could see the cake farther on, decorated with candles and carried by three aides. The other musicians were seeing it for the first time, unlike Emil. For those getting barely any food — and vile food at that — the birthday cake they would not be able to sample was, of course, additional torture. Müller, naturally, didn’t have the slightest idea what was going on in the detainees’ heads. He was as nervous as a young conductor getting ready for his first concert, even redder in the face now than only a few minutes earlier.
On Müller’s signal, they began playing, with varying levels of success, a German birthday song. Two officers carried the cake to a table festooned with balloons and a banner, around which sat a few children but mostly adults, officers, all applauding loudly. It was all a surprise for Höss, who laughed and clapped like an imbecile. The same held true for Johann Schwarzhuber. Little Otto was seated in front of him, Johann holding him by the shoulders, the sign around his neck nowhere to be seen. A bit farther off, his mother, looking as austere as always. As he played, Emil scanned the room. It was the usual crowd: Mengele, Leibrecht, Kluge, and the others. Once again, no sign of Christina.
It was little Otto’s turn, and he blew the candles with as much energy as he could muster. More applause, more encouragement.
Oskar Müller’s performance over and done with, the members of the orchestra were directed toward the living room, where they were to wait for the end of the meal. Once the children were sent to bed, the adults would need to stretch their legs to the rhythm of dancing music.
Through a door left ajar, the prisoners could see and hear the action in the dining room: the sound of cutlery on plates, the shouts of children, the laughter of their parents. An evening of celebration like any other, it could have been anywhere. But it was in Auschwitz, where the victims of the Third Reich were disposed of. Auschwitz, little more than a landfill for undesirables.
Emil Rosca was hungry. Perhaps made hungrier by the officers he saw coming and going between the kitchen and the dining room, making sure Höss and his guests were eating their fill. Emil pushed the door open wider. The kitchen was right at the end of the corridor, nearby. With only a few steps, he could slip in, grab something, anything, and slip back into the living room. He knew there were only two officers taking care of the service — the third man had disappeared. Sometimes both men were in the dining room at the same time, leaving the kitchen unattended. That was when Emil had to act.
Emil looked around. The other musicians were all slumped against walls or napping on the ground, taking full advantage of the precious minutes of rest. His absence wouldn’t be noticed.
He stood and watched the aides-de-camp coming and going for a long time. They were, unfortunately, almost perfectly synchronized. They passed each other in the corridor, where Emil could hear their perfectly polished shoes screeching on the wood floor. Each time Emil hoped one of them would turn around and go back to the dining room, giving him an opportunity to slip by unnoticed. But no such luck. Soon the noise from the nearby dining room, that of the children especially, lessened, a sign they’d be sent to bed soon. Emil was heartbroken; a small dream was slipping between his fingers.
Suddenly, the sound of broken glass, a slap to the face, crying. And the aides-de-camp were running toward the dining room. A child had spilled something; the two men were coming to the rescue.
It was now or never.
Emil opened the door as softly as possible. There was no one in the corridor. The child who’d dropped something was still crying; the aides-de-camp were nowhere to be seen. Emil moved in the opposite direction, all the while looking behind him. He was soon in the kitchen, a large, well-lit room. On every countertop, remains of the feast. Empty bottles of champagne, as well. A pile of plates, some of which still had pieces of ham on them. Emil didn’t think, didn’t look for something more substantial. No, those leftovers were a banquet for him. He rushed toward a plate with half-eaten ham on it, and just as he was about to put the food in his mouth, he felt a presence behind him.
Christina Müller.
Emil realized he was lost. He was standing there with a piece of ham in his hand. He would pay the piper for this — with his life, most likely. He could hear the aides-de-camp in the corridor, making their way back to the kitchen. Soon he’d be arrested, sent to the showers.
But Christina Müller kept her calm. Without any particular emotion, she grabbed Emil by the arm and pushed him into a pantry, just as the two aides-de-camp hurried back into the kitchen. They didn’t seem surprised to see her. The guests were asking for more coffee, one of them said, a touch of nerves in his voice. Christina offered to prepare it herself, and they were only too happy to accept. The two men were overwhelmed, that much was clear. He heard them rushing back to attend to Höss’s guests.
The pantry door opened. Completely puzzled by the young woman’s decision, he didn’t even take the time to thank her. He moved right past her and into the now empty corridor, and slipped back into the living room. Emil had been right: no one had noticed his absence.
Emil Rosca often saw Christina after that day. She began accompanying her husband to the Kommandantur receptions. As he played the accordion, Emil, of course, kept his attention on Oskar Müller. But sometimes he’d take a moment to glance at the young woman’s face, and their eyes would meet. Emil would immediately look away, confused about why she’d let him go free from that kitchen. Twice the young German woman had saved his life. Why? What sort of interest did she have in him? She’d saved him from Dr. Josef to serve her husband’s ambition and her own taste in music. But the second time? It could have been for the love of music again. If Emil had been arrested, he would have been sent back to the Zigeunerlager. Or to the gas chambers. No more music, no more accordion for him. But the look Christina gave him from time to time wasn’t that of a music lover. No, it was that of a woman in love. Emil couldn’t help but smile at the thought. The German wife of a German officer in a German concentration camp falling in love with a prisoner of the Stammlager! And a seventeen-year-old Rom at that! Emil was getting carried away, as usual. He dreamed, which was the most dangerous escape.
A few weeks after the kitchen incident, at another party, the men were chatting away, ignoring their wives, ignoring the orchestra. Müller was there, Kluge, as well, and others Emil didn’t recognize. He overheard a discussion on German forces in Russia retreating following their defeat at Stalingrad in February, after six months of brutality and carnage. On the Western Front, France was still in the grip of the Third Reich. The officers spoke of how they expected the invasion of Great Britain would compensate for losses on the Eastern Front. But no one seemed entirely convinced of that. What was more, the Americans had just landed in southern Italy …
Emil had no idea where all these countries were. Stalingrad even less so.
“You are Emil Rosca?”
The young Rom was startled out of his thoughts. Christina, the wife of an SS officer, was speaking to him — simply inconceivable. She stood there, hands on hips, in front of the assembled orchestra, expecting an answer. Behind her the officers talked with one another in a cloud of smoke. Emil nodded imperceptibly, as if he were afraid to commit himself. Christina kept her eyes on him.
“Anton’s son?”
Emil felt dizzy. His father? Why was this German woman speaking of his father? Why here, why now?
A voice broke the spell, a man’s voice coming from the group of officers behind her. “And you, Christina, what do you think?”
Without losing her cool, the German woman turned toward the group of SS officers. “Do you really believe the Russians will be able to maintain their offensive?” she asked, her tone emotionless. “Don’t forget that Stalingrad exhausted them, as well.”
