The Child of Auschwitz: Absolutely heartbreaking World War 2 historical fiction Read online

  Eva shook her head. ‘No. I don’t.’

  Helga raised a thin brow. ‘Yet you think, somehow, you will make it out of this alive?’ she hissed.

  ‘Keep quiet!’ shouted the Kapo, appearing suddenly from her room at the end of the barracks. ‘Or I will have you shot here and now!’

  They quietened fast.

  Eva lay back down, and stared at the wood above her head, then she whispered to Sofie, ‘We will live, and I will find Michal again.’

  Helga made a sound with the back of her throat, incredulous. ‘Your husband?’ she guessed. ‘You’re an absolute fool. No one here can afford to think that way – it’s better, trust me, to forget who you once were, that life is over now.’

  Eva dashed away an angry tear, thinking: Muselmann. ‘No. That’s how we can’t afford to think – like there’s no hope left, because that’s the only way they really win.’

  Chapter Two

  Auschwitz was the size of a small city. At the entrance to the gates was a lie: Arbeit Macht Frei. Work Makes You Free.

  Eva flexed her jaw at the thought. Unless the Nazis meant the ultimate freedom –from life. She shuffled forward near a barbed fence in her too-large clogs that slipped and allowed the cold, dirty mud to envelop her frozen toes, causing shooting pains up her calves as she went.

  Auschwitz operated as both an extermination and labour camp. It had originally started life as a detention centre for political prisoners, but after Hitler’s Final Solution – which called for the mass killing of all Jews, and other non-desirables, such as the mentally handicapped, gypsies, homosexuals and others deemed unfit to live in Nazi Germany – it had officially transformed into their largest killing machine.

  Eva was in Birkenau, or Auschwitz II-Birkenau as it was officially known, the biggest of the camp facilities, which could hold more than 80,000 prisoners. It was one of over forty such complexes.

  Eva looked up past the expanse of mud churned up by tens of thousands of feet, past the long brick building with the guard turret above to the rows of decrepit wooden barracks, to a small team of men a hundred metres away, who were repairing a roof.

  Michal was here, somewhere. He could even be amongst those men.

  She knew that the chances of one of those men being her husband – or even knowing of him, in a camp this size, with so many buildings, covering such vast distances – was slim. But if she could only find a way to speak to them, maybe someone would know something. Maybe someone, somehow, would be able to tell her something.

  It was why she was here after all.

  When everyone in Terezín, which acted as a transit camp as well as ghetto, had tried their best to get their names off the transport lists, Eva had volunteered to come. Here. She’d volunteered, hoping to follow her husband, before she’d known exactly what that meant. She wasn’t the only wife to do so, countless women were here for the same reason.

  An SS guard saw her stare at the group of men, a twitchy hand nearing his gun. She shuffled on in the mud as fast as she could towards the laundry, where she’d been assigned for the day with the other women in the queue up ahead. She raised her chin, and gave one last look at the guard before she went, and thought. I would do it again. Even knowing what I do now. If it means I find you, Michal. And I will, she vowed.

  It took three days to get the mugs.

  She’d used everything her uncle Bedrich had taught her. He’d been a gambler, and trickster, and he’d taught her all he knew back in Terezín, the ghetto, where he along with the rest of her family had been moved after the Nazis occupied Czechoslovakia and they decided that Jewish people were no longer citizens of their own country.

  ‘Was it this one?’ Bedrich asked one night as he picked up the card she’d chosen a minute earlier, which had somehow found itself embedded in his old grey hat.

  ‘Yes!’ she cried, amazed, her hazel-coloured eyes huge in her heart-shaped face.

  The laughter lines by his eyes deepened as she gaped at him while he took out the Queen of Spades from the brim. He winked a dark eye, then rolled himself a cigarette.

  They were in the courtyard, and in the background someone was playing a guitar, a folk song about love and loss. There was even a concert later, with new music by a well-known composer. Sometimes, you could almost convince yourself that this was normal life, though the poor hygiene, overcrowding, and starvation rations always brought home the truth.

