The Tattooist of Auschwitz

  “I get to answer to my name?”

  “Yes—don’t forget. Good luck.”

  “Before you go, I’d like to give you something.”

  The guard looks perplexed.

  From his mouth Lale takes a diamond, wipes it on his shirt, and hands it to him. “Now you can’t say you never got anything from a Jew.”

  * * *

  VIENNA. WHO WOULDN’T WANT TO VISIT VIENNA? IT WAS A dream destination for Lale in his playboy days. The very word sounds romantic, full of style and possibility. But he doesn’t doubt that it will now fail to live up to this perception.

  The guards are indifferent to Lale and the others when they arrive. They find a block and are told where and when to get their meals. Lale’s thoughts are dominated by Gita and by how he can get to her. Being shunted from camp to camp to camp—he cannot bear it much longer.

  For several days, he observes his surroundings. He sees the camp commandant doddering about and wonders how he is still breathing. He chats to amenable guards and tries to understand the dynamic among the prisoners. Once he discovers that he is probably the only Slovak prisoner here, he decides to keep to himself. Poles, Russians, and a few Italians sit around all day talking with their countrymen, leaving Lale largely isolated.

  One day, two young men sidle up to him. “They say you were the Tätowierer at Auschwitz.”

  “Who are ‘they’?”

  “Someone said they thought they knew you there and that you tattooed the prisoners.”

  Lale grabs the young man’s hand and pulls up his sleeve. No number. He turns to the second man.

  “What about you, were you there?”

  “No, but is it true what they say?”

  “I was the Tätowierer, but so what?”

  “Nothing. Just asking.”

  The boys walk away. Lale goes back to his daydreaming. He doesn’t see the approaching SS officers until they yank him to his feet and frog-march him to a nearby building. Lale finds himself standing in front of the aging commandant, who nods to one of the SS officers. The officer pulls up Lale’s sleeve, revealing his number.

  “You were in Auschwitz?” the commandant asks.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Were you the Tätowierer there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So you are a Jew?”

  “No, sir, I am a Catholic.”

  The commandant raises a brow. “Oh? I didn’t know they had Catholics in Auschwitz.”

  “They had all religions there, sir, along with criminals and politicals.”

  “Are you a criminal?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And you’re not a Jew?”

  “No, sir. I’m Catholic.”

  “You have answered ‘no’ twice. I will ask you only once more. Are you a Jew?”

  “No, I am not. Here—let me prove it to you.” With that, Lale undoes the string holding up his trousers, and they fall to the floor. He hooks his fingers into the back of his underpants and starts to pull them down.

  “Stop. I don’t need to see. OK, you can go.”

  Pulling his trousers back up, trying to control his breathing, which threatens to give him away, Lale hurries from the office. In an outer office, he stops and slumps into a chair. The officer behind a nearby desk looks at him.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m good, just a bit dizzy. Do you know what the date is?”

  “It’s the twenty-second—no, wait, the twenty-third of April. Why?”

  “Nothing. Thanks. Goodbye.”

  Outside, Lale looks at the prisoners sitting lazily around the compound and at the guards, who look even lazier. Three years. You’ve taken three years of my life. You will not have one more day. Lale walks along the back of the blocks, shaking the fence, looking for a weak point. It doesn’t take him long to find one. The fence comes away at ground level, and he is able to pull it toward him. Not even bothering to see if anyone is watching, he crawls under and walks calmly away.

  Forest provides him with cover from any patrolling Germans. As he walks deeper in, he hears the sound of cannons and rifle fire. He doesn’t know whether to walk toward it or run the other way. During a brief cease-fire, he hears the running of a stream. To reach it he must get closer to the shooting, but he’s always had a good internal compass and that direction feels right. If it is the Russians, or even the Americans, on the other side of the stream, he will gladly surrender to them. As the daylight fades into evening, he can see the flash of gunfire and cannons in the distance. Still, it is the water he wants to get to, and hopefully a bridge and a route away. When he gets there, a river confronts him rather than a stream. He looks across and listens to the cannon fire. It must be the Russians. I’m coming your way. Lowering himself into the water, Lale is shocked at the freezing cold. He swims slowly out into the river, careful not to disturb the water too much with his strokes in case he’s seen. Pausing, he raises his head and listens. The gunfire is closer. “Shit,” he mutters. He stops swimming and lets the current carry him directly under the cross fire, just another log or dead body to be ignored. When he thinks he has safely cleared the warring armies, he swims frantically to the far bank. He hauls himself out and drags his drenched body into the trees before collapsing in shivers and passing out.

