A smile blossomed on her face. All around them, people were laughing; the actors were mocking the German leader with admirable insolence, but Alma scarcely heard them all. Love was a cruel mistress; it tormented its victims more often than not. Alma had fought against it for as long as she could, but that night, she surrendered herself.
“You know, Herr Steinberg, I think I love you too.”
As it always was with Auschwitz, one could only count on a few days of relative respite from all the horrors they had long grown used to seeing. It was naïve, of course, to hope that it would last, but Alma still did in spite of herself, until the day came—the first one when Miklós was late for their rehearsal—and obliterated all of her hopes in the cruelest of manners. Her anguish had only intensified when he failed to appear altogether that day and the following one.
When he returned at last, two days later, his face was so badly bruised, his left eye was almost entirely swollen shut. Rough stitches pulling the skin above his eyebrow together, his nose was most certainly broken, and yet, he was smiling at her with those busted lips, all the while Alma regarded him in mortal horror.
“No need to look so alarmed; my hands are perfectly fine,” he declared at once, demonstrating his unmarred, beautiful palms to her as though it was her only worry. “The Christmas concert won’t be cancelled on my account, you have my word. I have never cancelled a performance in my life and am not about to start now.”
“Your eye!” That was all Alma could manage in reply.
“It is my profound conviction it’ll look presentable by then.”
“You could have lost it!”
“Fortunately for me, I have two. I can see the sheet music just fine as long as I keep my head turned this way.” He had already seated himself at the piano and assumed a certain comical posture.
To Alma, it appeared tragic, if anything.
He patted the bench inviting her to take her place by the piano, but she remained standing. Her entire body was trembling with some wild emotion.
“You could have gotten yourself killed!” A cry tore from her throat. She was suddenly overcome with the violent, impotent desire to slaughter him properly. “They caught you stealing, didn’t they? The SS? It was them who beat you?”
“They wouldn’t kill me. Herr Kommandant’s orders.”
“Hössler himself shot a woman, in front of my very eyes, for assuming that she had stolen from me! Do you truly think they give a brass tack about Herr Kommandant’s orders? And all for what? For some idiotic chocolate bar! Would it have been worth it? Getting beaten to death for a chocolate?”
“You’re screaming,” he commented softly.
“I have all the right to!” She wanted to stop, but all of a sudden she had lost all control of her voice. “How do you imagine I would have lived with myself if they murdered you for some stupid chocolate bar? Is it all some sick game to you? Is it amusing, to see how long you can go stealing from the SS and getting away with it?”
“It wasn’t about the chocolate bar this time,” he said very softly.
Alma stared at him, aware of the deathly chill spreading slowly through her veins. “What was it about then?” she asked almost in a whisper, almost afraid to know.
For a few moments, he appeared to consider whether to tell her or not. “They found something on me. Something I shouldn’t have had.”
“The pocketknife?”
“No. Not the knife.” His tone grew strange all of a sudden. “I had already passed it on to someone by then.”
Chalk-white and unable to speak, Alma kept searching his face but could only discern a shadow of something oddly triumphant and defiant under that purplish map of half-healed bruises and swollen flesh.
The last of her doubts were obliterated. His new comrades—the Greens and the Reds, his Ausweis and the ability to move freely about the camp, his proximity to the SS and his somewhat protected position—it would be idiotic of them (she silently cursed at the men who had dragged him into their dangerous machinations) not to employ his services for their goals, whatever those goals might be. Alma was aware that Zippy mixed with the camp Resistance as well, but Zippy only traded in information she gathered in her camp headquarters. She wasn’t stupid enough to hoard guns or ammunition as the Resistance members were rumored to do in the hope of staging a revolt as soon as the Soviet Army drew close enough. Apparently, Miklós was. Or he simply valued his freedom and dignity over the dangers the Resistance carried along with its proud name.
“Miklós, what did you do? And don’t lie to me, please. I ought to know so I can be… prepared.”
