Often, however, the gadje pressed their faces along the metal fencing, watching the Roma. Men without children, without wives, women without husbands — emaciated creatures, all of them. The shouts and laughter of Romani toddlers tore holes right through their hearts; it killed them, in addition to the forced labour. A small death preparing them for the larger one. Emil saw them wander about the camp, those they called the “Muslims,” the famished, who no longer had the strength to breathe. Compared to those poor souls, the Roma gave the impression of being on vacation.
The Zigeunerlager, a sinecure.
Almost.
Last spring more than a thousand Roma had been gassed to prevent a typhoid epidemic.
“Give me your accordion.”
An outline in the door frame, Otto Schwarzhuber, son of the SS-Obersturmführer. Otto was six. Every day the child left the Kommandantur buildings and wandered among the prisoners to get a bit of air. He wasn’t given permission to come near the ovens and gas chamber — the guards made sure of that — but the rest of Birkenau was open to him. The detainees knew him, bowed low when he passed, the son of one of the most important camp officers after SS-Obersturmbannführer Rudolf Höss. His mother joined him sometimes. A stern-looking woman, always in a dark blazer. Her hair pulled back tightly, her lips tighter. Proper manners were essential to her. When Otto stepped in a puddle of mud, she’d chide him right in front of the astonished prisoners.
More often than not, however, Otto went on his peregrinations alone. To protect the boy from newly posted, overzealous SS guards who might take him for a young prisoner and send him to the showers, his mother had tied a small placard around his neck with a strap of dark leather: I AM THE SON OF SS-OBERSTURMFÜHRER SCHWARZHUBER!
For the past month or so, the child had been coming to listen to Emil play his Romani songs. That day, when Emil finished his piece, Otto reached out his hand and asked for the accordion again. Emil refused, shaking his head. Of course, if Otto made his request, just once, through the offices of a kapo, gone would be Emil’s precious instrument.
But Otto added: “I’ll trade you your accordion for this.”
He pointed at the sign around his neck. Emil burst out laughing. Otto showed the hint of a smile. Emil had never seen him laugh. The little German boy didn’t have an easy smile, probably because of his mother, who seemed so austere. Among the Roma, children were treated like royalty; they could do what they wanted when they wanted. Emil felt sorry for little Otto, who never laughed — for him and the other officers’ children. Romani children ran and played and laughed and brightened the cesspit of their lives. The camp’s authorities seemed to enjoy it. At Christmastime the SS brought the Romani children gifts, and the children would sing “Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht” in return … and there were New Year’s gifts for the mothers and sisters. Many of the officers would have sex with them. And when Emil played the accordion, the SS listened. They stood stiff as boards behind the children, but they listened. Emil was no virtuoso, but who would complain? There wasn’t much competition at Auschwitz-Birkenau.
“Happy children! What joy!”
Little Otto quickly turned around. Behind him Dr. Josef appeared. A large smile, warm eyes. The doctor passed his hand through his hair, while the Romani children hurried over, having recognized the doctor’s kind voice. The same enthusiasm every time. Uncle Josef, the children called him. He pulled candy out of his pockets as the children ran toward him. They tugged at his sleeves, demanding sweets. The son of the SS-Obersturmführer was jealous in his own way. Meanwhile Emil, seventeen years of age, felt too old to be joining the fun. And, anyway, he was wary around Dr. Josef.
There were stories about the doctor. He loved Romani children so much because they were useful to him. In his Stammlager clinic in Block 10, strange things happened behind closed doors. Experiments, for the advancement of science. At least that was what the rumours were. He was particularly fascinated by twins. When the convoys arrived, Dr. Josef stood on the platform, a bit apart from the crowd, scanning it, selecting promising patients. He had an eye for them. He’d find prospects, inspect their teeth, feel their arms, their heads — was he checking for lice? And if the shipment was a quality one, it was straight to the lab for the chosen few. Other times he’d select his patients at the entrance of the gas chambers. Those he chose were marked with chalk so that members of the Sonderkommando wouldn’t toss their bodies into the cremation ovens with the others.
The doctor had always ignored Emil. But that day he gestured him over. Emil obeyed nervously, holding his accordion tightly against him. Being noticed in Auschwitz usually meant trouble, sometimes even death. It was doubly true today, with Dr. Hans Leibrecht accompanying Dr. Josef. Leibrecht’s stares had always made Emil uneasy. If Uncle Josef seemed reassuring, Dr. Leibrecht’s angular face, his brusque movements, ensured that kids avoided him like the plague. Luckily for him, Dr. Josef’s smiles were wide enough for the two of them. And he smelled so good.
“Tomorrow you’re transferring to Block 10,” he told Emil.
Still smiling, as if this transfer were the greatest of gifts, an exceptional privilege. Emil didn’t want to go anywhere. It wasn’t as if he could refuse, of course. Dr. Josef noticed his worry. He added, glancing at his colleague, “You can bring your accordion if you like.”
Like the other prisoners, Emil Rosca had never seen a place that was so white. Inmates lay in beds placed one after the other. They were young, most of them. He recognized a few Roma. Jews, as well. Nurses came and went dressed in immaculate white uniforms. They looked like angels. A few moments earlier a truck had dropped them off in front of Block 10, now transformed into a medical laboratory. A dozen children, including two pairs of twins. It was Emil’s first time in the main camp, also called the Stammlager. This was the oldest section of the camp and held the administration offices. The construction of Birkenau — where the Romani camp was — had been completed after Emil’s internment. It was three kilometres southwest of Block 10.
A prisoner, Dina Gottlieb, was drawing a picture of a foot on a tablet placed on an easel. She didn’t bat an eye when Emil — his accordion slung over his shoulder — and the others crossed the room. Emil felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Dr. Josef, bringing him along to another section of the block. Although he let himself be guided to the far end of the row of beds, Emil was uncomfortable at being so isolated. This move, the doctor’s attitude — nothing good at all could come out of this.
“The operation is tomorrow,” Dr. Josef said. “You’ll sleep until then.”
Emil wanted to tell him that he wasn’t sick, that he felt a little weak, sure, but that was normal considering the circumstances. A few good meals, two or three days of rest, and he wouldn’t need the operation, whatever it was. He was certain of it.
Dr. Josef had him lie on the last bed in the room. A nurse ordered him to take his clothes off and put on a gown. The cloth was coarse but clean. As white as everything else. There were a few drops of blood on it, he noticed, but they were pale, almost invisible. An old stain that hadn’t come out in the wash.
Emil heard a wheeze behind him and turned around. In the next bed over, a small shape. A child. All he could see of him was a tuft of hair poking out from the sheets.
“That’s Samuel,” Dr. Josef said. “He was operated on this morning by Dr. Leibrecht. Look, the operation went smoothly. You’ve nothing to be afraid of.”
Emil wanted to scream but didn’t dare. Dr. Josef placed the accordion on the bedside table. He went through his pockets and pulled out a piece of candy, handing it to Emil. The doctor watched him for a long time, lost in thought, then left the dormitory. The lights were turned off soon after.
Then silence.
Broken by the whistle of a nearby train.
Emil couldn’t sleep.