Читать книгу The Roma Plot - Mario Bolduc - Страница 14

Auschwitz-Birkenau, September 28, 1943

Emil Rosca glanced through the crack in the drapes. That was when he saw it for the first time: a gigantic birthday cake, transported by three camp aides assigned to the Stammlager’s kitchens. A celestial vision for Emil, who still went hungry every day. The men had transported the cake through the camp right before the eyes of famished detainees.

The young Rom let the curtain fall back. Behind him the other musicians hadn’t noticed a thing. Emaciated faces, half-dead men and women barely able to hold up their instruments, much less play them. An hour ago they’d been ordered to wait in this large room, a former office, perhaps. There was no furniture here now, and the floors were covered in dust.

Upon reaching the house of SS-Obersturmbann-führer Rudolf Höss, they’d been forced to remove their rags and put on fresh clothes. Real clothes. This did nothing at all to improve their looks — quite the contrary. One knew what to expect when everyone was wearing stripes. Prisoners looked like prisoners. Man and costume were one. But now, floating in a dark jacket and white shirt two sizes too big for him, Emil felt as if he were participating in a sinister masquerade.

The sight of the cake reminded him he hadn’t eaten anything yet that day. Being in the orchestra was no picnic. Every morning at dawn the musicians played military airs to accompany the kommandos as they left for the work sites. At night, more music, this time for the return of the detainees. Between the two, the musicians also had to break their backs over piles of rocks. Except for Roma like Emil, who’d been exempted from forced labour for reasons he didn’t quite understand. Perhaps it was so that Dr. Josef’s guinea pigs could remain in decent shape to be harvested.

Usually, Oskar Müller could be counted on to be tolerant, even understanding. Other times, however, he’d lose his temper. On the ground floor of Block 24, where the rehearsals were held, he’d snap his conductor’s baton in two and go on a rampage, breaking everything around him. The first few times Müller had gone mad Emil had folded himself protectively around his Paolo Soprani, making himself as small as possible, trying to become invisible.

Soon enough, however, Emil had seen that Müller’s outbursts — as spectacular as they might look — were fundamentally harmless. The officer would eventually calm down, give a few taps of a replacement baton on his lectern, exactly like Herbert von Karajan had done at a concert Müller had seen in Paris in 1940, a little after the German invasion. Backstage, Oskar had had the exceptional privilege of shaking the hand of his idol, the famous conductor, the Third Reich’s favourite child. No, in the end, Müller’s anger was usually without consequence. But if the conductor came near a musician to tell him softly, “The way you play is a complete insult to Carl Robrecht,” it meant he’d just received his death sentence. The man would disappear with his violin or his flute, soon to be replaced by a new musician. Emil sat in the still-warm chair of a Jewish accordion player, a Pole from nearby Kraków. Another musician was likely waiting in the antechamber, ready to take Emil’s seat if his accordion squeaked.

In order to last, to survive, the only thing he could do was to play his best. Until the orchestra, the accordion had simply been a distraction for him, a pleasant one, surely, but a way to pass time. He couldn’t even remember the first time he’d held a gormónya; it had simply always been a part of him. Emil’s father loved the instrument, played it magnificently himself, and had shown his son how to hold it. The accordion was kept under a satin cloth in a corner of the vôrdòn, their means of transport. Emil was too small back then to hang it over his shoulder, but he’d managed to play it, anyway. He played casually without looking to improve. What would be the point of that? He played the accordion naturally, as others breathed, without effort. But in Auschwitz, improving was the only way to survive.

And so for the first time in his life Emil made an effort. He was getting better, learning what made Oskar Müller tick. Müller was completely unsophisticated when it came to the accordion, despite what he claimed. What he loved best were flights of lyricism, painful memories that induced tears, throbbing sounds. Emil gave him as much as he could. He’d conclude every one of his solos with pirouettes, acrobatics, flash, and thunder, keeping one eye on Müller’s face. Sometimes, carried away by his false enthusiasm, Emil exaggerated and could sense a grimace taking shape on Müller’s face, could sense his mood darkening. Immediately, Emil would change approach, adjust his interpretation. The others, bent over their instruments or looking elsewhere, didn’t adopt the same strategy. They never saw the storm coming.

