Auschwitz Violin (3 page)

The sweet-smelling wood—beautifully grained plates and flitches—lay ready to be used for violins and violas. Time and air would slowly dry the wood. He had learned from his father to use only wood that had been cut for at least five years. Good mountain spruce and maple, trees where birds had nested and the wind had sung. Where a bow would come to sing. In his dream all the equipment and all the tools sparkled like gems, which in effect they were: the modest jewels of his craftsman’s crown. In his dream Daniel was making a viola and had reached one of the most delicate steps: placing the sound post—the
anima
or soul as the Italians called it—the tiny piece of fine-grained spruce that went inside the instrument. He was on the verge of positioning it just beneath the right foot of the bridge, very carefully, absolutely straight, completely vertical. But something was the matter. His hands broke out in a sweat as the sound post slipped out of place. It was too far away, useless now. He would have to begin all over again. But the viola began to fade.

Hands were shaking him, waking him from his dream. The viola had been left soulless. A bad omen, Daniel thought. It wasn’t just the dream, however. He didn’t have to search far for the bad omen. It lay before him, directly in front of him: dawn. The beginning of a new day at Gehenna, the Three Rivers Camp.

Dark dawn was breaking, like an old blanket thrown across the shabby bed of the suffering, a harbinger of the gray, faltering daylight that awaited them. No nightmare, he thought, could possibly be worse than the cruelty that surrounded them, pervaded them, as inescapable as the air they breathed. He felt powerless, defenseless as a newborn child. He had been consigned into the hands of incomprehensible hatred, forsaken by everyone. Even God.

He had heard his father speak of exiles and pogroms that had occurred during his grandfather’s life, but his own childhood and adolescence had been peaceful. He recalled his happy Bar Mitzvah party and his older brother’s. The harmony had been broken only by his father’s illness and death. Perhaps that was why the storm had taken them by surprise. Engrossed in the work he loved, he had not noticed the threatening signs and blackening clouds; they had nothing to do with him or his people, he thought. When tyranny first made its appearance, he had worn the yellow Star of David, unaware that it would become a ticket to death, like the marking on a tree to be axed. He awoke to the unfamiliar, brutal reality the day his workshop was looted. Not far away the venerable neighborhood synagogue was being consumed by flames. As a child he had often accompanied his father to celebrations there, and had always felt protected under the long paternal prayer shawl, the
tallith
. After that, his people found themselves more deeply mired in the turbid waters that were sucking them under.

Daniel had been released from the prison cell two days before, yet for some reason this day seemed more interminable than the previous one. A profound weariness was rising in him, a sense of impending fatality and desperation. He recognized the signs: he had seen fellow
lager
inmates grow ill, letting themselves sink into death. They now lay beneath the surrounding hills. He was younger than the ones who had embraced death, and he tried to cheer himself, hoped for the strength to continue struggling another day. He felt completely drained when he reached the barracks, and had no wish to talk, only to rest.

The inmates who worked outside of the camp or in the quarries always returned to the barracks later than Daniel, utterly exhausted. A surprise, however, waited for him that night—a glimmer of hope. New slave laborers had arrived to replace the dead. One of the newcomers assigned to the bunk beside him was Freund, a mechanic who had once lived on the same street as Daniel—you could almost have called him a friend. Daniel could read in Freund’s eyes the shock and grief he felt upon seeing how gaunt and wasted his old neighbor had grown.

They wept as they embraced each other; tears flowed easily when you were exhausted. As Freund began to talk, Daniel was filled with a sense of joy for the first time at the Three Rivers Camp: Eva was alive and relatively well. Freund had seen her when he was repairing a machine at the Tisch factory, the one that manufactured military uniforms. This was the “paradise” that had generated the rumors in camp. The news was true: Eva had enough food. All the workers had good rations of rye bread paid for by the factory owner himself, and they often found it coated with margarine, or butter!

The two friends whispered to each other in the dark, Freund plying Daniel with details, trying his best not to dishearten him. At first Eva had been sent to a different camp, one that bore a terrible name; he didn’t know how much she had suffered, but she had survived and wasn’t far away.

“If I could just escape and see her …”

“Don’t even give it a thought,” Freund warned. “It would be your death.”

Daniel had witnessed many summary executions of prisoners after real or supposed escape attempts. The guards were fast with their rifles, and none of them—not any of the Nazis, not the Commander himself—thought twice about shooting prisoners down.

