Dita remembers when they left Prague, that moment when they walked out the front door and put their suitcases on the landing. They were getting ready to close a door that they didn’t know if they’d ever open again. Her father went back inside the apartment for a moment while mother and daughter watched him from the landing. He walked up to the sideboard in the living-dining room and twirled the world globe one last time.
And Dita finally falls asleep.
But her sleep is restless; something is disturbing her. As dawn is breaking, she wakes up with a start, convinced that someone has called her. Uneasy, she opens her eyes, her heart beating loudly. The only things next to her are the feet of her sleeping bunkmate, and the only sounds disturbing the silence are the snores and muttering of the women talking in their sleep. It was just a nightmare … but Dita is filled with a sense of foreboding. She’s convinced it was her father who was calling her.
First thing in the morning, the camp fills with guards and Kapos for the morning roll call. It’s a two-hour roll call, which feels like the longest of her life. She keeps exchanging glances with her mother while they are lined up. Talking is forbidden, although in this instance, it’s almost better not to exchange words. When they finally break ranks, they take advantage of the endless lines for breakfast to go to Barrack 15. As they approach it, Mr. Brady steps out of his breakfast line, his shoulders weighed down by his bad news.
“Mrs.…”
“My husband? Is he worse?” asks Liesl, her voice breaking.
“He’s dead.”
How can you sum up a life in just two very short words?
“Will we be able to go inside to see him?” asks Liesl.
“I’m sorry, but they’ve already taken him away.”
Dita and her mother ought to know that. The bodies are picked up at first light, piled onto a cart, and taken away to be incinerated in the ovens.
Dita’s mother seems to sway back and forth for a moment, on the verge of breaking down. At first glance, the news of his death hasn’t overly unsettled her; she probably knew from the moment she saw him lying on his bunk. Not being able to say good-bye to him has been a blow. Liesl quickly recovers her composure, however, and puts her hand on her daughter’s shoulder to console her.
“At least your father didn’t suffer.”
Dita, who senses her blood is beginning to boil, finds being addressed as a child even more irritating than her mother’s words.
“Didn’t suffer?” she replies, brusquely shrugging off her mother’s hand. “They took away his world, his house, his dignity, his health … and finally, they let him die alone, like a dog, on a flea-infested pallet. Isn’t that enough suffering?” And she almost shouts those last few words.
“That’s what God wanted, Edita. We must resign ourselves.”
Dita shakes her head again and again in disagreement.
“I don’t feel like resigning myself!” she screams in the middle of the Lagerstrasse. But hardly anyone pays any attention to her. “If I had God in front of me, I’d tell him what I thought of him and his twisted sense of compassion.”
She feels bad, and even worse when she realizes she’s been very rude to her mother just when what her mother most needs is comfort and support, but she can’t stop feeling furious at her mother’s docility. She’s relieved when Mrs. Turnovská arrives, wrapped in her enormous shawl. She must already know what has happened. She squeezes Dita’s arm affectionately, and warmly hugs Liesl, who grabs hold of her friend with unexpected feeling. This is what I should have done, Dita thinks to herself, hug my mother. But she can’t; she’s too angry to give hugs. She feels the urge to bite and destroy, just as they have destroyed her.
Three more women, whom Dita barely knows by sight, appear and start to cry noisily. Dita, her own eyes dry, looks at them in utter bewilderment. They approach her mother, but Mrs. Turnovská steps in.
“Get away from her! Go!”
“We just want to express our condolences to the lady.”
“If you don’t leave in the next ten seconds, I’ll kick you on your way!”
Liesl is too shocked to understand what’s going on, and Dita doesn’t have the strength to apologize to the women and ask them to stay.
“What are you doing, Mrs. Turnovská? Has the whole world gone mad?”
“They’re scavengers. They know that family members of the dead lose their appetites when they are upset, so they pretend to cry crocodile tears and then make off with your food ration.”
Dita is stunned; she hates the whole world at that moment. She asks Mrs. Turnovská to look after her mother and walks away. It’s not that she’s having difficulty getting used to the idea that she’ll never be with her father again, but rather that she doesn’t want to get used to it. She’s not prepared to accept it, she’s not going to resign herself to it, not now, not ever. She walks off, her hands clenched and her knuckles white. A white-hot rage burns inside her.
He’ll never come back from work in his double-breasted suit and felt hat, or glue his ear to the radio as he gazes up at the ceiling; he’ll never sit her on his knees again to show her the countries of the world or gently scold her for her crooked writing.
And she can’t even cry for him; her eyes are dry. And that makes her even madder. Since she has nowhere else to go, her feet take her to Block 31. The children are busy with breakfast, and she goes to the back of the hut without stopping, heading for her refuge behind the woodpile. She’s startled to find a solitary figure seated on the bench in the corner.
Morgenstern greets her with his old-fashioned politeness, but this time Dita doesn’t smile, and the old professor stops his theatrical bowing.
“My father…” And as she says it, Dita feels her blood start to boil as it runs through her veins. And a single word rises in her throat like bile:
“Murderers!”
She rolls it around her mouth, and repeats it five, ten, fifty times.
