“You ought to say, Jawohl, Herr Rottenführer,” he explained once again as one would to a child. “We’re the army.”
“I’m a musician.” In spite of herself, Alma discovered that she was smiling too.
“Well, then.” He spread his arms in a helpless gesture, looking as though he found her positively amusing just then. Even the SS were different here than in the men’s camp, soothed by the abundance of the riches all around them and tolerant toward the inmates, from which they could profit with such great ease.
A female prisoner whom he had addressed as Kitty was already pulling Alma away by her sleeve. A few hairpins were holding her elegant dark curls in place and she had lively eyes and neatly plucked eyebrows that moved expressively when she talked.
“No fraternizing with the guards in the open,” she began whispering as soon as they were away from the SS man’s earshot. “In private, by all means. But not in the open. There are rumors that some bigwigs are coming from Berlin with the inspection; if they see you chatting so amicably together, he’ll be shipped off to the front. But you, you’ll end up over there.” She pointed her beautiful, neatly manicured finger in the direction of the chimneys that were towering even over the warehouses next to which Kanada women worked. From inside them, columns of thick, brownish smoke were rising. This was where “the snow” was coming from.
Alma made no reply; only gulped a mouthful of smoke when the wind blew in their direction and nearly gagged with the sickly-sweet smell of the burnt flesh.
Kitty arched her brow expressively. She didn’t appear to be ruffled in the slightest. They worked next to these monstrosities, and she had long grown used to the scent.
Before long, she was leading Alma through the warehouse, holding an empty pillowcase open and filling it with goods in the view of her “guest” still trailing her in a state of apparent shock.
“Underwear. You definitely need underwear, a few changes. What size do you wear?” She quickly measured Alma’s tall, slender frame with her assessing gaze. “European 42. Bra size, 2? This is a B; must have come from the department store! Look at it, there’s still a label on it. What luck for you then. Pure silk—here, enjoy. Would you like a slip, too? I imagine so. Here, this one should fit you perfectly.”
Yet another item was pulled from a pile of undergarments. Alma stared at the sorting table in horror. It was overflowing with silk, ribbons, and simple white cotton. The owners of all of those beautiful things were being burned just meters away, and this dazzling creature next to her was chirping with the professionalism of a Wertheim top salesgirl, advertising the goods to the stunned Alma as one would to a rich client.
“And now for the stockings… toothbrush… soap; here, a lilac one, straight from Paris! What do you say to that? It’s your fortunate day today, isn’t it?” Kitty was positively beaming, happy with such a haul.
Alma stared at her through the film of tears and wondered if one day she would also grow used to the smell and to the fact that she was wearing dead people’s undergarments and smile about it.
As though reading her mind, the girl’s smile suddenly dropped. “Quit staring at me like I’m such a heartless monster. Do you think it does not bother me in the slightest? And what of the Sonderkommando, our own Jewish men who burn those very corpses there daily and nightly; do you think it doesn’t bother them? Burning their own families, friends, neighbors?”
In the pause that followed, only Kitty’s heavy breathing could be heard.
“I came here from Slovakia with the very first transport in 1942,” the Kanada girl continued. “Back then, these crematoriums didn’t exist yet. Only one old one in Auschwitz and that one was good for nothing—the walls of the chimneys kept crumbling after every other use. Back then, they didn’t burn them like they do now. They buried them in mass graves right over there, in the fields. Do you think it stinks here now? You should have been here when the ground began rising from all that corpse poison that soon began to seep into our water. You should have been here when they began digging them out and burning them, half-decomposed, on the pyres so tall, people in Krakow must have seen the fires. Some of the Sonderkommando inmates threw themselves into those pyres because they couldn’t take doing such a job for the SS any longer. If you were here back then and saw what we saw, I would have granted you the right to look at me with such disdain. We all had to unlearn how to mourn our people if we wanted to survive. Sensitivity doesn’t live long here. Sensitivity gets people killed. I strongly advise you to get rid of it if you wish to make it back into the world. Now, do you want a wristwatch or not?”
The unexpected question sounded almost like an accusation. With a great effort, Alma pulled herself together. Having sentiments about all this rot was fine and well, but life went on, even here in the camp, and she would need the watch as a Kapo in order for her entire barrack not to get shot for missing the roll call. “Yes, please.”
“Leather strap like mine or metal? Can’t give you gold—not allowed. Those are all accounted for.”
“Leather is fine.”
When Alma stepped outside the warehouse, a pillowcase bursting at the seams with dead people’s belongings, the bright August sun spilled its golden light onto her with astonishing insolence. Perhaps, it had long turned in itself the ability to feel anything too. Perhaps, with time, so would she.
Chapter 5
It was still dark when Sofia shook Alma awake.
“Don’t get used to it,” the former Kapo said, handing Alma a whistle. “This is actually your duty.”
Sitting in bed and trying to blink away the sleep, Alma regarded the whistle in puzzlement.
“This is to wake up the block,” Sofia clarified. Alma could only guess that she was grinning. She recognized amusement in the former Kapo’s voice, but her face in the pre-dawn hour was a mere shadow. “As soon as they’re up, it is your duty to ensure that they make their bunks and look presentable before the Appell—the roll call. As soon as they’re dressed, you take them outside to line up for the inspection. Wardens Drexler and Grese will come down to ensure that everyone is present.”
Alma was instantly on guard—the names rang a bell. The inmates trembled when they whispered them.
Getting possession of herself, she swung her legs from her bed. It would be utterly idiotic to antagonize the wardens with her incompetence on the very first day. It was four in the morning and the barrack was damp and chilly. Alma whistled for the girls to get up.
“Your Schreiberin, the block clerk, is in charge of the roll call list you will give to the wardens along with your morning report.” Sofia followed her back into her room.
Her presence was reassuring, this camp veteran who knew all the ins and outs, who didn’t have to give a damn about Alma’s success as a Kapo, but who did, with admirable dignity.
“Who’s my block clerk?” In the darkness, Alma was groping for her dress that was hanging on the nail behind the door.
Sofia turned on the table lamp. Now, Alma could see it clearly—the Polish inmate was smiling. “Quit your fidgeting. You’ll get used to the routine before long. Zippy is your Schreiberin, but when she’s at the camp administration office, you can appoint someone else as her replacement.”