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

by Ellie Midwood

  Alma looked at Zippy as though she had just said something incredibly idiotic. “No, of course, not. In order to run the Music Block effectively, I’ll need copyists who will draw musical staffs and copy musical parts I write out. A secretary, to manage our rehearsals and performance schedule. A few decorators who shall look after our costumes and the stage. I’ll definitely need a few runners.”

  A wavering grin appeared on Zippy’s face.

  “You’re right,” Alma conceded, stubbing out her cigarette on the block’s wall. “I can’t play for the entire orchestra. And neither can I teach them how to play serious music in such a short period of time. But what I can do is gather as many professional musicians as possible—forty, if we’re lucky—under the pretext that we don’t have enough instruments in the low range, something of that sort. I’ll invent an excuse. And the girls who have been with the orchestra from the beginning will be simply reassigned to other duties but remain with the Music Block. I’ll make it sound as though they’re indispensable. We’ll save as many girls as possible; I’ll see to it. While I’m in charge, no one is going back into main camp and neither are they going to the gas. And I’ll drop dead, but I’ll deliver Mengele his blasted Bach on Christmas.”

  Chapter 9

  The girl was pitifully scrawny and trembled like an orphaned sparrow.

  “She’s a very good violinist! Very good!” Hélène repeated once again in her strongly accented German. “We arrived on the same transport from France, but she was sick, and Frau Czajkowska rejected her. She can play any classical music you like! You just try her, Frau Alma. Frau Czajkowska refused to take her before, but it’s because she was sick. High fever, couldn’t play. She can play now. You just try her!”

  The news about the auditions for the Music Block spread like wildfire around the camp. Starved, desperate women crowded in front of Alma’s barrack every evening after the roll call, hoping for a place in the privileged detail. Every single one claimed a former musical career that was more amazing than the other. Unfortunately, as soon as they picked up the instruments they claimed they could play so well, the noises such “virtuosos” ended up extracting from them were the furthest thing from music one could have only imagined.

  “I’m sorry.” Alma lost count of all the rejections she’d had to announce in the past three days. “I’m looking for professional musicians only.”

  The worst parts were the tears and the gut-wrenching pleas that came right after.

  “Frau Alma, just give me a chance. I shall learn how to play! You just show me how! I shall be the best student.”

  “Frau Alma, I beg you, don’t send me back. I won’t survive another month in the outside Kommando.”

  “Have pity on me. I shall do whatever you need! There is an outbreak of typhus in the barrack next to ours. If it jumps on us, they shall send us all to the gas! Take me temporarily, Frau Alma. You can send me back later, if you like, but please, take me just for these few weeks. I can’t go to the gas! My mother is in the camp also; who shall take care of her?”

  Some satisfied themselves with wringing their hands before their chests; some threw themselves on the floor before Alma and clutched at the hem of her skirt or even her ankles and only let go when Sofia, who was used to such tactics, hit them on their hands with the Kapo’s baton that Alma positively refused to use.

  “Everyone is suffering!” the Polish woman declared sternly, escorting the rejected women out. “You’re not the only one. The order was given to find professional musicians. Are you a professional? No. Out with you then. Or do you wish to deliver your complaints to Dr. Mengele in person?”

  The mention of the dreaded doctor’s name was enough to put the fear of God into the inmate women. It caused Alma almost physical pain, seeing them shuffle dejectedly out of the barrack like transparent apparitions in their threadbare dresses, but there was a point in Sofia’s reluctant cruelty. If Alma wished to keep the girls who couldn’t play as Music Block staff, she had to fill their positions with such talents that neither Dr. Mengele not Maria Mandl would oppose such an arrangement.

  Lost in thought, she didn’t hear what the French girl had said.

  “Sorry, what did you say?”

  “I said, I can play Countess Maritza for you.”

  Already sensing what the result would be, Alma silently handed the girl her own violin. “Here, child.”

  “Her name is Violette,” Hélène suddenly announced.