Emil had left the Romani camp, and for the past ten days, since he’d joined Müller’s orchestra, he’d lived in one of the Stammlager’s Cell Blocks in the main camp. He shared the place with the other musicians, Jews mostly. Also at Stammlager, the women played in the orchestra of Alma Rosé, Gustav Mahler’s niece. Altogether there were six orchestras in Auschwitz, all of them led by prisoners, except for Oskar Müller’s.

As well as accompanying morning and evening work crews, Emil Rosca and his colleagues played at special occasions. The day following his enrollment, Emil had been summoned to the camp commander’s home. A reception that gave Oskar Müller an opportunity to impress Rudolf Höss and his wife, both lovers of Verdi. And of Romani music. Attracting Höss’s favour had been Müller’s reason for integrating an accordion player into his orchestra. That night Emil had seen, among the guests, Dr. Josef and Hans Leibrecht, his dreaded subordinate. When Leibrecht noticed Emil, he walked over and posted himself right in front, observing him, a sadistic smile on his face. Immediately, Emil’s fingers lost the rhythm. Müller noticed. He rebuked his accordionist as Leibrecht left for the buffet, caressing his own ear menacingly.

That night at the reception Hans Leibrecht wasn’t the only one to show interest in the orchestra. A corporal, a young man named Matthias Kluge, kept humming along to the sounds coming from Emil’s Paolo Soprani. At one point in the evening Emil overheard a rather heated argument between Kluge and Dr. Josef over the costs of Block 10. Emil understood that the former worked as an accountant for the SS-Standortverwaltung, which was responsible for the camp’s administration.

To the others, the cream of the crop of Auschwitz-Birkenau, the musicians didn’t exist; it was that simple. The music could have come from a phonograph; it would have made no difference. As he played, Emil had scanned the room, trying to find Christina Müller, the woman who’d saved his life. She didn’t seem to be there. Emil overheard Oskar Müller telling another officer that his wife was tired and wouldn’t be joining them that night. It didn’t seem to bother him overmuch, quite the opposite. Over the course of the evening, Müller moved from one woman to the next, like an excitable butterfly. Perhaps Christina knew her husband’s habits; she might have preferred not to witness his shenanigans.

Back in the dusty room, the door burst open suddenly and Oskar Müller appeared, clapping his hands. The collar of his tuxedo was tight around his neck, making his face an impressive shade of red. Or perhaps it was his nerves at the thought of leading his little orchestra in front of all his superiors. The Paolo Soprani strapped around his shoulder, Emil followed the other musicians through the corridors of the house plunged in half-light. He could see the cake farther on, decorated with candles and carried by three aides. The other musicians were seeing it for the first time, unlike Emil. For those getting barely any food — and vile food at that — the birthday cake they would not be able to sample was, of course, additional torture. Müller, naturally, didn’t have the slightest idea what was going on in the detainees’ heads. He was as nervous as a young conductor getting ready for his first concert, even redder in the face now than only a few minutes earlier.

On Müller’s signal, they began playing, with varying levels of success, a German birthday song. Two officers carried the cake to a table festooned with balloons and a banner, around which sat a few children but mostly adults, officers, all applauding loudly. It was all a surprise for Höss, who laughed and clapped like an imbecile. The same held true for Johann Schwarzhuber. Little Otto was seated in front of him, Johann holding him by the shoulders, the sign around his neck nowhere to be seen. A bit farther off, his mother, looking as austere as always. As he played, Emil scanned the room. It was the usual crowd: Mengele, Leibrecht, Kluge, and the others. Once again, no sign of Christina.

It was little Otto’s turn, and he blew the candles with as much energy as he could muster. More applause, more encouragement.

Oskar Müller’s performance over and done with, the members of the orchestra were directed toward the living room, where they were to wait for the end of the meal. Once the children were sent to bed, the adults would need to stretch their legs to the rhythm of dancing music.

