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

by Ellie Midwood

  Despite his reassuring tone, the crowd faltered. Women’s eyes were directed upward, toward the chimney, from which columns of foul-smelling, black smoke was presently rising. Arms draped around their children’s shoulders protectively, they hesitated to make another step.

  Hössler’s subordinate, the only other SS man present, placed his hand on top of his horsewhip as he looked at his superior questioningly. Hössler stopped him with a barely perceptible shake of the head. He stepped closer to one of the women and brushed the hair on top of her child’s head with a kind smile.

  “What is your profession, my good woman?” he addressed the mother in the same soft-spoken manner.

  “I’m a seamstress,” she replied, her back stiff with apprehension.

  Hössler looked positively delighted. “A seamstress? But that’s precisely what we need! We have just expanded a sewing detail, where women like yourself make uniforms for our brave Wehrmacht. We even set up a nursery there, so you don’t have to be separated from your child during your working hours. Speaking of which, we need women with experience who can look after small children while their mothers are working. Anyone here worked in a kindergarten?”

  Two hands appeared in the air.

  Hössler broke into another blossoming smile. He turned to look at his orderly. “It appears we are in luck today! All essential workers on one transport!”

  “Indeed, Herr Obersturmführer.”

  Hössler was back to stroking the child’s hair. “Are you hungry, my little fellow? As soon as your Mutti and you take a shower, there will be hot soup and coffee or tea for everyone. Oh, and before I forget, will diabetics report to the medical staff after you undergo your disinfection, please? We shall need this information to adjust your diet.”

  Alma looked on, horrified, as the crowd moved through the doors of the crematorium and down the steps of its own free will, pacified by the kind Herr Obersturmführer’s words. A gust of wind descended upon the column of the new arrivals and threw a flurry of white ash into their faces.

  Frantically, Alma wiped it off her skin with the end of her headscarf, but the smell of the churned flesh and burned hair was still there, sickly-sweet.

  One of the men stepped forward, regarding the ash on his palm with great mistrust. “What’s with the chimney?” he openly challenged, loudly enough for the crowd to pause in its tracks again.

  Unbothered, Hössler gave a nonchalant shrug. “Boilers for the showers. Each shower room is designed to provide water for a thousand people. Surely, you don’t wish for your wives and children or your elderly parents to bathe in ice-cold water?”

  “Why are you so concerned about our well-being all of a sudden? Pardon me, but it sounds a bit inconsistent coming from the nation that swore to annihilate us all.”

  Once again, the SS guard made a move forward; once more, Hössler stopped him with a nonchalant sweep of the hand. It occurred to Alma that this was precisely how he had earned his promotion to such a high position. He was skilled in mass murder. He had learned from experience that gently coaxing worked much better than threats and blows.

  “We need healthy workers, not an infirmary full of sick ones,” he explained simply. “I’ve already told you, we’re a labor camp, not some sinister extermination facility the enemy propaganda was trying to frighten you with. We need you in order to win this war. Our soldiers are fighting presently on the front. We need men and women to replace them for the time being. Why would we kill you all? That’s simply counterproductive.” He spread his arms in a defenseless gesture.

  Noticing Alma, he beamed even brighter and went to her with his arms outstretched.

  “Ah! And here’s our irreplaceable conductor of the women’s orchestra, Frau Rosé. Any Austrians here? Any music aficionados? I am one, myself. If you know anything about music, you know who she is. I still can’t fully believe Frau Rosé decided to join us to lift the spirits of not only our brave guards but inmates as well. You have heard her girls play the welcoming march at the ramp; give her a round of applause! Well? She came to ask what music you would like to hear tonight. Yes, we always welcome the new arrivals with a concert on the first evening…” He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and turned her toward the crowd.

