The Tattooist of Auschwitz (The Tattooist of Auschwitz #1) - Heather Morris Page 0,73

takes the gems. ‘The end carriage, no one will bother you there. It’s not leaving until six in the morning though.’

Lale glances at the clock inside the station. Eight hours away.

‘I can wait. How long is the journey?’

‘About an hour and a half.’

‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’

As Lale is heading for the end carriage he is stopped by a call from the stationmaster, who catches up to him and hands him food and a thermos.

‘It’s just a sandwich the wife made, but the coffee’s hot and strong.’

Taking the food and coffee, Lale’s shoulders sag and he can’t hold back the tears. He looks up to see the stationmaster also has tears in his eyes as he turns away, heading back to his office.

‘Thank you.’ He can barely get the words out.

•

Day breaks as they reach the border with Slovakia. An official approaches Lale and asks for his papers. Lale rolls up his sleeve to show his only form of identification: 32407.

‘I am Slovakian,’ he says.

‘Welcome home.’

Chapter 28

Bratislava. Lale steps off the train into the city where he has lived and been happy, where his life should have been playing out for the last three years. He wanders through districts he used to know so well. Many are now barely recognisable, due to bombing. There is nothing here for him. He has to find a way back to Krompachy, some two hundred and fifty miles away: it will be a long trip home. It takes him four days of walking, interspersed with occasional rides in horse-drawn carriages, a ride bareback on a horse and one on a tractor-drawn cart. He pays, when he needs to, the only way he can: a diamond here, an emerald there. Eventually he walks down the street he grew up in and stands across from his family home. The palings of the front fence are gone, leaving just the twisted posts. The flowers, once his mother’s pride and joy, are strangled by weeds and overgrown grass. Rough timber is nailed over a broken window.

An elderly woman comes out of the house opposite and stomps over to him.

‘What do you think you’re doing? Away with you!’ she screams, brandishing a wooden spoon.

‘I’m sorry. It’s just … I used to live here.’

The old lady peers at him, recognition dawning. ‘Lale? Is that you?’

‘Yes. Oh, Mrs Molnar, is that you? You … You look …’

‘Old. I know. Oh my Lord, Lale, is it really you?’

They embrace. In choking voices they ask each other how they are, without either letting the other answer properly. Finally, his neighbour pulls away from him.

‘What are you doing standing out here? Go on in, go home.’

‘Is anyone living there?’

‘Your sister of course. Oh my – she doesn’t know you’re alive?’

‘My sister! Goldie is alive?’

Lale runs across the street and knocks loudly on the door. When no one answers immediately, he knocks again. From inside he hears, ‘I’m coming, I’m coming.’

Goldie opens the door. At the sight of her brother she faints. Mrs Molnar follows him inside as he picks his sister up and lays her on a sofa. Mrs Molnar brings a glass of water. Cradling Goldie’s head lovingly in his arms, Lale waits for her to open her eyes. When she comes to, he offers her the water. She sobs, spilling most of it. Mrs Molnar lets herself quietly out as Lale rocks his sister, letting his own tears flow too. It is quite some time before he can speak and ask the questions he so desperately wants answers to.

The news is bleak. His parents were taken away only days after he left. Goldie has no idea where they went, or if they are still alive. Max went off to join the partisans and was killed fighting the Germans. Max’s wife and their two small boys were taken, again she does not know where to. The only positive news Goldie has to offer is her own. She fell in love with a Russian and they are married. Her name is now Sokolov. Her husband is away on business and is due back in a few days.

Lale follows her into the kitchen, not wanting to let her out of his sight, as she prepares a meal for them. After they have eaten, they talk late into the night. As much as Goldie pushes Lale for information about where he has been for the past three years, he will only say he has been in a work camp in Poland and that he