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

by Ellie Midwood

  “He’s a medical doctor, so no. If he chooses to send someone to the gas, that inmate is licked. His authority is almost limitless when it comes to selections. Mandl can try and intervene, but he makes the ultimate decision.”

  Alma stood and considered something for a moment, nodding to some thoughts of hers. Under her brow creased with utter concentration, two dark eyes shone, sharp and steady. “Then, he can grant pardons as well, I assume?” She glanced at Sofia, still calculating something in her mind.

  “He can,” Sofia acknowledged, regarding Alma with suspicion. She didn’t like the look on the violinist’s face one bit. “Though, he’ll only do it if he has personal interest in it. Make no mistake, he’s a regular monster. But only on the inside.” She grinned darkly. “Outwardly, he’s handsome like a movie star and polite to the point of ridiculousness. Until he stabs an inmate’s heart with a direct shot of phenol just to dissect the body while it’s still warm.”

  “Sounds like a charming fellow,” Alma jested grimly with a perfectly straight face. “Now, move. I assume, he wouldn’t appreciate us being late.”

  Without hesitation, Alma walked past Sofia in her resolute step—shoulders squared, violin case in hand, head held high.

  A soft grin playing on her lips, Sofia watched the girls follow their new leader promptly without a single command given. She trailed Alma outside; lined along with the others in front of the barrack; as Alma inspected her little troop carefully and with the cool eye of a professional: “Go back and clean your shoes; they’re dusty… Retie your belt; it’s much too low…”

  Sofia nodded with approval. Alma was a quick learner.

  A single tube of lipstick—wherever Alma had smuggled it from—soon made its way among the Music Block ranks. As Alma was rubbing some of it into their pale cheeks in the ingenious substitute of the rouge, the girls’ expressions transformed as though by magic.

  “Maria, look at you. A regular film star!”

  “Like in the old times, at the dances!”

  “Karla, how pretty you are. Just like in your old pictures.”

  “Hilde, if only your Werner saw you now…”

  When Sofia’s turn came, she made a wry face at her successor. “Where did the goods come from?”

  From Alma, an unimpressed shrug. She was more concerned with her orchestra’s looks than logistics. In Auschwitz, rouge and lipstick went for the price of gold. Rosy cheeks and lips that still had color in them were far from fashion statements; they were a matter of life or death. Zippy had already recounted to Alma how the inmates, who couldn’t afford such luxuries, slapped their own cheeks as hard as they could and bit into their lips till they drew blood to make themselves appear healthier than they really were before the selections. Alma had been saving the precious tube precisely for that purpose, but now, considering that Dr. Mengele would be watching them, she needed for her girls to look their best.

  “The Kanada; where else? Their overseer permitted me to take it if I played a song for him.”

  “What song?”

  “Some sentimental affair to which he and his lady friend danced before he was transferred here. He says he misses her dearly.”

  Sofia arched a skeptical brow. “So, they can feel something after all, the SS?”

  “They must. Only not toward us.”

  High above their kerchiefed heads, the sun was beating down unmercifully. In neat rows of five, they marched along the Lagerstraße, the little army in blue parading down the street. Past empty barracks that stood with their doors open like ancient beasts with gaping mouths, ready to swallow their human prey each evening without fail. Past watchtowers with elderly SS napping atop their machine guns. All the young flesh had long been fed to the beast of the Eastern front. Now, it was the dead sons’ fathers’ turn to don the uniforms and guard the people they had no feud with, but which der Führer loathed and announced to be their enemy. In days of their youth, on a different Eastern front, there was a different enemy—armed and dangerous—not these women and certainly not these skeletal men. Unlike their ideologically reliable dead sons, they failed to comprehend this all and so they napped or smoked their pipes, lapsed in some languid abstraction, and watched musicians march like soldiers on parade.

  Soon, the infamous ramp came into view. From inside his booth, an SS guard barely granted the girls another look before waving them through the narrow enclosure of the barbed wire. Deceived by its gentle humming, birds sometimes landed on it. The SS’s Alsatians took great pleasure in playing with their stiff corpses the instant they hit the ground.