Through a door left ajar, the prisoners could see and hear the action in the dining room: the sound of cutlery on plates, the shouts of children, the laughter of their parents. An evening of celebration like any other, it could have been anywhere. But it was in Auschwitz, where the victims of the Third Reich were disposed of. Auschwitz, little more than a landfill for undesirables.

Emil Rosca was hungry. Perhaps made hungrier by the officers he saw coming and going between the kitchen and the dining room, making sure Höss and his guests were eating their fill. Emil pushed the door open wider. The kitchen was right at the end of the corridor, nearby. With only a few steps, he could slip in, grab something, anything, and slip back into the living room. He knew there were only two officers taking care of the service — the third man had disappeared. Sometimes both men were in the dining room at the same time, leaving the kitchen unattended. That was when Emil had to act.

Emil looked around. The other musicians were all slumped against walls or napping on the ground, taking full advantage of the precious minutes of rest. His absence wouldn’t be noticed.

He stood and watched the aides-de-camp coming and going for a long time. They were, unfortunately, almost perfectly synchronized. They passed each other in the corridor, where Emil could hear their perfectly polished shoes screeching on the wood floor. Each time Emil hoped one of them would turn around and go back to the dining room, giving him an opportunity to slip by un­noticed. But no such luck. Soon the noise from the nearby dining room, that of the children especially, lessened, a sign they’d be sent to bed soon. Emil was heartbroken; a small dream was slipping between his fingers.

Suddenly, the sound of broken glass, a slap to the face, crying. And the aides-de-camp were running toward the dining room. A child had spilled something; the two men were coming to the rescue.

It was now or never.

Emil opened the door as softly as possible. There was no one in the corridor. The child who’d dropped something was still crying; the aides-de-camp were nowhere to be seen. Emil moved in the opposite direction, all the while looking behind him. He was soon in the kitchen, a large, well-lit room. On every countertop, remains of the feast. Empty bottles of champagne, as well. A pile of plates, some of which still had pieces of ham on them. Emil didn’t think, didn’t look for something more substantial. No, those leftovers were a banquet for him. He rushed toward a plate with half-eaten ham on it, and just as he was about to put the food in his mouth, he felt a presence behind him.

Christina Müller.

Emil realized he was lost. He was standing there with a piece of ham in his hand. He would pay the piper for this — with his life, most likely. He could hear the aides-de-camp in the corridor, making their way back to the kitchen. Soon he’d be arrested, sent to the showers.

But Christina Müller kept her calm. Without any particular emotion, she grabbed Emil by the arm and pushed him into a pantry, just as the two aides-de-camp hurried back into the kitchen. They didn’t seem surprised to see her. The guests were asking for more coffee, one of them said, a touch of nerves in his voice. Christina offered to prepare it herself, and they were only too happy to accept. The two men were overwhelmed, that much was clear. He heard them rushing back to attend to Höss’s guests.

The pantry door opened. Completely puzzled by the young woman’s decision, he didn’t even take the time to thank her. He moved right past her and into the now empty corridor, and slipped back into the living room. Emil had been right: no one had noticed his absence.

Emil Rosca often saw Christina after that day. She began accompanying her husband to the Kommandantur receptions. As he played the accordion, Emil, of course, kept his attention on Oskar Müller. But sometimes he’d take a moment to glance at the young woman’s face, and their eyes would meet. Emil would immediately look away, confused about why she’d let him go free from that kitchen. Twice the young German woman had saved his life. Why? What sort of interest did she have in him? She’d saved him from Dr. Josef to serve her husband’s ambition and her own taste in music. But the second time? It could have been for the love of music again. If Emil had been arrested, he would have been sent back to the Zigeunerlager. Or to the gas chambers. No more music, no more accordion for him. But the look Christina gave him from time to time wasn’t that of a music lover. No, it was that of a woman in love. Emil couldn’t help but smile at the thought. The German wife of a German officer in a German concentration camp falling in love with a prisoner of the Stammlager! And a seventeen-year-old Rom at that! Emil was getting carried away, as usual. He dreamed, which was the most dangerous escape.

