Dita narrowed her eyes in irritation.
“With all due respect, Fredy, I’m fourteen years old. Do you honestly believe that after observing on a daily basis thousands of people going to the gas chambers at the edge of the Lager, what I read in a novel might shock me?”
Hirsch looked at her with surprise. And it wasn’t easy to surprise him. He explained to her that the book in question was called The Adventures of the Good Soldier ?vejk and was written by a blasphemous alcoholic called Jaroslav Ha?ek, that it contained scandalous opinions about politics and religion, and more than dubious moral situations. In the end, though, he handed her that book.
Dita caressed the books. They were broken and scratched, worn, with reddish-brown patches of mildew; some were mutilated. But without them, the wisdom of centuries of civilization might be lost—geography, literature, mathematics, history, language. They were precious.
She would protect them with her life.
3.
Dita eats her turnip soup very slowly—they say it fills you more that way—but sipping it barely takes her mind off her hunger. Between one spoonful and the next, the groups of teachers discuss the extraordinary behavior of Morgenstern, their scatterbrained colleague.
“He’s a very strange man. Sometimes he talks a lot, but at other times he hardly says a word to anyone.”
“It would be better if he didn’t speak at all. He just talks nonsense. He’s off his rocker.”
“It was painful to watch him bowing down in front of the Priest in such a servile manner.”
“You couldn’t exactly call him a Resistance hero.”
“I don’t know why Hirsch lets a man with a screw loose give classes to the children.”
Dita overhears them and feels sorry for the old man, who reminds her a bit of her grandfather. She sees him sitting on a stool at the back of the hut, eating by himself, even talking to himself while, with his little finger raised with a refinement that is so out of place in this hut, he ceremoniously lifts the spoon to his mouth as if he were sharing his meal with aristocrats.
They dedicate the afternoon to the usual children’s games and sporting activities, but Dita is desperate for the school day to finish and the final roll call to be over so she can race off to see her parents. In the family camp, news travels quickly from hut to hut, but like in a game of telephone, there are distortions in the retellings.
As soon as she can, Dita rushes off to reassure her mother, who will already have found out about the Block 31 inspection. As she runs down the Lagerstrasse, she comes across her friend Margit.
“Ditiňka, I hear you had an inspection in Thirty-One!”
“That disgusting Priest!”
“Did they find anything? Did they detain anyone?”
“Absolutely nothing; there’s nothing for them to find there.” Dita winked. “Mengele was there, too.”
“Dr. Mengele? He’s a madman. He experimented with injections of blue ink into the pupils of thirty-six children in an attempt to produce blue-eyed people. It was horrible, Ditiňka. Some died of infection, and others were left blind. You were lucky to escape his notice.”
The two girls stop talking. Margit is her best friend, and well aware of her work with the secret library, but Margit knows not to say anything to Dita’s mother, Liesl. She would try to stop her, say it was too dangerous. She’d threaten to tell Dita’s father, or start begging God to save her. It’s better not to tell her, or her father, anything. To change the topic, Dita tells Margit about Morgenstern.
“What a fuss he stirred up. You should have seen the Priest’s face as the professor kept dumping out the contents of his pocket each time he bent over.”
“I know who you mean now. A very old man with a shabby, patched jacket—he always bows when he passes a lady. He’s always bobbing his head! I think that man is a bit crazy.”
“And who isn’t, in this place?”
When Dita reaches her hut, she sees her parents outside, sitting up against one of the long walls, resting. It’s cold outside, but very crowded inside the hut. They look tired, especially her father.
It’s a long workday: The guards wake them before dawn. They stand outdoors through a lengthy roll call, exposed to the elements, then labor all day. Dita’s father works producing shoulder straps for guns, and his hands are often blackened and blistered from the toxic resins and glues they use. Her mother is a cleaner in a workshop where they make hats. They work many hours with very little food, but at least they are sheltered from the elements. There are many who aren’t so lucky: Some must collect dead bodies with carts, some clean the latrines or drain the trenches, others spend the day hauling soup barrels.
Her father gives Dita a wink, while her mother quickly gets to her feet.
“Are you all right, Edita?”
“Ye-e-e-ss.”
“You’re not just pretending?”
“Of course not! I’m here, aren’t I?”
Just then, Mr. Tomá?ek walks past.
“Hans, Liesl! How are you? I see your daughter still has the prettiest smile in Europe.”
Dita blushes, and the two girls leave the grown-ups.
“Isn’t Mr. Tomá?ek kind!”
“Do you know him, too, Margit?”
“Yes, he often visits my parents. Here, many people only look after themselves, but Mr. Tomá?ek looks after others. He asks them how they’re doing; he takes an interest in their problems.”
“And he listens to them…”
“He’s a good man.”
“Thank goodness there are still people who haven’t been corrupted in this hell.”
Margit remains silent. Although she is a year older, Dita’s direct way of talking makes her feel uncomfortable, but she knows Dita’s right. Auschwitz not only kills innocents; it kills innocence as well.
“It’s cold, and your parents are outdoors, Dita. Won’t they catch pneumonia?”
“My mother prefers not to be inside with her bunkmate, who has lots of horrible boils … though she’s no worse than my bunkmate!”
“But you’re lucky—you both sleep on top bunks. We’re spread among the lowest bunks,” said Margit.
“You must really feel the damp seeping up from the ground.”
“Oh, Ditiňka, Ditiňka. The worst part isn’t what comes up from the ground, but what might come down from above. Vomit, diarrhea … bucketloads, Ditiňka. I’ve seen it in other bunks.”
Dita pauses for a moment and turns toward her, looking serious.
“Margit…”
“What?”
“You could ask for an umbrella for your birthday.”
Margit shakes her head. “How did you two manage to get those places on the top bunks?” she shoots back.