by Mario Bolduc
That night at the reception Hans Leibrecht wasn’t the only one to show interest in the orchestra. A corporal, a young man named Matthias Kluge, kept humming along to the sounds coming from Emil’s Paolo Soprani. At one point in the evening Emil overheard a rather heated argument between Kluge and Dr. Josef over the costs of Block 10. Emil understood that the former worked as an accountant for the SS-Standortverwaltung, which was responsible for the camp’s administration.
To the others, the cream of the crop of Auschwitz-Birkenau, the musicians didn’t exist; it was that simple. The music could have come from a phonograph; it would have made no difference. As he played, Emil had scanned the room, trying to find Christina Müller, the woman who’d saved his life. She didn’t seem to be there. Emil overheard Oskar Müller telling another officer that his wife was tired and wouldn’t be joining them that night. It didn’t seem to bother him overmuch, quite the opposite. Over the course of the evening, Müller moved from one woman to the next, like an excitable butterfly. Perhaps Christina knew her husband’s habits; she might have preferred not to witness his shenanigans.
Back in the dusty room, the door burst open suddenly and Oskar Müller appeared, clapping his hands. The collar of his tuxedo was tight around his neck, making his face an impressive shade of red. Or perhaps it was his nerves at the thought of leading his little orchestra in front of all his superiors. The Paolo Soprani strapped around his shoulder, Emil followed the other musicians through the corridors of the house plunged in half-light. He could see the cake farther on, decorated with candles and carried by three aides. The other musicians were seeing it for the first time, unlike Emil. For those getting barely any food — and vile food at that — the birthday cake they would not be able to sample was, of course, additional torture. Müller, naturally, didn’t have the slightest idea what was going on in the detainees’ heads. He was as nervous as a young conductor getting ready for his first concert, even redder in the face now than only a few minutes earlier.
On Müller’s signal, they began playing, with varying levels of success, a German birthday song. Two officers carried the cake to a table festooned with balloons and a banner, around which sat a few children but mostly adults, officers, all applauding loudly. It was all a surprise for Höss, who laughed and clapped like an imbecile. The same held true for Johann Schwarzhuber. Little Otto was seated in front of him, Johann holding him by the shoulders, the sign around his neck nowhere to be seen. A bit farther off, his mother, looking as austere as always. As he played, Emil scanned the room. It was the usual crowd: Mengele, Leibrecht, Kluge, and the others. Once again, no sign of Christina.
It was little Otto’s turn, and he blew the candles with as much energy as he could muster. More applause, more encouragement.
Oskar Müller’s performance over and done with, the members of the orchestra were directed toward the living room, where they were to wait for the end of the meal. Once the children were sent to bed, the adults would need to stretch their legs to the rhythm of dancing music.
Through a door left ajar, the prisoners could see and hear the action in the dining room: the sound of cutlery on plates, the shouts of children, the laughter of their parents. An evening of celebration like any other, it could have been anywhere. But it was in Auschwitz, where the victims of the Third Reich were disposed of. Auschwitz, little more than a landfill for undesirables.
Emil Rosca was hungry. Perhaps made hungrier by the officers he saw coming and going between the kitchen and the dining room, making sure Höss and his guests were eating their fill. Emil pushed the door open wider. The kitchen was right at the end of the corridor, nearby. With only a few steps, he could slip in, grab something, anything, and slip back into the living room. He knew there were only two officers taking care of the service — the third man had disappeared. Sometimes both men were in the dining room at the same time, leaving the kitchen unattended. That was when Emil had to act.
Emil looked around. The other musicians were all slumped against walls or napping on the ground, taking full advantage of the precious minutes of rest. His absence wouldn’t be noticed.
He stood and watched the aides-de-camp coming and going for a long time. They were, unfortunately, almost perfectly synchronized. They passed each other in the corridor, where Emil could hear their perfectly polished shoes screeching on the wood floor. Each time Emil hoped one of them would turn around and go back to the dining room, giving him an opportunity to slip by unnoticed. But no such luck. Soon the noise from the nearby dining room, that of the children especially, lessened, a sign they’d be sent to bed soon. Emil was heartbroken; a small dream was slipping between his fingers.
Suddenly, the sound of broken glass, a slap to the face, crying. And the aides-de-camp were running toward the dining room. A child had spilled something; the two men were coming to the rescue.
It was now or never.
Emil opened the door as softly as possible. There was no one in the corridor. The child who’d dropped something was still crying; the aides-de-camp were nowhere to be seen. Emil moved in the opposite direction, all the while looking behind him. He was soon in the kitchen, a large, well-lit room. On every countertop, remains of the feast. Empty bottles of champagne, as well. A pile of plates, some of which still had pieces of ham on them. Emil didn’t think, didn’t look for something more substantial. No, those leftovers were a banquet for him. He rushed toward a plate with half-eaten ham on it, and just as he was about to put the food in his mouth, he felt a presence behind him.
Christina Müller.
Emil realized he was lost. He was standing there with a piece of ham in his hand. He would pay the piper for this — with his life, most likely. He could hear the aides-de-camp in the corridor, making their way back to the kitchen. Soon he’d be arrested, sent to the showers.
