He rubbed his hand along the smooth arch inside the belly of the violin; he trusted his sense of touch as much as he did the compass. He had never believed that any tool could be more precise than his fingertips. He noticed with justified apprehension that they were growing coarse, losing their sensitivity from working in the factory; he sensed the beginnings of a troublesome roughness. But not even this could discourage him as he caressed the two pieces of wood that formed the belly, recalling as he did how desperately he had held Eva during the incursions into the ghetto. The siren sounded abruptly, announcing the end of the shift.
Daniel realized that the inspection had not gone as well in other workshops. He caught sight of one of the Führers, followed by two kapos with a prisoner between them. A strange silence reigned in the camp, broken only by frightened murmurs as the inmates watched the prisoner being locked in a dark cell. The hunting expeditions never ended until the heroes had captured someone in their snares.
V
Ah, our musicians’ hands have been severed, our singers’ mouths barred with iron.
The sweet-voiced violin lies on the ground.
—YANNIS RITSOS
Inventory of Clothes and Other Objects Collected at the Lublin and Auschwitz Concentration Camps, Addressed to the Reich Minister of Economy (Fragment)
Men’s clothing, used
(not counting white clothing) 97,000 items
Women’s clothing, used (idem) 76,000 items
Women’s silk underwear 89,000 items
Total number of wagons 34
Cloth: 400 wagons, equivalent to 2,700,000 kilos Eiderdown feathers: 130 wagons, equivalent to 270,000 kilos
Women’s hair: 1 wagon, equivalent to 3,000 kilos
Old material: 5 wagons …
Total 2,973,000 kilos
536 wagons
Total wagons 570 wagons
In exchange for a small bribe of cigarettes, the new, more venal kapo cautiously handed Daniel a jar of ointment that would—Daniel hoped—heal his hands. Freund had collected the cigarettes with relative ease from the chauffeurs at the vehicle repair shop, and the luthier had saved them, one by one, until he had enough. On the long day of the Commander and Rascher’s visit, exactly two weeks before, all the prisoners had been given a medical examination, perhaps a consequence of orders sent from higher up, by the cold-eyed doctor himself. The various Führers in charge of the camp—Freund always referred to them as Pigs—had baptized the medical routine with the name Spring Cleaning, perhaps because winter had taken its toll on the weak, had killed so many of them, thus sparing officials some of their work.
Daniel lay in his bunk that night, spreading a thick layer of ointment on his hands, thinking himself fortunate to have passed the checkup. This time it hadn’t been just the usual rapid once-over that was mandatory before a prisoner was whipped. The camp was small; it had been possible to examine all of the prisoners on the same day. Like the others, Daniel had stood naked as a skinned rabbit; he had been weighed, groped, obliged to bend over, his chest sounded. Finally, he had been considered fit for work rather than the slaughterhouse, the black-smoke Death Camp.
The “healthy” ones were shut in the barracks earlier than usual that night. Daniel lay awake until late—his fellow inmates asleep or pretending to sleep so they wouldn’t have to discuss the horrors of the selection. He thought he heard the sound of trucks returning, but it was too early! They must not have taken the others to another lager; they hadn’t had enough time to go to Auschwitz-Birkenau and back. The frail, sick prisoners must already be dead and buried—stripped of clothing, no shrouds, no farewells, lying in a clearing in the forest close to the Three Rivers Camp. The desperate shouts that had punctured the night, piercing the flimsy wooden walls, were proof that few had believed the story that they would be transferred to a hospital, not even when they were ordered to put their clothes on again. Daniel wanted to recite the prayer for the dead, but he couldn’t: the world had turned to ice when he witnessed the children selected to die. He shook Freund, who appeared to be sleeping.
“Do you hear the sound of engines? It’s the trucks, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Freund confirmed in a wide-awake voice. “They were in a hurry! You didn’t wake me, I couldn’t sleep. The murdering bastards didn’t shoot them. I started to suspect what they’d do when they brought us two Saurer trucks to be repaired—faulty brakes. Damn them all, me too; I was forced to help with the repair.” His voice broke as he stifled a sob.
