The Librarian of Auschwitz(41)
He had to hand over the names and ranks of the most recently arrived Russian officers to a certain helper in the kitchen in order to get the garlic. Rudi neither knows nor wants to know why he wants the list, but it’s valuable information. Favors like that could even cost him his life.
Alice looks at him sadly, and he can see a tear in her eye.
“You don’t understand, Rudi.”
That’s all she says. She’s not very talkative. And no, Rudi doesn’t understand. Exchanging a celery stalk, so nutritious and hard to get hold of, for a useless piece of wire covered in velvet, made quickly and on the run in one of the camp workshops, seems stupid to him. He doesn’t understand that Alice will soon turn sixteen. After spending all her adolescence trapped in the ugliness of war, feeling beautiful for one afternoon makes Alice happy. And that is more nourishing than an entire field of celery.
The face she makes at Rudi seeks his forgiveness, and he shrugs. He doesn’t understand her, but it’s impossible to be angry with her.
The fate of his garlic clove has already been decided. When the afternoon roll call is over, Alice rushes to Hut 9 in search of Mr. Lada. He’s a short little man who works with the group responsible for transporting the dead. It’s not a pleasant job, but it does allow him to move throughout the Lager, and freedom of movement means making deals. Alice holds a tiny piece of soap and inhales deeply; it smells divine. Lada does the same thing with his garlic clove; it smells divine, too.
Alice is so thrilled with her acquisition that she spends the remaining time before curfew washing her clothes. She puts on a woolen jumper full of holes and a very old plaid skirt she stores under the pillow of her bunk. They are the only items of clothing she can wear when, every two weeks, she washes her underwear, her socks, and her blue dress—now faded to gray.
She has to line up for an hour and a half to get a turn at one of the only three taps that provide a trickle of water. You can’t drink the water. It’s already killed a few people who either didn’t believe it was harmful or couldn’t put up with the thirst tormenting them, especially at night when so many hours had passed since their last drop of liquid—their midday soup.
The icy cold tap water burns Alice’s hands and leaves them feeling numb and rough. Barely a minute has passed, but the women in the line are already swearing at her to hurry up and finish. Several of them talk unpleasantly about her, loud enough for Alice to hear them. There’s no such thing as secrets in the camp; rumors are rife, like the mold that covers the walls from floor to ceiling, and they corrupt everything in their path.
People know about her relationship with that Slovak registrar, and it doesn’t please those prisoners who hate the thought of something good happening to anyone else. Eagerness to survive leads many of them into a moral slide that causes them to overcome their fears and pain by being bitterly resentful of their fellow inmates. They believe doing harm to others is a justice of sorts that alleviates their own suffering.
“How unfair, that shameless sluts who open their legs for prisoners with influence have a piece of soap while decent women have to wash with dirty water!” comments one woman.
A mutter of agreement rises from a chorus of women with scarves on their heads.
“Decency has disappeared, and respect has gone, too,” says another.
“Disgraceful,” adds another voice, speaking loudly to make sure Alice can hear her.
The young girl scrubs furiously, as if hoping the sliver of glycerin soap might remove the resentment. She hurriedly ends her task, even though she hasn’t finished. Ashamed and incapable of defending herself, she doesn’t dare raise her head; as she leaves, she deposits what’s left of the soap on the shelf. Several women launch themselves at it in a huddle of shoves and yells.
Alice is feeling so ashamed and nervous that the last person she wants to see is her mother. So she ends up walking to Block 31. Hut doors must always be ajar, but as Alice pushes the hut door farther open, a metal bowl containing screws falls to the ground. It’s one of Fredy Hirsch’s tricks so he knows if someone is entering outside the usual hours. The block chief emerges from his cubicle and notices that Alice is trembling.
“What’s the matter, child?”
“They hate me, Fredy!”
“Who does?”
“All those women. They insult me because I’m friendly with Rudi!”
Hirsch puts his hands on her shoulders; Alice can’t stop crying.
“Those women don’t hate you, Alice. They don’t even know you.”
“They do hate me! They said horrible things to me, and I couldn’t even answer them in the way they deserved.”
“You did the right thing. When a dog barks fiercely at someone, or even bites them, it does it out of fear, not hate. If you ever have to confront an aggressive dog, don’t run or shout, because you’ll frighten it and it will bite you. Stand still and talk to it slowly so it becomes less scared. These women are afraid, Alice. They’re angry at everything that’s happening to us.”
Alice begins to calm down.
“You should go and dry your clothes.”
She nods and tries to thank him, but Fredy stops her with a wave of his hand. There’s nothing to thank him for. He’s responsible for all his people. The assistants are his soldiers, and a soldier never says thank you; he stands at attention and gives a salute.