The Tattooist of Auschwitz (The Tattooist of Auschwitz #1) - Heather Morris Page 0,45
room, Lale sweeps Mendel’s two friends off the bed, takes out his bag and sits down beside him.
‘Give me your arm.’
As the boys look on, Lale sets about changing the number into a snake. The job isn’t perfect, but good enough to conceal the numbers.
‘Why are you doing this?’ one of the boys asks.
‘Where Mendel is going, no one is numbered. It wouldn’t take long for his number to be seen and then he would be right back here, to keep his appointment with the hangman.’
He finishes the job and turns to the two boys looking on.
‘You two get back to your block now, and go carefully. I’m only good for one rescue per night,’ he says. ‘Your friend won’t be here tomorrow. He’s going out on a transport at midnight. I don’t know where he’s going, but wherever it is he will have at least a chance of staying alive. Do you understand?’
The three boys hug and make promises to catch up on the other side of this nightmare. When the friends have gone, Lale sits back down beside Mendel.
‘You’ll stay here until it’s time to go. I’ll take you to the transport and then you’re on your own.’
‘I don’t know how to thank you.’
‘If you manage to escape again, don’t get caught. That will be thanks enough for me.’
A short while later Lale hears the telltale sounds of movement in the compound.
‘Come on, time to go.’
Sneaking out, they edge along the walls of the building until they can see two trucks loading men.
‘Move quickly and try to get in the middle of one of the lines. Push your way in and give them your name when asked.’
Mendel hurries off and manages to get in a line. He wraps his arms around himself to ward off the cold, and to protect the snake he now bears. Lale watches as the guard finds his name and ushers him on board. As the engine starts up and the truck moves off, Lale slinks back to his room.
Chapter 17
The months that follow are particularly harsh. Prisoners die in all manner of ways. Many are taken by disease, malnutrition and exposure to the cold. A few make it to an electrified fence, killing themselves. Others are shot by a tower guard before they can. The gas chambers and crematoria are also working overtime, and Lale and Leon’s tattooing stations teem with people as tens of thousands are transported to Auschwitz and Birkenau.
Lale and Gita see each other on Sundays when possible. On those days they mingle among other bodies, sneaking touches. Occasionally they can steal time together alone in Gita’s block. This keeps them committed to staying alive and, in Lale’s case, planning a shared future. Gita’s kapo is getting fat from the food Lale brings her. On occasion, when Lale is prevented from seeing Gita for an extended period, she asks outright, ‘When’s your boyfriend coming next?’
On one Sunday, Gita finally, after repeated requests, tells Lale what is going on with Cilka. ‘Cilka is the plaything of Schwarzhuber.’
‘Oh God. For how long has it been going on?’
‘I don’t know exactly. A year, maybe more.’
‘He’s nothing more than a drunken, sadistic bastard,’ Lale says, clenching his fists. ‘I can only imagine how he treats her.’
‘Don’t say that! I don’t want to think about it.’
‘What does she tell you about their time together?’
‘Nothing. We don’t ask. I don’t know how to help her.’
‘He’ll kill her himself if she rejects him in any way. I suspect Cilka’s already worked that out, otherwise she would have been dead long ago. Getting pregnant is the biggest worry.’
‘It’s all right, no one is going to get pregnant. You have to be, you know, having your monthly cycle for that to happen. Didn’t you know that?’
An embarrassed Lale says, ‘Well, yes, I knew that. It’s just that, it’s not something we’ve talked about. I guess I didn’t think.’
‘Neither you nor that sadistic bastard need to worry about Cilka or me having a baby. OK?’
‘Don’t compare me to him. Tell her I think she’s a hero and I’m proud to say I know her.’
‘What do you mean, hero? She’s not a hero,’ Gita says, with some annoyance. ‘She just wants to live.’
‘And that makes her a hero. You’re a hero too, my darling. That the two of you have chosen to survive is a type of resistance to these Nazi bastards. Choosing to live is an act of defiance, a form of heroism.’