seen my reflection in months and it took me by surprise – the dull skin, the bristles, the face staring back at me. I was ugly, a skeleton in stage make-up. I saw it in the piano’s mirrored surface and in the boy’s refusal to look at me.
I put my hands on the keys and tried to find my way back home, but my heart wasn’t in it. I delivered an empty Mozart sonata, sure that my finale had extinguished any chance I might have had for that extra crust of bread.
“
Gut
.” The commandant unfolded his legs, took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his eyes.
We were told to line up. I smiled at Rivka. Her red hair was growing back in uneven tufts. She looked like a sad clown, with her painted red cheeks and smeared lipstick. She deserved the extra crust of bread, we all did. Piri was right. There was no shame in wanting to survive. I didn’t want to die. I’d hardly lived. I wanted to keep living and I wanted to keep playing the piano.
“So, Karl, whose music most impressed you?” The commandant turned to face the boy at the back of the room. The boy lifted his eyes from his book. He looked irritated.
“None of them, Father.”
The commandant smiled. “Come now. One must stand out.”
The boy – Karl – stood up and looked us over. “That one, I suppose,” he said, pointing to me.
Lagerführerin Holzman looked disappointed. “A10573? The blonde?”
“Yes, A10573.” The boy’s mouth twisted in disgust.
The commandant smiled. “You have a good ear.” He turned to face Lagerführerin Holzman.
“You heard my son.” He placed his baton on the seat and reached for his dog’s lead. “We’ll take her.”
Chapter 6
We walked back to camp in the rain, five of us when there had once been six. I hoped the girl with the bruised cheek, the one who had played Korngold’s banned sonata, had made it back to camp. I turned my face up to the grey sky, opened my mouth and gulped at the fat, delicious raindrops. I hadn’t had anything to drink since breakfast. My cotton dress clung to my body and mud sucked at my shoes but I didn’t care. The commandant had chosen me to be his pianist.
Rivka turned to me. She didn’t look sad or angry. She looked relieved. “Congratulations.” She mouthed the word silently.
“Think you’re lucky, do you?” Trommler dug her nails into my shoulder. “I hope you’re luckier than the commandant’s last pianist. She was a pretty blond thing like you. Didn’t do her much good. Imagine losing a finger just because you hit the wrong note.”
Trommler waited for a reaction, but I refused to give her one. I didn’t let my face register surprise or fear.
“So,” she released her grip and turned to face the other girls, “if you want to say anything to the ‘winner’ of today’s little competition, perhaps instead of ‘congratulations’, it ought to be ‘good luck’.”
Another long hour passed. We kept walking. Globe flowers shivered by the roadside. Lulled by their beauty, I bent down to pull one from the mud, my right hand curled around its dark green stalk, when I noticed one of the guards standing over me, his boot lifted off the ground, his heel hovering over my hand. My fingers froze around the flower.
“Not the hand, you idiot!” Trommler screamed. “She’s Captain Jager’s new pianist. That hand belongs to him now.”
I looked down at my jagged nails and blistered palms. It wasn’t just the hands he owned. It was all of me. I was the commandant’s now. I belonged to him. I’d sold my soul for a chance to sneak into the commandant’s kitchen.
I plucked the flower from the earth and kept walking.
It was dark by the time we reached the main gate. Rollcall was over and the prisoners were being marched back to their bunks. They turned their heads to watch us pass, five women in stockings and silk scarves. A haggard old man spat at us and then someone smiled, a young girl in a wet dress with a yellow star. Her right eye was swollen shut and
I put my hands on the keys and tried to find my way back home, but my heart wasn’t in it. I delivered an empty Mozart sonata, sure that my finale had extinguished any chance I might have had for that extra crust of bread.
“
Gut
.” The commandant unfolded his legs, took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his eyes.
We were told to line up. I smiled at Rivka. Her red hair was growing back in uneven tufts. She looked like a sad clown, with her painted red cheeks and smeared lipstick. She deserved the extra crust of bread, we all did. Piri was right. There was no shame in wanting to survive. I didn’t want to die. I’d hardly lived. I wanted to keep living and I wanted to keep playing the piano.
“So, Karl, whose music most impressed you?” The commandant turned to face the boy at the back of the room. The boy lifted his eyes from his book. He looked irritated.
“None of them, Father.”
The commandant smiled. “Come now. One must stand out.”
The boy – Karl – stood up and looked us over. “That one, I suppose,” he said, pointing to me.
Lagerführerin Holzman looked disappointed. “A10573? The blonde?”
“Yes, A10573.” The boy’s mouth twisted in disgust.
The commandant smiled. “You have a good ear.” He turned to face Lagerführerin Holzman.
“You heard my son.” He placed his baton on the seat and reached for his dog’s lead. “We’ll take her.”
Chapter 6
We walked back to camp in the rain, five of us when there had once been six. I hoped the girl with the bruised cheek, the one who had played Korngold’s banned sonata, had made it back to camp. I turned my face up to the grey sky, opened my mouth and gulped at the fat, delicious raindrops. I hadn’t had anything to drink since breakfast. My cotton dress clung to my body and mud sucked at my shoes but I didn’t care. The commandant had chosen me to be his pianist.
Rivka turned to me. She didn’t look sad or angry. She looked relieved. “Congratulations.” She mouthed the word silently.
“Think you’re lucky, do you?” Trommler dug her nails into my shoulder. “I hope you’re luckier than the commandant’s last pianist. She was a pretty blond thing like you. Didn’t do her much good. Imagine losing a finger just because you hit the wrong note.”
Trommler waited for a reaction, but I refused to give her one. I didn’t let my face register surprise or fear.
“So,” she released her grip and turned to face the other girls, “if you want to say anything to the ‘winner’ of today’s little competition, perhaps instead of ‘congratulations’, it ought to be ‘good luck’.”
Another long hour passed. We kept walking. Globe flowers shivered by the roadside. Lulled by their beauty, I bent down to pull one from the mud, my right hand curled around its dark green stalk, when I noticed one of the guards standing over me, his boot lifted off the ground, his heel hovering over my hand. My fingers froze around the flower.
“Not the hand, you idiot!” Trommler screamed. “She’s Captain Jager’s new pianist. That hand belongs to him now.”
I looked down at my jagged nails and blistered palms. It wasn’t just the hands he owned. It was all of me. I was the commandant’s now. I belonged to him. I’d sold my soul for a chance to sneak into the commandant’s kitchen.
I plucked the flower from the earth and kept walking.
It was dark by the time we reached the main gate. Rollcall was over and the prisoners were being marched back to their bunks. They turned their heads to watch us pass, five women in stockings and silk scarves. A haggard old man spat at us and then someone smiled, a young girl in a wet dress with a yellow star. Her right eye was swollen shut and
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