The Tattooist of Auschwitz

  “Oh, you know. Got up, had a big breakfast . . .”

  They look at each other and laugh quietly. Gita gently nudges Lale. Their hands accidentally touch for an instant.

  “Well, if we can’t talk about our day, tell me something about yourself,” Lale says.

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  Lale is taken aback. “Of course there is. What’s your last name?”

  She stares at Lale, shaking her head. “I’m just a number. You should know that. You gave it to me.”

  “Yes, but that’s just in here. Who are you outside of here?”

  “Outside doesn’t exist anymore. There’s only here.”

  Lale stands up and stares at her. “My name is Ludwig Eisenberg, but people call me Lale. I come from Krompachy, Slovakia. I have a mother, a father, a brother, and a sister.” He pauses. “Now it’s your turn.”

  Gita meets his stare defiantly. “I am prisoner 34902 in Birkenau, Poland.”

  Conversation fades into uneasy silence. He watches her, her downcast eyes. She is struggling with her thoughts: what to say, what not to say.

  Lale sits back down, in front of her this time. He reaches out as if to take her hand, then withdraws it. “I don’t want to upset you, but will you promise me one thing?”

  “What?”

  “That before we leave here, you will tell me who you are and where you come from.”

  She looks him in the eye. “Yes, I promise.”

  “I’m happy with that for now. So, they’ve got you working in the Canada?”

  Gita nods.

  “Is it OK there?”

  “It’s OK. But the Germans just throw all the prisoners’ possessions in together. Rotten food mixed with clothing. And the mold—I hate touching it, and it stinks.”

  “I’m glad you’re not outside. I’ve spoken to some men who know girls from their villages who also work in the Canada. They tell me they often find jewels and money.”

  “I’ve heard that. I just seem to find moldy bread.”

  “You will be careful, won’t you? Don’t do anything silly, and always keep your eye on the SS.”

  “I’ve learned that lesson well, trust me.”

  A siren sounds.

  “You’d better get back to your block,” says Lale. “Next time I’ll bring some food for you.”

  “You have food?”

  “I can get extra. I’ll get it to you, and I’ll see you next Sunday.”

  Lale stands and holds his hand out to Gita. She takes it. He pulls her to her feet, holds her hand a moment longer than he should. He can’t take his eyes off her.

  “We should go.” She breaks eye contact, but maintains her spell over him with a smile that makes his knees go weak.

  6

  WEEKS HAVE GONE BY; THE TREES SURROUNDING THE CAMP have dropped their leaves, the days have become shorter as winter advances.

  Who are those people? Lale has been asking himself this question ever since he arrived in the camp. The groups of men who work on the construction sites who appear every day dressed in civilian clothing, never to be seen after “tools down.” With a spring in his step from his time with Gita, Lale feels sure he can talk to a couple of the men without the SS getting worked up and taking a shot at him. And he has his bag-shaped shield.

  Lale strolls casually toward one of the new brick buildings under construction. These don’t seem to be blocks to house prisoners, but their use is of no concern to Lale today. He approaches two men, one older than the other, busily engaged in bricklaying, and squats down beside a pile of bricks awaiting placement. The two men watch him with interest, slowing their work rate. Lale picks up a brick and pretends to study it.

  “I don’t get it,” he says quietly.

  “What don’t you get?” the older man asks.

  “I’m a Jew. They’ve branded me with a yellow star. Around me I see political prisoners, murderers, and lazy men who won’t work. And then you—you wear no brand.”

  “That’s none of your business, Jew boy,” says the younger man, himself no more than a boy.

  “Just being friendly. You know how it is—I was checking out my surroundings and became curious about you and your friends. My name is Lale.”

  “Get lost!” the young one says.

  “Settle down, boy. Don’t mind him,” the older man says to Lale, his voice rough from too many cigarettes. “My name’s Victor. The mouth here is my son, Yuri.” Victor extends his hand, which Lale shakes. Lale then offers his hand to Yuri, but he doesn’t take it.

  “We live nearby,” Victor explains, “so we come here to work each day.”

