The German phrase ‘Arbeit macht frei’ [Work sets you free] was embedded into the entrance gate at Auschwitz and other Nazi concentration camps.
Mr Becker, the translator, said, ‘I can tell you about your friend, but you won’t want to know everything. I was forced to stay with those SS troops all the way to the camp. The people in the cattle cars couldn’t move their arms and legs.’
‘Please, tell me everything. I need to know everything. I need to know what happened.’
Mr Becker stood up, paced back and forth, stopped, and looked at me. ‘When the train arrived at Auschwitz, SS soldiers in black uniforms were waiting. As the people stepped off the train and walked in lines, the SS officer in charge pointed at each Jew who walked in front of him, and directed them to the left or right: left to the gas chamber; right, forced labour. I had to translate for the officer who sat at the desk.
‘When your friend stood before the officer, he looked at me and said “Ziemlich blond. Schade, dass sie so krank aussieht.”’
I asked the translator what that meant.
‘What a pretty blonde. It’s a pity she looks so sickly.’ The officer turned from me, looked at your friend again and pointed to the left.’
In my mind’s eye, I recalled Hava’s father reading aloud. ‘For you, O Lord, did consume her with fire and with fire you will restore her.’
‘What was your friend’s name again?’
‘Hava Daniels,’ I said. ‘I need to know. I need to find her. Tell me, Mr Becker.’
‘Yes, your Hava walked to the left, following the people ahead of her. They were told that they were going to take a shower. As they stood outside a bunker, they were ordered to strip off all their clothes.’
I closed my eyes and thought about Hava pretending that she was Romeo’s Juliet dying in the damp air of my father’s cellar.
Mr Becker continued. ‘The SS officer told them, “You will be disinfected and you will bathe.” Then the people were escorted to the black doors of the huge chamber.’
I opened my eyes.
‘I can’t go on, Mademoiselle Lyon,’ the translator said as he paused, overcome with grief.
‘You must. I need to know.’
Mr Becker sat down, bowed his head and said, ‘I saw them – your friend and 600 others – enter the chamber and the doors were locked behind them.’
I closed my eyes again and remembered the empty pews in the synagogue and the old rabbi telling Hava and me, ‘They are all gone.’
I opened my eyes. Mr Becker looked at me, his expression blank, reliving the horror of that day. ‘The doors to the shower building were shut and bolted. They were screwed shut before the SS poured gas through shafts in the ceiling.’
I breathed slowly as Mr Becker lowered his voice and whispered, ‘Should I continue?’
‘Yes, Mr Becker. Please. I need to know.’
‘I am told that death in the gas chamber occurred after a few minutes.’
I heard Hava’s voice: ‘I spend my time dreaming, Simone. What do you dream of? Clouds or mountains?’
The translator looked into my eyes. ‘Afterwards, I was ordered to help remove the bodies from the chamber. I remember your friend because of her hair. Her body was dragged out of the gas chamber and her hair was cut off.’
I closed my eyes and thought about Joff, and Monsieur Alberg, and how they had touched Hava’s hair with such tenderness.
‘Once your friend’s hair had been cut, I was ordered to put her body on a wooden cart headed for the oven.’ He stopped, unable to continue.
‘I need to know every detail.’ I told him, as I looked into his eyes.
I remembered Hava telling me about the time she and her father had stood tall and straight together as they lifted their heels and recited the prayer to the moon.
Mr Becker said, ‘I didn’t want to, but I was told what to do. I shovelled your friend’s ashes, and those of all the others, out from the bottom of the oven and dumped them in a pond on the outskirts of the camp. All those ashes . . . so many ashes.’
I closed my eyes and wept.