Train to Budapest (6 page)

And what’s this that seems to be shining and dancing before her like a great mass of dragonflies with vibrating wings. Thousands and thousands of spectacles, sunglasses, glasses for the short-sighted and the long-sighted, with aluminium or copper or Bakelite frames. Any gold ones had already been taken away and melted down.

How would short-sighted people have known where to put their feet when their glasses were taken from them? Or did they let people go into the shower in their glasses, and only rip them off after they were dead? When their eyes were no longer aware of the details of the misery that surrounded them. Eyes blinded and lost. Emanuele sometimes wore glasses, too. But would she ever be able to recognise his glasses in that shimmering, glittering heap? Walking eyes, dancing eyes, idling eyes, eyes raised to look at a mouth or an absent smile. They have all disappeared, those smiles. The mouths are closed, the corners of their lips turned down. And the eyes that saw those grimaces; perhaps they understood or perhaps they didn’t. Times had changed; one had to adapt to a new reality. How could those soldiers, always so elegant and smart, keep their purpose in view: to slaughter every single person, down to the last child? Some of them had decent faces, like good family men. And indeed that was what they were. Along the road to Birkenau their wives and children were at home waiting for them behind embroidered curtains. And when they came home in the evening after doing their duty as slaughterers, the men would bend smiling over those children.

Amara sits in front of the ruins of one of the gas chambers. The Nazis blew it up before they left. The crumbling and collapsed roof is in a large room in which one can still see concrete walls marked with blue with a few pipes sticking out of them.

The book lying open on her lap has an eloquent photograph of hundreds of naked people on their way to the deadly bathhouse
that is now lying smashed and motionless before her. The only sign of life is a lizard warming itself in the sun.

Someone is sitting next to her. How did she not hear him arrive?

‘I wanted to see you …’

Amara turns and recognises Emanuele’s dark, intense eyes.

‘So you survived!’

‘I’ve thought so much about you.’

‘Me too.’

But when she looks more closely she sees it’s not the Emanuele she knew. The boy sitting on the stone beside her is a very thin child with furrowed hands and prominent veins. In fact, he’s not even a child. More like a decrepit old man who has spent a lifetime digging and carrying heavy weights. He has stooping shoulders, eyes surrounded by wrinkles, rotten teeth that shift in his mouth and nails edged with black. Amara’s heart tightens and contracts into an insubstantial lump.

‘How did you survive, Emanuele, and why did you stop writing?’

‘I had no pen or pencil.’

‘And your mother?’

‘I cannot separate myself from the words. They are like stones fastened to my ankles that I must drag with me. Listen.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘Now please undress and be careful to remember the number of the hook where you hang your clothes or you won’t be able to find them again … A soft voice speaking. There was nothing to alarm us and we were ready to trust that voice. After the shower there will be hot tea and fresh bread for everyone … But on going into the shower please make sure you leave everything behind; if you’ve forgotten a ring or a little chain, put them here on this table near your clothes. You’ll get everything back after your shower. Here’s some soap, a piece for everyone; wash well, you are all filthy from your journey … Gently, almost ceremoniously, they guided us politely towards the shower hall … Mamma was smiling as we went in. I haven’t washed for eight days, Emanuele dear, I really do need a shower, after that train without food or drink, sleeping on top of each other on that wooden floor, with the stink of shit … Mamma was singing happily, she was Thelma Fink von Orenstein, singing as brainlessly as a goldfinch.’

‘And you?’

‘I noticed a disturbing smell. I couldn’t relax. A smell I’d never smelled before but which seemed familiar all the same … Mutti, what’s this disgusting smell? We’re all so dirty … we have to wash … don’t you understand, they’re giving us all a cup of hot tea afterwards? They’re really nice. In my opinion, these men in the camp are clearly superior to the ones on the train, a different brand of SS altogether … No sooner had we got off the train than they took us to the shower, an excellent idea, don’t you agree? Let’s hope the water’s really hot … I’ve never longed so much for a nice hot shower.