  The train hadn’t arrived yet. The ramp stood silent and empty; only two SS officers of a low rank loitered there, looking dreadfully bored, while their inmate subordinates waited, with arms along the seams, in the respectable distance.

  Moving as quietly as possible so as not to disturb the guards, Alma began to organize her little troop.

  Stifling a yawn, an SS man in charge of the transport reception checked his wristwatch. “The blasted thing is late again.”

  His comrade, lanky and bespectacled, was patting himself for cigarettes. “Must be letting a Wehrmacht transport through.”

  The first one squinted at the horizon. “You noticed Wehrmacht transports only go one way lately? Always east. Back—only Red Cross trains with wounded soldiers heading to the army hospitals if the Soviet bombers didn’t drop a few eggs on them and erased such a need.”

  “Rot.” The second one obliterated him with a sweep of the hand. “Wehrmacht transports take this route home all the time. Else, how would the soldiers on leave get home?”

  “Do they now?” The first one narrowed his eyes maliciously. “When was the last time you saw a Wehrmacht transport full of soldiers on leave? Ever since we lost Stalingrad and the entire 6th Army along with it, we’ve only been retreating.”

  “Shortening the front,” the second one argued unconvincingly.

  “That’s the very strategy!” The first one laughed derisively. “Pull out all the way to Berlin so that we can attack them on our own land with our miracle weapons! It doesn’t matter that their numerical superiority had swelled to about ten Soviets to one German, but since we’re such fierce Aryan warriors, we’ll obliterate them all solely on the superior blood principle.” He spit on the ground with disgust. “Keep listening to the Propaganda Ministry political addresses; they’ll be insisting that we’re winning this war even when one Ivan or the other is sleeping in your bed with your wife and you’re locked up in this very camp as a prisoner of war.”

  The second one drew himself up but said nothing, only extracted a cigarette from a beautiful silver case and also spat on the ground before lighting it. “One ought to report you to the camp Gestapo; see where you end up for your long tongue.”

  Much to his annoyance, his comrade burst out laughing again. “Where? On the Eastern front? Go and report me then; I’ll write to you personally about Russkies slaughtering our kind right and left!”

  “Defeatist.”

  “Half-witted idealist.”

  With the exchange of courtesies out of the way, both turned their heads toward the train tracks. The rails began vibrating slightly. Soon, a shrill but still-distant whistle pierced the air.

  Having assembled her orchestra in the assigned place, Alma raised her baton, waiting for a signal from one of the SS men. Both kept stubbornly staring in the direction of the approaching transport.

  It had passed the infamous Auschwitz gates now and was slowing down as it was pulling toward the ramp. Her hand frozen in mid-air, Alma was following its progress, a vague feeling of angst and tense anticipation surging up in her, dragging her to the dark well of recent memories. The airless insides of the eerily similar cattle car. Countless pairs of eyes glistening with terror in the permanent twilight of that coffin on wheels that had left the transit camp in Drancy, only to pull them to the veritable hell on earth—Auschwitz. Days and nights mixing together on their torturous journey. No water. No food. O
nly a single bucket in the corner that was meant to be used as a toilet that had long been overflowing with filth. Death in people’s eyes; they dropped where they stood and expired right there. Death in the air; the stench from the decomposing bodies beginning to mix with the stench of the spilled excrement. Death waiting just over Alma’s shoulder; delirious from thirst and hunger, she could swear she could smell its foul breath on her very skin. It took her some inhuman willpower not to succumb to it. With an almost commendable obstinacy, Alma had stared through the cracks in the planks, memorizing the railroad signs as they flashed by, first French, then German, then Polish and German together, until the very last one came into view and the train had pulled to the ramp: Oświęcim—Auschwitz.

  The same ramp on which she was presently standing.

