The Roma Plot. Mario Bolduc
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daubed Emil’s ear with a liquid. It smelled horrible. But he’d put on too much, and swore as the young Rom felt the liquid slowly run down his neck and slip under the collar of his gown. A cold, sticky, viscous trail. Emil had never been so afraid in his life.
Leibrecht picked up a scalpel and placed a hand on Emil’s forehead, preventing any movement at all. “Rainer, phenol.”
The orderly was about to stick the needle in Emil’s thorax, right above his heart, when Dr. Josef’s voice sounded from across the room.
“Hans, can you come here a moment?”
“Just give me five minutes,” Leibrecht answered.
“Now!”
The doctor sighed as he placed the scalpel back on the tray and left the laboratory, closing the door behind him. Abandoning the syringe filled with phenol on the tray, the orderly sat down at the edge of the table, the way you might sit on the hood of a car, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, offering one to his colleague. Soon, acrid grey smoke filled the room, making Emil dizzy. Because of the liquid the doctor had daubed on his ear, he couldn’t feel anything on the right side of his face. Emil kept glancing toward the phenol syringe, just out of reach. What would be the point, anyway? In a few moments, Dr. Leibrecht would return and finish his operation. It was the end. Death was coming. Death, which Emil had naively thought he could avoid in the camp, among his people. He saw in his mind’s eye his father repairing a pot, face covered in soot. His father with a gormónya on his knees, teaching him how to play. He could see the celebrations of the kumpaníya when the Kalderash, the Lovari, or the Tshurari met on the road. He remembered the feast of hedgehog served on long tables around which children ran, laughing, shouting. The pavika, the rejoicing, where wine ran more freely than water under the kind supervision of the bulibasha.
Suddenly, the doors to the operating room flew open. The two orderlies jumped to their feet, as if caught dawdling. A young woman walked in, her step straight and energetic, followed by Dr. Josef. She was a redhead with delicate skin in a tailored floral suit. She seemed lost, out of place in the midst of all this horror, though not surprised by what she saw. A German woman, without a doubt. Directly from the Kommandantur. The wife of an officer, perhaps. Emil saw Leibrecht gesture for his attendants to disappear. A guard stood near the doorway behind the doctor and the woman. He’d likely accompanied the redhead in.
“You’ve just arrived here in Auschwitz,” Dr. Josef said, his voice stiff. “I understand that in Berlin, high society might have looked kindly on your initiatives …”
“High society has nothing to do with any of this.”
“You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”
“With the best doctor of the Third Reich. But that doesn’t mean you can disobey orders.”
Emil 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