Page 15 of The Tattooist of Auschwitz
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An advantage of being Tätowierer is that Lale knows the date. It is written on the paperwork he is given each morning and which he returns each evening. It is not just the paperwork which tells him that. Sunday is the only day of the week the other prisoners are not forced to work and can spend the day milling around in the compound or staying near their blocks, huddled together in small groups – friendships brought into the camp, friendships made in the camp.
It is a Sunday when he sees her. He recognises her at once. They walk towards each other, Lale on his own, she with a group of girls, all with shaven heads, all wearing the same plain clothing. There is nothing to distinguish her except for those eyes. Black – no, brown. The darkest brown he’s ever seen. For the second time they peer into each other’s souls. Lale’s heart skips a beat. The gaze lingers.
‘Tätowierer!’ Baretski places a hand on Lale’s shoulder, breaking the spell.
The prisoners move away, not wanting to be near an SS officer or the prisoner to whom he is talking. The group of girls scatters, leaving her looking at Lale, looking at her. Baretski’s eyes move from one to the other as they stand in a perfect triangle, each waiting for the other to shift. Baretski has a knowing smile. Bravely, one of her friends advances and pulls her back into the group.
‘Very nice,’ Baretski says as he and Lale walk away. Lale ignores him and fights to control the hatred he feels.
‘Would you like to meet her?’ Again Lale refuses to respond.
‘Write to her, tell her you like her.’
How stupid does he think I am?
‘I’ll get you paper and a pencil and bring her your letter. What do you say? Do you know her name?’
34902.
Lale walks on. He knows the penalty for any prisoner caught with pen or paper is death.
‘Where are we going?’ Lale changes the subject.
‘To Auschwitz. Herr Doktor needs more patients.’
A chill runs through Lale. He remembers the man in the white coat, his hairy hands on that beautiful girl’s face. Lale has never felt so uneasy about a doctor as he did on that day.
‘But it’s Sunday.’
Baretski laughs. ‘Oh, you think just because the others don’t work on Sunday, you should get it off too? Would you like to discuss this with Herr Doktor?’ Baretski’s laughter grows shrill, sending more shivers down Lale’s spine. ‘Please do that for me, Tätowierer. Tell Herr Doktor it is your day off. I would so enjoy it.’
Lale knows when to shut up. He strides off, putting some distance between himself and Baretski.
Chapter 4
As they walk to Auschwitz, Baretski seems in a jovial mood and peppers Lale with questions. ‘How old are you?’ ‘What did you do before, you know, before you were brought here?’
For the most part Lale answers with a question, and discovers Baretski likes talking about himself. He learns he is only a year younger than Lale, but that is where the similarities end. He talks about women like a teenager. Lale decides he can make this difference work for him and begins telling Baretski of his winning ways with girls, how it’s all about respecting them and what they care about.
‘Have you ever given a girl flowers?’ asks Lale.
‘No, why would I do that?’
‘Because they like a man who gives them flowers. Better still if you pick them yourself.’
‘Well, I’m not gonna do that. I’d get laughed at.’
‘By who?’
‘My friends.’
‘You mean other men?’
‘Well, yeah – they’d think I was a sissy.’
‘And what do you think the girl getting the flowers would think?’
