The Wrong Boy (9 page)

I was back in block 11 the next morning. I pulled off my dress and shoved it into the bag on the bench opposite the shower stall. Erika had bitten into the stitching of my dress to make a hole for my piano key. She thought it would be safer hidden in a bag in block 11, given our block leader’s fondness for stripping our beds to search for food.

I hoped so.

When I emerged from the shower, the guard on duty directed me to the other side of the room. There was a row of metal lockers against a wall, one of which had my number on it. The guard took a key from her pocket and unlocked the door. Inside the locker was a pair of shoes, a pale pink linen dress with a yellow star fastened at the chest, a white chiffon scarf, a cardigan, underwear, a slip, stockings and a bra. I pulled out the clothes and shoved my worn shoes and clothing bag into the locker.

“When you undress tonight, leave your clothes over there for washing.” The guard pointed to a trough on the opposite wall. “You’ll find a set of clean clothes in your locker tomorrow. And don’t even think about trying to keep them. The clothes are only to be worn for Captain Jager, underwear included. When you’re in Birkenau, you dress like everybody else.”

The guard left me to finish dressing. I pulled the pink dress from the locker and when I went to undo the buttons at the back of the neck, I noticed a tiny row of neatly stitched letters inside the collar. A name – Eva Lakatos. She was my size, probably my age, if she was still alive. I fingered the pearl buttons and the stiff white collar and my eyes started to well. Eva’s mother must have stitched every letter by hand and starched the collar so that it would sit just right. A tear slid down my cheek but I batted it away. Tears got you killed. I squeezed my eyes shut and pulled the dress over my head.

“Your face!” The commandant’s housemaid clamped her hands over my shoulders and steered me from the front door. “Captain Jager can’t see you like this!” She dragged me to a wooden outhouse at the back of the villa. “Splash your face at the sink, wash off the mud and straighten your scarf.” She handed me a towel. A cracked mirror hung from a hook on the wall. I looked at my reflection. My eyes were red, my face was pale.

“Come here every morning before you report for work.” She opened the cabinet above the sink and pulled out a lipstick. “Redo your make-up, fix your scarf, straighten yourself up. The commandant likes everything in his house immaculate, including his staff.”

I stared into the mirror. My dress was pretty but it gaped at the neck. I looked like a coat-hanger. The last time I had looked at myself in a mirror – really looked – I’d been trying on my yellow organza dress for Erika. I’d been shocked by my reflection then too, shocked by the curves that were made obvious by the drape of the dress, and by my breasts and hips. Erika had brushed eye shadow onto my lids and swept my hair into a loose roll. Father had whistled from the door, and I’d blushed, but I’d liked the woman I had become.

I turned from the mirror and followed the girl to the house. Her name was Vera. She was from Czechoslovakia and had been working for the commandant for a year. She spoke quickly.

“Once we’re through the front door we can’t talk until we’re in the kitchen. I’ve a lot to tell you, so listen carefully. Leave your shoes at the front door. There are shoes for you inside. Keep them clean. You won’t find shoe polish in the camp, but if you save your bread, you can trade it for margarine. Margarine makes great shoe polish.” I looked at her blankly. “You’ll find margarine in Canada.” She looked at me and sighed. “It’s the warehouse barrack behind the infirmary. They call it Canada because it’s the land of plenty. I’ll arrange for you to get in. You’ll find everything you need there – soap, toothpaste, toilet paper … ” She looked down at my nails. “Nail clippers too. It all costs. A potato for a toothbrush, a piece of bread for a scrap of margarine.”

“Where do they get it all?” I asked, confused.

“The suitcases left at the station. They’re taken to Canada. The furs and jewellery are sent to Berlin, the rest stays at Canada for the SS and the block leaders, the interpreters, the runners …” She touched her bony hand to my scarf. “You could trade that scarf for margarine. They might even throw in some nail clippers if it’s real silk.”

“But the guards will notice it’s missing.”

