Miklós averted his eyes, sorry for having asked. Alma felt for the poor man as well; it was a damned sad business, finding oneself more at home among the camp population, surrounded by so much horror, rather than his own blood-related kin.
The sun was rolling westward, and the guard woke up from his nap just in time for the farmer’s wife to appear with yet another basket brimming with goods. This time, even more foodstuffs were thrown in the inmates’ direction. They ate, chatting amicably among themselves, and didn’t even hear the sound of an approaching car that stopped on the side of the road, not too far from their group.
Instantly ridding himself of the bottle he was nursing, their SS escort leapt to his feet and snapped to attention. Dropping their food as well, Alma’s girls rose swiftly from the ground, propelled by sheer camp instinct.
Near the edge of the field, a tall SS officer stood in front of a black Mercedes and observed them in silence. With a wave of the hand, he dismissed their guard and walked up to where Alma, Miklós and von Volkmann were standing. The latter released an annoyed grunt, much to Alma’s alarm. The officer snorted with disdain as though he had expected that much, removed his gloves finger by finger, then his cap with the skull and crossbones just above its visor.
Alma stared at his face in amazement. He could have easily been von Volkmann’s twin.
“Herr Sturmbannführer,” von Volkmann greeted him mockingly. “To what do I owe such a dubious pleasure?”
“Still consider yourself witty?”
“I can afford a long tongue. Unlike you, I don’t have to watch every word that comes out of my mouth.”
Von Volkmann’s twin ignored the jab. “Have you had enough yet? Ready to go home to your family?”
Almost twins, but not quite. The smooth, pure beauty of their von Volkmann heritage froze, hardened like plaster on this demented reflection of his. It painted harsh lines along a stubborn mouth that was used to giving orders and having those orders obeyed. It chilled the boyish blue of von Volkmann’s eyes to glacial indifference in the SS officer’s ones. He was a statue of a man, hard like granite—a mere empty vessel from which someone had pulled out the soul.
“I am home, big brother,” von Volkmann smiled and gestured with his cast-encased hand toward the orchestra. “And here’s my family.”
His brother slapped him across the face—with an open palm, a purposeful insult.
Von-Volkmann-with-the-cast-on-his-hand only smiled and offered him his other cheek. Von-Volkmann-the-SS-man obliged him with a second slap, harder this time, actually meaning it.
Von-Volkmann-the-pacifist wiped the blood off his busted lip and laughed in his face. “You can slap me about all you like. It will change nothing. You can drag me by my collar to that Mercedes of yours and bring me home—I’ll only embarrass you and Father even more the first chance I get.”
“Father has different plans for you. Now that you’re of age, you’re going to the front, with the Wehrmacht.”
“No, I’m not. I’ll refuse to put on the uniform and to take up the weapon. They will have to ship me back here again, this time on actual pacifism charges, not just for some pitiful leaflets,” the younger brother explained amicably.
“Obstinate idiot!”
“One yourself,” von Volkmann countered calmly and received another slap.
“Why do you keep acting out?”
“I’m not. I want to be here; what’s so difficult to understand about that?”
“Among these filthy Jews?!”
“They’re not filthy. We all shower every day and our clothes are being washed weekly.”
“Stop speaking to me as though I’m an idiot.”
“How else am I to speak to you if you say idiotic things?”
Another blow, and this time with a closed fist that made von Volkmann stumble back a step. He stood a while, holding his nose and letting the blood drip freely onto the grass; then straightened and wiped his face. The smile was back on his face and, for some reason, the sight of it made Sturmbannführer von Volkmann swallow uncomfortably.
“How much I pity you,” the younger brother suddenly said.
Sturmbannführer von Volkmann stepped back, alarmed.
“Yes, I pity you. I’m looking at you now and I pity you; do you want to hear why?”
Sturmbannführer von Volkmann looked like he didn’t.