  Pale-faced and trembling inside, Alma smiled at the faces that surrounded her and swallowed tears, trying not to betray Hössler’s charade. It was a damnable business, going along with the SS man’s despicable game against her own fellow sufferers, and yet, what choice did she possibly have? Betray Hössler’s secret, shout at them to run just to prolong their agony, just to send them scrambling with terror and throw themselves against the electrified wire or get mowed down by the machine guns aimed at them from above? There was no chance for an escape from the crematorium’s maw. The only choice here was between death by bullets and death by gas and Alma understood it and therefore, powerless and miserable, she was smiling at them through the tears. She loathed Hössler with all her heart at that moment; loathed him for making her into an unwilling accomplice—she was perfect proof of his facade. Attired in a warm, camel-wool coat that came off some Parisian fashionista’s dead shoulders, with a matching headscarf covering glossy locks of dark hair, wearing tall boots and even stockings, she was just what he needed to shove into the apprehensive crowd’s face. See? This is how well our inmates are taken care of.

  The effect was instant. Reassured by the sleek-mannered SS officer and the inmate he was hugging with a fatherly look about him, the new arrivals forgot all about the chimney and almost hurried inside the facility.

  Alma felt her entire body shaking. Hössler’s fingers dug into her arm as he pressed her closer.

  “They all would die, regardless,” he spoke softly into her ear. “It was worse before, when they were herded inside with cudgels and fists. I give them a few more minutes of peace. By the time the gas takes hold, they won’t even realize what’s happened.”

  Alma nodded stiffly.

  “How about a little Mozart tonight?” He addressed the crowd out loud this time. “Anyone here have anything against Herr Wolfgang Amadeus? No? I thought so. Mozart it is then, ladies and gentlemen. Make sure to look presentable—a violin virtuoso shall be playing for you tonight.” He looked at Alma. “What is it that you wanted?” he asked her quietly.

  “Permission to bring a pianist from Auschwitz as a tutor. The Birkenau one—”

  “Is home with his father; yes, yes.” He chuckled. “I’m keeping his position open for him. He’ll be back here before Christmas,” he repeated the very same thing the Kapo had professed. “He’s exactly that kind of an idiot. Of course, go and fetch one from the main camp. Tell them I ordered it, if they start being pigheaded.”

  “Thank you, Herr Obersturmführer.”

  He was still holding her, his poster child, by her shoulders. “If you need me, next time go to my office. Don’t come back here ever again, please.”

  Chapter 12

  In front of Block 24, Alma stopped and listened with her head cocked to one side. One of the guards had directed her to this two-story, red-brick building when she asked for the Auschwitz Music Block. Only, aside from the faint piano melody that seemed to caress her very skin with its light, feathery touch, she could hear no other sounds.

  One of the windows was pushed open on the second floor. A young woman with a heavily made-up face leaned out of it and rested her elbows on the windowsill. Alma saw that all that the girl was wearing was a silk slip of some sort.

  She noticed Alma looking at her as she was lighting her cigarette and nodded at her. “Are you lost, bird?” She spoke German with a strong Swabian accent.

  Alma brought a hand to her forehead to shield herself from the sun. “Is this Block 24?” she asked, even though the number was right there, above the entrance.

  The scantily dressed girl established the fact with an affirmative nod. “Are you here for an audition?”

  “What audition?”

  “You know what.” The gi
rl grinned shrewdly. “You contribute to the prosperity of the Reich for twelve months while lying on your back and they let you go home. It’s the latest re-education idea.”

  “They won’t let me go home. I’m Jewish. We can’t be re-educated; only eradicated.”

  The girl simply nodded sagely to that and gave Alma a sympathetic look as she pulled on her cigarette.

  The door to the barrack swung open and a powerfully built woman appeared on its step. Almost at once she turned to the girl in the window and demonstrated her fist. “What did I tell you about hanging out of that window? Shut it at once!”

  The girl scrunched her face. “I need to air the room for five minutes at least!”

  “So air it without sticking your silly head through it!”

  She grumbled something unintelligible and pulled back, but just so the woman downstairs wouldn’t see her.

