The Violinist of Auschwitz - Ellie Midwood Page 0,2

window onto Alma’s arms. An invisible violin at her shoulder. Her fingers fluttering over the fingerboard like the wings of a butterfly. A bow in her right hand, kissing the violin’s strings. Outside, the Sankas, camouflaging themselves as Red Cross trucks, taking the bodies away from the neighboring Block 11; Alma had seen them briefly through the cracks in the shutters, setting off in the direction of the crematorium. Inside her head, Strauss, Tales from the Vienna Woods.

Music.

Peace.

Serenity.

A world, in which a place like Auschwitz didn’t have the moral right to exist.

“Alma? Alma Rosé?”

The young nurse with a fresh, pretty face, whom Hellinger brought to the ward, spoke German with a strong Dutch accent. A warm wave of memories, of happier times in Holland where several Dutch families sheltered her from the Nazis, washed over her. Seasons changed in war-ravaged Europe, but not her hosts’ loyalty. Risking their own lives, they had concealed Alma from the Gestapo and asked for nothing in exchange—only for a bit of her marvelous music. Alma was only too glad to oblige; she owed her life and freedom to those brave, selfless people. Repaying their hospitality with her music was the least that she could do. They had moved her from house to house when the rumors of the Gestapo raids swelled to disturbing proportions, but no matter where she was hiding, she had invariably felt welcome and at home.

Naturally, Alma recognized the young girl’s face before her; Alma would never forget the kind smiles of the ones who had kept her safe for so long. Though, it took the girl much longer to recognize her. Alma hadn’t seen her reflection in days—or was it weeks?—but she could very well imagine what a sorry sight she presented. No longer a celebrated violin player in an elegant evening gown with an open back; that much was obvious.

“Magda, do you know who this is? This is Alma Rosé herself!” The nurse was beaming at Blockälteste Hellinger in apparent delight. “She’s a violinist, very famous in Austria!” Misinterpreting Alma’s silence, the nurse rushed to explain, “My name is Ima van Esso. You played at our home in Amsterdam. In 1942, a Telemann sonata; remember?”

Of course, she did. A warm house heated against all German regulations; an illegal gathering of music aficionados; mismatched, elegant chairs assembled in a semicircle; women in evening gowns and men in dress suits, all eyes on her—the woman they had adored and risked the wrath of the Gestapo just to hear her play once again.

“You accompanied me. The flute.” Somehow, Alma managed the words. The memories cut. It was strange to be holding Ima’s hand in hers again. It was a mirthless reunion for all the wrong reasons. The last time they parted ways, Alma was still a free woman.

Ima presented her with a radiant smile. “Yes! It’s so kind of you to remember. I was such an amateur… most certainly you felt I was beneath your best effort.”

Alma felt the beginning of a quiver in her bottom lip and bit into it, hard. “Nonsense. You played excellently.” Alma was proud to hear her voice so calm. The self-inflicted pain worked its magic, as it always did.

Magda Hellinger whistled softly through her teeth. “A celebrity, then? Why didn’t you say so when you asked me for the blasted violin?”

“Does a person need to be a celebrity to play the violin in this place?” Alma asked, sharper than she had intended.

“Not necessarily, but it helps while trying to obtain one,” Hellinger explained. “To organize things in Auschwitz, it requires a lot of work. It will cost me, getting a violin for you. The only person who knows anything about music is this little Fräulein. Don’t hold it against me, but I had to verify it with her first.”

Ima was already pulling at Magda’s sleeve as she searched the Blockälteste’s face with her pleading eyes. “Oh, Magda, dear, please, do get it for her! You will fall over with amazement once you hear how splendidly she can play. A true virtuoso; you take my word for it. You’ll feel as though you’re in the Vienna Philharmonic at once—”

“Vienna Philharmonic, my foot,” Magda grumbled under her breath, throwing a glance in the direction of the door. “Even if I get one through Zippy, how is she to play it here in secret? Or do you suggest we stage an open concert here, right under Dr. Clauberg’s very nose?”

“Dr. Clauberg and the SS Blockführerin leave at six.” Ima