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Authors: Maria Anglada
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long time to both of them, Daniel broke loose and Bronislaw suggested that walking would calm them. As they strode, Daniel concentrated, dry-eyed, on what his friend had to say.
“Listen,” Bronislaw said soothingly. “You won’t be removed. The factories can’t afford to lose any men. Things are starting to look bad for these wretched murderers. You’ll manage, you know you will. The violist from the orchestra where I used to play told me you were tremendously skillful. You did great work for him.”
Bronislaw spoke with conviction, easing Daniel’s fears. The luthier wanted to believe his friend’s words. He had no other choice.
“Your violin will produce the most beautiful sound imaginable, and I’ll see to it that I’m the one to play it. We can do this, we will.”
His friend’s voice was like salve applied to an open wound. When he was again reasonably serene, they began to discuss the matter in an almost objective fashion: the difficulty didn’t reside in the quality of the work—Daniel wasn’t at all anxious about that. Both of them agreed that the problem lay in not knowing the time limit. No one could clarify this; no one wanted to. The musician couldn’t ask anyone, nor could he show, even intimate, that he knew about the appalling bet. The consequences could be terrible, and Bronislaw recognized that he was not that brave a man.
It was almost certain—to the degree that one could be certain of anything in this Empire of Terror—that they would allow the luthier to live in Dreiflüsselager until the violin was finished. He wouldn’t be moved to the main Auschwitz camp or to Plaszow. His mornings would be spent plying his trade. This was no small privilege in a labor camp; most prisoners had far less. Bronislaw and Daniel agreed not to discuss the matter with anyone, not with the mechanic who had become such a close friend—he was too talkative—nor with the other two musicians. Bronislaw advised Daniel not to rush making the violin, even if he was tempted. It would be much worse if he injured his hands or damaged the instrument. Everything would be lost if the violin didn’t produce the proper sound. Bronislaw was convinced that if the violin turned out well—as they had every reason to expect—the Commander would not surrender Daniel to the doctor. There were many other camps, many other victims. After all, the Commander was the boss in his lager .
“And he’s a rank higher than Rascher,” the musician continued.
Bronslaw had discovered this when he heard them saluting each other, and he knew for a fact that the Commander didn’t like to have his authority disputed. One more factor weighed in Daniel’s favor: the doctor didn’t know a thing about violins, but Sauckel did, and he was astute enough to have set a time limit that wouldn’t cause suspicion and would procure him a case of Burgundy wine. Of that Bronislaw was sure!
“So how do you find time to practice?” Daniel asked.
“It’s a real problem, since I work in the kitchen all day. Look at my hands! At least they’re warm, but I’m worried about the summer.”
Bronislaw managed to practice with the other two musicians in the short period after supper and before the barracks were locked. “It’s not much, but we make an effort ‘to keep our fingers,’” he explained. “Look, today we’ll barely have half an hour, so I have to leave you now.”
Bronislaw departed reluctantly, walking slowly, unsteadily. Daniel’s eyes were full of gratitude as they followed him as far as the barracks. The musician had understood Daniel, comforted him. Fortunately, the two friends had been able to discuss the ghastly problem in all of its details because the days were longer now that it was spring and prisoners didn’t have to be back in the barracks until nine.
The luthier left the conversation feeling calmer and fell asleep that night expecting to be able to finish the violin, and freshly determined to do so. For that
“Listen,” Bronislaw said soothingly. “You won’t be removed. The factories can’t afford to lose any men. Things are starting to look bad for these wretched murderers. You’ll manage, you know you will. The violist from the orchestra where I used to play told me you were tremendously skillful. You did great work for him.”
Bronislaw spoke with conviction, easing Daniel’s fears. The luthier wanted to believe his friend’s words. He had no other choice.
“Your violin will produce the most beautiful sound imaginable, and I’ll see to it that I’m the one to play it. We can do this, we will.”
His friend’s voice was like salve applied to an open wound. When he was again reasonably serene, they began to discuss the matter in an almost objective fashion: the difficulty didn’t reside in the quality of the work—Daniel wasn’t at all anxious about that. Both of them agreed that the problem lay in not knowing the time limit. No one could clarify this; no one wanted to. The musician couldn’t ask anyone, nor could he show, even intimate, that he knew about the appalling bet. The consequences could be terrible, and Bronislaw recognized that he was not that brave a man.
It was almost certain—to the degree that one could be certain of anything in this Empire of Terror—that they would allow the luthier to live in Dreiflüsselager until the violin was finished. He wouldn’t be moved to the main Auschwitz camp or to Plaszow. His mornings would be spent plying his trade. This was no small privilege in a labor camp; most prisoners had far less. Bronislaw and Daniel agreed not to discuss the matter with anyone, not with the mechanic who had become such a close friend—he was too talkative—nor with the other two musicians. Bronislaw advised Daniel not to rush making the violin, even if he was tempted. It would be much worse if he injured his hands or damaged the instrument. Everything would be lost if the violin didn’t produce the proper sound. Bronislaw was convinced that if the violin turned out well—as they had every reason to expect—the Commander would not surrender Daniel to the doctor. There were many other camps, many other victims. After all, the Commander was the boss in his lager .
“And he’s a rank higher than Rascher,” the musician continued.
Bronslaw had discovered this when he heard them saluting each other, and he knew for a fact that the Commander didn’t like to have his authority disputed. One more factor weighed in Daniel’s favor: the doctor didn’t know a thing about violins, but Sauckel did, and he was astute enough to have set a time limit that wouldn’t cause suspicion and would procure him a case of Burgundy wine. Of that Bronislaw was sure!
“So how do you find time to practice?” Daniel asked.
“It’s a real problem, since I work in the kitchen all day. Look at my hands! At least they’re warm, but I’m worried about the summer.”
Bronislaw managed to practice with the other two musicians in the short period after supper and before the barracks were locked. “It’s not much, but we make an effort ‘to keep our fingers,’” he explained. “Look, today we’ll barely have half an hour, so I have to leave you now.”
Bronislaw departed reluctantly, walking slowly, unsteadily. Daniel’s eyes were full of gratitude as they followed him as far as the barracks. The musician had understood Daniel, comforted him. Fortunately, the two friends had been able to discuss the ghastly problem in all of its details because the days were longer now that it was spring and prisoners didn’t have to be back in the barracks until nine.
The luthier left the conversation feeling calmer and fell asleep that night expecting to be able to finish the violin, and freshly determined to do so. For that
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