  A man in a civilian jacket but with striped trousers slipped past the severe-looking matron, crushing his cap in his hands and thanking her profusely. But the woman wasn’t interested in him; she was busy inspecting Alma.

  “Are you new?” She motioned for Alma to step closer. “Who sent you? Are you full-blooded Aryan? Asocial?”

  “No; no one; no and no. I need a pianist.”

  A snort reached her from upstairs. The girl was leaning out of the window again, observing the scene with great interest. “A pianist? That’s something new! Did they finally open a brothel for women where you can request such peculiar things? Long overdue!”

  “Get back inside before I drag you there by your hair!” the woman shouted and once again shook her fist at the Swabian girl.

  Her fits of rage were swift, automatic and impersonal; harassed mothers were prone to those whenever their children misbehaved, it occurred to Alma, and for some reason, it made her smile.

  “The tongue on that one,” the matron grumbled under her breath. Alma grinned sympathetically. The woman crossed her arms on her chest. “Who are you again and what do you need a pianist for?”

  “I’m Alma Rosé, the Kapo of the Birkenau Music Block.” Alma demonstrated her armband to the woman.

  The latter nodded her acknowledgement; though disappointment reflected in her eyes for a moment. Alma was an attractive woman with large, soulful eyes, glossy dark locks, and long legs—a fine addition to the matron’s operation.

  This time, Alma discovered that she was, in fact, grateful for her Jewish blood; if this block housed what she suspected it did, she wished nothing to do with it whatsoever and to the devil with all the promises of the swift release after twelve months of such “labor” on one’s back.

  “Obersturmführer Hössler ordered for a pianist to be temporarily freed of his duties so he can tutor one of my girls,” Alma explained.

  “Tough luck for you then, old girl. The orchestra is not here. They’re at the Kommandant Höss’ villa, entertaining his guests. Come back tomorrow. But not at this time either; they are busy at the kitchen during the day, peeling potatoes.”

  Her ear trained on the door, Alma searched the woman’s face. “Who plays the piano right now? I can hear it. Is it a recording?”

  “No, not a recording.” The woman seemed to consider. “That’s our Miklós playing, but he’s not a member of the orchestra.”

  “Too bad,” the girl from the window commented. “He should be. Such talent, but the blood is all wrong.”

  This time, the woman ignored her. “He’s Jewish,” she explained to Alma in a confidential tone. “Jews are not allowed in the Auschwitz orchestra. But they let him play all the same when the music room is empty, out of the goodness of their hearts. He already tried hanging himself once because no one would allow him to play his music. He’s some big-shot pianist from Hungary—”

  “He’s a composer, too,” the girl from the second floor interrupted her once again. “Wrote an opera when he worked at his Budapest Philharmonic—”

  “Rot!” the woman shouted at her. “He didn’t write any operas. He just played them.”

  “Yes, he did. I’m telling you this on the most reliable authority!” The girl was all but hanging out of the window now, set on driving her point across. “Sándor told me all about it when he visited me two weeks ago. He even brought an old magazine with an article about it. It had Miklós’ picture in it, too—on stage, in tails, all business as it should be. Such a handsome fellow…”

  “Wipe your drool; he’s a refined sort and not interested in you. And even if he were, you two are racially incompatible.”

  “I would much rather go with someone incompatible like him than with those Sonderkommando apes.”

  “What do you have against the Sonderkommando men now?” the woman demanded. “They’re the ones who supply you with all the goods. Where are you getting all your hairclips and stockings and all sorts of underwear from?”

  Once again, the girl screwed up her pretty face into a disgusted grimace. “They take it all off the corpses while they’re still warm.”

  “No, they don’t!” the matron argued.

  “Yes, they do.”

