The Tattooist of Auschwitz (The Tattooist of Auschwitz #1) - Heather Morris Page 0,21

reaches out as if to take her hand, before withdrawing it. ‘I don’t want to upset you, but will you promise me one thing?’

‘What?’

‘Before we leave here, you will tell me who you are and where you come from.’

She looks him in the eyes, ‘Yes, I promise.’

‘I’m happy with that for now. So, they’ve got you working in the Canada?’

Gita nods.

‘Is it OK there?’

‘It’s OK. But the Germans just throw all the prisoners’ possessions in together. Rotten food mixed with clothing. And the mould – I hate touching it and it stinks.’

‘I’m glad you’re not outside. I’ve spoken to some men who know girls from their village who also work in the Canada. They tell me they often find jewels and money.’

‘I’ve heard that. I just seem to find mouldy bread.’

‘You will be careful, won’t you? Don’t do anything silly, and always keep your eye on the SS.’

‘I’ve learned that lesson well, trust me.’

A siren sounds.

‘You’d better get back to your block,’ says Lale. ‘Next time I’ll bring some food for you.’

‘You have food?’

‘I can get extra. I’ll get it to you, and I’ll see you next Sunday.’

Lale stands and holds his hand out to Gita. She takes it. He pulls her to her feet, holds her hand a moment longer than he should. He can’t take his eyes off her.

‘We should go.’ She breaks eye contact, but maintains her spell over him with a smile that makes his knees go weak.

Chapter 6

Weeks have gone by; the trees surrounding the camp have dropped their leaves, the days have become shorter as winter advances.

Who are these people? Lale has been asking himself this question ever since he arrived in the camp. These groups of men who work on the construction sites who appear every day dressed in civilian clothing, never to be seen after tools down. With a spring in his step from his time with Gita, Lale feels sure he can talk to a couple of the men without the SS getting worked up and taking a shot at him. And he has his bag-shaped shield.

Lale strolls casually towards one of the new brick buildings under construction. These don’t seem to be blocks to house prisoners, but their use is of no concern to Lale today. He approaches two men, one older than the other, busily engaged in bricklaying, and squats down beside a pile of bricks awaiting placement. The two men watch him with interest, slowing their work rate. Lale picks up a brick and pretends to study it.

‘I don’t get it,’ he speaks quietly.

‘What don’t you get?’ the older man asks.

‘I’m a Jew. They’ve branded me with a yellow star. Around me I see political prisoners, murderers and lazy men who won’t work. And then you – you wear no brand.’

‘That’s none of your business, Jew boy,’ says the younger man, himself no more than a boy.

‘Just being friendly. You know how it is – checking out my surrounds and I became curious about you and your friends. My name is Lale.’

‘Get lost!’ the young one says.

‘Settle down, boy. Don’t mind him,’ the older man says to Lale, his voice rough from too many cigarettes. ‘My name’s Victor. The mouth here is my son Yuri.’ Victor extends his hand, which Lale shakes. Lale then offers his hand to Yuri, but he doesn’t take it.

‘We live nearby,’ Victor explains, ‘so we come here to work each day.’

‘I just want to get this straight. You come here each day voluntarily? I mean, you’re paid to be here?’

Yuri pipes up. ‘That’s right Jew boy, we get paid and go home every night. You lot –’

‘I said shut it, Yuri. Can’t you see the man’s just being friendly?’

‘Thanks, Victor. I’m not here to cause trouble. Like I said, just checking things out.’

‘What’s the bag for?’ snaps Yuri, smarting at having been reprimanded in front of Lale.

‘My tools. My tools for tattooing the numbers on the prisoners. I’m the Tätowierer.’

‘Busy job,’ quips Victor.

‘Some days. I never know when transports are coming or how big.’

‘I hear there’s worse to come.’

‘Are you prepared to tell me?’

‘This building. I’ve seen the plans. You’re not going to like what it is.’

‘Surely it can’t be any worse than what goes on here already.’ Lale now stands, bracing himself on the pile of bricks.

‘It’s called Crematorium One,’ Victor says quietly, and looks away.

‘Crematorium. One. With the possibility of a number two?’

‘Sorry. I said you wouldn’t like it.’

Lale punches the last brick laid, sending it flying, and shakes his