  Alma felt a shudder run through her. Death. It failed to claim her on that train, but its presence nearby was much too tangible. It watched. It waited…

  A pitch-perfect, melodic whistling was now accompanying the laborious chugging of the cattle train. Without once turning her head, out of the corner of her eye, Alma spied a new officer, who was presently mounting a small podium to her right. She couldn’t quite see his face—it was obscured by the visor of his cap—but she distinguished the elegant, form-fitting uniform, two Iron Crosses, the Reich’s most coveted awards, pinned proudly to the left breast, tall boots polished to such mirror perfection they shone in the sun as though made of gleaming black obsidian, and the tailored gloves he was pulling unhurriedly off his palms. Somehow, Alma had missed both of the newcomer’s SS underlings snapping to attention; only later saw them standing, frozen with their hands along the seams, while the officer himself ignored them with a wonderful nonchalance about him.

  She had never met him personally, but she had heard enough of him by now to recognize him without once meeting him face to face. Dr. Mengele, the Angel of Death himself, had made a personal appearance to collect his share of souls that painfully beautiful morning.

  The train was pulling to a stop. The ramp Kommando, in their striped uniforms, were already waiting for it, cudgels in hand.

  Slowly and deliberately, Alma lowered her baton. The Angel was still whistling, the Brahms sonata she knew so well. Under Sofia’s uncomprehending gaze—what are you doing?—Alma took the violin in her hand and picked up the melody in G major.

  The whistling had stopped abruptly. Aware of the Angel’s hawkish gaze on her, Alma continued to play from memory.

  She needn’t worry—she could play this particular sonata in her sleep. She had learned it so well to impress her husband, Váša, on their last joint tour. She had learned it by heart, so he would hear how well she played and fall in love with her once again. The marriage was already falling apart by then. In Germany, the Nuremberg Laws had just been passed and, all of a sudden, it was very bad taste to be married to a Jew. Váša suggested it would be best if they cancelled their joint performances.

  Alma had swallowed the insult and took her revenge by creating the most successful women’s orchestra, Vienna Waltzing Girls, that became an overnight sensation and which toured the whole of Europe, met with thunderous applause in every major city. Her husband had found a very convenient fault with that as well—“All of your constant absences, truly, Alma!”—and asked for a divorce, thoroughly pretending that it had nothing to do with his courting Germany’s music scene that wasn’t receptive to the musicians who had spouses of the wrong racial status. She had signed the divorce papers happily.

  Back then, she had played it as best as she could to impress her husband; now, she played even better so that the Angel would let her girls live.

  After she’d finished, the ramp Kommando moved to open the doors to the first cattle car. With a languid motion of his hand, the Angel stopped them.

  “Alma Rosé, are you not?”

  Lowering her violin, Alma turned to face him. He had addressed her by her name and in the polite manner, Sie. She hadn’t expected it. Or, on the contrary, that was precisely what she had expected. From the shadow thrown by his uniform cap’s visor, two dark eyes observed her with great interest. Sofia didn’t lie; he was very handsome indeed. All sharp jawline, flawless skin, raven brows, and a certain air of arrogant, cruel magnificence about him that commanded awe and instilled mortal fear at the same time.

  “Yes, I am, Herr Doktor.”

  He cocked his head, permitting himself a faint smile. “You know who I am?”

  “Of course, Herr Doktor.”

  He nodded, satisfied. “Your camp leader won’t stop bragging about you. But brag is all she does. Even the Kommandant’s wife wished for you and your little orchestra to play for one of her soirees, but Mandl wouldn’t be moved. Your Lagerführerin insists the orchestra is not ready for the big public yet.”

  “It isn’t, Herr Doktor.” Alma regretfully inclined her head. “I have just taken over the duties of the conductor and, I’m afraid, it will take us some time to get into presentable shape. Now, we shall keep playing simple marches my girls are familiar with and popular songs, but if you would like to hear anything sophisticated, I’m afraid you will have to give us a few months.”

  Mengele regarded her with great mistrust. “You believe you can teach them how to play Brahms in just a few months?”

  “Brahms, Beethoven, Dvorák, Tchaikovsky, Sarasate—whatever you like, Herr Doktor.”

  “You seem to be very sure of yourself, Frau Rosé.” His expression, just like his tone, was unreadable.