Daniel didn’t require more explanation, nor did words exist to console his friend. The two of them lay in silence. The rumor circulating through camp about the death trucks was true; no one knew how it started, but it had spread like an epidemic. So that was why the trucks broke down so often. They left the main highway and traveled over rough, muddy roads, never stopping because to do so might provoke a rebellion or escape attempts. Crushed together inside the truck, the prisoners were caught in a deadly mousetrap, their illnesses quickly cured when the driver—whose services were paid for with a double ration of alcohol—pulled the lever and they breathed the fumes from the diesel engine. The children too were released from the insidious snares of their childhood. Daniel would have smashed his hands in rage, but he couldn’t allow himself even that senseless gesture if he wanted to survive.
He felt as if he had just fallen asleep when the siren sounded, announcing that, despite everything, a new day was commencing. Roll call was shorter that morning, and some of the prisoners were counting their dead. The sun began shamelessly to unravel the fog, banishing it from the sky, and the names of the murdered were swept away by the wind, removed to nothingness.
Not everyone had forgotten them. The implacable camp organization that imprisoned and decimated them still functioned; the officials had taken careful count of the dead, and the report was filed. The prisoners confirmed that no extra slices of bread were available, and, as always, the coffee was thin as a fleeting thought. New lists were quickly drawn up, even as the camp awaited other ill-fated prisoners to fill the cavities left in bunks, in workshops, at roll call. Not all of those who were expected would finally arrive; news had reached the lager that many had chosen the path of rebellion or death and were fighting in the Warsaw ghetto.
With the same empty feeling in his stomach as every morning, but accompanied now by a deep bitterness, Freund returned to the repair shop, grumbling to himself, anticipating more work than ever. Daniel too was more despondent than usual as he entered his shop. He had lost his best co-worker, a carpenter who had been coughing for days. He was unable to throw off the deep oppression that gripped his chest. No relief came from glancing at his tools, at his violin that was now beginning to take shape. He felt his arms less strong, his hands more slow. Somehow I have to purge yesterday’s memories, he thought. I can’t allow myself the time to remember those who are no longer with us—unless I wish to join their company beneath the birch trees.
Little by little, he went through the motions of his usual tasks. Breathing in the fragrance of the wood, he regained a certain serenity, and the asphyxiating knot of remembrance was loosened. The previous day’s physical exertion, the thirty exercises, hadn’t been overly strenuous, but it had taken its toll on his weak body. His knees still hurt. The recent unexpected cold, the wind blowing from Russia, the long roll calls, had left his hands lacerated. But the ointment must be doing the trick, he thought; his hands were definitely better today, and that was essential for his work.
At present he lived with what he considered a reasonable expectation: that they would allow him to survive at least until the instrument was finished. He had learned that the Commander collected violins, so surely they wouldn’t send him to the quarry now that his specially crafted violin was partially completed. This was something exceptional for the camp, and Daniel found it flattering; it gave him a sense of pride. But he had to maintain his usual pace; if the idea ever crossed the Commander’s mind that he was dragging his feet, he would
be whipped for working slowly—or for sabotage. Even Freund, whose work seemed indispensable to the camp, had been locked up for a week when he broke one of his tools!
Daniel attempted to maintain the same rhythm he had during the happy years in his own shop in Krakow. It was a miracle that he had been able to finish the belly and the beautiful neck of the violin. He was now carefully, very precisely, setting the bass bar. He wanted to finish that part this morning, so that he could relax on Sunday afternoon and wash some of his clothes. It was the only restful moment he had during the week. He checked the graining on the strip of spruce and set the bass bar so that the grain coincided exactly with that of the belly. He checked the position, assuring himself that it was slightly slanted and running in the same direction the strings would. He held the pieces up to look at them against the light, to be certain that the bass bar fit exactly into the contours of the arching. He knew now how he needed to glue it, where to put more pressure. He had at hand the felt-covered wooden tongs he would use to adjust the piece once it was glued. When the five clamps were in place, he allowed himself to rest a moment while the glue dried. He had removed the excess glue, but it was too late to begin working on a new piece.