“Hey, how about letting me get some sleep,” an inmate grumbled.

“I’ll tell you more tomorrow, if we’re still alive,” Freund whispered.

The short conversation left Daniel wide awake. He was not inclined to fantasize, but he couldn’t help imagining Eva, seated at the sewing machine, her tiny hands moving the cloth forward, her beautiful legs tirelessly pumping the pedal. More than that, he imagined her plump lips, not pressed against his but open as she licked the creamy butter on the rye bread—thick, heavenly slices that would keep her alive, make her dark eyes sparkle again. He wasn’t envious: the vision had assuaged his anguish. The following day he worked hard, filled once again with a desire to live.

The afternoon seemed especially long, the evening endless. He anxiously awaited the arrival of night and more news from his friend. This time they kept their voices lower as they exchanged information about the two families, a long list of obituaries.

“Your little niece, Regina, is safe!”

A German official had helped smuggle children out of the ghetto in clothes boxes, Freund told him, until he was discovered and sent to the Russian Front. As far as he knew, the little girl was at the house of a former client of Daniel’s, not a Jew but a kindhearted
goy
, a German from the Sudetenland.

“Yes, of course I know Rudi,” Daniel replied. “He’s married to a distant cousin of mine.”

“They’re living outside Krakow,” Freund told him, “at the grandfather’s place, and they’ve passed her off as their niece. All of them have Aryan documents.”

As the three-year-old niece of a pure Aryan, Regina was the one with the best chance of survival. That is, if the ones posing as her relatives could fatten her up—she’d almost starved in the ghetto.

Maybe she’ll be safe, Daniel thought. I’m sure she will be. Lord, how he hoped so!

You could hear the rain outside. Everything would be covered in mud, but it wouldn’t be as cold, he thought, as he fell asleep, listening to the metallic clamor of rain pelting the flimsy barracks roof.

 

 

 

Four women have been placed at my disposition for use in raising
prisoners’ body temperature by means of animal heat; they were sent
from the Ravensbrück concentration camp.

One of these women shows very Nordic racial features: blond
hair, blue eyes, the shape of her head and body. She is 21 and ¾
years old.

When I objected to the fact that she had volunteered for the
brothel, she stated: “Better to spend six months in the brothel than
six months in camp.” She offered strange details about the R. camp,
which were confirmed by the other women and the guard who
accompanied them.

I find it repugnant to my racial sensitivity that a girl with
decidedly Nordic features would offer herself as a prostitute to
ethnically inferior prisoners. With the proper assignments, perhaps
we can lead her back to the right path. I refuse to use her in
experiments for these reasons and address this report to the
Commander of the camp and to the assistant to the Reichsführer SS.

—Dr. S. Rascher

The greenhouse was finished, as far as Daniel’s job was concerned, and the shelf almost filled. Now it was the gardeners’ turn to comply with the Commander’s whims. Daniel slept very few hours that night, worrying where he would be sent next. It might be the carpenters’ shop again; they had chosen him for the job at the Commander’s house because of the quality of his carpentry. But he could also be assigned elsewhere, to a place where far greater physical exertion would be required. Everything depended on Sauckel’s needs or wishes. From what Daniel had overheard, he believed that new projects were brewing, but there was no telling. Perhaps the Commander was tired of seeing them around his house. The work had been carefully inspected, and apparently they would not be sent to the quarry if the results were deemed satisfactory.

Nothing, however, was mentioned that day, and the four inmates were ordered back to the carpenters’ shop. This was fine with Daniel, better to go unnoticed, better not to have your number called. On his way to the workshop, he spotted three prisoners he knew—musicians—all clean and well dressed, heading toward the pavilion, and realized that a party was planned.

Midafternoon, Dr. Rascher entered the shop, accompanied by an unfamiliar colleague. The prisoners continued their work as they had been taught to do, never looking up or greeting the officials. Nor did the visitors say anything; they merely observed the men sawing, planing, gluing. But Daniel was nervous. He could feel himself being observed, him alone. He cut his hand but made no sound. The last thing he needed was to injure himself, he thought, as he made an effort to continue working, his eyes fixed on the wood. Despite the cold, drops of sweat began to accumulate above his forehead, dampening his shaved head. At last, the silent doctors relieved the prisoners of their oppressive company.