  “I just want to get this straight. You come here each day voluntarily? I mean, you’re paid to be here?”

  Yuri pipes up. “That’s right, Jew boy, we get paid and go home every night. But you—”

  “I said shut up, Yuri. Can’t you see the man’s just being friendly?”

  “Thanks, Victor. I’m not here to cause trouble. Like I said, just checking things out.”

  “What’s the bag for?” snaps Yuri, smarting at having been reprimanded in front of Lale.

  “My tools. My tools for tattooing the numbers on the prisoners. I’m the Tätowierer.”

  “Busy job,” quips Victor.

  “Some days. I never know when transports are coming, or how big they’ll be.”

  “I hear there’s worse to come.”

  “Are you prepared to tell me?”

  “This building. I’ve seen the plans. You’re not going to like what it is.”

  “Surely it can’t be any worse than what’s going on here already.” Lale is now standing, bracing himself on the pile of bricks.

  “It’s called Crematorium One,” Victor says quietly, and looks away.

  “Crematorium. One. With the possibility of a number two?”

  “Sorry. I said you wouldn’t like it.”

  Lale punches the last brick laid, sending it flying, and shakes his hand in pain.

  Victor reaches into a nearby bag and produces a piece of dried sausage wrapped in waxed paper.

  “Here, take this. I know they’re starving you people, and I’ve got plenty where this came from.”

  “That’s our lunch!” Yuri cries, rushing to take the sausage from his father’s outstretched hand.

  Victor pushes Yuri away. “It won’t hurt you to go without for a day. This man needs it more.”

  “I’m gonna tell Mum when we get home.”

  “You’d better hope I don’t tell her about your attitude. You’ve got a lot to learn about being civilized, young man. Let this be your first lesson.”

  Lale still hasn’t taken the sausage. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

  “Well, you have,” wails a petulant Yuri.

  “No, he hasn’t,” says Victor. “Lale, take the sausage, and come and see us again tomorrow. I’ll have more for you. Hell, if we can help just one of you, we’ll do it. Right, Yuri?”

  Yuri reluctantly extends his hand to Lale, who takes it.

  “Save the one, save the world,” Lale says quietly, more to himself than the others.

  “I can’t help you all.”

  Lale takes the food. “I don’t have anything to pay you with.”

  “It’s not a problem.”

  “Thank you. There might be a way I could pay you, though. If I find a way, can you get me something else, like chocolate?” He wanted chocolate. That’s what you give a girl if you can get it.

  “I’m sure we can work something out. You’d better move on; there’s an officer paying us some attention.”

  “See you,” Lale says as he shoves the sausage into his bag. Stray snowflakes drift around him as he walks back to his block. The flakes catch in the last rays of the sun, bouncing strobes of light that remind him of a kaleidoscope he played with as a boy. What’s wrong with this picture? Lale is overcome with emotion as he hurries back to his block. On his face, the melted snow is indistinguishable from t
he tears. The winter of 1942 has arrived.

  * * *

  BACK IN HIS ROOM, LALE TAKES THE CHUNK OF SAUSAGE AND breaks it carefully into even parts. He tears strips from the waxed paper and wraps each piece tightly before placing them back in his bag. As he comes to the last piece, Lale stops and considers the small, fulfilling parcel of food, sitting there next to his rough, dirty fingers. The fingers that used to be smooth and clean and plump, that handled rich food, that he used to hold up to tell hosts, “No, thank you, I couldn’t possibly have any more.” With a shake of his head, he places it, too, into the bag.

  He heads toward one of the Canada buildings. He once asked a man in Block 7 if he knew why they called the sorting rooms by that name.

  “The girls who work there dream of a place far away where there is plenty of everything and life can be what they want it to be. They have decided Canada is such a place.”

  Lale has spoken to a couple of the girls working in this one as they returned to their block in the afternoon. He has checked everyone exiting many times and knows that Gita doesn’t work at this one. There are other buildings he cannot easily access; she must work in one of them. He spies two girls he has spoken to before, walking together. He reaches into his bag, withdraws two parcels, and approaches them, smiling. He turns and walks alongside them.

