Chapter 10
The Music Block had long gone to sleep. The only person still awake, Alma was working on the music score for the following day, when an urgent rapping came from behind the door. It was one of the girls assigned to the Reception Block.
“Do you still need a cellist?” she asked, out of breath. “I have one among the new arrivals. Anita Lasker is her name. But you have to come quick; Herr Doktor is holding a second selection among the new arrivals outside the Sauna. The girl is still inside with the last batch to go through disinfection, but as soon as she’s out, there’s a big chance he’ll throw her onto that truck before she knows what hit her.”
Herr Doktor meant Mengele, of course.
Alma groped for her new camel-hair coat in the semi-darkness of the room and pulled it right over her nightgown.
“Is she a professional?” Alma asked, tying the headscarf at the nape of her neck.
“I wouldn’t know. She’s a political and was deported from France. She even survived their French Gestapo interrogation,” the girl added, obviously impressed.
She may have survived the Gestapo, but Mengele was an entirely different matter altogether, Alma thought to herself, pulling on her rubber boots.
Alma had “survived” the French Gestapo herself, after some bastard at the French–Swiss border promised to smuggle her from occupied France and into neutral Switzerland but instead sold her off to the German agents for a fee. Caught red-handed with a fake passport supplied by her Dutch friends, Alma had already been mentally preparing herself for some vicious third degree and instead was met with a dreadfully bored-looking German official. He had indicated a chair across his desk for her to take. “Real name?”—“Alma Rosé.” “Nationality?”—“Austrian.” From the German, a certain look under an arched brow. “Stateless person,” she had quickly corrected herself. All Jews by then had been reduced to that dehumanizing definition—stateless people, a nameless herd. It was easier to kill them that way. The German had half-heartedly asked her where she got the passport from. Firmly set on keeping the names of her friends out of it, Alma had quickly made up some story about purchasing it from some Frenchman already there, in France. The Gestapo official had pretended to believe her, showed her where to sign the statement his secretary had typed out and sent Alma on her way to the Drancy transit camp, seemingly glad to be rid of her. “It was the Resistance members that they were after,” one of the Drancy fellow sufferers had explained to her later. “With us, stateless people, they don’t bother all that much.”
No, they didn’t bother with them all that much; simply sent them to extermination camps like Auschwitz to be worked and starved to death, as Alma had learned since.
“She is still inside the Sauna, you said?” Alma demanded, already in the door of the block.
“I should imagine. I ran as fast as I could.” The girl searched Alma’s face, suddenly concerned. “Are you permitted to go inside while the disinfection is in process?”
“It depends on the guard,” Alma replied honestly and rushed outside.
After passing several checkpoints without any trouble—few privileged inmates had the permission to move freely around the camp and the SS knew most of them by now and waved them through without bothering to check their Ausweis—the women arrived at the Reception Block. Having processed its human load, it stood silent and almost deserted. Two Red Triangles were sweeping what remained of the shorn hair into industrial-type sacks. Three filled ones already stood by the wall, ready to be transported for disinfection and further processing. Kanada men were digging through the piles of discarded clothes lazily—the SS must have all gone to their barracks outside the camp for the night, leaving the inmates to their own devices. Looking utterly bored, another Kanada inmate was sitting at the table, sorting through a mound of wedding rings, watches, and jewelry. In front of him, several boxes stood—Watches, Rings, Earrings, Diamonds, Precious Stones. The Kapo, who was supposed to be supervising him, was napping insolently in the corner, his back pressed against the wall and arms crossed over his chest comfortably.
The girl led Alma toward the thick, double doors with the words, Sauna and Disinfection, written above them. Leaning against them, a Kapo was smoking.
“My name is Alma Rosé,” she announced, presenting the burly man with her Ausweis. “I’m from the Music Block and I’m here for the cellist.”
“Good for you,” the man responded with a derisive snort, hardly glancing into her pass. “And I’m here for a ballerina, but she’s still washing up for me.”
“Are there women still inside then?” Alma demanded, ignoring his innuendo.
