“How do I look?” Ewa asked, self-consciously touching her blonde ponytail. She wasn’t actually apprehensive about the interview, she’d done that before; but if she didn’t show at least some last-minute panic, people might see how easy-peasy her job was.
“You look perfect,” Czesław answered, barely looking at her. He was checking his watch, then gazed out of the window where the usual morning traffic was jamming up the Wojska Polskiego Avenue. “You’ve still got half an hour to rehearse your answers anyway.”
“Has anyone prepared the photos they wanted for footage?”
“Yes, Ewa. Relax.” Czesław double-clicked on a folder, and a dozen of selfies appeared on the 24”-screen. They all showed the famous red-brick building with the tower in the middle, the double railway lines converging toward the entrance, with slightly inebriated young men standing in front it, grinning from ear to ear and giving a wobbly thumbs-up.
“Just tell me again—why do they want to talk to me about… that?”
Czesław shrugged. “Some sort of anniversary, I think. Who cares? It’ll be good publicity and boost our business. Things are always way too slow in January.”
When the Canadian TV-team arrived at last, Ewa had finished rehearsing her lines. She sat in the huge meeting room, the silver-and red agency-logo W Events clearly visible on the wall. It had cost over 8,000 złoty after all, so they’d better film it, too.
The interviewer was a chubby and jovial brunette who did her best to make things easy for Ewa. The dreaded question about Oświęcim was finally asked ten minutes into the interview. “So you organize boy bachelor parties in the camps—have I got that right?” the brunette wanted to know.
“Oh, yes, of course.”
Ewa smiled patronizingly. “That’s not hard to grasp. There’s a market, you know. We had to satisfy the increasing demand. Lately, it has become quite a fashionable place to party.”
“Wait—it’s fashionable to party? In the death-camps of Auschwitz?”
“Oh yeah. Why wouldn’t it be? Let me show you the photos. You’ll see for yourself.”