  Alma looked at her sternly, but she only squared her shoulders more.

  “Her name is Violette,” Hélène repeated. “She’s from Paris. She’s eighteen years old, like me, and her favorite composer is Vivaldi.”

  And suddenly, the trembling sparrow in front of her had a name and a favorite composer. Alma couldn’t help but snort at the dirty trick with a certain measure of approval. Rejecting nameless women was a much easier task. Sending a Violette-from-Paris to certain death was quite a different matter. Hélène knew that it would haunt Alma for the rest of her life.

  Violette-from-Paris could play but, just as was Alma’s suspicion, certainly not on the professional level.

  “That’s enough.” Alma stopped her with her hand.

  Holding her breath, Violette was expecting a verdict.

  “I’ll take you on a one-week trial. I’ll arrange your temporary transfer from the outside work detail to the Music Block, but don’t expect it to turn into a resort of any sort. It’ll only mean that you shall practice from early morning till late night, until you feel as though your fingers will fall off. And since your friend is so supportive of you, I’m assigning her as your personal tutor. Understood, both of you?”

  “Jawohl.”

  Violette-from-Paris even curtsied.

  Alma shook her head when the girl tried handing her the violin back. “Keep it. I don’t need to practice; you do.” Her good-natured grumbling was aimed at both girls, but the tone was somehow kind and almost motherly.

  The sparrow had finally ceased trembling. For the first time, Alma had seen her smile.

  Overnight, the temperature had suddenly plummeted. Clouds of mist rolled over the camp, obscuring the barracks and watchtowers from view. In it, the distant barking of dogs echoed. The dogs were SS too, purebred and vicious. Sometimes, when their handlers grew bored, they let them off their leashes and amused themselves with watching their Alsatians chase and maul inmates who couldn’t run fast enough. Even though such entertainment was ordinarily reserved for the men’s camp, Alma still paused and listened closely. The high-pitched, nervous barking, amplified by the fog-shrouded vastness around, came steadily from the same place.

  Alma heaved a breath of relief and proceeded on her way. From time to time, phantom-like, uncertain shadows moved in the fog—a striped army of ghosts caught in the limbo. The dogs must have been barking at the shadows, too.

  By the time Alma had reached the Quarantine Block, her headscarf was soaked through. In her eyelashes, droplets of mist hung. Her eyes were trained on the SS warden. Alma had an Ausweis with her, signed by Lagerführerin Mandl herself—a passport in this land of displaced persons—and could therefore move freely around the camp on her Music Block business. Still, in the territories where she was unknown, Alma took great care to stay away from the SS as much as she could help it. They had a nasty habit of shooting inmates first and asking questions later and Alma hoped to avoid becoming such a statistic.

  She heard the warden curse under her breath—the mist carried words long distances. The weather was certainly muddy and wet, that much they both agreed on, but instead of cursing at it, the warden cursed at the blasted Jews, the dirty swine. Because of them she had to slog through the muck for hours on end, filthy pigs, the lot of them…

  Alma didn’t find it all too surprising; what else was one to expect from someone whose education came from the Führer and eight years of school, where race classes had replaced history of nations, where such a term as Jewish physics was very much a real thing,
and where Jewish students’ noses were “scientifically” measured in front of the entire class to prove their racial inferiority to the so-called Aryans.

  Watching such an “Aryan” slip in the mud and curse even cruder under her breath, Alma suddenly discovered that she both despised and pitied her. But mostly pitied. The war wouldn’t last for eternity. No wars ever did. It all would pass, and they, the Jews, would return to their arts, professions, and trades. Once again, they would pick up their pens and write sharp-witted articles for international newspapers; direct plays and films that would gather international recognition; write novels that would turn into instant classics; make music that would be played for years to come… And she, the nameless figure in her black waterproof cape, would still trudge through mud for the rest of her miserable life, for hatred never substituted talent or skill or intellect, and for that reason alone, Alma pitied her with a gleeful, malicious self-satisfaction.

