The Tattooist of Auschwitz(17)

He slides his back down the wall of the building, pulling Gita with him. From there they can see the forest beyond the perimeter fence. Gita peers down at the ground while Lale looks intently at her.

‘Hello . . .’ he says tentatively.

‘Hello,’ she replies.

‘I hope I haven’t frightened you.’

‘Are we safe?’ She darts a look at the nearby guard tower.

‘Probably not, but I can’t go on just seeing you. I need to be with you and talk to you like people should.’

‘But we’re not safe –’

‘It’s never going to be safe. Talk to me. I want to hear your voice. I want to know all about you. All I know is your name. Gita. It’s beautiful.’

‘What do you want me to say?’

Lale struggles for the right question. He goes for something ordinary. ‘How about … How’s your day been?’

Now she lifts her head and looks him straight in the eyes. ‘Oh, you know how it is. Got up, had a big breakfast, kissed Mumma and Papa goodbye before catching the bus to work. Work was –’

‘OK, OK, I’m sorry, dumb question.’

They sit side by side but looking away from each other. Lale listens to Gita’s breathing. She taps a thumb against her thigh. Finally, she says, ‘So how is your day going?’

‘Oh, you know. Got up, had a big breakfast …’

They look at each other and laugh quietly. Gita gently nudges against 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 surname?’

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, before withdrawing it. ‘I don’t want to upset you, but will you promise me one thing?’

‘What?’

‘Before we leave here, you will tell me who you are and where you come from.’

She looks him in the eyes, ‘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 mould – 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 village who also work in the Canada. They tell me they often find jewels and money.’

‘I’ve heard that. I just seem to find mouldy 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.





Chapter 6


Weeks have gone by; the trees surrounding the camp have dropped their leaves, the days have become shorter as winter advances.

Who are these people? Lale has been asking himself this question ever since he arrived in the camp. These 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 towards 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 speaks 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.’