Auschwitz Lullaby

by Mario Escobar

  “Mom, are we going?” Blaz’s question shook me from my thoughts.

  “Yes, sorry. Let’s head back to our barrack. You played so well this morning. Maybe your father even heard you through the fence. Kanada isn’t far from here, and the wind can carry the sound several hundred yards,” I said, forcing a cheeriness. But Blaz could read me better than anyone else and knew I was worried about our family and the rest of the camp’s children.

  The morning after I had seen Johann, I told the children about the brief encounter I had had with their father on the day of the twins’ birthday. They all started complaining that I had not taken them with me, except Blaz. He understood perfectly well that I would have taken them if it had at all been within my power.

  “The one thing I don’t like is having to play in front of all those people. They’re evil, Mom. Our professor, Mr. Antonin, has told us what they do with the people in the buildings with the chimneys. They kill them. Women, little kids, and old people, they all suffocate to death, day after day.”

  I listened, horrified. I had known that sooner or later he would learn what happened to all the people who arrived on the trains, but it terrified me to think how this horror was affecting his developing brain. An eleven-year-old boy is not ready to handle certain things or to face what Blaz had been forced to experience in Auschwitz.

  “Please don’t talk about that with anyone. We have to survive, Blaz. Our only hope is to hold out ’til the end of the war. But to survive, we have to slip under the radar and go unnoticed.”

  The rest of the children came up then and interrupted our conversation. The minutes dragged by that day. In a few hours I would have to face Mengele again, and the mere thought of entering his laboratory gave me goose bumps. I had always been conscious of the fact that my life was in his hands, but now my greatest fear was what he might do to my children.

  Ludwika came to the nursery barrack a few minutes before five o’clock. I jumped at the sound of her knock even though it could not be Mengele. He would not have come to see us personally. She tried to calm me down. The children sensed that something was wrong and fluttered around me constantly, like terrified chicks not wanting to stray far from their mother. Ludwika grabbed my arm and pulled me out into the cool afternoon.

  “You need to primp a little bit. Put some lipstick on and act natural, unconcerned,” she said, handing me a tube of lipstick.

  “Are you mad? Do you think I’m going to go flirt with him?” I answered furiously. How could my friend suggest such a wretched proposal?

  “I don’t mean seduce him; he’s already got a lover. Everyone knows that since his wife left, he’s been sleeping with Irma Grese. That sadist is a demon, but apparently demons attract demons.”

  Something about her comment bothered me. I knew she was right, but even in Mengele’s worst moments I had detected something human in him. Undoubtedly wrong and heartless, but still human. The nature of the female guards, though, was pure fiend.

  I took my friend’s advice and smoothed down my hair, put the lipstick on, and then headed for Mengele’s laboratory with a decided step. I had married very young, and my experience with men had been so limited that I would not have known how to seduce one if I wanted to, though I had learned that it did not take much for the male gender to fall to the wiles of a female.

  I took a deep breath before knocking and entered the sauna barrack without waiting for a reply. The doctor was at his desk drinking a soft drink. I had never seen him drink alcohol, though the rest of the camp guards and officers felt no need to abstain. His jacket was unbuttoned, and he looked down in the dumps. I was taken aback to see him like that, as his countenance in no way reflected the arrogant man I had argued with a few hours before. Otto Rosenberg, one of the older Gypsy boys who waited on Mengele at the camp, always said the doctor spent most of his time absorbed in his experiments or staring off into space through the dirty windows of the barrack.

  “Frau Hannemann, please, come in and have a seat,” he said with as much charm and politeness as when he had first asked me to discuss the idea of the nursery school.

  “Thank you, Herr Doktor,” I replied coolly and sat down.

  “I apologize for how I behaved this morning,” he began. “The volume of work increases day by day, and the resources grow ever scarcer. I would like to focus on my experiments, but the trains come one after the other, and I have to spend most of my time on the platform. It’s a difficult but necessary job. Most of those poor devils wouldn’t last a day in Birkenau.”

  “I’m sorry about your situation, but I assure you that the children of the Gypsy camp are on the brink of death. They are frightfully thin and are falling ill.”

  “I know; I’m their doctor. Though now I’m required to spend more and more time in the general hospital for the entire camp. I can assure you we are concerned for the Gypsy children, but it is not easy to get help,” he said, getting to his feet. I knew that was a lie. He did not give a fig for any of us, but Nazi doublespeak always played behind his ambiguous, meaningless words.

  He walked through the room until he was standing just behind me. I could not see him, but my body sensed his proximity. He always smelled of cologne, and his uniform gave off the smell of machine-washed officer clothes. I was beginning to understand that for many Nazis, the first few years in Auschwitz had been like an extended summer camp that was slowly drawing to an end.

  “I will ask the commandant himself to send milk, bread, and other foodstuffs to the nursery, as well as the necessary school supplies. The doctors have told me about an illness that many of the Gypsy children are presenting. It’s called noma. Have you heard of it?”

  I turned to look at him. It was true that Dr. Senkteller and Ludwika had told me that some of the children had a strange disease on their faces and genitals. The cases had increased lately, and after the scarcities that fall, many of the children had a kind of bloody ulcer on their faces. I was terrified that my own children would catch it, but so far none of them had.

