The Librarian of Auschwitz(78)

“It’s to do with Fredy Hirsch. You know who he was, right?”

Mrs. Turnovská gives a slight huffy nod. She finds Dita’s question almost insulting.

“I’d like to know what they’re saying about his death.”

“He poisoned himself with those dreadful pills. They say pills cure everything, but I don’t believe it. If the doctor recommends pills for my cold, I never take them. I’ve always preferred to inhale eucalyptus oil vapor.”

“How right you are; I used to do the same. Have you tried to boil mint leaves?” asks Dita’s mother.

“Actually, no I haven’t—on their own or mixed with eucalyptus?”

Dita grunts.

“I already know about the pills, but I want to know why he did it! What are they saying out there, Mrs. Turnovská?”

“Oh, my dear, they’re saying so many things! That man’s death has generated a lot of talk.”

“Edita always said he was a good man,” Dita’s mother responds.

“Of course. Although being a good person in life isn’t enough. My poor husband, may he rest in peace, was a really good person, but he was also so timid that there was no way we could make a go of the fruit shop. The farmers all fobbed off on him the overripe fruit that no one else would accept.”

“Fine,” interrupted Dita, on the point of exploding, “but what are they saying about Hirsch?”

“I’ve heard all sorts of things, child. Some say he was scared of being gassed; others that he was addicted to pills and overdid it. Someone commented that he did it out of sadness when he saw they were going to kill the children. One woman explained to me—as if it was a secret—that they had cast the evil eye on him, because there are Nazis who practice black magic.”

“I think I know who you’re talking about—”

“I also heard something beautiful.… Somebody said it was an act of rebellion. He killed himself so that the Nazis couldn’t do it.”

“And who do you think is right?”

“I can assure you that each theory sounded right at the time the person was presenting it.”

Dita nods and says good-bye to the two women. Discovering the truth in Auschwitz is like catching snowflakes with Professor Morgenstern’s butterfly net. Truth is the first casualty of war. But Dita is determined to find it, no matter how deeply buried in the mud it is.

And that’s why that same night, when her mother has already climbed into her bunk, Dita scurries off to Radio Birkenau’s bunk.

“Mrs. Turnovská…”

“What is it, Edita?”

“There’s something I want to ask you … and I’m sure you have the answer.”

“That’s possible,” she replies with a hint of vanity. “You can ask me about anything you like. I have no secrets from you.”

“Can you give me the name of someone in the Resistance I could contact?”

“But, my dear girl…” Mrs. Turnovská already regrets having said that there are no secrets between them. “That’s not a matter for young girls. It’s very dangerous. Your mother would never speak to me if I led you to the Resistance.”

“I don’t want to enlist; although now that you mention it, that might not be such a bad idea. But given my age, I’m sure they wouldn’t want me. I just want to ask one of them about Fredy Hirsch. They must know better than anyone what happened to him.”

“You already know that the last person to see him was the registrar of the quarantine camp, Rosenberg—”

“I know, but it’s really difficult to get hold of him. If I could talk to someone from this camp … please.”

Mrs. Turnovská grumbles a little longer.

“All right, but don’t tell him I sent you. There’s a man from Prague called Alter. He’s assigned to workshop three, and he’s easy to recognize because his head is as smooth as a billiard ball and his enormous nose looks like a potato. But I know nothing.”

“Thank you. I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything, my dear. You don’t owe anyone anything. In here, we’ve all more than paid our debts.”

Dita spends the next day in Block 31.

The following day, classes are somewhat less rowdy, but with the usual feeling of hunger and fear that it might be the last day ever. Once the day is done, she’ll see if she can find that Alter person.

It’s one of those days when she has to help Miriam Edelstein improvise a handwriting lesson for a group of seven-year-old girls. It’s raining, so this afternoon there are no outdoor games or sports. The children are grumpy because they haven’t been able to play Steal the Bacon or hopscotch, and Dita is disgruntled because it’s been raining for a few days and people have taken shelter in their huts. That’s why she hasn’t been able to find the bald-headed man.

Miriam Edelstein hides her anguish from the children, but Hirsch’s death has left her feeling abandoned. On top of that, she’s heard nothing more about her husband, Yakub, since Eichmann’s visit to the family camp, when he told her that her husband had been transferred to Germany and that he was perfectly fine.

But what she doesn’t know is that Eichmann lied. The truth is quite different: Yakub continues to be a prisoner in the horrendous prison in Auschwitz I, just three kilometers from Birkenau. There are cells in that prison that are cement cupboards in which the prisoners can’t even sit down, and they have to sleep standing up; their legs fuse together. The torture is methodical: electric shocks, whippings, injections. One of the tortures the guards find most entertaining is fake executions. They take the prisoners out to the courtyard, blindfold them, cock their rifles, and then, when the prisoners start to shake or lose control of their bodily functions, there’s the sound of a metallic click from the unloaded guns. Then the guards take the prisoners back inside. Executions are, in fact, so frequent that they don’t even clean the wall where the prisoners stand, and a reddish line of hair and brains snakes along the wall marking the average height of the victims.