The Wrong Boy (8 page)

A man entered the room trailed by a German shepherd and an SS guard. He had the bearing of a man accustomed to walking through doorways first. It wasn’t his height, though he was tall, or the gun gleaming on his belt, or even his uniform, which was cinched in at the waist and dripping with medals. It was the way he moved across the room; he expected to be noticed.

Lagerführerin Holzman and Oberaufseherin Trommler jumped to their feet.

“Would Captain Jager like to hear some music?” the lagerführerin asked. The commandant ran a hand through his cropped yellow hair, undid the top button of his jacket and sat down. A scar ran across his square jaw, pale white against his pink skin. His eyes were a metallic blue, his smile glacial. His face gave away nothing. I’d hoped his appearance might give me some clue as to his taste in music, some hint that he preferred Hayden to Handel, or romantic waltzes to fugues.

The commandant pulled a metal stick from under his chair.

“Danke schön, Frau Lagerführerin. Please begin.”

The Lagerführerin called the first girl. “A10512. Take a seat at the piano.”

Trommler elbowed the first girl from her seat. She scrambled to the piano, ovals of sweat under her arms. The commandant yawned before she reached the end of the first page.

“Tyrolean marches aren’t to my taste,” he said, ordering the girl back to her seat. The commandant wasn’t a patient man. When the second girl faltered in the third stanza of
Mephisto Waltz No.1
, he had her wait outside. The third girl to audition played a Korngold piano sonata. My heart dipped as soon she started to play. Piri had taught me the same sonata in the ghetto, on the condition I play it whisper-quiet. I hadn’t asked why; I knew Korngold was Jewish and all his sonatas were banned. The poor girl’s fingers struck the keys and I said nothing. And then the commandant was getting out of his seat, and it was too late to warn her because he was standing over her and yanking her from her seat and striking her flushed face with the back of his hand. A bruise flowered on her left cheek, and something inside me turned black. A soldier hurried to the commandant’s side. He pulled his gun from his holster, thrust it at the girl’s head and forced her through the door. I cowered in my seat and watched them leave.

Commandant Jager returned to his seat and waited for his next victim. The room was silent except for the dog’s heavy panting. Trommler shoved the next girl from her seat and she sat down at the piano, her face a dangerous plum colour. The commandant sat through Brahm’s Scherzo in E flat minor and let her play a Chopin prelude through to the end, though she played it dully. She returned to her seat trembling with relief and Rivka took her place. She played Beethoven and Wagner, Chopin and Brahms and she played sublimely, but that only made my heart hammer harder in my chest. The commandant lifted his hand from the scruff of his dog’s neck to applaud, but then thought better of it and returned to scratching the dog’s head.

I walked to the piano, sick to my stomach. What if halfway through my Bach prelude my memory failed? What if the commandant detested Bach?

“Who’s this one?” the commandant asked. He hadn’t asked about the others.

“A10573, Herr Captain.”

“Her name?”

Lagerführerin Holzman looked confused. It wasn’t her job to know our names.

The commandant stared at me.

“Take your scarf off.” He looked at the others. “All of you. Scarves off!”

That’s when I saw him: a boy of sixteen or seventeen. It was difficult to tell his age. I’d become accustomed to boys with sagging mouths and bent backs who looked like old men. He looked nothing like the boys behind the electrified fences. His hair was the colour of honey and his eyes the colour of the sky. He was tanned and tall – at least a head taller than me – though I couldn’t be sure because his head was buried in a book and he sat slouched in a chair. He was the second lovely thing I’d seen that day and I wanted to strangle him. How dare he read while we played for our lives.

“You’re a Jew?” The commandant’s voice echoed across the room.

I turned from the boy to answer the commandant’s question. “Yes.”

“Where from?”

“Debrecen, Hungary.” I looked across at the boy who was stifling a yawn.

“And your position? Who did you play for? The Budapest Philharmonic?”

I shook my head.

“The ballet?”

I shook it again. The commandant frowned and turned to Lagerführerin Holzman.

“So, what’s she here for, her looks?”