  “Noma is a disease endemic to Africa, and there have been no cases in Europe until now. It is a polymicrobial gangrenous infection in the mouth and genitals. There are many causes, but predisposing conditions include unsanitary living conditions and a lack of vitamins A and B. Normally it affects children under twelve years of age, and the mortality rate is very high, up to ninety-five percent of those who fall ill.”

  I sucked in my breath. Up to now, there had been few serious cases, but I could not believe the disease would be that deadly.

  “That’s why I’ve decided not to let the twins return to the nursery or the school. I’m afraid they’ll contract the disease,” Mengele explained.

  “But is it contagious?” I asked. I vaguely recalled having heard about the disease during nursing school, but at the time I had never seen a case.

  “We don’t think so. It can be stopped with antibiotics and an enriched diet. I cannot guarantee a supply of the former, as most of the medicines are sent to the front or to our cities being bombed daily by the Brits and the Americans, but we can partially improve the diet of your students.”

  “But, Herr Doktor, diet won’t be enough.”

  “I’m researching noma with Dr. Berthold Epstein, and I hope to find a more effective cure as soon as possible. That’s why we’ve transferred some of the children, especially the more serious cases, to the camp hospital,” he continued.

  I stood. At least I had managed to get him to agree to improve some aspects of the living conditions of the Gypsy children in our camp.

  “Don’t be alarmed if we take some of the healthy children as well. We believe that noma has a hereditary component. Gypsies are an endogamous people. The syphilis that many of the men have seems to be related to a predisposition to the disease. For example, in the Czech family camp there have hardly been any cases.” His voice was matter-of-fact.

  “But they haven’t been here very long,” I said.

  We had heard that the Nazis
had allowed the Czech Jews to live in a family camp. That was the great exception in Auschwitz, though most assumed it was a way to appease the voices outside of Germany that were rising up against the mistreatment of Jews.

  The doctor smiled at me, and I could see the gap between his big front teeth. He looked like a harmless, mischievous youth incapable of causing actual damage, but he had lost his power to trick me with his soft words and polite manners.

  “I will work with you as long as you keep your word to improve conditions for the children. Please, don’t forget that they are human beings just like us. They may not have Aryan blood, but it is still blood, Herr Doktor.”

  Creases appeared in his forehead, and his expression changed instantly. For a moment I feared that I had gone too far. But I also sensed that Mengele respected me for being able to say exactly what I thought in front of him even though it might unleash terrible consequences. I did not doubt that my condition as an Aryan German offered me a level of protection from his racist, criminal mind, but no one would have reprimanded him had he shot me then and there.

  “Someday you will understand what I’m doing for Germany and the world. We do not want to exterminate all races, only help each take its rightful place. After the war there will be a colony where all the Gypsies can live. I’ve heard Himmler, our Reichsführer-SS, speak on the matter himself. I can assure you he is a man of honor who always keeps his word.”

  I made no answer but merely bowed my head by way of excusing myself, and he walked me to the door. Night had already fallen. I did not want to turn and bid farewell again. That afternoon I had lost my final hopes of finding anything human in Mengele. He had completed his maleficent transformation in the six months he had been at Birkenau, approximately the same amount of time our family had been here. From war hero and loyal Nazi, he had become a bloodthirsty doctor with no regard for his patients, selecting people for murder with impunity.

  Back at our barrack, I found that Ludwika had already put the children to bed. It was a relief to me not to oversee the routine that night. I was exhausted, drained of all strength. Discouragement had lodged itself immovably in my heart and body.

  “So how did it go?” Ludwika asked tentatively.

  “All right, in a way. He has committed to providing food for the children’s school.” My voice was flat.

  “Well, that’s good news.”

  “I’m not so sure. I sensed something sinister in that place. We have to be ready for the worst. Our fate is tied to the events going on outside these fences. If the Nazis lose, they’ll want to erase all traces of their crimes. If they win, it’ll be no skin off their backs to do away with us then. Only a miracle can save us from a slow, sure death.”

  Ludwika slumped under the weight of my somber thoughts. We were relatively young, and we wanted to believe life would go on, that we would find a way forward, but we were no better or different than the millions of people who had already died in Europe and half the world over in this war. Death did not pause to distinguish between the guilty and the innocent. It thrived on the hundreds of thousands of souls that joined its gruesome list of desolation each year. All of our names appeared on that list. Only a miracle could save us.

  FOURTEEN

  DECEMBER 1943

  AUSCHWITZ

  The end of the year was approaching, which would normally be a time of celebration and joy. But it filled us with uncertainty. Would we survive to see 1944? News had arrived of relentless bombings over Berlin and other German cities. The repercussions in Auschwitz were that the guards seemed preoccupied, drank more, and were always in their foulest moods. Many of them had lost family members, and some were starting to fear that their crimes would not remain unpunished forever. It was better to avoid them completely and go unnoticed.