“There’s nothing to be prepared for,” he tried to assure her. “I’ve already received my obligatory beating. The SS jodhpurs they discovered on me I explained by way of the cold barrack and my own ignorance. ‘Some fiend from the disinfecting station in the Kanada traded them to me for a piece of bread, Herr Untersturmführer; he had persuaded me that they had been discarded by your office and that I could wear them under my own trousers for warmth and no one would mind…’” His look was thoroughly innocent and sincerely apologetic as he playacted the scene before her. Even Alma found herself convinced. “I did, after all, wear them under my own trousers. It looked like an honest mistake. So, they gave me a good thrashing and closed the case.”
The SS may have closed it, but Alma couldn’t. “What did you need the SS uniform trousers for?”
He laughed uneasily, hoping to escape further interrogation, but seeing that Alma wouldn’t budge, Miklós took a deep breath and was noble and proud and grave once again. “A fellow has to escape and, to do so, he needs to be dressed as one of them. If he makes it outside and then to the Soviets, he’ll give them the maps of the camp layout and the crematoriums. We’re hoping that either Soviet or American bombers lay a few eggs on them or at least onto the train tracks leading up to the camp.”
A fleeting grimace of pain furrowed Alma’s brow; she was just about to say something, something about the Gestapo chief’s sinister department and the gallows on the Appellplatz, something about herself not being able to survive if he didn’t, but then looked into his clear, fearless eyes and ended up putting her cool palm on his cheek as a blessing.
Yes. You do what you ought to. Be brave now, when it matters the most. I wouldn’t love you this much, if you were a coward like others. Be brave. Do what you must, and I shall stand by you and hold your hand just as you promised to hold mine.
She didn’t say any of that either, nor was it necessary. He read it all loud and clear in her eyes and thanked her softly for understanding. It was almost insulting to be in love in this place, but for them, there was suddenly no way around it. They pronounced their feelings for each other that day like a death sentence and sealed it with a kiss that left both gasping for air.
“For all eternity, no matter how short it will be.”
“For all eternity, and long after that, too.”
Chapter 22
December 1943
Five days before Christmas, two of her girls were released from the sickbay to Alma’s care. They appeared in the Block, pale and willow-thin, completely exhausted from the laborious walk, but shuffled toward their respective chairs in spite of themselves. With growing anxiety, Alma watched them struggle with their instruments, for even such a lightweight affair as a violin was suddenly too heavy for Violette to hold. Flora wasn’t faring any better at the piano, even under Miklós’ gentle guidance—an hour, one pitiful hour, of rehearsals left her drenched with sweat and even more ghostly-white than before.
“This won’t do.” Miklós was the first one to openly declare what everyone was thinking. “This is torture, not rehearsals. They released them because they aren’t contagious anymore, not because they’ve recovered. They ought to be in their beds, resting and eating double and triple rations, not mastering blasted Wagner for the SS concert!”
Just as Alma was about to send her charges into their respective beds and leave them to rest
, Dr. Mengele strode in, seated himself in one of the chairs in the audience and motioned for the orchestra to proceed. Alma didn’t like at all the gleeful, wolfish smile that wouldn’t leave his face.
A picture of composure, she squared her shoulders and tapped her baton on the stand. “From the beginning.”
It took her great effort to keep her gaze over the heads of the girls with a professional indifference when all she wanted was to see if Violette would find it in herself to bring her violin to her shoulder in time. But, as though sensing some malice hanging over the room like a dark, ominous cloud, her orchestra played better than ever. The violinists in particular entered on time and in perfect synchrony, as though in a desire to protect the weaker member of their herd from the predator in his elegant gray overcoat. Still, it wasn’t enough to hide a false note from Violette’s instrument.
Dr. Mengele cringed visibly.
Next to Miklós who shared a bench with her, Flora was struggling with the piano. Under Dr. Mengele’s gaze that was a mixture of mock horror and barely concealed amusement, the pianist sat next to his student in helpless ire until his own nerves gave out. Miklós moved Flora’s hands away from the keys and picked up the melody himself, correcting the sound of the entire orchestra at once.