The guard had constantly thrashed Daniel during his first few weeks in camp, but now he left him pretty much alone. The guard had even stopped insulting him and seemed satisfied with the luthier who labored in silence, rarely asked permission to use the latrine, didn’t cause problems or speak to other carpenters. Even so, it was better not to press his luck: Daniel decided to keep his hand on the violin top to give the appearance of working, but he was careful not to apply any pressure. He sat down on the stool he had made but continued to act as if it were necessary to hold the violin.
Not wanting to remember the terrible selection of the previous day, he tried to direct his thoughts—as if guiding a compliant tool—toward his niece Regina, the little blue-eyed doll he had held so often. His arms were strong then; he used to toss the laughing child high in the air and catch her. It comforted him to believe her safe, though he had had no further news of her. The family would never endanger themselves by contacting him. His cousin, of almost Aryan descent, had two sons who were adolescents now; they probably all doted on the little girl. He recalled that the grandfather kept bees and had a little vegetable garden, so they must have enough food. Surely, the dark circles and sunken eyes, the signs of hunger that had marked her cheeks, would have disappeared by now.
It was better not to think about the dead, but about Regina, and Eva, who was safe at the Tisch factory. Thank goodness his work could still calm him, but he had noticed that he was growing weaker, less sturdy. He could breathe more easily today, was grateful for the sympathetic sun that filtered through the transparent paper affixed to the paneless window. The guard was sitting at a distance, not watching, munching on a handful of nuts he’d managed to find, waiting for his midday meal. How Daniel longed for the almonds the guard was loudly crunching, probably on purpose to make the others envious. At least the guard was distracted; it allowed the prisoners a moment of rest and calm.
Daniel was fortunate, extremely fortunate. The carpenter whose bench was closest to his had slipped over to Daniel’s spot to wake him up. Daniel had never fallen asleep at work before, but he had hardly slept the previous night after the trucks returned. He was so exhausted that morning that he had rested his head on the bench, beside the violin, and had fallen asleep. Thank goodness no one else had noticed, or at least none of the other workers had ratted on him to the kapo, as they sometimes did to earn points.
I can never let this happen again, Daniel thought. He had learned in the last few days just how much could be at stake. He’d heard it from Bronislaw, the violinist who had befriended him after Daniel had tried to save him from being punished—as if both of them were not equally defenseless, equally unarmed. Bronislaw had been arrested, but he had been able to avoid the whippings and the Spring Cleaning. He had been assigned to work all day in the kitchen, except on the occasions when the Commander sent for him to play in the trio or the orchestra. Bronislaw’s well-trained ear caught every snatch of enemy conversation. It seemed that both men owed their lives to the kind-eyed guest, a friend of Tisch’s, a man by the name of Schindler, a benevolent goy. Unfortunately, the man had left and hadn’t returned, and his factory was far from there. In the meantime, although Rascher had been assigned to another lager, he was a frequent, more ominous visitor. The doctor had been heard bragging about the fact that Himmler, the SS Reichsführer, the Great Swine himself, had congratulated him on his terrible experiments with freezing prisoners.
“Just be really careful that the violin is perfect,” Bronislaw had said. “I know you will. Sauckel seems especially interested in having it turn out well; he’s been collecting musical instruments for some time. Wonder how many he’s stolen? But as far as yours goes, he’s placed a bet with the fanatical Rascher, a whole case of Burgundy wine.”
“You sure you got that right?”
“Not all the details. You know they don’t like us to get very close, but what I understood was, if you finish it in the time they agreed on—I couldn’t hear how long—and the tonal quality is good, the doctor will have to give the Commander a case of Burgundy wine.”
