The Tattooist of Auschwitz(8)

The bus is so full that the last men to board cling to the steps with their tiptoes, their naked bottoms hanging out the door. Officers shove their weight against the bodies. Then the doors are slammed shut. One officer walks around the bus, rapping on the metal sheets, checking everything is secure. A nimble officer clambers onto the roof with a canister in his hand. Unable to move, Lale watches as he opens a small hatch on the roof of the bus and upends the canister. Then he slams the lid down and latches it. As the guard scurries down, the bus shakes violently and muffled screams are heard.

Lale drops to his knees, retching. He remains there, sick in the dirt, as the screams fade.

When the bus is still and quiet, the doors are opened. Dead men fall out like blocks of stone.

A group of prisoners is marched out from beyond the other corner of the building. The truck backs up and the prisoners begin transferring the bodies onto it, staggering under the weight while trying to hide their distress. Lale has witnessed an unimaginable act. He staggers to his feet, standing on the threshold of hell, an inferno of feelings raging inside him.

The next morning he cannot rise. He is burning up.

?

It takes seven days for Lale to regain consciousness. Someone is pouring water gently into his mouth. He registers a cool damp rag on his forehead.

‘There, boy,’ says a voice. ‘Take it easy.’

Lale opens his eyes to see a stranger, an older man, peering gently into his face. He pushes himself up onto his elbows and the stranger supports him to sit. He looks around, confused. What day is it? Where is he?

‘The fresh air might do you good,’ says the man, taking Lale’s elbow.

He is escorted outside into a cloudless day, one that seems made for joy, and he shivers at the memory of the last day like this. His world spins and he staggers. The stranger supports him, leading him to a nearby pile of timber.

Pulling up Lale’s sleeve, he points to the tattooed number.

‘My name is Pepan. I am the T?towierer. What do you think of my handiwork?’

‘T?towierer?’ says Lale, ‘You mean, you did this to me?’

Pepan shrugs, looking Lale directly in the eye. ‘I wasn’t given a choice.’

Lale shakes his head. ‘This number wouldn’t have been my first choice of tattoo.’

‘What would you have preferred?’ asks Pepan.

Lale smiles slyly.

‘What’s her name?’

‘My sweetheart? I don’t know. We haven’t met yet.’

Pepan chuckles. The two men sit in companionable silence. Lale traces a finger over his numbers.

‘What is your accent?’ says Lale.

‘I am French.’

‘And what happened to me?’ Lale asks finally.

‘Typhus. You were destined for an early grave.’

Lale shudders. ‘Then why am I sitting here with you?’

‘I was walking past your block just as your body was being thrown onto a cart for the dead and dying. A young man was pleading with the SS to leave you, saying that he would take care of you. When they went into the next block he pushed you off the cart and started dragging you back inside. I went and helped him.’

‘How long ago was this?’

‘Seven, eight days. Since then the men in your block have looked after you during the night. I’ve spent as much time as I can during the day caring for you. How do you feel?’

‘I feel OK. I don’t know what to say, how to thank you.’

‘Thank the man who pushed you from the cart. It was his courage that held you back from the jaws of death.’

‘I will when I find out who it was. Do you know?’

‘No. I’m sorry. We didn’t exchange names.’

Lale closes his eyes for a few moments, letting the sun warm his skin, giving him the energy, the will, to go on. He lifts his sagging shoulders, and resolve seeps back into him. He is still alive. He stands on shaking legs, stretching, trying to breathe new life back into an ailing body in need of rest, nourishment and hydration.

‘Sit down, you’re still very weak.’

Conceding the obvious, Lale does so. Only now his back is straighter, his voice firmer. He gives Pepan a smile. The old Lale is back, almost as hungry for information as he is for food. ‘I see you wear a red star,’ he says.

‘Ah yes. I was an academic in Paris and was too outspoken for my own good.’

‘What did you teach?’

‘Economics.’

‘And being a teacher of economics got you here? How?’

‘Well, Lale, a man who lectures on taxation and interest rates can’t help but get involved in the politics of his country. Politics will help you understand the world until you don’t understand it anymore, and then it will get you thrown into a prison camp. Politics and religion both.’

‘And will you go back to that life when you leave here?’

‘An optimist! I don’t know what my future holds, or yours.’

‘No crystal ball then.’

‘No, indeed.’

Through the noise of construction, dogs barking and guards shouting, Pepan leans forward and asks, ‘Are you as strong in character as you are physically?’

Lale returns Pepan’s gaze. ‘I’m a survivor.’

‘Your strength can be a weakness, given the circumstances we find ourselves in. Charm and an easy smile will get you in trouble.’