The Tattooist of Auschwitz

“Very nice,” Baretski says as he and Lale walk away. Lale ignores him and fights to control the hatred he feels.

“Would you like to meet her?” Again, Lale refuses to respond.

“Write to her, tell her you like her.”

How stupid does he think I am?

“I’ll get you paper and a pencil and bring her your letter. What do you say? Do you know her name?”

4562.

Lale walks on. He knows that the penalty for a prisoner caught with a pen or paper is death.

Lale finds out that Baretski isn’t German but was born in Romania, in a small town near the border of Slovakia, only a few hundred miles from Lale’s hometown of Krompachy. He ran away from home to Berlin and joined the Hitler Youth and then the SS. He hates his father, who used to beat him and his brothers and sisters viciously. He is worried about his sisters, one younger, one older, who still live at home.

Later that night as they walk back to Birkenau, Lale says quietly, “I’ll take your offer of paper and pencil, if you don’t mind. Her number is 4562.”

Without warning, the SS officer outside their block hits Gita in the back with his rifle. Both girls crash to the ground. Gita cries out in pain. He indicates with his rifle for them to get up. They stand, their eyes downcast.

He looks at them with disgust and snarls, “Wipe the smile from your face.” He takes his pistol from its holster and pushes it hard against Gita’s temple. He gives the instruction to another officer: “No food for them today.”

As he walks away, their kapo advances and slaps them both quickly across the face. “Don’t forget where you are.” She walks away, and Gita rests her head on Dana’s shoulder.

“I told you Lale’s going to talk to me next Sunday, didn’t I?”

“I’m just a number. You should know that. You gave it to me.”

“Yes, but that’s just in here. Who are you outside of here?”

“Outside doesn’t exist anymore. There’s only here.”

[…]

“I don’t want to upset you, but will you promise me one thing?”

“What?”

“That before we leave here, you will tell me who you are and where you come from.”

She looks him in the eye. “Yes, I promise.”

“I’m happy with that for now. […].”

Lale squeezes Dana’s hand. “Thank you. Try to get some food into her. I’ll have medicine tomorrow.”

He departs, his mind a whirlpool. I barely know Gita, yet how can I live if she does not?

That night, sleep evades him.

The next morning, Victor places medicine, along with food, into Lale’s bag.

That afternoon, he is able to get it to Dana.

Around her she can feel the recognition of those witnessing her moment of grief. They look on in silence, each going into their own dark place of despair, not knowing what has become of their own families. Slowly, the two groups of women—the longtimers and the newcomers—join together.

“But we have no future.”

Lale holds her firmly around her waist, forces her to meet his gaze.

“Yes, we do. There will be a tomorrow for us. On the night I arrived here, I made a vow to myself that I would survive this hell. We will survive and make a life where we are free to kiss when we want to, make love when we want to.”

“I’m sorry that I have my escape, my Lale. You know I wish with all my heart the same for you two.”

“We are very happy that you have him,” says Ivana.

“It is enough that one of us has a little happiness. We share in it, and you let us—that’s enough for us,” says Dana.

Their lovemaking is passionate, desperate. It is a need so long in the making that it cannot be denied. Two people desperate for the love and intimacy they fear they will otherwise never experience. It seals their commitment to each other, and Lale knows at this moment that he can love no other. It strengthens his resolve to go on another day, and another day, for a thousand days, for however long it takes for them to live by his words to Gita: “To be free to make love wherever, whenever we want to.”

“What do you mean, hero? She’s not a hero,” Gita says with some annoyance. “She just wants to live.”

“And that makes her a hero. You’re a hero, too, my darling. That the two of you have chosen to survive is a type of resistance to these Nazi bastards. Choosing to live is an act of defiance, a form of heroism.”

“Have you lost your faith?” Gita asks as she leans back into Lale’s chest […].

“Why do you ask?” he says, stroking the back of her head.

“Because I think you have,” she says, “and that saddens me.”

“Then clearly you haven’t lost yours?”

“I asked first.”

“Yes, I think I have,” Lale answers.

“When?”

“The first night I arrived here. I told you what happened, what I saw. How any merciful god could let that happen, I don’t know. And nothing has happened since that night to change my mind. Quite the opposite.”

“You have to believe in something.”

“I do. I believe in you and me, and getting out of here, and making a life together where we can—” […]

The men in Lale’s block also tell him of rumors about a general uprising, which they wanted to join but didn’t believe it was meant to happen on this day. They have heard that the Russians are advancing, and the uprising was planned to coincide with their arrival, to assist them in liberating the camp. Lale admonishes himself for not having made friends with his block companions sooner. Not having this knowledge nearly got Gita killed.

He feels profound grief for his scattered family. At the same time, he longs for Gita, and this gives him the sense of purpose he needs to carry on. He must find her. He has promised.