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Jean-Jacques Felstein - The Violinist of Auschwitz

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Arrested in 1943 and deported to Auschwitz, Elsa survived because she had the opportunity to join the womens orchestra. But Elsa kept her story a secret, even from her own family. Indeed, her son would only discover what had happened to his mother many years later, after gradually unearthing her unbelievable story following her premature death, without ever having revealed her secret to anyone.
Jean-Jacques Felstein was determined to reconstruct Elsas life in Birkenau, and would go in search of other orchestra survivors in Germany, Belgium, Poland, Israel, and the United States. The recollections of Hlne, first violin, Violette, third violin, Anita, a cellist, and other musicians, allowed him to rediscover his 20-year-old mother, lost in the heart of hell.
The story unfolds in two intersecting stages: one, contemporary, is that of the investigation, the other is that of Auschwitz and its unimaginable daily life, as told by the musicians. They describe the recitals on which their very survival depended, the incessant rehearsals, the departure in the mornings for the forced labourers to the rhythm of the instruments, the Sunday concerts, and how Mengele pointed out the pieces in the repertoire he wished to listen to in between selections.
In this remarkable book, Jean-Jacques Felstein follows in his mothers footsteps and by telling her story, attempts to free her, and himself, from the pain that had been hidden in their family for so long.

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The Violinist of Auschwitz
The Violinist of Auschwitz
Jean-Jacques Felstein
Originally published by ditions IMAGO in 2010 as Dans lOrchestre dAuschwitz - photo 1
Originally published by ditions IMAGO in 2010 as
Dans lOrchestre dAuschwitz
First published in Great Britain in 2021 by
Pen & Sword History
An imprint of
Pen & Sword Books Ltd
Yorkshire - Philadelphia
Copyright ditions IMAGO, 2010
Copyright Jean-Jaques Felstein, 2021
Translation Copyright Heather Williams, 2021
ISBN 978 1 39900 281 3
eISBN 978 1 39900 282 0
The right of Jean-Jacques Felstein to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the Publisher in writing.
Pen & Sword Books Limited incorporates the imprints of Atlas, Archaeology, Aviation, Discovery, Family History, Fiction, History, Maritime, Military, Military Classics, Politics, Select, Transport, True Crime, Air World, Frontline Publishing, Leo Cooper, Remember When, Seaforth Publishing, The Praetorian Press, Wharncliffe Local History, Wharncliffe Transport, Wharncliffe True Crime and White Owl.
For a complete list of Pen & Sword titles please contact
PEN & SWORD BOOKS LIMITED
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Website: www.pen-and-sword.co.uk
Or
PEN AND SWORD BOOKS
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Contents
Jean-Jacques Felstein with his mother Prologue Cologne summer 1958 The - photo 2
Jean-Jacques Felstein, with his mother.
Prologue
Cologne, summer 1958
The sky is grey, streaked with mustard yellow. Its the colour of my nightmares. It is a nightmare. There are thousands of us huddled, naked and crowded against each other on an esplanade with no limits. Although out in the open air, a continuous wail among thousands of cries seems to be reflected by the polished walls of a huge bathroom. Youre right behind me, within earshot: the only reassuring presence in my proximity. You dont speak to me; you look all around you, crazily. Maybe you dont even know that Im here? A thrust exerted from who knows where pushes us en masse towards a metal portico, overlooking a staircase. Still huddled together, we go up, step by step, jostling with each other and shouting even more. As we ascend, my anxiety increases. The cries reach a deafening level. We advance down a corridor that leads to the void. Those who were before me have disappeared; you must have disappeared too. I have to launch myself into this emptiness and I see that the whole metallic structure weve climbed is nothing more than a gigantic diving board. Below is a swimming pool, tiled in white earthenware, with blue lines marking the swimmers lanes. The colours are crisp, the lines are sharp. Theres no water in the basin. We have to throw ourselves into it; we throw ourselves into it to kill ourselves
I wake up out of breath. Im alone, youre at work.
As a child, this dream was the first representation of mass destruction, our destruction by Nazism. This vision of disaster, as Id built it, having no other details than those Id gleaned from you, in my search for contact with you. Youd chosen not to tell me anything about what youd suffered a few years before I was born. I had a lot of imagination at the time, but from what I felt through you, I already knew that this horror wasnt made up of horned demons, flying dragons or wolves frothing at the mouth: all the usual swarms that populate childish imaginations. Deep down, I knew that this disaster mustve been a foolish, technological, anonymous and hygienic nightmare, just like the massacre and those who planned it.
Loyal to you down to the last fibre of my being, I realized that your inability to pay me any attention was creating a chasm between us over time. The interior destruction that youd suffered was so complete that you didnt even have the words to think it, and a fortiori to tell me.
Youd witnessed it, you still bore the scars: a five-digit number, underlined by a downward-pointing triangle, tattooed on the outside of your left arm, 10 centimetres from the elbow joint. The blue-black number was quite small, but each stroke that made it was a cut containing unspeakable offences.
Also striking were the bad dreams that woke you up screaming, hallucinating, and that left my father powerless to calm you down. I knew we shouldnt talk about it. I had to wait a long time to understand that what allowed you to magically keep these nightmares away was sometimes the evening kiss that I gave you, whatever it cost me, whatever had happened between us during the day. Another factor that cemented our bond were the migraines that left you helpless and made you push anyone who tried to approach you as far away as possible. I couldnt get over this, so I suffered the same ailments: it was the only thing I could take from you without risking becoming too weak.
Id known for a long time that you couldnt always be present and constantly available to me. I knew it wouldve been inappropriate to ask you for more than you gave me. From your behaviour and through what was tacitly implied around us, I clearly understood that I had no right to be frustrated. In light of what youd suffered, my needs were paltry.
* * *
At that time we lived in a small detached house, the whole family together. The eyes of other family members what Ive always called your family wanted to protect you and had the effect of separating us even more. Why? What right did they have to come between us, the three of us first, then the two of us later, after your divorce? Why did they have an opinion on us, and why did you allow them to have one? My expectations as a small child, no doubt a bit precocious, were too demanding, my pain too sharp for you to be able to do anything other than alternate between passivity and explosions of anger. Others, therefore, took care of me when you were too busy
Not enough warmth and comfort when I needed it, not enough words to justify or explain. My childhood questions were obstinately refused, making your past and my origins taboo.
As far back as I can remember, I have the feeling of having been constantly on the alert, awaiting a vague catastrophe which, in the most benign of cases, would leave us separated from each other, and, in the worst case scenario, both of us dead. It was an event that couldnt be spoken of, and the weight of which you carried with you even before I came along.
I called for you and you didnt answer, or at least not enough. This frustration, so unsuitable and so well-hidden from those around us werent you a saint? has undoubtedly marked me for my whole existence.
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