The French Promise (3 page)

‘There,’ she said, impressed. ‘Now I can look at you without feeling uncomfortable.’

Heidetraut, the youngest, also found Rachel’s skeletal appearance daunting and didn’t want to sit next to her at the piano. Her mother saw to it that Rachel was given an extra slice of bread – without
sawdust – and some cheese daily before lessons, which she insisted Rachel eat in front of her. It had taken many days to acclimatise her belly to the cheese and real bread. Her scarce, monotonous diet of mostly hot water and potato skins meant her system was shocked by the arrival of richer food to digest. The commander’s wife, Hedwig, insisted a soft job be found at ‘Canada’ for Rachel when she
was not teaching her children. Canada was so-called because it was the ‘place of plenty’ at Auschwitz, where all the stores were kept and where the black market flourished. Anything from a pair of boots to a new shawl could be had for a price. The madwoman Ruth had learnt early how to use the most popular female currency to acquire items but Rachel preferred to go without.

But now, suddenly, she
had privilege. And it sickened her, particularly how easily she had embraced the warmth of the fire in the music room, the soft piano stool to sit on, the sip of fresh water in a real glass left for her … and, above all, the food. Then there was the scarf, of course, which Frau Hoss sought permission for her to wear all the time.

‘It makes it easier for Rachel to be found, my dear,’ she’d said
to her husband one day when he’d frowned at Rachel’s privileged appearance.

Rachel gained some weight, could now feel hair sprouting, had clean skin and scrubbed nails. She smelt better and her eyes were clearer, according to Albert, who stole conversations with her at Canada when she sorted possessions from the suitcases of the new arrivals off the trains.

The children were superior
in attitude but not deliberately unkind; Frau Hoss was remote with her but that was to be expected. Hedwig had a softer side and clearly loved her children. Rachel could tell that the deluded woman had little, if any, idea of the horror going on outside her walls. She’d once overheard Hedwig describing the villa, surrounded by gardens, high walls and green fields stretching beyond, as a ‘paradise’.

Even so, Rachel’s life had taken a slight turn for the better and she sometimes caught herself daydreaming that she might find Sarah a role in the household too.

But the arrival of a new, keen member of the Gestapo changed everything. He’d been sharing a welcome lunch with Commander Hoss and his wife at the villa while Rachel had been guiding the children through a complex duet. Hedwig interrupted
their practice without warning. Rachel was all smiles.

A short man in a smart dove-grey uniform entered between the German couple.

‘Darlings, this is Kriminaldirektor von Schleigel. He remarked on the pleasant music he could hear and has requested to watch you play.’

Rachel shrank back to the wall while the children stood and welcomed their visitor obediently.

‘Good afternoon, fine Klaus and pretty
Ingebrigitt,’ he’d replied, but his small eyes seared a gaze towards Rachel.
‘Good grief, Commander, do you allow the parasites into your private rooms?’

Hoss was lighting a cigarette and paused before he replied casually, ‘She is the children’s music teacher. We’re keeping their lives as normal as possible. We take what we can in the wilderness of Poland.’

‘What is your name?’ von Schleigel
addressed Rachel directly.

Rachel glanced at Frau Hoss. ‘Go ahead,’ Hedwig permitted.

‘Rachel, Herr von Schleigel,’ she answered, looking down.

‘All right, darlings, now play that piece you have been practising for us,’ Hedwig said, her tone bright. She directed their guest towards a comfy armchair.

Von Schleigel accepted a cigarette and the lighter from his host, and as he lit up Rachel could
feel his hatred as his gaze coolly assessed her. She didn’t once raise her eyes from the keyboard, instead tapping gently against the burnished walnut of the piano to count in her charges.

The children managed to get through the piece with confidence. At its conclusion they both stood and bowed to the clapping trio in the audience.

‘Charming, charming indeed,’ von Schleigel said, stubbing out
his cigarette so he could clap properly. ‘How accomplished you both are.’

‘Rachel has made a difference,’ Ingebrigitt ventured and Rachel held her breath, wishing the child had not mentioned her again.

‘Is that so?’ the Gestapo man asked. ‘Tell me, what is your full name?’

