Page 52 of The Tattooist of Auschwitz
Lale’s mother sat down, and he took a seat across from her. ‘You must first learn to listen to her. Even if you are tired, never be too tired to listen to what she has to say. Learn what she likes, and more importantly what she doesn’t like. When you can, give her little treats – flowers, chocolates – women like these things.’
‘When was the last time Papa brought you a treat?’
‘It doesn’t matter. You want to know what girls want, not what I get.’
‘When I’ve got money, I’ll bring you flowers and chocolates, I promise.’
‘You should save your money for the girl who captures your heart.’
‘How will I know who she is?’
‘Oh, you’ll know.’
She drew him into her arms and stroked his hair: her boy, her young man.
•
Her image dissolves – tears, the picture blurs, he blinks – and he imagines Gita in his arms, him stroking her hair.
‘You were right, Mumma. I do know.’
•
Jakub comes for him. He drags him down a corridor to a small windowless room. A single light bulb hangs from the ceiling. Handcuffs dangle from a chain on the back wall. There is a birch rod lying on the floor. Two SS officers talk together, seemingly oblivious to Lale’s presence. He shuffles backwards, not raising his eyes above the floor. Without warning, Jakub swings a punch into Lale’s face, sending him stumbling back against the wall. The officers now pay attention. Lale attempts to stand. Jakub winds his right foot slowly back. Lale anticipates the coming kick. He backs away just as Jakub’s foot connects with his ribs, then exaggerates the impact by rolling and heaving and clutching his chest. As he slowly rises Jakub punches him in the face again. He takes the full force this time, though Jakub had telegraphed his intention to hit him. Blood runs freely from his smashed nose. Jakub pulls Lale roughly to his feet and handcuffs him to the dangling chain.
Jakub picks up the birch, tears the shirt from Lale’s back, and lashes him five times. Then he pulls Lale’s trousers and underpants down and whips him across the buttocks five more times. Lale’s yelps are not feigned. Jakub jerks Lale’s head back.
‘Give us the names of the prisoners who steal for you!’ Jakub says, firm and menacing.
The officers look on, standing casually.
Lale shakes his head, whimpering, ‘I don’t know.’ Jakub strikes Lale ten more times. Blood runs down his legs. The two officers begin to pay more attention and step closer. Jakub jerks Lale’s head back and snarls at him, ‘Talk!’ He whispers in his ear, ‘Say you don’t know and then faint.’ And then louder, ‘Give us the names!’
‘I never ask! I don’t know. You have to believe me…’
Jakub punches Lale in the stomach. He buckles at the knees, rolls his eyes back and pretends to pass out. Jakub turns to the SS officers.
‘He is a weak Jew. If he knew the names, he would’ve told us by now.’ He kicks Lale’s legs as he dangles from the chains.
The officers nod and walk from the room.
The door closes and Jakub quickly releases Lale, laying him gently on the floor. With a cloth hidden in his shirt he wipes the blood from Lale’s body and gently pulls up his pants for him.
‘I’m so sorry, Lale.’
He helps him to his feet, carries him back to his room and lays him on his stomach.
‘You did good. You’ll need to sleep like this for a while. I’ll come back later with some water and a clean shirt. Get some rest now.’
•
Over the next few days Jakub visits Lale each day with food and water and the occasional change of shirt. He reports to Lale the extent of his injuries and that they are healing. Lale knows he will be marked for life.Perhaps the Tätowierer deserves that.
‘How many times did you strike me?’ Lale asks.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Yes, you do.’
