The Librarian of Auschwitz(10)

“I know who you mean now. A very old man with a shabby, patched jacket—he always bows when he passes a lady. He’s always bobbing his head! I think that man is a bit crazy.”

“And who isn’t, in this place?”

When Dita reaches her hut, she sees her parents outside, sitting up against one of the long walls, resting. It’s cold outside, but very crowded inside the hut. They look tired, especially her father.

It’s a long workday: The guards wake them before dawn. They stand outdoors through a lengthy roll call, exposed to the elements, then labor all day. Dita’s father works producing shoulder straps for guns, and his hands are often blackened and blistered from the toxic resins and glues they use. Her mother is a cleaner in a workshop where they make hats. They work many hours with very little food, but at least they are sheltered from the elements. There are many who aren’t so lucky: Some must collect dead bodies with carts, some clean the latrines or drain the trenches, others spend the day hauling soup barrels.

Her father gives Dita a wink, while her mother quickly gets to her feet.

“Are you all right, Edita?”

“Ye-e-e-ss.”

“You’re not just pretending?”

“Of course not! I’m here, aren’t I?”

Just then, Mr. Tomá?ek walks past.

“Hans, Liesl! How are you? I see your daughter still has the prettiest smile in Europe.”

Dita blushes, and the two girls leave the grown-ups.

“Isn’t Mr. Tomá?ek kind!”

“Do you know him, too, Margit?”

“Yes, he often visits my parents. Here, many people only look after themselves, but Mr. Tomá?ek looks after others. He asks them how they’re doing; he takes an interest in their problems.”

“And he listens to them…”

“He’s a good man.”

“Thank goodness there are still people who haven’t been corrupted in this hell.”

Margit remains silent. Although she is a year older, Dita’s direct way of talking makes her feel uncomfortable, but she knows Dita’s right. Auschwitz not only kills innocents; it kills innocence as well.

“It’s cold, and your parents are outdoors, Dita. Won’t they catch pneumonia?”

“My mother prefers not to be inside with her bunkmate, who has lots of horrible boils … though she’s no worse than my bunkmate!”

“But you’re lucky—you both sleep on top bunks. We’re spread among the lowest bunks,” said Margit.

“You must really feel the damp seeping up from the ground.”

“Oh, Ditiňka, Ditiňka. The worst part isn’t what comes up from the ground, but what might come down from above. Vomit, diarrhea … bucketloads, Ditiňka. I’ve seen it in other bunks.”

Dita pauses for a moment and turns toward her, looking serious.

“Margit…”

“What?”

“You could ask for an umbrella for your birthday.”

Margit shakes her head. “How did you two manage to get those places on the top bunks?” she shoots back.

“You know what an uproar there was in the camp when our transport train arrived in December.”

The two girls stop talking for a moment. The September veterans had not only been fellow Czechs, they’d been friends, acquaintances, even family members who, like them, had been deported from Terezín. But nobody was pleased to see the new arrivals in December. The addition of five thousand new prisoners to the camp meant they’d have to share the water that dribbled from the taps; the roll calls would become interminable; and the huts would be absolutely jam-packed.

“When my mother and I went inside our assigned hut to find a bunk, it was total chaos.”

Margit nods. She remembers the arguments, shouts, and fights among women doing battle over a blanket or a filthy pillow.

“In my hut,” Margit explains, “there was a very sick woman who couldn’t stop coughing. Each time she tried to sit down on a straw mattress, its occupant would shove her onto the floor. ‘Idiots!’ the German-appointed woman prisoner who was the barrack supervisor, or Kapo, would yell at them. ‘Do you think you’re healthy? Do you really think it makes any difference whether there’s a sick woman sharing your bed?’”

“The Kapo was right.”

“You’re kidding! After she said that, the Kapo grabbed a stick and started to beat everyone, even the sick woman.”

Dita thinks back to the confusion of shouts, scurrying about, and weeping, and then continues.

“My mother wanted us to leave the hut until things calmed down inside. It was cold outside. A woman said that there wouldn’t be enough bunks even if we were to share, that some women would have to sleep on the dirt floor.”

“So what did you do?” asked Margit.

“Well, we went on freezing to death outside. You know my mother—she doesn’t like to call attention to herself. If a streetcar ran over her one day, she wouldn’t cry out, because she wouldn’t want to be a topic of conversation. But I was about to explode. So I didn’t ask her permission. I took off and ran inside before she could say anything. And I realized something.…”

“What?”

“The top bunks were almost all occupied. They had to be the best ones. In a place like this, you have to pay attention to what the old hands are doing.”