Himmler knelt down close to one of the children. It was a Gypsy boy named Andrew who, with no trace of fear, stared right back into the commandant’s eyes. The Nazi took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair before asking the boy, “Do you like school?”
“Yes, Herr Commandant,” the child answered very seriously. He was barely four years old, but he seemed quicker and more alert than most children his age.
“Have you had a good breakfast?” the officer asked.
“Yes, we’ve had milk and biscuits,” Andrew said.
“Just what I had when I was a boy.” The German smiled. Then he lifted his eyes and looked at the rest of the class. Before standing up, he spoke to another boy and said, “Do you know what those big chimneys on the other side of the fence are for?”
The boy was quiet for a moment, thinking. Then with mischief in his eyes, he answered, “That’s where they bake the bread for the camp. The bakers make bread for us every day.”
The answer pleased Himmler, who stood, ruffled the boy’s hair, and said good-bye to the class. The children answered him in chorus. All the officers filed out of the room, and I followed.
“Everything is in order,” the camp commandant said, “but I think you should spruce the children up a bit more. I know that Gypsies have an unpleasant odor naturally, but you really must do something about the horrible smell.”
His comment made my insides boil. He knew perfectly well that my own children were Gypsies, but to these men we were little more than animals, though I was sure they treated their dogs better than us. I tried to soften my face and voice.
“Yes, Herr Commandant.”
The last one to bid me farewell was Dr. Mengele, who squeezed my shoulders with his cold, bony hands. Smiling, he said, “Good work. We’ll talk later.”
When the party of visitors returned to their cars and drove out of the Gypsy camp, we all breathed easier. While my assistants gave the children something to eat before it was time to take them back to their barracks, Ludwika came to see me. She seemed rather worked up, though the hospital barrack had been spared the visit from the Nazi officials, who were too concerned with contracting something.
“How did things go?” she asked.
“Very well, I think. Though with the crows in black, one never knows,” I said, making light of it. I needed to relax.
“Let’s go for a walk,” my friend suggested.
We walked away from the barracks toward the back of the camp. In the huge station where the trains stopped—it just so happened that there were none that morning—several members of the Auschwitz women’s orchestra had set up. When the cars of Himmler’s party approached, they started playing. Alma Rosé, an Austrian violinist in charge of the women’s orchestra, was directing the group. Perhaps their minds escaped the barbed-wire fences as they played, but, like caged birds with broken wings, their music was melancholic.
Ludwika sighed as the cars paused briefly in front of the female prisoners. As always, the sound of the violin made me think of Johann, wherever he might be right then. I feared the worst had happened to him, but every night I begged God to protect him and to reunite us. I imagined the Creator of the universe had a great deal of work to do that summer of 1943, but most humans feel that their personal problems are the biggest on earth.
“Do you think we’ll ever get out of here alive?” Ludwika asked as the band played on.
I studied the blue sky, then the woods beyond us that were turning a dark green and the flowers that were timidly peeking up through the grass. Spring and summer had managed to come despite the bombs and the cadavers scattered over half a world of fields. The seasons were the strongest proof that life would continue once all this was over.
“We’ll get out of here, though I’m not sure if it’ll be alive or dead. They can only keep our bodies locked up, this mess of bones and flesh that slowly turns to dust, but never our souls.”
I was shocked to hear the words coming out of my mouth. I did not usually talk about death at the camp, much less with a friend, but there was something liberating about knowing that the Nazis were incapable of exterminating my soul.
In silence we went back to the barracks, and the hullabaloo of the children revived our spirits. The students filed out in orderly fashion and separated into three groups. The first headed toward the orphanage barrack, the second to the barrack Mengele had outfitted beside his laboratory, and the third returned to their families throughout the camp.
Maja and Kasandra helped me tidy up the rooms, and then I ate with my children. I was very tired. The stress of the day had exhausted me. I wanted the children to go to bed early so I could write a few pages in my journal and then go to sleep myself. Sleep offered one of the few opportunities for us to feel truly free.
The children ate with big smiles on their faces. They no longer had to go to the infectious camp bathrooms, they were eating better, and our simple room seemed like a palace compared to barrack 14.
After reading a story to the younger ones and kissing the older ones, I closed the door and sat down in one of the small chairs. Hardly two minutes later I heard one of the children walking around and turned to find Blaz. The candle I had lit barely illuminated his dark features, but I did not need to see his face to know he wanted to tell me a secret.
“Are you all right, honey?” I asked, gesturing for him to come closer. He sat on my lap as if he were a much younger boy and let me cuddle him a few moments.
Blaz had been the first to invade our peaceful rhythm as a couple. He was like his father in so many ways, though with my persistence and obsession for order.
“When they took our IDs and everything we’d brought with us, I managed to keep something in my clothes. I haven’t wanted to tell you ’til now. I was afraid you’d be mad. Every night I hold it and occasionally pull it out to look at it.”
“What in the world is it? You’ve got me on the edge of my seat,” I said, impatient.