  “I have already trained a female orchestra under my charge and it had great success in Europe. Yes, I believe I can train these young ladies as well.” In the pause that followed, Alma finished as carefully as possible, “Naturally, it would make my work much easier if the staff remained permanent. I would prefer to have more members in my orchestra—say, forty people instead of just twenty—and if they are professional musicians just like I am…”

  She ignored Sofia, who was outright poking her in the leg with her own conductor’s baton.

  “I understand that you need able-bodied workers first and foremost, but women-musicians are gentle creatures.” Alma cast Dr. Mengele a probing glance. After he didn’t object, she went on, her voice gathering conviction, “They won’t last long in one of those outside gangs at any rate; why not give them to me, Herr Doktor? And I promise you that I shall make such an orchestra out of them, the main Auschwitz one won’t rival it. Under my direct responsibility, of course. In case you aren’t satisfied with the quality of music they produce…” Send me to the gas; I reserve that right after you, as my punishment. Alma didn’t finish, simply smiling at the Angel through overpowering dread. Inside her chest, her heart was beating itself to death.

  For a few excruciatingly long moments, Dr. Mengele was regarding her with his head still tipped to one side. To be sure, it was a gamble to make such bold propositions to him; yet, he appeared almost amused by it. It had a quality of a scientific experiment to it and scientific experiments always excited him the most.

  “Very well, Frau Rosé. Your orchestra is exempt from selections until…” He considered with his eyes slightly narrowed. “Until Christmas. A perfect date for you to give a first-class performance and for us to see what your virtuosos have achieved, don’t you agree?”

  Alma’s breath hitched in her throat, but her face betrayed nothing. Four months under Dr. Mengele’s personal protection was a lifetime in a place like this. “Perfectly agree, Herr Doktor.”

  “Then, we have a deal.” He looked very pleased with himself.

  With the same effortless languidness, Dr. Mengele signed to the inmates.

  At once, the heavy latches of the cattle train were unlocked, and the doors slid open to spill its frightened load onto the ramp. The inmates’ hands were already tugging at their sleeves, yanking them roughly out of the wagons; the SS men’s whips prodded them into packs—“Raus, raus; los, los, los!”—and separated them into two columns—men on the right, women on the left. All around
them, violent shouts in German, SS dogs straining themselves on their leashes, lunging at the terrified crowd.

  Stunned and instantly blinded, the newcomers could only stare around with a wild look about them and do as they were told. Too terrified to cry, children clung to their parents, trembling with fear. The Kanada men were already pulling their suitcases straight out of their hands and throwing them into one big pile, thoroughly ignoring pleading looks and whispered questions directed at them. A few women began to scream in protest when they were being separated from their husbands, but a crack of a horsewhip across their mouths swiftly put an end to the beginning of a rebellion.

  Roughly shoved and threatened into silence, the crowd hushed itself. Soon, all eyes were riveted to the only figure who towered over them like some ancient, all-powerful god. Despite being prodded in their backs, they were in no rush to approach him, as though sensing the acute, inexplicable danger he was emanating.

  Alma’s orchestra played a cheery German marching song.

  With a benevolent smile, Dr. Mengele observed the crowd in front of them. Soon, the usual ritual began—“Links, rechts”—left, right; “Are you with child, my good woman? No? A shame… Left. Anyone with twins report to me personally. Anyone with physical deformities also…”

  With a simple flip of his tailored gloves, he granted life or condemned to death. Only, this time, he demanded for female professional musicians to step forward as well. To Alma’s immense relief, both young women who claimed to be such, were sent to the right.

  Chapter 8

  September 1943

  Like a woman possessed, Alma was digging wildly into a veritable mountain of papers that was piled up in the middle of one of the Kanada warehouses. Just beside her shoulder, Rabbi Dayen looked on, infinitely patient, a small cart in his hands. He was familiar with the women’s orchestra conductor by now; on the days when the fresh transports arrived, she spent every afternoon here on her hands and knees, hunting for scraps of sheet music among mounds and mounds of photocards, passports, birth certificates, diplomas, personal letters and children’s paintings.