Rachel had kept her eyes downcast and it was only when
the room fell silent that she realised the question had been directed
at her. She looked up, the breath catching in her throat now. Hedwig nodded permission. Swallowing her fear she answered him, shocked that he’d be bothered. ‘Rachel Bonet, Herr von Schleigel.’ She hadn’t uttered her family name in a year.

He looked immediately surprised. ‘Bonet, you say?’ Von Schleigel looked around at the adults.

Frau Hoss shrugged.

‘Is something wrong?’ her husband
asked.

‘No, no,’ von Schleigel tittered. ‘It’s just amusing that the last case I worked on involved hunting down a troublesome Jew Resister called Bonet.’

Rachel fixed her gaze on her wooden clogs and gripped her fingers.

‘How curious,’ she heard Hedwig remark, but in a tone lacking all interest. ‘Shall we take tea in the garden, Rudolf?’ she said over her shoulder as she swung around to the children.
‘Thank you, darlings. You were splendid.’ Rachel heard the swish of Hedwig’s dress as she stood. ‘Come, Horst. Let’s not waste the welcome spring sun,’ she said. ‘And I should like to show you our garden. It is very pretty at this time of year. We should take a photo as well, don’t you think, my dear?’ she said to her husband.

‘As you wish,’ he’d remarked, entirely disinterested.

Rachel didn’t
need to look at von Schleigel to know he still watched her.

‘Where are you from?’ he said, in French now.

‘The south, sir,’ she murmured.

‘Where in the south, girl?’ he whipped.

‘Provence. The Luberon.’

He laughed and she didn’t believe she’d ever heard a more cruel sound.

‘The Bonets of Saignon?’

She couldn’t help herself. Her eyes flashed up to see his vicious, pig-eyed stare that
was full of loathing and yet laced with hunger. Her faltering look was her admission.

‘Tell me, your brother is Luc Bonet, the lavender farmer?’

Her throat was so dry that she couldn’t speak even if she wanted to. How could this stranger know them? How could he be naming her family? She began to shake.

‘Your trembling is enough, Jew. Commander, perhaps this afternoon we could visit the records
office,’ he said, seemingly no longer intrigued by her.

‘Of course,’ she’d heard Hoss reply.

It was three days later and Rachel had not been called back to the house. She knew everything had suddenly changed because of von Schleigel. She’d not spotted him since, though. He’d been like a ghost; he’d breezed into her life, terrified her, and then disappeared.

Rachel now strained to catch a glimpse
of Sarah coming home from work. The workers had staggered past and almost all of them were within the compound but she could not pick out her sister. The last of the stragglers lurched in and the gates were closed. A snarling yell went up. There was nothing unusual about the sound of orders in German but she recognised it as the most fearful of all.

Selection.

It happened randomly, most often
at morning roll call. Those too weak to be considered useful any longer were packed off in trucks. The hierarchy liked to call sudden
selection raids, as a warning against complacency. Did the Germans really believe that any one of them took their life as a given? Rachel had long ago realised that the only defiance possible in this hell was to keep living. By living, the Jews, the gypsies, the
political prisoners, the homosexuals or anyone else who challenged Hitler’s warped sense of perfection defied their persecutors simply by breathing. Every roll call, every new trainload, every person who recovered from their previous night’s weaknesses, all who ignored their hunger or fought back their sense of helplessness, effectively laughed in the face of the Nazi regime.

That’s
why they had to keep breathing, had to continue rising each day to face the hell that was Auschwitz-Birkenau.

A flash of grey uniform caught Rachel’s attention. Her grip tightened around her violin. He was back. It was him. Kriminaldirektor von Schleigel was moving towards them with his odd small-strided walk and she knew in her heart she would not see out this day.

Her first and surprising thought
was that she’d wished now she’d eaten the apricot, or taken food from the Hoss household, stolen from Canada, or asked Albert for more privileges. But even as she thought it, she knew it lowered herself to where these criminals wanted them.

Rachel watched von Schleigel move towards her. Beneath his heartless gaze workers were picked out as being too scrawny, too weak, too useless for tomorrow’s
shift. They were loaded onto a waiting truck. Each person selected knew the horrible silence was their death knell and still they walked meekly to await help into the back of the lorry from those who were already aboard.