Bronislaw was silent for a few moments then continued reluctantly, “The problem is Rascher doesn’t particularly like wine; he’s more of a beer drinker.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Bronislaw wasn’t sure; he had his suspicions, but he didn’t want to divulge them. Daniel had to force it out of him, almost prying the words from him with his pliers. The doctor didn’t want “things”; he wanted people, bodies, as he had already demonstrated. Bronislaw feared that the value Rascher had assigned to the bet was the luthier himself. A case of wine against Daniel, who—if the bet were lost—would be delivered to the sadistic doctor.
If you thought about it from the Nazis’ point of view, it was a high price for one of the Untermenschen, the subhumans.
VI
Pain—has an Element of Blank—
—EMILY DICKINSON
Letter Addressed to Himmler Concerning the Use of Deceased Prisoners’ Gold Teeth—1942
Economic and Administrative Main Office
Noted in book no. 892/ secr. 42
To the SS Reichsführer,
Reichsführer!
All pieces of dental gold from deceased prisoners will be delivered to the Health Department according to your orders. They can be used for dental operations required by our men.
SS Oberführer Blaschke now has 50 kilos of gold at his disposal, which is the amount of precious metal that will be needed for the next five years.
I request permission, on receiving your authorization, to begin depositing in the Reich Bank all gold dental pieces taken from deceased prisoners in the various concentration camps.
Heil Hitler!
Frank
SS Brigadenführer, Major General of the Waffen-SS
Fragment from the Nuremberg Trials
Concerning the I.G. Farben Case
The outrage inflicted on the prisoners by the kapos was terrible. They behaved in an inhuman fashion. I was informed by Walther Dürrfeld or by Engineer Faust that some of the prisoners were shot when they attempted to escape.
I was aware that prisoners were not paid. Around 1943, I.G. Farben introduced a system of awards for the prisoners, which was meant to provide them the opportunity to buy things at the canteen and, at the same time, raise their productivity.
The total amount paid to prisoners over a period of two and a half years came to 20 million marks, which we delivered to the SS.
Daniel froze when he heard the words tumble, in fits and starts, from the musician’s mouth. He was paralyzed, speechless, as he tried to understand. He gulped, swallowing saliva as if it were bitter medicine, and said: “They won’t take me alive.”
Daniel let out a yell, causing several prisoners to t
urn around. Before he could scream again and draw the kapo’s attention, Bronislaw clamped his hand over Daniel’s mouth, then embraced him, letting his friend’s face rest against his threadbare sweater. For months Daniel had lived with incredible tension, and Bronislaw believed that only a much louder scream, a wild, savage wail, would calm him. But protest wasn’t possible. The present anguish could only be partially assuaged in the arms of a friend, away from those who would look at Daniel with scorn or wish to add to his anxiety.
After what seemed like a long time to both of them, Daniel broke loose and Bronislaw suggested that walking would calm them. As they strode, Daniel concentrated, dry-eyed, on what his friend had to say.
“Listen,” Bronislaw said soothingly. “You won’t be removed. The factories can’t afford to lose any men. Things are starting to look bad for these wretched murderers. You’ll manage, you know you will. The violist from the orchestra where I used to play told me you were tremendously skillful. You did great work for him.”
Bronislaw spoke with conviction, easing Daniel’s fears. The luthier wanted to believe his friend’s words. He had no other choice.
“Your violin will produce the most beautiful sound imaginable, and I’ll see to it that I’m the one to play it. We can do this, we will.”
His friend’s voice was like salve applied to an open wound. When he was again reasonably serene, they began to discuss the matter in an almost objective fashion: the difficulty didn’t reside in the quality of the work—Daniel wasn’t at all anxious about that. Both of them agreed that the problem lay in not knowing the time limit. No one could clarify this; no one wanted to. The musician couldn’t ask anyone, nor could he show, even intimate, that he knew about the appalling bet. The consequences could be terrible, and Bronislaw recognized that he was not that brave a man.
The Violin of Auschwitz Page 5
