Lale hears the main doors to the department store open. He looks up, and a woman hurries inside. Behind her, two Slovak soldiers stand in the doorway and don’t follow her in. He hurries over to her with a reassuring smile. “You’re OK,” he says. “You’re safe here with me.” She accepts his hand and he leads her toward a counter full of extravagant bottles of perfume. Looking at several, he settles on one and holds it toward her. She turns her neck in a playful manner. Lale softly sprays first one side of her neck and then the other. Their eyes meet as her head turns. Both wrists are held out, and each receives its reward. She brings one wrist to her nose, closes her eyes, and sniffs lightly. The same wrist is offered to Lale. Gently holding her hand, he brings it close to his face as he bends and inhales the intoxicating mix of perfume and youth.
“Yes. That’s the one for you,” Lale says.
“I’ll take it.”
Lale hands the bottle over to the waiting shop assistant, who begins to wrap it.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?” he says.
Faces flash before him, smiling young women dance around him, happy, living life to the fullest. Lale holds the arm of the young lady he met in the women’s department. His dream seems to rush ahead. Lale and the lady walk into an exquisite restaurant, dimly lit by a few wall sconces. On every table, a flickering candle holds down the heavy jacquard tablecloth. Expensive jewelry projects colors onto the walls. The noise of silver cutlery on fine china is softened by the dulcet sounds of the string quartet silhouetted in one corner. The concierge greets him warmly as he takes the coat from Lale’s companion and steers them toward a table. As they sit, the maître d’ shows Lale a bottle of wine. Without taking his eyes from his companion, he nods and the bottle is uncorked and poured. Both Lale and the lady feel for their glass. Their eyes still locked, they raise their hands and sip. Lale’s dream jumps forward again. He is close to waking up. No. Now he is riffling through his wardrobe, selecting a suit, a shirt, considering and rejecting ties until he finds the right one and attaches it perfectly. He slides polished shoes onto his feet. From the bedside table he pockets his keys and wallet before bending down and pushing a wayward strand of hair from the face of his sleeping companion and lightly kissing her on the forehead. She stirs and smiles. In a husky voice she says, “Tonight . . .”
* * *
GUNSHOTS OUTSIDE CATAPULT LALE INTO WAKEFULNESS. HE is jostled by his bunkmates as they look for the threat. With the memory of her warm body still lingering, Lale rises slowly and is the last to line up for roll call. The prisoner beside him nudges him when he fails to respond to his number being called.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing . . . everything. This place.”
“It’s the same as it was yesterday. And it will be the same tomorrow. You taught me that. What’s changed for you?”
“You’re right—same, same. It’s just that, well, I had a dream about a girl I once knew, in another lifetime.”
“What was her name?”
“I can’t remember. It doesn’t matter.”
“You weren’t in love with her, then?”
“I loved them all, but somehow none of them ever captured my heart. Does that make sense?”
“Not really. I’d settle for one girl to love and spend the rest of my life with.”
* * *
IT HAS BEEN RAINING FOR DAYS, BUT THIS MORNING THE SUN threatens to shine a little light on the bleak Birkenau compound as Lale and Pepan prepare their work area. They have two tables, bottles of ink, plenty of needles.
“Get ready, Lale, here they come.”
Lale looks up and is stunned at the sight of dozens of young women being escorted their way. He knew there were girls in Auschwitz, but not here, not in Birkenau, this hell of hells.
“Something a bit different today, Lale—they’ve moved some girls from Auschwitz to here, and some of them need their numbers redone.”
“What?”
“Their numbers, they were made with a stamp, which was inefficient. We need to do them properly. No time to admire them, Lale—just do your job.”
“I can’t.”
“Do your job, Lale. Don’t say a word to any of them. Don’t do anything stupid.”
The row of young girls snakes back beyond his vision.
“I can’t do this. Please, Pepan, we can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can, Lale. You must. If you don’t, someone else will, and my saving you will have been for nothing. Just do the job, Lale.” Pepan holds Lale’s stare. Dread settles deep in Lale’s bones. Pepan is right. He either follows the rules or risks death.
Lale starts the “job.” He tries not to look up. He reaches out to take the piece of paper being handed to him. He must transfer the five digits onto the girl who held it. There is already a number there, but it has faded. He pushes the needle into her left arm, making a three, trying to be gentle. Blood oozes. But the needle hasn’t gone deep enough, and he has to trace the number again. She doesn’t flinch at the pain Lale knows he’s inflicting. They’ve been warned—say nothing, do nothing. He wipes away the blood and rubs green ink into the wound.
“Hurry up!” Pepan whispers.
Lale is taking too long. Tattooing the arms of men is one thing; defiling the bodies of young girls is horrifying. Glancing up, Lale sees a man in a white coat slowly walking up the row of girls. Every now and then he stops to inspect the face and body of a terrified young woman. Eventually he reaches Lale. While Lale holds the arm of the girl in front of him as gently as he can, the man takes her face in his hand and turns it roughly this way and that. Lale looks up into the frightened eyes. Her lips move in readiness to speak. Lale squeezes her arm tightly to stop her. She looks at him and he mouths, “Shh.” The man in the white coat releases her face and walks away.
“Well done,” he whispers as he sets about tattooing the remaining four digits—4 9 0 2. When he has finished, he holds on to her arm for a moment longer than necessary, looking again into her eyes. He forces a small smile. She returns a smaller one. Her eyes, however, dance before him. As he looks into them, his heart seems simultaneously to stop and to begin beating for the first time, pounding, almost threatening to burst out of his chest. He looks down at the ground and it sways beneath him. Another piece of paper is thrust at him.
“Hurry up, Lale!” Pepan whispers urgently.
When he looks up again, she is gone.
* * *
SEVERAL WEEKS LATER, LALE REPORTS FOR WORK AS USUAL. His table and equipment are already laid out and he looks around anxiously for Pepan. Lots of men are heading his way. He is startled by the approach of Oberscharführer Houstek, accompanied by a young SS officer. Lale bows his head and remembers Pepan’s words: Do not underestimate him.
“You will be working alone today,” Houstek mumbles.
As Houstek turns to walk away, Lale asks quietly, “Where is Pepan?”
Houstek stops, turns, and glares back at him. Lale’s heart skips a beat.
“You are the Tätowierer now.” Houstek turns to the SS officer. “And you are responsible for him.”
As Houstek walks away, the SS officer puts his rifle to his shoulder and points it at Lale. Lale returns his stare, looking into the black eyes of a scrawny kid wearing a cruel smirk. Eventually Lale drops his gaze. Pepan, you said this job might help save my life. But what has happened to you?