Auschwitz Violin (6 page)

“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.

 

 

 

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 turn 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.

It was almost certain—to the degree that one could be certain of anything in this Empire of Terror—that they would allow the luthier to live in Dreiflüsselager until the violin was finished. He wouldn’t be moved to the main Auschwitz camp or to Plaszow. His mornings would be spent plying his trade. This was no small privilege in a labor camp; most prisoners had far less. Bronislaw and Daniel agreed not to discuss the matter with anyone, not with the mechanic who had become such a close friend—he was too talkative—nor with the other two musicians. Bronislaw advised Daniel not to rush making the violin, even if he was tempted. It would be much worse if he injured his hands or damaged the instrument. Everything would be lost if the violin didn’t produce the proper sound. Bronislaw was convinced that if the violin turned out well—as they had every reason to expect—the Commander would not surrender Daniel to the doctor. There were many other camps, many other victims. After all, the Commander was the boss in his
lager
.

“And he’s a rank higher than Rascher,” the musician continued.

Bronslaw had discovered this when he heard them saluting each other, and he knew for a fact that the Commander didn’t like to have his authority disputed. One more factor weighed in Daniel’s favor: the doctor didn’t know a thing about violins, but Sauckel did, and he was astute enough to have set a time limit that wouldn’t cause suspicion and would procure him a case of Burgundy wine. Of that Bronislaw was sure!

“So how do you find time to practice?” Daniel asked.

“It’s a real problem, since I work in the kitchen all day. Look at my hands! At least they’re warm, but I’m worried about the summer.”

Bronislaw managed to practice with the other two musicians in the short period after supper and before the barracks were locked. “It’s not much, but we make an effort ‘to keep our fingers,’” he explained. “Look, today we’ll barely have half an hour, so I have to leave you now.”

Bronislaw departed reluctantly, walking slowly, unsteadily. Daniel’s eyes were full of gratitude as they followed him as far as the barracks. The musician had understood Daniel, comforted him. Fortunately, the two friends had been able to discuss the ghastly problem in all of its details because the days were longer now that it was spring and prisoners didn’t have to be back in the barracks until nine.

The luthier left the conversation feeling calmer and fell asleep that night expecting to be able to finish the violin, and freshly determined to do so. For that reason Daniel wasn’t particularly alarmed when an unfamiliar kapo showed up at his shop two or three days later looking for him. He figured it was to take him to the Commander’s house. He had almost decided, as he was putting away his tools, that he’d ask how much time he had to make the violin. I’ll ask him, he thought, in a way that he’ll never suspect a thing, as if I believe the Commander needs the violin for a concert. But the kapo had come for a different reason.

“To the clothing workshop, you and the cabinetmaker, and fast,” he ordered. But when Daniel didn’t budge, he gave him a shove and yelled,
“Schnell, schnell!”

Daniel was nervous as he followed the kapo. He needed all the time he had to craft the violin; if he was deprived of any of it, he’d never be able to finish. What could they want with him at the clothing workshop? He didn’t know how to iron or sew like a tailor. The only thing that occurred to him was that they might want him to wash the dead prisoners’ clothes; they were always reused.

It had been months since Daniel had seen a robust, attractive woman up close, and he found himself fascinated by the body of the baton-wielding SS woman. She was guarding a group of pale, thin women and girls who were sorting and ironing a pile of clean clothes. With a quick glance, Daniel realized some were children’s clothes, from the few children who had been living in the camp before the selection. The clothes that were too ragged and couldn’t be mended had been placed in a separate pile, probably to make paper pulp. Daniel was well aware that everything in the camp, even old teeth, was put to some use.

The group of “healthy” prisoners hadn’t had their teeth examined, but he had spotted the line of sickly prisoners being examined by a dentist with a brush and a can of paint on his desk. After the Spring Cleaning the prisoners had learned that tongues of paint had marked the naked bodies of prisoners with gold teeth.

Daniel had not been summoned to wash clothes. He, the cabinetmaker, and two other prisoners were escorted to a squat, skillful tailor who measured them and had them try on some reasonably new clothes. The guard was told to bring them back the following day for another fitting. Then the men were taken away. It wasn’t that he didn’t need new garments. The ones they wore—all the prisoners—were so threadbare that they hadn’t protected them from the cold that winter, and pneumonia had ravaged the prisoners. But why would their captors bother to give the men decent sets of clothes?

The four of them talked it over as they left the tailor, but none could figure it out. One of the men had noticed that the jacket he tried on was thicker, well lined, and suggested that maybe they would be sent to a colder camp, farther north. But that was absurd; the Nazis never worried about their health! Daniel brushed the matter aside, having no desire to rack his brains for an explanation, and he and the cabinetmaker returned to the carpenters’ shop.

On the following day, in the faltering light of early morning, new suits were distributed to Daniel and the others and a few alterations made. They were issued shoes, and as they were putting them on, one of the most feared, most cruel Untersturmführers stormed in, accompanied by an SS girl with a camera. The prisoners were warned to obey orders without asking any questions. One order, however, proved difficult to follow. Once they were dressed according to SS tastes and their faces made up, they were instructed to smile and pretend to be freely working!

“Unless you wish to see the potatoes growing above you.”

That was the standard phrase to refer to the dead. The SS obviously wanted photographs for propaganda. They had even made a false documentary:
Camp Inmates
Working Happily
or
Each Man with a Job He Enjoys
. A wave of rage surged through Daniel’s body, turning his face scarlet beneath the makeup. The SS officer grinned and waved his baton: before it could strike, the prisoners smiled. If you could call it a smile: their lips separated, their fear-stricken eyes wide open. While the prisoners staved off the blows by means of the bitter simulacrum of a smile, the girl photographed them from various angles.

“All right, clothes off,” the prisoners were told, as the photographer and man laughed and pointed to their starveling bodies. Silently, the prisoners put on their old clothes again. They had escaped punishment, but they hadn’t gained any warmer clothes. Wearing the same tattered garments, the same old clogs, Daniel returned to his shop. It was an effort. His hands shook from nerves and the humiliation of having to smile for the enemy. He was young and still possessed a certain will to live, but he wasn’t sure how long he would last under such conditions.

As he was preparing to start work again, the guard on duty surprised him by walking over to his bench and offering him the rest of his beer. Daniel guessed that the guard considered the photographer and official his enemies too, and had found the whole bit with the pictures disgusting. Daniel drank eagerly, thanked the guard, and shook his hand two or three times.

The trembling finally stopped, and his thoughts returned to the violin. On the previous days he had finished the ribs and the back; now with a tiny hammer he was beginning to strike, one by one, the minute clamping blocks affixed to the mold. Because he had been careful to use only two drops of luthier glue per block, it didn’t take him long to remove the clamps. That ease compensated a bit for the repulsive photographs. He took a deep breath and was filled with satisfaction as he cradled the perfectly shaped object in his hands. He had taken no chances with any of the pieces. The exterior measurements were exact, the same as always. He knew them by heart but checked them again: 355 millimeters long, the breasts (as he called them) 165, waist 115, thighs 205. He couldn’t refrain from caressing the instrument he had come to love, the violin that might save his life
if
he managed to finish all the remaining work: the purfling, the scroll, the pegbox, the sound post … so many things. Most important, he had to find the proper varnish, all of this before he could assemble the violin.