‘But I knew it wasn’t human filth I was smelling. It was some nauseous chemical related to that big room, something that made me think of bitter almonds gone rotten. The walls were impregnated with it. I didn’t want to go in, I didn’t want to go into that room with its wet, slippery floor. But I did go in, Amara, I did go in with her pulling my wrist as she sang. What a dreamy, absent-minded Mamma I have! They know it, she was saying, they know I’m the daughter of a general who lost his arm fighting for our country in the famous battle of the Kolubara in Serbia, they know that, they know everything, these people. She kept repeating it. She was still convinced, as we headed for the showers accompanied by that revolting smell, that she was privileged and would be respected, she really believed it, because her father had fought for Austria and lost an arm so our soldiers could cross the bridge over the Kolubara. The Emperor himself had pinned a medal to his chest and called him a hero. Even if in the end the Austrians had lost the battle and been forced to abandon the town of Ljig.

‘When they bolted the doors noisily from the outside someone started yelling. Why are they locking the doors like that? And what’s this horrible smell? But Mamma didn’t worry. So much fuss about a shower! She encouraged everyone: you’ll see how good we’ll feel when we’re under the water! … But this blessed water isn’t coming, it’s not coming! I said, and I could see her turning the soap in her hand, rubbing it on her stomach behind me. She was hiding behind me out of embarrassment because she was naked. Everyone was naked there, old people, women and children. But why were there no young people there, where were they? Should we not have been suspicious that among all those bodies there was not a single pair of strong muscular legs to be seen, no head
of young hair, no calloused hard-working young hand? Only old people who found it difficult to stand, all twisted and swollen and tormented by hunger and thirst. And mothers, young like mine, each with a child or two. It was their job to reassure their children, and the children’s job to reassure their mothers. My mother held me close tenderly, partly to hide her nudity and partly to reassure herself that we were still together. They had not separated us and this gave her a peaceful feeling.

‘Suddenly the light went out and a cry of terror went up. Some narrow slits in the ceiling opened and a hissing could be heard, a disquieting rustle. Here’s the water cried my mother happily, turning up her face to be hit by a shower of cold sand. My simple Mutti thought it was water. Good. Now we could begin soaping ourselves. But the sand raining from the ceiling no sooner hit the wet floor than it began to fizz and dance about. Meanwhile the light had come on again. Something strange was happening! When the bluish grains touched the ground they released blue bubbles that rose in a transparent cloud. A beautiful sight. But when it slipped up nostrils and between lips it made people cough, then spit, then vomit and then … They struggled violently as they tried to climb, to get away from the rising clouds, to reach the iron mouths that seemed to be oozing water. Bewildered, Mamma looked around in astonishment. But only for a second. Then she fell to the floor, dragging me down with her. I couldn’t shout, I had no breath. I clung to her; I wanted to say: Mutti, what’s happening, but I couldn’t speak, my voice had gone. My throat was tied in a knot. I was suffocating. Oh for a drop of water, just one drop, one single drop, and I licked the metal pipe sticking from the wall close to my cheek. I was immediately overwhelmed by another blue cloud, light and translucent. Then another and another. The fizzing had stopped but the bodies were still there, suddenly gigantic and very white, writhing and twisting. Those still on their feet fell, those still breathing began to wheeze and rattle. Silence had descended like a snow of ice on us all. Nothing but that writhing on the floor. Gigantic feet and huge hands near my eyes. Gaping mouths and stiff necks with bulging veins. I no longer thought of breathing. Only my eyes still existed. Those naked bodies were too shocking, too exposed, too silent. Like an ancient sacred dance with long naked legs instead of heads and fingers instead of hair,
fingers revolving in silence. In all that whiteness there was only one colour: red ears. I don’t know why the ears were so red, like small poppies growing from white flesh. They were so beautiful, those ears. I could not help gazing at them. I was utterly lucid. I could see children clinging to their mothers, making single bodies with many legs and many heads. The tiniest infants were trying to push their way back into the safety of their mothers’ wombs, pushing and pushing like newborn puppies trying to get milk from the teats of an elderly bitch. A completely bald old gentleman was lying on his back a few inches from my head, his open mouth shooting out red fire. My mother looked surprised. I could feel her arm round my neck. Let her take me with her, I thought, let her drag me wherever she goes, I want to be with her. And she never let go, not even when she stopped breathing. Someone fell on top of me. Feet were beating on my side like a drum. My small stomach swelled and swelled like a football, it was incredible how it could keep swelling. Might I even have a child in my belly? But could it ever be born alive? Luckily Mamma hadn’t had time to discover the trap. She had breathed in the gas rising from the floor so eagerly she had lost consciousness at once. I was happy for her. I looked at her face again: it was pale and tender; her eyes closed and her lips parted in a gentle smile. I wanted to kiss her, say a last goodbye and repeat the prayers people say for the dead but I fell head downwards.’