  From the small window of the Quarantine Block, a thin arm appeared, holding an aluminum mug missing a handle. Alma watched the warden pause in her tracks.

  The entire month of August that she had spent here, Alma had heard moans and pleas for water coming from that very block. In Birkenau terms, it was dubbed the gateway to hell, and rightfully so—despite being sent here on the pretext of the quarantine, most of the block’s inhabitants were left without food or water for two weeks. A good two thirds of those who survived the quarantine were sent to the gas.

  That day, the quarantined inmates had caught their break at long last. The mist descended upon the camp and was rolling in delicious droplets from the roof and straight into the inmate’s mug. Alma could very well imagine how the entire barrack’s mouths pooled with saliva at the promise of the water. It came to them straight from heaven, the sweet blessing—

  The warden’s baton struck the hand, knocking the mug out of it. The SS guard kicked it further away with the tip of her black boot and struck at the windowpane that separated her from her invisible victims.

  “Not even two weeks in and you’re getting sly already, Israelite tramps? Back into your bunks and keep your fat behinds there! Sly, dirty monkeys!”

  She was still grumbling as she turned the corner.

  Swiftly, Alma retrieved the cup from the mud and wiped it clean with the end of her headscarf. The window was too high for her to see into the barrack, but she lifted the mug that she had filled with water to it. “Here, take it, quick! Don’t fret; she’s gone.”

  A hand snatched it from her within an instant. From inside, excited voices and commotion followed.

  “Are there any accordion players among you?” Alma asked, holding her hands out for the mug to refill it. She knew they would down it in seconds.

  This time, two big brown eyes appeared above the window’s edge along with the mug. They regarded Alma with a measure of mistrust. Alma couldn’t tell what color the girl’s hair used to be—her head had been closely shaved.

  “I’m not a warden. My name is Alma Rosé,” she said, refilling the mug. The girl who’d given it to her didn’t appear to hear anything at all; her gaze was firmly riveted on the precious water. Alma tried again, louder this time, “I’m from the Music Block. I’m looking for an accordion player.” She passed the girl the newly filled cup.

  The girl disappeared once again. Hands thrust in wet pockets, Alma began tapping her foot, throwing anxious glances over her shoulder. The warden could return any moment now.

  “You said you’re Alma Rosé? The Alma Rosé, from the Vienna Philharmonic?” Another set of eyes—blue this time—peered at Alma from the window.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “My father was a member of the Amsterdam Philharmonic! I play the piano, but I can play the piano accordion, too.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Flora Schrijver.”

  “Where did your transport come from?”

  “Westerbork in Holland.”

  Alma nodded, committing the name to her memory. “Just hold on for a day or two more, Flora. I’ll come and get you soon.”

  Murmuring the name and the transport origin under her breath like a prayer, Alma hurried to Mandl’s office, slipping in the mud and nearly blind in the thickening fog. Turning the corner of the camp office building, she nearly lost her footing again and gasped when, instead of air, her arm clutched at some stiff material as she tried to recover her balance. She was still grasping at it as she slowly raised her gaze to the SS man in front of her. As though moving of their own volition, her lips uttered, “Flora Schrijver, Westerbork, Holland,” all the while her eyes stared, without blinking, in the scowling man’s eyes. Next to him, Maria Mandl stood.

  “Forgive me please, Herr…” Alma suddenly realized that she couldn’t make out his markings under his waterproof cape. “It was not my intention to…”

  She was desperately groping for the suitable explanation. It was a miracle he hadn’t backhanded her yet for such insolence—steadying herself using his arm as a prop. Realizing that she was still holding onto him, Alma quickly dropped her hand. The guard’s expression didn’t change; only the eyes began to crinkle slightly in the corners as if he was trying to conceal the beginning of a smile.

  “You were saying?” he prompted her in an exaggeratingly civil tone. It occurred to Alma that he was enjoying this little game.