He said nothing but pulled out a small photo and held it out to me. We were all there. I was pregnant with Adalia. We had taken the picture the summer before Johann had been removed from the orchestra. The war had not yet begun, and though we were starting to have some problems with the Nazis, life was still pretty peaceful and happy. I stared for a long time at our smiling faces. The image had captured a moment of joy and made it eternal. We were no longer that happy family posing in a park in Berlin. The summer air, the sound of the band in the background, the smell of cotton candy—it all seemed as far away as my childhood. Yet the picture held us in it forever.
I began weeping, and Blaz clung to me. I felt his arms around me, his cheek rubbing against mine. Our tears mingled, as once our blood had done when he was in the womb. For a few seconds, we were once again one body, joined by the umbilical cord. I closed my eyes and called up Johann’s face. I wished with every fiber of my being that he were there with us. A family together again. As happy as in that moment lost in the memory of a black-and-white photo.
“Thank you, sweetie,” I said between sobs.
He pulled away enough to look at me with his teary eyes. Blaz did not cry often. He had always been a strong, determined child.
“I’ll take care of you, Mom. I’ll take care of everyone until Dad gets back,” he spluttered. “I know he’s somewhere nearby. I can feel it. I miss lying next to him during our afternoon naps, playing violin together at the living room window, walking beside him and dreaming about being big like him someday.”
“You will be, my little Knirps,” I said and pulled him back into my arms.
Our breathing settled into a rhythm while the room cooled down with a northern breeze. The glaring Auschwitz floodlights penetrated the windows, blocking out the stars and moon. Someday, when that camp was dark and silent, the celestial orbs would again bathe it in their pure light, as they had always done, and the world would once more be a good place to live.
ELEVEN
AUGUST 1943
AUSCHW
ITZ
Exhaustion is time’s best friend. It lets us turn the pages quickly, like in a bad book. Sometimes it’s a mix of anxiety to know how the story ends and the apathy that results from the daily grind, even though this is the horrible daily grind of Auschwitz. It’s been several weeks since I’ve poured out my heart on these pages, but in a way that’s normal. Nothing noteworthy has happened until today. The days have gone by with neither rest nor any big news. That nothing ever happens is a good sign in the camp. Because in Auschwitz, when something happens, there are always bad consequences. The arrival of new victims to this inhumane machine of destruction ends up affecting the entire camp and the moods of our guards.
Since summer started, many more people have come to the camp. Most of them seem like fish jerked out of the water, trying to breathe in hot air that kills them slowly. I don’t know what it’s like in the rest of Birkenau, but in the Gypsy camp, overcrowding is a serious problem, and we’re all afraid of another typhus epidemic and having to go through the disinfection routines we barely survived in the spring. The infernal heat, the constant thirst, and the scarcity of food make us all vulnerable to disease, and I’m scared for my children. Dear Johann, how I long to see you and rest in your strong, safe arms.
Dr. Mengele has been on edge the past few weeks, but he’s always kept his word about supplying us with food and school materials. He’s proud of the nursery school and never stops praising my work, but I’m very uncomfortable if we’re ever alone together. It’s not that he’s impolite, quite the opposite. Maybe it’s his cold stare. It seems to come from an infinite emptiness.
“Mom!” Ernest called, rubbing his eyes. I was deeply wrapped up in the journal, and his cry jerked me out of it abruptly. In many ways, writing allowed me to live another life.
It was the birthday of the twins, the first celebration we would have since we had arrived at the camp. A few months ago I never would have dreamed of having a party here, but our situation had improved notably.
“Why are you up so early? Come here,” I said, holding out my arms to him.
The twins were always together, as if two people living one life, but occasionally Ernest liked to be alone with me.
“It’s our birthday. Did you forget?” he asked. His voice was still raspy from sleep.
“How could I forget? Seven years ago my belly stretched from here to the wall and I was sweating like a pig. I was trying to have a baby, but God gave me two!” I snuggled him close.
I caught sight of my bony arms. Since we had arrived at the camp, I had lost at least thirty pounds. I had still been carrying a slight pudge from my last pregnancy, which Johann loved, but even so I had been slim and muscular before the drastic weight loss at Auschwitz.
Emily showed up with her light-brown mane of hair. She looked so much like her brother, but her feminine features and long hair made them seem more different than they actually were.
She hugged me from the other side, and the three of us remained like that for a while, in silence, as the morning made its arrival within the wire fencing.
Time had snuck up on me, and I had to hurry to get the children ready before the students arrived. The camp’s mothers had grown accustomed to sending their children to the nursery and school. They knew the children were well cared for and that they would get more food than if they stayed in the barracks. There were rumors that Dr. Mengele mistreated them, but I had never seen him do anything even slightly inappropriate to a child. Many of the children got sick and died, but that was normal for the camp. The water was unsanitary, the food insufficient, our clothing threadbare, and most of the children were locked up in barracks that would swelter in the summer and freeze in the winter.
Half an hour later, the barracks were overrun with children. We were already beyond our capacity, and the rations of milk and bread did not go as far, but it was still better than the food available in the rest of the camp.
