Page 40 of The Tattooist of Auschwitz
‘Don’t worry. Now come on before we both get into trouble and end up in the ovens.’
‘You’re not getting rid of me?’
‘Not just yet. There are two prisoners in here who appear to have the same number. We need you to look at them. It must have been you or that eunuch who made the marks. You have to tell us which one is which.’
The red brick building looms in front of them; large windows disguise the purpose, but the size of the chimneys confirms its horrifying true nature. They are met at the entrance by two SS, who joke with Baretski and ignore Lale. They point to closed doors inside the building and Baretski and Lale walk towards them. Lale looks around at this final stretch of the road to death at Birkenau. He sees the Sonderkommandos standing by, defeated, ready to do a job no one on earth would volunteer for: removing corpses from the gas chambers and putting them into the ovens. He tries to make eye contact with them, to let them know he too works for the enemy. He too has chosen to stay alive for as long as he can, by performing an act of defilement on people of his own faith. None of them meets his eye. He has heard what other prisoners say about these men and the privileged position they occupy – housed separately, receiving extra rations, having warm clothing and blankets to sleep under. Their lives parallel his and he feels a sinking in his gut at the thought that he too is despised for the role he plays at the camp. Unable to express in any way his solidarity with these men, he walks on.
They are led to a large steel door. In front of it stands a guard.
‘It’s all right, all the gas has gone. We need to send them to the ovens, but can’t until you identify the correct numbers.’
The guard opens the door for Lale and Baretski. Pulling himself up to his full height, Lale looks Baretski in the eye and sweeps his hand from left to right.
‘After you.’
Baretski bursts out laughing and slaps Lale on the back, ‘No, after you.’
‘No, after you,’ Lale repeats.
‘I insist, Tätowierer.’
The SS officer opens the doors wide and they step into a cavernous room. Bodies, hundreds of naked bodies, fill the room. They are piled up on each other, their limbs distorted. Dead eyes stare. Men, young and old; children at the bottom. Blood, vomit, urine and faeces. The smell of death pervades the entire space. Lale tries to holds his breath. His lungs burn. His legs threaten to give way beneath him. Behind him Baretski says, ‘Shit.’
That one word from a sadist only deepens the well of inhumanity that Lale is drowning in.
‘Over here,’ an officer indicates, and they follow him to a side of the room where two male bodies are laid out together. The officer starts talking to Baretski. For once words fail him, and he indicates that Lale can understand German.
‘They both have the same number. How could that be?’ he asks.
Lale can only shake his head and shrug his shoulders.How the hell should I know?
‘Look at them. Which one is correct?’ the officer snaps.
Lale leans down and takes hold of one of the arms. He is grateful for a reason to kneel and hopes it will stabilise him. He looks closely at the numbers tattooed on the arm he holds.
‘The other?’ he asks.
Roughly, the other man’s arm is thrust at him. He looks closely at both numbers.
‘See here. This is not a three, it’s an eight. Part of it is faded, but it’s an eight.’
The guard scribbles on each cold arm the correct numbers. Without asking for permission, Lale gets up and leaves the building. Baretski catches up with him outside, where he is doubled over and breathing deeply.
Baretski waits a moment or two.
‘Are you all right?’
‘No, I’m not fucking all right. Youbastards. How many more of us must you kill?’
‘You’re upset. I can see that.’
Baretski is just a kid, an uneducated kid.But Lale can’t help wondering how he can feel nothing for the people they have just seen, the agony of death inscribed on their faces and twisted bodies.
‘Come on, let’s go,’ says Baretski.
Lale pulls himself up to walk beside him, though he cannot look at him.
‘You know something, Tätowierer? I bet you’re the only Jew who ever walked into an oven and then walked back out of it.’
