The Butterfly and the Violin (21 page)

She’d barely closed her eyes in sleep when she heard Omara’s voice, the urgent words pulling her awake. “You must wake, Adele.
Wake up
.”

Her lids blinked until Omara’s face came into focus, and on instinct she shot up from the straw mattress with the cloud of sleep still lingering upon her.

“What is it?”

“Get up,” Omara ordered, tugging at the sheet to uncover her legs. “Put these on.”

In the dim light of the barrack, Adele could see that Omara was clad in a fine dress of dark velvet with a white lace collar, and her short hair had been combed.

Before Adele could comment on it, Omara dropped a pair of heels and a pile of cloth on the bed. The fabric glimmered in the moonlight. She ran her hand over it to find the softness unmistakable.

Chiffon? Where on earth had she found chiffon?

Adele picked up the garment and the length of it fell out to reveal a long dress of a pale color. “What’s this?”

“Hush,” Omara scolded lightly. “Don’t wake the other girls.”

“Why not?”

“Because no one is to know about this.”

Adele had no idea what was happening. Omara had done everything she could to ensure the safety of all the girls in the fledgling orchestra, and though it was quite strange to be awakened in the middle of the night with a party dress tossed in her lap, she had no choice but to trust the woman.

Adele leaned in and lowered her voice to a whisper. “What’s going on?”

“They’ve asked for us to play.”

She looked up at the window and saw that the moon was high outside. “But it’s the middle of the night.”

“We don’t ask questions, Adele. Remember?” Omara began laying items out on the bed: a comb, what looked to be a handful of hairpins, and a tube of lipstick. “Here,” she said, and tugged her elbow to get her to stand. “Take off your dress and put that on.” Omara’s eyes then rounded in her face, and she noted, “We must do something with your hair.”

“My hair?”

Omara nudged her on, tugging Adele’s hands up to the top buttons on her dress. “Hurry.” She then moved over to a box they kept in the corner with the paltry hygiene items shared by the girls. Adele could hear her rummaging through it as she shrugged out of the ruddy-brown dress. It reeked of sweat and mold. She crinkled her nose at the smell when the garment fell to her ankles, leaving her dingy slip underneath. Washing up with water had done little to help with it the night before.

“I have soap.” Omara wasn’t one for mincing words. But who would hold pretenses in their circumstances? They all smelled like they lived in a musty warehouse.

Adele hadn’t seen actual soap in nearly five months. “Soap? But where on earth—”

“No questions. Just wash.” Omara approached and dropped the small lump in her palm, then continued puttering about with the wares she’d placed on the plank bed.

“Thank you.” Adele took the soap and washed, feeling, for the first time in months, like a woman. The faint scent of roses perfumed the air around her.

Omara tried fussing with her hair while Adele dried and pulled the dress over her slip. It zipped up the side, which she noticed as she inspected the fit of the garment.

“How does it fit?” the older woman asked, still tugging the
comb through her hair. She stuck a few pins in the back of Adele’s waves.

Adele ran her hands down the length of the gown to shake out the wrinkles.

“It’s a little big.” She ran her hand over the liquid softness of the fabric, trying to ignore the feel of airy chiffon against her bony hips. “But it’s . . . beautiful.”

So many weeks ago, she stood in a gown as elegant as the one she wore now. It had hugged her curves, dancing at the hem with each graceful movement and accentuating an hourglass figure. It was difficult to fathom that before Auschwitz, her life had been full of parties, concerts, scores of elegant gowns, and red lipstick. There had been food and drink in spades.

She tried not to think about the ever-present ache in her belly.

Oh God, please don’t let me have to see them eat . . .

“It fits? Good,” Omara said, and turned her around to face her. She unstoppered the tube of lipstick and twisted it to reveal a bright poppy red. “Here, put this on.”

Adele was handed the lipstick so quickly that she hadn’t time to process her own reaction. The last time someone had helped her dress for a concert had been the night the Germans took her into custody, the very night her mother had presented her with a specially tailored satin gown from Berlin.

The open tube from Omara hadn’t been in her possession more than a second before her trembling hands fumbled, and it clanged down to the floor and rolled under Marta’s bed.

“Adele!” Omara whispered, but it still held the severity of a reproach. “What is the matter with you, child? They are waiting for us!” She knelt down on the ground and ever so quietly reached her arm out under the sleeping girl’s mattress. Adele knelt too, hoping to help retrieve the lipstick.

“I’m sorry . . . I think I’m nervous.”

Omara waved her back. “The shoes,” she whispered. “Put the shoes on. I’ll find the lipstick.”

Adele gave an embattled nod, which her friend wouldn’t see with her back turned, and carefully lowered herself down on her cot. She sat on the side of the bed, her heart beating and tears painfully stinging at her eyes. She should have felt lovely in a gown such as the one she wore, with glittering gold heels to put on and lips that would soon be rouge red. But it was the stark contrast of the moment that made her soul burn from inside her chest. It cried out, manifested in tears, finding that she’d been barely coping for months only for her defenses to be broken down by something as simple as a tube of lipstick.

Her heart was breaking, hinged on the memory of that last night of the concert. It had been the last night she’d seen her parents. It had also been the last night she’d seen Vladimir, and her heart felt the weight of it at that moment.

She’d come to Auschwitz alone. She’d been ripped from her family, from her former life, as everyone else had.

Omara returned to her side with the lipstick in hand.

“Here, child,” she said, holding the lipstick to Adele’s pout. “Pucker.”

Adele swallowed the growing lump in her throat.