But Christina Müller kept her calm. Without any particular emotion, she grabbed Emil by the arm and pushed him into a pantry, just as the two aides-de-camp hurried back into the kitchen. They didn’t seem surprised to see her. The guests were asking for more coffee, one of them said, a touch of nerves in his voice. Christina offered to prepare it herself, and they were only too happy to accept. The two men were overwhelmed, that much was clear. He heard them rushing back to attend to Höss’s guests.
The pantry door opened. Completely puzzled by the young woman’s decision, he didn’t even take the time to thank her. He moved right past her and into the now empty corridor, and slipped back into the living room. Emil had been right: no one had noticed his absence.
Emil Rosca often saw Christina after that day. She began accompanying her husband to the Kommandantur receptions. As he played the accordion, Emil, of course, kept his attention on Oskar Müller. But sometimes he’d take a moment to glance at the young woman’s face, and their eyes would meet. Emil would immediately look away, confused about why she’d let him go free from that kitchen. Twice the young German woman had saved his life. Why? What sort of interest did she have in him? She’d saved him from Dr. Josef to serve her husband’s ambition and her own taste in music. But the second time? It could have been for the love of music again. If Emil had been arrested, he would have been sent back to the Zigeunerlager. Or to the gas chambers. No more music, no more accordion for him. But the look Christina gave him from time to time wasn’t that of a music lover. No, it was that of a woman in love. Emil couldn’t help but smile at the thought. The German wife of a German officer in a German concentration camp falling in love with a prisoner of the Stammlager! And a seventeen-year-old Rom at that! Emil was getting carried away, as usual. He dreamed, which was the most dangerous escape.
A few weeks after the kitchen incident, at another party, the men were chatting away, ignoring their wives, ignoring the orchestra. Müller was there, Kluge, as well, and others Emil didn’t recognize. He overheard a discussion on German forces in Russia retreating following their defeat at Stalingrad in February, after six months
of brutality and carnage. On the Western Front, France was still in the grip of the Third Reich. The officers spoke of how they expected the invasion of Great Britain would compensate for losses on the Eastern Front. But no one seemed entirely convinced of that. What was more, the Americans had just landed in southern Italy …
Emil had no idea where all these countries were. Stalingrad even less so.
“You are Emil Rosca?”
The young Rom was startled out of his thoughts. Christina, the wife of an SS officer, was speaking to him — simply inconceivable. She stood there, hands on hips, in front of the assembled orchestra, expecting an answer. Behind her the officers talked with one another in a cloud of smoke. Emil nodded imperceptibly, as if he were afraid to commit himself. Christina kept her eyes on him.
“Anton’s son?”
Emil felt dizzy. His father? Why was this German woman speaking of his father? Why here, why now?
A voice broke the spell, a man’s voice coming from the group of officers behind her. “And you, Christina, what do you think?”
Without losing her cool, the German woman turned toward the group of SS officers. “Do you really believe the Russians will be able to maintain their offensive?” she asked, her tone emotionless. “Don’t forget that Stalingrad exhausted them, as well.”
“Christina is right,” Matthias Kluge said. “The Red Army is an empty shell. Sooner or later they’ll be forced to slow down and fall back.”
The others nodded without conviction.
“What if we danced?”
As Emil started to play, Christina grabbed Oskar Müller in her arms and dragged him into an energetic waltz, soon to be followed by the other women in the group. Emil observed her looking happy, joyous even, completely serene. She seemed like a different woman, he thought, and she didn’t even glance at him for the rest of the evening. Once again, the young accordion player was sure he’d simply been dreaming.
Back in the barracks, Emil couldn’t sleep a wink. He was so confused. This magnificent woman, this apparition, speaking of his father, Anton, of whom he hadn’t heard a single solitary word of since the scattering of their kumpaníya a year ago now. Was Anton alive? Held in a camp just like this one perhaps. Worried for his son and the rest of his family. How did Christina Müller know of his existence?
The next morning little Otto Schwarzhuber was waiting for him outside the barracks. His eyes steady, looking straight at Emil. Expecting Emil to play his accordion for him. Emil had no desire to do so, had no desire to do anything, except maybe to dream a little, to escape. A hand fell on the boy’s shoulder. Emil raised his eyes. It wasn’t Otto’s mother, but Christina Müller, looking after the child.
“Play, Emil. Play like yesterday.”
Emil lifted his Paolo Soprani and played again, but for her this time. Little Otto couldn’t guess what was happening, of course. Emil played and Christina looked intently at him, just as she had during the Kommandantur party. What did she want from him, exactly? His first song ended, and as he was about to start another, Christina sent Otto back to the officer looking after him a few metres away. The little boy grumbled but obeyed.
For the first time they were alone, Christina and him. Emil asked in his clumsy German, “You’ve seen my father? You’ve talked with him?”
She hesitated, then answered, “Your father is dead.”
A break, his mind like a handful of pebbles thrown into a roiling sea. He’d believed, he’d hoped, he’d dared to dream, and now all of it was crushed once again. Would his misfortunes never end? Emil wanted to speak but didn’t know how anymore. All he could muster was a questioning look.
