Playing for Time (27 page)

I couldn’t gauge the expression of the eye behind the monocle, but the other one fixed me provocatively. Irritated, I answered, “Well, perhaps they thought they’d misheard. It probably seemed unlikely to them, arriving at a work camp, that anyone should ask for musicians.”

“That’s possible, but I find it astonishing. The Jews are very musical, as we all know.” Mechanically, he tapped his shiny boot with his stick. “Perhaps when they get to the camp we’re sending them to, they’ll understand and try their luck.”

I had to keep quiet. We weren’t supposed to know that they were sent to the gas chambers. Still, faced with such cynicism, I couldn’t completely conceal my feelings: “Perhaps they’ll lose their fear!”

I amused him. Casually, with the tip of his whip, he poked through the papers on the table.

“But tell me, if you were in our place and we in yours, would you send your enemies where we send ours?”

The orchestra was listening, all the girls nearby had heard the insidious, provocative question. All those who understood French had their eyes on me, and I answered calmly: “Certainly I would, Herr Oberführer” (and it was a rare pleasure to tell him so). “But definitely not women, children, old people—they’re not my enemies.”

He tapped the table and smilingly replied: “What a curious answer. That’s good, you’re not without wit.”

And off he went again, twirling his stick.

Hardly was he out of the room than the girls exploded at me: “Lunatic, idiot, imbecile, fool! Do you realize what you said to him? It certainly won’t be long now before that truck draws up outside—”

“
Rube! Rube
!” shouted Alma.

It was less Alma’s order than the arrival of a ravishing girl of about twenty that cut short their vengeful reproaches. A real beauty, slender, well built, long legs, a marvel! Her curly hair fell softly to her shoulders, perfect teeth were revealed by a dazzling smile. It was a pleasure to look at her and she knew it.

“Where’s she blown in from?” Jenny asked nervously.

We soon knew: from Hungary. Ewa, as she was called, had a very pretty voice, a pure, ethereal soprano. How she had managed to sail straight into the music block we did not learn, because Ewa the Hungarian despised us and scarcely spoke to us.

Perhaps it was sheer charm that had wafted her straight here, avoiding the quarantine block. She had even managed to save her mother, to have her taken on with us: Mandel decided that she could help Pani Founia in the kitchen. If this Ewa had been ugly and deformed, however good her voice, she would have gone the way of the crowd. Bravo, I thought; that was two more snatched from the jaws of death—at any rate for the moment.

Not everyone shared my way of thinking. A block of hostility formed around mother and daughter; their presence was a threat to the girls’ comfort and security. Our room was somewhat cramped already, and there weren’t enough beds. If there were too many “new” girls, might they not have to get rid of the “old”?

Lotte and Clara were openly hostile to the lovely Ewa. They were afraid: she was younger than they were and sang better. Here, one soon lost one’s voice. Lotte’s had lowered in pitch and now, too often, she forced it and shouted rather than sang. Clara refused to admit that her voice was less clear than formerly. Both were racked with jealousy when I wrote out
Una voce poco fa
from the
Barber of Seville
from memory for Ewa to sing in Italian, and very well she sang it; her voice, her beauty, and her pride delighted the SS.

The emotion caused by her arrival was almost immediately forgotten though, swept away by the entry, in mid-rehearsal, of a runner. “Girls, get ready, you’re going for a walk!”

I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly, and I wasn’t the only one; Alma asked her to repeat herself and in a clear, joyful voice the girl reiterated: “It’s a fine day. Frau Mandel has said you must go for a walk! They’ll come and get you.”

A walk—that meant going out, through the gate of the camp. The idea made us dizzy; we sat there nodding our heads like old crones. “Well, well, fancy that,” we mumbled incredulously.

“Hurry up, get dressed, correct dress,
schneller,”
ordered Alma.

Within a few seconds the block was topsy-turvy. We pulled our navy blue skirts and white tops from under our mattresses— our method of ironing. People were rushing in all directions:

“Lend me your needle.”

“Damn, I’ve got a stain.”

“I can’t find my stockings.”

It was like a hen run in turmoil; but our twittering ceased at the entrance of an SS soldier, an inoffensive-looking blond lad with his rifle slung and his dog on a lead.