Vera smiled knowingly. “Tell them Captain Jager used it to wipe his boots.”

We reached the front door and Vera handed me a winter coat. “Winter is coming,” she said. “This is yours to keep. You mustn’t get sick, not when the commandant has guests to entertain.

“My block leader hinted the commandant likes blondes. Is that why I got the job?”

Vera’s smile faded. “Captain Jager likes blondes, but he doesn’t like blond Jews. He’d sooner flirt with a pack of wolves than touch Jewish skin.” She opened the front door.

“One last question,” I whispered. “My mother was taken last night and–”

Vera shook her head and pressed a finger to her lips. “No talking in the hallway.” I tiptoed in after her. Every door she pointed to was locked, every room out of bounds, except for the music room where I’d be spending all my time. Vera stopped outside the kitchen and swung the door open. Seated at a wooden table in the centre of the kitchen was an old man chopping beans. His face was creased and grey. The woman at the sink peeling potatoes wore a cheerful yellow dress but her eyes were empty. They both wore yellow stars. They whispered their hellos.

A pot of cabbage simmered on the stove. The smell reminded me of all the wasted meals I’d left on our kitchen table in Debrecen – the abandoned peas, burned potatoes, crusts of bread, the last drops of apple juice poured down the sink, the crumbs of poppy seed cake tossed into the bin, the fat cut from meat, the flesh left on pips.

“We’re lucky to be here washing dishes instead of carting rocks, but it’s no holiday,” Vera said. “The scarf, the dress, the make-up, it’s just for show. You won’t get a three-course meal here.” She glanced back at the stove. “If the commandant is home you won’t even get lunch. Don’t confuse the commandant’s love of music with any feeling for those who play it. If he’s home, he’ll expect you to be in the music room, waiting for his summons to play.”

“And if he’s out?”

“If he’s out, you can sneak in here to look for scraps.” Her face grew hard. “But if you’re caught you’ll be shot.”

I swallowed hard. “Do I practise?”

“If you want to keep this job you will … but only when Captain Jager is away from home. Eating, using the toilet – anything that might remind him you’re human – is to be done while he’s out. And don’t talk to him,” she said, stepping into the hallway. “Unless he addresses you first. Same goes for his son, their guests and the guards.”

I followed Vera to the music room. It looked the same as it had the day of the audition except that a small table had been rolled into the centre of the room. On it sat a black forest cake, a strudel, a pot of tea and an assortment of handmade chocolates. Vera looked at me and shook her head.

She’d just shown me how to stand behind the piano, with my feet together and my arms by my side, when a portly couple strolled into the room. The man was laughing at something his wife was saying, his arms encircling her doughy waist.

“Viktor, Helga!” The commandant strode in, bowed to the woman, and slapped the man on the back. “How are my oldest friends? How’s Berlin?”

“We haven’t come here to talk about ourselves. We’ve come to see our dearest friend. Tell us, Hans, how are you?” The woman looked at the commandant, then at me.

“She’s the pianist,” the commandant said. “I’ll have her play for you.”

I’d always performed best in front of an audience. It was easier to play warmed by the smiles, buoyed by the audience’s expectations, jolted by the extra electricity an audience provides. But not this time, not here. I wasn’t on stage. There were no draped velvet curtains, no chandeliers. I was wearing a dead girl’s dress and no matter how well I played there’d be no applause.

I rested my hands on the keys. What was it Trommler had said about the last pianist? That she’d played the wrong note? I glanced at the commandant seated in the front row, his legs crossed, his metal baton poised in the air. My hands trembled, my head was pounding. I started to play a Chopin nocturne, tentatively at first, wary of my fingers and nervous of the notes. By the third nocturne, my breathing had returned to normal. I was in the middle of Bach’s Piano concerto in D minor when I saw the boy standing in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, his head bowed. His father saw him too.