They were heading to the Commander’s house no doubt, invited to the concert and party. The Monster enjoyed good music and good wine. Occasionally, he even played the violin, and not badly. The musicians had mentioned that he played relatively well, though without much feeling. The party would probably continue until late; some pretty girls would be invited.

Later that afternoon Daniel was absorbed in his work finishing a window frame when a heavy hand touched his shoulder:

“You, over to the Sturmbannführer’s place.”

He scurried there as fast as he could, consumed by anxiety. What could the Commander want? Not much apparently: a churlish assistant pointed to a minute defect on one of the doors. Daniel had no trouble repairing it. In the distance he could hear the superb music being played by the trio. Then, suddenly, the Commander shouted. Some strange impulse compelled Daniel to enter the room. The lights, the aroma of delicious food, the smell of tobacco, fear: all of it made him dizzy, and he stopped short for a moment. But he soon realized what had caused the outburst. The problem was the violin in the hands of the fear-blanched musician, Bronislaw, a man he knew well. The young soloist had been well respected before he’d become the object of Sauckel’s accusing finger and Rascher’s grinning face. But Daniel did not withdraw. No, he would not provide the spectators with cruel amusement. He stood at attention, saluted, and in a thin voice said: “It’s not his fault, sir. The violin has a crack on the top plate. I can fix it.”

The Commander looked at him in astonishment but seemed pleased at the idea that the instrument could be repaired.

A guest with kind eyes, a man Daniel had never seen before, asked him: “You say you’re able to fix it? You mean the violinist wasn’t playing badly just to offend our ears?”

As if taking a rose, Daniel gently removed the violin from the hands of the stupefied musician and showed the guest the tiny crack, forgetting for the moment that he was in the house of his enemy. He spoke of his musical vocation in Yiddish sprinkled with German, but with a self-assurance he had not felt for many months, not since he had been reduced to a subhuman prisoner.

Then he stepped back. The conversation between the kind-eyed guest, the Commander, and Rascher continued in low voices, too low and too fast for him to understand. The other doctor and the girls said nothing. Daniel had the terrifying feeling that both his future and that of the reprimanded violinist were at stake. A girl poured white wine into everyone’s fine crystal glasses. Then Sauckel called an officer over, spoke to him as he pointed to Daniel, and scribbled something on a sheet of paper. He doesn’t want to lower himself to speak to me, the luthier thought, but he’s made a decision and no doubt I’ll be punished again.

The SS officer dragged him from the room without explanation and opened the front door. Daniel rushed down the steps before he could be pushed. Once again he heard laughter and happy voices from the house; the musicians were still in the room. He glanced up, caught sight of the loathsome doctor’s face and saw an expression of cold disappointment. A good sign, Daniel thought.

“You made a serious mistake, you bastard.” The officer spat at him once down the steps. “You entered the room
and
addressed Herr Sturmbannführer without permission.” After a pause to allow the gravity of the deed to sink in, he continued, “Showing great indulgence, he has decided not to punish you on one condition, that the violin is repaired by tomorrow morning.”

“But how can I do that, sir?”

Daniel hadn’t even noticed that the officer was carrying the violin!

“Shut up and listen, you idiot! Follow me to the carpenters’ shop, you have all night to work. If the violin is not to his liking tomorrow, it’s confinement with aggravating circumstances for you, plus whippings before and after confinement. This is your second offense.”

The officer was panting, as if out of breath after providing so many details. This was unusual: punishment was normally meted out with no explanation. Well, Daniel thought as he was being accompanied to the workshop, this means no supper for me. I’ll have to manage without, even though I’m starving. Thank goodness he had hidden a tiny piece of bread crust in his pocket that morning; he did this occasionally to help pass a long afternoon.

The SS officer—still holding the violin—presented the paper to a surly, silent guard, who read it without comment but was clearly even more disgruntled. The officer led Daniel into the shop and handed him the violin. Once the two of them were alone, ignoring regulations, the officer lit a cigarette and blew the smoke in Daniel’s face. Seemingly satisfied when Daniel coughed, the officer settled into a chair and kept a sharp eye on the work, visibly skeptical of the luthier’s craftsmanship, but he soon stopped smoking and dozed off. The cigarette lay on the floor, snuffed out, but Daniel didn’t dare touch it.