“Well, here’s nanny.”

“Get an eyeful of our chaperone.”

His mate, from the same mould, was waiting outside; they looked like twins. Alma informed us that we weren’t to talk to or question our guards and that we were to walk in our usual rows.

And off we went, without either our
kapo
or the Poles. We couldn’t imagine why we’d been granted this astounding privilege, but we didn’t need to know. Sandwiched between the soldiers, we left camp B. Drexler, riding past on a bicycle, could hardly believe her eyes. The women we met stared at us, astonished by a procession directed not towards the crematoria, but towards the entrance of the camp. We crossed camp A, stopped in front of the gate which opened before it, and went out. The deportees were staggered, and so were we!

We turned left at the entrance. We didn’t talk, we were not yet really sure that it was happening. The road became a path. We no longer walked in rows; in front of us was the fair, well-shaven neck of the SS boy, his uniform-grey back, his machine gun and panting dog. Behind us marched his double. There were about thirty of us, all in a state of disbelief. We didn’t dare laugh or smile or sing. When we stopped being incredulous, we became serious because happiness is serious, particularly in such circumstances. It was marvellous weather, and there was grass, a thing we hadn’t seen for months. “Grass,” said Jenny rapturously, “like at Vincennes. No, more like on the fortifications.”

“So it still exists,” murmured Big Irene, whose eyes now reflected the colour of the sky. We turned our backs on the crematoria and inhaled air without smoke, air too strong for our eager, deeply breathing lungs.

Timidly, Florette said: “It smells… it smells of…”

At the head of the group, someone had stopped. “Sniff—it’s lovely!”

“It smells of grass, new-mown hay,” said Anny ecstatically. “It smells of freedom.”

Tears came to our eyes. Our SS, who had paused with us, continued their march.

In this magical grass were flowers—buttercups, harebells. We gambolled around like lambs.

“I never thought I’d see them again.”

“I knew I would, but I didn’t think it would be before I got back.”

The phrase caught at our emotions for a moment, like a splinter, but today we didn’t dwell on it; we were happy. After almost two miles we passed a work detachment of women. We weren’t allowed to speak to them or even to look at them. But they looked at us, flabbergasted at first, then, as recognition dawned, enviously. They always had the same range of reactions to us: jealousy, hatred, incomprehension, complicity. I wondered how they would describe us later; in their eyes we possessed everything they longed for. What resentment and hatred would they heap upon this, our only walk? It would be the measure of the pain, the suffering that they had felt at the moment we passed by. Then we passed a detachment of men; their eyes betrayed no more indulgence than the women’s had, but no hatred either-only disgust. One of them spat in our direction, and I wished we’d never passed either group; my joy had turned sour in my mouth and I was obliged to chew on it like a cow chewing the cud.

After about an hour’s walking, we came upon a small, clear pool, as blue as a patch of sky. Water, grass, some stunted trees— not very beautiful, but trees all the same: a paradise! We sat down in the grass and the SS settled down some way off, in the shade. Their dogs sat at their feet, ready for action, their open snouts revealing teeth like great white almonds. I suddenly felt something approaching pity for them—after all, they were not responsible for the jobs men made them do.

Jenny looked at them enviously. “Those hounds must live on the fat of the land—they’ve got coats like goddam mink!”

Her mind ground on a bit in that direction, and she added: “They could have given us a picnic, as a bonus.”

Little Irene was quick to reply. “We can’t stop you dreaming, but reality’s enough for us.”

Jenny lay back on the grass and made some faintly risqué remark about there being certain other things missing too. We laughed; we’d have laughed at anything.

Florette looked longingly at the water. “Could we bathe?”

Anny was enthusiastic too. “Shall we? Should we ask permission?”

“It would be better if a German did the asking.”

Marta and Little Irene were sitting together, their shoulders and arms touching, holding hands; their whole bodies proclaimed their oneness. Despite what they imagined to be their total discretion, malicious rumours were going around. But how could they disguise the brightness of their eyes, their glowing skin? In spite of their aloofness, the bubble in which they’d shut themselves, Florette’s suggestion had reached them. Marta got up and went to speak to our guards.
“Ja, ja,”
answered one of them.

