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

by Ellie Midwood

  Alma felt herself shuddering. Before that day, she had carried the bubble of self-deception like a sort of a protective cocoon around herself. She was Alma Rosé. The SS wouldn’t dare touch her. Now, she was suddenly terrified with the chilling thought that at least some of these men must have nursed the same exact empty illusion when they had stepped onto the Auschwitz ramp.

  Moving as though in a nightmare, Alma stumbled her way to the Kanada detail. Here, it was a different world entirely. Astounded, Alma stopped and contemplated the rows and rows of warehouses that stood with their doors thrown open. From inside, women’s laughter could be heard, brilliant and careless. There were no SS guards in sight; only a Kapo offered lazy comments from the pile of mattresses on which he was presently lying like some Oriental pasha, a cigarette in hand. Although, it appeared that inmates only half-listened to his half-hearted instructions. If it wasn’t for the Kapo’s distinctive armband, Alma would have trouble distinguishing him from his underlings—nearly everyone in the Kanada was dressed in civilian clothing.

  In the distance, a group of girls attired in dark slacks, shoes, and light summer shirts were sorting the luggage. Alma stared at their styled hair, wristwatches, and dazzling smiles and thought she was dreaming. A couple of inmates were hurling the suitcases from the back of a truck and onto the ground, their muscular arms straining under white undershirts. Only striped caps betrayed their belonging to the camp population.

  The contrast with the men’s camp was beyond any comprehension.

  An SS man with the Rottenführer insignia on his uniform strolled out of one of the warehouses, yawned and stretched his arms over his head, squinting at the setting sun like an overfed cat. Having approached the group of women, he pointed at something lazily and grinned—one of the girls appeared to have made a joke. Another inmate trotted over to him, took his cap off, clicked his heels and opened his palm. Interested, the SS man fingered at the object. In an instant, it disappeared into his pocket.

  The SS will take anything, Alma recalled Magda’s words. But in such an insolent manner? Right in the open?

  Though who would say anything to that? Perhaps, it was a blessing in disguise that the SS were so corrupted. Just one look at the inmates who supplied them with all of these riches was enough of an argument in the SS corruption’s favor. What a difference they made from the lifeless army on its last breath Alma had just seen marching back to their airless barracks.

  She approached the Rottenführer and showed him her Ausweis signed by Mandl herself. He barely glanced at it and signed to one of the women who were presently emptying the suitcases within mere steps from him.

  “Kitty will escort you inside.” He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke away from Alma’s face. “No gold, jewelry, or currency is allowed to be taken. Reich orders.”

  Alma almost asked him what she would do with that currency here, but stopped herself. “Yes, Lagerführerin Mandl has told me that much.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Rottenführer,” the guard corrected her.

  Alma looked up at him; much to her amazement, he was grinning.

  “You ought to say, Jawohl, Herr Rottenführer,” he explained once again as one would to a child. “We’re the army.”

  “I’m a musician.” In spite of herself, Alma discovered that she was smiling too.

  “Well, then.” He spread his arms in a helpless gesture, looking as though he found her positively amusing just then. Even the SS were different here than in the men’s camp, soothed by the abundance of the riches all around them and tolerant toward the inmates, from which they could profit with such great ease.

  A female prisoner whom he had addressed as Kitty was already pulling Alma away by her sleeve. A few hairpins were holding her elegant dark curls in place and she had lively eyes and neatly plucked eyebrows that moved expressively when she talked.

  “No fraternizing with the guards in the open,” she began whispering as soon as they were away from the SS man’s earshot. “In private, by all means. But not in the open. There are rumors that some bigwigs are coming from Berlin with the inspection; if they see you chatting so amicably together, he’ll be shipped off to the front. But you, you’ll end up over there.” She pointed her beautiful, neatly manicured finger in the direction of the chimneys that were towering even over the warehouses next to which Kanada women worked. From inside them, columns of thick, brownish smoke were rising. This was where “the snow” was coming from.

