The Pianist’s Wife

Chapter Twenty-Seven Fred

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Fred

The train ride to Buchenwald was different from the one to Auschwitz-Birkenau. With fewer of them in the wagons than last time, they shuddered and swayed even more violently, which increased how nauseous they all felt inside, but with barely anything in their stomachs for so many days, there was little to throw up. There were stops along the way, and by the following day, the cart was soon crammed with more people.

He tried to keep to himself, closing his eyes and imagining that he was back at home, playing his piano as Amira placed a steaming mug of coffee on the table beside him. He wasn’t certain when it had happened, but his mind and memories were full of her now; of her kind smile, the warm way she embraced him, the smell of her perfume wafting down the hallway. He’d lived without any family for so long, and yet in the time they’d been married, she’d managed to make him feel as if he had a home to return to at the end of each day. She was the companion he’d never known he needed.

When the train eventually began to slow, Fred pushed thoughts of Amira from his mind and straightened his shoulders. His stomach was empty, the pain of not eating like knives being stabbed into his insides, and his throat was so dry that he could barely swallow. If someone had talked to him, he wasn’t certain he’d even be able to utter a sound in reply. But when the side door was hauled open with an ear-piercing squeak, light filtering in as it had last time, he forced himself to stretch his weak legs and encourage them to move. He was under no illusion what would happen if anyone deemed him too weak to move of his own accord.

This time, he kept his eyes almost shut as the light streamed in around them, opening them slowly as the crowd began to move. The boots that hadn’t felt too uncomfortable while he was standing still began to bite at his skin as soon as he started to walk, but he told himself that it was better than having nothing in the cold.

When he was outside, everyone began to form a line in front of the gates, and Fred tipped his head back to read the inscription as they marched, but it was only legible now that he was on the other side. Jedem das Seine. To each his own. He shuddered as he ran the words through his mind. He knew what it meant to the Nazis – to each what he deserves – and he couldn’t help but wonder what horrors they were all to find within those gates.

They were split into groups, and Fred soon found himself shoulder to shoulder with the man he’d given the socks to. He glanced down and saw that those socks were now sodden, and he quickly looked back up. He’d done what he could to help him, and there was nothing more he could do – giving up his boots could mean death when the weather turned ever colder.

‘You,’ a guard said, coming to stand by them. There were a handful of other men too. ‘You are the skilled labourers?’

They all nodded, which received a cold smile from the guard. He took out a whip and cracked it hard against the man closest to him.

‘I will ask you again,’ he said, walking up and down in front of them as they all began to tremble from the cold wind cutting against their skin. ‘Are you the skilled labourers?’

‘Yes sir!’ they all replied. Individually they might have failed the task, but united they seemed loud enough to keep the sadistic guard happy.

Fred looked around as they stood, their guard distracted by a list that had been passed to him, and he took in the barbed wire fence and the tall watchtowers dotted around the perimeter. It was similar to the last camp in many ways, and he didn’t know what the change meant, but he did know that he wasn’t about to go into a room like the one he’d been ushered into last time. I’d rather be shot in the back of the head for refusing, than killed with all the others gathered here.

‘Move!’ the guard suddenly yelled, and they were forced to shuffle forward, all of them men.

Many of the others were grouped together and told to stay standing, and Fred hoped and prayed they weren’t going to be taken straight to their deaths. But soon he was following orders just like before, huddled behind the others in the group, as they were ushered into a large room and told to remove their clothes. He did as he was told, undressing, as did all the others, tying their shoes together by the laces and folding their clothes. He didn’t bother telling the men who still had their own clothes that they might never see them again. They would either be dead or wearing the striped pyjamas. Just like at Auschwitz, he’d seen the men behind the wire walking slowly in their stripes, their gait forced, as if they could barely lift one foot in front of the other. The camps were so much worse than he had imagined.

‘Come with me!’ another guard ordered, and Fred heard the bark of a dog and hurried along.

Somehow he ended up near the front of the line, with only a handful of men ahead of him. The first was told to walk up and get in a tub to wash himself. Fred was revolted by the idea they would all have to bathe in the same water, especially after the journey they’d had, and that it was in front of the fully clothed guards. He watched anxiously as they picked up planks of wood that had been leaning against the wall, threatening the man when he did not do as they ordered.

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 word Buchenwald , was a downward-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 the others 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.’

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 prior when 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.’

Fred nodded. He didn’t need to be told twice.

When the door was opened, Fred was marched through the house, straight down the hall and past an open door where he saw a table of people eating. It appeared to be a family and some extra men, all in uniform, but he dared no more than a cursory glance before he was directed into a sitting room, with a glossy black grand piano in the corner.

‘You are to start playing when the commander walks in,’ the guard said. ‘Make it something he’ll like.’

Fred took his position and sat, wishing his back wasn’t so sore as he placed his aching fingers over the keys, knowing to play something suitable by Beethoven or Bach. He shut his eyes and relaxed his shoulders, inhaling as everything drained from his body in preparation to play, pretending he was at home rehearsing for a concert. This was what he’d been born to do, and if this was the way he saved himself from certain death, then he finally felt as if he had a chance.

The commander’s clipped step down the hallway alerted Fred that it was time to begin, and by the time the man came through the door with his guests following behind, he’d begun playing, his fingers dancing across the keys with an energy that belied the fear he’d lived with since arriving. He’d almost forgotten how much he loved his music, how alive it made him feel. And even as his damaged fingers strained and ached, bringing tears to his eyes, he wouldn’t stop.

Believe in yourself. Believe that you’re the best they’ve ever heard . And as he finished one piece and moved on to the next, he played with the same passion he would have in a crowded concert hall in Berlin, the people gathered in the room falling silent as they listened.

Please let this be enough. Please let this be enough for them to keep me alive.