Playing for Time (5 page)

Alma, respectfully three steps behind Maria Mandel, introduced us: “Here are the two singers; the smaller one also plays the piano very well.”

Mandel, hands elegantly on hips—long, white, delicate hands which stood out against the grey cloth of her uniform—stared at us, her hard china-blue eyes lingering searchingly on my face. This was the first time a representative of the German race had looked at me, had seemed to be aware of my presence. She took off her cap and her hair was a wonderful golden blond, done in thick plaits round her head—in my mind’s eye I saw mine again, tossed by the Polish girl. I noted everything about her: her face, without a trace of makeup (forbidden by the SS), was luminous, her white teeth large but fine. She was perfect, too perfect. A splendid example of the master race: top-quality breeding material—so what was she doing here instead of reproducing?

She turned her head slightly towards Alma: “Which one sings
Madame Butterfly?”

“The smaller one, Frau Lagerfuhrerin.”

“Tell them each to sing something,” she ordered coolly.

I sat down at the piano and accompanied Clara, whose voice really did have something of the nightingale. Then, catching sight of Mandel’s face, I sang
Un bel di.
I was aware that my life was at stake. If she didn’t like
my
interpretation, didn’t share my view of the piece, I’d be back where I came from.

Seated on a chair, her long legs sheathed in silk and prettily crossed, SS Mandel smiled faintly. “They must be dressed. Come.”

I understood that we were accepted only when Alma said more explicitly: “Come on now, you’re in.”

The SS walked ahead with long flowing strides; she must have waltzed divinely. Deferential, Alma followed. Clara and I, mightily relieved, trotted behind them at a distance we deemed suitable. In their wake we went into a big hut, well-lighted and heated, another privileged place. There seemed to be no shortage of these in the camp. The entry of our SS woman galvanized those present. Mandel omitted to tell the assembled company to stand at ease, and the Polish women remained frozen at attention. It was an agreeable experience to see them locked in that respectful pose. Casually, after a pause, she released them and thus liberated they resumed their activities. Behind the counter tables they were sorting through piles of clothes, miscellaneous objects, some of them valuable, souvenirs, foodstuffs, the kinds of things a person would take when leaving home for the unknown. This was where our luggage ended up.

“Give them some clothes their size,” ordered Mandel.

The girls bustled about, measured clothes on us. I half expected them to ask us our preferences, whether we’d prefer a pink slip with lace or a white satin one—it was like a high-class shop, a real pleasure to behold. I was given underpants, a slip, and some woollen stockings, all truly wonderful things to my newly opened eyes. A navy woollen dress and a warm soft coat completed my outfit. With big slapdash stitches and expressions of disgust, Polish or Slovak women sewed yellow stars on the two last items.

We were ordered to get dressed. Ideally, I would have liked to
get
washed first, but obviously one couldn’t have everything; I obeyed.

Mandel approved Clara’s outfit with a curt monosyllable. Then she examined me and looked down at my feet, which were swimming in shoes lent by Ewa, who wore size nine; she addressed the block
kapo
with a certain degree of courtesy: “Frau Schmidt, have you no shoes for my little singer?”

She clearly liked my size and my voice.

“Of course I have,” twittered Frau Schmidt promptly. While a Polish woman picked through a pile of shoes, I stared at Frau Schmidt. She was magnificently dressed in a well-cut suit and blouse, and thin without being skinny. A formidable creature; her eyes had no colour and her mouth no lips.

I slipped on some black oxfords which must have been at least size eight. Fast losing such little patience as she had, Mandel said drily: “I meant, of her size!”

The request was apparently exorbitant. Since when had the right size to be taken into account for a yellow star, a
Judin?

In an abusive tone, Frau Kapo enquired, “What size do you take?”

“Four.”

That caused such a scandal that I felt at fault.

“We haven’t got any. We don’t have any such size, Frau Lagerfuhrerin.”

SS Mandel became livid; her words wrapped themselves around the offending parties like a whiplash. Then she strode furiously out of the clothing store. Too bad, I wouldn’t have any shoes of the right size; I’d just have to stuff the oxfords with some paper. Under the venomous gaze of Frau Schmidt and her henchwomen, I followed Alma out, dragging my feet; irritated, she speeded up her pace, affording me the opportunity of losing my shoes in the snow.

Our hut no longer dazzled me, it no longer seemed a mirage I didn’t dare take stock of for fear it might vanish; it was now a reality to be scrutinized. It was a wooden construction divided into two unequal parts: in the smaller, which served us as dormitory and dining room, bunk beds ran in rows facing one another along the white-painted walls.

“We’ve each got a bed of our own,” Florette informed me, “with a sheet—why not two, I ask you—and a woollen cover! You put your stuff under the mattress too, the things you’ve been able to ”organize‘; it’s not very safe, but there’s nothing better.“

“What does ”organize‘ mean?“

“Doing a bit of wangling to get things you need from the girls in Canada.”

