The Librarian of Auschwitz

by Antonio Iturbe

  That’s why, as he waits anxiously for Alice to meet him at the fence, he buttons the jacket he acquired on the black market all the way to the top. He can’t stop moving.

  The day before, he’d asked Alice for her help in carrying out the assignment Schmulewski has given him, to find out exactly how many people there are in the family camp’s Resistance cell. The Resistance operates so secretly that the collaborators themselves often don’t know one another. This afternoon, Rudi has learned that even Alice herself is linked to the Resistance through a friend.

  Schmulewski says little, rarely more than half a dozen words. It’s part of his technique for survival. Whenever he’s asked for further explanation or someone reproaches him for his lack of speech, he replies that a criminal lawyer friend once told him that mute people reach old age. But Rudi had found him especially bleak and, moved by his anguish, couldn’t avoid asking him if the signs were bad. His words—always few, always veiled—were “Things are going badly.”

  By “things,” he means the family camp.

  As on so many other occasions, what the guards in the towers see is the quarantine camp registrar and his Jewish girlfriend from the family camp walking toward the fence—a routine to which they no longer pay any attention. The Germans don’t distinguish between one scrawny Jewish woman dressed in rags and another. That’s why they don’t notice that the woman approaching the fence on this particular occasion isn’t Alice Munk, but her close friend Helena Rezková, one of the coordinators of the family camp Resistance. She’s come to the fence to give Rudi the confidential information the head of the Resistance has asked for: there are thirty-three secret members divided into two groups. Helena asks Rudi if he knows anything more about the transfer, but there’s not much news to add. He’s heard a rumor about a possible move to Heydebreck camp, but there are no details. The authorities are not giving anything away.

  They stand looking at each other for a while without speaking. The girl might have been pretty under other circumstances, but her dirty, tangled hair, sunken cheeks, chapped lips, and filthy clothes have turned her into a twenty-two-year-old beggar. Rosenberg, normally so chatty, has no idea what to say to this girl who has a battered present and a dark future.

  He receives permission that afternoon to go to camp BIId, supposedly to take over some lists, but in reality, to meet Schmulewski. He finds him sitting on a wooden bench in front of his hut, chewing on a twig in the absence of any tobacco. Rudi, who always works things out so he’s well stocked with everything, offers him a cigarette.

  He passes on Helena’s information about the number and basic occupations of the insurgents in the family camp, which Schmulewski acknowledges solely with a nod of his head. Rudi hopes to get some sort of explanation of the situation, but he gets nothing. Pretending that Schmulewski doesn’t already know, he tells him that it’s March 6, and so they’re getting close to the six-month deadline since the arrival of Alice’s September contingent, when the “special treatment” kicks in. “I’d prefer it if that moment never arrived.”

  Schmulewski smokes his cigarette without saying a word. Rosenberg gathers that the meeting is over and mumbles an awkward good-bye. He returns to his camp, not sure if the Pole’s silence is because he has crucial information to hide or because he has absolutely no idea what is going on.

  The afternoon roll call takes longer than usual. Various SS soldiers notify all the Kapos that the inmates should line up at the entrance to the camp. Waiting there for them are the camp Kapo—the civilian responsible for BIIb, an ordinary German prisoner called Willy—and the noncommissioned officer they call the Priest, flanked by two guards with machine guns at the ready. The inmates watch as the heads of all the barracks start walking toward the noncommissioned SS officer and form a half circle around him.

  Fredy Hirsch strides energetically across the Lagerstrasse, overtaking other Kapos who are less keen to get to the meeting. Night is falling, but it’s easy to distinguish Hirsch’s proud and self-assured figure making his way there.