  27

  LALE WAKES TO THE FEELING OF THE SUN ON HIS FACE. HIS clothes have dried out a bit, and he can hear the sound of the river running below him. He crawls on his belly through the trees that have hidden him overnight and reaches the crest of a road. Russian soldiers are walking along it. He watches for a few moments, fearing gunfire. But the soldiers are relaxed. He decides to accelerate his plan to get home.

  Lale raises his hands and steps out onto the road, startling a group of soldiers. They raise their rifles immediately.

  “I am Slovak. I have been in a concentration camp for three years.”

  The soldiers exchange glances.

  “Fuck off,” one of them says, and they resume their march, one of them shoving Lale as he goes by. He stands for several minutes as many more soldiers walk past, ignoring him. Accepting their indifference, he carries on, receiving only an occasional glance. He decides to walk in the opposite direction from them, reasoning that the Russians are probably heading to engage with the Germans, so getting as far away as possible makes sense.

  Eventually, a jeep pulls up alongside him and stops. An officer in the back eyeballs him. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m Slovak. I have been a prisoner in Auschwitz for three years.” He pulls up his left sleeve to reveal his tattooed number.

  “Never heard of it.”

  Lale swallows. It is unimaginable to him that a place of such horror should not be known.

  “It’s in Poland. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “You speak perfect Russian,” the soldier says. “Any other languages?”

  “Czech, German, French, Hungarian, and Polish.”

  The officer eyes him more carefully. “And where do you think you’re going?”

  “Home, back to Slovakia.”

  “No, you’re not. I have just the job for you. Get in.”

  Lale wants to run, but he would have no chance, so he climbs into the passenger seat.

  “Turn around, back to headquarters,” the officer instructs the driver.

  The jeep bumps over potholes and ditches, heading back the way it has come. A few miles farther on, they pass through a small village and then turn up a dirt road toward a large chalet that sits on the top of a hill overlooking a beautiful valley. They enter a large circular driveway where several expensive-looking cars are parked. Two guards stand on either side of an imposing main doorway. The jeep skids to a stop, and the driver scrambles out and opens the door for the officer in the back.

  “Come with me,” the officer says.

  Lale scurries after him into the foyer of the chalet. He pauses, shocked by the opulence before him. A grand staircase, works of art—painting
s and tapestries on every wall—and furniture of a quality he has never seen before. Lale has stepped into a world beyond his comprehension. After what he has known, it is almost painful.

  The officer heads toward a room off the main foyer, indicating that Lale should follow. They enter a large, exquisitely furnished room. A mahogany desk dominates, as does the person sitting behind it. Judging by his uniform and accompanying insignia, he is a very senior Russian official. The man looks up as they enter.

  “Who have we here?”

  “He claims he was a prisoner of the Nazis for three years. I suspect he’s a Jew, but I don’t think that matters. What does matter is that he speaks both Russian and German,” the officer says.

  “And?”

  “I thought he could be useful to us. You know, in talking to the locals.”

  The senior officer leans back, seems to consider this. “Put him to work, then. Find someone to guard him, and shoot him if he tries to escape.” As Lale is escorted from the room, the senior officer adds, “And get him cleaned up and into some better clothes.”

  “Yes, sir. I think he will do well for us.”

  Lale follows the officer. I don’t know what they want from me, but if it means a bath and clean clothes . . . They walk across the foyer and head upstairs to the second-floor landing; Lale notes that there are two further floors. They enter a bedroom, and the Russian goes to the closet and opens it. Women’s clothing. Without a word, he leaves and enters the next bedroom. This time, men’s clothes.

  “Find something that fits you and looks good. There should be a bathroom through there.” He points. “Clean yourself up. I’ll be back in a little while.”

  He closes the door behind him. Lale looks around the room. There is a large four-poster bed draped in heavy covers, with mountains of pillows of all shapes and sizes; a chest of drawers he thinks might be solid ebony; a small table, complete with Tiffany lamp; and a lounge chair covered in exquisite embroidery. How he wishes Gita were here. He stifles the thought. He cannot afford to think of her. Not yet.

