Mengele stands there listening for a few moments, his expression neutral, impassive, impenetrable. He turns his head toward Lichtenstern, who has stopped singing and is looking at him, terrified. Mengele nods his head in approval, as if he likes what he’s hearing, and waves his white-gloved hand to encourage them to go on singing. The officer turns around, and the block finishes the Ode with everyone singing as loudly as they can to send a message of strength to Mengele. Then they burst into applause, some of it directed at themselves, their energy, and their daring.
Shortly after the celebration of Passover has come to an end, when everyone is getting ready for the evening roll call and the sounds of Ode to Joy are still vibrating in their ears, a different kind of music is heard outside. Sharper, more compelling, monotonous, with no trace of joy, even though some people smile when they hear it. It’s the alarm sirens blaring throughout the Lager.
Members of the SS run in all directions. Two soldiers who were in the Lagerstrasse rush to their guard posts. The sirens are signaling an escape. Escapes are an all-or-nothing situation—freedom or death.
It’s the second time the escape siren has gone off in the past few days. First, it was that man Lederer, who is rumored to be a member of the Resistance and who they say escaped with an SS deserter. There has been no further news of them, and that’s the best possible news. Word is that the Nazi got Lederer out dressed as a member of the SS, that they calmly walked through the main gate, that the guards on watch were so stupid they even invited them to share a few shots of vodka.
Now the siren rings out again. Escapes upset the Nazis. They are a contempt of their authority, but in particular, they are a breach of the order the Germans have so obsessively established. For Schwarzhuber, two escapes so close together in time constitute an offense. And so it proves: When they inform him of the news, he begins to kick his subordinates and demand that heads roll. Any heads.
The prisoners know it’s going to be a long night, and they’re not wrong. The Germans make everyone, including the children, line up outdoors on the main street of the camp. Roll call is repeated several times—three hours pass, and they are all still standing there. It’s one way of checking that no one else is missing, but it’s also a form of revenge, because the Nazis can’t direct their rage at the fugitives. Or at least not right now.
While the guards race around and tension rises, Rudi Rosenberg the registrar and his comrade, Fred Wetzler, maintain total silence a few hundred meters away, in pitch-darkness. They are in a tiny hideout somewhat like a vault, and only their frantic breathing adds life to the thick darkness. In his mind’s eye Rudi projects an image from a few days ago, when the Russian fugitives were hanged in the middle of the camp—their blue, swollen tongues, their eyes crying tears of blood as they burst from their sockets.
A drop of sweat rolls down his forehead, and he doesn’t dare wipe it away for fear of moving even one millimeter. Now he’s the one in the bunker built by the Russians, together with his friend Fred. They’ve decided to go for broke—all or nothing.
The camp sirens wail. He extends his hand toward Fred and touches his leg. Fred puts his hand on top of Rudi’s. There’s no going back now. They waited a few days to see if the Nazis would dismantle the Russians’ hideout, and when they didn’t, the two of them reached the conclusion that it was secure. They’ll soon know whether that’s the case.
Back in the family camp, after an exhausting day and with only a few minutes before lights-out, Dita is helping her mother get rid of her nits before they turn into lice. This requires running the little piece of comb through her hair again and again. Her mother can’t bear lack of hygiene, or at least she couldn’t before, when she used to scold Dita, always telling her to wash her hands with soap before touching anything. Now she has no choice but to put up with the dirt. Dita thinks back to her mother before the war; she was a beautiful woman—much more so than her daughter—and very elegant.
Some of the other inmates are also taking advantage of the time before they go to sleep to kill the undesirable tenants who live in their hair. And while they do this without pause, comments on the day’s events are passed from one bunk to the next.
“I don’t understand why someone working as a registrar, who never feels hungry, who doesn’t have a particularly tough job, and who is never put up for selection because he’s highly regarded by the Nazis, risks his life in this way.”
“No one understands it.”
“Escape is suicide. Almost all of them end up back here and hanged.”
“And anyway, we’ll be out of here soon,” notes another of the women. “They say the Russians are forcing the Germans to retreat. The war could end this very week.”
This comment gives rise to a host of lively murmurings, optimistic theories strengthened by the desire to see an end to this interminable war.
“On top of that,” adds one of the women who’s calling the shots, “whenever there’s an escape, there are reprisals for rest of us: more restrictions, punishments.… In some of the camps they’ve sent people to the gas chambers in retaliation. Who knows what might happen to us? It’s incredible that some people are such egotists that they don’t care about putting the rest of us in danger.”
Everyone nods in agreement.
Liesl Adler rarely takes part in these discussions. She doesn’t like to call attention to herself, and she’s always telling off her daughter for not being discreet enough. It seems astonishing that a woman who speaks several languages would opt so frequently for the language of silence. But on this occasion, she speaks.
“A sensible voice, at last.” The sea of heads nods again. “Someone finally speaking the truth.”
Approving murmurs can be heard. Liesl continues.
“Finally, someone has spoken about what is really important: We’re not the least bit concerned about whether or not this man escapes with his life. What concerns us is how it might affect us, that they might give us one less spoonful of soup at mealtime or keep us standing outdoors for several hours doing roll calls. That’s what’s important.”
Some of the women mutter in bewilderment, but Liesl keeps talking.
“You say there’s no point in escaping. The Germans are going to have dozens of patrols searching for the fugitives, and that forces them to keep more and more troops on the home front rather than sending them to fight against the Allies who are going to rescue us. Is it pointless for us to fight here in order to distract the German troops? Does it serve any purpose for us to stay here obeying whatever the SS tell us to do until they decide to kill us?”
Astonishment has stifled all the muttering and given rise to differences of opinion. Dita is frozen on the spot in amazement, still holding the comb. Liesl Adler’s is the only voice to be heard in the hut.
“I once heard a young girl refer to us as ‘old hens.’ She was right. We spend the whole day clucking and not doing much else.”
“And you, who are talking so much, why don’t you escape if it’s such a good thing?” screeched the woman who had been speaking earlier. “It’s fine to talk, but—”