Page 60 of The Pianist's Wife
Fred watched one of the guards push and hold the man’s head under as the others laughed. When they let him pull his head back up, the skin on his face was bright red and the man was screaming; it was as if the skin was peeling clean off his face from whatever chemicals were in the water.
They ordered the next man forward and he took a few steps before refusing, the smell of the disinfectant reaching them all, the smell overpowering.
‘Get in!’ the guard screamed.
When the man refused again, they beat him over the back with the wooden planks, so hard that Fred feared they had broken his back. The man lay, crying in pain, barely moving, before the next man was summoned. Fred looked away, not able to watch, and when it was his turn he quickly stepped over the man on the ground and hurried on, taking a deep breath and stepping straight into the water, emerging as quickly as possible and climbing out the other side before he could be reprimanded.
His skin was on fire, as if someone were lighting a match across every inch of his body, but he stayed as quiet as he could and followed the orders of another guard, who was directing them into another room. The only consolation was that he knew they wouldn’t bother to disinfect them if they were going to kill them, or at least he hoped that was the case. Fred wished the ground would open up and swallow him.
Some time later, he stood outside in the freezing cold, wearing the predicted striped trousers and shirt, but what he hadn’t expected was to be marked for why he was there. On the right breast pocket of his shirt, through the centre of the wordBuchenwald, was adownward-pointing pink triangle. He hadn’t realised what it was for until he’d seen the colours given to the other men, most of whom wore red triangles due to being political prisoners.
‘Name?’
‘Frederick Schulz,’ he said, his voice still raspy. They’d still received nothing; no water, no food, and he felt as if his body were going into shock.
‘You are incarcerated for being a homosexual?’
He wanted to tell the man that he was married, that he wasn’t what they said he was, that they had the wrong person, but he’d seen others complaining about what they were arrested for, and they were cradling black eyes, bloody noses and painful abdomens.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Transfer from Auschwitz, due to being an electrician?’ the guard asked, before frowning. ‘But you are listed as being a pianist?’
‘I am a pianist,’ he said, wanting to tell the guard that he was a favourite of Goebbels himself, but knowing better than to speak out of turn. ‘But before that I trained as an electrician.’
The man lowered his gaze and stamped the paper he was holding. ‘Well, we shall keep you alive long enough to be useful then.’
Fred moved forward, his arms held tightly around himself to stave off the cold. He was issued with a steel cup and a spoon, but there was still no food. Instead, he was taken with countless other men to a barracks that looked as if it had once housed horses or other livestock. There was no one inside – it seemed all of the inmates were expected to work and were away for the day – but it still smelled as if one hundred filthy bodies were in there. There were rows and rows of low bunks.
Once they were left alone, he, like most of the other men with their newly shaved heads, slid down to the ground, their hands planted in the dirt, their bodies exhausted. And when Fred began to cry, he feared that he might never stop.
The following day, after a breakfast of putrid, watery soup that made his stomach clench, Fred followed the other workers. They’d stood in the camp square for roll call at dawn, thousands of them all lined up, some of the prisoners falling over from exhaustion, having to stand for so long. Those that fell were beaten, those that spoke out of turn were beaten, and Fred came to realise very quickly that the only way to stay alive was to stay quiet and find a way to remain standing.
One of the men in the breakfast line who was as thin as a skeleton had told him to save any bread he was given to nibble at during the day, and Fred had followed his advice. He’d placed it up his sleeve and was carrying it with him, terrified of dropping it and losing it, and he had no idea how he was going to keep it hidden throughout the day. He would have used his waistband, but the trousers were loose on him, and he doubted it would stay.
They were marched to the entrance to the camp, and the big iron gates swung open.
‘Faster!’ a guard yelled.
They all increased their speed, and Fred glanced over at the guards, talking and laughing, their bellies full, their cheeks plump. It made him sick, and if he’d been braver, he would have lunged for one of their guns and killed them all. But he wasn’t brave enough, and he also knew it would likely get them all shot.
He glanced up at the watchtowers and saw that there were rifles trained on them.So I wouldn’t even succeed in attacking one guard, if I tried.
‘Where are we going?’ Fred whispered.
No one answered him; they all just kept walking, one foot in front of the other. Sometimes one of them would fall, and theothers would help to haul him up, but Fred could see that they were almost ready to give up, the bodies of young men so frail from being starved and overworked.
‘You,’ the guard said, and Fred realised he was pointing to him and another man who was standing nearby.
‘This is our armament factory,’ the guard said. ‘We have partially resumed production, but we need to increase what we’re making.’
Fred looked at what was left of the structure, with parts of the building completely destroyed and the roof collapsed in some areas.
‘Builders!’ another guard yelled, as most of the men they’d walked over with stood to attention.
Fred turned back to the guard who was addressing them.
‘Get to work.’
