The Tattooist of Auschwitz (The Tattooist of Auschwitz #1) - Heather Morris Page 0,12

women’s department where he works. That’s when he flirts with the young and not so young women who work behind the counter.

Lale hears the main doors to the department store open. He looks up and a woman hurries inside. Behind her, two Slovakian soldiers stand in the doorway and don’t follow her in. He hurries over to her with a reassuring smile. ‘You’re OK,’ he says. ‘You’re safe here with me.’ She accepts his hand and he leads her towards a counter full of extravagant bottles of perfume. Looking at several, he settles on one and holds it towards her. She turns her neck in a playful manner. Lale softly sprays first one side of her neck and then the other. Their eyes meet as her head turns. Both wrists are held out, and each receives their reward. She brings one wrist to her nose, closes her eyes and sniffs lightly. The same wrist is offered to Lale. Gently holding her hand, he brings it close to his face as he bends and inhales the intoxicating mix of perfume and youth.

‘Yes. That’s the one for you,’ Lale says.

‘I’ll take it.’

Lale hands the bottle over to the waiting shop assistant, who begins to wrap it.

‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’ he says.

Faces flash before him, smiling young women dance around him, happy, living life to the fullest. Lale holds the arm of the young lady he met in the women’s department. His dream seems to rush ahead. Lale and the lady walk into an exquisite restaurant, dimly lit by minimal wall sconces. A flickering candle on each table holds down heavy Jacquard tablecloths. Expensive jewellery projects colours onto the walls. The noise of silver cutlery on fine china is softened by the dulcet sounds of the string quartet silhouetted in one corner. The concierge greets him warmly as he takes the coat from Lale’s companion and steers them towards a table. As they sit, the maître d’ shows Lale a bottle of wine. Without taking his eyes from his companion, he nods and the bottle is uncorked and poured. Both Lale and the lady feel for their glass. Their eyes still locked, they raise their hands and sip. Lale’s dream jumps forward again. He is close to waking up. No. Now he is rifling through his wardrobe, selecting a suit, a shirt, considering and rejecting ties until he finds the right one and attaches it perfectly. He slides polished shoes onto his feet. From the bedside table he pockets his keys and wallet before bending down and pushing a wayward strand of hair from the face of his sleeping companion, and lightly kissing her on the forehead. She stirs and smiles. In a husky voice she says, ‘Tonight …’

•

Gunshots outside catapult Lale into wakefulness. He is jostled by his bunkmates as they look for the threat. With the memory of her warm body still lingering, Lale rises slowly and is the last to line up for rollcall. He is nudged by the prisoner beside him when he fails to respond to his number being called.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing … Everything. This place.’

‘It’s the same as it was yesterday. And it will be the same tomorrow. You taught me that. What’s changed for you?’

‘You’re right – same, same. It’s just that, well, I had a dream about a girl I once knew, in another lifetime.’

‘What was her name?’

‘I can’t remember. It doesn’t matter.’

‘You weren’t in love with her then?’

‘I loved them all, but somehow none of them ever captured my heart. Does that make sense?’

‘Not really. I’d settle for one girl to love and spend the rest of my life with.’

•

It has been raining for days, but this morning the sun threatens to shine a little light on the bleak Birkenau compound as Lale and Pepan prepare their work area. They have two tables, bottles of ink, plenty of needles.

‘Get ready, Lale, here they come.’

Lale looks up and is stunned at the sight of dozens of young women being escorted their way. He knew there were girls in Auschwitz but not here, not in Birkenau, this hell of hells.

‘Something a bit different today, Lale – they’ve moved some girls from Auschwitz to here and some of them need their numbers redone.’

‘What?’

‘Their numbers, they were made with a stamp that was inefficient. We need to do them properly. No time to admire them, Lale – just do your job.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Do your job, Lale. Don’t say a word to any of them. Don’t