  ‘Hard at work as usual, Bedrich,’ said her father; his hazel eyes, so similar to Eva’s, were teasing, as he offered a one-fingered salute as he went past. It was a familiar, worn-in joke.

  ‘Always,’ was Bedrich’s reply, his mouth lifting into a roguish, irrepressible half-grin.

  They watched as Eva’s father Otto hurried past, a nod for his daughter, and a message that her mother was looking for her.

  Her father was a tall, thin man in a suit, with thick grey hair, and kind eyes. His arms were full of paperwork, as he headed towards the camp office, where he worked as a bookkeeper, using his skills as one of the city of Prague’s former best accountants to keep the Nazi camp running efficiently.

  He wasn’t alone, everyone worked here to keep the camp running, whether, like Eva, they worked in the gardens, or her mother who worked in the laundry, or Bedrich who seemed to do all the odd jobs for which you might need a man who didn’t ask too many questions. It was all necessary. Few were fortunate enough though to get one of the better jobs like her father. It was due largely to his status of being one of the first arrivals – there was a pecking order, and those who’d helped build the place were at the top as a result. This seemed to imply that they’d had a choice in its construction; they had not. Her father, much to his family’s chagrin, failed to utilise the benefit of his status – and more importantly the protection his position may have afforded him.

  Bedrich shook his head and muttered softly, ‘Always so busy, Otto, abiding by their rules.’

  Her uncle caught her staring at him, and pursed his lips, taking a long drag of his rolled cigarette, before pinching it out in his thick fingers and putting the remainder in his grey hat for safekeeping, his black eyes unusually serious.

  ‘Eva, listen to me. It’s important. Your father is the best man I know, kind, fair. I’ve looked up to him all my life. Your Babička called me the black sheep of the family, because as you know, I was always getting into trouble. Still do, as a matter-of-fact.’ He winked at her at that, his black eyes twinkling, which made her grin; she had always adored her somewhat rapscallion uncle, who always had some get-rich scheme up his sleeve – one of which included, for a time, breeding exotic reptiles, the other was an after-hours poker parlour, the latter did make him quite rich, before it was all taken away.

  Bedrich continued, ‘Your grandmother wanted me to be more like Otto – to have a proper job for life, to see right and wrong in black and white, not shades of grey. Things always need to add up for him. I figure that’s why he became an accountant.’ He grinned, showing a set of slightly crooked teeth in an infectious smile. He shook his head as he continued. ‘He tells me, “Bedrich I’m not going to change who I am, I’m not going to stop standing up for what I believe in, for what is right, and I won’t resort to lying and tricks to get ahead in this place. Or cash in on some false sense of entitlement because I was one of the first unlucky people to get here. If my name is on a transport list why must I fight it, if it will just mean someone else must take my place?”’

  Eva expelled her breath in shock. The lists weren’t perfect – or fair, despite what the people who ran them wanted them to believe: all German efficiency, precision and accountability. There were times that you heard of them just randomly adding more people to the transports, which is what they called the trains here. Perfectly healthy people who could work here were torn from their families and sent off ‘East’ without so much as a goodbye, just to use extra space in a cart, and all because they happened to be in eye line of the guards.

  It’s what had
happened to Michal. All she’d known was that he’d been taken, shoved onto a train. Nothing else. Her world had ended in the space of minutes, and the worry and wondering of where they had taken him had been a constant torment ever since. She looked away, eyes clouded with unshed tears.

  Her uncle pinched the skin between his eyes, nodding, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. ‘I told him, “Otto, don’t be a fool, you do it for the same reason you duck when a bullet is fired, you don’t have to make it easy for them.” But he doesn’t listen to me. But maybe you will? I’ve seen how it is for you – you’re small, smaller than the others, always lost in your own little world – sketching, dreaming of a better one with your art, you were always like that, even as a little girl,’ he smiled. ‘Just like Mila.’ They both grew sad thinking of her. His daughter, her cousin and best friend, taken too early from them by scarlet fever, which had run rampant in the ghetto in the summer. He looked up, fought back the tears. ‘Being sensitive, being small, can be tough in a place like this – you could get walked over if you don’t stand your ground. Sometimes that means you have to fight harder to teach others to be fairer, do you understand?’

