightgown—the Experimental Block’s uniform—away from her body. “I can’t very well perform in this, as you can well imagine.”

  “We’ll get you a dress from the Kanada, right this instant! You’ll look like a princess tonight.”

  “What’s a Kanada?” Alma asked.

  “The Kanada is… ahh… heaven on earth.” Dreamily, Karla drew her eyes to the ceiling. “A place where anything can be had.”

  “It’s a Birkenau work detail, the most kosher in the entire camp,” Hilde clarified, seeing Alma’s confusion. “The set of barracks where they sort the clothes and personal belongings of the new arrivals. Sort, disinfect, and ship them to Germany, for the Aryan folk to wear. If you ever need to ‘organize’ something, the Kanada is the place to go.”

  Back then, Alma didn’t realize just how prophetic those words would be.

  They indeed managed to get her an evening gown in under two hours. It smelled faintly of someone else’s perfume and was a size too big, but Alma couldn’t care less about appearances. Never before did she dress with such reluctance; never before was she overcome with such profound loathing for her audience. But the girls from the orchestra were hungry and so Alma swallowed her feelings and followed them into the night.

  Inside the block she was taken to, a few lone bulbs provided the light for the plywood stage. It creaked, even under Alma’s slight frame, as she stepped before her audience, violin in hand. It wasn’t a Guadagnini by any stretch of imagination, but it was tuned just fine and had all of its strings about it and, to Alma, that was all that mattered. “Any instrument is good enough in skilled hands,” her father used to say.

  As she brought the violin to her shoulder, Alma wondered how her Vati was faring there, in England. She had left him in the safety of London and herself, against everyone’s advice, traveled to Holland, where work could still be found for Jewish musicians. Despite the threat of the German army digging its claws into war-ravaged Europe, Alma had played tirelessly at every venue that booked her for a few precious months and sent her father the proceeds from her little concerts. But then Germany had invaded Holland, just weeks before her planned return to London, and all the communications were suddenly cut off between father and daughter. Raising her bow now in Auschwitz, Alma imagined him drinking his tea somewhere, in a quiet English village, away from the bombs and all this “scientific antisemitism”—safe, untouched by this filth.