The Librarian of Auschwitz(18)
“And do you bury them?”
“That would require too many work squads! They don’t want that. May God forgive me. The corpses are sprayed with gasoline and burned. Then the ashes are shoveled onto a truck. I think they use them as fertilizer. The hip bones are too large to burn properly, so they have to be crushed.”
“My God,” whispers Rudi.
“In case anyone hadn’t realized it,” says Schmulewski sternly, “that’s Auschwitz–Birkenau.”
*
While this somber meeting is taking place, two camps away Dita arrives at Barrack 22, next to the second block of latrines. She looks around: No sign of any guards or suspicious persons. Despite that, she can’t shake off the unpleasant sensation of being watched. But she goes inside the hut.
That morning, after roll call, her attention had been caught by an older woman wandering close to the barbed wire fence, despite the fact that it was forbidden. Mrs. Turnovská, whom Dita refers to as Radio Birkenau, had told her mother that the guards gave this woman some leeway because she’s the seamstress. The woman—everyone knows her as Dudince because that’s the name of the city she comes from in southern Slovakia—finds small broken pieces of wire near the fence, which she sharpens with a stone and then forms into sewing needles.
Dita has committed to continuing as librarian, but she has to find a safer way of carrying out her duties. The time between the last roll call and curfew, after which no one is allowed to leave their barracks, is the time for deals and transactions, and that’s when Dudince meets with her customers. She says her repairs are the cheapest in Poland: half a bread ration to shorten a jacket; two cigarettes to take in the waistband on a pair of pants; an entire bread ration to patch a big tear.
She sits on her bunk, a cigarette dangling from her lips, as she measures material with a tape measure she’s marked off by eye. When she looks up to see what’s blocking her light, she finds a skinny adolescent girl with messy hair and a determined look on her face.
“I want you to make me two pockets to wear inside my smock, attached to the side seams under my armpits. They have to be strong.”
The woman takes hold of what’s left of the cigarette with the tips her fingers and inhales deeply.
“I get it—a couple of holsters under your clothes. And what are you going to use those secret pockets for?”
“I didn’t say they were to be secret…”
Dita gives an exaggerated smile, trying to look a bit stupid. The woman raises her eyebrows as she looks at her.
Dita begins to regret having made this trip. There are stories all over the camp of informers who sell their fellow prisoners for a bowl of soup or half a pack of cigarettes. And she notices that the seamstress smokes with the air of a ruined vampire—Dita secretly baptizes her with the name Countess Cigarette Butt.
It does also occur to Dita, however, that if the seamstress were receiving an informer’s privileges, there’d be no need for her to spend her afternoons sewing by the feeble light of the lamps in the hut. And she feels a certain tenderness toward the seamstress.
No, Countess Patches is a better nickname for her.
“Well, yes, it’s a bit secret. I want to carry some mementos of my dead grandmothers.”
Dita adopts the air of a na?ve young girl again.
“Look, I’m going to give you some advice,” says the seamstress. “And I’ll even give it to you for free. If you can’t do a better job of lying, you’d be better off telling the truth from now on.”
The woman takes another deep drag on her cigarette, so deep that the burning embers are right at her yellow-stained fingers. Dita blushes and looks down. Old Dudince is the one who smiles now, like a granny confronted by a naughty granddaughter.
“Child, I don’t give a damn about what you’re going to put in them. It could be a gun, for all I care; in fact, I hope it is a gun and you shoot some of those bastards,” she says, spitting out some dark saliva. “I’m only asking because it sounds like what you want to hide is heavy, and if it weighs a lot, it’ll pull your smock out of shape and be very noticeable. So I’d have to add some pleats to the side seams to reinforce them so they can bear the weight.”
“It’s heavy. But I’m afraid it’s not a gun.”
“Fine, fine; it’s of no interest to me. I don’t want to know any more. It will require some work. Have you brought any material? No, of course not. Well, Aunt Dudince has some leftover scraps that’ll do. Sewing it will cost you half a ration of bread and a piece of margarine, and the material will be another quarter ration of bread.”
“Done,” Dita replies.
The seamstress looks at her in amazement—even more than when she thought Dita wanted to hide a gun.
“You’re not going to bargain?”
“No. You’re doing a job, and it deserves fair recompense.”
The woman’s laugh turns into a cough, and then she spits off to one side.
“Young people! You know nothing about life. Is that what that handsome director of yours teaches you? Still, a bit of integrity isn’t a bad thing, either. Look, forget about the margarine; I’m sick of that yellow fat. Just make it half a ration of bread; the material isn’t a big deal, so I’ll give it to you for free.”
Night has fallen by the time Dita leaves Countess Patches, and she heads quickly for her hut. She doesn’t want any more unexpected encounters at this hour of the night. But a hand grabs her arm and a hysterical shriek emerges from her throat.