  “I want you to put out one of your hands, but do it slowly. I’m going to give you a parcel of sausage. Do not open it until you’re alone.”

  The two girls do as he says, not breaking step, their eyes darting about for SS who might be watching them. Once the sausage is in their hands, they wrap their arms across their chests, as much to keep themselves warm as to protect their gift.

  “Girls, I’ve heard you sometimes find jewels and money—is that correct?”

  The women exchange a glance.

  “Now, I don’t want to put you at risk, but do you think there’s any way you could smuggle a little of it out to me?”

  One of them says nervously, “Shouldn’t be too hard. Our minders don’t pay much attention to us anymore. They think we’re harmless.”

  “Great. Just get what you can without causing suspicion, and I’ll use it to buy you and others food, like this sausage.”

  “Do you think you could get some chocolate?” one of them says, her eyes bright.

  “Can’t promise, but I’ll try. Remember, only take small quantities at a time. I’ll try to be here tomorrow afternoon. If I’m not, is there somewhere safe you can hide things until I can get to you?”

  “Not in our block. We can’t do that. We get searched all the time,” one replies.

  “I know,” says the other. “The snow is piling up at the back of our block. We can wrap them in a rag and hide it there when we go to the toilet.”

  “Yeah, that will work,” the first one says.

  “You can’t tell anyone what you’re doing or where you’re getting the food from, OK? It’s really important. Your lives depend upon you saying nothing. Got that?”

  One of the girls draws her finger across her closed mouth. As they near the women’s compound, Lale splits off from them and loiters outside Block 29 for a short time. There is no sign of Gita. So it must be. But it will be Sunday again in three days’ time.

  * * *

  THE NEXT DAY, LALE COMPLETES HIS WORK AT BIRKENAU within a few hours. Leon asks him to spend the afternoon with him, wanting the opportunity to talk about their situation without a block full of men straining to hear every word. Lale begs off, saying he isn’t feeling well and needs to get some rest. They go their separate ways.

  He is conflicted. He desperately wants whatever food Victor has brought, but he needs something to pay him with. The girls finish work around the same time that Victor and the other visiting workers leave. Will he have enough time to see if they have managed to lift anything? In the end he decides to visit Victor and reassure him that he is working on obtaining a source of payment.

  Bag in hand, Lale makes his way over to the block under construction. He looks around for Victor and Yuri. Victor sees him and nudges Yuri to follow as they separate from the other workers. Slowly they approach Lale, who has stopped and is pretending to be looking for something in his bag. With an outstretched hand, Yuri greets Lale.

  “His mother had a word with him last night,” offers Victor.

  “I’m sorry, I haven’t been able to get anything to pay you with, but I hope to have something very soon. Please don’t bring anything else until I’ve paid you for what you’ve given me already.”

  “It’s OK, we have plenty to spare,” Victor says.

  “No, you’re taking a risk. At the very least, you should get something in return. Just give me a day or two.”

  Victor takes from his bag two packages, which he drops into Lale’s open bag. “We’ll be here at the same time tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” says Lale.

  “See you,” says Yuri, which makes Lale smile.

  “See you, Yuri.”

  * * *

  BACK IN HIS ROOM, LALE OPENS THE PACKAGES. SAUSAGE AND chocolate. He holds the chocolate to his nose and inhales.

  Once again, he breaks the food into small pieces to make it easy for the girls to hide and pass around. Oh, how he hopes they will be discreet. The consequences if they aren’t don’t bear thinking about. He saves a small amount of the sausage for Block 7. The tools-down siren interrupts his obsessive efforts to ensure that each piece of food is exactly the same size. He throws everything into his bag and hurries toward the Canada.

  Not far from the women’s compound, Lale catches up with his two friends. They see him coming and slow their pace, dropping back into the mob of girls trudging “home.” He holds the food bundles in one hand, the open bag in the other, and nudges the girls. Without looking at him, each girl drops something into his bag, and he in turn presses the food into their hands. They shove it up their sleeves. Lale and the girls split away from each other at the entrance to the women’s compound.

