Читать книгу The Roma Plot - Mario Bolduc - Страница 10

Auschwitz-Birkenau, September 19, 1943

Three men, all dressed in white, were standing in front of a sort of workbench, their backs turned to him, working in silence. They weren’t paying any attention at all to Emil Rosca, who was lying on the operating table. Among the men, Dr. Hans Leibrecht. Emil hadn’t taken his hands off his precious ears since he’d been brought into the room, especially after a nurse had come to measure them that very morning. Sure, they weren’t the prettiest ears around: they were a bit thick, slightly folded at the points, and stuck out from his head a little. But they were his ears, and the Nazi doctors were preparing to take them away from him for no reason at all.

His whole life Emil hadn’t thought of his ears twice, like the rest of his body, really. It was his and he lived in it, and that was all. And yet today here he was envying the men and women sent directly to the gas chamber. At least their deaths were painless. Would he still be able to hear? The guards’ orders? The music from his accordion? Last night Samuel seemed to have been able to hear his voice. Or perhaps Emil’s movements had jolted him awake. In the dark, Emil hadn’t dared to ask how the boy was feeling without his ears. By the time light returned to their dormitory, Samuel was dead. Two orderlies took his body away, leaving a brown stain on the boy’s pillow in the shape of a butterfly.

Absorbed by their work, the men spoke among themselves in a German Emil could barely understand, despite his fair knowledge of the language. In 1940, when the Wehrmacht had come into Ploesti to secure its oil wells, the Roma had begun trading with the soldiers. Out of necessity, Emil had learned basic German, which he spoke as well — or as poorly, really — as he did Romanian. But he couldn’t read or write either language. Nor his own language, Romani, the tongue of the Roma. And yet he enjoyed its musicality, its intonations. Every day in the camps he felt nostalgic for the paramíchi, the stories that had enthralled him as a child. And soon, maybe, he would never be able to hear anyone speaking his own language again. Or any other. A pang of anguish overtook him. He thought of his parents, who ’d vanished. The SS had chosen not to split up Romani families in the camps, but his own family, for a reason Emil didn’t know, was scattered to the four winds. The young Rom had discreetly asked around. He was the only Rosca in Auschwitz.

“As long as we don’t have a solution for transporting specimens,” Emil overheard Dr. Leibrecht say, “we’ll face the same problems time and time again.”

“The institute is supposed to take care of it.”

“Dr. Josef refuses to ask anything of them.”

“We’ve got the same issue with eyes.”

Dr. Leibrecht turned around, adjusting his glasses on his face, then leaned over Emil without ever looking at him. Emil felt like an object, a piece of furniture, about to be repaired. Or broken. Leibrecht pulled a lever under the table, sending it upward suddenly. The movement surprised Emil, and he dropped his hands from his ears. The two others, orderlies of some kind, quickly grabbed his arms. Emil was far too scared to cry out. Within a few moments, he was tied to the table, his back uncomfortably pinned against the flat, hard surface. Leibrecht muttered something to one of the orderlies, who quickly went off to grab a metal tray on which were placed surgical instruments — all Emil could make out was the glint of the scalpel’s blade.

The doctor put the tray on a small panel he’d pulled out of the table like a drawer. He examined his instruments, as if unsure which one he should use. Panicked, Emil struggled pathetically as one of the orderlies held his head firmly.

“Is the phenol ready?” Leibrecht asked.

A syringe appeared in the hand of the other assistant.

“Draw the sample as soon as the specimen’s vital signs indicate death.”

“As you say, Herr Doktor.”

With a fidgety little gesture, Leibrecht daubed Emil’s ear with a liquid. It smelled horrible. But he’d put on too much, and swore as the young Rom felt the liquid slowly run down his neck and slip under the collar of his gown. A cold, sticky, viscous trail. Emil had never been so afraid in his life.

Leibrecht picked up a scalpel and placed a hand on Emil’s forehead, preventing any movement at all. “Rainer, phenol.”

The orderly was about to stick the needle in Emil’s thorax, right above his heart, when Dr. Josef’s voice sounded from across the room.

“Hans, can you come here a moment?”

“Just give me five minutes,” Leibrecht answered.

“Now!”

