The Tattooist of Auschwitz (The Tattooist of Auschwitz #1) - Heather Morris Page 0,77
be recorded so, in his words, ‘It would never happen again.’
After that first meeting, I visited Lale two or three times a week. The story took three years to untangle. I had to earn his trust, and it took time before he was willing to embark on the deep self-scrutiny that parts of his story required. We had become friends – no, more than friends; our lives became entwined as he shed the burden of guilt he had carried for over fifty years, the fear that he and Gita might be seen as collaborators of the Nazis. Part of Lale’s burden passed to me as I sat with him at his kitchen table, this dear man with his trembling hands, his quivering voice, his eyes that still moistened sixty years after experiencing these most horrifying events in human history.
He told his story piecemeal, sometimes slowly, sometimes at bullet-pace and without clear connections between the many, many episodes. But it didn’t matter. It was spellbinding to sit with him, and his two dogs, and listen to what to an uninterested ear might have sounded like the ramblings of an old man. Was it the delightful Eastern European accent? The charm of this old rascal? Was it the twisted story I was starting to make sense of? It was all of these and more.
As the teller of Lale’s story, it became important for me to identify how memory and history sometimes waltz in step and sometimes strain to part, to present not a lesson in history, of which there are many, but a unique lesson in humanity. Lale’s memories were, on the whole, remarkably clear and precise. They matched my research into people, dates and places. Was this a comfort? Getting to know a person for whom such terrible facts had been a lived reality made them all the more horrific. There was no parting of memory and history for this beautiful old man – they waltzed perfectly in step.
The Tattooist of Auschwitz is a story of two ordinary people, living in an extraordinary time, deprived not only of their freedom but their dignity, their names, and their identities, and it is Lale’s account of what they needed to do to survive. Lale lived his life by the motto: ‘If you wake up in the morning, it is a good day.’ On the morning of his funeral I woke knowing it was not a good day for me, but that it would have been for him. He was now with Gita.
Afterword
Gary Sokolov
When I was asked to write an afterword for the book, it was a very daunting request. Memories at so many different levels kept flooding my mind and I was unable to get started.
Do I talk about food, which was a primary focus for both my parents but especially my mother who took pride in a fridge filled with chicken schnitzels, cold cuts and myriad cakes and fruit? I remember her devastation when in Year 11 I went on a major diet. On Friday night she served me my traditional three schnitzels and I’ll never forget the look on her face when I placed two of them back in the tray. ‘What’s wrong? Is my cooking no good anymore?’ she asked. It was very hard for her to register that I could no longer eat the quantity I used to. To compensate for this, when my friend came over he said hello to me and went straight to the fridge. This made her very happy. Our home was always inviting and accepting of everyone.
Both Mum and Dad were very supportive of any and all hobbies and activities that I wanted to try, and keen to introduce me to everything – skiing, travel, horse riding, parasailing and more. They felt they were robbed of their own youth and did not want me to miss out on anything.
Growing up, it was a very loving family life. The devotion my parents had to each other was total and uncompromising. When many in their circle of friends started getting divorced, I went to my mother and asked her how she and my father had managed to stay together for so many years. Her response was very simple: ‘Nobody is perfect. Your father has always taken care of me since the first day we met in Birkenau. I know he is not perfect, but I also know he will always put me first.’ The house was always full of love and affection, especially for me,