Free Auschwitz Violin by Maria Anglada Page B

not become subhuman. That was what they were.
    The guard had moved in front of them now, out of their sight, and Daniel managed to find the energy to comfort the young man.
    “Did it hurt much?”
    “I can take it.”
    Thinking that he had been left too much alone, Daniel put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. The youngster—everyone knew everything in the lager —had been cut off from his people; he could receive no packages or letters, though he was neither Jew nor gypsy. He had been included in the group for “supplementary punishment,” what the Nazis referred to by the widely known secret name the Decree of Night and Fog. The name itself reflected the perversity of imagination, beautiful words for a terrible practice: leaving the prisoners completely uncertain of everything. Not even the boy’s parents knew where he was.
    Was it possible that a semblance of morality existed in this world of concentration camps? No, more probably it was simply that they wanted to make the most of the cheap labor that produced such huge earnings. The men in charge of the subsidiary plant of the powerful I.G. Farben had just announced over the loudspeakers that prisoners would be divided into groups for fifteen-minute rest periods. Almost immediately after the announcement, a bonus was distributed among the men, money that could be used to buy food at the canteen. An enormous din, a huge dull clamor like a surging sea, swept through the factory.
    “Schweigt! Still!” the guards yelled in their attempt to stifle the prisoners’ shouts.
    The machines finally muffled the sound of human mouths. Daniel’s companion was weeping. When it was their turn to go to the canteen, little remained to choose from, and the boy and the violin maker—forgetting all laws other than hunger—attacked a sausage and, like two babes grasping at a breast, quenched their thirst by loudly downing a large glass of milk. When Daniel had swallowed the last drop, he reminded himself that he would need every gram of food he could encounter if he wanted to have the stamina to finish the violin.

 
     
     
    Once, God, my dark night had yet to fall Nor had I suddenly entered upon a strange path.
—J OSEP C ARNER , Nabí
     
    The violinist began the slow, rhythmic theme of the melody. The bow moved with assurance; soon he would be joined by the simple accompaniment of the violoncello. He had devoted considerable thought to the choice before finally settling on Arcangelo Corelli’s variations on “La Folia,” in Hubert Léonard’s version, a piece he knew by heart. He had made one change: instead of piano or harpsichord, he had chosen the cello for the bass part. They fit together perfectly. He had been wise to select a piece that demonstrated the wide range of the violin’s tone quality, displaying string brilliance but no risky acrobatics. Soon the melody danced, bounded. The short fragment of paired notes and trills appeared as the sonata flowed easily, elegantly; then the theme imposed itself again with such beauty that the audience sat in absolute silence.

    The cello stopped, and the violin solo concluded the piece. Bronislaw played with great sensitivity and depth. The musician closed his eyes and kept them closed until after the strings had grown mute. Now, he thought in a flash, I’ll hear an explosion of applause. He was twenty-six years old, and every concert since his first, at age twelve, had ended in thunderous applause.
    He opened his eyes and abruptly returned to the present and his own situation. He was actually surprised to hear a few people—very few—applauding. The Commander himself clapped his hands twice, and the two musicians bowed.
    “You played well, it’s a good violin.”
    Bronislaw breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the words. He was especially relieved because he was conscious that the violin had not been allowed to dry as long as it needed. He noticed that the Commander glanced over at Rascher with an ironic half-smile,