senseless gesture if he wanted to survive.
He felt as if he had just fallen asleep when the siren sounded, announcing that, despite everything, a new day was commencing. Roll call was shorter that morning, and some of the prisoners were counting their dead. The sun began shamelessly to unravel the fog, banishing it from the sky, and the names of the murdered were swept away by the wind, removed to nothingness.
Not everyone had forgotten them. The implacable camp organization that imprisoned and decimated them still functioned; the officials had taken careful count of the dead, and the report was filed. The prisoners confirmed that no extra slices of bread were available, and, as always, the coffee was thin as a fleeting thought. New lists were quickly drawn up, even as the camp awaited other ill-fated prisoners to fill the cavities left in bunks, in workshops, at roll call. Not all of those who were expected would finally arrive; news had reached the lager that many had chosen the path of rebellion or death and were fighting in the Warsaw ghetto.
With the same empty feeling in his stomach as every morning, but accompanied now by a deep bitterness, Freund returned to the repair shop, grumbling to himself, anticipating more work than ever. Daniel too was more despondent than usual as he entered his shop. He had lost his best co-worker, a carpenter who had been coughing for days. He was unable to throw off the deep oppression that gripped his chest. No relief came from glancing at his tools, at his violin that was now beginning to take shape. He felt his arms less strong, his hands more slow. Somehow I have to purge yesterday’s memories, he thought. I can’t allow myself the time to remember those who are no longer with us—unless I wish to join their company beneath the birch trees.
Little by little, he went through the motions of his usual tasks. Breathing in the fragrance of the wood, he regained a certain serenity, and the asphyxiating knot of remembrance was loosened. The previous day’s physical exertion, the thirty exercises, hadn’t been overly strenuous, but it had taken its toll on his weak body. His knees still hurt. The recent unexpected cold, the wind blowing from Russia, the long roll calls, had left his hands lacerated. But the ointment must be doing the trick, he thought; his hands were definitely better today, and that was essential for his work.
At present he lived with what he considered a reasonable expectation: that they would allow him to survive at least until the instrument was finished. He had learned that the Commander collected violins, so surely they wouldn’t send him to the quarry now that his specially crafted violin was partially completed. This was something exceptional for the camp, and Daniel found it flattering; it gave him a sense of pride. But he had to maintain his usual pace; if the idea ever crossed the Commander’s mind that he was dragging his feet, he would be whipped for working slowly—or for sabotage. Even Freund, whose work seemed indispensable to the camp, had been locked up for a week when he broke one of his tools!
Daniel attempted to maintain the same rhythm he had during the happy years in his own shop in Krakow. It was a miracle that he had been able to finish the belly and the beautiful neck of the violin. He was now carefully, very precisely, setting the bass bar. He wanted to finish that part this morning, so that he could relax on Sunday afternoon and wash some of his clothes. It was the only restful moment he had during the week. He checked the graining on the strip of spruce and set the bass bar so that the grain coincided exactly with that of the belly. He checked the position, assuring himself that it was slightly slanted and running in the same direction the strings would. He held the pieces up to look at them against the light, to be certain that the bass bar fit exactly into the contours of the arching. He knew now how he needed to glue it, where to
He felt as if he had just fallen asleep when the siren sounded, announcing that, despite everything, a new day was commencing. Roll call was shorter that morning, and some of the prisoners were counting their dead. The sun began shamelessly to unravel the fog, banishing it from the sky, and the names of the murdered were swept away by the wind, removed to nothingness.
Not everyone had forgotten them. The implacable camp organization that imprisoned and decimated them still functioned; the officials had taken careful count of the dead, and the report was filed. The prisoners confirmed that no extra slices of bread were available, and, as always, the coffee was thin as a fleeting thought. New lists were quickly drawn up, even as the camp awaited other ill-fated prisoners to fill the cavities left in bunks, in workshops, at roll call. Not all of those who were expected would finally arrive; news had reached the lager that many had chosen the path of rebellion or death and were fighting in the Warsaw ghetto.
With the same empty feeling in his stomach as every morning, but accompanied now by a deep bitterness, Freund returned to the repair shop, grumbling to himself, anticipating more work than ever. Daniel too was more despondent than usual as he entered his shop. He had lost his best co-worker, a carpenter who had been coughing for days. He was unable to throw off the deep oppression that gripped his chest. No relief came from glancing at his tools, at his violin that was now beginning to take shape. He felt his arms less strong, his hands more slow. Somehow I have to purge yesterday’s memories, he thought. I can’t allow myself the time to remember those who are no longer with us—unless I wish to join their company beneath the birch trees.
Little by little, he went through the motions of his usual tasks. Breathing in the fragrance of the wood, he regained a certain serenity, and the asphyxiating knot of remembrance was loosened. The previous day’s physical exertion, the thirty exercises, hadn’t been overly strenuous, but it had taken its toll on his weak body. His knees still hurt. The recent unexpected cold, the wind blowing from Russia, the long roll calls, had left his hands lacerated. But the ointment must be doing the trick, he thought; his hands were definitely better today, and that was essential for his work.
At present he lived with what he considered a reasonable expectation: that they would allow him to survive at least until the instrument was finished. He had learned that the Commander collected violins, so surely they wouldn’t send him to the quarry now that his specially crafted violin was partially completed. This was something exceptional for the camp, and Daniel found it flattering; it gave him a sense of pride. But he had to maintain his usual pace; if the idea ever crossed the Commander’s mind that he was dragging his feet, he would be whipped for working slowly—or for sabotage. Even Freund, whose work seemed indispensable to the camp, had been locked up for a week when he broke one of his tools!
Daniel attempted to maintain the same rhythm he had during the happy years in his own shop in Krakow. It was a miracle that he had been able to finish the belly and the beautiful neck of the violin. He was now carefully, very precisely, setting the bass bar. He wanted to finish that part this morning, so that he could relax on Sunday afternoon and wash some of his clothes. It was the only restful moment he had during the week. He checked the graining on the strip of spruce and set the bass bar so that the grain coincided exactly with that of the belly. He checked the position, assuring himself that it was slightly slanted and running in the same direction the strings would. He held the pieces up to look at them against the light, to be certain that the bass bar fit exactly into the contours of the arching. He knew now how he needed to glue it, where to
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