The Roma Plot. Mario Bolduc
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quite understand. Perhaps it was so that Dr. Josef’s guinea pigs could remain in decent shape to be harvested.
Usually, Oskar Müller could be counted on to be tolerant, even understanding. Other times, however, he’d lose his temper. On the ground floor of Block 24, where the rehearsals were held, he’d snap his conductor’s baton in two and go on a rampage, breaking everything around him. The first few times Müller had gone mad Emil had folded himself protectively around his Paolo Soprani, making himself as small as possible, trying to become invisible.
Soon enough, however, Emil had seen that Müller’s outbursts — as spectacular as they might look — were fundamentally harmless. The officer would eventually calm down, give a few taps of a replacement baton on his lectern, exactly like Herbert von Karajan had done at a concert Müller had seen in Paris in 1940, a little after the German invasion. Backstage, Oskar had had the exceptional privilege of shaking the hand of his idol, the famous conductor, the Third Reich’s favourite child. No, in the end, Müller’s anger was usually without consequence. But if the conductor came near a musician to tell him softly, “The way you play is a complete insult to Carl Robrecht,” it meant he’d just received his death sentence. The man would disappear with his violin or his flute, soon to be replaced by a new musician. Emil sat in the still-warm chair of a Jewish accordion player, a Pole from nearby Kraków. Another musician was likely waiting in the antechamber, ready to take Emil’s seat if his accordion squeaked.
In order to last, to survive, the only thing he could do was to play his best. Until the orchestra, the accordion had simply been a distraction for him, a pleasant one, surely, but a way to pass time. He couldn’t even remember the first time he’d held a gormónya; it had simply always been a part of him. Emil’s father loved the instrument, played it magnificently himself, and had shown his son how to hold it. The accordion was kept under a satin cloth in a corner of the vôrdòn, their means of transport. Emil was too small back then to hang it over his shoulder, but he’d managed to play it, anyway. He played casually without looking to improve. What would be the point of that? He played the accordion naturally, as others breathed, without effort. But in Auschwitz, improving was the only way to survive.
And so for the first time in his life Emil made an effort. He was getting better, learning what made Oskar Müller tick. Müller was completely unsophisticated when it came to the accordion, despite what he claimed. What he loved best were flights of lyricism, painful memories that induced tears, throbbing sounds. Emil gave him as much as he could. He’d conclude every one of his solos with pirouettes, acrobatics, flash, and thunder, keeping one eye on Müller’s face. Sometimes, carried away by his false enthusiasm, Emil exaggerated and could sense a grimace taking shape on Müller’s face, could sense his mood darkening. Immediately, Emil would change approach, adjust his interpretation. The others, bent over their instruments or looking elsewhere, didn’t adopt the same strategy. They never saw the storm coming.
Emil had left the Romani camp, and for the past ten days, since he’d joined Müller’s orchestra, he’d lived in one of the Stammlager’s Cell Blocks in the main camp. He shared the place with the other musicians, Jews mostly. Also at Stammlager, the women played in the orchestra of Alma Rosé, Gustav Mahler’s niece. Altogether there were six orchestras in Auschwitz, all of them led by prisoners, except for Oskar Müller’s.
As well as accompanying morning and evening work crews, Emil Rosca and his colleagues played at special occasions. The day following his enrollment, Emil had been summoned to the camp commander’s home. A reception that gave Oskar Müller an opportunity to impress Rudolf Höss and his wife, both lovers of Verdi. And of Romani music. Attracting Höss’s favour had been Müller’s reason for integrating an accordion player into his orchestra. That night Emil had seen, among the guests, Dr. Josef and Hans Leibrecht, his dreaded subordinate. When Leibrecht noticed Emil, he walked over and posted himself right in front, observing him, a sadistic smile on his face. Immediately, Emil’s fingers lost the rhythm. Müller noticed. He rebuked his accordionist as Leibrecht left for the buffet, caressing his own ear menacingly.
That night at the reception Hans Leibrecht wasn’t the only one to show interest in the orchestra. A corporal, a young man named Matthias Kluge, kept humming along to the sounds coming from Emil’s Paolo Soprani. At one point in the evening Emil overheard a rather heated argument between Kluge and Dr. Josef over the costs of Block 10. Emil understood that the former worked as an accountant for the SS-Standortverwaltung, which was responsible for the camp’s administration.
To the others, the cream of the crop of Auschwitz-Birkenau, the musicians didn’t exist; it was that simple. The music could have come from a phonograph; it would have made no difference. As he played, Emil had scanned the room, trying to find Christina Müller, the woman who’d saved his life. She didn’t seem to be there. Emil overheard Oskar Müller telling another officer that his wife was tired and wouldn’t be joining them that night. It didn’t seem to bother him overmuch, quite the opposite. Over the course of the evening, Müller moved from one woman to the next, like an excitable butterfly. Perhaps Christina knew her husband’s habits; she might have preferred not to witness his shenanigans.
Back in the dusty room, the door burst open suddenly and Oskar Müller appeared, clapping his hands. The collar of his tuxedo was tight around his neck, making his face an impressive shade of red. Or perhaps it was his nerves at the thought of leading his little orchestra in front of all his superiors. The Paolo Soprani strapped around his shoulder, Emil followed the other musicians through the corridors of the house plunged in half-light. He 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.