was impressed this woman would stand up to Dr. Josef.
“And, might I add, it isn’t my idea. It’s Oskar’s. I’m only the messenger.”
Dr. Josef turned toward Leibrecht, who was looking at him with fire in his eyes.
“His requirement was clear, Dr. Mengele,” she said.
Dr. Josef sighed. “The Kaiser Wilhelm Institute is urgently awaiting these specimens.”
“Take them off someone else. You’ve got plenty to choose from.”
“I don’t like your attitude at all, Frau Müller.”
The young woman seemed to deflate all of a sudden, as if she realized she’d gone too far. “I assure you, Dr. Mengele, no one is questioning the value and usefulness of your work.”
“For which, if I must repeat myself, I received a clear mandate from the institute.”
“Which no one is questioning.”
Leibrecht burst out, incapable of containing himself further. “Leave, please. We have work to do. It’s late. The day has been long enough already.”
Frau Müller turned toward the doctor. “Hans Leibrecht. Sent away from Dachau for insubordination. Am I mistaken?”
Leibrecht was about to answer something, but Dr. Josef silenced him with a gesture. “Listen —” Mengele began.
“Anyway, this whole discussion is pointless,” Müller cut in. “As my husband takes his orders directly from the SS-Obersturmbannführer.
The camp commander.
The sound of a paper being unfolded. A letter, perhaps, that the woman brandished. Emil couldn’t see it.
“Signed by Rudolf Höss himself,” she continued, with the consent of SS-Standortarzt Eduard Wirths, your direct superior. You can check with him if you still have your doubts.”
Mengele quickly read through the letter, then raised his eyes level with Müller. He was furious, but there was nothing he could do. Leibrecht, meanwhile, had moved to the far end of the room. He was watching his superior be humiliated by this newcomer. Mengele returned the letter to her. Anger had transformed his face. Good Dr. Josef, always so generous with his sweets, now seemed like a lion trapped in the corner of a cage.
Mengele passed by the SS guard and left the laboratory without closing the door behind him. He spoke with someone at the Kommandantur over the phone — one of Rudolf Höss’s subalterns, perhaps. A long tirade, which the others listened to in silence. Dr. Leibrecht observed the young woman as if trying to understand what in the devil’s name motivated her. Ordinarily, officers’ wives were happy enough to just parade about. The more ambitious among them worked in the Registratur, the prison archives, or at the Standesamt, the civil registration office. This one, however, seemed different, animated by some strange energy.
Dr. Mengele stalked back into the operating room, his anger barely contained. In a dry voice, he ordered Leibrecht to untie Emil from the operating table. The doctor hesitated, then, under Mengele’s urging, undid the straps that held the boy. The whole time his eyes were fixed on the young woman, his stare cold enough to give you chills. Emil expected her to lower her eyes, but no. She held her own.
The SS guard moved Leibrecht out of his way and grabbed Emil by the arm, pulling him brusquely outside the operating room. As he was leaving, Emil heard Dr. Leibrecht say to the young woman, “You’ll owe me one, Christina Müller.”
She ignored him.
In the yard, the guard pushed Emil in front of him, shoving him without a care. In silence the young woman trailed them. They made their way toward the camp’s entrance. Emil wondered what this stranger wanted from him, this Christina Müller, her hair fiery red. He would have liked to ask her, but speaking to her, even looking at her, would have been a grave error. He couldn’t feel his right ear anymore; it was numb, frozen, really. He put his hand against it repeatedly; yes, it was still there. For now at least, and that was all that mattered.
Soon, Emil understood he was being brought to the Kommandantur, right beside the main guard post. The SS man pushed him through the door.
A corridor followed by a staircase and suddenly an office, with a desk and a German officer behind it reading through a pile of papers, a cigarette at his lips. Slicked-back hair, an aquiline nose — and the most beautiful ears in the world. In front of him, on a sheet of blotting paper, his officer’s cap was laid upside down, his gloves inside it. Emil wondered why he’d been brought here, then noticed the accordion, his Paolo Soprani, abandoned on a chair in the corner. In an instant, he understood everything. He’d stolen the instrument during disinfection. Someone had sold him out. Otto Schwarzhuber, the SS-Obersturmführer’s young son? Emil had broken a rule, the most important one. He’d taken something that belonged to the Reich. Every Rom was a damn thief, and here he’d given them more proof. He would be punished. Made an example of in front of the whole camp.
When the officer raised his eyes, Christina Müller said, “It’s him, Oskar.”
The officer furrowed his brow, sat back in his chair. “What happened to his ear?”
“Dr. Mengele. His research on racial characteristics. He mentioned it to us, once, do you remember?”
His face tightened. “I thought he was working on eye colour.”
“Ears as well. Folds, curves, extrusions …”
The officer pointed at Emil. “Is he deaf?”
“I arrived right before the removal.”
The man nodded. Emil understood that this high officer was Oskar Müller, husband to the young woman.
Müller got up, stepped around his desk, and stood in front of Emil, observing him for a long time. Finally, he pointed to the Paolo Soprani on the chair. “Play.”
Emil couldn’t understand what he was being asked. He understood the words, yes, but couldn’t get his head around the meaning. Play? Müller became impatient. The guard shoved him toward the accordion. Without daring to turn around, Emil grabbed the instrument. His legs were weak, all of a sudden. He sat on the chair, got back up immediately, but Müller gestured for him to sit back down. Emil’s fingers were fixed, rigid, as if he no longer had mastery over his hands. He raised his eyes. Everyone was looking at him, Müller, of course, the SS, and Müller’s wife.
“Play!” the officer barked.
So Emil played. Timidly, at first, clumsily. His hands searching for the keys, his fingers slipping on the keyboard, his movements halting. But, soon enough, music filled him, occupying him entirely, the bellows working the fear out of him. He let himself be carried by the rhythm his fingers — now obeying him — imposed on the Paolo Soprani. Nothing existed anymore. These Germans, the Kommandantur, Birkenau, the entire Third Reich, the war, the endless war. Emil played what he felt in his heart; he played for his life, somehow knowing that the accordion was his only means of survival. He played and played, as if time no longer existed. And then, suddenly, weariness overcame him. When Emil finally stopped, on the verge of collapsing, he raised his eyes. No one had moved. They looked at him strangely; he was scared all over again. What did all of this mean?
Oskar
