dress with a green triangle from a hook on the wall and slipped it over her head.
The guard pressed her gun into my back. There were five girls wearing yellow stars standing in the middle of the room. I hurried to join them.
None of them turned to look at me. They stood, silent and still, staring down at their feet or blinking nervously at the door. I turned to the girl next to me. I knew that face, those eyes . . . The girl was bald, and skinnier than I remembered, but she had the same pale, freckled face as the shy third-year pianist at the Budapest Conservatorium who stuttered when she spoke but made the keys dance when she touched them. Her name was Rivka Hermann. Rivka glanced up, but she didn’t look at me. Lagerführerin Holzman was striding toward us, flanked by two guards.
“Permit me to introduce myself,” the
Lagerführerin
began, but she needn’t have. We all knew the commander. She was head of the women’s camp, the most powerful woman in Auschwitz-Birkenau. Women trembled when they talked of her and dipped their heads when she passed. She sat down on a bench and crossed her silk-stockinged legs. I stood in front of her in my gray sack dress, my fingernails caked with dirt.
“I have good news for one of you,” she began, but I didn’t look up. I’d seen her standing at the camp gate waiting for someone to turn and look at her. I’d seen too many girls make the mistake and be pulled out of line, never to be seen again. “The commandant of the camp, Captain Jager, is looking for a pianist. You have been recommended for the position. You will be auditioning today.” Today? I looked down at my hands. My fingernails were ragged, and my fingers were stiff. I hadn’t practiced for months. I hadn’t done my exercises or scales or drills.
The
Lagerführerin
looked us up and down. “You’ll shower, of course. The commandant can’t abide filth, so be sure to scrub your faces and clean your nails.” She clicked her fingers, and the guards rushed to distribute bags. “Leave your clothes in the bags. You’ll get a new dress after you shower.” Her voice was clipped. “You won’t get to keep it.” A guard stepped forward holding a sealed cardboard box. The
Lagerführerin
pulled a switchblade from her belt, sliced the box open, then beckoned us forward to pull out a soap and shampoo. As we filed past, she assigned each of us a number. I was the last to arrive, so I’d be the last to audition.
We undressed. I shoved my dress and my cup into the bag, hoping it would still be there when I returned from the audition. Rivka stood next to me, naked and shivering. The girl beside her stood with her legs crossed and her arms folded across her chest, her face beet-red. I’d stopped blushing long ago. The washroom guards didn’t see us — we were invisible to them. Invisible to God, too, it seemed. We all looked alike, anyway: flat-chested and bone-thin. Six birdlike creatures with spindly legs and sticking-out hips. The
Lagerführerin
gave the order, and we stepped into the showers. I adjusted the temperature, stuck my head under the showerhead, and let the hot water pound my face, slide down my body, swirl around my ankles, and escape down the drain.
“Grab a dress,” an angry voice said from across the room. I stepped from the shower and saw Oberaufseherin Trommler standing in the
Lagerführerin
’s place. She was second in command at the camp and was rumored to be the meaner of the two women. People whispered that she kept half-starved dogs that she liked to unleash on the inmates. She had a whip in her hand and a pistol on her belt. She pointed to a rack of dresses that had been rolled into the room. “Now that the
Lagerführerin
’s gone, I’m in charge,” she said, glancing down at her gun. “There’s underwear, slips, brassieres, and stockings on the bench.
Schnell!
”
We dressed hurriedly under her venomous gaze. I pulled on a pair of underpants, glad that my period still hadn’t
The guard pressed her gun into my back. There were five girls wearing yellow stars standing in the middle of the room. I hurried to join them.
None of them turned to look at me. They stood, silent and still, staring down at their feet or blinking nervously at the door. I turned to the girl next to me. I knew that face, those eyes . . . The girl was bald, and skinnier than I remembered, but she had the same pale, freckled face as the shy third-year pianist at the Budapest Conservatorium who stuttered when she spoke but made the keys dance when she touched them. Her name was Rivka Hermann. Rivka glanced up, but she didn’t look at me. Lagerführerin Holzman was striding toward us, flanked by two guards.
“Permit me to introduce myself,” the
Lagerführerin
began, but she needn’t have. We all knew the commander. She was head of the women’s camp, the most powerful woman in Auschwitz-Birkenau. Women trembled when they talked of her and dipped their heads when she passed. She sat down on a bench and crossed her silk-stockinged legs. I stood in front of her in my gray sack dress, my fingernails caked with dirt.
“I have good news for one of you,” she began, but I didn’t look up. I’d seen her standing at the camp gate waiting for someone to turn and look at her. I’d seen too many girls make the mistake and be pulled out of line, never to be seen again. “The commandant of the camp, Captain Jager, is looking for a pianist. You have been recommended for the position. You will be auditioning today.” Today? I looked down at my hands. My fingernails were ragged, and my fingers were stiff. I hadn’t practiced for months. I hadn’t done my exercises or scales or drills.
The
Lagerführerin
looked us up and down. “You’ll shower, of course. The commandant can’t abide filth, so be sure to scrub your faces and clean your nails.” She clicked her fingers, and the guards rushed to distribute bags. “Leave your clothes in the bags. You’ll get a new dress after you shower.” Her voice was clipped. “You won’t get to keep it.” A guard stepped forward holding a sealed cardboard box. The
Lagerführerin
pulled a switchblade from her belt, sliced the box open, then beckoned us forward to pull out a soap and shampoo. As we filed past, she assigned each of us a number. I was the last to arrive, so I’d be the last to audition.
We undressed. I shoved my dress and my cup into the bag, hoping it would still be there when I returned from the audition. Rivka stood next to me, naked and shivering. The girl beside her stood with her legs crossed and her arms folded across her chest, her face beet-red. I’d stopped blushing long ago. The washroom guards didn’t see us — we were invisible to them. Invisible to God, too, it seemed. We all looked alike, anyway: flat-chested and bone-thin. Six birdlike creatures with spindly legs and sticking-out hips. The
Lagerführerin
gave the order, and we stepped into the showers. I adjusted the temperature, stuck my head under the showerhead, and let the hot water pound my face, slide down my body, swirl around my ankles, and escape down the drain.
“Grab a dress,” an angry voice said from across the room. I stepped from the shower and saw Oberaufseherin Trommler standing in the
Lagerführerin
’s place. She was second in command at the camp and was rumored to be the meaner of the two women. People whispered that she kept half-starved dogs that she liked to unleash on the inmates. She had a whip in her hand and a pistol on her belt. She pointed to a rack of dresses that had been rolled into the room. “Now that the
Lagerführerin
’s gone, I’m in charge,” she said, glancing down at her gun. “There’s underwear, slips, brassieres, and stockings on the bench.
Schnell!
”
We dressed hurriedly under her venomous gaze. I pulled on a pair of underpants, glad that my period still hadn’t
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