Auschwitz Violin (8 page)

As his co-worker carried the last plant upstairs, Daniel had summoned all his strength and crawled to the back of the van, preparing to collect the last load, a large box that had stood behind the planters. Suddenly he’d frozen. His eyes had flickered across the large red letters, his ears imagining the clinking of glasses. It was a case of Burgundy wine. A thick fog had shrouded his eyes, and he had fainted.

“We won!”

“No,
you
won, you’re the only winner.”

They hadn’t been able to see each other until that evening. They sat on a rough stone bench, hugging, laughing, weeping unashamedly. No, Bronislaw thought, the Swine didn’t win the bet, Daniel did, but at the cost of ruining his health, judging by the look of exhaustion on the luthier’s face. The violinist rested his hand on Daniel’s fragile shoulder and listened affectionately to the details of the story. They had thrown a glass of cold water on Daniel, and he had regained consciousness. Still lying on the ground, dizzy, and extremely weak, he could hear the Commander and his assistant laughing. The co-worker had finished unloading the van, and Sauckel had allowed him to help Daniel up and accompany him to the infirmary to have the cut on his forehead dressed.

“Take him to be treated, so the frail little man can work this afternoon.”

The taunts didn’t bother him. They had won. He had crafted his violin, his Daniel Krakowensis, in the stipulated time.

Now that Rascher was no longer at the camp, the infirmary functioned much better. Orders had been given to treat all “curable” prisoners. The Jewish doctor who worked under the German physician did what he could for the prisoners. As the doctor was disinfecting and treating his cut, Daniel whispered to him: “I won! I won’t have to take the cyanide you gave me.”

Daniel had shared his secret with only this person, the taciturn, compassionate doctor who had agreed to give him the cyanide capsule. The day he’d finished the violin, Daniel had purposely cut the back of his hand so that he would be given permission to visit the infirmary.

Daniel described how he had discovered the case of wine and realized that he had won the bet. The doctor shook Daniel’s hand and slipped him a box of vitamins, whispering: “You need them.” Daniel wouldn’t have to swallow the poison. He wouldn’t be led to a place worse than a tomb: the icy water ruled by the heartless doctor with the treacherous eyes who spied on the agony of the dying.

“The time limit must have been almost up,” Bronislaw told him after a moment. “So that was why I was given the mornings off kitchen duty and told to help you in the workshop.”

The truth of the matter was that he had hardly helped Daniel. But Daniel had reassured him that just having Bronislaw stand beside him had given him courage. They’d had no opportunity for conversation in the carpenters’ shop, other than about the violin. As was only natural, the luthier did most of the work. The musician had served as apprentice: handing Daniel tools, helping him test the different varnishes, grinding the aloe powder with the pestle, putting the fine paint-brushes in the jar with alcohol, wiping with a cloth whenever requested, warming water on the stove to remove excess glue. Small jobs that gave him pleasure.

Bronislaw had stood by and looked on approvingly when Daniel chose the oil-based varnish, observed how carefully he mixed the ingredients (he had forbidden Bronislaw to weigh them on the tiny scales): aloe, sandarac, Venetian turpentine, coloring extract. Daniel had cooked the mixture over a very low flame, then poured it little by little through a gauzelike cloth that he used as a filter. There had been countless tests while Daniel put the finishing touches on the violin. All the odd pieces of spruce and maple lying around the shop bore witness. When the varnished pieces of wood had dried, the two men examined them, scratched them, until finally the luthier’s experience—not Bronislaw’s—allowed him to choose the most appropriate mixture, though the differences among them were slight. For that matter, Bronislaw didn’t even know the exact proportions, but he was able to help Daniel install the four strings and check the tuning.

The euphoria had passed, and Bronislaw scrutinized his friend, who seemed more exhausted than other days. Don’t let yourself slip away now, Bronislaw thought. It was time for Daniel to rest; all one had to do was look at the dark circles under his eyes, the extreme paleness of his skin. Bronislaw was determined to find him some extra food in the kitchen, no matter how closely guarded he was. Despite the concern for Daniel’s health, they parted happily that night. With the anxiety of the time limit behind them, and the knowledge that Daniel had probably escaped Rascher’s grip, Bronislaw hoped the young violin maker would sleep soundly. The night was free from fog, and a tiny star was shining.

 

 

 

The flames were spent, only ashes remained. Bronislaw always felt despondent when the fire was extinguished; the ashes reminded him of the dead. Taking the poker, he scattered them among the tiny embers and poured himself a glass of cool Rhine wine. Ingrid was in bed. Everything had gone perfectly: the tribute dinner, the municipal award. He had noticed some absences, the odd colleague who was sick, another who was probably jealous. Flowers, toasts, medals … ashes, everything except music.

What followed had been a tremendous surprise. Neither Ingrid nor any of their friends had dropped the slightest hint. He still felt deeply moved and wanted to ponder the events calmly before going to bed. He would be able to sleep late the following morning in the calm of the house, with only the sounds of birdsong and waves lapping on the lake, like a violin played with a mute.

Ingrid had left the banquet early. “I’m leaving now for the lake house,” she’d said, “to turn on the heat; my daughter will drive you up.”

Bronislaw had been surrounded by friends and colleagues, including the director of the opera house, but by midafternoon it was over and he was tired, glad he could rest. He closed his eyes as they drove up to the house and began to feel refreshed. When he opened them, he could see the glimmering water of the lake and the well-lit house.