  Alma made no reply; only gulped a mouthful of smoke when the wind blew in their direction and nearly gagged with the sickly-sweet smell of the burnt flesh.

  Kitty arched her brow expressively. She didn’t appear to be ruffled in the slightest. They worked next to these monstrosities, and she had long grown used to the scent.

  Before long, she was leading Alma through the warehouse, holding an empty pillowcase open and filling it with goods in the view of her “guest” still trailing her in a state of apparent shock.

  “Underwear. You definitely need underwear, a few changes. What size do you wear?” She quickly measured Alma’s tall, slender frame with her assessing gaze. “European 42. Bra size, 2? This is a B; must have come from the department store! Look at it, there’s still a label on it. What luck for you then. Pure silk—here, enjoy. Would you like a slip, too? I imagine so. Here, this one should fit you perfectly.”

  Yet another item was pulled from a pile of undergarments. Alma stared at the sorting table in horror. It was overflowing with silk, ribbons, and simple white cotton. The owners of all of those beautiful things were being burned just meters away, and this dazzling creature next to her was chirping with the professionalism of a Wertheim top salesgirl, advertising the goods to the stunned Alma as one would to a rich client.

  “And now for the stockings… toothbrush… soap; here, a lilac one, straight from Paris! What do you say to that? It’s your fortunate day today, isn’t it?” Kitty was positively beaming, happy with such a haul.

  Alma stared at her through the film of tears and wondered if one day she would also grow used to the smell and to the fact that she was wearing dead people’s undergarments and smile about it.

  As though reading her mind, the girl’s smile suddenly dropped. “Quit staring at me like I’m such a heartless monster. Do you think it does not bother me in the slightest? And what of the Sonderkommando, our own Jewish men who burn those very corpses there daily and nightly; do you think it doesn’t bother them? Burning their own families, friends, neighbors?”

  In the pause that followed, only Kitty’s heavy breathing could be heard.

  “I came here from Slovakia with the very first transport in 1942,” the Kanada girl continued. “Back then, these crematoriums didn’t exist yet. Only one old one in Auschwitz and that one was good for nothing—the walls of the chimneys kept crumbling after every other use. Back then, they didn’t burn them like they do now. They buried them in mass graves right over there, in the fields. Do you think it stinks here now? You should have been here when the ground began rising from all that corpse poison that soon began to seep into our water. You should have been here when they began digging them out and burning them, half-decomposed, on the pyres so tall, people in Krakow must have seen the fires. Some of the Sonderkommando inmates threw themselves into those pyres because they couldn’t take doing such a job for the SS any longer. If you were here back then and saw what we saw, I would have granted you the right to look at me with such disdain. We all had to unlearn how to mourn our people if we wanted to survive. Sensitivity doesn’t live long here. Sensitivity gets people killed. I strongly advise you to get rid of it if you wish to make it back into the world. Now, do you want a wristwatch or not?”

  The unexpected question sounded almost like an accusation. With a great effort, Alma pulled herself together. Having sentiments about all this rot was fine and well, but life went on, even here in the camp, and she would need the watch as a Kapo in order for her entire barrack not to get shot for missing the roll cal
l. “Yes, please.”

  “Leather strap like mine or metal? Can’t give you gold—not allowed. Those are all accounted for.”

  “Leather is fine.”

  When Alma stepped outside the warehouse, a pillowcase bursting at the seams with dead people’s belongings, the bright August sun spilled its golden light onto her with astonishing insolence. Perhaps, it had long turned in itself the ability to feel anything too. Perhaps, with time, so would she.

  Chapter 5

  It was still dark when Sofia shook Alma awake.

  “Don’t get used to it,” the former Kapo said, handing Alma a whistle. “This is actually your duty.”

  Sitting in bed and trying to blink away the sleep, Alma regarded the whistle in puzzlement.

