The Tattooist of Auschwitz (The Tattooist of Auschwitz, #1) - Heather Morris

Prologue

LALE TRIES NOT TO LOOK UP. HE REACHES OUT TO TAKE THE piece of paper being handed to him. He must transfer the five digits onto the girl who held it. There is already a number there, but it has faded. He pushes the needle into her left arm, making a three, trying to be gentle. Blood oozes. But the needle hasn’t gone deep enough, and he has to trace the number again. She doesn’t flinch at the pain Lale knows he’s inflicting. They’ve been warned—say nothing, do nothing. He wipes away the blood and rubs green ink into the wound.

“Hurry up!” Pepan whispers.

Lale is taking too long. Tattooing the arms of men is one thing; defiling the bodies of young girls is horrifying. Glancing up, Lale sees a man in a white coat slowly walking up the row of girls. Every now and then he stops to inspect the face and body of a terrified young woman. Eventually he reaches Lale. While Lale holds the arm of the girl in front of him as gently as he can, the man takes her face in his hand and turns it roughly this way and that. Lale looks up into the frightened eyes. Her lips move in readiness to speak. Lale squeezes her arm tightly to stop her. She looks at him and he mouths, “Shh.” The man in the white coat releases her face and walks away.

“Well done,” he whispers as he sets about tattooing the remaining four digits—4 9 0 2. When he has finished, he holds on to her arm for a moment longer than necessary, looking again into her eyes. He forces a small smile. She returns a smaller one. Her eyes, however, dance before him. As he looks into them, his heart seems simultaneously to stop and to begin beating for the first time, pounding, almost threatening to burst out of his chest. He looks down at the ground and it sways beneath him. Another piece of paper is thrust at him.

“Hurry up, Lale!” Pepan whispers urgently.

When he looks up again, she is gone.

1

APRIL 1942

LALE RATTLES ACROSS THE COUNTRYSIDE, KEEPING HIS HEAD up and himself to himself. The twenty-five-year-old sees no point in getting to know the man beside him, who occasionally nods off against his shoulder; Lale doesn’t push him away. He is just one among countless young men stuffed into wagons designed to transport livestock. Having been given no idea where they were headed, Lale dressed in his usual attire: a pressed suit, clean white shirt, and tie. Always dress to impress.

He tries to assess the dimensions of his confinement. The wagon is less than ten feet wide. But he can’t see the end to gauge its length. He attempts to count the number of men on this journey with him. But with so many heads bobbing up and down, he eventually gives up. He doesn’t know how many wagons there are. His back and legs ache. His face itches. The stubble reminds him that he hasn’t bathed or shaved since he boarded two days ago. He is feeling less and less himself.

When the men try to engage him in conversation, he responds with words of encouragement, trying to turn their fear into hope. We stand in shit but let us not drown in it. Abusive remarks are muttered at him for his appearance and manner. Accusations of hailing from the upper class. “Now look where it’s gotten you.” He tries to shrug the words off and meet the glares with smiles. Who am I trying to kid? I’m as scared as everyone else.

A young man locks eyes with Lale and pushes through the scrum of bodies toward him. Some men shove him on his way through. It’s only your own space if you make it yours.

“How can you be so calm?” the young man says. “They had rifles. The bastards pointed rifles at us and forced us into this . . . this cattle train.”

Lale smiles at him. “Not what I was expecting, either.”

“Where do you think we’re going?”

“It doesn’t matter. Just remember, we are here to keep our families safe at home.”

“But what if—?”

“Don’t ‘what-if.’ I don’t know, you don’t know, none of us knows. Let’s just do as we’re told.”

“Should we try to take them when we stop, since we outnumber them?” The young man’s pale face is pinched with confused aggression. His balled-up hands box pathetically in front of him.

“We have fists, they have rifles—who do you think would win that