  Lale runs his hands over the suits and shirts in the closet, both casual and formal, and all the accessories needed to resurrect the Lale of old. He selects a suit and holds it up to the mirror, admiring the look: it will be close to a perfect fit. He throws it onto the bed. A white shirt soon joins it. From a drawer he selects soft underpants, crisp socks, and a smooth brown leather belt. He finds a polished pair of shoes in another cupboard, a match for the suit. He slips his bare feet into them. Perfect.

  A door leads to the bathroom. Gold fittings glisten against the white tiles that cover the walls and floor; a large stained-glass window casts pale yellow and dark-green light around the room from the late-afternoon sun. He enters the room and stands still for a long time, enjoying the anticipation. Then he runs a deep bath and lowers himself into it, luxuriating in it until the water cools. He adds more steaming water, in no hurry for his first bath in three years to end. Eventually he climbs out and dries himself with a soft towel that he finds hanging with several others on the rail. He walks back into the bedroom and dresses slowly, savoring the feel of smooth cotton, linen, and woolen socks. Nothing scratches, irritates, or hangs baggily off his shrunken frame. Clearly the owner of these clothes was slim.

  He sits for a while on the bed, waiting for his minder to return. Then he decides to explore the room some more. He pulls back large drapes to reveal French windows that lead out onto a balcony. He opens the doors with a flourish and steps outside. Wow. Where am I? An immaculate garden stretches out before him, lawn disappearing into a forest. He has a perfect view down onto the circular drive, and he watches as several cars pull up and deposit more Russian officials. He hears the door to his room opening and turns around to see his minder alongside another, lower-ranked soldier. He stays on the balcony. The two men join him and look out over the grounds.

  “Very nice, don’t you think?” Lale’s minder says.

  “You’ve done well for yourselves. Quite a find.”

  His minder laughs. “Yes, we have. This headquarters is a bit more comfortable than the one we had at the front.”

  “Are you going to tell me where I fit in?”

  “This is Friedrich. 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 also 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, jewelry. Lale can see many other similar tins shelved in the vault.

  “Friedrich will bring you here each morning, and you will take both money and jewelry 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 jewelry 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 Friedrich; he’ll show you around. You can take your meals in the kitchen or your room—let the chefs know.”

  Friedrich takes Lale downstairs and introduces him to two of the chefs. He tells them he would prefer to eat in his room. Friedrich 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 a thick, creamy sauce. The carrots are cooked al dente and drip with butter. The plate is garnished with salt, pepper, and fresh parsley. He had wondered if he might have lost the ability to appreciate rich flavors. 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. The evening’s tray and bottle are taken away. All without a word.

  After breakfast, he takes a quick shower. He is slipping on his shoes when Friedrich walks in. “Ready?”

  Lale nods. “Let’s go.”

  First stop, th
e study with the vault. Friedrich and another officer look on as Lale selects a quantity of cash, which is counted and noted in a ledger, and then a combination of small items of jewelry 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.

  Putting the money in one pocket and the jewels in another, Lale follows Friedrich to a large garage block by the chalet. Friedrich commandeers a jeep and Lale gets in, and they drive the few miles into the village Lale came through yesterday. Was it only yesterday? How can I feel so different already? During the journey, Friedrich tells him they will drive a small truck in to pick up the girls in the evening. It isn’t comfortable, but it’s the only vehicle they have that can take twelve. As they enter the village, Lale asks, “So, where should I look for likely girls?”

  “I’ll drop you at the top of the street. Go into all the shops. Workers or customers—it doesn’t matter as long as they are young and, preferably, pretty. Find their price, show them the payment—if they want something up-front, give them cash only. Tell them we will pick them up at six o’clock outside the bakery. Some have been before.”

  “How will I know if they’re already attached?”

  “They’ll say no, I’m thinking. They might also throw something at you, so be prepared to duck.” As Lale gets out, he says, “I’ll be waiting and watching. Take your time. And don’t do anything stupid.”

  Lale heads to a nearby boutique, hoping no husbands or boyfriends have gone shopping with their partners today. Everyone looks at him when he enters. He says hello in Russian, before remembering he is in Austria and switching to German.

  “Hello, ladies, how are you today?”

  The women look at each other. A few giggle before a shop attendant asks, “Can I help you? Are you looking for something for your wife?”

  “Not exactly. I want to talk to all of you.”

  “Are you Russian?” a customer asks.