“
Nein
,” I answered in my best German. “I’m here because I play piano. I’m here because I’m good.” I wasn’t going to win the audition, no matter how well I played. I was no match for Rivka Hermann but I wanted the chance to compete. I wanted to play on the commandant’s Bösendorfer grand. I wanted the boy to put down his book. “I was promised a place at the Budapest Conservatorium. I was awarded the Budapest Medallion for most promising pianist under sixteen. I was the one voted most likely to …”

“You have five minutes,” he cut me off. “Impress me.”

I climbed onto the stool and slipped my bare feet onto the pedals. I didn’t know the commandant’s favourite composer but I knew this place, this piano. I knew what the commandant wanted. He wanted what we all wanted – to be transported. I didn’t know where he wanted to go, but I knew where I wanted to be, so I played the music that would take me home. I played Clara Schumann’s “Die gute Nacht” and when he instructed me to continue I played a Bach sinfonia for Mother and Chopin’s Waltz in A minor for Father. I played Liszt’s
Hungarian Rhapsody No. 6
for Piri and Ravel’s
Gaspard de la Nuit
for Erika. I wasn’t in the camps and I wasn’t playing for an extra crust of bread. I was back in my world; Hanna at the piano, in control of the harmony and the happy ending.

I looked up. The boy’s nose was still buried in his book.

“Continue,” the commandant said and I lowered my head. I was deciding between the
Blue Danube
and Mozart’s Piano Sonata No. 11 when something in the piano’s gleaming black lid caught my eye. I hadn’t seen my reflection in months and it took me by surprise – the dull skin, the bristles, the face staring back at me. I was ugly, a skeleton in stage make-up. I saw it in the piano’s mirrored surface and in the boy’s refusal to look at me.

I put my hands on the keys and tried to find my way back home, but my heart wasn’t in it. I delivered an empty Mozart sonata, sure that my finale had extinguished any chance I might have had for that extra crust of bread.

“
Gut
.” The commandant unfolded his legs, took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his eyes.

We were told to line up. I smiled at Rivka. Her red hair was growing back in uneven tufts. She looked like a sad clown, with her painted red cheeks and smeared lipstick. She deserved the extra crust of bread, we all did. Piri was right. There was no shame in wanting to survive. I didn’t want to die. I’d hardly lived. I wanted to keep living and I wanted to keep playing the piano.

“So, Karl, whose music most impressed you?” The commandant turned to face the boy at the back of the room. The boy lifted his eyes from his book. He looked irritated.

“None of them, Father.”

The commandant smiled. “Come now. One must stand out.”

The boy – Karl – stood up and looked us over. “That one, I suppose,” he said, pointing to me.

Lagerführerin Holzman looked disappointed. “A10573? The blonde?”

“Yes, A10573.” The boy’s mouth twisted in disgust.

The commandant smiled. “You have a good ear.” He turned to face Lagerführerin Holzman.

“You heard my son.” He placed his baton on the seat and reached for his dog’s lead. “We’ll take her.”

We walked back to camp in the rain, five of us when there had once been six. I hoped the girl with the bruised cheek, the one who had played Korngold’s banned sonata, had made it back to camp. I turned my face up to the grey sky, opened my mouth and gulped at the fat, delicious raindrops. I hadn’t had anything to drink since breakfast. My cotton dress clung to my body and mud sucked at my shoes but I didn’t care. The commandant had chosen me to be his pianist.

Rivka turned to me. She didn’t look sad or angry. She looked relieved. “Congratulations.” She mouthed the word silently.

“Think you’re lucky, do you?” Trommler dug her nails into my shoulder. “I hope you’re luckier than the commandant’s last pianist. She was a pretty blond thing like you. Didn’t do her much good. Imagine losing a finger just because you hit the wrong note.”

Trommler waited for a reaction, but I refused to give her one. I didn’t let my face register surprise or fear.

“So,” she released her grip and turned to face the other girls, “if you want to say anything to the ‘winner’ of today’s little competition, perhaps instead of ‘congratulations’, it ought to be ‘good luck’.”