Amara reached out to squeeze the boy’s wrist but her fingers met warm stone. She shuddered. ‘Emanuele!’ she whispered. The only thing occasionally moving anywhere near her was the lizard as it tried to find more sun.

8

‘You move, please? With signorina in middle no can photograph ruins.’ A guide comes up followed by a little group of visitors. Amara sees from their faces that she is in their way. She is sitting among the ruins of Gas Chamber number 3. But she can’t make herself move. She sees the group with blind eyes. She hears the guide’s voice explaining: ‘Here shower room, really gas chamber. Nazis put bomb before they going away. But only part fall down. You see roof very broken? But walls still standing. Wait peacefully water. But no water, instead gas grains drop from roof touch wet floor become gas, poison. Zyklon B, death certain, in maybe eight, ten minutes. Death sure. And they all dead, all.’

Amara struggles to her feet, her head spinning like a top. She is still looking for the man who has just been talking to her, the person who claimed to be Emanuele. But only the tourists crowd round the guide who continues to explain: ‘Forty thousands Italians deported, thirty-two thousands political and military and eight thousands Jews, only three thousands live. Less than ten per cent.’

You can tell from a mile off that they are Italians, from the disorganised and uncoordinated way they move, and the trouble the Polish guide is having trying to keep them together, constantly chasing some young man or elderly lady who has moved off to take photographs without listening to instructions. For several years now such groups have been able to come directly from Italy by bus.

‘Now, signorina, follow the others, please!’

He has mistaken her for one of his party. Amara obeys automatically. The man has a pleasant voice despite his awkward, comic Italian. The group moves from place to place through Auschwitz and she goes with them.

The Polish guide, guardian of the dead, seems more real than anything else in the camp, with the warm crosswind seeming to
sweep aside the ghosts like scraps of paper. ‘Here: gypsy zone. Here: hospital men prisoners. Here, name Mexico, transit camp for Jewish women.’

Amara is holding a booklet published by the camp management with large reproductions of period photographs: a line of naked women, their flesh white with the pallor of skin stripped of clothing in winter. She has never before seen nudity like this. A nudity that in revealing itself terminal has become gentle, transparent and mute. The women’s heads are shrunk into their shoulders and their backs hunched as they try to hide their sex under their hands. The damned moving meekly to final judgement though they know themselves innocent. They are branded with numbers that fix their destiny as martyrs. Their crime is that they are alive, that they are themselves and exist. Even if they never listened to the serpent or bit into the apple of temptation, they must now undergo the humiliation of divine rejection. For ever, say those curving backs, for ever. But why?

‘Here SS homes,’ says the guide, lifting his hand. Humble little houses though with some pretension to elegance. Lace-edged curtains carefully hung to form two waves in the middle, blue and white shutters. In the little front gardens daisies struggle with rubble and coarse grass.

‘Here storehouse for things stolen from Jews, name Canada.’ This was where Amara had seen the mountains of shoes, the piles of cases, the masses of glasses, the heaps of prostheses. She decides to go back into Canada: perhaps first time round her attention was so distracted by the unexpectedness of it that she failed to make a proper check of the huge number of dusty abandoned suitcases. Would she have been able to recognise Emanuele’s? Of course she would; she had seen it often enough on top of the wardrobe in his room. Faded leather with brass bosses and a shiny hook-shaped fastening whose small tongue was made of silver-coloured metal. The lid stamped E and O in gold.

But she has hardly taken a step before the fatherly Pole intervenes: ‘No, signorina, this way, please.’ So she turns back, without even knowing why.