In the corner, Ima was weeping soundlessly, holding her mouth with her nurse’s kerchief. Leaning against the wall, Magda was rubbing her chest as though it physically pained her, being reminded of the fact that something existed beyond this cruel world where her kind was being slaughtered in hundreds of thousands. Yet, she smiled, for along with the pain, the hope had ignited in her once again—hope that perhaps nothing was yet lost if such beauty could still find its way even behind the Auschwitz walls.
Her fingers abuzz with the music, Alma opened her eyes and grinned mischievously at her stunned audience.
“What are you all waiting for?” Her voice suddenly cut through the reverent silence. “Am I playing for nothing? It’s not just rude, it’s practically amoral to sit still when the waltz is being played. Dance. Well? Up and dance, ladies! I refuse to believe they made you forget how to dance.”
For the first few moments, the girls exchanged bewildered gazes. The very idea appeared outrageous. But then Magda herself made a resolute step toward one of the cots, bowed theatrically, and offered one of the women her hand with a gallantry that would make any Old Empire gentleman proud.
“Madame Mila, would you do me the honor?”
Without any hesitation, the girl whom Magda addressed as Mila, enclosed her narrow palm into the Hungarian Blockälteste’s hand. Giggling with disbelief and delight, they began twirling around the small space near the improvised stage, barefoot and tangling in their long nightgowns. Soon, another couple joined them, and another, as Alma looked on, misty-eyed and finally at peace for the first time in months. With the power of her music, she made these women free for a few precious moments. Now, she could die happy.
Chapter 2
August 1943
“Your Highness!” Despite the teasing manner in which Magda had addressed Alma, there was a definite measure of respect in her voice now.
Not only that, the block elder had somehow managed to ensure that Alma would be exempt from the experiments just so the Block wouldn’t lose their precious violinist who made them forget the horrors of their incarceration each time she played for them. Alma had a strong suspicion that such a preferential treatment had something to do with Sylvia Friedmann, Dr. Clauberg’s first assistant, who had become a sort of a permanent fixture at their “cultural evenings” as of late. Most certainly it was her who had agreed to strike Alma’s name from Dr. Clauberg’s list after Alma played her favorite Slovakian songs the nurse had requested.
“What do you say to playing for a slightly different audience tonight?” Magda’s voice was bright with an artificial cheerfulness in it, but her eyes, averted in discomfort, betrayed the block elder. Behind her back, two newcomers, scrawny like scarecrows, were shifting from one foot to another. “These two girls are from the women’s band,” Magda continued. “It’s them, whom you hear playing every morning when the outside Kommandos—the work gangs—walk through the gates. ‘Work sets you free’ and all that rot. The SS think marching to work ought to be celebrated with music.” An expressive roll of Magda’s eyes was a clear enough indication of her attitude toward the infamous slogan that was emblazoned above the camp gates—Arbeit macht frei. “That was the reason why they organized camp orchestras in the first place.”
Alma remained silent.
“Good afternoon, Frau Rosé.” The younger woman stepped forward. A striped dress that hung loosely over her frame only emphasized her emaciated state. Oddly enough, her head wasn’t shaved—Alma could see the auburn curls neatly tucked under her kerchief. “It’s such an honor to make your acquaintance. We’re all huge admirers of your talent.”
“My name is Hilde, and this is Karla,” her friend introduced them both. Just like Karla, Hilde spoke Alma’s native language but with a Prussian accent instead of Alma’s soft Viennese. She also wore the same striped dress and kerchief. It occurred to Alma that it must have been the band’s uniform of sorts.
At once, they began talking over each other:
“We heard from Zippy about the tremendous success of your cultural evenings—”
“She plays in our little orchestra, you see—”
“I play recorder and piccolo—”
“And I’m a percussionist, but, to be truthful with you, all we can produce is the most atrocious Katzenmusik that the local Gestapo can use as a form of torture and brassy marches that are only good enough for the Aussenkommando—the outside gangs—to march to.”
“Sofia, our band leader, tries to organize us the best she can, but we’re like monkeys to an organ grinder.”
“And it just so happens that today is one of the SS wardens’ birthdays and we thought—”
“No.”
Startled by such a categorical dismissal—the first thing to fly off Alma’s lips that she kept pursed into a tight, unyielding line—the two girls exchanged anxious looks.
Next to them, Magda only snorted softly with good-natured disdain. “I told you she’d refuse. Her Highness doesn’t realize where she is yet. If she were assigned to an outside gang for a couple of days, where they’d make her hurl rocks from one pile to another purely for the SS’s amusement, that would teach her fast enough how not to turn her little nose away from such opportunities. But we have spoiled her here already.”
“I’m not playing for those Nazi pig farmers,” Alma said. Seeing the band girls’ faces transform with growing horror from such insults being thrown around with such carelessness, she grinned darkly. “Pig farmers,” Alma repeated slowly and with great relish. “That’s precisely what they are. The scum of the earth that crawled out of all the crevices and flooded the entire continent with their filth. You wish me to play for them? Why would I waste my talents? They wouldn’t recognize good music if it hit them full-on in their faces.”
Chalk-white and wide-eyed, Karla was already shaking her head so vehemently her auburn curls came loose from under her kerchief. “You mustn’t say such things here! People will report you to the Kapo, or an SS Blockführerin, for a piece of bread and it will all be over for you!”
“All the better. Report me yourselves, if you like. Makes no difference to me.” It wasn’t mere bravado; she truly didn’t care one way or the other if the SS took her to the wall and shot her for her long tongue.
Magda was outright laughing now. Have you seen anything like it? her very face seemed to reflect. “Highness.” She stepped closer to Alma’s bed. “Don’t be daft. Get up.”
Alma didn’t move.
“Well? Shall I help you find your legs? What’s the difference who you play for, us or the wardens?” Magda pressed.
“There’s a great difference for me.”
“The girls are right; someone will report your refusal to play and you’ll land yourself in the neighboring block for your arrogance, where the camp Gestapo will make things hot for you.”
“They can beat me to death, if such is their wish. It’ll change nothing. They can kill me, but they won’t make me play.”
“I’ve seen pigheaded people in my life before, but this is something new entirely.” Magda shook her head. “I did what I could,” she told the band girls before taking her leave. “That’s your trouble now. I have my own affairs to attend to.”