The Tattooist of Auschwitz

“Faster, faster.”

  The SS bark out orders that the majority of the men cannot understand. Lale translates for those nearby, who pass the word along.

  “Leave your clothes on the bench. They will be here after you’ve had your shower.”

  Soon the men are removing trousers and shirts, jackets and shoes, folding their filthy clothes and placing them neatly on the benches.

  Lale is cheered at the prospect of water but knows he will probably not see his clothes again, nor the money inside them.

  He takes off his clothes and places them on the bench, but outrage threatens to overwhelm him. From his trouser pocket he removes a slim packet of matches, a reminder of past pleasures, and steals a glance at the nearest officer. The man is looking away. Lale strikes a match. This might be the final act of his own free will. He holds the match to the lining of his jacket, covers it with his trousers, and hurries to join the line of men at the showers. Behind him, within seconds, he hears screams of “Fire!” Lale looks back, sees naked men pushing and shoving to get away as an SS officer attempts to beat out the flames.

  He hasn’t yet reached the showers but finds himself shivering. What have I done? He’s just spent several days telling everyone around him to keep their heads down, do as they’re told, don’t antagonize anyone, and now he’s gone and lit a fire inside a building. He has little doubt what would happen if someone pointed him out as the arsonist. Stupid. Stupid.

  In the shower block, he settles himself, breathes deeply. Hundreds of shivering men stand shoulder to shoulder as cold water rains down on them. They tilt their heads back and drink it in desperately, despite its rankness. Many try to lessen their embarrassment by covering their genitals with their hands. Lale washes the sweat, grime, and stink from his body and hair. Water hisses through the pipes and hammers the floor. When it ceases, the doors to the changing room reopen, and without command they walk back to see what has replaced their clothes—old Russian army uniforms and boots.

  “Before you dress, you must visit the barber,” a smirking SS officer tells the men. “Outside—hurry.”

  Once again, the men fall into lines. They move toward the prisoner standing ready with a razor. When it is Lale’s turn, he sits on the chair with his back straight and his head held high. He watches the SS officers walk the length of the line, assaulting the naked prisoners with the ends of their weapons, offering insults and cruel laughter. Lale sits straighter and lifts his head higher as the hair on his head is reduced to stubble, not flinching when the razor nicks his scalp.

  A shove in the back by an officer indicates that he is done. He follows the line back into the changing room, where he joins the search for clothing and wooden shoes of the right size. What is there is dirty and stained, but he manages to find shoes that more or less fit and hopes the Russian clothes he grabs will do. Once dressed, he leaves the building as instructed.

  It is getting dark. He walks through the rain, one of countless men, for what seems like a long time. The thickening mud makes it difficult for him to lift his feet. But he trudges on determinedly. Some men struggle or fall to their hands and knees and are beaten until they get back up. If they do not, they are shot.

  Lale tries to separate the heavy, sodden uniform from his skin. It rubs and chafes, and the smell of wet wool and dirt brings him back to the cattle train. Lale looks to the heavens, trying to swallow as much rain as he can. The sweet taste is the best thing he’s had in days, the only thing he’s had in days, his thirst compounding his weakness, blurring his vision. He gulps it down. Cupping his hands, he slurps wildly. In the distance he sees spotlights surrounding a vast area. His semidelirious state makes them seem like beacons, sparkling, dancing in the rain, showing him the way home. Calling, Come to me. I will provide shelter, warmth, and nourishment. Keep walking. But as he walks through gates, this time bearing no message, offering no deal, no promise of freedom in exchange for toil, Lale realizes the sparkling mirage has gone. He’s in another prison.

  Beyond this yard, disappearing into the darkness, is another compound. The tops of the fences are lined with razor wire. Lale sees SS up in the lookouts pointing rifles in his direction. Lightning hits a fence nearby. They are electrified. The thunder is not loud enough to drown out the sound of a shot, another man falling.

  “We made it.”

  Lale turns to see Aron pushing his way toward him. Drenched, bedraggled. But alive.

  “Yeah, looks like we’re home. You look a sight.”

  “You haven’t seen yourself. Consider me a mirror.”

  “No thanks.”

  “What happens now?” says Aron, sounding like a child.