  Eva gave a shrug, she knew this already. She had to sometimes use her elbows to ensure that she wasn’t forced out of the food line, it was true. If you weren’t in line on time you might not get any food, there were no leftovers here. She’d learned that lesson, fast. She hadn’t needed a second.

  He nodded as if he could read her thoughts. ‘Sometimes you have to use other skills to survive. Smarts,’ he said, tapping his head, and giving her a small wink. ‘There are going to be things you do that don’t add up out there in the real world. But you must do them anyway. Because we aren’t out there, understand? And no one is coming for us anytime soon. There is a different rule book for this place, for this time in our lives. Understand that, and maybe you will get out alive – and I need you to survive this, all right, dítě? We’ve lost too many already.’

  Soon afterwards her lessons with her uncle began. They were a welcome distraction from her grief at losing her cousin, and her fears and worries about Michal.

  She had one goal now, which was to find out where they had taken him – and to follow as soon as she could. But until then, she would learn anything that might help her get out of this alive, and learn she did.

  Over the course of a week her uncle taught her about sleight of hand, and the art of distraction. In the second week, she could take something off the table without anyone noticing, and in the third, how to put it back without them noticing that either – which, it turned out, was the really tricky bit. She didn’t want to steal from her friends or the other residents and she wouldn’t, on principle, but she would steal from the guards and her enemies if that’s what it took to keep her friends and family alive. She learnt to see that most people don’t see what’s really going on around them, even when it’s happening right beneath their noses. She learnt too that you can help this along with a little distraction if necessary.

  In three months, she could even do the card trick. It was simple, once you knew how. Like most things really, knowledge was power.

  Getting the mugs had been relatively simple. But it was far from easy. It had taken saving the black rye bread they got for three days to trade with a woman who Helga mentioned could organise such things. A tall, wide-hipped Polish woman named Zuzanna, who handed her three mugs. ‘I’ve organised these for you,’ she said, putting one aside. That’s what they called it here, ‘organising’. Eva eyed the other mug she put to the side.

  ‘I need four,’ said Eva, firm.

  ‘That will cost more.’

  Eva nodded, offering up a scarf, a prized possession that Sofie had found in the jumble of clothing on arrival, which had been her contribution. Sofie hadn’t known that Eva had been starving herself to get the mugs – or she would have given her hell for it. And it had been hell, three days on just fake coffee and watery soup. But food was the biggest ticket item to trade in Auschwitz, with the highest currency.

  Zuzanna eyed the ratty but warm, thick scarf then nodded, handing her the fourth mug. The second-highest ticket item was anything that would help with the relentless cold.

  It was worth it for a fuller belly – the mugs would ensure that they got at least their share of the soup and coffee, instead of the small handful that trickled through their bare fingers each day. Such a small thing, but it made such a big difference. They were for her, Sofie, Vanda, and another woman, named Noemi, who slept in the bunk below theirs.

  She passed Noemi the mug that morning before the Appell. Noemi’s eyes widened at such a gift. She was a pretty woman, despite her shaved black hair, with pale blue eyes, and high cheekbones.

  ‘For me?’ she said, shocked. ‘How did you organise this? I owe you, thank you.’

  Eva shrugged, giving her a wink. Noemi would owe her, it was just how things were done here, life here existed on a currency of favours – the bigger the favour the bigger the one you might get in return; it might come to nothing, or be a little insurance policy for later. All those who were wise did it.

  ‘You’re a natural, Eva,’ said Vanda as she followed after them, her new mug tight in her hands. She was already speaking of how she would sleep with it tied to her waist, in case of theft, which was also common. People would do anything just to survive.

