The Librarian of Auschwitz(35)

“That Nazi … he’s harassing me.”

“Has he done anything to you?”

“Not yet. But this morning, he came to my ditch again and planted himself right in front of me. I knew it was him. I didn’t lift my head. But he wasn’t going anywhere. He touched me on the arm.”

“What did you do?”

“I tossed a spadeful of dirt onto the feet of the girl next to me, and she started to screech like a wild animal. There was a bit of a kerfuffle, and the rest of the German patrol came over. He stepped back and didn’t say a word. But he was after me.… I’m not making it up. Margit saw it yesterday.”

“Yes. After roll call. The two of us were chatting before we headed back to our hut to see our parents, and he stopped a few steps away from us. He was looking at Renée—no question.”

“Was he looking angrily at her?” asks Dita.

“No. He was just staring. You know … that dirty look that men have.”

“Dirty?”

“I think he wants to have sex with Renée.”

“Are you crazy, Margit?”

“I know what I’m talking about. You can see everything in a man’s look. They stare as if they are already imagining you naked.”

“I’m frightened,” Renée whispers.

Dita hugs her and tells her they’re all afraid. She reassures her that they’ll keep her company whenever they can.

Renée’s eyes are watering and she’s trembling, but who knows if it’s because of the cold or her fear. Dita picks up a small chip of wood and starts to draw some squares on top of the snow-covered ground.

“What are you doing?” her two friends ask, almost in unison.

“Drawing a game of hopscotch.”

“For heaven’s sake, Ditiňka! We’re sixteen years old. We don’t play hopscotch; that’s a kids’ game.”

Dita continues to draw the squares meticulously as if she hasn’t heard Margit’s comment. And when she’s done, she looks up at them as they stand waiting for her reply.

“Everyone’s gone inside their huts. No one will see us!”

Renée and Margit frown and shake their heads as Dita searches for something on the ground.

“The woodchip will do,” she tells them, and she throws it into one of the squares.

She jumps and lands with a wobble.

“You’re clumsy,” says Renée, laughing.

“You think you can do any better in this snow?” Dita rebukes her, pretending to be angry.

Renée tucks up her dress, throws the woodchip, and begins to jump with perfect accuracy, to Margit’s applause. Margit goes next. She’s the worst of the three: She stumbles as she hops and falls spectacularly onto the snow-covered ground. As Dita tries to help her up, she slips on some ice and falls backward.

Renée laughs at the pair of them. From the ground, Margit and Dita throw snowballs at her, which land in her hair and turn it white.

And the three girls laugh. Finally, they are laughing.

Dita, wet but happy, hurries off because it’s time for her Wednesday geography class. On Mondays it’s math, and on Fridays, Latin. Her teacher is Mr. Adler, her father, and her notebook is her head.

She still remembers the day she came home to the apartment in Josefov and found her father—who no longer had an office to go to—sitting in the living-dining room at the only table they had, twirling the globe with his fingers. Dita walked over with her schoolbag to give him a kiss, as she did every afternoon. Sometimes he would sit her down on his lap and they’d play at naming a country, slowly spinning the globe on its metal stand, and stopping it suddenly using a finger at the spot where they guessed the country might be. He seemed distracted on that particular day. He told her they’d sent a message from her school: holidays. Now, the word holidays is music to a child’s ear. But the way in which her father had said it, and the sudden appearance of those unexpected school holidays made that music sound off-key. She remembers how her joy turned to distress when she realized that she would never have a school to go to again. Then her father signaled for her to sit on his lap.

“You’ll study at home. Uncle Emile, who’s a pharmacist, will teach you chemistry, and cousin Ruth will give you art classes. I’ll talk to them, you’ll see. And I’ll give you language classes and math.”

“And geography?”

“Of course. You’ll get sick of traveling around the world.”

And that’s what happened.

That was during their time in Prague, until they were deported to Terezín in 1942. And they weren’t such bad times when seen from the depths of Auschwitz. Up till the German occupation, her father had worked so hard that he hadn’t had much time to spend with his daughter. So Dita was happy that he became her teacher.

Now as Dita walks toward her father’s hut, she occasionally looks behind her, just in case Mengele is hot on her heels. Although, if truth be told, she’s more concerned at this point with knowing what to expect from the director of Block 31.

Her father is waiting for her by the side of the hut, as he is each Monday, Wednesday, and Friday if it’s not raining. They sit down together on a large stone. That’s her school. Her father has already traced a map of the world in the mud with a stick. When she was younger, her father would help her to remember places by telling her things like that the Scandinavian peninsula was the head of a giant serpent and Italy was the boot of a very elegant woman. It is hard to recognize the world he’s drawn into the mud of Auschwitz.