Хезер Моррис - The Tattooist of Auschwitz

‘Come with me,’ the officer says.

Lale scurries after him into the foyer of the chalet. He pauses, shocked by the opulence before him. A grand staircase, works of art – paintings and tapestries on every wall – and furniture of a quality he has never seen before. Lale has stepped into a world beyond his comprehension. After what he has known, it is almost painful.

The officer heads towards a room off the main foyer, indicating that Lale should follow. They enter a large, exquisitely furnished room. A mahogany desk dominates, as does the person sitting behind it. Judging by his uniform and accompanying insignia, Lale is in the presence of a very senior Russian official. The man looks up as they enter.

‘Who have we here?’

‘He claims he was a prisoner of the Nazis for three years. I suspect he’s a Jew, but I don’t think that matters. What does matter is that he speaks both Russian and German,’ the officer says.

‘And?’

‘I thought he could be useful to us. You know, in talking to the locals.’

The senior officer leans back, seems to consider this. ‘Put him to work then. Find someone to guard him and shoot him if he tries to escape.’ As Lale is escorted from the room the senior officer adds, ‘And get him cleaned up and into some better clothes.’

‘Yes, sir. I think he will do well for us.’

Lale follows the officer. I don’t know what they want from me, but if it means a bath and clean clothes … They walk across the foyer and head upstairs to the first-floor landing; Lale notes that there are two further floors. They enter a bedroom and the Russian goes to the closet and opens it. Women’s clothing. Without a word he leaves and enters the next bedroom. This time, men’s clothes.

‘Find something that fits you and looks good. There should be a bathroom through there.’ He points. ‘Clean yourself up and I’ll be back in a short while.’

He closes the door behind him. Lale looks around the room. There is a large four-poster bed draped in heavy covers and with mountains of pillows of all shapes and sizes; a chest of drawers he thinks might be solid ebony; a small table complete with Tiffany lamp; and a lounge chair covered in exquisite embroidery. How he wishes Gita were here. He stifles the thought. He cannot afford to think of her. Not yet.

Lale runs his hands over the suits and shirts in the closet, both casual and formal, and all the accessories needed to resurrect the Lale of old. He selects a suit and holds it up to the mirror, admiring the look: it will be close to a perfect fit. He throws it onto the bed. A white shirt soon joins it. From a drawer he selects soft underpants, crisp socks and a smooth brown leather belt. He finds a polished pair of shoes in another cupboard, a match for the suit. He slips his bare feet into them. Perfect.

A door leads to the bathroom. Gold fittings glisten against the white tiles that cover the walls and floor; a large stained-glass window casts pale yellow and dark green light around the room from the late-afternoon sun. He enters the room and stands still for a long time, enjoying the anticipation. Then he runs a deep bath and lowers himself into it, luxuriating in it until the water cools. He adds more steaming water, in no hurry for his first bath in three years to end. Eventually he climbs out and dries himself with a soft towel that he finds hanging with several others on the rail. He walks back into the bedroom and dresses slowly, savouring the feel of smooth cotton and linen, and woollen socks. Nothing scratches, irritates or hangs baggily off his shrunken frame. Clearly the owner of these clothes was slim.

He sits for a while on the bed, waiting for his minder to return. Then he decides to explore the room some more. He pulls back large drapes to reveal French windows that lead out onto a balcony. He opens the doors with a flourish and steps outside. Wow. Where am I? An immaculate garden stretches out before him, lawn disappearing into a forest. He has a perfect view down onto the circular drive and he watches as several cars pull up and deposit more Russian officials. He hears the door to his room opening and turns around to see his minder alongside another, lower-ranked soldier. He stays on the balcony. The two men join him and look out over the grounds.

‘Very nice, don’t you think?’ Lale’s minder says.

‘You’ve done well for yourselves. Quite a find.’

His minder laughs. ‘Yes, we have. This headquarters is a bit more comfortable than the one we had at the front.’

‘Are you going to tell me where I fit in?’

‘This is Fredrich. He is going to be your guard. He will shoot you if you try to escape.’

Lale looks at the man. His arm muscles bulge against his shirtsleeves and his chest threatens to pop the buttons that hold it in. His thin lips neither smile nor grimace. Lale’s nod of greeting isn’t returned.

‘He will not only guard you here but will take you to the village each day to make our purchases. Do you understand?’

‘What am I buying?’

‘Well, it’s not wine; we have a cellar full of that. Food, the chefs will buy. They know what they want…’

‘So that leaves…’

‘Entertainment.’

Lale keeps his face neutral.

‘You will go into the village each morning to find lovely young ladies interested in spending some time here with us in the evening. Understand?’

‘I’m to be your pimp?’

‘You understand perfectly.’

‘How am I to persuade them? Tell them you are all good-looking fellows who will treat them well?’

‘We will give you things to entice them.’

‘What sort of things?’

‘Come with me.’

The three men walk back downstairs to another sumptuous room, where an officer opens a large vault set into a wall. The minder enters the vault and brings out two metal tins, which he places on the desk. In one there is currency, in the other, jewellery. Lale can see many other similar tins shelved in the vault.

‘Fredrich will bring you here each morning and you will take both money and jewellery for the girls. We need eight to ten each night. Just show them the payment and if need be, give them a small amount of money in advance. Tell them they will be paid in full when they arrive at the chalet, and when the evening is over they will be returned to their homes safe and well.’

Lale attempts to reach into the jewellery tin, which is promptly slammed shut.

‘Have you struck a rate with them already?’ he asks.

‘I’ll leave that to you to figure out. Just get the best deal you can. Understand?’

‘Sure, you’d like prime beef for the price of sausage.’ Lale knows the right thing to say.

The officer laughs. ‘Go with Fredrich; he’ll show you around. You can take your meals in the kitchen or your room – let the chefs know.’

Fredrich takes Lale downstairs and introduces him to two of the chefs. He tells them he would prefer to eat in his room. Fredrich tells Lale that he must not go above the first floor and, even there, he is to enter no room but his own. He gets the message loud and clear.

A few hours later Lale is brought a meal of lamb in thick, creamy sauce. The carrots are cooked al dente and drip with butter. The whole dish is garnished with salt, pepper and fresh parsley. He had wondered if he might have lost the ability to appreciate rich flavours. He hasn’t. What he has lost, however, is the ability to enjoy the food before him. How can he, when Gita is not there to share it with him? When he has no idea whether she has anything to eat at all? When he has no idea… but he suppresses that thought. He is here now, and he must do what he has to do before he can find her. He only eats half of what’s on his plate. Always save some; that is how he has lived these past years. Along with the food, Lale drinks most of a bottle of wine. It takes some effort to undress himself before he flops onto his bed and enters the sleep of the intoxicated.