“Sign me up as a volunteer then,” she said out of pure spite. Like a cornered animal, she was snapping her teeth in a last attempt at useless self-deception—not so much to injure the enemy, but to persuade herself that she wasn’t afraid. “It’s all the same to me. The sooner it’s all over, the better.”
Alma had expected the eruption to follow—the inmates were beaten on the slightest of provocations here—but the block elder remained oddly silent. Hellinger appeared to consider something for some time, then motioned Alma after herself. Eyeing her retreating back with suspicion, Alma followed the head nurse into the dimly lit corridor, where she was standing by the door to the post-op ward, holding it open for Alma. When Alma approached apprehensively, she made a mocking gesture with her hand—After you, Your Highness.
In the ward, the air was even fouler. Hellinger stopped at the first bunk, on which a woman lay with a face so ghostly white and beaded with sweat, it resembled a posthumous mask of melting wax.
With a chilling casualness, Hellinger yanked the hem of the woman’s robe upward. Alma felt her stomach contracting in revulsion; yet, she applied all her powers to prevent the emotion from showing on her face. Black crust covered the raw, red skin where the blisters had burst on the woman’s abdomen. Just above her pubic bone, a long, crudely sewn cut rose in ugly bumps, emanating a sickening stench.
“Bloodless sterilization,” Hellinger explained in a dispassionate voice of a college professor. “An extreme dose of radiation applied to the ovaries, followed by their surgical removal to see if the procedure was successful. The X-rays are so powerful, they cause extreme burns. The surgery itself is performed mostly without anesthetics. As you can see, this case is badly infected; not that Dr. Clauberg is concerned about it. They’re trying to calculate the optimal dose that won’t cause such burns, but so far, this is what we’re ending up with.” She covered the woman’s abdomen and gave Alma a pointed look.
For a long time, Alma stood motionless. “Is there a system to it?” she asked at last, finding her voice again. “Their method of selection of inmates, that is.”
“They’re Germans.” Hellinger smiled for the first time. Though, to Alma, it appeared to be a grimace. “Everything’s in perfect numerical order. So far, they’ve completed it on numbers 50204 to 50252.”
Alma looked at her left forearm, where her own number, 50381, was tattooed in pale-blue ink.
Hellinger looked at it also. Her features softened a little.
Alma glanced up sharply. Determination was back in her black eyes. “Could I ask you for a favor, perhaps?”
Hellinger gave a one-shoulder shrug.
“Is it possible to get a violin here?”
“A violin?”
Apparently, asking for a musical instrument in Auschwitz was just as unheard-of as talking back to one’s superior.
“Are you a violinist or some such?”
“Some such. I haven’t played in eight months. I understand that I don’t have much time. I should very much like to play one last time, if it’s at all possible. If such matter as the condemned person’s last wish is still respected in this place.”
Hellinger promised to see what she could do. She stole a glance at Alma’s pale hand, as if considering taking it into hers for an instant, but changed her mind at the last moment and left the ward abruptly. Giving hope to the condemned was simply cruel.
Alma remained standing before that unmoving ghost of a woman and envied the ones who were gassed upon arrival.
Same endless days. Same block routine that drove one to distraction. Muddy water for breakfast—the Germans called it coffee. Dr. Clauberg making his rounds—“Open your mouth, show me your teeth.” A French woman praying in Latin in the corner, rocking back and forth with her hands clasped so tightly, her knuckles turned white.
More muddy water for lunch—the Germans called it soup. The fortunate ones discovered a piece of a rotten turnip in theirs. Sylvia Friedmann, a Jewish prisoner-nurse and Dr. Clauberg’s first assistant, reading out the numbers from her list. The woman in the corner rocking faster; thrashing and howling as the two orderlies dragged her out of the ward and along the corridor. Stifling, oppressive silence.
Hellinger collecting the bedsheets and nightgowns for disinfection. Naked, shorn women standing to attention—Dr. Clauberg again, squeezing at their breasts this time. Someone must have reported a pregnant woman. Dr. Clauberg, grinning like a vulture, rubbing his fingers in front of the woman’s face—“Milk!” She went quietly, no orderlies this time.
Dinner time. A piece of sawdust bread and a smear of margarine on their palms, licked apathetically by the women. A Belgian girl on the neighboring bunk, her head covered with the blanket, crying for her mother softly—suppressed, pitiful whimpers into the wool, as though so as not to disturb anyone with her grief.
Night. Tears, tears from every bunk around her, hushed prayers, names of the loved ones repeated for hours on end—in endless Kaddish she could no longer bear to hear.
Stillness at last. Silver moonlight spilling from the shuttered window onto Alma’s arms. An invisible violin at her shoulder. Her fingers fluttering over the fingerboard like the wings of a butterfly. A bow in her right hand, kissing the violin’s strings. Outside, the Sankas, camouflaging themselves as Red Cross trucks, taking the bodies away from the neighboring Block 11; Alma had seen them briefly through the cracks in the shutters, setting off in the direction of the crematorium. Inside her head, Strauss, Tales from the Vienna Woods.
Music.
Peace.
Serenity.
A world, in which a place like Auschwitz didn’t have the moral right to exist.
“Alma? Alma Rosé?”
The young nurse with a fresh, pretty face, whom Hellinger brought to the ward, spoke German with a strong Dutch accent. A warm wave of memories, of happier times in Holland where several Dutch families sheltered her from the Nazis, washed over her. Seasons changed in war-ravaged Europe, but not her hosts’ loyalty. Risking their own lives, they had concealed Alma from the Gestapo and asked for nothing in exchange—only for a bit of her marvelous music. Alma was only too glad to oblige; she owed her life and freedom to those brave, selfless people. Repaying their hospitality with her music was the least that she could do. They had moved her from house to house when the rumors of the Gestapo raids swelled to disturbing proportions, but no matter where she was hiding, she had invariably felt welcome and at home.
Naturally, Alma recognized the young girl’s face before her; Alma would never forget the kind smiles of the ones who had kept her safe for so long. Though, it took the girl much longer to recognize her. Alma hadn’t seen her reflection in days—or was it weeks?—but she could very well imagine what a sorry sight she presented. No longer a celebrated violin player in an elegant evening gown with an open back; that much was obvious.
“Magda, do you know who this is? This is Alma Rosé herself!” The nurse was beaming at Blockälteste Hellinger in apparent delight. “She’s a violinist, very famous in Austria!” Misinterpreting Alma’s silence, the nurse rushed to explain, “My name is Ima van Esso. You played at our home in Amsterdam. In 1942, a Telemann sonata; remember?”