‘She’s in Block 29.’ He hands Lale a pencil and some paper. ‘Here, write to her and I will make sure she gets it.’
‘Do you know her name?’
Baretski’s look gives Lale his answer. What do you think?
‘I’ll come back in an hour and take it to her.’
‘Make it two.’
Lale agonises over the first words he will write to prisoner 34902. How to even begin? How to address her? Eventually he decides to keep it simple, ‘Hello, my name is Lale.’ When Baretski returns, he hands him the page with only a few sentences on it. He has told her he is from Krompachy in Slovakia, his age, and the make-up of his family, who he trusts are safe. He asks her to be near the administration building next Sunday morning. He explains that he will try to be there too, and that if he isn’t it will be because of his work, which isn’t regulated like everyone else’s.
Baretski takes the letter and reads it in front of Lale.
‘Is this all you have to say?’
‘Anything more I’ll say in person.’
Baretski sits down on Lale’s bed and leans in to boast about what he would say, what he would like to do, if he was in Lale’s situation, that is, not knowing if he will still be alive at the end of the week. Lale thanks him for the input but says he prefers to take his chances.
‘Fine. I’ll deliver this so-called letter to her and give her pen and paper to reply. I’ll tell her I will come for her reply tomorrow morning – give her all night to think on whether or not she likes you.’
He smirks at Lale as he leaves the room.
What have I done? He has placed prisoner 34902 in danger. He is protected. She is not. And still he wants, needs, to take the risk.
The next day Lale and Leon work well into the evening. Baretski patrols not far from them at all times, often exercising his authority with the lines of men, using his rifle as a baton when he doesn’t like the look of someone. His insidious smirk is never off his face. He takes clear delight in swaggering up and down the rows of men. It is only when Lale and Leon are packing up that he takes a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and hands it to Lale.
‘Oh, Tätowierer,’ he says, ‘she doesn’t say much. I think you should choose yourself another girlfriend.’
As Lale reaches out to take the note, Baretski playfully pulls it away. OK, if that’s the way you want to play it. He turns and walks away. Baretski chases after him and gives him the note. A curt nod of the head is the only thanks Lale is prepared to give him. Putting the note in his bag, he walks towards his evening meal, watching Leon head back to his block, knowing he will probably have missed his own.
There is a small amount of food left by the time Lale arrives. After eating, he shoves several pieces of bread up his sleeve, cursing the fact that his Russian uniform has now been replaced by a pyjama-like outfit with no pockets. On entering Block 7 he receives the usual quiet chorus of greeting. He explains that he only has enough extra food for Leon and maybe two others, promising he will try to get more tomorrow. He cuts short his stay and hurries back to his room. He needs to read the words buried among his tools.
He drops onto his bed and holds the note to his chest, picturing prisoner 34902 writing the words he is so eager to read. Finally, he opens it.
‘Dear Lale,’ it begins. Like him, the woman has written only a few careful lines. She is also from Slovakia. She has been in Auschwitz longer than Lale, since March. She works in one of the ‘Canada’ warehouses, where prisoners sort through the confiscated belongings of fellow victims. She will be in the compound on Sunday. And will look for him. Lale rereads the note and turns the paper over several times. Grabbing a pencil from his bag he scribbles in bold on the back of her letter: Your name, what is your name?
The next morning, Baretski escorts Lale to Auschwitz alone. The new transport is a small one, giving Leon a day’s rest. Baretski begins to tease Lale about the note and how he must have lost his touch with the ladies. Lale ignores his teasing, asks him if he’s read any good books lately.
‘Books? I don’t read books,’ Baretski mutters.
‘You should.’
‘Why? What good are books?’
‘You can learn a lot from them, and girls like it if you can quote lines or recite poetry.’
‘I don’t need to quote books. I’ve got this uniform; that’s all I need to get girls. They love the uniform. I have a girlfriend, you know,’ Baretski boasts.
This is news to Lale.
‘That’s nice. And she likes your uniform?’
‘Sure does. She even puts it on and marches around saluting – thinks she’s bloody Hitler.’ With a chilling laugh he mimics her, strutting away, arm raised, ‘Heil Hitler! Heil Hitler!’
‘Just because she likes your uniform doesn’t mean to say she likes you,’ blurts out Lale.
Baretski stops in his tracks.
Lale curses himself for the careless comment. He slows his steps, pondering whether to go back and apologise. No, he’ll walk on and see what happens. Closing his eyes, he places one foot in front of the other, one step at a time, waiting, expecting to hear the shot. He hears the sound of running behind him. Then the tug of an arm on his sleeve. ‘Is that what you think, Tätowierer? That she just likes me because of my uniform?’
A relieved Lale turns to face him. ‘How do I know what she likes? Why don’t you tell me something else about her?’
He doesn’t want any part of this conversation, but having dodged a bullet he feels he has no choice. It turns out that Baretski knows very little about his ‘girlfriend’, mostly because he’s never asked her about herself. This is too much for Lale to ignore, and before he knows it he is giving Baretski further advice on how to treat women. Inside his head, Lale is telling himself to shut up. What should he care about the monster beside him and whether or not he will ever be capable of treating a girl with respect? In truth, he hopes Baretski will not survive this place to be with any woman ever again.
Chapter 5
Sunday morning has arrived. Lale leaps from his bed and hurries outside. The sun is up. Where is everybody? Where are the birds? Why aren’t they singing?
‘It’s Sunday!’ he calls to no one in particular. Spinning around, he notices rifles trained on him in the nearby guard towers.
‘Oh shit.’ He races back into his block as gunshots pierce the quiet dawn. The guard seems to have decided to scare him. Lale knows this is the one day that prisoners ‘sleep in’, or at least don’t leave their blocks until their hunger pains force them towards the black coffee and single piece of stale bread. The guard sends another round into the building, for the fun of it.
Back in his small room, Lale paces to and fro, rehearsing the first words he will say to her.
You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, is given a run, and discarded. He feels pretty sure that, with her bald head and clothes once worn by someone much bigger, she doesn’t feel beautiful. Still, he won’t completely rule it out. But perhaps the best thing would be to keep it simple – What is your name? – and see where that leads.
Lale forces himself to stay inside until he begins to hear the sounds, so familiar to him now, of the camp waking up. First the siren pierces the prisoners’ sleep. Then hungover SS, short on sleep and temper, bark instructions. The breakfast urns clang as they are moved to each block; the prisoners carrying them groan as they get weaker by the day and the urns get heavier by the minute.