Alma felt tempted to do the very same thing with Violette’s violin.
Beads of sweat collecting on her forehead, Violette was desperately squinting at the sheet music in front of her. With great effort, she tried to keep up with the rest, but it appeared as though her eyes and her hands refused to work together.
Another false note; she pressed her bluish lips into a tight line and clutched at her violin with greater force just to keep it on her shoulder. Her fingers were too stiff with effort; the bow cut across the strings with a harsh, screaming sound.
Defeated, she finally lowered her instrument. The look that she gave Alma made Alma’s throat constrict with emotion. It was an agonized expression of utter despondency and disappointment—with her own incompetence. Forgive me… The girl’s lips were quivering. Two heavy tears rolled down her ashen cheeks and dropped onto the violin that lay, useless and silent, on her lap.
Alma stopped the music. Miklós was right; it was a torture.
As though on cue, Dr. Mengele rose from his chair. “Frau Alma, may I have a word in private?”
In the grave silence that followed, Alma led him to her room. Once inside, he looked around with curiosity, pulled one of the chairs away from the small, rickety table and gestured Alma toward it with almost theatrical gallantry.
“Herr Doktor, surely, you don’t expect them to be in their top shape,” she began speaking against all protocols. “They have just been released from the sickbay. They’re still very weak and need time to return back to normal…”
“Do you know how exactly typhus affects people?” Dr. Mengele asked her as if he didn’t hear a word out of what she had just said. “Possible complications include hearing loss, sensitivity to light and general vision problems, muscle stiffness.” He gave Alma a pointed look. “All are a death sentence to any musician; don’t you agree?”
Alma made no reply. She was certain that his choice of words was intentional.
“Let’s not bring the entire orchestra’s performance down just because of a couple of weak members. The new transport shall arrive soon; you’ll select new girls, fresh girls, maybe even better than these have been—”
“They are not have been,” Alma’s voice was full of ice. “They’re still here and they’re going nowhere; not while I’m in charge, at any rate. It’s any civilized society’s duty to look after and protect its weak members, not get rid of them as soon as they fall ill. This is what makes us human, Herr Doktor.”
“Marxist ideas.” He dismissed her argument with a negligent wave of the hand. “This is not how the Reich operates. And Auschwitz-Birkenau falls under the Reich’s jurisdiction and ideology. All weak members of society ought to be eradicated. They’re useless eaters who don’t contribute anything.” He gave Alma another provoking look from the corner of his eyes. “Just like those two charges of yours in their present state.”
“They’ll be playing just fine by Christmas,” Alma asserted, holding his gaze. Her tone barely contained any emotion in it. “I’ll see to it.”
“But they’re weak and half-blind. Such complications can last for weeks; sometimes months,” Dr. Mengele continued with a certain malicious relish. “There’s another issue—constant hunger that can’t be sated no matter how much food the recovering person consumes. They turn into virtual animals. They begin stealing from their own relatives—I personally witnessed what such hunger does to them.”
Alma had seen it too. Yet, she only stared at him obstinately with her black eyes. “My girls don’t steal.”
“In ordinary circumstances, no, they don’t. But these are not ordinary circumstances.”
“Of course not. It’s an extermination camp.” Alma shrugged coolly.
Dr. Mengele grinned, amused. “You’re quite a word fencer, Frau Alma. I bet you had rather a number of admirers back in the day.”
“Fat lot of good their number did when your racial laws went into effect and they all jumped my sinking ship like the rats that they are.”