The teachers began their classes, and I focused on my morning routine. I spent the first part of the day visiting our children who had gotten sick, most of whom were housed in the hospital in front of our barracks, checking in with Ludwika, visiting the children who had not come to school that day to see if I could help their mothers with anything, and then taking the list of supplies needed in the nursery school to Elisabeth, the Gypsy camp secretary.
As I walked up the main road toward the camp entrance, I always thought about the same thing: the hope that Elisabeth might have some news about my husband’s whereabouts. She had been helping me try to find him for over two months, but Auschwitz was a gigantic monster that housed tens of thousands of people, and every day more joined the ranks of famished prisoners that comprised our impossible society.
As I drew near the camp entryway, I always prayed not to come across Irma Grese or Maria Mandel. That day I was lucky and got to the office without running into anyone. As soon as I entered, Elisabeth greeted me with a smile. She was an expressive young woman, but she did not typically grin when she greeted me.
“Good morning, Elisabeth,” I said, returning the smile.
“Frau Hannemann, I believe it is the twins’ birthday; do wish them happy birthday for me.”
“Why don’t you come by later on for the little party we’re going to have?” I asked. Office staff did not typically wander down into the camp, but it was not forbidden.
“I might just do that. Did you bring a list for me?” She stretched out her hand.
“Yes, it’s long today. More and more children just keep coming,” I offered by way of explanation.
She looked the paper over carefully and then, with a wide smile, said, “And I have something special for you. They brought it to me yesterday, but I couldn’t get to the barrack to give it to you.”
I scrunched up my forehead, perplexed. We had requested a few more films for the children, some fruit and other items, but I got the impression Elisabeth was not referring to anything like that.
“What is it? Don’t keep me in suspense!”
“Here,” she said, handing me a piece of paper with handwriting on it.
My heart skipped a beat. It had to be news about Johann. I had not given up all hope, but over the last few weeks I had been trying not to harbor any illusions.
My eyes devoured the hastily written words. There was just a name, Kanada, and my husband’s personal information.
“He’s in Kanada?” I asked, confused. I had thought there were only about a thousand workers there and that they were all very young men and women.
“Yes. First he was in one of the exterior work groups, living outside of Birkenau, but he’s been in Kanada for a month now. Things in Auschwitz never follow any logic, but you must be relieved. Work groups assigned there eat well, have good clothes, and their work is not as hard as many others,” Elisabeth explained.
Since my arrival at camp, I had worked hard to learn as little as possible about the inner workings of Auschwitz, but unfortunately it had become a well-known secret that most of the thousands of people who arrived day after day by train were sent to the gas chambers at the back of the camp and then their bodies were incinerated. All of their belongings were taken to Kanada, where the prisoners had nearly everything at their disposal, including clothing, hats, shoes, glasses, leg braces, suitcases, and any other object the poor victims had brought. Though the Nazis were primarily interested in the gold and money the Jews brought sewn into their clothes, they took advantage of everything. The German population that was suffering greatly because of the war, the mutilated and injured, the orphans and widows—they all received the belongings of the thousands and thousands of victims from Birkenau’s death factory.
“He’s alive and so close,” I whispered in a sigh.
“Woman, you’ve just learned that your husband has survived among ten thousand dead men, and that’s all you can say?”
“How can I see him or communicate with him?” I asked anxiously.
“I can get a message to him, but seein
g him would have to be authorized by an officer. You must have a pass to go to other sections of the camp,” Elisabeth said.
I walked back to the children’s school hardly feeling the ground beneath my feet. I was elated. I did not stop to see the children who had not shown up for class that day, but I did want to go to the hospital. I needed to tell someone. I went into barrack 26 and looked for Ludwika. She was the person I was closest to at the camp, though our friendship was unlike any other I had experienced before Auschwitz. The circumstances that had brought us together were so adverse that it was hard to tell if we were actually friends or just cosufferers who needed each other.
As soon as she saw my face, the Polish nurse knew that something was going on. She asked one of her colleagues to take over what she had been working on and walked the length of the barrack toward me. For a few seconds I studied the dozens of patients resting on the cots that were very similar to what they had in the regular barracks. I knew through the doctors and nurses that there were hardly any medicines available. Patients had to get better and heal on the strength of rest alone, but for many, that was not enough. Mengele had given the order that any invalid who needed to stay in the hospital longer than five days was to be selected for elimination. He never made the selections directly in the hospital, but the doctors followed his orders. I went up to the bed of a seven-year-old girl who had been one of our students in the past few weeks. A simple outbreak of chicken pox had sent her to bed. Her body did not have enough defenses to fight it. Fortunately, we had detected it in time before it spread to the rest of the children.
“Hello, Jadzia. How are you feeling today?” I asked, stroking her head.
“Good, Teacher,” she said weakly.
Her face was covered in sores, her body was wasted away, and her cadaverous face looked at me with angelic innocence. I had to glance away before I started to cry. Despite everything I had seen at Auschwitz, I was still unable to keep from crying when I looked at a dying child.
Auschwitz Lullaby Page 11