  “This is to wake up the block,” Sofia clarified. Alma could only guess that she was grinning. She recognized amusement in the former Kapo’s voice, but her face in the pre-dawn hour was a mere shadow. “As soon as they’re up, it is your duty to ensure that they make their bunks and look presentable before the Appell—the roll call. As soon as they’re dressed, you take them outside to line up for the inspection. Wardens Drexler and Grese will come down to ensure that everyone is present.”

  Alma was instantly on guard—the names rang a bell. The inmates trembled when they whispered them.

  Getting possession of herself, she swung her legs from her bed. It would be utterly idiotic to antagonize the wardens with her incompetence on the very first day. It was four in the morning and the barrack was damp and chilly. Alma whistled for the girls to get up.

  “Your Schreiberin, the block clerk, is in charge of the roll call list you will give to the wardens along with your morning report.” Sofia followed her back into her room.

  Her presence was reassuring, this camp veteran who knew all the ins and outs, who didn’t have to give a damn about Alma’s success as a Kapo, but who did, with admirable dignity.

  “Who’s my block clerk?” In the darkness, Alma was groping for her dress that was hanging on the nail behind the door.

  Sofia turned on the table lamp. Now, Alma could see it clearly—the Polish inmate was smiling. “Quit your fidgeting. You’ll get used to the routine before long. Zippy is your Schreiberin, but when she’s at the camp administration office, you can appoint someone else as her replacement.”

  “Do we have the time to wash up?” Alma was struggling furiously into her dress.

  “Only very quickly. We’re lucky there’s a latrine and running water just behind our barrack for our personal use. The others have to run to the communal latrines. You imagine what madness that is. I lived through it when I was in the regular block. Trust me, you won’t wish it on your worst enemy. After standing in line for half an hour, you have ten seconds to squat over that filthy hole and do your business. If you take longer than that, they will simply shove you off, finished or not. God help you if you have filth on your legs after that—the SS who stand outside will beat you and send you to the penal Kommando for being ‘a dirty pig.’ I need hardly add that there’s no toilet paper or even a scrap of newspaper in the vicinity. If you wish to organize some, you ought to trade your ration for it.” She released a mirthless chuckle. “Good times.” The sarcasm in her voice was audible. “Things I will be telling my grandchildren if I ever come out of here.”

  A whirl of activity followed. With infinite patience, Sofia instructed Alma on the precise manner in which the blankets had to be tucked in. She clipped a couple of girls on their ears for dirty fingernails and sent them back to the latrine behind the block—“Do not return until you’ve scrubbed yourself pink!” Alma was still checking the last few girls’ footwear and Sofia was already holding the door open for the ones who’d been cleared, counted by Zippy and appointed to a day duty Kommando: “March, march, march! You have thirty minutes precisely to take these stools and music stands to the camp gate and return. If you’re late for the roll call…”

  Sofia didn’t have to finish her threat. The girls burst out of the barrack, weighed down with their load, as though Satan himself was chasing them.

  In the morning, the fog rolled in and shrouded the camp with gray. Shivering against the wet mist, the Music Block lined up in neat rows of five in front of their barrack. Someone in the back tried to suppress a sneeze, in vain. Sofia whipped around and gave the offender a glare full of magisterial wrath.

  Rigid with fear and cold, they stood and waited.

  The wardens made their appearance some twenty minutes later. They walked as though on a stroll, two elegant figures in warm woolen uniforms. The brunette had a dog leash wrapped around her gloved palm. Alma stared at the Alsatian and was suddenly overcome with the stinging sense of injustice at the very fact that this woman before her had a dog, whereas she, Alma, had to surrender hers to family friends before fleeing Austria.

  “The brunette is Rapportführerin Drexler,” Sofia whispered to Alma almost without moving her lips. “When you give her your report, keep your eyes on the ground. She is known to shoot inmates who have the impertinence to stare at her. It offends her delicate Aryan senses.”

  The blond—a glacial, impersonal beauty with rolls of platinum hair and porcelain skin—had a horsewhip in her hand. She was playing with it as some socialite would with a fan during a soiree.