  * * *

  GOING WITH THE STEADY FLOW OF MEN, THEY EACH SHOW their tattooed arm to an SS officer standing outside a building, who records the number on a clipboard. After a forceful shove in the back, Lale and Aron find themselves in Block 7, a large hut with triple bunks down one wall. Dozens of men are forced into the building. They scramble and shove each other out of the way to lay claim to a space. If they are lucky or aggressive enough, they might share with only one or two others. Luck isn’t on Lale’s side. He and Aron climb up onto a top-level bunk already occupied by two other prisoners. They’ve had no food for days and there isn’t much fight left in them. As best he can, Lale curls up on the straw-filled sack that passes for a mattress. He pushes his hands against his stomach in an attempt to quell the cramps invading his guts. Several men call out to their guards, “We need food.”

  The reply comes back: “You’ll get something in the morning.”

  “We’ll all be dead from starvation by morning,” says someone in the back of the block.

  “And at peace,” a hollow voice adds.

  “These mattresses have hay in them,” someone else says. “Maybe we should continue to act like cattle and eat that.”

  Snatches of quiet laughter. No response from the officer.

  And then, from deep in the dormitory, a hesitant “Mooooooo . . .”

  Laughter. Quiet, but real. The officer, present but invisible, doesn’t interrupt, and eventually the men fall asleep, stomachs rumbling.

  * * *

  IT’S STILL DARK WHEN LALE WAKES, NEEDING TO TAKE A PISS. He scrambles over his sleeping companions, down to the floor, and feels his way to the back of the block, thinking it might be the safest place to relieve himself. Approaching, he hears voices: Slovak and German. He is relieved to see that there are facilities, albeit crude, for them to shit. Long ditches run behind the building, with planks of wood placed over them. Three prisoners are sitting across the ditch, shitting and talking quietly to each other. From the other end of the building, Lale sees two SS approaching in the semidarkness, smoking, laughing, their rifles hung loosely down their backs. The flickering perimeter floodlights make disturbing shadows of them, and Lale can’t make out what they are saying. His bladder is full, but he hesitates.

  In unison, the officers flick their cigarettes up into the air, whip their rifles around, and open fire. The bodies of the three who were taking a shit are thrown back into the ditch. Lale’s breath catches in his throat. He presses his back against the building as the officers pass him. He catches the profile of one of them—a boy, just a kid.

  As they disappear into the darkness, Lale makes a vow to himself: I will live to leave this place. I will walk out a free man. If there is a hell, I will see these murderers burn in it. He thinks of his family back in Krompachy and hopes that his presence here is at least saving them from a similar fate.

  Lale relieves himself and returns to his bunk.

  “The shots,” says Aron, “what were they?”

  “I didn’t see.”

  Aron swings his leg over Lale on his way to the ground.

  “Where are you going?”

  “A piss.”

  Lale reaches to the side of the bed, clutches Aron’s hand. “Hold on.”

  “Why?”

  “You heard the shots,” says Lale. “Just hold on until
the morning.”

  Aron says nothing as he clambers back into bed and lies down, his two fists curled against his crotch in fear and defiance.

  * * *

  HIS FATHER HAD BEEN PICKING UP A CUSTOMER FROM THE train station. Mr. Sheinberg prepared to lift himself elegantly into the carriage as Lale’s father placed his fine leather luggage on the seat opposite. Where had he traveled from? Prague? Bratislava? Vienna, perhaps? Wearing a fine woolen suit, his shoes freshly shined, he smiled and spoke briefly to Lale’s father as he climbed up front. His father encouraged the horse to move on. Like most of the other men Lale’s father ferried around with his taxi service, Mr. Sheinberg was returning home from important business. Lale wanted to be like him rather than like his father.

  Mr. Sheinberg did not have his wife with him that day. Lale loved to glimpse Mrs. Sheinberg and the other women who traveled in his father’s carriages, their small hands encased in white gloves, their elegant pearl earrings matching their necklaces. He loved the beautiful women in fine clothing and jewels who sometimes accompanied the important men. The only advantage of helping his father came from opening the carriage door for them, taking their hand as he assisted them down, inhaling their scent, dreaming of the lives they led.

  2

  OUTSIDE. EVERYONE OUTSIDE!”