  Lale doesn’t know what he will find in the four pieces of rag that he places on his bed. He opens them gently. They contain coins and Polish zloty bills, loose diamonds, rubies and sapphires, gold and silver rings emblazoned with precious stones. Lale steps back, knocking into the door behind him. He is recoiling from the sad provenance of these objects, each one attached to a momentous event in the life of its previous owner. He is also scared for his own safety. If he is discovered with this bounty, he will surely be put to death. A noise outside makes him throw the jewels and currency back in his bag, and himself on his bed. No one comes in. Eventually he rises and takes his bag with him to his evening meal. In the canteen he doesn’t place his bag at his feet as usual, but clings to it with one hand, trying not to look too strange. He suspects he fails.

  Later that night he separates the precious stones from the money, the loose gems from the jewelry, wrapping them separately in the rags they came in. The majority of the loot he pushes under his mattress. He keeps a loose ruby and a diamond ring in his bag.

  * * *

  AT SEVEN THE NEXT MORNING, LALE HANGS AROUND THE main compound gates as the local workers enter. He sidles up to Victor and opens his hand to reveal the ruby and the ring. Victor closes his hand over Lale’s in a handshake, palming the jewels. Lale’s bag is already open, and Victor quickly transfers some packages into it. Their alliance is now sealed.

  Victor whispers, “Happy New Year.”

  Lale trudges away, the snow now falling heavily and covering the camp. 1943 has begun.

  7

  THOUGH IT IS BITTERLY COLD AND THE COMPOUND IS A MESS of snow and mud, Lale is upbeat. It is a Sunday. Lale and Gita will be among the brave souls walking in the compound, in the hope of a fleeting meeting, a word, a touch of the hand.

  He is pacing, on the lookout for Gita as he attempts to keep the cold out of his bones. He walks by the women’s camp as often as he can without raising suspicion. Several girls come from Block 29, but no Gita. Just as he
is about to give up, Dana appears, scanning the compound. Spotting Lale, she hurries over.

  “Gita’s sick,” she says as soon as she’s in earshot. “She’s sick, Lale. I don’t know what to do.”

  His heart lurches to his throat in panic as he remembers the death cart, the close call, the men who nursed him back to health. “I have to see her.”

  “You can’t go in—our kapo is in a terrible mood. She wants to call the SS and have them take Gita away.”

  “You can’t let them. You mustn’t let them take her. Please, Dana,” says Lale. “What’s wrong with her? Do you know?”

  “We think it’s typhus. We’ve lost several girls in our block this week.”

  “Then she needs medicine, penicillin.”

  “And where are we gonna get medicine, Lale? If we go to the hospital and ask for penicillin, they’ll just take her away. I can’t lose her. I’ve lost all my family. Please, can you help us, Lale?” Dana pleads.

  “Don’t take her to the hospital. Whatever you do, don’t go there.” Lale’s mind races. “Listen to me, Dana—it’s going to take me a couple of days, but I’m going to try to get her some penicillin.” A numbness sweeps over him. His vision blurs. His head pounds.

  “Here’s what you have to do. Tomorrow morning take her, however you can—carry, drag, whatever—take her to the Canada. Hide her there among the clothes in the day, try to get as much water into her as you can, then bring her back to your block for roll call. You might have to do this for a few days until I can get medicine, but you must do it. It’s the only way to stop her from being taken to the hospital. Now go and look after her.”

  “All right, I can do that. Ivana will help. But she must have medicine.”

  He grips Dana’s hand. “Tell her . . .”

  Dana waits.

  “Tell her I will take care of her.”

  Lale watches Dana run back into her block. He can’t move. Thoughts creep into his head. He sees the death cart every day—Black Mary, it’s called. She cannot end up there. That must not be her fate. He looks around at the brave souls who have ventured outside. He imagines them dropping into the snow and lying there, smiling up at him, thankful that death has taken them from this place.