  The Priest is waiting for them with his hands tucked inside the sleeves of his greatcoat. He watches them arriving with a cynical smile; it’s obvious he’s in a good mood. It’s good news for the sergeant that he’s getting rid of many of the inmates: half the prisoners means half the problems. An assistant hands the Kapos lists with the numbers of the people in their huts from the September transport. The Kapos must inform them that they are to line up separately next morning and bring with them their belongings—their spoon and bowl—in order to proceed with the transfer to another camp. Only one person sleeps in Block 31, the Blockältester himself, and he accepts the shortest list of all. It has just one number on it, his own. In the midst of the silence, interrupted only by the rustle of paper lists, he is the only one who dares to make his way forward and stand at attention in front of the sergeant.

  “Permission to speak, Herr Oberscharführer. Would we be able to know to which camp we’re being transferred?”

  The Priest stares at Hirsch for a few seconds without blinking. Asking a question without being asked to speak first is an act of contempt that the NCO normally doesn’t tolerate. On this occasion, however, he limits himself to giving a sharp reply.

  “You’ll be informed when it happens. Dismissed.”

  The Kapos stand in front of their huts and start to yell out the numbers of the people who will be transferred the next day. There’s bewildered muttering: People don’t know whether or not to be happy about leaving Auschwitz. The same question is asked again and again:

  “Where are they taking us?”

  But there’s no response, or there are so many different replies that none of them is any use. Everyone has heard of the special treatment after six months. What will it be?

  Dita has been chatting with Margit, trying to come up with an answer in the midst of so many questions. As members of the December transport, they aren’t going anywhere yet. Mentally exhausted with so much speculation, Dita makes her way back to her hut. She’s so distressed at the news that she doesn’t carry out her usual precautions of checking behind her and walking right beside the huts in case she has to rush inside one of them. She hears a German voice, and feels a hand on her arm.

  “Dita…”

  She jumps. It’s Fredy Hirsch, returning to his hut. There’s a feverish glint in his dark eyes, and Dita can see that he’s back to being his usual energetic and irresistible self.

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Keep going. This is a labyrinth in which you might get lost, but retracing your steps is worse. Don’t pay attention to anyone, listen to the voice inside your own head, and keep going forward.”

  “But where are they taking you?”

  “We’ll be going to work somewhere else. But that’s not what matters. What is important is that there’s a mission to complete here.”

  “Block Thirty-One—”

  “We have to finish what we started.”

  “We’ll carry on with the school.”

  “That’s it. But there’s another important thing still to do.”

  Dita looks at him with a puzzled expression.

  “Listen to me: Not everything is as it seems in Auschwitz. But there’ll come a moment when a small gap will open up for the truth, you’ll see. The Germans believe that lying favors them, but we’ll score a goal at the last second because they’ll be overconfident. They think we’re broken, but we aren’t.” He becomes thoughtful as he’s speaking. “I can’t be here to help you win the game. But you must have faith, Dita, really believe. Everything will work out well, you’ll see. Trust Miriam. And above all else”—he looks into her eyes while giving her his most seductive smile—“you must never give up.”

  “Never!”

  He smiles enigmatically and walks off with his athletic stride while Dita stands there quietly, not entirely sure what he meant by scoring a goal in the last second.

  It’s a night of little sleep in the huts, with rumor
s whispered among the bunks, along with more and less absurd theories and prayers.

  “What does it matter where they take us? We can’t go to a worse place,” some protest. It’s a comfort amid the distress.

  The oversized woman who shares her bunk with Dita is part of the September transport, so she’ll be one of the transferees. She says little apart from the rude jokes she shares with her neighbors. She never says anything to Dita, good or bad. Dita says good night to her when she lies down next to her feet, as she always does. And as always, the woman doesn’t answer—not even the noise she usually mutters by way of reply. She pretends to be asleep, but her eyes are shut too tightly for that. Even the toughest of the tough can’t fall asleep during this long night that could be her last.