“Because you’re a slave, big brother. You’re a slave and I’m a free man. You’re a slave to this uniform—” He caught the lapel of his brother’s overcoat; the latter slapped his hand away and took another step back. “To your rank and your office and, what’s worst of all, to your beloved Führer. You’re chained to it all good and fast, big brother, and you have put those chains on all on your own and now you won’t get out of it, oh no! You have chosen to be a slave. You voluntarily gave your oath to the dictator. You surrendered your pride and your voice to him. You have virtually ceased to exist. Now, you’re a mere faceless uniform that means nothing to him. Do you not understand it yet? He doesn’t care about people. He doesn’t care about you. He only cares about himself and he will willingly sacrifice you all in the name of some idiotic idea that had sprung into his demented head. And you will all march to your deaths bleating his slogans—greatness to Germany!—the brainless herd that you are. Why are you looking at me in such horror? Because I spoke against your leader or because I spoke the truth that you’re too afraid to admit? You’re a coward, with your gun and your uniform. A coward and a slave. And I’m a free man and shall always remain such. And now, go. You have no business to be here. This is the land of the free, Herr Sturmbannführer.”
Von-Volkmann-the-slave almost ran back to his car. Von-Volkmann-the-free-man stood against the sun and watched him.
Chapter 28
March 8, 1944
Alma began to suspect that something was wrong when Zippy didn’t return to the Music Block from the Schreibstube. The sense of foreboding grew when SS warden Drexler declared coolly that such was the directive from above and didn’t go into details. It turned into outright panic when, after conducting the evening roll call, Drexler and Grese locked the door to the Music Block from the outside with an ominous clang.
Alma flinched; the sound instantly reawaked the memories of the cattle train.
Even Sofia, the camp veteran, looked alarmed. “That can’t end well.”
Alma heard her whispering—under her breath, so that the girls wouldn’t hear.
“Are they bringing the Hungarians?” Violette asked.
Sofia obliterated her with a withering look.
“Have they ever locked you up before?” Alma looked at the former Kapo with pleading eyes, hoping for reassurance.
Sofia made no reply, thoroughly avoiding Alma’s searching gaze on her.
“They’re planning a liquidation, aren’t they?” Alma could barely hear her own voice; the blood was pulsing too violently in her ears.
Her friend’s silence spoke volumes.
Rushing to the only window in her room, Alma wiped the moisture that had accumulated on it. As suspected, the SS were bustling about in a manner that could only suggest one thing—an Aktion was coming. Powerful floodlights had been switched on, contrary to all blackout regulations; they highlighted the guards and the entrance to the crematorium like a stage being readied for some ghastly, grotesque performance. Glued to the glass, Alma watched the Sonderkommando—death chamber attendants, as they were dubbed by the camp population—rushing to and fro as the SS shouted their orders at them. Soon, Sanka trucks began to arrive in the yard. In the artificial pallid light, the Red Cross on their sides appeared to be bleeding.
The SS rushed to the trucks; tore at the tarpaulin and the tailboards and all at once began yanking the people that huddled inside and clubbing them savagely.
“Raus, raus, raus!!! Out everyone, now!”
A woman’s hysterical voice, “He’s just a child! Don’t hurt him!”
Someone elderly, trying to rea
son with the club-wielding SS, “I am an essential worker—” His explanation ended abruptly.
“We’re under the protection of the Red Cross!” A younger male voice; a sharp, surprised yelp—then, silence.
Alma watched as two Sonderkommando men dragged someone toward the stairs leading down to the changing room by his legs. The unconscious man—or was he dead already?—was dressed in civilian clothing.
They were all dressed in civilian clothing, men and women and children and elderly; it had suddenly dawned on Alma with bone-chilling terror. It was the Family Camp.
Her entire body covered with cold sweat at the ruckus in front of her, she realized why she had never before heard anyone screaming even though the crematorium stood right there, just across the fence from their block. The new arrivals were tricked by Hössler and his speeches; reassured by the signs on the walls—Shower and disinfection, written in different languages; lulled into submission by the numbered hooks on which they left their clothes—Don’t forget to memorize the number so you can find your belongings easier after you shower, ladies and gentlemen. She had seen it with her own eyes.
