It was twenty-eight years before I could listen again to Brahms’s Concerto for Violin. Each sound tears through my flesh and drags out from me the image of a scorching, shadeless day in Auschwitz.
At about two o’clock, thousands of deportees gathered around a rostrum made from planks in the middle of the main road. The lucky ones were in the front rows. Those at the back jostled each other and edged their way toward the front. The only place of shade, under the stage, was completely sealed off by the guards and their dogs. Slowly, in procession, walking somewhat tensely but with dignity, the musicians—first-rate artists from different countries—took their assigned seats. Their heads were shaved, and they were wearing blue and gray striped trousers paired with a formal black jacket over their uniform tops.
With the crowd pressing all around me, I was carried away as they struck up the first movement. Crouched down and trembling with emotion, I found myself drawn into a fairy-tale world where suffering was clothed in a magical beauty. Through small, gentle waves the music soaked into me like the breath of life.
The beginning of the second movement was just as pure and rich: it laughed and cried in us.
Time stood still, but the sun was there, breathing us in.
I grew ill from the swarming of insects around my head and my ears. To this day, when I think of the third movement I have a paralyzing image of venomous stings. I was in and out of consciousness. Little by little the music became disjointed, ending with the pathetic note of an instrument landing on the rostrum, followed by another, and then another. All I could make out was the strain of a violin through a kind of fog. The sun and its arrows had gotten the better of us. The orchestra became like an ageing fabric, wearing out before our very eyes: holes appeared, and it crumbled into dust.
Although my senses were dulled, I understood the diabolical game of the SS. The pack of dogs arrived. In less than an hour the great ceremony was over. Those of us who still could got up and made our way like drunkards back to the barracks. The dogs sniffed around the others who, dead or dying, lay on the ground like dead leaves after a gust of wind.
The sun must have shuddered at this sight. I swore that day that I wanted to stay alive. To tell those who forget to remain vigilant.