Carlos Fuentes - A Change of Skin

The Commandant informed Berlin that for the day of the official visit to confer decorations there would be a banquet and a concert. Franz, standing beside the canteen stove, remarked that the facilities that the Commandant had granted the musicians and chorus, and now at last their performance, indicated that things were not going so well at the camp. Almost proof that they had failed. Those gathered about him laughed and raised their mugs of beer beneath the Bavarian lanterns.

The old man carrying the cobbler’s bench stopped and looked around smiling as if pleased by the scene and the music. A dark-haired little girl dropped her doll and its porcelain head broke in half. Franz, remembering a dead dwarf in a refrigerator, smiled. The little girl cried and tried to put the head of her doll together again. The old man caressed her gently and wrapped her in his shawl, saying over and over, “Vacation. It’s vacation.”

“Isabel. Forgive me, Isabel. I heard you.”

“When, Franz?”

“Earlier, when Javier was with you. I couldn’t help it.”

“But what I told him was different. We were talking about splitting, Franz, playing it alone. Do you understand me? Alone.”

“Not alone, Isabel, you can’t. If you take something, no matter what it is, it’s because someone else has given it up. Ulrich refused to do that. I stood in his place and witnessed what he refused to accept.”

“Franz, I don’t know who Ulrich was. You have to explain everything. I’m not going to tell anyone. Never, I swear it. It’s between you and me and no one else will know. Understand me, Franz, I take all my chances alone. That was what I was telling Javier. I don’t rely on any man, anyone. Not now. Maybe it was better when I did. But I don’t know. All I know is that all of a sudden you find yourself kicked in the teeth, and I say to hell with that. You can trust me, Franz. I’ll never repeat one word you tell me.”

“Franz! Franz, Franz!”

A woman tried to move away from her group, spreading her arms toward a man in another group who answered her quietly as she was drawn back: “Here, Teresa! I’m all right. Teresa, Teresa.”

The orchestra played a Lehar medley and Franz hummed the words. I always go to Maxim’s at night. And there with the grisettes I await the new sun. Loló. Frufrú. Margot. The guards formed the prisoners in files. From the Hundenkommando came the barking of the dogs.

“For-ward!”

They walked in file across the bridge then into the fortress beneath the rain-bleached legend, Arbeit Macht Frei.

Confutatis maledictis,

Flammis acribus addictis

Voca me cum benedictis.

“In Berlin they no longer have such diversions,” the Commandant smiled. “It will be an agreeable interlude for everyone. Visitors, ourselves, and, not least, the Jews.”

But she knew, and she would have told Franz if they had ever spoken again, that Epstein, the president of the Jewish community, had said to Schachter: “You are shaming us. These are our people you have gathered together and now they are going to sing for our oppressors. You have made our suffering worse. The sick have been thrown out of the hospital. So much suffering, merely for a show. No, Schachter, it isn’t right. You will be honoring those who oppress us. At their request. They will think that you have surrendered everything to them. You, Maestro, a Czech. Maybe they will give you a medal yet. Do something. Cancel the concert. Do something. I am helpless. But I tell you, it isn’t right. I’m afraid.”

Under the faint light that hung above the keystone of the arch the prisoners entered as the small band reached its final crescendo and the waltz ended. They were conducted to the receiving room, a hundred and forty of them. There they were made to face the wall. A long line of backs, but that did not matter, their backs were the same as their faces. Twenty in the first group, while the rest waited in a file that stretched all the way to the bridge. The room had bare yellow walls. Their backs were their names. Burian knew it and walked slowly, studying them as they stood facing the wall. Guards collected the suitcases, the bundles and boxes the prisoners had set down on the floor beside them. Burian himself took the cobbler’s bench from the old man, who turned and looked and smiled. Every word or movement of protest was squelched. Burian gave an order. They removed their watches, medallions, combs and hair ornaments, cuff links.

“Name?”

“Marketa Silberstein.”

The guard with the notebook spoke a number and wrote it down. Burian walked back and forth, watching them. An ear uncovered by drawn back hair trembled. Franz stared. He knew that hair. He remembered her.

“David Rosen.”

“Six-five-seven-eight-two.”

“Kamilla.”

“Kamilla what?”

“It’s Kamilla Neuberg. She’s my daughter.”

“Six-five-seven-eight-three.”

Burian stopped behind a young man who was leaning his arm against the wall. Next to him was the girl. She was small and was wearing sandals. She leaned her forehead against the wall too. Burian touched her shoulder and pulled her back. He took the violin case she was holding. Franz was about to step forward. The same green eyes. The same clean-lined facial bones. Franz slowly kissed Isabel; she rubbed his head.

“Always, Isabel, always…”

“What? Always what?”

“You always have to give up something so that the other can go on living.”

“Who Franz?”

“You. I. We. Betty. I don’t know.”

“Go on, Franz. Go on, güero. I’m listening.”

They filed out of the receiving room, passed the guardroom, where the teletype could be heard tapping. Maloth appeared with a bundle of mail in his hand. He gave several letters to Franz, and the new shipment of prisoners moved on into the clothing room, where Wacholz measured each of them with his eyes and selected garments for them.

“Jewish?”

The man, robust and red-faced, shook his head. Wacholz looked at him again and handed him gray trousers with three red stripes down the side and a gray jacket with a red triangle on its back. The man started to undress, then stopped and looked at the women behind him. Wacholz stepped forward, jerked his fly open, and pulled his pants down.

“Jewish?”

“Yes.”

Wacholz gave the girl a striped dress with a yellow star sewed on its shoulder. Silently she undressed. She remembered something and raised her arms and took out her hairpins. Her hair fell below her shoulders. She handed the hairpins to one of the guards. Franz watched from the door. The letters were in his hand. He opened one and pretended to read.

“Jewish?”

“No. No!”

The youth faced Wacholz with his arms crossed as the girl finished slipping the striped dress over her shoulders and looked at him. Mechanically Wacholz handed the youth the uniform with the red stripes. Burian stepped out of the shadow and picked up a striped coat with a yellow star. He glanced mockingly at Wacholz and gave the jacket of the Jews to the youth.

“It’s not true!” the boy yelled. He was blond and pale and now he stepped out of the line and touched the arm of the girl, who remained motionless. Now, as his face lifted, his eyes could be seen: one blue, the other brown. “It isn’t true. I’m only a third…”

The girl was some other girl.

“My mother did it. She thought I’d be safer here than at the front. So she made it up that I’m Jewish. To protect me!”

And finally he saw her from in front. She did not look up. She made no response to the touch of the youth. She lowered her eyes to avoid seeing his, one brown and the other blue, staring at her imploringly.

“Tell them,” the youth pleaded with her. “Tell them. You know all about it. I told you on the train.”