The Tattooist of Auschwitz

Chapter 22

Lale spends long hot summer days with Gita, or with thoughts of her. Their workload hasn’t diminished though; quite the opposite: thousands of Hungarian Jews are now arriving in Auschwitz and Birkenau every week. As a result, unrest breaks out in both the men’s and women’s camps. Lale has worked out why. The higher the number on a person’s arm, the less respect they receive from everyone else. Every time another nationality arrives in large numbers, turf wars ensue. Gita has told him about the women’s camp. The Slovakian girls, who have been in there longest, resent the Hungarian girls, who refuse to accept that they aren’t entitled to the same small perks that the Slovakians have worked hard to negotiate. She and her friends feel that surviving what they have should count for something. They have, for example, obtained casual clothing from the Canada. No more blue-and-white striped pyjamas for them. And they are not prepared to share. The SS do not take sides when fights break out; all involved are punished with an equal lack of mercy: denied their meagre food rations; they might be flogged, sometimes just the one blow with a rifle butt or swagger stick, at other times they are beaten savagely, while their fellow prisoners are forced to look on.

Gita and Dana keep well clear of any fights. Gita has enough issues dealing with petty jealousies over her job in the administration building, her friendship with the seemingly protected Cilka and, of course, visits from her boyfriend, the Tätowierer.

Lale is largely immune to the camp disputes. Working with Leon and only a handful of other prisoners alongside the SS, he is removed from the plight of the thousands of starving men who must work and fight and live and die together. Living among the Romani also gives him a sense of security and belonging. He realises he has settled into a pattern of life that is comfortable relative to the conditions of the majority. He works when he has to, spends whatever time he can steal with Gita, plays with the Romani children, talks to their parents – mostly the younger men, but also the older women. He loves how they care for everyone, not only their biological family. He doesn’t connect so well with the older men, who mostly sit around not engaging with the children, the young adults or even the older women. When he looks at them he often thinks about his own father.

Late one night Lale is woken by yelling SS, barking dogs, screaming women and children. He opens his door and looks out to see the men, women and children in his block being forced from the building. He watches until the last woman, clutching an infant, is shoved brutally out into the night. He follows them all outside and stands, stunned, as all around him the other Gypsy blocks are also emptied. Thousands of people are being herded onto nearby trucks. The compound is lit up and dozens of SS and their dogs corral the mob, shooting at anyone who doesn’t respond immediately to the instruction, ‘Get on the truck!’

Lale stops a passing officer he recognises. ‘Where are you taking them?’ he asks.

‘You want to join them, Tätowierer?’ the man responds, walking on.

Lale sinks into the shadows, scanning the crowd. He sees Nadya and runs to her. ‘Nadya,’ he pleads. ‘Don’t go.’

She forces a brave smile. ‘I don’t have a choice, Lale. I go where my people go. Goodbye, my friend, it’s been…’ An officer pushes her along before she can finish.

Lale stands paralysed, watching until the last person has been loaded onto the trucks. The trucks drive off and slowly he walks back into the eerily silent block. He goes back to bed. Sleep will not come.

In the morning Lale, distraught, joins Leon and they work furiously as new transports arrive.

Mengele is scanning the silent rows, making his way slowly towards the tattooists’ station. Leon’s hands tremble at his approach. Lale tries to give him a reassuring look. But the bastard who has mutilated him is only a few feet away. Mengele stops and watches them work. Occasionally he peers closely at a tattoo, increasing Lale and Leon’s agitation. His deathly smirk never leaves his face. He attempts eye contact with Lale, who never raises his eyes above the level of the arm he is working on.

‘Tätowierer, Tätowierer,’ Mengele says, leaning over the table, ‘maybe today I will take you.’ He tilts his head, curiously, seeming to enjoy Lale’s discomfort. Then, having had his fun, he ambles away.

Something light lands on Lale’s head and he looks up. Ash is belching from the nearby crematorium. He starts to tremble and drops his tattoo stick. Leon tries to steady him.

‘Lale, what is it? What’s wrong?’

Lale’s scream is choked by a sob. ‘You bastards, you fucking bastards!’

Leon grips Lale’s arm, trying to get him to control himself as Mengele looks their way and starts to walk back over. Lale is seeing red. He is out of control. Nadya. He tries desperately to rein himself in as Mengele arrives. He feels as though he might vomit.

Mengele’s breath is in his face. ‘Is everything all right here?’

‘Yes, Herr Doktor, everything is fine,’ Leon answers shakily.

Leon bends down and picks up Lale’s stick.

‘Just a broken stick. We’ll fix it and be right back to work,’ Leon continues.

‘You don’t look well, Tätowierer. Would you like me to take a look at you?’ Mengele asks.

‘I’m fine, just a broken stick,’ Lale coughs. He keeps his head down, turns away and tries to get back to work.

‘Tätowierer!’ Mengele barks.

Lale turns back towards Mengele, jaw clenched, head still low. Mengele has unholstered his pistol. He holds it limply at his side.

‘I could have you shot for turning away from me.’ He raises the weapon, pointing it at Lale’s forehead. ‘Look at me. I could shoot you right now. What do you say to that?’

Lale raises his head but moves his gaze to the doctor’s forehead, refusing to look into his eyes. ‘Yes, Herr Doktor. I’m sorry, it won’t happen again, Herr Doktor,’ he mutters.

‘Get back to work. You’re holding things up,’ Mengele barks, and again walks off. Lale looks at Leon and points to the ash now falling all around them.

‘They emptied the Gypsy camp last night.’

Leon hands Lale his tattoo stick, before going back to work himself, in silence. Lale looks up, searching for the sun to shine down on him. But it is concealed by ash and smoke.

That evening he returns to his block, which is now occupied by people that he and Leon marked earlier. He shuts himself away in his room. He doesn’t want to make friends. Not tonight. Not ever. He wants only silence in his block.