“We can bathe,” announced Marta.

“What shall we do? We don’t have any bathing suits.”

“Do without!”

My brutal advice alarmed them; they looked at the SS—could they bathe naked in front of them? They were men, after all. So they kept on their underclothes and rushed into the water like children, swimming and splashing. How pathetic their bodies looked in that harsh summer light!

For some reason I couldn’t bring myself to join them. I was pleased at their happiness but I remained remote from it, uninvolved. Almost immediately Little Irene joined me. We looked at each other in silence. We couldn’t explain the root of our sadness, and perhaps it was better that way.

The swim, the sun, the air had positively intoxicated the girls. When they came out of the water they ran about just like little girls out of school, doing a sort of ring-a-rosy on the grass under the impassive gaze of the SS.

“May we pick flowers?”

The soldier flapped his big ears in an affirmative nod and went off to give his dog a drink, followed by his friend.

To pick flowers: it was an incredible action, with all the pointlessness of a vanished era. They made little bunches which they clutched in their fists like children on Sunday walks. Some broke off branches from the trees, just to have something green to hold in their hands.

Big-ears and his friend got up, slung their rifles, and off we went, arm in arm. Florette began to sing and we joined in.

A peasant, bent double, straightened up, sickle in hand. He looked at us in astonishment, and would doubtless say, later, that we hadn’t been as badly off as all that—a bit thin perhaps, but well dressed, and that we went about singing and laughing. And that would make a lot of people feel better. That’s what eye-witnessing is all about.

It must have been late because, on the way back, we didn’t meet any work groups. The light was golden. On the horizon, in front of us, lay the dark cloud of Birkenau. As we approached, the frightful smell came forward to meet us. Silently we went through the gate, then crossed camp A in our lines, our flowers in our hands.

Now of course we met other prisoners; they stared after us, disgusted, poised for insult. Yet one of them smiled at me. She held out her arms and I gave her my bunch of flowers. Incredulous, she stared at her hand where the blue harebells quivered, closed her fingers over them, and ran off. That image remained for me the symbol of the walk.

Our guards, still silent as graves, supervised our entrance, then turned away and went off, followed by their dogs. It had been a marvellous day.

Pani Founia greeted our late arrival with raucous disapproval. Exhausted, the girls collapsed onto their beds and fell asleep. We had to sleep off our day as one sleeps off wine.

I drifted off to visions of branches and water and sun.

But the vision faded as the following day got going; in the music room, a runner was asking for Alma, who had to go immediately to the main SS office.

“Rehearse while you’re waiting,” she instructed us primly.

We did so, but our thoughts were elsewhere. Alma’s visit to the main office was an act that put our fragile, uncertain life in the balance. It was Kramer and especially Mandel who were generally concerned with us. Anything taking place at a level other than theirs, above theirs, even with their participation, didn’t seem to bode any good at all. Was it somehow a result of Himmler’s visit? After the walk, the oven? That would certainly be typical of their approach. Everyone was worrying away at the problem and their preoccupation was visible in their faces. The singers were always the most concerned, because they knew that they were the least indispensable and the most easily replaceable.

Time passed and Alma didn’t come back. Tension mounted and we were on the verge of hysteria when she positively sailed in, radiant, transfigured, walking on air. She vouchsafed us nothing, but went straight to her room. We sat there, all eyes riveted questioningly on her door; suddenly it opened, and Alma called me in.

“I wanted you to be the first to know the news.” She breathed deeply. “You see, I’m leaving…”

Now it was my turn to catch my breath.

“Yes, you heard right, they’ve just told me I’m going to be released.”

Stunned, I repeated: “Released? You can’t mean it… But why?”

She gave a short laugh. “Well, I’m not going to be absolutely free to go where I want. They said that it was a pity to keep a musician like me in the camp, so I could go and join the Wehrmacht. I’m going to join the troops, to entertain the men at the front. That means that I’ll be able to play the violin as I like, what I like. Fania, I’m getting out of here…”

“You’re leaving here and going to play for soldiers who are fighting against people who are going to liberate us.”