“Karl, you remember Helga and Viktor. Come and say hello.” The boy took a step forwards and pulled out a chair. His blond hair was perfectly parted, his skin smooth, his teeth white. If he’d lifted his head he would have been looking straight at me.

“He’s turned into such a morose boy.” The commandant spoke as if his son wasn’t there. “He sits in his room all day or wanders around the house with his nose in a book.” He winced with irritation. “I think it’s the Jews. Even being in the same room as them sets him on edge. I keep telling him, you can’t catch anything by looking at them; you have to touch them for that!” He grinned broadly.

He stood up and walked towards the piano, waving his baton in the air. I was playing a Brahms intermezzo, pounding at the keys to drown out the conversation, grabbing huge handfuls of notes and hurling them into the air. The commandant stopped behind me. I could feel his warm breath on my neck. I switched from Brahms to Schubert but he still didn’t move away. He hovered over me, watching me play. At the end of the impromptu, he returned to his seat, took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his eyes. I tried not to stare.

Vera approached the commandant. She had a silver teapot in one hand and a steaming cup of black tea in the other. She held the cup out to him. “Tea, Captain Jager?”

“Tea?” he thundered, his face turning red. “Did I ask for tea?”

Vera’s shoulders sloped forwards. I launched into a Mozart sonata, hoping to mute the commandant’s anger, but it was too late. He lifted his baton and struck Vera’s hand, sending the cup and saucer crashing to the floor where they lay splintered and steaming.

“Get out!” the commandant yelled, his anger hot and red. Vera gathered up the broken porcelain shards, mopped up the spilt tea with her apron and escaped to the kitchen. The commandant turned to his guests.

“So sorry for the interruption. Let me make it up to you with a little Chopin.” He turned to me and lifted his baton. My hands were shaking. “The fifth étude?”

Karl left the room as I played the opening bars, my heart thumping away beneath my dress. The commandant had requested a happy song. I didn’t feel cheerful, but after a time I felt anaesthetised by the music. Buffeted from the commandant’s rage, I played the rest of the repertoire, but I played mechanically. I wondered whether Captain Jager could tell the difference.

The day dragged. A fresh pot of tea was left to brew on a side table. Strudel was sliced and swept onto plates. The black forest cake was cut up and disappeared. The chocolates were devoured one by one. The light grew weak and my hands grew tired. I needed the toilet.

At half-past five the commandant’s guests stood to leave and a guard was summoned to escort me to the camp. As we passed the kitchen I turned and saw Vera sitting at the work table, her hand wrapped in rags. The commandant’s son was in the kitchen too, pacing the floor. He was talking in a low voice, his mouth tight with anger. Vera looked up as I passed and the boy swung around. He walked towards me and shut the door.

Erika was waiting for me in the barrack. She looked gaunt and exhausted. She didn’t notice my new coat. “I don’t have to give it back,” I whispered. “We can sleep under it.” Erika didn’t answer. “I can hide food in the pockets.” She turned and smiled, but there was a sadness in her eyes I’d never seen before and it scared me. We stood in line for dinner and when I got my ration, I told Erika I’d eaten and slipped her my square of bread. She took it gratefully. Our bunkmates watched her enviously, hating her for her extra ration and hating me for giving it to her. No one in the camp gave food away, not unless they were getting better food – and plenty of it – elsewhere. Erika didn’t seem to notice the bitter stares or hear their pointed whispering, but I did. I saw their lips form the words
slut
and
whore
, and heard them guess at the sexual favours I bestowed on the commandant.

“I’m sorry,” I said, but Erika didn’t look up. “They don’t talk to you and it’s because of me …” My voice tapered off.

“It doesn’t matter,” Erika said. But I knew it did. She pretended not to care, but with mother gone, me at the villa, and the twins still at the infirmary, Erika was lonely. I was content with a piano for company but Erika needed people. She needed conversation and connection as much as she needed food and rest. I could give her my coffee, sneak her my crusts and hold her at night, but it wasn’t enough.