The Violinist of Auschwitz - Ellie Midwood Page 0,1
Eyeing her retreating back with suspicion, Alma followed the head nurse into the dimly lit corridor, where she was standing by the door to the post-op ward, holding it open for Alma. When Alma approached apprehensively, she made a mocking gesture with her hand—After you, Your Highness.
In the ward, the air was even fouler. Hellinger stopped at the first bunk, on which a woman lay with a face so ghostly white and beaded with sweat, it resembled a posthumous mask of melting wax.
With a chilling casualness, Hellinger yanked the hem of the woman’s robe upward. Alma felt her stomach contracting in revulsion; yet, she applied all her powers to prevent the emotion from showing on her face. Black crust covered the raw, red skin where the blisters had burst on the woman’s abdomen. Just above her pubic bone, a long, crudely sewn cut rose in ugly bumps, emanating a sickening stench.
“Bloodless sterilization,” Hellinger explained in a dispassionate voice of a college professor. “An extreme dose of radiation applied to the ovaries, followed by their surgical removal to see if the procedure was successful. The X-rays are so powerful, they cause extreme burns. The surgery itself is performed mostly without anesthetics. As you can see, this case is badly infected; not that Dr. Clauberg is concerned about it. They’re trying to calculate the optimal dose that won’t cause such burns, but so far, this is what we’re ending up with.” She covered the woman’s abdomen and gave Alma a pointed look.
For a long time, Alma stood motionless. “Is there a system to it?” she asked at last, finding her voice again. “Their method of selection of inmates, that is.”
“They’re Germans.” Hellinger smiled for the first time. Though, to Alma, it appeared to be a grimace. “Everything’s in perfect numerical order. So far, they’ve completed it on numbers 50204 to 50252.”
Alma looked at her left forearm, where her own number, 50381, was tattooed in pale-blue ink.
Hellinger looked at it also. Her features softened a little.
Alma glanced up sharply. Determination was back in her black eyes. “Could I ask you for a favor, perhaps?”
Hellinger gave a one-shoulder shrug.
“Is it possible to get a violin here?”
“A violin?”
Apparently, asking for a musical instrument in Auschwitz was just as unheard-of as talking back to one’s superior.
“Are you a violinist or some such?”
“Some such. I haven’t played in eight months. I understand that I don’t have much time. I should very much like to play one last time, if it’s at all possible. If such matter as the condemned person’s last wish is still respected in this place.”
Hellinger promised to see what she could do. She stole a glance at Alma’s pale hand, as if considering taking it into hers for an instant, but changed her mind at the last moment and left the ward abruptly. Giving hope to the condemned was simply cruel.
Alma remained standing before that unmoving ghost of a woman and envied the ones who were gassed upon arrival.
Same endless days. Same block routine that drove one to distraction. Muddy water for breakfast—the Germans called it coffee. Dr. Clauberg making his rounds—“Open your mouth, show me your teeth.” A French woman praying in Latin in the corner, rocking back and forth with her hands clasped so tightly, her knuckles turned white.
More muddy water for lunch—the Germans called it soup. The fortunate ones discovered a piece of a rotten turnip in theirs. Sylvia Friedmann, a Jewish prisoner-nurse and Dr. Clauberg’s first assistant, reading out the numbers from her list. The woman in the corner rocking faster; thrashing and howling as the two orderlies dragged her out of the ward and along the corridor. Stifling, oppressive silence.
Hellinger collecting the bedsheets and nightgowns for disinfection. Naked, shorn women standing to attention—Dr. Clauberg again, squeezing at their breasts this time. Someone must have reported a pregnant woman. Dr. Clauberg, grinning like a vulture, rubbing his fingers in front of the woman’s face—“Milk!” She went quietly, no orderlies this time.
Dinner time. A piece of sawdust bread and a smear of margarine on their palms, licked apathetically by the women. A Belgian girl on the neighboring bunk, her head covered with the blanket, crying for her mother softly—suppressed, pitiful whimpers into the wool, as though so as not to disturb anyone with her grief.
Night. Tears, tears from every bunk around her, hushed prayers, names of the loved ones repeated for hours on end—in endless Kaddish she could no longer bear to hear.
Stillness at last. Silver moonlight spilling from the shuttered