The new arrivals went willingly to their deaths for they suspected nothing. It was the Family Camp that had to be clubbed and forced down the stairs and into that changing room for they knew what it was. They resisted and protested that they wanted to work, that they were under the protection of the Red Cross, called for Lagerführer Schwarzhuber, who had given them his word of honor that they would be safe under his charge.
The man arrived soon enough; only, he didn’t stop the SS guards. Instead, he laughed openly at the Jews and their gullibility. His orderly, Oberscharführer Voss, stepped forward.
“Now, whatever is the matter, you Jews? Your time has come. There is nothing to be done about it. Why make your last moments so unnecessarily distressing for yourselves and your loved ones? Why all this pitiful spectacle now? Show some dignity; get undressed and move on to the next room in orderly fashion, as you should.”
The next room. The gas chamber.
Frantically, Alma began searching the crowd for the familiar face. Surely they had transferred Miklós into Laks’ Music Block prior to the Aktion. Surely, they knew he didn’t belong with the rest of the Family Camp. Her cheeks grew hot with shame for being so selfish. Before her eyes, entire families were being led to slaughter and she was searching for only one man amidst them all. But didn’t those mothers beg for their children only and not for all of them in general? Grief and fear were selfish emotions; there simply was no way around it.
In a spasm of some violent emotion, Alma burst out of her room and hurled herself against the door padlocked by the wardens, banging on it and slamming into it with her shoulder. As though through the haze, dazed and disoriented, she felt Sofia’s arms restraining her, heard the Polish woman’s soothing voice assuring her that he wasn’t there, he wasn’t there, she shouldn’t do anything daft or she would get herself killed for nothing—
Alma was in front of the window again, eyes searching, palms flat against the glass. Next to Lagerführer Schwarzhuber, Dr. Mengele was now smoking, slender and elegant as always. That reassured Alma somewhat. Still, she took a step back and sized the window up with her eyes. It was very small, but there were no bars or mesh on it and she was thin enough to squeeze through it. Alma made a grab for a chair, but Sofia was there to stop her once again.
The former Kapo pulled the chair away from Alma’s reach before she could get hold of it. “Oh no, you don’t! Do you not see what’s happening there? Do you want us all to join them? The SS will oblige you for this stunt!”
“They won’t liquidate the entire block. We’re essential.”
“Ha!” Sofia’s laugher came out in the form of a one-syllable, cynical bark. “Look outside. There go your essential inmates. The most privileged ones in the entire camp. Red Cross protection and all that fancy business, my foot. Now, either you get hold of yourself or I’ll tie you up with my own kerchief and leave you like that for the rest of the night. I understand your concerns very well, but I have the orchestra to mind. I love you and respect you for what you have done for the girls, but I won’t have you jeopardizing their safety.”
Alma felt the tears collecting under her chin and only then realized that she was crying. “Sofia, if he’s there, I will never forgive you,” she sobbed, feeling small and helpless, like a child with the weight of the entire world on her shoulders.
It was ridiculous to blame Sofia for anything, of course; she understood it perfectly well. Sofia understood it too. She gathered Alma into her arms and held her fast and rocked her gently from side to side, repeating her assurances that everything would be all right tomorrow, she would see for herself.
Of course, nothing would be all right. More trucks pulled toward the entrance as the SS chased their screaming victims through the door of the crematorium. Soon, the familiar orange shadows began to dance on the floorboards of Alma’s room. The ovens were working. The first batch of inmates had been gassed.
A sickly-sweet odor seeped through the cracks in the planks of the Music Block’s walls; it hung like death over the room, clung to Alma with its sickening embrace. Death, death everywhere. She was inhaling it, it stung her throat, her eyes, her very soul, obliterating everything in her, destroying the last defenses, turning blood into acid. Inside her chest, her heart was bleeding itself white.
Good. Let her die right now; let her take her last breath along with him, no matter the distance between them. It would be the easy way out. It was bad enough that Sofia’s arms were around her, reminding her of the arms the touch of which she would never feel again.
They were now sitting on Alma’s bed. A few times, driven by impulse, Alma made an anguished move to get up and go to the window, but Sofia held her tight.
