The Tattooist of Auschwitz
Lale Sokolov was one among the many who went
voluntarily to the concentration camps in Poland under an order by the Slovak
government. These young men bade farewell to their loved ones believing that
they would only have to work, but also they were afraid of the
consequences their families would face if they resisted. To their utter
disbelief, hundreds of them were crowded onto filthy wagons and carted off to
Auschwitz. With their baggage stolen, clothes stripped, valuables confiscated,
tonsured and branded with a number, they realised that if there was a hell on
earth, they were in it.
What set Lale apart from the others was his mastery
of several languages and his easy charm. Being a polyglot meant that he could
act as a medium between the millions of people of different communities—Jews of
many nationalities, Russians, Romanis—and the German officials. This valuable
skill enabled him to assume the job of the Tätowierer or the
tattooist, the one who brands the incoming prisoners with a serial number on
their arms. On a day like any other, while marking the truckloads of people
dropped off at Auschwitz-Birkenau, he notices a particular young woman named
Gita waiting to be branded. Entranced by her lively eyes, he seeks her out with
the help of his amused handler and a budding relationship develops only with
stolen moments and furtively exchanged chocolate. Clutching to his dream of
having a family with Gita once they were set free, he wills himself to stay
alive and help others stay alive.
It is beyond our ability to fully realise the extent
of the demonic cruelty inflicted upon Holocaust victims. I couldn't breathe
when I read the part where Lale looked up from his desk in an open-air
enclosure and realised with horror mingled with rage and grief that the ash
drifting gently down on his face was the burnt remains of the Romanis herded
out in a rush from his block at night. He had seen his mother in Nadya, a
middle-aged Romani; his father in the aloof elders; his siblings and nephews in
the children that ran up to him with outstretched arms and smiling faces. Now
they were only ash that settled on his face and mixed with his tears.
Initially destined for the silver screen, Lale Sokolov's story was first written as a screenplay, then converted into Morris's debut novel. In doing so, the screenplay's features were mostly retained; the dialogue-heavy lines resemble a script than an actual book. The sentences abruptly ended just as they had started; a telegram would have been easier to read than Morris’s curt lines. It is frustrating that this story was written so poorly when it could have been phenomenal. Post-publication, the book drew flak from experts who considered it historically inaccurate. Through some extra reading, I found some of the discrepancies pointed out by critics which I am not going to explain extensively here for fear of overly lengthening the review. This failed rendition of a Holocaust story has utterly let me down, leaving me with a dubious knowledge of the trials of Lale and Gita.
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