The Librarian of Auschwitz(16)

He discovered that what he enjoyed most was coaching teams and organizing tournaments for the youngest children. And he was very good at it, inspiring the kids with his passion. His teams always fought to the bitter end.

“Let’s go! Keep going! Try harder, harder!” he’d shout at the children from the sideline. “If you don’t fight for victory, then don’t cry when you lose!”

Fredy Hirsch never cries.

Up, down. Up, down. Up, down

When he is finished with his push-ups, Fredy stands, satisfied. That is, as satisfied as the secret keeper can be.





5.

Rudi Rosenberg has been inside Birkenau for almost two years, and that’s quite an achievement. It’s turned him into an old camp hand at the ripe age of nineteen and earned him the position of registrar. The registrar keeps the books on prisoner numbers in a place where the ebb and flow of people is tragically constant. The Nazis, meticulous about everything, including killing, have a high regard for this position. That’s why Rudi doesn’t wear the regular prisoner’s uniform. He proudly sports a pair of riding pants, a luxury item. All the other prisoners wear filthy striped uniforms except for the Kapos, the cooks, and those in positions of trust like the barrack secretaries and registrars. And other exceptional cases, like in the family camp.

Rudi passes through the control post of the quarantine camp he’s been assigned to, on the other side of the fence from camp BIIb, the family camp. He displays the affable smile of a model prisoner for any guards he comes across. They let him through when he tells them he’s headed for camp BIIb to deliver some lists.

He walks along the wide perimeter dirt road connecting the camps of the Birkenau complex and gazes at the distant line of trees that marks the start of the forest. At this hour on a winter afternoon, it forms a dim outline. A gust of wind carries a faint scent of the wet undergrowth, moss and mushrooms. He closes his eyes for a moment to savor it. Freedom is the smell of a damp forest.

He’s been summoned to a secret meeting to talk about the mysterious family camp.

When Rudi Rosenberg arrives at the designated meeting point behind one of the barracks in camp BIIb, two men, leaders of the Resistance, are waiting for him. One wears a cook’s apron and is sickly pale; he introduces himself as Lem. David Schmulewski, the other man, started out as a roofer and is now assistant to the Block?ltester of Block 27 in camp BIIb. He is dressed in civilian clothes: worn corduroy pants and a sweater that’s as wrinkled as his face.

They’ve already received basic information about the arrival of the December intake of prisoners to family camp BIIb, but they want Rosenberg to provide them with all the details he has. Rudi confirms the arrival of five thousand Jews from the Terezín ghetto. They arrived at the family camp in two separate trainloads three days apart. As with the September intake, they’ve been allowed to stay in civilian clothes, their heads haven’t been shaved, and children have been allowed entry.

The two Resistance leaders listen silently. It’s hard for them to comprehend why a death factory like Auschwitz, where inmates are valuable only for their labor, would convert one of its camps into something as unprofitable as a family compound.

“I still don’t get it,” mutters Schmulewski. “The Nazis are psychopaths and criminals, but they’re not stupid. Why would they want young children in a forced labor camp when they consume food, occupy space, and don’t produce anything useful?”

“Could it be some experiment on a grand scale by that lunatic Dr. Mengele?”

No one knows. Rosenberg turns to another mystery. The documentation that arrived with the September shipment of inmates came with a special annotation: “Sonderbehandlung (special treatment) after six months.” And SB6 was added to the number tattooed on each prisoner’s arm.

“Does anyone know anything more about that ‘special treatment’?”

The question hangs in the air, unanswered. The Polish cook continues to scratch away at a bit of dried food stuck to his apron, which hasn’t been clean in a long while. Schmulewski whispers what they’re all thinking: “In here, treatments are so special that they kill.”

“But what’s the point?” asks Rudi Rosenberg. “If they plan to get rid of them, why spend money feeding them for six months? It’s not logical.”

“It has to be. If you learn anything when you’re working near the Germans, it’s that everything has its rationale, whatever it might be. It might be terrible or cruel … but there’s always a reason.”

“And even if the special treatment consisted in taking them off to the gas chambers, what could we do?”

“Not a lot right now. We’re not even sure that’s what it is.”

Just then, another man arrives. He’s young, tall and strong, and he’s nervous. He’s not wearing the prisoner’s uniform, either; instead, he has a turtleneck sweater—a rare privilege for an inmate. Rudi makes as if to leave so they won’t think he’s meddling, but the Pole gestures for him to stay.

“Thanks for coming, Shlomo. We get very little information about the special operations unit.”

“I won’t be able to stay long, Schmulewski.”

The young man waves his hands around a lot. Rudi deduces from this that he must be a Latin, and he’s not wrong. Shlomo comes from a Jewish-Italian community in Thessaloníki.