  Mengele stuck to his word. Things got better in the nursery school during October and November, but supplies started to dwindle again in December. The official explanation was that Allied attacks were making the transportation of material goods difficult, but, paradoxically, trains packed with Jews and other Nazi hostages kept arriving unhindered to Birkenau. Nazi logic never coincided with that of the rest of humanity. Hatred was an energy source for them that slipped right past us.

  The Gypsy camp population was now decreasing month by month. Winter at the end of 1943 was also particularly brutal. Most barracks had neither firewood nor coal to burn. The nursery, the school, and the hospital were the only barracks allowed such luxuries.

  The children could stay put, warm and clean, all morning, but in the afternoon, and especially the harsh nights, they had to be in the mud-caked, frigid barracks.

  At the end of November I petitioned the commandant to allow the youngest children to sleep in the nursery and school barracks, but the request was denied. As the days dragged by, more and more children died, grew ill, or suffered the terrible symptoms of noma.

  Camp morale was low, to put it mildly. So I was surprised when they sent us an Estonian Jew named Vera Luke to join the roster of teachers. The young woman had been a nurse in her country, and though she had a sickly, wan aspect, she was a breath of fresh air for the nursery school as we slogged through very dark days.

  I gathered the team of teachers first thing in the morning before the children were to arrive, and we talked through the last few weeks. I was chiefly concerned with how we were going to face the winter in these starkly adverse conditions.

  “I’m pleased to introduce a new colleague, Vera Luke,” I said to everyone.

  They tried to welcome her warmly, but most of my coworkers were also suffering the effects of the cold, malnutrition, and anguish over the desperate situation of the children.

  Vera smiled and said, “When they told me I’d be working in a nursery school in Auschwitz, I thought they were mocking me, but now I see it’s possible to create an oasis in a desert.”

  Smiling was an extravagance the rest of us had not allowed ourselves in many weeks.

  “Thank you, Vera. Now let’s see what supplies we’re missing.”

  I started rattling off a long list that seemed to grow even longer by the day. When I finished, I glanced at the others. Their heads were hung low in discouragement.

  “I think you’re looking at what you don’t have and what’s standing between you and having nothing left at all,” Vera said. “I’ve been in this hellhole for two months, and I’ve learned not to expect anything, to try to enjoy each day, and to not think about tomorrow. I suggest an act of rebellion. Let’s celebrate Christmas!”

  We all looked at her in alarm. For most of us, Christmas meant celebration and hope, but neither of those existed in Auschwitz.

  “You all know I’m a Jew, but if we celebrate Christmas we’ll give these children back a little bit of their faith. They’ll have new hopes, dreams, aspirations. Please, don’t let the Nazis steal those things from them too.”

  Vera looked at us with a radiant smile, her brilliant white teeth sparkling like diamonds before our weary eyes. I tried to envision my five children celebrating Christmas there. It was their favorite time of the year, but then the doubts started rolling in. How would we ever scrounge together what we would need? What could we offer them?

  “But we don’t have anything to be able to celebrate Christmas,” I said, shaken. It was the first time since I had been leading the nursery school that I had not allowed myself to get excited about something for the children.

  “We can work up a tree, decorations, and presents, even if they’re really simple. We’ll try to get a bit of sugar and flour to make cookies. The rest will just be carols and a little pageant,” Vera said brightly.

  The enthusiasm began to spread, and everyone started talking at once. It became quite a clamor, and I looked at Vera. I understood what she was trying to do. She wanted us to be able to dream again, but I was afraid that a new failure would end up unraveling the shred of hope still holding us together.

  “Very well, we’ll celebrate the holiday. We’ll tr
y to get the guards to help us, though surely they’ll oppose it. Lately they’ve been nothing but taciturn and bitter. We’ve only got two days to pull it off. We’d best get to work!” I said, talking myself into it as I spoke.

  We spent the next hour planning and dividing up the work. Everything else on the day’s agenda got pushed aside. The lack of food and our uncertain future were currently unimportant. Vera had reminded us that the best food for the soul was hope.

  When it was time for the children to start arriving, I oriented Vera on her new tasks and, as we did every day, the teachers stood at the barrack entrance to welcome the pupils. We looked at the wide street covered in snow. The temperature had dropped so low during the night that most of the white blanket had frozen solid. The cold whipped our faces and easily trespassed our clothing to sting our skin. After ten minutes of waiting outside, we decided to go back into the building.

  I motioned for my colleagues to sit at a table, and I looked out the window. There was not a soul to be seen throughout the camp.

  “Does anyone know what’s going on? Why aren’t the children coming this morning?” I asked nervously.

  Zelma raised her hand timidly, and the other Gypsy mothers looked at her gravely. “The mothers are worried, and they prefer not to send their children.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this? What’s going on? This is the only place in the whole camp where the children can be warm for a few hours and have a bit of decent food.”

  They could hear the bad mood in my voice. I felt betrayed by some of the women on my own team.

  “They’re afraid they won’t see their children again if they bring them to school. Dr. Mengele has taken many of the twins and some of the Gypsy children who have eyes that are different colors. They don’t trust us anymore. I’ve begged them to talk to you, but they say you’re a German, a Nazi collaborator.”