Through the silver-lined moonlight, she wrapped her hand around Omara’s and together, with her hand shaking and Omara’s working to steady it, they brushed the waxy color over her lips. She pressed them together, softly blending the color without making a sound.

Omara knelt before her, and with a depth of feeling Adele hadn’t expected in this hell on earth, she brushed a hand over Adele’s cheek.

“You can do this, Adele.”

She nodded. Then sniffled as quietly as she could. “Can I?”

“You must.”

Omara handed her a swatch of fabric and motioned for her to dab at her nose with it. She did as she was told, noticing the softness as the handkerchief brushed her skin. Everything about the moment—the dress, the softness of the fabric at her face, even the scent of roses hanging on the air . . . she couldn’t comprehend that lovely things, or even a tiny glimpse of kindness, could still exist.

“I know you don’t wish to hear this, but you look beautiful.”

Adele couldn’t say thank you. Not when she was terrified to have to play—for
them
. She closed her eyes, fear threatening to take over and shatter the softness of the moment. The hands in her lap clenched into tight fists.

God? Abba . . . go with me. I am so scared . . .

She fought the instinct to burst into tears, willing her emotions to retreat back into the deadened state in which they’d been for so long. If she couldn’t feel anything, then she thought she was safe. She could make it. She could focus on survival and nothing else. But the fear was so great now, the memories once again alive.

The warmth of Omara’s hand shielding her own knotted fists caused her to open her eyes. Her friend nodded, eyes warm through the moonlight, and nudged the violin case up against her side. Adele hadn’t even known it was there.

“Here.” Omara lifted Adele’s hand and placed it on the top of the case. “Take him with you.”

Vladimir’s picture.

Like a heartbeat, she breathed in unison with the intensity of the moment. All the time she’d been holding on, talking to his picture, willing him to stay alive . . . and never had she understood that the memory of their last night onstage might be all that she had left of him. The one stolen kiss in the garden, that one flash of their future, might be all they’d ever have together.

Adele curled her fingertips against the top of the case until her nails were digging into the leather.

“Then you understand,” Omara whispered, “that they take everything from us. But what they can’t take, it is alive in here.” She pointed a gentle finger to Adele’s heart and began shaking her head. “
He
is here. Whatever you do, don’t let them get at him.”

Adele nodded.

She couldn’t, didn’t want to cry anymore. She didn’t want to feel anything. It was too risky to her survival. She rose to her feet and, with a numbed resolve to stay alive, straightened the lovely gown on her hips. She took a long, deep breath and declared, “I’m ready.”

Chocolate.

It was the first thing Adele noticed when she was led into the party room—chocolates stacked in elegant mini towers that dotted the length of the grand banquet table.

There were baskets of crusty breads and honeyed pastries. And fruit! She counted several bowls of fresh blueberries and great stacks of apples and pears. Adele couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen such delicacies, or had tasted anything but tepid soup made from turnips and horribly bitter grass. And the intoxicating scent of oranges—it filled her nostrils as if it were the finest incense, the sweet smell of citrus nectar torturing her aching stomach with each intake of breath.

What did oranges taste like now?

Both she and Omara had been ushered by automobile to Solahütte, the SS recreation center mere miles away from Auschwitz. It was nestled in a grove of trees along the river, with air fresh and decidedly unpolluted by the stench of filth and vermin they’d become used to. Adele had asked Omara where they were going. It was less from fear and more from sincere curiosity, as she knew they’d not have taken the time to dress her up for a date with death. Omara had answered that they were being
taken to a retreat of sorts, the place SS guards who had exhibited meritorious service were gifted with earned days of rest and relaxation. There the men and women would lounge along the river, as evidenced by the rows of deck chairs she saw overlooking the tranquil scene. And they attended jovial parties apparently, as she saw when they were ushered into a large banquet room with abundant trays of food overflowing on nearly every surface.

Omara had cautioned her that this excursion was not a privilege. It was an order, another performance and nothing more. She’d been noticed by several of the SS guards, and when one recognized the young musical prize of Austria, he’d told his superiors that their next party should be graced with her presence. All of this Omara had whispered to her on the drive to the resort. She was not to speak to the guests. She was to play, proficiently, of course, and that would be it. They would play and then return to the camp.

There would be no discussion, no diversion from this. No food or offer of luxuries extended from the SS. And the guards who drove the car made it quite clear that any attempt at escape by either of them would result in both being shot. This Adele didn’t question or take lightly. If they took the time to caution of it, death was not a threat but a certainty.

Adele sat in the crowded hall, staring at the hordes of food.

Her hands clutched the violin as they awaited the order to begin playing. Omara had been given the chair beside her and she too appeared to be waiting for the instruction to begin. But while Adele was awed by the opulence of the party scene, Omara’s constitution was quite different. She appeared to be seething. Her usually soft features were pinched into bitter lines that made her look a decade older than she was. Her eyes were squeezed until they were almost closed, the acrimony all too evident as she looked around at the smiling young guards mingling with the female members of the SS.

She couldn’t believe that the usually controlled Omara could be so obvious with her display of hatred toward them. “Are you all right?” she whispered.

“Yes.” Omara looked away from the partygoers in seeming disgust. She adjusted the cello in her arms.

“They said we were waiting for two more musicians from the other camp,” Adele said, looking around at the bustling scene. “But should we not begin? And perhaps play a duet until the other members arrive?”

When the older woman didn’t answer, Adele prompted again. It was strange. Omara was showing some genuine depth of emotion she’d not given a hint of in the months that Adele had known her.

“Omara?” She leaned in to her friend, urging her to do something other than glare at the scene with abhorrence. “Shall we play? Bach, perhaps? Beethoven’s Fifth?”

Omara shook her head.