He had little company that night: the snores from the guard outside (a common prisoner with a green insignia on his clothes, the kind who’s often very cruel) and the occasional screeches of distant night birds down by the broad river beyond the camp, where trees grew, where colors other than gray and white existed. Daniel was familiar with the old name of the river, but not Aqueront, the strange name used by a fellow inmate—a professor from Krakow, imprisoned for being a socialist. The man had been saved from selection because he was listed as a baker. He was in fact the son of a baker and he knew how to knead dough and make bread.

Daniel had to concentrate now on the violin. He hadn’t been overly optimistic; his calculations were correct: the crack wasn’t deep. The sides could be pressed together, no splinters were showing. Praise God! First, he cast about to see if any of his small carpentry wedges could be used. Fortunately, he always kept the workshop neat. He found two tiny, very smooth cylinders, just the right size—they wouldn’t even have to be planed. He didn’t have the right violin glue, of course, but he did have a reasonably good one, though lumpy, which he had saved for especially delicate jobs at the Tyrant’s pavilion. He lit the little burner and began heating the glue, being very careful not to let it thicken too much.

He was himself once again, not a number, not an object of taunting ridicule. He was Daniel, a luthier by profession. At that moment he thought of nothing other than the job at hand and the pride he took in it. His eyes glistened with precise attention; even his hunger disappeared. With skillful fingers he slowly spread the glue around the crack, all along the edges of it, then forced it well inside. He observed the result with a trained eye and judged it to be good; after all, he had practically been born among violins. The graining matched, which meant that the tiny vertical crack would be well sealed. At least for a while. He located the round cramp in its proper place and set the two wedges beneath it, being careful no glue touched them, then tightened the cramp to the exact size.

Daniel’s thoughts wandered as he wiped the sweat from his forehead and examined the work again. He had spilled a drop of glue on the top plate of the violin and couldn’t risk letting it dry. He heated some water, in which he dampened a very fine paintbrush and carefully removed the glue. It was a matter of waiting now. It had taken him a long time to perform the delicate task, and he knew the violin wouldn’t be dry for at least four hours, probably more with all the humidity. The officer escorting him was still asleep, wrapped in a wool cloak, and Daniel didn’t dare wake him for fear of reprisal. Nor could he leave the shop: he knew his furtive shadow would be a sure target for the guard’s machine gun. In that case, he thought, trying to comfort himself at the prospect of the dismal night ahead, I’ll stand over the violin to be sure nothing happens to it. Too much was at stake.

He was hungry again and noticed that the officer had dropped a piece of apple that had rolled toward him. Using a piece of cloth, Daniel pulled it closer without making a sound and ate it hungrily. He would have to find a way to sleep some, or at least to rest. He warmed his hands at the burner before turning it off and stretched out on the floor, on top of some wood chips that protected him a bit. He tried to sleep but kept waking up. It had stopped raining, and the night was cold and quiet, his dreams anxious. With little conviction he murmured a prayer to his silent God, imploring that his work be approved.

He awoke early and, not wishing to sleep any more, sat down on a stack of wood. He couldn’t be late to roll call or skip breakfast. He wasn’t scheduled for a shower today, so he washed with a bit of water from the faucet and went outdoors as soon as the siren sounded.

When he returned to the shop, he showed the day guard the paper from the night before, but the guard clearly had already received instructions and muttered: “Get to work, fast. It’s still early; I’ll let you know when you have to appear before the Sturmbannführer.”

At least he hadn’t hit him. Daniel set about his work, glancing often at
his
violin. A pleasant sensation was mixed with the usual fear when the guard looked at his watch and ordered Daniel to present himself at the Commander’s house. Daniel showed the paper and had no trouble getting in. This time Sauckel deigned to speak to Daniel directly, but immediately put him in his place.

“
Ja
, our little carpenter!” he said as he petted his dog.

All the prisoners stooped, but now Daniel instinctively straightened up. He was actually quite tall, but the Commander stood half a span taller. A long moment of uncertainty ensued as the instrument was carefully inspected. He doesn’t look like he’s in a very good mood, Daniel thought. His forehead’s furrowed and wrinkled; maybe he’s hungover. The Commander didn’t appear very interested in the violin, but he swept his bow across it and played some notes. His forehead cleared, and he smiled.