Von Schleigel had said nothing but pointed at each victim.
After thirty were selected, the officer in charge told the remaining women to make their way with their guards to their
camp, and for the men to go to their accommodations, which were little more than sheds and former stables. Rachel was safe for another day.

But a finger was raised, a calm voice interrupted the murmurs, and she met his eyes, not at all surprised.

‘Rachel Bonet,’ von Schleigel called out, and then turned to the officer. ‘Add this woman to the list,’ he said, pointing at her.

She had no
choice. There were gasps amongst the orchestra. Rachel barely looked at the musicians or their sad glances of farewell. She nodded, resigned, and handed her instrument to her neighbour.

‘Tell the next person it has been loved,’ was all she said, and then walked with her head held high – now sporting a dark, defiant thatch – to the waiting vehicle.

Von Schleigel approached her and spoke softly
in French. ‘
Bonsoir
, Rachel. I thought you’d rather like to join your sister. Sarah is waiting for you.’

She felt the spittle gathering in her mouth. But she resisted the short triumph it might deliver, preferring instead to see Sarah one more time rather than take a bullet here. Instead, she looked deep into his small, washed-out blue eyes, and uttered for his hearing only: ‘Always
look over your shoulder. One day Luc Bonet will find you and slit your throat before he guts you like the wild pigs he killed in the forests.’ It was a lie but she’d never felt more satisfaction in her life than she did at that moment to see the amusement in von Schleigel’s eyes falter at the threat.

‘Take them away,’ he spat, his monocle twisting awkwardly in his eye socket as he blinked, embarrassed.

The journey took just minutes. She never did find Sarah at its end and regretted that von Schleigel enjoyed the final cold laugh at her expense, uniting her through death with a sister already murdered. Von Schleigel had probably had Sarah taken away earlier that day. It’s why he’d wanted to be shown the records – he’d hunted down the last of the Bonets.

Not being able to hug or to hold
the hand of her sister and face this final dark hurdle together was more painful to Rachel than the knowledge that she was about to die. Death was her release and not uttering a farewell of love to gentle Sarah was indeed cruel, so she cast a prayer to her brother, wherever he was and if he still lived, that he find Horst von Schleigel and, in the name of his murdered sisters, kill him.

Rachel
knew she had but moments now as she undressed with all the other women, ignoring the shouted orders, laying out her prison garb neatly with her red scarf on top. She had no jewellery and she’d given away her violin. She had nothing more to give but her life and von Schleigel was demanding just that price. She wondered absently about his connection to Luc, remembered how Luc’s name had rattled the
Gestapo man. Good. So she’d put the fear into at least one German before she joined her parents, grandmother and sisters.

‘I’m Agnes. What’s your name?’ asked a nervous young woman, breaking into her thoughts. She was barely out of her teens.

She hoped her attempt at a smile gave comfort for she needed none of it for herself. Rachel wanted to die angry, not soothed or cowed. ‘I’m Rachel. When
did you arrive?’ Agnes looked healthier than most, although she was still very thin.

‘Yesterday. My parents were separated from each other and from me. I haven’t yet seen them again. I have chronic
asthma … without my mother I just don’t know how—’ Her voice warbled, gathering in high intensity.

‘Don’t worry,’ Rachel cut across her words, certain that Agnes would not have to care about
her ailment soon enough.

‘Where are we going?’ Agnes asked of a passing guard.

The
kapo
smiled and Rachel saw no mirth. ‘You’re going for a shower,’ he said, glancing up at the ironic sign on a pillar next to them, one of so many mocking words of encouragement around the camp. In German it stated, ‘Clean is good.’

Rachel put her arm around Agnes. One more kindness was still within her.
She would be brave enough for both of them.

‘
Raus!
’ came the guttural voice, urging them out of the changing rooms, herding the women towards a new door, and another sign:
Desinfizierte Wasche.

‘It’s the disinfecting room, Agnes,’ she translated. ‘They like to delouse us regularly,’ she lied.

Agnes stepped into the bare, cold, grey concrete room alongside Rachel and the many dozens of
other women in front and behind them, their skins touching, her body shaking with chill and fear.

Rachel hugged her closer. ‘It will be over soon,’ she whispered. ‘And then we will be free.’