Page 19 of The Tattooist of Auschwitz
‘Probably not, but I can’t go on just seeing you. I need to be with you and talk to you like people should.’
‘But we’re not safe–’
‘It’s never going to be safe. Talk to me. I want to hear your voice. I want to know all about you. All I know is your name. Gita. It’s beautiful.’
‘What do you want me to say?’
Lale struggles for the right question. He goes for something ordinary. ‘How about… How’s your day been?’
Now she lifts her head and looks him straight in the eyes. ‘Oh, you know how it is. Got up, had a big breakfast, kissed Mumma and Papa goodbye before catching the bus to work. Work was–’
‘OK, OK, I’m sorry, dumb question.’
They sit side by side but looking away from each other. Lale listens to Gita’s breathing. She taps a thumb against her thigh. Finally, she says, ‘So how is your day going?’
‘Oh, you know. Got up, had a big breakfast…’
They look at each other and laugh quietly. Gita gently nudges against Lale. Their hands accidentally touch for an instant.
‘Well, if we can’t talk about our day, tell me something about yourself,’ Lale says.
‘There’s nothing to tell.’
Lale is taken aback. ‘Of course there is. What’s your surname?’
She stares at Lale, shaking her head. ‘I’m just a number. You should know that. You gave it to me.’
‘Yes, but that’s just in here. Who are you outside of here?’
‘Outside doesn’t exist anymore. There’s only here.’
Lale stands up and stares at her. ‘My name is Ludwig Eisenberg but people call me Lale. I come from Krompachy, Slovakia. I have a mother, a father, a brother and a sister.’ He pauses. ‘Now it’s your turn.’
Gita meets his stare defiantly. ‘I am prisoner 34902 in Birkenau, Poland.’
Conversation fades into uneasy silence. He watches her, her downcast eyes. She is struggling with her thoughts: what to say, what not to say.
Lale sits back down, in front of her this time. He reaches out as if to take her hand, before withdrawing it. ‘I don’t want to upset you, but will you promise me one thing?’
‘What?’
‘Before we leave here, you will tell me who you are and where you come from.’
She looks him in the eyes, ‘Yes, I promise.’
‘I’m happy with that for now. So, they’ve got you working in the Canada?’
Gita nods.
‘Is it OK there?’
‘It’s OK. But the Germans just throw all the prisoners’ possessions in together. Rotten food mixed with clothing. And the mould – I hate touching it and it stinks.’
‘I’m glad you’re not outside. I’ve spoken to some men who know girls from their village who also work in the Canada. They tell me they often find jewels and money.’
‘I’ve heard that. I just seem to find mouldy bread.’
‘You will be careful, won’t you? Don’t do anything silly, and always keep your eye on the SS.’