A small group of musicians were awaiting him and applauded as he entered. He was astonished to spot the well-known trio: Gerda, Virgili, and Climent. He remembered Climent, who had traveled to Sweden as a very young man to attend one of his courses on cadence and improvisation. The director of the conservatory had also come, and a blue-eyed woman whom he didn’t know but who looked vaguely familiar. Everything had been carefully organized. He had no say in the matter; he was led to his seat by the fireplace, Climent and Ingrid beside him.

Then Ingrid put a finger to her lips, and it began. He remembered it all, note by note. He could sing it now if need be. Just the night before he had been thinking how few composers could make a violin sing. They forgot about the melody, the complicity that used to exist between musician and luthier. But tonight all three musicians “sang.” The novelty, the surprise, had made the first movement fly, but when the violin solo began the second movement, he tried to recall—as he listened, unconsciously retaining every note—where he had heard that sound. After all, this was a trio playing with an unfamiliar woman, and Climent’s piece had not yet been performed in public. With a flash Bronislaw realized: the woman was playing Daniel’s violin, the Auschwitz violin! He was certain, he didn’t need to be told.

When the woman (Bronislaw tended to think of most women as musical notes) concluded the achingly beautiful interpretation of the
Mytilene Trio
, she drew near.

“You see the violin? I was sure you would recognize it. I’m Regina, Daniel’s daughter.” She kissed the violin, then placed it in Bronislaw’s hands and kissed him on the forehead.

“It’s as if I’ve always known you,” she said.

He ran his eyes over the violin, held it gently. Of course it was his friend’s violin that now “sang” in the woman’s hands. He furrowed his brow.

“Daughter? He spoke of a niece.”

The others stepped back so the two of them could speak, and he noticed Ingrid leading them into the study.

“I wanted to forget about it all,” he told Regina, “but I haven’t been able to.” Then he abruptly threw out the question he had anguished over so often:

“Did Daniel survive?”

Without giving it a thought, the two of them broke into Polish—not Yiddish, which the woman had never learned. The luthier had survived the concentration camp, Regina revealed gently, but had died relatively young, when she was only seventeen. After Daniel was released from the hospital, he and Eva had legally adopted her. She became his true daughter; she
was
his daughter. By that time she had already begun to play the violin, she added. Her relative Rudi was a musician, and he started teaching her when she was five.

Bronislaw was elated to meet Daniel’s adopted daughter, even if Regina was no longer young. Their encounter was so implausible: she had never before left Poland; he had never wished to return. He had severed all the links to that troubled past, the few that remained from the camp experience.

“I understand,” Regina said. “Eva never wanted to talk about it either. To stanch the anguish and memories she keeps herself occupied doing a thousand things, drinks a bit too much. She never mentioned it to me, but when I was twelve, Father told me that while she was interned at Auschwitz she had been sterilized in a terribly brutal way. She still suffers from pains in her lower abdomen.”

Daniel, by contrast, had frequently talked to Regina about his experiences, perhaps because he carried with him the knowledge, the glimmer of light among all that misery, of having been able to finish the violin.

All the old shadows seemed to vanish with the woman’s voice. When the
lager
was liberated—Daniel had told her—and they were taking him to the hospital, the doctors couldn’t understand how he had survived. He spent many months in the hospital, wavering between life and death. The two musicians who had played with Bronislaw died, however, during the first winter after his departure on the “Swedish bus.” One day, however, after an unexpected visit from his old friend Freund, Daniel had an abrupt improvement, and he was able to fight his way back to life. Her father had given Regina such a detailed account of the visit that she felt she had been present herself.

“Freund suddenly showed up at the hospital and sat down next to Father’s bed and with a great flourish exhibited the violin. ‘It’s yours,’ he said. ‘I bought it for you.’”

It was no mere coincidence, no black-market deal pulled off by Freund, who was on the verge of embarking for the United States. He had actually been able to buy it when they auctioned all the ex-Commander’s belongings, shortly after he had been tried and hanged. Rascher, the sadistic doctor-executioner, had committed suicide just before he was going to be hanged. Daniel knew it was his violin. It could be no other. There had been no need to read the letters on it; he carried its exact shape in his mind with the same clarity as that first day, when amid the terror and misery, he had begun to choose the material with which to craft it. Through all the days of hunger, his body often beaten, consumed by rage and grief, in his deepest soul—he told his daughter—he had always hoped that the violin wouldn’t be destroyed by Sauckel, that someone, at some point in the future, would save the violin and it would survive, even if he did not.

“You know what?” he had told Regina. “When Freund brought it to me, it was almost as if I could again hear the question: Occupation? This time my answer would have been: Violin maker.”

No embers remained, only ashes and a lingering warmth from the fireplace. Who knew if he would see Regina again? Bronislaw mused. When she finished the concert tour in Holland, she was going back to her own country. She had returned Daniel to him, and with him a sense of peace. Although Bronislaw had been helpless to do otherwise, it had been tremendously painful to leave Daniel behind in the
lager
, to see him waving good-bye. The memory had tortured him for years.

Climent had presented Bronislaw with the score for the
Mytilene Trio
. Tomorrow he would play the violin part, but if he wanted, he could play it by heart this very moment. That night the old nightmare would not revisit him, the one that always led him back to the Three Rivers Camp.

It isn’t true, is it, Daniel, that music can tame the beasts? Yet, in the end, a song lives.