The Tattooist of Auschwitz (The Tattooist of Auschwitz #1) - Heather Morris Page 0,7

‘I got a piece of potato, what about you?’

‘Best meal I’ve had in ages.’

‘Are you always so upbeat?’

‘Ask me again at the end of the day,’ Lale says with a wink. Returning his empty cup to the prisoner who handed it to him, Lale thanks him with a quick nod and half a smile.

The kapo shouts, ‘When you lazy bastards have finished your dining, get back into line! You have work to do!’

Lale passes on the instruction.

‘You’ll follow me,’ the kapo shouts, ‘and you’ll follow the instructions of the foreman. Any slacking off, I’ll know about it.’

•

Lale and the others find themselves in front of a partially erected building, a replica of their own block. Other prisoners are already there: carpenters and bricklayers all quietly labouring in the established rhythm of people used to working together.

‘You. Yes, you. Get up on the roof. You can work up there.’

The command is directed at Lale. Looking around, he spies a ladder going up to the roof. Two prisoners squat there, waiting to receive the tiles which are being shuttled up to them. The two men move aside as Lale clambers up. The roof consists only of wooden beams for supporting the tiles.

‘Be careful,’ one of the workmen warns him. ‘Move further up the roofline and watch us. It’s not difficult – you’ll soon get the hang of it.’ The man is Russian.

‘My name’s Lale.’

‘Introductions later, OK?’ The two men exchange a look. ‘You understand me?’

‘Yes,’ Lale replies in Russian. The men smile.

Lale watches as they receive the heavy clay tiles from the pair of hands poking over the lip of the roof, crawl to where the last tiles were laid and carefully overlap them, before moving back to the ladder for the next one. The Russian had been correct – it’s not difficult work – and it isn’t long before Lale joins them in accepting and laying the tiles. On the warm spring day only the hunger pains and cramps prevent him from matching the more experienced workers.

A few hours pass before they are permitted to take a break. Lale heads for the ladder but the Russian stops him.

‘It’s safer to stay up here and rest. You can’t be seen well this high up.’

Lale follows the men, who clearly know the best place to sit and stretch out: the corner where stronger timber was used to reinforce the roof.

‘How long have you been here?’ Lale asks as soon as they settle down.

‘About two months, I think. Hard to tell after a while.’

‘Where did you come from? I mean, how did you end up here? Are you Jewish?’

‘One question at a time.’ The Russian chuckles and the younger, larger worker rolls his eyes at the ignorance of the newcomer, yet to learn his place in the camp.

‘We’re not Jewish, we are Russian soldiers. We got separated from our unit and the fucking Germans caught us and put us to work. What about you? A Jew?’

‘Yes. I’m part of a large group brought in yesterday from Slovakia – all Jews.’

The Russians exchange a glance. The older man turns away, closing his eyes, raising his face to the sun, leaving it to his companion to continue the conversation.

‘Look around. You can see from up here how many blocks are being built and how much land they have to keep clearing.’

Lale pushes himself onto his elbows and observes the vast area contained within the electrified fence. Blocks like the one he is helping construct stretch out into the distance. He experiences a jolt of horror at what this place might become. He wrestles with what to say next, not wanting to give voice to his distress. He settles back down, turning his head away from his companions, desperate to bring his emotions under control. He must trust no one, reveal little about himself, be cautious …

The man watches him closely. He says, ‘I’ve heard the SS boasting that this is going to be the biggest concentration camp of all.’

‘Is that right?’ says Lale, forcing his voice above a whisper. ‘Well, if we’re going to build it together, you might as well tell me your name.’

‘Andor,’ he says. ‘And this big oaf with me is Boris. He doesn’t say much.’

‘Talking can get you killed here,’ Boris mutters as he stretches his hand out to Lale.

‘What else can you tell me about the people here?’ says Lale. ‘And who the hell are these kapos?’

‘You tell him,’ says Boris, yawning.

‘Well, there are other Russian soldiers like us, but not