  “The goldilocks is Irma Grese, Drexler’s lieutenant,” Sofia supplied in the same manner. “She wants to be in the movies when the war is over. Too bad no one told her that the Germans won’t be the ones who shall win it.”

  Alma was amazed that someone could chuckle so gleefully without moving a single facial muscle.

  Rapportführerin Drexler received Alma’s report and took the list from her without once glancing into it. Now that she stood so near, Drexler’s Alsatian sniffed at Alma’s hand and suddenly nudged at it with his wet nose. Before she could stop herself, Alma discreetly caressed the silky, warm ear and all at once felt profoundly and ridiculously happy, even if it was only for a few short instants.

  “Whatever did you do that for?!” Sofia was upon her as soon as the wardens dismissed them and cleared the Stubendienst girls—the block caretakers—to fetch the Music Block’s breakfast: the disgusting camp coffee. The orchestra were given precisely ten minutes to consume it before marching out to the gates, instruments in hand, to see off the outside gangs with a brassy German marching tune. “That dog could have taken a chunk out of your hand!”

  “He wouldn’t. He’s a good dog.”

  Gloomily, Alma studied the camp coffee in her hand. In her opinion, there was no such thing as a bad dog. All dogs were inherently good. She used to have one just like Drexler’s Alsatian, black with tan paws, back home, in Austria. Arno’s pitiful whines nearly tore her heart in half when she was saying her goodbyes to him, as though he understood that she wouldn’t be coming back. He nearly strangled himself on the leash, trying to get to Alma as she was walking further and further away and soon disappeared from his view as she stepped onto the train. Alma’s gentile friends, the family who gladly agreed to take him in, were holding him hard as they were seeing her off at the train station, but the dog still cried in such a pitiful manner, and Alma herself had begun to weep inside her compartment. Arno knew she wasn’t setting off for one of her scheduled tours. The breed was much too intelligent for its own good.

  “I’ve seen that good dog maul people to death here,” Sofia said.

  “Rot!” Alma looked at her savagely. The morning’s pent-up nerves had suddenly snapped.

  “Rot?” Sofia appeared almost sympathetic, as though she had long grown used to such outbursts. “You’ll see it for yourself as soon as we march out.”

  The words turned out to be prophetic. They were marching toward the main camp gates along the cinder road in the same military formation, instruments in hand. In the distance, the inmates were taking off the remains of the last night’s suicides from the stretch of the barbed wire. There were at least two dozen of them—stiff bodies with their black gum
s bared in silent screams and fingers twisted as though even in death they were trying to claw their way out of their emaciated shells.

  “Stack them stiffs nice and neat, like firewood,” the SS warden was pointing at the side of the road in a businesslike manner. “If the clothes are still good, take them off. And make it snappy! The truck shall be here any minute to pick them up. If you aren’t done by then, I’ll put you into its back instead of these stinking carcasses.”

  The mist shone on the faces of the dead, accumulating, rolling down their cheeks as though the dead were crying. Alma led her little troop past one of the growing mounds and looked straight ahead, straight ahead only.

  Through the thickening fog, endless rows of barracks crept into sight. In front of them, a motionless army of rags and gray skulls. The mist curled and stole along the ground, distorting their features. Only an occasional gray uniform glided through the vaporous clouds, the collector of the souls. The entire camp was one boundless cemetery and it was only by some mistake that some of them arrived here still alive.

  Alma felt moisture on her face and wiped it with her hand. It must have been the fog.

  A slap echoed resoundingly around the compound.

  “…Go on and fetch her then!” The mist carried far Rapportführerin Drexler’s voice. “You know the rules. All dead ought to be present during the roll call.”

  Alma’s troop continued to march. An inmate trotted over in front of them, searching the barbed wire with wild eyes. Someone from the clearing Kommando told her that the electric current had been turned off—she could retrieve the dead from her block with her bare hands. Still, the inmate hesitated. Craning her long, thin neck but not quite approaching the heap of corpses, she was trying to recognize her bunkmate in one of them.