The man measured her icily. “What do you want with them?”
“I want to ask them what hats are in fashion this season in Paris,” she retorted poisonously. “What do you think? I told you, I need a cellist. Dr. Mengele and Obersturmführer Hössler made a request for a full orchestra to play for them on Christmas. Shall you let me in or should I go outside and fetch Herr Doktor from the Appellplatz, so he can give you direct orders? Or shall I wake Obersturmführer Hössler, perhaps? Would you prefer to speak to him?” She raised her voice on purpose. It was important to sound convincing.
The lecherous grin slipped off the Kapo’s face as though by magic. Just one of those names would be enough to instill terror into anyone who knew what was good for them; threatening with both of them produced an immediate effect. Swinging swiftly round, the Kapo began turning the handle of the locking mechanism with impressive speed. “I was only joking. They’ve been waiting there for some time now… We have just run out of the disinfectant, so the last batch hasn’t been processed yet. See if your cellist is among them.” With an effort, he pulled the heavy door open.
The sauna room stood before them, silent and immersed in semi-twilight. In spite of herself, Alma felt a chill creeping down her spine, rising hairs all over her body. The memory of her own experience with it was still fresh. As she stared at the dark, gaping maw of the familiar vast room, she recalled the day of her arrival, how she was digging her heels into the cold, concrete floor on its threshold—A real shower room or a gas chamber? There was talk, already on the train, that some camps had those, and crematoriums as well; major farms used human ashes as fertilizer; German factories purchased sacks of human hair to use for upholstery and as mattress stuffing and a lot more horrors to that extent—just to be swept off and carried forward by the pressing wave of human bodies, prodded in their stiff backs with horsewhips and cudgels. The door had slammed shut after them with an ominous clang. The darkness. Heavy, terrified breathing around her and the harsh, sickening scent of human fear. No one had screamed. No one had dared to utter a single whisper. Instead, a thousand eyes had fastened on the showerheads mounted to the ceiling in a unanimous prayer. Hissing. Grunting of the metal. The breathing had ceased altogether. Everyone was holding it, eyes glistening in the darkness, too terrified to blink. And then, suddenly, water. Torrents and torrents of it, ice cold, pouring down their bodies and mixing with the tears of relief.
With a tremendous effort, Alma forced herself to step inside—of her own volition this time.
“I’m looking for Anita Lasker.” Even her voice sounded strange in this damp sarcophagus, as though it didn’t belong to her any longer. Alma cleared her throat and moved toward a wall of white, trembling bodies that were barely discernible in the darkness. They parted around her like a human sea. Wary eyes followed her every move, bewildered and too frightened to reply. “Is Anita Lasker among you? A recent transport from France? Anita Lasker, the cellist…”
“I’m Anita Lasker.”
From the depth of the room, a girl advanced toward the light. Her head was freshly shorn and bleeding where the blunt shaving machine had nicked it. In front of her chest, she was clutching a toothbrush in her closed fist as one would a knife, wherever she had snatched it from.
Gently, Alma reached out and took the girl’s wrist in her hand. “My name is Alma Rosé,”
she introduced herself, speaking as softly as possible. “I’m from the Music Block. Come with me. You shall play cello in my orchestra.”
She gave Anita’s wrist a gentle tug, but she wouldn’t budge. The girl stood, riveted to her place, like a stone statue that couldn’t be moved even with the best will in the world.
“It’s over now,” Alma said, wrapping her arm around the girl’s shoulders. They were stiff, as though made of lead. “All over. Come. You’ll only play music from now on. What can you play for me first thing tomorrow morning, after the Appell? Can you play Schubert’s ‘Marche Militaire’?”
Slowly, Anita managed a rigid nod.
“Good. What else did you play when you were in France? I was deported from France, too. But I couldn’t play anything there. I left my violin in Holland.”
“I didn’t play anything in France either,” the girl finally spoke hoarsely. “I was falsifying the documents for the Resistance.”
