The Tattooist of Auschwitz (The Tattooist of Auschwitz #1) - Heather Morris Page 0,47

Victor is sick and not at work today. Lale says he is sorry to hear that and walks off.

‘Can I do something for you?’ Yuri asks.

Lale turns back. ‘I don’t know. I have a special request.’

Yuri raises an eyebrow. ‘I might be able to help.’

‘Nylon stockings. You know, the things girls wear on their legs.’

‘I’m not a kid, Lale. I know what nylons are.’

‘Could you get me a pair?’ Lale reveals two diamonds in his hand.

Yuri takes them. ‘Give me two days. I think I can help you.’

‘Thanks, Yuri. Send my best to your father. I hope he’s feeling better soon.’

•

Lale is crossing the compound to the women’s camp when he hears the sound of an aircraft. He looks up as a small plane flies low over the compound and begins to circle back. So low that Lale can identify the symbol of the United States Air Force.

A prisoner shouts out, ‘It’s the Americans! The Americans are here!’

Everyone looks up. A few people start jumping up and down, waving their arms in the air. Lale looks over at the towers surrounding the compound and notices the guards on full alert, training their rifles down into the compound where the men and women are making a commotion. Some of them are simply waving to get the attention of the pilot, many others are pointing towards the crematoria and screaming, ‘Drop the bombs. Drop the bombs!’ Lale considers joining in as the plane flies over a second time and circles for a third pass. Several prisoners run towards the crematoria, pointing, desperate to get their message across. ‘Drop the bombs. Drop the bombs!’

On its third pass over Birkenau the plane gains height and flies off. The prisoners continue to shout. Many drop to their knees, devastated that their cries have been ignored. Lale begins to back up against a nearby building. Only just in time. Bullets rain down from the towers onto those in the compound, hitting dozens of people too slow to move to safety.

Faced with the trigger-happy guards, Lale decides against organising to see Gita. Instead, he goes back to his block, where he is greeted by wailing and crying. The women cradle young boys and girls who have suffered bullet wounds.

‘They saw the plane and joined the other prisoners running around in the compound,’ says one of the men.

‘What can I do to help?’

‘Take the other children inside. They don’t need to see this.’

‘Sure.’

‘Thanks, Lale. I’ll send the old women in to help you. I don’t know what to do with the bodies. I can’t leave them here.’

‘The SS will be around to pick up the dead, I’m sure.’ It sounds so callous, matter of fact. Tears burn behind Lale’s eyes. He shuffles on the spot. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘What are they going to do with us?’ the man says.

‘I don’t know what fate lies in store for any of us.’

‘To die here?’

‘Not if I can help it, but I don’t know.’

Lale sets about gathering the young boys and girls to shepherd them indoors. Some cry, some are too shocked to cry. Several of the older women join him. They take the surviving children to the far end of the block and start telling them stories, but this time they don’t work. The children cannot be comforted. Most of them remain in a silent state of trauma.

Lale goes to his room and returns with chocolate, which he and Nadya break up and offer around. Some of the children take it, others look at it as if it too will harm them. There is nothing more he can do. Nadya takes him by the hand, raising him to his feet.

‘Thank you. You have done all you can.’ She brushes his cheek with the back of her hand. ‘Leave us now.’

‘I’ll go and help the men,’ Lale responds in a faltering voice.

He staggers off outside. There, he helps the men gather the small bodies into a pile for the SS to take away. He notices they are already picking up the bodies that lie in the compound. Several mothers refuse to hand over their precious children and it is heartbreaking to Lale, to see small lifeless forms being wrenched from their mothers’ arms.

‘Yisgadal veyiskadash shmei rabbah – May his name be magnified and made holy …’ Lale recites the Kaddish in a whisper. He doesn’t know how or with what words the Romani honour their dead, but feels a reflex to respond to these deaths in a way he has always known.