“Murderers, murderers, murderers, murderers…!”
She kicks a stool and then grabs it and brandishes it like a mace. She wants to smash something, but doesn’t know what. She wants to hit someone, but doesn’t know who. Her eyes are wild, and her anxiety is making her gasp. Professor Morgenstern stands up with surprising agility for such a frail-looking old man and removes the stool gently but firmly from her hand.
“I’ll kill them!” Dita cries out angrily. “I’ll get hold of a gun and kill them!”
“No, Edita, no,” he says to her, very gently. “Our hatred is a victory for them.”
Dita trembles, and the professor puts his arms around her. She buries her head in the old man’s arms. Several teachers and a troop of curious boys and girls poke their heads over the top of the woodpile, alarmed by the noise, and the professor puts a finger to his lips to tell them to be quiet, and then signals with his head for them to go away. Amazed to see the professor so serious, they obey, and leave them on their own.
Dita confesses to the professor that she hates herself for running away, for being unable to cry, for failing her father, for not being able to save him. She hates herself for everything. But the old professor tells her that her tears will come when her anger departs.
“How can I not feel anger? My father never hurt anyone, he never showed disrespect toward anyone.… They took everything away from him, and now, in this revolting hole, they’ve even taken away his life.”
“Listen very carefully to me, Edita. Those who go no longer suffer.”
Those who go no longer suffer.… He whispers to her over and over again.
Morgenstern knows that the comfort he’s offering is scant—worn-out and old-fashioned—something old people say, but in Auschwitz, it’s the medicine that helps people to endure the sadness they feel for those who have died. Dita stops twisting her fingers, nods in agreement, and slowly sits down on the bench. Professor Morgenstern puts his hand in his pocket and pulls out a somewhat wrinkled and faded origami bird. He offers it to Dita.
> The girl looks at the battered paper bird, as vulnerable as her father has been recently. As fragile as the mad old professor with his broken glasses. They’re all so fragile.… And then she feels insignificant and unexpectedly weak. Her rage subsides, and the tears finally flow.
The old architect nods approvingly, and she cries her heart out on old Morgenstern’s shoulder.
“Those who go no longer suffer.…”
No one knows how much suffering still awaits those left behind.
Dita raises her head and wipes her tears with her sleeve. She thanks the professor and tells him that she has something important to do before breakfast is over. She rushes off to her hut. Her mother needs her. Or maybe she needs her mother.
What difference does it make …
Her mother is sitting with Mrs. Turnovská on top of the air intake of the unlit stove. As she approaches the two women, Dita sees her mother sitting very still, lost in thought while Mrs. Turnovská, her own empty bowl on the ground, is drinking the morning tea from Liesl’s bowl, and dipping into it a small piece of bread which the just-widowed Liesl must have left uneaten the night before.
The former fruit seller looks embarrassed when she sees Dita staring at her mother’s bowl.
“Your mother didn’t want it,” she says, somewhat taken aback at Dita’s unexpected appearance, which has caught her red-handed. “I kept insisting … and it was almost time to go off to the workshop.… We would have had to throw it away.…”
Dita and Mrs. Turnovská look at each other in silence. Her mother is far away; she must be going through a world of memories. Mrs. Turnovská extends the bowl toward Dita so she can have the last few sips, but Dita shakes her head. There’s no reproach in her eyes, just a mixture of understanding and sadness.
“Please finish it. We need you to be healthy so you can help Mama.”
Her mother’s serene face resembles a statue made out of wax. Dita crouches down in front of her, and her mother reacts by moving her eyes. She focuses on her daughter, and her neutral expression finally breaks. Dita hugs her hard, holds her tightly, and at last, her mother cries.
15.
Viktor Pestek is from Bessarabia, originally a Moldovan territory which, in the nineteenth century, became part of Romania, a country that supported the Nazis right from the start. His SS uniform, the gun at his waist, and his First Officer stripes make him a very powerful person in Auschwitz. He is a superior being with thousands of people at his feet who can’t even address him without permission. Those same thousands of people are obliged to do whatever he tells them or he will order their death without turning a hair.
Anyone who sees Pestek walking with his proud swagger, his cap pulled down, and his hands behind his back would think he was indestructible. But in Auschwitz, little is what it seems. No one must know, but this SS man is cracking on the inside: For weeks he hasn’t been able to rid himself of the image of a particular woman.
She is, in fact, a very young woman, and he hasn’t exchanged a single word with her; he doesn’t even know her name. He saw her one day when it was his turn to supervise a work group. On the surface, she looked like any other Jewish girl—shabby clothes, a kerchief on her head, and a thin face—but she performed a seemingly insignificant gesture that mesmerized him. She took hold of one of the blond curls falling over her eyes and unrolled it until it was long enough for her to be able to chew on it. It was a trivial movement, one she performed unwittingly, but which, without her being aware of it, made her unique. Viktor Pestek has fallen in love with that gesture.
That day, he examined her more carefully: She had a pleasant face, lovely golden hair, and the vulnerability of a goldfinch in a cage. And then he couldn’t stop staring at her the whole time he was in charge of the guard detail. He tried to approach her a couple of times, but couldn’t make up his mind about talking to her. She seemed to be afraid of him, which didn’t surprise him.
