The Tattooist of Auschwitz (The Tattooist of Auschwitz #1) - Heather Morris Page 0,51
tell me a name. I want as little innocent blood on my hands as possible,’ Jakub explains.
‘Oh, Jakub. I never imagined this would be the work they found for you. I’m so sorry.’
‘If I must kill one Jew to save ten others, then I will.’
Lale reaches his hand up to the large man’s shoulder. ‘Do what you have to.’
‘Speak only in Yiddish,’ says Jakub, turning away. ‘I don’t think the SS here know you or that you speak German.’
‘OK, Yiddish it is.’
‘I’ll be here again later.’
Back in darkness, Lale ponders his fate. He resolves to speak no names. It is now a matter of who kills him: a bored SS officer whose supper is getting cold, or Jakub, carrying out a just killing to save others. A sense of calm comes over him as he resigns himself to death.
Will someone tell Gita what happened to him, he wonders, or will she spend the rest of her life never knowing?
Lale falls into a deep, exhausted sleep.
•
‘Where is he?’ his father roars, storming into the house.
Once again Lale has not turned up to work. His father is late home for supper because he had to do Lale’s work for him. Lale runs and tries to hide behind his mother, pulling her away from the bench where she stands, putting a barrier between himself and his father. She reaches back and grabs hold of whatever part of Lale or his clothing she can, protecting him from what would otherwise be a cuff over the head at the least. His father doesn’t force her away or make any further attempt to reach Lale.
‘I’ll deal with him,’ his mother says. ‘After dinner I’ll punish him. Now sit down.’
Lale’s brother and sister roll their eyes. They’ve seen and heard it all before.
Later that evening, Lale promises his mother he will try to be more helpful to his father. But it is so hard to help his father out. Lale fears he will end up like him, old before his time, too tired to pay his wife a simple compliment about her looks or the food she spends all day preparing for him. That is not who Lale wants to be.
‘I’m your favourite, aren’t I, Mumma?’ Lale would ask. If the two of them were alone in the house, his mother would hug him tightly. ‘Yes, my darling, you are.’ If his brother or sister were present, ‘You are all my favourites.’ Lale never heard his brother or sister ask this question, but they might have in his absence. When he was a young boy, he would often announce to his family that he was going to marry his mother when he grew up. His father would pretend not to hear. His siblings would goad Lale into a fight, pointing out that their mother was already married. After breaking up their fights his mother would take him aside and explain to him that he would find someone else one day to love and care for. He never wanted to believe her.
As he became a young man he would run home to his mother each day for the hugged greeting, the feel of her comforting body, her soft skin, the kisses she planted on his forehead.
‘What can I do to help you?’ he would say.
‘You’re such a good boy. You will make someone a wonderful husband one day.’
‘Tell me what to do to be a good husband. I don’t want to be like Papa. He doesn’t make you smile. He doesn’t help you.’
‘Your papa works very hard to earn money for us to live.’
‘I know, but can’t he do both? Earn money and make you smile?’
‘You have a lot to learn before you grow up, young man.’
‘Then teach me. I want the girl I marry to like me, to be happy with me.’
Lale’s mother sat down, and he took a seat across from her. ‘You must first learn to listen to her. Even if you are tired, never be too tired to listen to what she has to say. Learn what she likes, and more importantly what she doesn’t like. When you can, give her little treats – flowers, chocolates – women like these things.’
‘When was the last time Papa brought you a treat?’
‘It doesn’t matter. You want to know what girls want, not what I get.’
‘When I’ve got money, I’ll bring you flowers and chocolates, I promise.’
‘You should save your money for the girl who captures your heart.’