The Tattooist of Auschwitz(42)

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‘Where is he?’ his father roars, storming into the house.

Once again Lale has not turned up to work. His father is late home for supper because he had to do Lale’s work for him. Lale runs and tries to hide behind his mother, pulling her away from the bench where she stands, putting a barrier between himself and his father. She reaches back and grabs hold of whatever part of Lale or his clothing she can, protecting him from what would otherwise be a cuff over the head at the least. His father doesn’t force her away or make any further attempt to reach Lale.

‘I’ll deal with him,’ his mother says. ‘After dinner I’ll punish him. Now sit down.’

Lale’s brother and sister roll their eyes. They’ve seen and heard it all before.

Later that evening, Lale promises his mother he will try to be more helpful to his father. But it is so hard to help his father out. Lale fears he will end up like him, old before his time, too tired to pay his wife a simple compliment about her looks or the food she spends all day preparing for him. That is not who Lale wants to be.

‘I’m your favourite, aren’t I, Mumma?’ Lale would ask. If the two of them were alone in the house, his mother would hug him tightly. ‘Yes, my darling, you are.’ If his brother or sister were present, ‘You are all my favourites.’ Lale never heard his brother or sister ask this question, but they might have in his absence. When he was a young boy, he would often announce to his family that he was going to marry his mother when he grew up. His father would pretend not to hear. His siblings would goad Lale into a fight, pointing out that their mother was already married. After breaking up their fights his mother would take him aside and explain to him that he would find someone else one day to love and care for. He never wanted to believe her.

As he became a young man he would run home to his mother each day for the hugged greeting, the feel of her comforting body, her soft skin, the kisses she planted on his forehead.

‘What can I do to help you?’ he would say.

‘You’re such a good boy. You will make someone a wonderful husband one day.’

‘Tell me what to do to be a good husband. I don’t want to be like Papa. He doesn’t make you smile. He doesn’t help you.’

‘Your papa works very hard to earn money for us to live.’

‘I know, but can’t he do both? Earn money and make you smile?’

‘You have a lot to learn before you grow up, young man.’

‘Then teach me. I want the girl I marry to like me, to be happy with me.’

Lale’s mother sat down, and he took a seat across from her. ‘You must first learn to listen to her. Even if you are tired, never be too tired to listen to what she has to say. Learn what she likes, and more importantly what she doesn’t like. When you can, give her little treats – flowers, chocolates – women like these things.’

‘When was the last time Papa brought you a treat?’

‘It doesn’t matter. You want to know what girls want, not what I get.’

‘When I’ve got money, I’ll bring you flowers and chocolates, I promise.’

‘You should save your money for the girl who captures your heart.’

‘How will I know who she is?’

‘Oh, you’ll know.’

She drew him into her arms and stroked his hair: her boy, her young man.

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Her image dissolves – tears, the picture blurs, he blinks – and he imagines Gita in his arms, him stroking her hair.

‘You were right, Mumma. I do know.’

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Jakub comes for him. He drags him down a corridor to a small windowless room. A single light bulb hangs from the ceiling. Handcuffs dangle from a chain on the back wall. There is a birch rod lying on the floor. Two SS officers talk together, seemingly oblivious to Lale’s presence. He shuffles backwards, not raising his eyes above the floor. Without warning, Jakub swings a punch into Lale’s face, sending him stumbling back against the wall. The officers now pay attention. Lale attempts to stand. Jakub winds his right foot slowly back. Lale anticipates the coming kick. He backs away just as Jakub’s foot connects with his ribs, then exaggerates the impact by rolling and heaving and clutching his chest. As he slowly rises Jakub punches him in the face again. He takes the full force this time, though Jakub had telegraphed his intention to hit him. Blood runs freely from his smashed nose. Jakub pulls Lale roughly to his feet and handcuffs him to the dangling chain.

Jakub picks up the birch, tears the shirt from Lale’s back, and lashes him five times. Then he pulls Lale’s trousers and underpants down and whips him across the buttocks five more times. Lale’s yelps are not feigned. Jakub jerks Lale’s head back.

‘Give us the names of the prisoners who steal for you!’ Jakub says, firm and menacing.

The officers look on, standing casually.

Lale shakes his head, whimpering, ‘I don’t know.’ Jakub strikes Lale ten more times. Blood runs down his legs. The two officers begin to pay more attention and step closer. Jakub jerks Lale’s head back and snarls at him, ‘Talk!’ He whispers in his ear, ‘Say you don’t know and then faint.’ And then louder, ‘Give us the names!’

‘I never ask! I don’t know. You have to believe me …’

Jakub punches Lale in the stomach. He buckles at the knees, rolls his eyes back and pretends to pass out. Jakub turns to the SS officers.