The Tattooist of Auschwitz(18)

‘That’s none of your business, Jew boy,’ says the younger man, himself no more than a boy.

‘Just being friendly. You know how it is – checking out my surrounds and I became curious about you and your friends. My name is Lale.’

‘Get lost!’ the young one says.

‘Settle down, boy. Don’t mind him,’ the older man says to Lale, his voice rough from too many cigarettes. ‘My name’s Victor. The mouth here is my son Yuri.’ Victor extends his hand, which Lale shakes. Lale then offers his hand to Yuri, but he doesn’t take it.

‘We live nearby,’ Victor explains, ‘so we come here to work each day.’

‘I just want to get this straight. You come here each day voluntarily? I mean, you’re paid to be here?’

Yuri pipes up. ‘That’s right Jew boy, we get paid and go home every night. You lot –’

‘I said shut it, Yuri. Can’t you see the man’s just being friendly?’

‘Thanks, Victor. I’m not here to cause trouble. Like I said, just checking things out.’

‘What’s the bag for?’ snaps Yuri, smarting at having been reprimanded in front of Lale.

‘My tools. My tools for tattooing the numbers on the prisoners. I’m the T?towierer.’

‘Busy job,’ quips Victor.

‘Some days. I never know when transports are coming or how big.’

‘I hear there’s worse to come.’

‘Are you prepared to tell me?’

‘This building. I’ve seen the plans. You’re not going to like what it is.’

‘Surely it can’t be any worse than what goes on here already.’ Lale now stands, bracing himself on the pile of bricks.

‘It’s called Crematorium One,’ Victor says quietly, and looks away.

‘Crematorium. One. With the possibility of a number two?’

‘Sorry. I said you wouldn’t like it.’

Lale punches the last brick laid, sending it flying, and shakes his hand in pain.

Victor reaches into a nearby bag and produces a piece of dried sausage wrapped in wax-paper.

‘Here, take this, I know they’re starving you people, and I’ve got plenty where this came from.’

‘That’s our lunch!’ Yuri cries, rushing to take the sausage from his father’s outstretched hand.

Victor pushes Yuri away. ‘It won’t hurt you to go without for a day. This man needs it more.’

‘I’m gonna tell Mum when we get home.’

‘You’d better hope I don’t tell her about your attitude. You’ve got a lot to learn about being civilised, young man. Let this be your first lesson.’

Lale still hasn’t taken the sausage. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause trouble.’

‘Well, you have,’ wails a petulant Yuri.

‘No, he hasn’t.’ says Victor. ‘Lale, take the sausage, and come and see us again tomorrow. I’ll have more for you. Hell, if we can help just one of you, we’ll do it. Right, Yuri?’

Yuri reluctantly extends his hand to Lale, who takes it.

‘Save the one, save the world,’ Lale says quietly, more to himself than the others.

‘I can’t help you all.’

Lale takes the food. ‘I don’t have anything to pay you with.’

‘It’s not a problem.’

‘Thank you. There might be a way I can pay you though. If I find a way, can you get me anything else, like chocolate?’ He wanted chocolate. That’s what you give a girl if you can get it.

‘I’m sure we can work something out. You’d better move on; there’s an officer paying us a bit of attention.’

‘See you,’ Lale says as he shoves the sausage in his bag. Stray snowflakes drift around him as he walks back to his block. The flakes catch in the last rays of the sun, bouncing strobes of light that remind him of a kaleidoscope he played with as a boy. What’s wrong with this picture? Lale is overcome with emotion as he hurries back to his block. On his face the melted snow is indistinguishable from the tears. The winter of 1942 has arrived.

?

Back in his room, Lale takes the chunk of sausage and breaks it carefully into even parts. He tears strips from the wax-paper and wraps each piece tightly before placing them back in his bag. As he comes to the last piece, Lale stops and considers the small, fulfilling parcel of food, sitting there next to his rough, dirty fingers. These fingers that used to be smooth and clean and plump, that handled rich food, that he used to hold up to tell hosts, ‘No, thank you, I couldn’t possibly have any more.’ With a shake of his head he places it too into the bag.

He heads towards one of the Canada buildings. He once asked a man in Block 7 if he knew why they called these sorting rooms by that name.

‘The girls who work there dream of a place far away where there is plenty of everything and life can be what they want it to be. They have decided Canada is such a place.’

Lale has spoken to a couple of girls working in this Canada. He has checked everyone exiting many times and knows Gita doesn’t work here. There are other buildings he cannot easily access. She must work in one of those. He spies two girls he has spoken to before, walking together. He reaches into his bag, withdraws two parcels and approaches them, smiling. He turns and walks alongside them.