A few weeks after the kitchen incident, at another party, the men were chatting away, ignoring their wives, ignoring the orchestra. Müller was there, Kluge, as well, and others Emil didn’t recognize. He overheard a discussion on German forces in Russia retreating following their defeat at Stalingrad in February, after six months of brutality and carnage. On the Western Front, France was still in the grip of the Third Reich. The officers spoke of how they expected the invasion of Great Britain would compensate for losses on the Eastern Front. But no one seemed entirely convinced of that. What was more, the Americans had just landed in southern Italy …

Emil had no idea where all these countries were. Stalingrad even less so.

“You are Emil Rosca?”

The young Rom was startled out of his thoughts. Christina, the wife of an SS officer, was speaking to him — simply inconceivable. She stood there, hands on hips, in front of the assembled orchestra, expecting an answer. Behind her the officers talked with one another in a cloud of smoke. Emil nodded imperceptibly, as if he were afraid to commit himself. Christina kept her eyes on him.

“Anton’s son?”

Emil felt dizzy. His father? Why was this German woman speaking of his father? Why here, why now?

A voice broke the spell, a man’s voice coming from the group of officers behind her. “And you, Christina, what do you think?”

Without losing her cool, the German woman turned toward the group of SS officers. “Do you really believe the Russians will be able to maintain their offensive?” she asked, her tone emotionless. “Don’t forget that Stalingrad exhausted them, as well.”

“Christina is right,” Matthias Kluge said. “The Red Army is an empty shell. Sooner or later they’ll be forced to slow down and fall back.”

The others nodded without conviction.

“What if we danced?”

As Emil started to play, Christina grabbed Oskar Müller in her arms and dragged him into an energetic waltz, soon to be followed by the other women in the group. Emil observed her looking happy, joyous even, completely serene. She seemed like a different woman, he thought, and she didn’t even glance at him for the rest of the evening. Once again, the young accordion player was sure he’d simply been dreaming.

Back in the barracks, Emil couldn’t sleep a wink. He was so confused. This magnificent woman, this apparition, speaking of his father, Anton, of whom he hadn’t heard a single solitary word of since the scattering of their kumpaníya a year ago now. Was Anton alive? Held in a camp just like this one perhaps. Worried for his son and the rest of his family. How did Christina Müller know of his existence?

The next morning little Otto Schwarzhuber was waiting for him outside the barracks. His eyes steady, looking straight at Emil. Expecting Emil to play his accordion for him. Emil had no desire to do so, had no desire to do anything, except maybe to dream a little, to escape. A hand fell on the boy’s shoulder. Emil raised his eyes. It wasn’t Otto’s mother, but Christina Müller, looking after the child.

“Play, Emil. Play like yesterday.”

Emil lifted his Paolo Soprani and played again, but for her this time. Little Otto couldn’t guess what was happening, of course. Emil played and Christina looked intently at him, just as she had during the Kommandantur party. What did she want from him, exactly? His first song ended, and as he was about to start another, Christina sent Otto back to the officer looking after him a few metres away. The little boy grumbled but obeyed.

For the first time they were alone, Christina and him. Emil asked in his clumsy German, “You’ve seen my father? You’ve talked with him?”

She hesitated, then answered, “Your father is dead.”

A break, his mind like a handful of pebbles thrown into a roiling sea. He’d believed, he’d hoped, he’d dared to dream, and now all of it was crushed once again. Would his misfortunes never end? Emil wanted to speak but didn’t know how anymore. All he could muster was a questioning look.

“He was in Birkenau,” she told him. “But not with the Gypsies. He was hiding. He was pretending to be someone else.”

Emil didn’t understand. Why would he be hiding, pretending to be someone else? What false identity? The Roma only used borrowed names, in any case, depending on the country they were passing through with the changing seasons.

“Come closer.”

Emil hesitated. What did this woman want? He had to know more about how his father had died. And so he stepped forward, a single step. Carefully, Christina lifted her hand so very gently, as if wary of startling a savage, famished beast. She caressed his face, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It was, of course, but not in this place, not in this hell on earth. In another world he would have expected it, in another world he was now sure he would never see again.

“Emil, I was sent by your father.”