Suddenly, the sound of broken glass, a slap to the face, crying. And the aides-de-camp were running toward the dining room. A child had spilled something; the two men were coming to the rescue.
It was now or never.
Emil opened the door as softly as possible. There was no one in the corridor. The child who’d dropped something was still crying; the aides-de-camp were nowhere to be seen. Emil moved in the opposite direction, all the while looking behind him. He was soon in the kitchen, a large, well-lit room. On every countertop, remains of the feast. Empty bottles of champagne, as well. A pile of plates, some of which still had pieces of ham on them. Emil didn’t think, didn’t look for something more substantial. No, those leftovers were a banquet for him. He rushed toward a plate with half-eaten ham on it, and just as he was about to put the food in his mouth, he felt a presence behind him.
Christina Müller.
Emil realized he was lost. He was standing there with a piece of ham in his hand. He would pay the piper for this — with his life, most likely. He could hear the aides-de-camp in the corridor, making their way back to the kitchen. Soon he’d be arrested, sent to the showers.
But Christina Müller kept her calm. Without any particular emotion, she grabbed Emil by the arm and pushed him into a pantry, just as the two aides-de-camp hurried back into the kitchen. They didn’t seem surprised to see her. The guests were asking for more coffee, one of them said, a touch of nerves in his voice. Christina offered to prepare it herself, and they were only too happy to accept. The two men were overwhelmed, that much was clear. He heard them rushing back to attend to Höss’s guests.
The pantry door opened. Completely puzzled by the young woman’s decision, he didn’t even take the time to thank her. He moved right past her and into the now empty corridor, and slipped back into the living room. Emil had been right: no one had noticed his absence.
Emil Rosca often saw Christina after that day. She began accompanying her husband to the Kommandantur receptions. As he played the accordion, Emil, of course, kept his attention on Oskar Müller. But sometimes he’d take a moment to glance at the young woman’s face, and their eyes would meet. Emil would immediately look away, confused about why she’d let him go free from that kitchen. Twice the young German woman had saved his life. Why? What sort of interest did she have in him? She’d saved him from Dr. Josef to serve her husband’s ambition and her own taste in music. But the second time? It could have been for the love of music again. If Emil had been arrested, he would have been sent back to the Zigeunerlager. Or to the gas chambers. No more music, no more accordion for him. But the look Christina gave him from time to time wasn’t that of a music lover. No, it was that of a woman in love. Emil couldn’t help but smile at the thought. The German wife of a German officer in a German concentration camp falling in love with a prisoner of the Stammlager! And a seventeen-year-old Rom at that! Emil was getting carried away, as usual. He dreamed, which was the most dangerous escape.
A few weeks after the kitchen incident, at another party, the men were chatting away, ignoring their wives, ignoring the orchestra. Müller was there, Kluge, as well, and others Emil didn’t recognize. He overheard a discussion on German forces in Russia retreating following their defeat at Stalingrad in February, after six months of brutality and carnage. On the Western Front, France was still in the grip of the Third Reich. The officers spoke of how they expected the invasion of Great Britain would compensate for losses on the Eastern Front. But no one seemed entirely convinced of that. What was more, the Americans had just landed in southern Italy …
Emil had no idea where all these countries were. Stalingrad even less so.
“You are Emil Rosca?”
The young Rom was startled out of his thoughts. Christina, the wife of an SS officer, was speaking to him — simply inconceivable. She stood there, hands on hips, in front of the assembled orchestra, expecting an answer. Behind her the officers talked with one another in a cloud of smoke. Emil nodded imperceptibly, as if he were afraid to commit himself. Christina kept her eyes on him.
“Anton’s son?”
Emil felt dizzy. His father? Why was this German woman speaking of his father? Why here, why now?
A voice broke the spell, a man’s voice coming from the group of officers behind her. “And you, Christina, what do you think?”
Without losing her cool, the German woman turned toward the group of SS officers. “Do you really believe the Russians will be able to maintain their offensive?” she asked, her tone emotionless. “Don’t forget that Stalingrad exhausted them, as well.”
“Christina is right,” Matthias Kluge said. “The Red Army is an empty shell. Sooner or later they’ll be forced to slow down and fall back.”
The others nodded without conviction.
“What if we danced?”
As Emil started to play, Christina grabbed Oskar Müller in her arms and dragged him into an energetic waltz, soon to be followed by the other women in the group. Emil observed her looking happy, joyous even, completely serene. She seemed like a different woman, he thought, and she didn’t even glance at him for the rest of the evening. Once again, the young accordion player was sure he’d simply been dreaming.
Back in the barracks, Emil couldn’t sleep a wink. He was so confused. This magnificent woman, this apparition, speaking of his father, Anton, of whom he hadn’t heard a single solitary word of since the scattering of their kumpaníya a year ago now. Was Anton alive? Held in a camp just like this one perhaps. Worried for his son and the rest of his family. How did Christina Müller know of his existence?
The next morning little Otto Schwarzhuber was waiting for him outside the barracks. His eyes steady, looking straight at Emil. Expecting Emil to play his accordion for him. Emil had no desire to do so, had no desire to do anything, except maybe to dream a little, to escape. A hand fell on the boy’s shoulder. Emil raised his eyes. It wasn’t Otto’s mother, but Christina Müller, looking after the child.
“Play, Emil. Play like yesterday.”
Emil lifted his Paolo Soprani and played again, but for her this time. Little Otto couldn’t guess what was happening, of course. Emil played and Christina looked intently at him, just as she had during the Kommandantur party. What did she want from him, exactly? His first song ended, and as he was about to start another, Christina sent Otto back to the officer looking after him a few metres away. The little boy grumbled but obeyed.
For the first time they were alone, Christina and him. Emil asked in his clumsy German, “You’ve seen my father? You’ve talked with him?”
She hesitated, then answered, “Your father is dead.”
A break, his mind like a handful of pebbles thrown into a roiling sea. He’d believed, he’d hoped, he’d dared to dream, and now all of it was crushed once again. Would his misfortunes never end? Emil wanted to speak but didn’t know how anymore. All he could muster was a questioning look.
“He was in Birkenau,” she told him. “But not with the Gypsies. He was hiding. He was pretending to be someone else.”
Emil didn’t understand. Why would he be hiding, pretending to be someone else? What false identity? The Roma only used borrowed names, in any case, depending on the country they were passing through with the changing seasons.
“Come closer.”
Emil hesitated. What did this woman want? He had to know more about how his father had died. And so he stepped forward, a single step. Carefully, Christina lifted her hand so very gently, as if wary of startling a savage, famished beast. She caressed his face, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It was, of course, but not in this place, not in this hell on earth. In another world he would have expected