Auschwitz Violin (2 page)

 

 

 

When Daniel emerged from the cell where he had been imprisoned—or, more accurately, when he was dragged from it—he felt much weaker, although only four days had elapsed. He was tempted to curse the determination that had kept him alive and in this hell. He knew it had been four days; he had kept count: each evening he had made a small incision in the wall with his fingernail.

Guards never offered explanations and rarely followed regulations. Daniel and his bunkmate had over-slept that bleak, wintry morning and were not out of the dilapidated barracks on time: this was their crime and their misfortune. His body still ached from the whipping he had received before he was locked up, and from sleeping on a hard, short bunk. He figured that the bunk had been built too short on purpose.

Daniel was more fortunate than most prisoners. He enjoyed a privileged position, if you could call it that: he was on his way to the Commander’s house, where he had been assigned to work. Were it not for that, who knows how long his punishment might have lasted? As he walked, he blew on his fingers, which had grown numb from the cold. Months had passed since he had last recited the
Shaharit
, the ancient morning prayers he had learned as a child. Standing outside for roll call had made him even colder, but as he started work he was reminded that at least he would have a warm meal again: watery turnip soup.

The punishment cells were located near Appellplatz, the square where public executions were staged. It was the highest elevation in hell. The Dreiflüsselager—the Three Rivers Camp, one of the relatively small Auschwitz subcamps—seemed huge as it stretched out below him, almost imperceptible under a mantle of fog; its ominous buildings were shrouded in shadows. The roofs of the barracks were chalky white, from snow or frost, he wasn’t sure which.

Commander Sauckel, a refined but sadistic giant of a man, was determined to cultivate gladioli and camellias, and Daniel and his fellow workers had labored for some time over the wooden structure of the greenhouse. Occasionally this work procured them an extra ration of food. Fortunately, Daniel thought to himself, they hadn’t offered him one last “souvenir” of his arrest: the beating frequently dispensed when you were released. You could never be sure of anything here; these camps were separated from the others, and regulations were often ignored.

He’d learned that lesson just four days before, when he’d been forced to watch other prisoners be whipped before it was his own turn to be “punished.” Daniel laid himself across the bench before they had a chance to pin him down. He pulled his shirt up and trousers down. Gripping the bench, he cried out one thing alone: the number of each of the twenty-five lashes. His body ached with intolerable pain, but he never lost count, so the flogging did not recommence, as was often the case—much to the guards’ amusement. He had been able to escape the “formal” whippings until then, but there was no way to avoid being thrashed and shoved by the guards. With only a cursory glance, the camp’s cold, steel-eyed doctor had stamped his approval: Daniel and his fellow inmate would receive corporal punishment. As far as anyone could recall, approval was given to all punishments. Then the doctor had scrutinized him carefully, and the expression on his face had sent shivers through Daniel. Who knew if he was being considered for some future experiment?

The veteran inmates spoke of a worse hell, one-way journeys that took place in other camps, terror-inspiring names, and also a beggarly paradise: the factory where extra rations were served and no one was mistreated. Daniel, however, wished to be neither more frightened than he already was nor swept away by dreams: his job had to be done carefully, and he was finding it especially hard today. He had been given even less bread in the confinement cell than the usual ration, barely enough to keep him alive. He applied himself to the job as best he could, rarely stopping to rest, pleased, in any event, that he had not been sent to the quarry. As he worked he recalled the sudden impulse that had saved his life. Though for how long he didn’t know.

“Occupation?”

The question had seemed inoffensive enough, but not everyone had the good fortune to be asked. Those who were selected immediately to die—children, old men and women, the infirm—stood in another line.

Daniel was quick to reply:

“Carpenter, cabinetmaker.”

It was a half-lie. The answer had risen from deep within the recesses of his mind; only later would he reason it out. It was as if someone had dictated it to him. In those days, when persecution had grown more inexorable than ever, you had to walk a tightrope in order to live, but Jews were marked and were—like many others—poor funambulists. He was well acquainted with those who spun the destiny of his people: the murderous Waffen-SS officers, monsters disguised as men, impeccably dressed—unless bespattered by blood—well groomed, often quite cultured men who probably loved their dogs and music, family men no doubt. From their serene (or fanatical) eyes and delicate, heinous hands hung a thin thread: life or the illusion of it. For these Christians, these
goyim
—he thought in a flash, as he heard the question—the ancient commandment “Thou shalt not kill” did not exist. The question was never posed to his mother. Reduced to a mere husk of her former self, she had died in the ghetto early on. Her Jewish doctor could do nothing; the word
tuberculosis
was mentioned, but Daniel always assumed that his mother had died of hunger or grief.