  Whistles blow and dogs bark. Sunlight from a clear morning streams through the door into Block 7. The men disentangle themselves from each other, climb down from their bunks, and shuffle outside. They stand around just outside the building. No one is prepared to move too far away. They wait. And wait. Those who were shouting and blowing whistles have disappeared. The men shuffle their feet back and forth, whisper to the person nearest them. Looking over at other blocks, they see the same scene being played out. What now? Wait.

  Eventually, an SS officer and a prisoner approach Block 7, which falls silent. No introductions are made. The prisoner calls out numbers from a clipboard. The SS officer stands alongside, tapping his foot impatiently, slapping his thigh with his swagger stick. It takes a moment for the prisoners to realize that the numbers relate to the tattoos they each bear on their left arm. When the roll call is over, two numbers have received no response.

  “You”—the roll caller points to a man on the end of the row—“go back inside and see if anyone is still there.”

  The man looks at him with questioning eyes. He hasn’t understood a word. The man beside him whispers the instructions and he hurries inside. A few moments later he returns, holds up his right hand, and extends his index and middle finger: two dead.

  The SS officer steps forward. He speaks in German. The prisoners have learned, already, to keep their mouths shut and stand obediently waiting, hoping someone among them will be able to translate. Lale gets it all.

  “You will have two meals a day. One in the morning and one in the evening. If you survive until evening.” He pauses, a grim smile on his face. “After your morning meal, you will work until we tell you to stop. You will continue with the construction of this camp. We have many more people to transport here.” His smile becomes a proud grin. “Follow the instructions of your kapo and those in charge of the building program and you will see the sun go down.”

  There is a sound of clanging metal, and the prisoners turn to see a group of men approaching, carrying two cauldrons and armfuls of small metal tins. Breakfast. A few prisoners start to head toward the smaller group, as though to offer assistance.

  “If anyone moves they will be shot,” barks the SS officer, raising his rifle. “There will be no second chances.”

  The officer leaves, and the prisoner who conducted the roll call addresses the group. “You heard him,” says the man in Polish-accented German. “I am your kapo, your boss. You will form two lines to get your food. Anyone who complains will suffer consequences.”

  The men jockey into line and several start whispering among themselves, asking if anyone has understood what “the German” said. Lale tells those nearest to him and asks them to pass it along. He will translate as much as he can.

  As he reaches the front of the line he gratefully accepts a small tin cup, its contents slopping over the rough hands that thrust it at him. He steps aside and examines his meal. It is brown, contains nothing solid, and has a smell he cannot identify. It is neither tea nor coffee nor soup. He fears he will bring the foul liquid back up if he drinks it slowly. So he closes his eyes, pinches his nostrils with his fingers, and gulps it down. Others are not so successful.

  Aron, standing nearby, raises his cup in a mock toast. “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 laboring 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 that 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 farther 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 ones. 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 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?” asks Lale. “And who the hell are these kapos?”

  “You tell him,” says Boris, yawning.

  “Well, there are other Russian soldiers like us, but not many, and then there are all the different triangles.”

  “Like the green triangle my kapo wears?” Lale says.

  Andor laughs. “Oh, the greens are the worst—they’re criminals: killers, rapists, that kind of man. They make good guards because they’re terrible people.” He continues, “Others are here because of their anti-German political views. They wear a red triangle. You’ll see a few, not many, with a black triangle—they are lazy bastards and they don’t last long. And finally, there are you and your friends.”

  “We wear the yellow star.”

  “Yes, you wear the star. Your crime is to be Jewish.”

  “Why don’t you have a color?” asks Lale.

  Andor shrugs. “We’re just the enemy.”

  Boris snorts. “They insult us by sharing our uniforms with the rest of you. They can’t do much worse than that.”

  A whistle blows and the three men get back to work.

  * * *

  THAT NIGHT, THE MEN IN BLOCK 7 GATHER IN SMALL GROUPS, to talk, share what they’ve learned, and question. Several move to the far end of the hut, where they offer prayers to their god. These mingle into something unintelligible. Are they praying for guidance, vengeance, acceptance? It seems to Lale that without a rabbi to guide them, each man prays for what is most important to him. And he decides this is as it should be. He moves between the groups of men, listening but not taking part.