Page 7 of The Tattooist of Auschwitz
He continues barking orders as the kapo appears below. Lale has made a habit of acknowledging him with a deferential nod of the head. On one occasion he received a short nod back. He has spoken to him in Polish. At the least, his kapo has accepted him as a subservient prisoner who will not cause problems.
With a half-smile the kapo makes eye contact with Lale and beckons him down from the roof. Lale approaches him with his head bowed.
‘Do you like what you’re doing, on the roof?’ says the kapo.
‘I’ll do whatever I’m told to do,’ replies Lale.
‘But everyone wants an easier life, yes?’
Lale says nothing.
‘I need a boy,’ the kapo says, playing with the fraying edge of his Russian army shirt. It’s too big for him, chosen to make the little man appear larger and more powerful than those he must control. From his gap-toothed mouth Lale experiences the pungent smell of partially digested meat.
‘You will do whatever I ask you to. Bring me my food, clean my boots, and you must be beside me whenever I want you. Do this and I can make life easier for you; fail me and there will be consequences.’
Lale stands beside his kapo, as his answer to the job offer. He wonders if by moving from builder to dogsbody he is making a deal with the devil.
•
On a beautiful spring day, not too hot, Lale watches as a large enclosed truck continues past the usual point for unloading building supplies. It drives around the back of the administration building. Lale knows that the boundary fence lies not far beyond and he has never dared venture to this area, but curiosity gets the better of him now. He walks after it with an air of ‘I belong here, I can go where I want’.
He peers around the corner at the back of the building. The truck pulls up beside an odd bus. It has been adapted into a bunker of sorts, with steel plates nailed across the window frames. Lale watches as dozens of naked men are herded out of the truck and led towards the bus. Some enter willingly. Those who resist are hit by a rifle butt. Fellow prisoners drag the semi-conscious objectors to their fate.
The bus is so full that the last men to board cling to the steps with their tiptoes, their naked bottoms hanging out the door. Officers shove their weight against the bodies. Then the doors are slammed shut. One officer walks around the bus, rapping on the metal sheets, checking everything is secure. A nimble officer clambers onto the roof with a canister in his hand. Unable to move, Lale watches as he opens a small hatch on the roof of the bus and upends the canister. Then he slams the lid down and latches it. As the guard scurries down, the bus shakes violently and muffled screams are heard.
Lale drops to his knees, retching. He remains there, sick in the dirt, as the screams fade.
When the bus is still and quiet, the doors are opened. Dead men fall out like blocks of stone.
A group of prisoners is marched out from beyond the other corner of the building. The truck backs up and the prisoners begin transferring the bodies onto it, staggering under the weight while trying to hide their distress. Lale has witnessed an unimaginable act. He staggers to his feet, standing on the threshold of hell, an inferno of feelings raging inside him.
The next morning he cannot rise. He is burning up.
•
It takes seven days for Lale to regain consciousness. Someone is pouring water gently into his mouth. He registers a cool damp rag on his forehead.
‘There, boy,’ says a voice. ‘Take it easy.’
Lale opens his eyes to see a stranger, an older man, peering gently into his face. He pushes himself up onto his elbows and the stranger supports him to sit. He looks around, confused. What day is it? Where is he?
‘The fresh air might do you good,’ says the man, taking Lale’s elbow.
He is escorted outside into a cloudless day, one that seems made for joy, and he shivers at the memory of the last day like this. His world spins and he staggers. The stranger supports him, leading him to a nearby pile of timber.
Pulling up Lale’s sleeve, he points to the tattooed number.
‘My name is Pepan. I am the Tätowierer. What do you think of my handiwork?’
‘Tätowierer?’ says Lale, ‘You mean, you did this to me?’
Pepan shrugs, looking Lale directly in the eye. ‘I wasn’t given a choice.’
Lale shakes his head. ‘This number wouldn’t have been my first choice of tattoo.’
‘What would you have preferred?’ asks Pepan.
Lale smiles slyly.