Under Alma’s arm, her shoulders began to shake with silent sobs. She allowed herself to be led outside, into the brightly lit room where the Reception Block girl was already waiting for her with the striped dress and a pair of shoes in her hands.
“I told you, Frau Alma would help you, didn’t I?” She pulled the dress over Anita’s head and guided her hand, with the toothbrush still clenched in it, through one of the sleeves. “This is something temporary for you. Tomorrow morning, Frau Alma shall get you an orchestra girl dress—you shall look like a regular princess!”
Under the Kapo’s stunned look, Alma removed her coat and placed it over her new cellist’s shoulders. The girl looked at her. The tears were still rolling down her cheeks, but she finally lowered her toothbrush, which she’d been holding like a weapon the entire time.
“All over now,” Alma repeated, smiling.
The girl nodded. Terror still clung to her skin like a dirty film one would never be able to wash off entirely, but her eyes were human once again, having lost the haunted look of a cornered animal about to be slaughtered.
The new orchestra’s first concert given in the officers’ mess resulted in a thunderous applause. Though, perhaps, such an unexpectedly warm reception was due to the orchestra’s new benefactor—Obersturmführer Hössler—who was the first one to rise from his chair and clap with such frank enthusiasm. Alma hadn’t changed her opinion of them; few of the SS officers, let alone regular guards, understood anything about music. But as their Prussian character dictated, they looked up to their superiors for instructions whenever they couldn’t process something themselves.
My honor is loyalty, as their motto went. No, it wasn’t loyalty; it was blind, dog-like obedience, which Alma despised with every fiber of her soul. Nevertheless, she smiled and bowed ceaselessly and pressed her hand to her chest—Thank you kindly, Herren, much obliged; may you all drop dead, you miserable, uniformed herd.
Hössler approached the makeshift stage and requested a violin solo. Alma obliged him, as deferentially as possible. Kanada Kitty’s words had stuck with her—To survive this place, an inmate must be well-informed and well-connected—and so, Alma had made her inquiries about Mandl’s strangely civilized companion.
The superficial investigation yielded the following: Schutzhaftlagerführer (his official position in the camp administration, according to Zippy) Hössler was Mandl’s immediate superior and was responsible for the operation of the Birkenau women’s camp. Above him—only the camp Kommandant. Immediate duties included selections and crematoriums management—gassings and cremations, in Zippy’s straightforward terms. That was the extent of what the girl could supply; she didn’t work directly under Hössler after all. The Sonderkommando did.
Making use of her access to the Kanada, Alma had successfully cornered one of the Sonderkommando men who was busy unloading the truck full of gassed people’s belongings.
“Hössler?” He’d scratched the stubble on his neck. “The sweet-talker,” came the reply. “Well-mannered and proper, very polished, like some Prussian Count… Shot a man with his revolver the other day for insubordination.” An indifferent shrug. “But, overall, a just enough superior. As long as you don’t get on his bad side. If he blows his lid, it’s best for one’s health to make oneself scarce. Music? Oh yes, he likes music a lot! Knows a lot of those big-shot composers. How is he with women? All right, I suppose. Depends on the woman. Jokes with Kanada girls a lot. The women from the camp, on the other hand…” A telling grimace. “They don’t really look like women. I imagine, he doesn’t consider them as such.”
It had sounded promising enough. To be sure, Hössler was still a ruthless killer, but compared to others, he at least inspired some confidence as someone who could be reasoned with and that much Alma could work with.
Now, a radiant smile of a well-trained performer blossomed on the violinist’s face as she leaned toward him. “What would you like to hear, Herr Obersturmführer?”
From Hössler, a well-bred and gracious, “Whatever you wish to play, Frau Alma.”
Alma searched his face, wondering how far she could push it. “May I play Wieniawski’s “Oberek”, Polish Dance?” she probed as gently as possible.
Most of the non-German composers were frowned upon. All Jewish ones were outright banned from the orchestra’s repertoire. The question was essentially a test of his ideological flexibility. With eager eyes, Alma was watching for Hössler’s reaction.