Who were the girls in Canada? How and with what could one buy things? These were crucial questions but I put them off until later because the tour of inspection was still under way.

In the central passageway were three tables, one with kitchen utensils. On one wall were shelves with boxes on them.

“We put our ”treasures’ in there,“ explained Irene. ”It’s two to a box, so you can ‘box“ with whomever you like. To store the stuff, of course, not to share it,” she added hastily.

To share what? Our pathetic possessions? Anyhow, I didn’t need to agonize, I’d “box” with Clara.

The other, larger part of the room, about twenty-six feet by twenty, was used as a music room. Along one wall was a large table covered with scores and papers. Around it sat the copyists, who transcribed the orchestral scores.

In the middle of the room was a small platform surrounded by music stands and the performers’ chairs. The bedrooms of the conductor, Alma, and the blockowa, Tchaikowska, opened off this room. The floor was so well scoured that it was like satin, the walls were clean and white, and there was electricity throughout, an inestimable blessing.

“There are forty-seven of us living here. Do you realize what that means? Women from all over the place, cooped up in this small space and in these conditions—ten nationalities, the world in a sardine tin…”

Little Irene didn’t finish the sentence. It was Ewa, in her sedate voice and in perfect French, who completed it: “In many cases they come from countries where deep-rooted and irrational hatreds have set them against one another; I’m referring in particular to my compatriots, the Poles. These women have different cultures and racial and ethnic origins, and conflicting religious and political ideas. So you’ll understand that things don’t run too smoothly here, particularly since there’s a tremendous disparity in upbringing too.”

I listened attentively, but it all seemed childish to me after what I’d been through a few hours before. The universe evoked by Ewa seemed both an oasis and a ghetto within the sprawling mass that was Auschwitz and its various dependencies. Later, I was to learn that it was also a sort of sandwich: a slice of music between two slices of wretchedness.

A runner was shouting: “Girls, to the showers!”

“Does she mean it?” stammered Clara.

“Every day, that’s the ruling. Alma’s very careful. The Krauts insist. All the women who might have to be anywhere near them in connection with their work have to be clean. We share our showers with the camp aristocrats—the girls from Canada, the black triangles, and everyone who has close dealings with the SS: runners, interpreters.”

I had dreamt about this shower, and it had become a reality. Ewa even gave us a little piece of real soap, another marvel!

We were back just in time to hear the blockowa shouting the usual demands for silence and attention. She had just observed the entry of SS Mandel, who, in contempt of all accepted custom, had come in unannounced for the second time that day. Heels scraped the ground, bodies straightened and stiffened, except for the music copyists, who were allowed to remain seated.

The Lagerführerin was carrying an enormous box of shoes and looked surprisingly cheerful; she came towards me and let her motley assortment tumble pell-mell onto the floor: “Sit down.”

I obeyed. She put one knee on the ground, like someone in a shoe shop, said: “Give me your foot,” and tried shoes on me.

The other girls watched, wide-eyed. At their table, the copyists were glazed, open-mouthed. At the door Alma, immobilized by this unprecedented sight, stared at the head of the camp kneeling at the feet of a deportee…

I savoured the spectacle.

A pair of fur-lined boots fitted me perfectly. Mandel straightened up, I rose, and she expressed her satisfaction: “My little Butterfly will have warm feet. It’s vital for the throat.”

Alma gestured to me and I attempted a position of attention:
“Dankeschon, Frau Lagerführerin!”

Long May the Fun Last!

“Still, an orchestra in a camp like this,” said Clara dazedly.

She had tied the little pointed scarf we’d both been given round her shaven head to hide it; the result was a slightly doll-like prettiness. Distrustfully, she insisted: “What does it do?”

“Gives us work through joy,” said Florette ironically.

Clara was irritated: “I mean when does it play, and for whom?”

“For the deportees, of course.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“No,” Irene intervened, “she isn’t. It was started by Hoss, the commandant of the camp at Auschwitz, as marching music for the work groups that leave Birkenau each morning to work outside and come back at night. Before that, only the men had an orchestra. Hoss must have thought that it would make a good impression on the bosses when they visited.”

“So we play outside twice a day?”

“Outside for the deportees, inside for the SS.”

“We play for them too?”

“What did you think?” sniggered Florette.

And indeed, what did I think? After all, they were fond of flowers and moonlight, so why not music?

