The Tattooist of Auschwitz (The Tattooist of Auschwitz #1) - Heather Morris Page 0,69
He is going to be your guard. He will shoot you if you try to escape.’
Lale looks at the man. His arm muscles bulge against his shirtsleeves and his chest threatens to pop the buttons that hold it in. His thin lips neither smile nor grimace. Lale’s nod of greeting isn’t returned.
‘He will not only guard you here but will take you to the village each day to make our purchases. Do you understand?’
‘What am I buying?’
‘Well, it’s not wine; we have a cellar full of that. Food, the chefs will buy. They know what they want …’
‘So that leaves …’
‘Entertainment.’
Lale keeps his face neutral.
‘You will go into the village each morning to find lovely young ladies interested in spending some time here with us in the evening. Understand?’
‘I’m to be your pimp?’
‘You understand perfectly.’
‘How am I to persuade them? Tell them you are all good-looking fellows who will treat them well?’
‘We will give you things to entice them.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘Come with me.’
The three men walk back downstairs to another sumptuous room, where an officer opens a large vault set into a wall. The minder enters the vault and brings out two metal tins, which he places on the desk. In one there is currency, in the other, jewellery. Lale can see many other similar tins shelved in the vault.
‘Fredrich will bring you here each morning and you will take both money and jewellery for the girls. We need eight to ten each night. Just show them the payment and if need be, give them a small amount of money in advance. Tell them they will be paid in full when they arrive at the chalet, and when the evening is over they will be returned to their homes safe and well.’
Lale attempts to reach into the jewellery tin, which is promptly slammed shut.
‘Have you struck a rate with them already?’ he asks.
‘I’ll leave that to you to figure out. Just get the best deal you can. Understand?’
‘Sure, you’d like prime beef for the price of sausage.’ Lale knows the right thing to say.
The officer laughs. ‘Go with Fredrich; he’ll show you around. You can take your meals in the kitchen or your room – let the chefs know.’
Fredrich takes Lale downstairs and introduces him to two of the chefs. He tells them he would prefer to eat in his room. Fredrich tells Lale that he must not go above the first floor and, even there, he is to enter no room but his own. He gets the message loud and clear.
A few hours later Lale is brought a meal of lamb in thick, creamy sauce. The carrots are cooked al dente and drip with butter. The whole dish is garnished with salt, pepper and fresh parsley. He had wondered if he might have lost the ability to appreciate rich flavours. He hasn’t. What he has lost, however, is the ability to enjoy the food before him. How can he, when Gita is not there to share it with him? When he has no idea whether she has anything to eat at all? When he has no idea … but he suppresses that thought. He is here now, and he must do what he has to do before he can find her. He only eats half of what’s on his plate. Always save some; that is how he has lived these past years. Along with the food, Lale drinks most of a bottle of wine. It takes some effort to undress himself before he flops onto his bed and enters the sleep of the intoxicated.
He is woken the next morning by the clang of a breakfast tray being placed on the table. He can’t remember if he locked his room or not. Perhaps the chef has a key anyway. The evening’s empty tray and bottle are taken away. All without a word.
After breakfast he takes a quick shower. He is slipping on his shoes when Fredrich walks in. ‘Ready?’
Lale nods. ‘Let’s go.’
First stop, the study with the vault. Fredrich and another officer look on as Lale selects a quantity of cash, which is counted and noted in a ledger, then a combination of small items of jewellery and a few loose gems, also noted.
‘I’m taking more than I probably need because it’s my first time and I have no idea what the going rate is, OK?’ he says to both men.
They shrug.
‘Just make sure you return anything you don’t give away,’ the accountant officer says.