“He was in Birkenau,” she told him. “But not with the Gypsies. He was hiding. He was pretending to be someone else.”
Emil didn’t understand. Why would he be hiding, pretending to be someone else? What false identity? The Roma only used borrowed names, in any case, depending on the country they were passing through with the changing seasons.
“Come closer.”
Emil hesitated. What did this woman want? He had to know more about how his father had died. And so he stepped forward, a single step. Carefully, Christina lifted her hand so very gently, as if wary of startling a savage, famished beast. She caressed his face, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It was, of course, but not in this place, not in this hell on earth. In another world he would have expected it, in another world he was now sure he would never see again.
“Emil, I was sent by your father.”
10
New York, September 16, 1999
After Sacha’s birth, Max O’Brien lost contact with Kevin Dandurand and his family. Max did visit them in Montreal a few times, but for Kevin and Caroline, Kevin especially, he represented the past. Gabrielle was the only one whose attitude toward him hadn’t changed. The girl was growing so quickly. She’d started school and was learning, little by little, to go without her mother, who was often off to Toronto for work. The family now had the means to pay for a full-time nanny to take care of Sacha when Caroline was away.
Kevin seemed to enjoy his job at Nordopak. His truce with Raymond held despite Sharon’s now-official role as his new wife, a role that still bothered Kevin, though his mother had been dead for years. Kevin had convinced himself that Raymond could do whatever he wanted with his love life. He wasn’t cheating on anyone anymore. Perhaps Raymond had even been sensitive by keeping this woman — and their daughter, Josée — far from his first family. Kevin had learned that his father’s relationship with his mother had soured long, long before. They’d only remained married for Kevin. Ironically, Roxanne’s death had put an end to an impossible situation for both of them.
At the time, all of eleven years old, Kevin had interpreted Sharon and Josée coming to the house on avenue Shorncliffe as a betrayal. His father’s betrayal, combined with his mother’s defeat: a painful shaming Kevin sought to avenge. And yet, curiously, Sharon had ended up being a wonderful substitute mother, in some ways better for him than Roxanne had ever been. She had often come to Kevin’s defence, though he wasn’t her own son. The situation with Josée, his half-sister, was entirely different. While Kevin hated his father, the little girl adored him, and felt much closer to her father than to her mother, Sharon. This powerful affection negatively impacted her relationship with her half-brother, four years older than she. A sort of cold war had begun, unchanged by the passage of the two children into their teenage years. In fact, Raymond had been forced to intervene a number of times between the two of them, usually to Josée’s advantage. Kevin had had the impression they were ganging up on him to make his life miserable.
Sharon had been the neutral arbiter. She was interested in Kevin’s day-to-day life and treated him with respect. She was the one who remembered his birthday every year and drove him to the hockey rink on Saturday mornings. She was the one who made sure his grades were good in school, who waited for him when he came home late from a party in high school while Raymond slept soundly in their bedroom. Kevin was especially impressed by how Sharon could hold her own against his father’s mind games, something Roxanne hadn’t been able to do. Kevin had never understood his mother’s seemingly shameless and total submission toward Raymond. He’d even talked about it with Roxanne — he was nine, maybe ten years old at the time. Even back then he had been able to intuit that the relationship between his mother and father was a strange one. But, as always, Roxanne had avoided the question. Kevin had insisted, and so she’d answered, “Your father can do whatever he wants. Do you understand?”
No, he hadn’t. But Roxanne had refused to say more.
A few days after her death Raymond had told him to get in the passenger seat of the Cadillac. Without another word, father and son drove to the countryside. They eventually reached a small river, made famous after a local newspaper’s exposé on young people drinking beers and smoking grass around campfires on it
s banks. To the great despair of the neighbours.
Raymond parked his car near the river and got out. Finally, he broke the silence. “Come on. Give me a hand.”
In the car’s trunk, Roxanne’s personal effects. Boxes filled with her clothes, books, perfume. A scarf she had loved dearly. Raymond had lit a fire on the pile of ashes left by the previous night’s revellers and thrown all of his wife’s possessions on it. Soon, the objects were only smoke in a clear blue sky.
Raymond took his son by the shoulders. “Your mother’s belongings are with her now. She’ll need them up there.”
Carried by the wind, a half-burned piece of paper floated above the trees. Raymond didn’t notice it. Kevin ran after it, finally catching it at the foot of a tree. He recognized his mother’s writing, the sharpness of it. A piece of paper saved from the flames. Half a sentence printed on it in a language he couldn’t read. He thought for a moment of asking his father what it meant, but just then, a voice called him back to the car. It was time to go. His father’s shouts wiped the thought from his mind, and Kevin simply put the piece of paper in his pocket and hurried back.
Years later, as Kevin and Max had been getting ready for a con, Kevin emptied his wallet out to get into character. Among the usual IDs and documents, that small piece of half-burnt paper, which Kevin had kept all those years.
“The only keepsake I have of my mother.”
Kevin had told Max how Raymond had gotten rid of all her posessions.
“And what does it say?”
“‘I miss you, I think of you all the time.’”
Max had looked at Kevin, waiting for him to continue.