  The day dawns cloudy and cold. The wind gusts bring snowflakes with them. Pretty much like any other day. There’s some confusion when it comes to lining up, since the usual order has changed: The September people are on one side, and the December ones on the other. The Kapos are fully employed in forming the groups, and the SS guards are more nervous than usual, too. They even let loose with an occasional blow from a rifle butt, a rare occurrence during morning roll calls. The atmosphere is tense, and faces are long. Roll call is exasperatingly slow as the Kapos’ assistants mark the lists. After so many hours standing on her feet, Dita has the feeling that she’s slowly sinking into the mud and that if the roll call takes much longer, she’ll end up being swallowed whole.

  Finally, almost three hours after roll call began, the nearly four thousand people who make up the September group begin to move. For now, their destination is the quarantine camp next to the family camp, and they drag their weary feet in that direction. Rudi Rosenberg, the registrar, stands in the quarantine camp, his face serious as he watches all the activity attentively, as if, in the posture and the gesticulations of the guards, there might be some clue that will reveal the fate of these people, among whom is his Alice.

  Dita and her mother stand watching in silence, along with all the others from their transport. They remain in their lines at the entrances to their huts while the guards lead the September veterans toward the exit of camp BIIb in an orderly manner. The procession is not at all festive, although some of the inmates smile, convinced there’s a better place waiting for them. Some heads turn for a last farewell. Hands wave in both groups—those who are staying and those who are going. Dita grabs her mother’s hand and squeezes it firmly. She doesn’t know if the sharp feeling in her stomach is due to the cold or fear for those who are leaving.

  She sees mischievous Gabriel marching past, laughing loudly; he’s deliberately walking out of step to trip up a slender girl who’s walking behind him and cursing. An adult hand stretches out from even farther back and pulls Gabriel’s ear hard; Mrs. Křižková is so good at handing out punishment that she can do it without losing step. Acquaintances and teachers from Block 31 walk past Dita on their way to the quarantine camp along with many faces she’s never noticed before—most of them are gaunt and grave. Some of them greet the children from the December transport who are staying behind and who wave back to them tirelessly, entertained by an event which breaks up the monotonous camp routine.

  Professor Morgenstern walks past in his patched jacket and broken glasses, dispensing his ridiculous little bows. When he reaches Dita, without stopping or breaking step so as not to annoy those behind him, he suddenly becomes serious and gives her a wink. Then he continues on his way and goes back to performing his bowing routine with that little crazy-old-man laugh of his. It was only a matter of seconds, but as she was looking at him, Dita saw the professor’s expression change, and his face was different as if, just for a moment, he’d raised his mask and allowed her to see his real self. It wasn’t the faraway look of a crazy old man, but the composed expression of a completely serene person. And then Dita is left in no doubt.

  “Professor Morgenstern!”

  She throws him a kiss and he turns to thank her with a clumsy bow that makes the children laugh. He bows to them, too. He’s an actor leaving the stage at the end of the show and bidding farewell to his audience.

  She would have liked to give him a hug and to tell him that she knows now—in fact, she has always known—that he’s not mad. If they lock you up in a lunatic asylum, the worst thing that can happen to you is that you’re sane. His fake absentmindedness at just the right moment during the inspection of the Priest and Mengele saved her. He probably saved her life, hers and everyone else’s. She knows that now. It’s just as Fredy said: Not everything is as it seems to be. She would have liked to give the professor a big farewell kiss, but she won’t be able to. Morgenstern, still playing the fool, is moving off, swallowed up in the departing crowd.

  “Good luck, Professor.”

  A troop of women goes by. One of them—one of the few who isn’t wearing a scarf on her head, contravenes the strict orders and, stepping firmly out of line, walks toward her. At first Dita doesn’t recognize the woman, but it’s her oversized bunkmate. Her loose, tangled hair is covering up the scar that splits her face. She plants herself directly in front of Dita with her toadlike eyes, and they briefly look at each other face-to-face.

  “My name’s Lida!” she says in her gravelly voice.

  The Kapo gallops up, starts to yell at her to return to her group immediately, and waves her club menacingly. As the woman hurriedly rejoins her group, she looks back momentarily, and Dita waves good-bye to her.

  “Good luck, Lida! I love your name,” she shouts.