After a moment’s consideration, his cultural inclinations appeared to triumph over his antisemitism. Hössler smiled benevolently. “I will listen to a nursery rhyme if it is you who plays it.”
With that blessing, he went back to his seat.
Giddy from a small victory, Alma picked up her violin. It was a gamble, testing the authorities in such an insolent manner, but by some miracle, it had paid off. She smiled even wider when her uniformed audience began tapping their tall boots to the gay melody. This time, after she had finished, they didn’t wait for their commander’s signal to applaud her.
Only Sofia wasn’t too thrilled with her choice of solo music.
“What were you thinking?!” she hissed in Alma’s ear immediately after the orchestra took their final bow. “To play a piece composed not only by a Pole but a Jew on top of it!”
“Don’t fret. Hössler didn’t mind and everyone else is too ignorant to realize whose music I was playing. Here, they’re considered musical connoisseurs when they can tell Mozart from Bach; do you truly believe they know who Wieniawski is?”
“It was still an idiotic idea.”
Alma didn’t argue. What Sofia failed to comprehend was that it hadn’t been some reckless act of defiance for the sake of defiance itself. All Alma wished was to see if the soft-spoken and well-mannered officer could be relied on when it came to protection. Having Mandl on their side was good; having Dr. Mengele was even better. But it was Hössler who was the ultimate authority over both. If she could secure him as a protector, and particularly for her Jewish girls, Alma felt she would finally be able to breathe freely, or at least as freely as one could breathe in a place like Auschwitz.
The cultural part of the evening was over. The SS stood and smoked with their backs to the stage, chatting animatedly among themselves. The lower ranks consulted their wristwatches—they heard the waiters setting the tables in the adjacent banquet hall and kept throwing impatient glances in that direction and annoyed ones at their superiors who didn’t seem to be in any rush.
Ignored by them, Alma’s girls were packing their instruments, making as little noise as possible. Alma hoped to get them out of the SS quarters before the tantalizing aromas would start spreading from the feast the inmate waiters were presently organizing for their uniformed masters. No need for the girls to remember what glazed ribs smelled like.
In the general rush, Violette-from-Paris caught a music stand with her elbow. Alma, her hands full with the violin and sheet music, caught it with her ankle before it could crash onto the floor.
“Excellent r
eflexes.”
For an instant, Alma started. One of the SS men stood on the stage, bespectacled and blond. Across his left cheek was a long dueling scar. One of the nationalist fraternity types; Alma was well familiar with the kind, back from the days when Vienna was still a free city. Having recovered herself, she pushed the stand back into its position and forced a smile.
“Thank you, Herr Scharführer.”
His colorless, cold eyes behind the lenses shifted to her chest, noted the absence of the star; absence of any markings, in fact. Just like Kanada girls, Alma was spared the humiliation of a personal number and a classification mark sewn onto her clothes.
“Are you political?”
Some ancient instinct in Alma prompted her to say yes.
He nodded, satisfied. “What were you arrested for?”
“Contempt for the government,” Alma gave him a vague reply.
It wasn’t, technically, a lie. It was contempt, pure and intentional, that inspired in Alma the decision to travel to Holland in the first place, even when the German army was already creeping toward its borders. Influential friends in England had secured her and her father’s positions as friendly aliens with full permission to perform and earn a living. It was contempt that prompted Alma to accept the invitation from the Amsterdam Philharmonic after the Germans had forced her and her family out of the Vienna one. It was contempt that kept her in the country overrun by the gray-green uniforms. It was contempt that prompted her to play until the victorious end, right under the Gestapo’s noses, until the deportations started, and her friends and hosts began to plead with her to run to Switzerland via France for her own safety’s sake. One of them even married her in the hope to help her with the papers, despite the fact that he had no interest in women whatsoever in the romantic sense and only did it out of the goodness of his heart. Alma always remembered his deed with an invariable surge of the most profound gratitude.
The Violinist of Auschwitz: Based on a true story, an absolutely heartbreaking and gripping World War 2 novel Page 11