At the time he joined the Romanian Iron Guard, everything seemed fantastic. They gave you an attractive light brown uniform, took you away to camps to sing patriotic songs, and made you feel important. It was even fun, at first, to pull down the disease-ridden huts belonging to the Gypsies who lurked on the outskirts of his village.
Then things started to get complicated. Fistfights became fights with chains, and then came the guns. He knew some of the Gypsies, but more than that, he had Jewish friends—like Ladislaus. He used to go to Ladislaus’s house to do homework, or they’d go hunting for chestnuts in the woods. One day, almost without realizing it, he had a torch in his hand and he was setting fire to Ladislaus’s house.
He could have pulled back, but he didn’t. The SS paid well, and people patted him on the back. His family was proud of him for the first time ever, and when he came home on leave, they even took him to have his photograph taken in his uniform so they could put it on top of the sideboard in the dining room.
And then one day, he was posted to Auschwitz.
Now he’s not sure his family would feel so proud if they knew that his work consists of forcing people to work until breaking point, taking children to the gas chambers, and beating their mothers if they resist. It all seems like madness to him, and he worries that this reaction is starting to be noticed. On a couple of occasions, an officer has told him he needs to be tougher with the prisoners.
He hasn’t been assigned guard duty, and command headquarters don’t allow the SS to roam around the family camp, but the sergeant at the control booth is a friend of his, so he gets through without any difficulty. The guards stand to attention as he goes by. He likes that.
They’re just finishing the afternoon roll call. He knows the group to which the Czech girl is assigned, and so, when they are dismissed, he spots her among the flood of women. He walks toward her, but the girl sees him coming and walks more quickly. He quickens his stride, but the only way he can stop her is to grab hold of her wrist. Her bones are thin, and her skin is rough, but he’s filled with unusual joy at being so close to her. Finally, she lifts her head and looks at him for the first time: She has brilliant blue eyes and looks terrified. He notices that other inmates have stopped a few paces away. The SS officer turns menacingly, and the group of spectators immediately dissolves. It feels good to inspire fear in others, and it’s easy to get used to doing it.
“My name is Viktor.”
She remains silent, and he quickly lets go of her wrist.
“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just … wanted to know your name.”
The girl is trembling, and she almost can’t get the words out of her mouth.
“My name is Renée Neumann, sir,” she replies. “Have I done something wrong? Are you going to punish me?”
“No, no! Nothing like that! It’s just that I saw you.…” The SS officer hesitates; he can’t find the words. “I just wanted to be your friend.”
Renée looks at him in amazement. Friend? You can obey an SS officer; you can flatter him or become his informer in order to gain some perks, even become his lover. But can you be the friend of someone in the SS? Can you be the friend of your own executioner?
Since she’s still looking at him perplexed and not saying a word, Pestek lowers his head and quietly says to her, “I know what you’re thinking. You think I’m another one of those crazy SS people. Well, I am, but I’m not so crazy. I don’t like what’s happening to you. It makes me sick.”
Renée keeps her mouth shut. She has no idea what all this is about, and she’s confused. She’s heard all too often about guards who pretend to hate the Reich so that they’ll gain the trust of the inmates, pretending to be their friends and then pumping them for information about the Resistance. She’s frightened.
The officer takes something small out of his pocket and holds it out to her. It’s a square box made of lacquered wood. He tries to place it on the palm of her hand, but she steps back.
“It’s for you. It’s a present.”
She looks at the yellow box with
suspicion. He lifts the small lid, and a sweet, metallic tune starts to play.
“It’s a music box,” he tells her with a smile of satisfaction.
Renée studies the object he’s holding out to her for a few moments but gives no sign of taking it. He nods his head and grins, waiting for her enthusiastic response.
Renée shows no enthusiasm. Her mouth is a straight line, and her eyes are blank.
“What’s the matter? Don’t you like it?” he asks, upset.
“You can’t eat it,” she replies. Her voice is abrasive, even more so than the cold February breeze, which strips everything bare.
Pestek feels ashamed when he realizes his own stupidity. He has spent the past week looking for a music box. He went back and forth; he negotiated with his fellow SS guards and with all sorts of Jewish dealers until he found one. He bribed, begged, and threatened; he searched high and low until he finally got it. And it’s only now that he understands it’s a useless gift. In a place where the inmates are cold and hungry, the one thing that occurs to him as a present for the girl is a stupid music box.
You can’t eat it.…
He squeezes his hand shut so tightly you can hear the crunch of the little music box, which he’s crushed as if it were a sparrow.
“Forgive me,” he says sorrowfully. “I’m a complete idiot. I don’t understand anything.”
It seems to Renée that the SS officer is genuinely crestfallen, as if his discomfort were not a pretense and what she thought of him really mattered.
“What would you like me to bring you?”
She doesn’t answer. She knows there are girls who sell their bodies for a ration of bread. The expression on her face is one of such indignation that Pestek realizes he’s made another mistake.
The Librarian of Auschwitz Page 17
