Page 5 of The Tattooist of Auschwitz
Eventually, an SS officer and a prisoner approach Block 7, which falls silent. No introductions are made. The prisoner calls out numbers from a clipboard. The SS officer stands alongside, tapping his foot impatiently, slapping his thigh with his swagger stick. It takes a moment for the prisoners to realise that the numbers relate to the tattoos they each bear on their left arm. When the rollcall is over, two numbers have received no response.
‘You –’ the roll caller points to a man on the end of the row – ‘go back inside and see if anyone is still there.’
The man looks at him with questioning eyes. He hasn’t understood a word. The man beside him whispers the instruction and he hurries inside. A few moments later he returns, holds up his right hand and extends his index and middle finger: two dead.
The SS officer steps forward. He speaks in German. The prisoners have learned, already, to keep their mouths shut and stand obediently waiting, hoping some among them will be able to translate. Lale gets it all.
‘You will have two meals a day. One in the morning and one in the evening. If you survive until evening.’ He pauses, a grim smile on his face. ‘After your morning meal you will work until we tell you to stop. You will continue with the construction of this camp. We have many more people to transport here.’ His smile becomes a proud grin. ‘Follow the instructions of your kapo and those in charge of the building programme and you will see the sun go down.’
There is a sound of clanging metal and the prisoners turn to see a group of men approaching, carrying two cauldrons and armfuls of small metal tins. Breakfast. A few prisoners start to head towards the smaller group, as though to offer assistance.
‘If anyone moves they will be shot,’ barks the SS officer, raising his rifle. ‘There will be no second chances.’
The officer leaves and the prisoner who conducted the rollcall addresses the group. ‘You heard him,’ says the man, in Polish-accented German. ‘I am your kapo, your boss. You will form two lines to get your food. Anyone complaining will suffer consequences.’
The men jockey into line and several start whispering among themselves, asking if anyone has understood what ‘the German’ said. Lale tells those nearest to him and asks them to pass it along. He will translate as much as he can.
As he reaches the front of the line he gratefully accepts a small tin cup, its contents slopping over the rough hands that thrust it at him. He steps aside and examines his meal. It is brown, contains nothing solid and has a smell he cannot identify. It is neither tea, coffee, nor soup. He fears he will bring the foul liquid back up if he drinks it slowly. So he closes his eyes, pinches his nostrils with his fingers and gulps it down. Others are not so successful.
Aron, standing nearby, raises his cup in a mock toast. ‘I got a piece of potato, what about you?’
‘Best meal I’ve had in ages.’
‘Are you always so upbeat?’
‘Ask me again at the end of the day,’ Lale says with a wink. Returning his empty cup to the prisoner who handed it to him, Lale thanks him with a quick nod and half a smile.
The kapo shouts, ‘When you lazy bastards have finished your dining, get back into line! You have work to do!’
Lale passes on the instruction.
‘You’ll follow me,’ the kapo shouts, ‘and you’ll follow the instructions of the foreman. Any slacking off, I’ll know about it.’
•
Lale and the others find themselves in front of a partially erected building, a replica of their own block. Other prisoners are already there: carpenters and bricklayers all quietly labouring in the established rhythm of people used to working together.
‘You. Yes, you. Get up on the roof. You can work up there.’
The command is directed at Lale. Looking around, he spies a ladder going up to the roof. Two prisoners squat there, waiting to receive the tiles which are being shuttled up to them. The two men move aside as Lale clambers up. The roof consists only of wooden beams for supporting the tiles.
‘Be careful,’ one of the workmen warns him. ‘Move further up the roofline and watch us. It’s not difficult – you’ll soon get the hang of it.’ The man is Russian.
‘My name’s Lale.’
‘Introductions later, OK?’ The two men exchange a look. ‘You understand me?’
‘Yes,’ Lale replies in Russian. The men smile.
Lale watches as they receive the heavy clay tiles from the pair of hands poking over the lip of the roof, crawl to where the last tiles were laid and carefully overlap them, before moving back to the ladder for the next one. The Russian had been correct – it’s not difficult work – and it isn’t long before Lale joins them in accepting and laying the tiles. On the warm spring day only the hunger pains and cramps prevent him from matching the more experienced workers.
A few hours pass before they are permitted to take a break. Lale heads for the ladder but the Russian stops him.
‘It’s safer to stay up here and rest. You can’t be seen well this high up.’
Lale follows the men, who clearly know the best place to sit and stretch out: the corner where stronger timber was used to reinforce the roof.
‘How long have you been here?’ Lale asks as soon as they settle down.