Another long hour passed. We kept walking. Globe flowers shivered by the roadside. Lulled by their beauty, I bent down to pull one from the mud, my right hand curled around its dark green stalk, when I noticed one of the guards standing over me, his boot lifted off the ground, his heel hovering over my hand. My fingers froze around the flower.

“Not the hand, you idiot!” Trommler screamed. “She’s Captain Jager’s new pianist. That hand belongs to him now.”

I looked down at my jagged nails and blistered palms. It wasn’t just the hands he owned. It was all of me. I was the commandant’s now. I belonged to him. I’d sold my soul for a chance to sneak into the commandant’s kitchen.

I plucked the flower from the earth and kept walking.

It was dark by the time we reached the main gate. Rollcall was over and the prisoners were being marched back to their bunks. They turned their heads to watch us pass, five women in stockings and silk scarves. A haggard old man spat at us and then someone smiled, a young girl in a wet dress with a yellow star. Her right eye was swollen shut and her feet were bare. I’d spent the day entertaining her jailer – I didn’t deserve her smile.

I was almost glad when they herded us to block 11 to change back into our old clothes. I pulled my dirty underwear on, slid my C sharp under the fraying waistband and slipped my dress over my head, the tin cup dangling at my waist. Erika was already in bed when I returned to the barrack.

“I hear you got the job.” The block leader stepped between me and the bunk. “I hope you can keep the boss happy. You
do
know how to keep men happy?” Her breath smelled of vodka. I stepped around her and fell onto the bunk beside Erika. My sister’s eyes were puffy. Her mouth sagged. I hated seeing my sister so wretched. She’d stepped off the train at Birkenau so angry, but her anger had disappeared and with it her strength.

I handed her the yellow flower. Half the petals had fallen off and the stem was bent, but she took the flower gratefully. She lay her head on my shoulder and wrapped her arms around my waist. She didn’t ask about the audition.

“What’s wrong?” I lifted her face from my neck and saw that she was crying. “Where’s Mother?”

Erika buried her head in her hands.

“Where’s
Anyu
?” I pulled away from her.

“
Anyu
’s gone.” Her face caved in. “The guards at selection made us hop up and down. They took her away.” Erika’s face was wet from crying. “It’s just us now.”

“Don’t talk like that!” I shook my head. “She was too sick to work in the quarry. They’ve probably taken her to the infirmary.”

“I don’t know.” Erika’s shoulders slumped. “I’ve heard things–”

I cut her off. I didn’t want to know what she’d heard. “They want us scared, not dead. They need us alive so we can work.” I buried my face in her dress.
What if I was wrong?
I pulled the blanket around us and closed my eyes. “We’ll see
Anyu
again,” I said, and then we were both sobbing, our grief muffled by the scratchy wool.

We stayed like that, our bodies heaving, crying soundlessly under our blanket, until the block leader called lights out and the barrack grew still. Outside it was dark, the cold silver moon strung up in the sky. I lay in bed but I couldn’t sleep. There was so much I wanted to tell my mother. I’d been so angry at her, so hateful. I wanted to tell her that I finally understood. She didn’t choose to ignore what was going on in the camp – she didn’t choose to ignore us – it was just all too hard: losing her home, then her husband. I wanted to tell her that I wasn’t angry with her any more. I wanted to tell her that we’d be okay, that I had a job and a plan and a way to get food. That I’d find her and feed her, and feed Erika too. I wasn’t losing her. Not yet. Not till she’d seen me graduate from the Budapest Conservatory and watched me perform at the Budapest Concert Hall and taught me to cook and watched me walk down the aisle.

I comforted myself with Clara Schumann’s Piano concerto in A minor, rehearsing the music in my head, picturing the notes on the page, trying to lose myself in the melody. I thought of the perilous situations Clara had survived. In 1849, during the Dresden uprising, she’d walked through the city’s front lines, defying a mob of armed men to rescue her children.
Anyu
and Erika had looked out for me my whole life. It was my turn to take care of them. It was my turn to be strong.