  Alma licked her wet lips that positively refused to cooperate and passed her hand over her forehead, also damp, but all at once she wasn’t sure whether it was due to the mist or the sweat that had broken on it. She felt hair under her fingers that must have come loose during her wild sprint and was now sticking to her skin; tried tucking it away under the wet kerchief but couldn’t—her hand was trembling something shameful. “The mud, Herr Kommandant…” All that was left to do was hang her head in surrender and wait for the dressing-down or slap to come.

  “Herr Kommandant?” To her astonishment, the man before her broke into a smile. The raincoat’s hood was pulled over his uniform cap, but she saw that he must have been in his late thirties or early forties and had a dark coloring and inquisitive eyes. “Why, thank you kindly for the promotion. Long overdue, I must say.”

  Next to him, Mandl also began to chuckle. Both of them looked as though Alma appeared thoroughly amusing to them at that moment. “This is Obersturmführer Hössler. Herr Obersturmführer, this is Alma Rosé. My new orchestra conductor I’ve been telling you about.”

  “Ah, the star of the Vienna Philharmonic.” He shifted his gaze back to Alma, regarding her with a different sort of interest now.

  “You’re much too kind, Herr Obersturmführer,” Alma mumbled, still struggling with her kerchief. Mandl was obsessed with appearances; she had given them new uniforms for that very reason, to look pretty before the audience and generally to distinguish her new mascots from the pitiful camp population. And here she was, the supposed venerated leader of that orchestra, looking like a savage in front of Mandl’s—Alma stumbled upon the right word—superior? He had to be, with his high rank.

  Suddenly, Hössler reached toward her face. Alma flinched instinctively, expecting a blow, and froze when, contrary to that expectation, he calmly tucked the loose strand of hair she’d been fighting with under her kerchief and adjusted it neatly on her head as though it was the most natural thing to do.

  “There. All better. Pretty as a picture.” He presented her with another good-natured smile. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Frau Rosé. On behalf of the administration, I welcome you to Auschwitz-Birkenau and I can hardly wait to hear you and your virtuosos play.”

  He offered her his hand. Alma looked at it before giving it a hesitant shake. The entire situation was positively surreal, and she didn’t know what to make of it. Despite being treated rather courteously so far by their kind, Alma still had seen what these people were capable of. He held her narrow palm in his and all she could think about was all the occasions he must have held his service gun in that same hand, all the people he must h
ave shot—

  “Herr Obersturmführer loves music,” Mandl announced with another long glance in the man’s direction.

  “Oh yes,” he confirmed readily, releasing Alma’s hand at last. “Very much.”

  Alma couldn’t help wondering if they were lovers.

  “What were you saying before?” Hössler’s question caught Alma off guard. Seeing her confusion, he went on to clarify, “When you bumped into me, you were saying something.”

  “Oh… yes, Herr Obersturmführer. I have just had a great fortune to find an accordion player in the Quarantine Block and I was repeating her name so I wouldn’t forget it.”

  “She’s so dedicated.” Mandl was beaming like a proud mother displaying a favorite child before the school headmaster.

  Alma decided to make use of her good disposition. “I was going to ask your permission to transfer her to my block, Lagerführerin.”

  “Of course. Tell Spitzer. She’ll do the paperwork and I’ll sign it as soon as it’s ready.”

  “Thank you, Lagerführerin.” Alma hesitated, waiting for the permission to be dismissed. The entire time, she was aware of Hössler’s eyes on her.

  “You’re all wet and shivering something frightful,” he said, looking concerned. Alma hadn’t even noticed that she was. “If you keep running about the camp in the same state of undress in this weather, you’ll catch pneumonia or worse. Surely, we don’t want that.” He half turned to Mandl.

  “No, of course not, Herr Obersturmführer,” she rushed to agree.

  “Go to the Kanada and pick out a raincoat for yourself.” Once again, his gaze was trained on Alma. “And a regular warm coat and boots as well. The summer is gone and, here in Poland, it gets cold very quickly.” He permitted himself a quick smile. “And we need you healthy, Frau Rosé.”