  “No, they don’t,” Alma inserted, staring blankly through the woman in front of her. “They undress the people first. They go naked into the gas chamber. They think it’s a shower room. They even give them soap and towels…”

  Both women suddenly fell silent. It felt as though a full minute had expired when the matron moved from the door she was blocking and gestured Alma inside without meeting her eyes. She was frightened in a sort of a superstitious way, as though Alma had just said something that oughtn’t be said in the camp; as though death, even through words, was contagious. “The music room is on the first floor, at the very end of the corridor.”

  “Thank you.”

  Alma went inside and caught the matron crossing herself as the woman hurried along the dingy hallway muttering something softly to herself—a protection prayer, perhaps—the further from the violinist, the better.

  The block stood silent, with the exception of that faint melody rolling in soft, soothing waves from the half-shut door at the end of the long passageway. Treading as silently as possible—a professional courtesy from one musician who didn’t wish to disturb the other until he was finished—Alma approached it and paused on the threshold. The pianist sat half-turned to her, swaying slightly in time with the music. It was a haunting melody Alma failed to identify, complex and fluid at the same. At once, Alma recognized a true virtuoso at work. She played the piano well enough, but it would take her weeks to learn such difficult passages that seemed to flow from under the pianist’s fingers. And yet, he made it appear effortless, as though the piano itself sang under the gentle caress of his beautifully sculptured hands, like a female body perfectly attuned to her lover’s touch.

  From where she stood, Alma saw that his eyes were closed. Long, dark eyelashes threw shadows over his sharp-featured profile. Over his slightly hooked nose, two vertical wrinkles lay—the only lines marring the otherwise relaxed, noble face. It suddenly occurred to her that the Swabian girl was right; he was indeed a composer. And if this was one of his creations, Alma would fall to her knees and kiss his hands, for they belonged to a true genius.

  Eventually, she also closed her eyes and allowed herself to be carried away. He continued to play and, before long, she was back in the Vienna Philharmonic, an elegant, silk evening gown cascading down her tall frame. The house was full, but it was only the two of them on stage. Bringing the invisible violin to her shoulder, Alma began to follow the melody the best she could. It was no easy feat—the soft parts gave way to the forceful and dynamic ones and then shifted once again and all but died, dissolved into pensive silence just to gain force once again and shake Alma to the core with the profound emotion of every passage.

  She didn’t just hear it; she felt the music inside of her. It spoke to her in a way that she couldn’t explain even to herself. Without once opening her eyes, without exchanging a single word with the pianist, she learned his e
ntire life story through his music—his work and successes, the women he loved and lost, the life he celebrated and which was stolen from him in such a bastardly manner. He somehow managed to express it all—a broken man to a broken woman—and Alma understood him without understanding his language.

  All of a sudden, the melody stopped. Alma’s eyes snapped open. She stared at the pianist in the inexplicable fear of being caught at such shameless snooping, but he sat, still as a stone, with his pallid eyelids closed. For an instant, his face was twisted with a terrible emotion; he raised his hands as though to strike an invisible enemy, but instead he banged on the keys with such force, the floor under Alma’s feet trembled.

  His face wet with tears, he began playing Chopin’s “Funeral March,” savagely and without any mercy for the instrument that cried under the assault of his beautiful, white hands.

  Alma felt herself shaking. It was all too much for one day. First, the Aktion, the fearful, unknowing crowds, Hössler’s arm around her shoulder, the feeling of the warm ashes on her cheeks. Then, the music so magnificent, it reminded her that there was life after all this, there were stages and pianos and elegant gowns somewhere very far away, but real nevertheless. The pianist had given her hope and then obliterated it in the cruelest of manners and she suddenly couldn’t take it any longer.

  Swinging round on her heel, she ran out of the music room, out of that cursed block, and to hell with the private lessons for Flora. She would find someone else for the girl, someone who knew how to play, pleasantly and correctly enough, but not in such a way that their music would churn the guts of the ones who would listen and make them want to muster a noose out of their own stockings just not to feel this haunting beauty and desperation all at once, the promise of the paradise and the vision of Hades all wrapped in one.