The Tattooist of Auschwitz(59)

‘Oh, OK. As you wish.’

Lale walks into the garage and nods to the attendant, who is busy washing a car. ‘Lovely day, Lale. Keys are in the jeep. I hear you’re going alone today.’

‘Yes, Fredrich’s been transferred; sure hope it isn’t to the front.’

The attendant laughs. ‘Just be his rotten luck.’

‘Oh, I’ve got permission to be back later than usual today.’

‘Want a bit of action for yourself, do you?’

‘Something like that. See you later.’

‘OK, have a good day.’

Lale hops casually into the jeep and drives away from the chalet without looking back. In the village, he parks at the end of the main street, leaves the keys in the ignition and walks away. He spots a bicycle leaning outside a shop, which he casually wheels away. Then he hops on and cycles out of town.

A few kilometres away he is stopped by a Russian patrol.

A young officer challenges him. ‘Where are you going?’

‘I have been a prisoner of the Germans for three years. I am from Slovakia and I am going home.’

The Russian grabs hold of the handlebars, forcing Lale to dismount. He turns away from him and receives a firm kick up the bum.

‘The walk will do you good. Now fuck off.’

Lale walks on. Not worth arguing.

Evening arrives and he does not stop walking. He can see the lights of a small town ahead and picks up his pace. The place is crawling with Russian soldiers, and even though they ignore him, he feels he must move on. On the outskirts of town he comes across a railway station and hurries over to it, thinking he might find a bench to lay his head for a few hours. Walking out onto a platform, he finds a train alongside, but no signs of life. The train fills him with foreboding, but he represses the fear, and walks up and down, peering inside. Carriages. Carriages designed for people. A light in the nearby station office catches his attention and he walks towards it. Inside, a stationmaster rocks on a chair, his head dropping forward as he fights the need to sleep. Lale steps back from the window and fakes a coughing fit before approaching with a confidence he doesn’t really feel. The stationmaster, now awake, comes to the window, opening it just enough for a conversation.

‘Can I help you?’

‘The train, where is it headed?’

‘Bratislava.’

‘Can I travel on it?’

‘Can you pay?’

Lale pulls the sock from his jacket, extracts two diamonds and hands them to him. As he does so, the sleeve on his left arm rides up, revealing his tattoo. The stationmaster takes the gems. ‘The end carriage, no one will bother you there. It’s not leaving until six in the morning though.’

Lale glances at the clock inside the station. Eight hours away.

‘I can wait. How long is the journey?’

‘About an hour and a half.’

‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’

As Lale is heading for the end carriage he is stopped by a call from the stationmaster, who catches up to him and hands him food and a thermos.

‘It’s just a sandwich the wife made, but the coffee’s hot and strong.’

Taking the food and coffee, Lale’s shoulders sag and he can’t hold back the tears. He looks up to see the stationmaster also has tears in his eyes as he turns away, heading back to his office.

‘Thank you.’ He can barely get the words out.

?

Day breaks as they reach the border with Slovakia. An official approaches Lale and asks for his papers. Lale rolls up his sleeve to show his only form of identification: 32407.

‘I am Slovakian,’ he says.

‘Welcome home.’





Chapter 28


Bratislava. Lale steps off the train into the city where he has lived and been happy, where his life should have been playing out for the last three years. He wanders through districts he used to know so well. Many are now barely recognisable, due to bombing. There is nothing here for him. He has to find a way back to Krompachy, some two hundred and fifty miles away: it will be a long trip home. It takes him four days of walking, interspersed with occasional rides in horse-drawn carriages, a ride bareback on a horse and one on a tractor-drawn cart. He pays, when he needs to, the only way he can: a diamond here, an emerald there. Eventually he walks down the street he grew up in and stands across from his family home. The palings of the front fence are gone, leaving just the twisted posts. The flowers, once his mother’s pride and joy, are strangled by weeds and overgrown grass. Rough timber is nailed over a broken window.

An elderly woman comes out of the house opposite and stomps over to him.

‘What do you think you’re doing? Away with you!’ she screams, brandishing a wooden spoon.

‘I’m sorry. It’s just … I used to live here.’

The old lady peers at him, recognition dawning. ‘Lale? Is that you?’

‘Yes. Oh, Mrs Molnar, is that you? You … You look …’

‘Old. I know. Oh my Lord, Lale, is it really you?’

They embrace. In choking voices they ask each other how they are, without either letting the other answer properly. Finally, his neighbour pulls away from him.

‘What are you doing standing out here? Go on in, go home.’

‘Is anyone living there?’