“What’s the use? It’s torture, watching them all, regular torture…”
But even if they couldn’t see them, they could hear them well enough—the wails of the children and the weeping of their mothers, the indignant demands of their husbands and the pleas of their elders—all of them drowned out by the mad howls of the SS dogs and the vicious bellowing of their uniformed handlers.
“We want to work. Herr Lagerführer, tell them; we’re all very good workers! Put us to the outside detail, you’ll see how well we can work!”
“Mama! Mama!!” Like razors, children’s high-pitched cries split the night’s veins open. The little gnomes, whom Hössler was feeding candy for their marvelous Snow White performance, were being torn away from their mothers’ arms on his orders.
Every breath a painful struggle, Alma clawed into Sofia’s shoulders. It was all too much to bear. She almost wished she had never visited the Family Camp, never met all those people; it would have been easier to live through this all had she not known them personally, the proud, brave people who mocked, with wonderful derision, the feared German leader himself.
But most of all, she wished she had never heard Miklós’ words. I think I love you, Almschi. But he had said those words and, from that moment on, she was connected to him by an invisible and yet almost tangible cord, and now, if he would perish, she would have no choice but to follow; she realized it with harrowing clarity.
Outside, the Nazi orgy of destruction was still raging.
“Get inside, you bloody shit! Inside, you shit-Jews. Make it snappy before I help you find your legs.”
“Herr Doktor, tell them I am exempt! I’m pregnant, Herr Doktor! You ordered them to give me milk in addition to my rations because I’m pregnant! Herr Doktor, I’m right here.”
Something in that woman’s words made Alma go very still in Sofia’s arms. “Go and see if he pulled her out of the line.” Her voice sounded oddly soft.
“What?”
“That pregnant woman. Go and see if Mengele pulled her out of the line.”
Sofia rose to her feet with great reluctance. She stood by the window silently for a time, while Alma stared at the orange sh
adows slithering along the floorboards like great deadly serpents.
“I don’t see any pregnant women,” Sofia spoke at last.
“Do you see Mengele?”
“Yes.”
“What is he doing?”
“Just standing there with Voss and Schwarzhuber.”
Alma nodded slowly to herself. All light seemed to have gone out of her eyes. They stared, black and empty, into a void, unseeing and already dead.
“You have cheated us!” a woman shrieked outside. She had nothing else to lose. “But your Hitler will lose the war! Then will come the hour of revenge. Then you will have to pay for everything, murderers!”
A shot rang out. Suddenly, in the silence that followed, someone began to sing. Alma recognized the former Czechoslovak national anthem.
The SS must have tried to stifle such an unorthodox form of protest, for the very first voice had died down very quickly, but now more had picked up where the first man left off. It was coming from the underground, from the changing room and the gas chamber into which they were being herded, deep and sonorous. It rose above the enraged shouts of the SS and spread over the camp, a powerful reminder of the inmates’ unbroken will.
From the darkness of the barrack, more voices joined in. Alma’s girls were signing, joining the revolt. Alma stood up. Her legs weren’t too steady, but her hands were when she took her violin from its case. She brought it to her shoulder and looked at Sofia.
“I know he’s there. I know he’s singing with them now. I want him to know that I hear. That we all hear.”
She closed her eyes and began to play—for Miklós, her fearless freedom fighter; for the brave little gnomes; for Fredy Hirsh, their guardian angel; for two Great War veterans who mocked Hitler himself, and for everyone who watched them and laughed when they did so.
The Family Camp inmates must indeed have heard the first few notes of her violin. Revitalized by its support, their voices grew louder, more condemning, more defiant, more deafening. Behind the wall, Flora slammed the piano keys with righteous anger. She wasn’t singing the anthem along with the others; she was screaming it and, oddly enough, it fitted the occasion just fine. Before long, the entire orchestra was playing with the feeling that was always absent when they played for the SS. They were playing the farewell song.
The Violinist of Auschwitz: Based on a true story, an absolutely heartbreaking and gripping World War 2 novel Page 29
