As on so many other occasions, what the guards in the towers see is the quarantine camp registrar and his Jewish girlfriend from the family camp walking toward the fence—a routine to which they no longer pay any attention. The Germans don’t distinguish between one scrawny Jewish woman dressed in rags and another. That’s why they don’t notice that the woman approaching the fence on this particular occasion isn’t Alice Munk, but her close friend Helena Rezková, one of the coordinators of the family camp Resistance. She’s come to the fence to give Rudi the confidential information the head of the Resistance has asked for: there are thirty-three secret members divided into two groups. Helena asks Rudi if he knows anything more about the transfer, but there’s not much news to add. He’s heard a rumor about a possible move to Heydebreck camp, but there are no details. The authorities are not giving anything away.
They stand looking at each other for a while without speaking. The girl might have been pretty under other circumstances, but her dirty, tangled hair, sunken cheeks, chapped lips, and filthy clothes have turned her into a twenty-two-year-old beggar. Rosenberg, normally so chatty, has no idea what to say to this girl who has a battered present and a dark future.
He receives permission that afternoon to go to camp BIId, supposedly to take over some lists, but in reality, to meet Schmulewski. He finds him sitting on a wooden bench in front of his hut, chewing on a twig in the absence of any tobacco. Rudi, who always works things out so he’s well stocked with everything, offers him a cigarette.
He passes on Helena’s information about the number and basic occupations of the insurgents in the family camp, which Schmulewski acknowledges solely with a nod of his head. Rudi hopes to get some sort of explanation of the situation, but he gets nothing. Pretending that Schmulewski doesn’t already know, he tells him that it’s March 6, and so they’re getting close to the six-month deadline since the arrival of Alice’s September contingent, when the “special treatment” kicks in. “I’d prefer it if that moment never arrived.”
Schmulewski smokes his cigarette without saying a word. Rosenberg gathers that the meeting is over and mumbles an awkward good-bye. He returns to his camp, not sure if the Pole’s silence is because he has crucial information to hide or because he has absolutely no idea what is going on.
The afternoon roll call takes longer than usual. Various SS soldiers notify all the Kapos that the inmates should line up at the entrance to the camp. Waiting there for them are the camp Kapo—the civilian responsible for BIIb, an ordinary German prisoner called Willy—and the noncommissioned officer they call the Priest, flanked by two guards with machine guns at the ready. The inmates watch as the heads of all the barracks start walking toward the noncommissioned SS officer and form a half circle around him.
Fredy Hirsch strides energetically across the Lagerstrasse, overtaking other Kapos who are less keen to get to the meeting. Night is falling, but it’s easy to distinguish Hirsch’s proud and self-assured figure making his way there.
The Priest is waiting for them with his hands tucked inside the sleeves of his greatcoat. He watches them arriving with a cynical smile; it’s obvious he’s in a good mood. It’s good news for the sergeant that he’s getting rid of many of the inmates: half the prisoners means half the problems. An assistant hands the Kapos lists with the numbers of the people in their huts from the September transport. The Kapos must inform them that they are to line up separately next morning and bring with them their belongings—their spoon and bowl—in order to proceed with the transfer to another camp. Only one person sleeps in Block 31, the Block?ltester himself, and he accepts the shortest list of all. It has just one number on it, his own. In the midst of the silence, interrupted only by the rustle of paper lists, he is the only one who dares to make his way forward and stand at attention in front of the sergeant.
“Permission to speak, Herr Oberscharführer. Would we be able to know to which camp we’re being transferred?”
The Priest stares at Hirsch for a few seconds without blinking. Asking a question without being asked to speak first is an act of contempt that the NCO normally doesn’t tolerate. On this occasion, however, he limits himself to giving a sharp reply.
“You’ll be informed when it happens. Dismissed.”
The Kapos stand in front of their huts and start to yell out the numbers of the people who will be transferred the next day. There’s bewildered muttering: People don’t know whether or not to be happy about leaving Auschwitz. The same question is asked again and again:
“Where are they taking us?”
But there’s no response, or there are so many different replies that none of them is any use. Everyone has heard of the special treatment after six months. What will it be?
Dita has been chatting with Margit, trying to come up with an answer in the midst of so many questions. As members of the December transport, they aren’t going anywhere yet. Mentally exhausted with so much speculation, Dita makes her way back to her hut. She’s so distressed at the news that she doesn’t carry out her usual precautions of checking behind her and walking right beside the huts in case she has to rush inside one of them. She hears a German voice, and feels a hand on her arm.
“Dita…”
She jumps. It’s Fredy Hirsch, returning to his hut. There’s a feverish glint in his dark eyes, and Dita can see that he’s back to being his usual energetic and irresistible self.
“What are we going to do?”
“Keep going. This is a labyrinth in which you might get lost, but retracing your steps is worse. Don’t pay attention to anyone, listen to the voice inside your own head, and keep going forward.”
“But where are they taking you?”
“We’ll be going to work somewhere else. But that’s not what matters. What is important is that there’s a mission to complete here.”
“Block Thirty-One—”
“We have to finish what we started.”
“We’ll carry on with the school.”
“That’s it. But there’s another important thing still to do.”
Dita looks at him with a puzzled expression.
“Listen to me: Not everything is as it seems in Auschwitz. But there’ll come a moment when a small gap will open up for the truth, you’ll see. The Germans believe that lying favors them, but we’ll score a goal at the last second because they’ll be overconfident. They think we’re broken, but we aren’t.” He becomes thoughtful as he’s speaking. “I can’t be here to help you win the game. But you must have faith, Dita, really believe. Everything will work out well, you’ll see. Trust Miriam. And above all else”—he looks into her eyes while giving her his most seductive smile—“you must never give up.”
“Never!”
He smiles enigmatically and walks off with his athletic stride while Dita stands there quietly, not entirely sure what he meant by scoring a goal in the last second.
It’s a night of little sleep in the huts, with rumors whispered among the bunks, along with more and less absurd theories and prayers.
“What does it matter where they take us? We can’t go to a worse place,” some protest. It’s a comfort amid the distress.