The Librarian of Auschwitz(33)
“No, that’s not right!”
And she has to rewind and tell the whole story without leaving anything out. The more times the children hear the story, the more it’s a part of them.
The story comes to an end, and the guessing games being played by other groups also finish, along with the craft work. A group of girls has been making puppets out of old socks and wooden sticks. The children leave the hut and return to their families once the deputy director has finished the afternoon roll call.
The assistants finish their tasks quickly. Sweeping the floor with twig brooms is more of a ritual or a way of justifying their positions than an actual necessity. Arranging the stools doesn’t take long, either, or cleaning up the nonexistent leftovers from the meal, because nothing is wasted. The bowls are licked clean down to the very last drop of soup; even a crumb is like treasure. As the assistants complete their pretend cleanup, they leave the hut, and a peacefulness descends on Block 31.
The teachers sit down together on stools and discuss the day’s events. Dita is in her corner behind the woodpile, where she often goes when classes are over to read for a while, since the books can’t be taken from the hut. She notices a stick propped up against a wall in her corner. It has a small net at the top made out of string. It could be a crude butterfly net, although it’s so badly strung that if you tried to catch a butterfly, it would escape through one of the many holes. She can’t imagine who might be the owner of such a useless item. There aren’t any butterflies in Auschwitz anyway. If only!
She spots something in the gap between some planks in the wall, and when she pulls it out, she sees it’s a tiny pencil, little more than a stub with a black tip. But a pencil is an extraordinary piece of equipment. She picks up a small origami bird left behind by Professor Morgenstern and carefully unfolds it. She’s left with a scrap of paper to draw on. She hasn’t drawn anything for so long … Not since Terezín.
A very nice art teacher who gave classes to the children in the ghetto used to say that painting was a way of escaping. She was such a cultured and enthusiastic person that Dita never dared contradict her. But unlike books, drawing never took her out of herself or made her climb aboard the carriage of other lives—quite the opposite. Drawing catapulted her inside herself. Her Terezín drawings were dark, with unsettled strokes and dark-gray, stormy skies. Drawing was a way of having a conversation with herself when she was overcome by the idea that her youth, which had barely begun, already seemed to be over.
Dita sketches the barrack: the stools, the straight stone line of the chimney, and the two benches—one for her and the other for the books.
She can’t avoid overhearing the teachers’ voices, which sound fraught this afternoon. Mrs. Nasty is complaining bitterly that it’s impossible for her to teach the children geography over the noise of the yells and orders accompanying the deported prisoners who arrive at the camp and walk past Block 31 on their way to the showers and their death.
“Trains arrive, and we have to pretend that we can’t hear anything. We carry on with our lessons, while the children whisper among themselves. We act as if we can’t hear a thing, as if we knew nothing about it.… Wouldn’t it be better to face up to it and talk to the children about the concentration camp? They all know what is going on anyway, so let them talk about their fears.”
Fredy Hirsch isn’t there today. He tends to shut himself in his cubicle to work and takes part less and less in the social life of the hut. When Dita enters his den to put the books back in their hiding place, she often sees him totally focused on what he’s writing on pieces of paper. He explained to her once that it was a report for Berlin; they were really interested in the Block 31 experiment. Dita wonders if those reports are linked to the shadow that Hirsch is trying to hide from the others.
In his absence, it’s Miriam Edelstein who has to be uncompromising with the difficult Mrs. K?i?ková and remind her of the orders of the block management.
“But do you honestly believe that the children aren’t concerned?” another teacher interrupts.
“All the more reason, then,” answers Miriam Edelstein. “What’s the point in endlessly going on about it? Endlessly rubbing salt into the wound? This school has a mission over and above the one of pure education: to convey a certain sense of normalcy to them, prevent them from becoming disheartened, and show them that life goes on.”
“For how long?” asks someone, and the conversation gets stirred up again. Comments, both pessimistic and optimistic, erupt everywhere, together with all manner of theories about how to explain the tattoo on the arms of all the children, the tattoo that refers to special treatment after six months. For those in the September transport, that time is edging ever nearer. The conversation descends into chaos.
Dita, the only young assistant allowed to stay in the hut at this hour, is somewhat uncomfortable at witnessing the teachers’ discussion, and the word death rings in her ears as something almost obscene and sinful, something a young girl shouldn’t be overhearing. So she leaves. She hasn’t seen Fredy anywhere all day. Apparently, he’s busy with something really important. He has to prepare for a ceremonial visit from the high command. Miriam Edelstein has the key to his cubicle. She opens the door so Dita can go in and hide the books. The two exchange a quick look. Dita tries to detect a hint of betrayal or insincerity in the deputy director, but she doesn’t know what to think anymore. All she can see in Mrs. Edelstein is a deep sadness.