The Tattooist of Auschwitz(13)

‘Carry that bag with you at all times, identify yourself with the words “Politische Abteilung” and no one will bother you. Return the numbered paper to us every night, but keep hold of the bag.’

Baretski snorts beside Lale. ‘It’s true, with that bag and those words you are safe, except from me of course. Screw up and get me into trouble and no bag or words will save you.’ His hand goes to his pistol, rests on the holster, flicks the catch open. Closed. Open. Closed. His breathing grows deeper.

Lale does the smart thing, lowers his eyes and turns away.

?

Transports come into Auschwitz-Birkenau at all times of the day and night. It isn’t unusual for Lale and Leon to work around the clock. On such days Baretski shows his most unpleasant side. He screams abuse or beats Leon, blaming him for keeping him from his bed with his slowness. Lale quickly learns that the bad treatment gets worse if he tries to prevent it.

Finishing up in the early hours of one morning at Auschwitz, Baretski turns to walk away before Lale and Leon have packed up. Then he turns back, a look of indecision on his face.

‘Oh fuck it, you two can walk back to Birkenau on your own. I’m sleeping here tonight. Just be back here at eight in the morning.’

‘How are we meant to know what the time is?’ Lale asks.

‘I don’t give a fuck how you do it, just be here. And don’t even think about running away. I’ll hunt you down myself, kill you and enjoy it.’ He staggers off.

‘What do we do?’ Leon asks.

‘What the arsehole told us to. Come on – I’ll get you up in time to make it back here.’

‘I’m so tired. Can’t we stay here?’

‘No. If you’re not seen in your block in the morning they’ll be out looking for you. Come on, let’s get going.’

?

Lale rises with the sun, and he and Leon make the four-kilometre trek back to Auschwitz. They wait for what seems like an hour until Baretski shows up. It is obvious he didn’t go straight to bed but has been up drinking. When his breath is foul, his temper is worse.

‘Get moving,’ he bellows.

With no sign of new prisoners, Lale has to reluctantly ask the question, ‘To where?’

‘Back to Birkenau. The transports have dropped the latest lot there.’

?

As the trio walk the four kilometres back to Birkenau, Leon stumbles and falls – fatigue and lack of nourishment overcoming him. He picks himself back up. Baretski slows his walk, seemingly waiting for Leon to catch up. As Leon does, Baretski sticks his leg out, causing him to fall again. Several times more on the journey, Baretski plays his little game. The walk and the pleasure he derives from tripping Leon seem to sober him up. Each time he watches Lale for his reaction. He gets nothing.

On arriving back at Birkenau, Lale is surprised to see Houstek overseeing the selection of who will be sent to Lale and Leon to live another day. They begin their work while Baretski marches up and down the line of young men, trying to look competent in front of his superior. The sound of a young man squealing as Leon tries to mark his arm startles the exhausted boy. He drops his tattooing stick. As he bends down to pick it up, Baretski hits him on the back with his rifle, splaying him face down in the dirt. He puts a foot on his back and presses him down.

‘We can get the job done faster if you let him pick himself up and get on with it,’ Lale says, watching Leon’s breath become short and sharp beneath Baretski’s boot.

Houstek bears down on the three men and mumbles something to Baretski. When Houstek disappears, Baretski, with a sour smile, pushes his foot down hard on Leon’s body before releasing it.

‘I am just a humble servant of the SS. You, T?towierer, have been placed under the auspices of the Political Wing, who answer to Berlin only. It was your lucky day when the Frenchman introduced you to Houstek and told him how clever you are, speaking all those languages.’

There is no correct answer to this question so Lale busies himself with his work. A muddied Leon rises, coughing.

‘So, T?towierer,’ Baretski says, his sick smile returning, ‘how about we be friends?’

?

An advantage of being T?towierer is that Lale knows the date. It is written on the paperwork he is given each morning and which he returns each evening. It is not just the paperwork which tells him that. Sunday is the only day of the week the other prisoners are not forced to work and can spend the day milling around in the compound or staying near their blocks, huddled together in small groups – friendships brought into the camp, friendships made in the camp.

It is a Sunday when he sees her. He recognises her at once. They walk towards each other, Lale on his own, she with a group of girls, all with shaven heads, all wearing the same plain clothing. There is nothing to distinguish her except for those eyes. Black – no, brown. The darkest brown he’s ever seen. For the second time they peer into each other’s souls. Lale’s heart skips a beat. The gaze lingers.

‘T?towierer!’ Baretski places a hand on Lale’s shoulder, breaking the spell.

The prisoners move away, not wanting to be near an SS officer or the prisoner to whom he is talking. The group of girls scatters, leaving her looking at Lale, looking at her. Baretski’s eyes move from one to the other as they stand in a perfect triangle, each waiting for the other to shift. Baretski has a knowing smile. Bravely, one of her friends advances and pulls her back into the group.