“At the beginning, when I arrived,” Florette continued, “the orchestra was a joke, not even a circus fanfare. It was conducted by that filthy Tchaikowska. She’d talked the Krauts into thinking she was a descendant of the composer—what a descendant!—so they’d appointed her conductor. You’ve come here at a good time, but I lived through quite a bit of that charade.” Leaning against a bedpost, she was well into her tale:

“I was in the quarantine block when a rumour came through that there was an orchestra. That day, we were almost happy; if there was an orchestra at Birkenau, perhaps it wasn’t as terrible as we feared. Perhaps the worst moment was the move to the quarantine block, and maybe after that it wasn’t too bad. We were ready to believe any nonsense. Anyhow, no need to draw you a map, you’ve just been through it yourself. Only I wasn’t as lucky as you, I had a good forty days there, and it seemed endless. The way I got out of the block was rather like yours, Fania, the difference being that music and I didn’t get on all that well. I’d been forced to learn the violin for seven years without really taking to it, and it was three years since I’d touched a bow. Then one morning a runner shouted to the company at large that if there were any musicians among them, they were to go forward. The girl I shared a mattress with told me to go, said I’d nothing to lose. At the door I met two other candidates, two Belgian girls from another part of the camp whom I recognized: we’d been together in the same transport. One was Big Irene, a violinist; we call her that to distinguish her from the other little one. That’s Big Irene over there, rehearsing.”

I looked: She was only seventeen or so, tall, ravishing, a short fuzz of hair growing pleasingly over her lovely round gilded skull.

“The other one,” continued Florette, “was Anny, a mandolin player, the big bony one by the piano. We all arrived together; at the time the music hut was in camp A, by the quarantine block and the Revier. Big Irene grabbed her bow and played Bach’s
Chaconne
magnificently. You’d have needed to be deaf not to take her on. Anny, who scratches away quite prettily at the mandolin, was engaged too, though with rather less enthusiasm. When my turn came, utterly brash, I dared to attempt the
Meditation de Thais.
Massenet didn’t have to put up with this sacrilege for long. Tchaikowska started an endless train of
pja kref—
that bag, she really was ideally placed to pass judgement. Watching her conduct was quite something. Marches were taken in three-time, waltzes in two and four. What a mess; she laid it on with the bass drum and cymbals—the idiot probably thought it gave the military touch! I don’t know how the SS put up with that din, you’d think they had no ears. Then I was transferred to camp B, where we are now, and the day after I moved they asked for musicians again. As I’d learned that the orchestra had changed conductors, I tried again. It was Alma by then, and Tchaikowska had become blockowa. At first sight I thought the new conductor was wonderful, but I’ve changed my mind since. A real German. Anyhow, that day I asked permission to choose my piece and prudently chose something with a Gypsy flavour, the sort of thing that can best take mediocrity. I’d seen the music for it lying around. I trusted to my Hungarian blood to play the final czardas at a cracking rate. I can’t honestly say that my performance was rapturously received, that would be going too far, but Alma did say unenthusiastically that she’d take me on a week’s trial and that then she’d see.”

“And you stayed?”

“That’s another story; it’s the only humane thing I’ve ever seen our
kapo
do. Instead of a heart she’s got an empty violin case; it rings hollow. During my quarantine I’d been ill—in fact, I can’t imagine how I survived; as I couldn’t swallow anything, I’d set aside some bread rations with which I’d ”organized‘ a great pair of shoes with wooden soles. Wonderful, they were! It couldn’t last, of course; four days later, someone had already pinched them. I was furious, desperate. But whom could I turn to? Here, you have to accept theft like everything else. As you know, the ground underfoot at Auschwitz is particularly disgusting. Two days later, when I went to the music block—at that time we weren’t all housed together—I was barefoot. Alma takes everything very seriously, especially cleanliness; we had to be immaculate, and we didn’t have anything to clean ourselves with. At the entrance, Tchaikowska had put a bucket of water and the girls cleaned their shoes in it on arrival. That bitch of a blockowa, seeing my bare feet coated in mud, forced me to dip them into that cold, greasy water. I burst out sobbing. Alma came out of her room, saw me shivering, my feet purple with cold dripping onto the concrete, and had a sudden pang of pity: “Come on, I’ll get you some shoes, you’re part of the orchestra!” She put me in the third violin section, which was occupied by two Aryan Polish girls, Wisha and Pani Irena. Wisha was pretty feeble with the bow, nothing much came out. Pani Irena, who would purse her lips when Alma told her she was out of tune, had solved the problem by playing so softly that no one could hear her. I was put between these two to give the outfit a bit of body. The result was a bit of body and a few more wrong notes! Since then it’s been more a question of raps on the knuckles than endearments, and I could draw up a dictionary of insults! Only music counts, for her. And you can imagine how she feels about working with us. Here you can count the real professional musicians on the fingers of one hand. But we’re the material that inspired Alma to produce music. And I must say her arrival changed everything. Kramer, the camp commandant, and Mandel must have said to one another: ’We’ll have real concerts with this virtuoso.“ To please the SS, Alma really goes to town on it all and gets us hopping mad. And furthermore, because of her claims, we’re in danger of extinction from one day to the next.”