  Eva shrugged, noncommittal. She hadn’t been a natural at it in the beginning, not by a long shot, far too prone to daydreaming and far too soft-hearted. But Bedrich had taught her well.

  Chapter Three

  Snow was beginning to fall in thick drifts that swirled around the women as they moved forward, fighting coughs or sneezes. Those who were shrewd made themselves appear stronger, fitter, able to work. Those who didn’t were at risk of getting the sort of jobs that ensured their quick demise.

  The noise coming from the vast lines of women, even with the muffling effects of the snow, was loud like the drone of bees. Eva stood on numbed toes, back straight so that she could appear taller, and stronger. Stockings would be her next order of business, she decided. In the back of her mind she was beginning to really worry about frostbite.

  But it was nothing compared to Vanda’s current problem. The Hungarian swallowed, her wide lips tight in her face, where her pale freckled skin had lost all its colour, making her shorn ginger hair glow in the weak winter light.

  An SS guard by the name of Wilhem Hinterschloss – cold grey eyes, thin lips, and even thinner, spindle-like teeth – was glaring at her as if she were an insect he’d like to squash, and soon.

  He repeated his instruction, his jaw flexing as he did, but it was clear that Vanda, whose German was limited at best, still didn’t understand.

  ‘The warehouse,’ Eva whispered, shuffling closer, heart thudding in fear. ‘They want you to go to the sorting warehouse, the one they call “Kanada”.’

  Nicknamed so by the inmates after a place they deemed as a land of plenty, it was spelt with a ‘K’ in German.

  Hinterschloss turned sharply towards her, grey eyes flaring – the whites were yellow, like they had been dipped in nicotine. His voice was cold and low, and it cut into her deeper than the icy weather. ‘What did you just say?’

  A chill ran down Eva’s spine, and her mouth turned suddenly dry.

  There was a flash of the rat-like teeth, and Eva was reminded strongly of a rodent about to feast on its prey.

  Eva’s heart began to thud, her arms and legs turned suddenly numb. Her tongue was too large for her mouth as she attempted to formulate a response.

  She swallowed as he stepped forward, his thick, hobnailed boots sinking into the snow, his face inches from hers. He smelt of stale breath and whisky. It figured the guards used something to numb the cold while they waited outside with them; they didn’t seem to need it for their hearts. They didn’t have any.

  Eva hesitated. ‘I-I was translating, sir.’

  Hinterschloss’s hands drifted towards his
gun and Eva closed her eyes for a moment in abject fear. The first time she met Sofie, in the Jewish ghetto, before she’d begun her ‘lessons’ with her uncle, raced before her mind, suddenly, unbidden.

  ‘You speak German?’

  Eva looked up from her sketchbook. It was just a collection of torn scraps of paper that she’d assembled into a book with twine that she’d traded a potato for. The woman who had been moved into their barracks that morning was standing by her bunk. She had yet to find a bed. Space was always an issue, here. She was tall and thin, wearing an old green dress that was fraying at the edges. She had long, dark blonde hair, and big dark eyes. At the top of her forehead, running into her hairline, was a thick, knotty wound that had started to scab – it looked like it would become a rather large scar. In spite of this, or perhaps in contrast to the scar, Eva couldn’t help noticing that she was very pretty, with full lips and sharp cheekbones.

  In the background, Eva tuned in to two women having an argument that she hadn’t been aware of while she sketched. The rationed food and close confinement, combined with the constant threat of being transported to a labour camp away from their families, made for a tense environment. Eva often opted out of it all by retreating to the past, with her sketches.

  She looked up at the stranger’s large, dark, curious eyes as she took a seat beside her. Then she shrugged, answering her question. ‘Not really. Everyone here speaks Czech.’

  ‘That’s mad.’

  Eva’s long, dark hair swung forward as she stared at the new girl in surprise. ‘Why mad?’

  ‘The inmates speak it, Kritzelei, but the people in charge, the people making the rules, who you might have to get things out of – they speak German.’