His eyes are half closed, but when he hears his daughter, he opens them slightly. Dita puts her hand on his forehead; it’s burning. She’s not sure if he’s recognized her, but she takes one of his hands and continues to talk to him in a whisper. It’s usually difficult to talk to someone when you don’t know if he’s hearing you, but her words flow with surprising ease, and she tells him the things you never stop to say because you think there’ll always be time in future to say them.
“Do you remember when you used to teach me geography at home? I remember it really well.… You know so many things! I’ve always been very proud of you, Papa. Always.”
And she talks to him about the good times during her childhood in Prague, and the good moments in the Terezín ghetto, and how much she and her mother love him. She tells him over and over again so the words will filter through his fever. And she thinks he moves slightly. Maybe somewhere deep inside, he’s listening to her.
Hans Adler is fighting against pneumonia with very few weapons—a lone, malnourished man broken by all the elements of war against a microbial army bursting with energy. Dita recalls Paul de Kruif’s book about the microbe hunters she had read just before they left Prague: If you look at germs under a microscope, they look like a miniaturized pack of predators. Too many to take on.
She releases his hand, tucks it under the dirty sheet, and kisses him on his forehead. She pulls up her hood again and turns to leave. And in that moment, she catches sight of Milan, a few steps away. She thinks he must be furious, but the boy is looking at her with unexpected tenderness.
“Your father?” he asks.
Dita nods. She hunts for something under her clothing and pulls out her evening ration of bread. She holds it out to him, but the boy keeps his hands in his pockets and refuses it with a shake of his head. She reaches the door of the hut and removes the jacket. When her mother recognizes her, she looks puzzled.
“Will you lend it to my mother for a moment?” And without waiting for his answer, she says, “Put it on and go inside.”
“But, Edita—”
“You’ll be disguised. Come on! It’s at the back on the right. He’s not conscious, but I think he can hear us.”
The woman adjusts the hood and, covered up, goes inside stealthily. Milan stands silently beside Dita, unsure what to do or say.
“Thanks, Milan.”
The boy nods and hesitates for a moment, as if he is searching for the right words.
“As far as … you know what,” Dita says to him as she looks down at her almost-flat chest.
“Forget it, please!” Milan replies, blushing and waving his hands dramatically. “I’ve got to go now; return the jacket tomorrow.”
He turns on his heel and rushes off. He wonders how he’s going to explain to his friends why he’s returning with no jacket and no girl. They’ll think he’s an idiot. He could tell them that he ate the bread on his way back to them, and that he touched her tits on behalf of all of them, since the jacket is his, after all. But he dismisses that with a shake of his head. He knows they’ll spot the lie right away. He’ll tell them the truth. They’ll laugh at him for sure, and tell him he’s gullible. But he knows how to fix things like that. He’ll hit the first one who says anything so hard he’ll have to search for his teeth with a magnifying glass. And then everyone will be friends again.
Margit turns up while Dita is waiting for Liesl to reappear. From the distraught expression on her face, it’s clear that Margit has heard about Dita’s father. In Auschwitz, news, and bad news in particular, spreads fast. Margit walks up to her and gives her hug.
“How’s your father?”
Dita knows that this question hides another more serious one: Will he live?
“He’s not well, he has a high fever, and his chest rattles when he breathes.”
“You must have faith, Dita. Your father has overcome many things.”
“Too many.”
“He’s a strong man. He’ll fight.”
“He was strong, Margit. But these past few years have aged him a lot. I’ve always been an optimist. But I don’t know what to think anymore. I don’t know anymore if we’ll all be able to hold out.”
“Of course we will.”
“Why are you so sure?”
Her friend remains silent for a few seconds, biting her lip as she searches for an answer.
“Because I want to believe it.”
The two girls don’t say another word. The age when you think that just wanting something is enough to make it happen is slipping away from them.
The curfew siren goes off, and her mother emerges from the hut like a ghost dragging its feet through the mud.
“We must hurry,” says Margit.
“You go—run,” Dita replies. “We’ll come a bit more slowly.”
Her friend says good-bye, and mother and daughter are left by themselves. Her mother looks lost.
“How’s Papa?”
“A bit better,” Liesl replies. But her voice is so broken it gives the lie to what she’s saying. And anyway, Dita knows her all too well. Liesl has spent her entire life trying to make everything right, attempting to ensure that nothing alters the natural order of things.
“Did he recognize you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“So did he say anything to you?”
“No … he was a bit tired. He’ll be better tomorrow.”
And they don’t say another word until they reach their hut.
He’ll be better tomorrow.
Her mother said it with a conviction that left no room for doubt, and mothers know these things. Dita takes her mother’s hand, and they walk more quickly.
When they enter the hut, almost all the women are already lying down on their bunks, and they come face-to-face with the Kapo, a Hungarian with the orange badge of a common criminal, a superior status. A thief, a swindler, a murderess … any one of these is more valuable than a Jew. She’s been overseeing the placement of the containers used by the women to relieve themselves during the night, and when she sees Dita and her mother arriving late, she lifts the stick in her hand threateningly.
“I’m sorry, Kapo, but my father—”
“Shut up and get on your pallet, idiot.”
“Yes, madam.”
Dita pulls on her mother’s hand, and they walk to their bunks. Liesl slowly climbs up and, before lying down, briefly turns toward Dita. Her lips don’t move, but her eyes show her pain.
“Don’t worry, Mama,” says her daughter encouragingly. “If there’s no change in Papa, we’ll talk to his Kapo in the morning about taking him to the doctor. If need be, I’ll speak with the director of Block Thirty-One. Fredy Hirsch will be able to help us.”
“He’ll be better tomorrow.”