“They’re mere cowards then,” Dr. Mengele conceded surprisingly easily. Alma regarded him with suspicion, but there was not a trace of irony in his gaze now. “You can’t blame cowards for their cowardly ways. They can’t help it, like rabbits can’t help not moving when faced with a wolf. It is rather sad that we have such weak elements in our Aryan racial stock…” He suddenly pulled forward, his hand, with its index finger pointing, stopping a mere inch from Alma’s chest. “You, on the other hand, have steel in you, Frau Alma. Sheer steel for nerves; pure, cold mercury in your veins. In that regard, you’re much more Aryan than our highly praised Teutonic Knights that tremble in their boots and drop their weapons at the mere sight of an advancing Ivan. I’ve seen it happen on the Eastern front… A pathetic picture. The ‘undefeated’ German war machine, waving white handkerchiefs as soon as they hear Oorraah, pobieda—hurrah, victory—coming from the Soviet lines, even before they see the Russkies themselves charging at them.” Once again, he was back to studying her with his eyes slightly narrowed. “But I can bet any money that you wouldn’t have run.” He shook his head, as though in confirmation of his own thoughts. “No, you wouldn’t have. You never back away from danger. You’re fearless to a suicidal extent. That’s a very Aryan trait and I can’t help but respect that.”
It took Alma great effort to prevent disgust from showing on her face. “If you indeed respect that, Herr Doktor, and if you do have such trust in my ‘steel,’ allow me to put those girls back in shape. I will make sure they will play excellently at Christmas.”
“It’s a big event, Frau Alma. Kommandant Liebehenschel is going to be there. All camp’s top brass.”
“I understand that.”
“You don’t want to embarrass yourself with such musicians, do you?”
“I would never let a musician on my stage if I wasn’t one hundred percent certain that they could play according to my high standards.”
“Why are you being so obstinate about that particular couple at any rate? They’re easily replaceable. Announce a camp audition—it is my profound conviction you shall have a new violinist and a new pianist by lunchtime.”
“I don’t need replacements. My girls are perfectly capable of playing.” She looked at him and softened her tone. “Herr Doktor, you have already placed your trust in me once, on that very first day on the ramp. You gave me your permission to expand the orchestra and, I believe, I haven’t disappointed you with the result, else, you would have long sent us all to the gas for our uselessness. Place your trust in me once more. I will get them back into shape. You have my word.”
“In five days? Impossible.”
“No such thing as impossible. Everything is achievable if only one applies their all.”
“Commendable thinking.”
He leaned back in his chair, studying Alma with great interest. Her own gaze was riveted to one of Dr. Mengele’s tall boots. It was sticking from under the chair and was polished to such perfection, she was sure she would see her own reflection in it if she leaned closely enough.
“Very well.” At last, he announced his verdict. “You shall keep your girls until then. But if I hear one false note during the concert—just one—not just these two but all four of your sick orchestra girls get phenol shots to the heart the very next day. I believe that’s fair enough.”
Chapter 23
“Right.”
Facing her own orchestra suddenly felt like facing a firing squad. The weight of the entire world had all at once descended on her shoulders. Steel for nerves, her foot; why was her “steady hand” suddenly shaking as she picked up her baton? It was much too heavy for her just then; Alma dropped it into its place, lowered into one of the chairs and wiped her hands down her face. It was all too much. Too much responsibility, and not just for herself, or for her elderly father as it used to be, but for four human beings, four young girls with their lives long and promising before them, with their hopes and fears and their dreams for the future. She regarded her hands that lay limp, palms up, in her lap. Four lives. Four human lives she held in those hands.
Suddenly overcome with shame, she glanced at her charges, who kept searching her face ever since she’d come back from her room. They desperately needed a leader and here she was, sitting lamenting her fate when it was theirs that was at stake. Time was of the essence. Wasting it on self-pity was a crime.
From his place at the piano, Miklós gave her an encouraging smile. Just like her girls, he appeared to have faith in her even when she, herself, didn’t.
“Right,” Alma repeated, this time with determination in her voice, and rose swiftly from her chair. “It is obvious that both Violette and Flora need extra nourishment before they can resume rehearsals. From now on, for five days, we will be feeding them extra rations to ensure that they have enough strength to play. Five days is a very short time, so we shall start right this instant. Girls who still have food left in your parcels, bring it here. Regina, make hot tea for everyone, will you? We could all use some warming up, and the girls will eat in the meantime.”
The Violinist of Auschwitz: Based on a true story, an absolutely heartbreaking and gripping World War 2 novel Page 23