  She thinks her bunkmate smiles proudly.

  One of the last people to walk past those waving good-bye is Fredy Hirsch. He’s wearing his jacket, and his silver whistle swings slightly on top of it. He walks with martial precision, head high and eyes fixed firmly in front of him, focused on his own thoughts and paying no attention to any of the waves or farewells, even from those who call his name.

  His state of mind and the doubts that torment him are not important. It’s a new exodus of the Jews, now expelled from their own prison, and they must face it with the utmost dignity. There can be no sign of frailty or weakness. That’s why he doesn’t respond to any greeting or wave, though his attitude is interpreted by some as arrogance.

  It’s true that he feels proud of what he has achieved: In the whole time Block 31 has existed, not one of the pupils has died. To keep 521 children alive for months is a record that no one has probably achieved in Auschwitz. He looks forward, not at the back of the neck of the person in front of him but much, much farther, toward the row of poplars in the distance, and even farther than that, toward the horizon.

  As the September inmates file past, a rumor that they’re going to be transferred to the Heydebreck camp runs through the ranks. Most of them think there’ll be a drastic selection process and that many of them won’t get there. Some think that not one of the transferees will make it.

  18.

  March 7, 1944

  Rudi Rosenberg watches as the 3,800 September transport prisoners from the family camp arrive at the quarantine camp, BIIa. The news Schmulewski has given him is horrifying. Anyone would be deeply depressed by it. But Rudi is searching for one thing among the columns of prisoners: the slender figure of his girlfriend, Alice. Finally, their eyes meet and their smiles of satisfaction rise above the anguish. Once all the prisoners have been assigned to huts, the Nazis allow the inmates to move freely about the camp. In his room, Rudi gets together with Alice and her two Resistance friends, Vera and Helena.

  Helena tells him that most of the prisoners seem to have accepted the official story—that they’ll be transferred to a more northerly camp located close to Warsaw.

  Vera has a shrill voice that makes her emaciated face seem even more birdlike.

  “Some of the important representatives of the camp’s Jewish community think that the Germans won’t dare exterminate the children because they’re scared that word would spread.”

  Rosenberg has no alternative but
to pass on Schmulewski’s impressions from this morning, which are grimmer and more to the point than ever:

  “He told me there wasn’t much time left, and he believed they could all die tomorrow.”

  Rudi’s words are met with complete silence. The women understand that the head of the Resistance knows the facts better than anyone because he has an extensive network of spies throughout Auschwitz. Nervousness gives rise to all sorts of rumors, half rumors, wishes, ideas, fantasies.…

  “And if the war were to end tonight?”

  Helena momentarily recovers her cheerfulness.

  “If the war ended tonight and I returned to Prague, the first thing I’d do is go to my mother’s house and eat a bowl of goulash the size of a barrel.”

  “I’d climb into the saucepan with a loaf of bread and leave it so clean that I could then use it as a mirror to pluck my eyebrows.”

  They start to sniff the aroma of the spicy stew and sigh with happiness. And then they return to reality and the smell of fear. They try to reorder their thoughts again in an attempt come up with something positive in such a densely black outlook, some tiny detail they’ve overlooked that would provide a satisfactory explanation for everything. A nail on which they can hang their hopes—and their lives.

  The only additional information Rudi can provide, because as registrar he’s seen the transport lists, is that nine people in total from the September transport will be left behind in the family camp: the two sets of twins whom Dr. Mengele has reserved for his experiments; three doctors and a pharmacist who have accompanied the transferees to the quarantine camp, whom Mengele has also claimed; and the mistress of Mr. Willy, the camp Kapo. All the others will receive the special treatment specified in the Nazi plan laid out when they arrived in September.

  Rudi’s information is, in fact, incorrect. There are more people on the “not to be transferred” list, but things are too confusing at this stage, although all will be revealed in due course. After an hour of exhaustive reflection that leads nowhere, they’re so weary they fall silent.