The doctor sighed as he placed the scalpel back on the tray and left the laboratory, closing the door behind him. Abandoning the syringe filled with phenol on the tray, the orderly sat down at the edge of the table, the way you might sit on the hood of a car, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, offering one to his colleague. Soon, acrid grey smoke filled the room, making Emil dizzy. Because of the liquid the doctor had daubed on his ear, he couldn’t feel anything on the right side of his face. Emil kept glancing toward the phenol syringe, just out of reach. What would be the point, anyway? In a few moments, Dr. Leibrecht would return and finish his operation. It was the end. Death was coming. Death, which Emil had naively thought he could avoid in the camp, among his people. He saw in his mind’s eye his father repairing a pot, face covered in soot. His father with a gormónya on his knees, teaching him how to play. He could see the celebrations of the kumpaníya when the Kalderash, the Lovari, or the Tshurari met on the road. He remembered the feast of hedgehog served on long tables around which children ran, laughing, shouting. The pavika, the rejoicing, where wine ran more freely than water under the kind supervision of the bulibasha.

Suddenly, the doors to the operating room flew open. The two orderlies jumped to their feet, as if caught dawdling. A young woman walked in, her step straight and energetic, followed by Dr. Josef. She was a redhead with delicate skin in a tailored floral suit. She seemed lost, out of place in the midst of all this horror, though not surprised by what she saw. A German woman, without a doubt. Directly from the Kommandantur. The wife of an officer, perhaps. Emil saw Leibrecht gesture for his attendants to disappear. A guard stood near the doorway behind the doctor and the woman. He’d likely accompanied the redhead in.

“You’ve just arrived here in Auschwitz,” Dr. Josef said, his voice stiff. “I understand that in Berlin, high society might have looked kindly on your initiatives …”

“High society has nothing to do with any of this.”

“You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

“With the best doctor of the Third Reich. But that doesn’t mean you can disobey orders.”

Emil was impressed this woman would stand up to Dr. Josef.

“And, might I add, it isn’t my idea. It’s Oskar’s. I’m only the messenger.”

Dr. Josef turned toward Leibrecht, who was looking at him with fire in his eyes.

“His requirement was clear, Dr. Mengele,” she said.

Dr. Josef sighed. “The Kaiser Wilhelm Institute is urgently awaiting these specimens.”

“Take them off someone else. You’ve got plenty to choose from.”

“I don’t like your attitude at all, Frau Müller.”

The young woman seemed to deflate all of a sudden, as if she realized she’d gone too far. “I assure you, Dr. Mengele, no one is questioning the value and usefulness of your work.”

“For which, if I must repeat myself, I received a clear mandate from the institute.”

“Which no one is questioning.”

Leibrecht burst out, incapable of containing himself further. “Leave, please. We have work to do. It’s late. The day has been long enough already.”

Frau Müller turned toward the doctor. “Hans Leibrecht. Sent away from Dachau for insubordination. Am I mistaken?”

Leibrecht was about to answer something, but Dr. Josef silenced him with a gesture. “Listen —” Mengele began.

“Anyway, this whole discussion is pointless,” Müller cut in. “As my husband takes his orders directly from the SS-Obersturmbannführer.

The camp commander.

The sound of a paper being unfolded. A letter, perhaps, that the woman brandished. Emil couldn’t see it.

“Signed by Rudolf Höss himself,” she continued, with the consent of SS-Standortarzt Eduard Wirths, your direct superior. You can check with him if you still have your doubts.”

Mengele quickly read through the letter, then raised his eyes level with Müller. He was furious, but there was nothing he could do. Leibrecht, meanwhile, had moved to the far end of the room. He was watching his superior be humiliated by this newcomer. Mengele returned the letter to her. Anger had transformed his face. Good Dr. Josef, always so generous with his sweets, now seemed like a lion trapped in the corner of a cage.

Mengele passed by the SS guard and left the laboratory without closing the door behind him. He spoke with someone at the Kommandantur over the phone — one of Rudolf Höss’s subalterns, perhaps. A long tirade, which the others listened to in silence. Dr. Leibrecht observed the young woman as if trying to understand what in the devil’s name motivated her. Ordinarily, officers’ wives were happy enough to just parade about. The more ambitious among them worked in the Registratur, the prison archives, or at the Standesamt, the civil registration office. This one, however, seemed different, animated by some strange energy.

