Free Alexander Altmann A10567 by Suzy Zail Page A

mean horse, grooming him for a man who whipped other men for pleasure. He’d spent the day making German children smile and their Nazi fathers proud.
    He didn’t deserve to eat.

Chapter 8
    When he returned from the shower Alexander was surprised to find the barrack door open and most of the inmates outside. He stood at the door, watching them slip between the barracks, huddled in groups, talking and smoking. Isidor was standing among them, talking to a man bent over a cardboard box. He craned his head and saw Isidor reach into his pocket, pull out a cigarette and hand it to the man, accepting, in exchange, a package wrapped in wax paper.
    “Excuse me.” A bald man with bushy eyebrows tapped Alexander on the shoulder.
    “We need one more to make up our minyan.” The man’s eyes slid towards the dead boy sprawled on the floor. Alexander shook his head. “Sorry, I–”
    “You don’t know what a minyan is. That’s all right.” The man pulled Alexander to the door. “We must hurry, before they come to take the body.” He placed a hand on Alexander’s shoulder to steady himself. “To pray for the dead, one must have ten Jewish men – a minyan.” He stared up at Alexander with red-rimmed eyes. “God will watch over the dead if there’s a minyan.”
    “God?” Alexander laughed out loud. “God’s not here. Not in Auschwitz.” Alexander shook the man’s bony hand from his shoulder. “Besides,” Alexander said, remembering his sister curled up like a question mark on the dirty floor of the cattle car, and his own unanswered prayers, “me and God aren’t on speaking terms.”
    “Please,” the old man begged, reaching for Alexander’s hand. “He’s my son.”
    “So pray for him.” Alexander squirmed from the old man’s grasp. “Because God sure as hell won’t.” The man’s face crumpled and for a moment Alexander felt something almost akin to regret.
    “
Yitgadal v’yitkadash shmeh rabba
.” The old man shuffled towards the body, his head bowed.
    Alexander covered his ears, but he could still make out the Hebrew words. His father had taught him the mourner’s prayer the morning of his grandfather’s funeral. He knew the next line the prisoners would chant –
Ye-hei shmei raba
– but he kept his mouth shut. He couldn’t praise a god who took sons from their fathers, a god who forced men to watch their sons die.

    Alexander sat on his bunk and pulled the cigarette the SS officer had given him from his trouser cuff. Isidor sat down beside him.
    “You plan on smoking that?”
    “Maybe.” Alexander pocketed the cigarette. “Why?”
    “Well, if you’re not a smoker,” Isidor said, taking the square of wax paper from his pocket, “and you were hungry, you could sell it for some of these.” He unfolded the paper, pulled a pickle from it and slipped it into his mouth. “Or you could trade it for bread.” He lowered his voice. “Your cigarette will buy you about a centimetre of bread at today’s prices.”
    Alexander looked confused.
    “The price fluctuates. If we haven’t had bread for a few days, the price goes up,” Isidor continued, “and a slice could cost you four cigarettes.”
    “Four cig–”
    “We haven’t got long – it’s lights out soon – so shut up and I’ll explain.” Isidor bit into a pickle. “Cigarettes are the currency here. You can buy anything with them – socks, cutlery, a new coat. See the skinny guy with the big nose over there? That’s Karpowski. He works in the warehouse where the guards dump the suitcases. He can get his hands on a toothbrush, an extra blanket, a new pair of boots – whatever you need.” Isidor slid the rest of the pickle into his mouth. “But if you just want bread, well, most of the guys in here would sell their left leg for a smoke. The Russians are mad for cigarettes. They’ll hand over their
dinner
for a cigarette butt.”
    “But the guards?” Alexander cut in.
    “The guards know. Where do you think they get their