What could a luthier, a violin maker, do in hell? “Carpenter” had seemed like a good answer at the time, even to the official who registered the information with an approving nod. Always a need for one. But after a few harrowing months, which had seemed more like years, Daniel was no longer certain. At least his
occupation
meant he was released from the “windowed cell” after only a brief stay, and now he was out in broad daylight. The cell had only one tiny window, so the days had been spent in semidarkness. The officials spoke of regulations, but no one ever knew how long confinement would last.

Daniel was conscious of the advantage he had over most prisoners: he worked inside, now that the greenhouse was almost completed. He was putting the finishing touches on a bottle shelf in the cellar. He had heard snatches of conversation about more odd jobs around the house; maybe he would be fortunate enough to be assigned to one.

If I’m falling asleep, he thought, it must be because I’m not eating enough and I’m compensating for the lack of food with sleep. It was still dark when the prisoners rose at half past five, ready to begin work at six forty-five. Others had only a half-hour rest at noon, but those who worked in the Commander’s house or office had an hour, provided the job had been done according to the officer’s demanding, erratic liking. The afternoon shift continued until half past six, stopping in time for the meager supper, then the extremely long roll call and night, with never the hope of a more benevolent dawn.

On Sundays, however, those working at the Commander’s house began their day later. Having spent his Saturday nights either out late or engaged in his little orgies at home, Sauckel wanted no early-morning noise, no disturbances. These small advantages—cloaked always in the fear that they could end in an instant—were the only positive thoughts Daniel conceded. Never allowing himself to think beyond the moment, ignoring even the shooting pain that occasionally ravaged his body. Never allowing himself to miss Eva, who was perhaps dead, or recall that they would be married now if it hadn’t been for the war. Not remembering their introduction according to the community customs, or her last embraces, or how warm her lips had grown after the first weeks of their formal relationship.

His weakness was so acute today that the idea of feeling desire struck him as something from another life, another person. Only his rage kept him from collapsing; he didn’t want to become a spectacle for the Führers, the kapos, the vicious horde of hyenas. Against his will, he found himself thinking of the first weeks of confinement in Dreiflüsselager and the secret encounters with female prisoners—the furtive, rapid contacts at night behind the compound wall. Soon, however, men and women were separated by an electric fence that the prisoners had installed themselves. Daniel was young and lively by nature, but he had so little stamina that it had hardly mattered to him.

He was hungry again. The noon meal could only momentarily salve one’s hunger, never resolve it. Perhaps the cook would save him some crumbs today; she had risked it a few times when the Commander was reading and relaxing after lunch. Five hours of work with only chestnut water and a piece of rye bread had brought him to the brink of collapse.

The workers were standing in the foyer about to leave when three golden apples (or was it a mirage?) suddenly rolled along the floor, accompanied by loud laughter. The Commander was amusing himself by kicking the apples as the four workers scrabbled around on their knees trying to seize them. It didn’t hurt Daniel’s pride to crawl in pursuit of the apple; the humiliation lay in making fun of his hunger. A huge black boot hovered over his hand, threatening it, but then withdrew, kicking the fruit farther away. Daniel was finally able to grab hold of an apple. It wasn’t snatched from him, nor were the dogs set loose when he sank his teeth into it. Clearly, the Commander had risen in a good mood. A girl’s voice called to him from upstairs. It was no longer a secret: an attractive prostitute must have satisfied him. Perhaps the workers would have two or three calm days. Perhaps.

The afternoon dragged on slowly, despite the memory of the golden apple. That night, after the days spent in the confinement cell, the wooden bunk felt almost soft to Daniel. His fellow inmates—lice-infested, like him, to a greater or lesser degree—provided a warm, familiar reassurance.

This time they woke him up. He couldn’t be allowed to oversleep again. No one would be able to save him then from the terrifying “aggravating circumstances” and the menacing scrutiny of Dr. Rascher. His body still ached from the whipping, but his sleep was deep and free from nightmares—maybe because he felt the comforting presence of those around him.

The barracks “secretary” roused him from a far different world. In his dreams he had found himself in his orderly workshop, amid the familiar, pleasant smells of wood, glue, and varnish—not the fug that permeated the barracks. Upstairs, his mother was humming as she cooked, and the aroma of delicious food filtered down to him. His senses overflowed with well-being: the sun gilded the wood like a warm sunset, like aged gold that had been dyed red—even blue, curiously enough. His collection of steel luthier’s knives gleamed with a cold brilliance.