Page 61 of The Pianist's Wife
He had no idea what needed to be repaired, or if he’d even be capable of what would be asked of him, but Fred intended on doing his best to muddle through. And to his great relief, the other electrician spoke to him once they were inside, huddled together as they inspected the damage.
‘My name is Fred.’
‘Ben,’ he whispered back. ‘Are you experienced?’
Fred didn’t know the man enough to trust him, so he simply shrugged. ‘It’s been some time since I worked, but I’m sure it will come back to me.’I didn’t even complete my apprenticeship! I barely have any idea what I’m doing, but I want to stay alive!
‘Do you know what happened here?’ said Ben.
‘I only arrived yesterday.’
‘Hundreds of prisoners were killed here, and even more severely injured. They wouldn’t even let them out of the building as the bombs rained down.’
Fred looked around, imagining the terror of being shut inside, forced to work, as men died around you.
‘You’ll learn fast, but move quickly when the whistle blows after breaktime. You’re still strong, so make sure you volunteer to help carry back the dead or injured at the end of the day, and whatever you do, don’t give the guards any reason to dislike you.’
Fred glanced down at the pink triangle on his chest, and saw that the other man did, too. He offered no judgement, for which Fred was grateful, but Ben didn’t say anything else, and Fred hoped that didn’t mean that he was already likely to be a target for the guards and their sadism.
It had only been a week, and Fred was already feeling as worn out and exhausted as the men around him. He’d expected that it would have taken months or even years for them to end up like that, but now he’d seen the reality; few made it that long, and it only took a short time to become a skeleton of a man when you were being underfed and overworked. Only the day before, he’d been leaving the factory when he’d seen a train arrive, and instead of the prisoners walking out as he had, other inmates were called over to shovel them out. There hadn’t been a live person among them.
He was standing at roll call, his legs feeling as though they might give up at any moment and his stomach churning as he tried to forget what he’d seen, when he was singled out by a guard. Fred’s entire body filled with fear, but he forced himself to move.
‘Come with me.’
There were cries behind him, as one of the men must have collapsed and was receiving his punishment, but Fred stayed focused on placing one foot in front of the other, trying to keep up with the pace of the guard. He’d learned not to react to anything, to remain invisible, to steel himself to the violence and horrors.
‘I am told you are a talented pianist,’ the guard said.
‘I am a pianist, yes,’ Fred said, finding his voice, although unsure whether his answer was even expected.
‘You are to be moved to the special camp,’ he said. ‘But for now, you will be held at the falconer’s lodge while your file is studied and your paperwork is processed. We have been told that your talents are being wasted here.’
Fred didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified; he’d seen how sadistic some of the guards could be and had heard the stories – it didn’t bear thinking about, why they had to keep birds with such long talons on the camp grounds. He looked at the beech tree forest as they walked, probably only five hundred metres or so from the building, which was surrounded by a different kind of fencing. Not barbed wire, which was used to keep the humans inside the camp, but fencing for animals, with deer dotted throughout the enclosures.
There were guards with dogs stationed outside the entrance, and Fred kept his head down as they passed, hoping the canines couldn’t sense his fear.
‘Am I no longer to work at the factory?’ he asked, as the guard turned to him.
‘You must have friends in high places,’ he replied. ‘There is to be no more labouring for you, although I hear they’re bringing in a piano to the commanders’ settlement so you can entertain them. If you’re good enough for Goebbels, it seems you’re good enough for our commanders.’
Fred had no idea who could be helping him from the outside, who his friend in high places was, but even so he prayed that somehow, his ability to play the piano and entertain the camp commanders would keep him alive. Because if he had to stay in the main camp and work each day as he had been, he doubted he’d even make it to the end of the year.
The only trouble was his hand. He looked down at the dirty rag he’d tied around it, his fingers damaged from the afternoon priorwhen he’d been working below one of the builders. Right now, he felt as if he could barely move his fingers from the pain, but if playing the piano was going to save him, then he’d have to find a way.
Fred was surprised to find himself left mostly to his own devices once the guard had gone. There were the two guards stationed with the dog outside, but inside he was able to move about freely. There were three other men there, all French, which made it impossible to converse, but they were friendly and offered him some of the food they had. None of them looked like the other prisoners, and they had clearly never been in the main camp, and Fred gratefully sat with them and ate some bread and sausage, before following them as they pointed out of the windows. He could barely believe his eyes when he read the sign stating ‘Zoo’, finding it hard to imagine that so close to so much misery was a place of entertainment for the children of Nazi officers and commanders.
But after looking around and then resting for some time, grateful for the space to lie down and the relative warmth of the building compared to his previous barracks, a different guard came back carrying a folded pile of clothes, shoes and a wash cloth.
‘Clean yourself up and get dressed,’ he said, dropping the clothes on the ground in front of Fred. ‘Quickly.’
He nodded, waiting until the guard had stepped back before bending to pick them up with his good hand. Fred was surprised that the guard left the room for a short time, no longer used to small acts of decency such as allowing a man to change in private. The trousers were long enough but too big around the waist, so he was forced to turn the waistband over to stop them from slipping down. He decided to leave the shirt off and went to find water to wash with first, directed by the French men who seemed most interested in what he was doing. He also painstakingly took off the bandage he’d put around his hand, flexing his fingers a few times and trying not to grimace.
Not ten minutes later, he was following the guard outside and away from the falconer’s lodge, walking for a few kilometres until they reached a part of the camp he could never have imagined. There were ten large villas, with a substantial two-storey house clearly being the main residence, which Fred was being steered towards.
‘I am to play here?’ he asked. ‘Now?’
‘No, you’re to dance,’ the guard said sarcastically, before thumping him in the back with what felt like a stick but was more likely to be the butt of his gun. ‘Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to, and don’t forget how quickly you can be thrown back into the main camp.’