Dr. Mengele stalked back into the operating room, his anger barely contained. In a dry voice, he ordered Leibrecht to untie Emil from the operating table. The doctor hesitated, then, under Mengele’s urging, undid the straps that held the boy. The whole time his eyes were fixed on the young woman, his stare cold enough to give you chills. Emil expected her to lower her eyes, but no. She held her own.

The SS guard moved Leibrecht out of his way and grabbed Emil by the arm, pulling him brusquely outside the operating room. As he was leaving, Emil heard Dr. Leibrecht say to the young woman, “You’ll owe me one, Christina Müller.”

She ignored him.

In the yard, the guard pushed Emil in front of him, shoving him without a care. In silence the young woman trailed them. They made their way toward the camp’s entrance. Emil wondered what this stranger wanted from him, this Christina Müller, her hair fiery red. He would have liked to ask her, but speaking to her, even looking at her, would have been a grave error. He couldn’t feel his right ear anymore; it was numb, frozen, really. He put his hand against it repeatedly; yes, it was still there. For now at least, and that was all that mattered.

Soon, Emil understood he was being brought to the Kommandantur, right beside the main guard post. The SS man pushed him through the door.

A corridor followed by a staircase and suddenly an office, with a desk and a German officer behind it reading through a pile of papers, a cigarette at his lips. Slicked-back hair, an aquiline nose — and the most beautiful ears in the world. In front of him, on a sheet of blotting paper, his officer’s cap was laid upside down, his gloves inside it. Emil wondered why he’d been brought here, then noticed the accordion, his Paolo Soprani, abandoned on a chair in the corner. In an instant, he understood everything. He’d stolen the instrument during disinfection. Someone had sold him out. Otto Schwarzhuber, the SS-Obersturmführer’s young son? Emil had broken a rule, the most important one. He’d taken something that belonged to the Reich. Every Rom was a damn thief, and here he’d given them more proof. He would be punished. Made an example of in front of the whole camp.

When the officer raised his eyes, Christina Müller said, “It’s him, Oskar.”

The officer furrowed his brow, sat back in his chair. “What happened to his ear?”

“Dr. Mengele. His research on racial characteristics. He mentioned it to us, once, do you remember?”

His face tightened. “I thought he was working on eye colour.”

“Ears as well. Folds, curves, extrusions …”

The officer pointed at Emil. “Is he deaf?”

“I arrived right before the removal.”

The man nodded. Emil understood that this high officer was Oskar Müller, husband to the young woman.

Müller got up, stepped around his desk, and stood in front of Emil, observing him for a long time. Finally, he pointed to the Paolo Soprani on the chair. “Play.”

Emil couldn’t understand what he was being asked. He understood the words, yes, but couldn’t get his head around the meaning. Play? Müller became impatient. The guard shoved him toward the accordion. Without daring to turn around, Emil grabbed the instrument. His legs were weak, all of a sudden. He sat on the chair, got back up immediately, but Müller gestured for him to sit back down. Emil’s fingers were fixed, rigid, as if he no longer had mastery over his hands. He raised his eyes. Everyone was looking at him, Müller, of course, the SS, and Müller’s wife.

“Play!” the officer barked.

So Emil played. Timidly, at first, clumsily. His hands searching for the keys, his fingers slipping on the keyboard, his movements halting. But, soon enough, music filled him, occupying him entirely, the bellows working the fear out of him. He let himself be carried by the rhythm his fingers — now obeying him — imposed on the Paolo Soprani. Nothing existed anymore. These Germans, the Kommandantur, Birkenau, the entire Third Reich, the war, the endless war. Emil played what he felt in his heart; he played for his life, somehow knowing that the accordion was his only means of survival. He played and played, as if time no longer existed. And then, suddenly, weariness overcame him. When Emil finally stopped, on the verge of collapsing, he raised his eyes. No one had moved. They looked at him strangely; he was scared all over again. What did all of this mean?

Oskar Müller cleared his throat and told his wife, “The Jew, the other one, we won’t need him anymore. This Gypsy is much better.”