While the Music Played

by Nathaniel Lande

  “Max Mueller, yes? I’m Commandant Siegfried Freidle.” He spoke Czech easily, and clicked his heels together before asking me into his office. He was so tall that it hurt my neck to look up at him, but the man’s smile was warm and reassuring. “And you brought books for the library. Much appreciated, Max. I’ll have them delivered right away.”

  “But …”

  An SS guard appeared, and slashed the top open for inspection. Inside were layers of Mein Kampf, Hitler’s infamous manifesto, his blueprint for a new Germany.

  I had never read it, and perhaps I should have, instead of having David fill in the blank spaces.

  At first I was amazed and then I realized that the books had done the trick. I was relieved. The simple deception worked.

  “You’re a thoughtful compatriot, Max.”

  Freidle had been given the responsibility of organizing Terezín from the beginning. His shoes were polished to a shine, but his office was in total chaos. Teetering towers of papers threatened to consume the small clearing on his desk. Sitting down in a dusty, standard-issue chair, he pointed me to an armchair in the corner that had seen better days. Moving a pile of letters and a box of stamps before taking a seat, the major said, “So, Max, your father says you like music. Do you know this one?”

  In this bizarre setting, the commandant closed his eyes and sang in broken English,

  “You’re the top!

  You’re a Waldorf salad.

  You’re the top!

  You’re a Berlin ballad.”

  I was surprised by his love for popular songs and nodded my head. And amazed that American lyrics had found their way to Terezín. Were they out of Poppy’s repertoire?

  “There’s another I’m particularly fond of. One of my favorites.” He cleared his throat and sang,

  “We’ll take Manhattan,

  The Bronx, and Staten Island too,

  It’s lovely strolling through …”

  He was on key, and rather sweet. But I wondered if he was singing a lyric or predicting the future.

  “I have a degree in engineering but my great passions are American music and movies. Yes, like Alexander’s Ragtime Band, and of course the tap dancing of 42nd Street.”

  I loved that music too. I had made my first new friend at Terezín. Things would really work out here after all.

  “You’d never believe it by the many files around my office, but I manage to get things done. Within months of the first construction detail arriving, I made sure facilities were in place for carpentry, farming, a bakery, and a kitchen.”

  “That’s impressive, Commandant.”

  “Yes, well, I understand you’ll only be here for a little while, Max, but please come to me for any needs. Any needs. You’ll be confined to areas inside camp: the post office and special barracks. Each area is named after a city back home. Hamburg is where you will find Hans Krása in his studio. Hanover is where your friend David Grunewald lives.”

  Commandant Freidle explained the details for my stay from an itemized list. “I’ve arranged for you to help out at the post office; you will have school in the mornings. You’ll be staying with our postmaster, Fritz Branka, and his wife, Ava. They live next door in a duplex. They’re Czech and have been here for a long time. Lucky for me Ava’s a superb cook. A superb cook. We take most of our meals together.”

  “Do we have fresh milk here?”

  “We get milk from the farm a few times a week. It’s left in the green box just outside the Brankas’ door. I’ll ask Ava to leave a note for the milkman to order an extra bottle.”

  The secret dispatch box!

  “Mrs. Branka taught school before the residents relocated, so you’ll have classes with her each morning.” Humming another tune, he glanced up at me. “You’ll enjoy your time here. The Brankas will be pleased—Ava is a lovely lady. I welcome you, Mr. Max Mueller.”

  “Not to be disrespectful,” I asked with a bit of hesitancy, “but I was hoping I could live with Hans Krása. I often stay with him in Prague when my father travels.”

  “My apologies, Max, it is not allowed, not allowed,” Commandant Freidle replied. “You should live with the Brankas. I know you’ll find it a comfortable arrangement and I’m following General Heydrich’s special instructions. Do you know the general well?”

  “We attend opera together and he’s a friend of Poppy’s, my father.” I hoped I was speaking with the appropriate modesty. I could tell how impressed Freidle was by the way he said Heydrich’s name.

  “Yes, Viktor Mueller is famous. I’ve watched your father conduct many times.”

  “I’m sure you would like to meet him when he visits.”

  “I met him once before but yes, I’d like very much to meet him again. I know you are here under, well, unusual circumstances, unusual circumstances, considering you’re not a Jew.”

  The Jewish issue again. I didn’t comment and I was curious to know whether the commandant repeated words on purpose, for emphasis, or if it was a kind of verbal pause so he could catch up with another thought. Urgent questions burned in my mind. Questions I needed to answer, to record in my notebooks and report back to Sam Raggle.

  “I want to see my friends as soon as I can. They’re important to me.” I hoped I was sounding reasonable and patient.

  “When you’ve settled in, you can see your friends. It’s a good plan, yes? It is my duty to follow regulations and to assure General Heydrich of your well-being. You’ll be able to spend some time inside the gates.”

  Some time wasn’t going to be good enough for me; I intended to spend most of my time with David and Sophie. Beyond that, I was going find out just about everything I could for Sam Raggle.

  “Are there regulations?”

  “Security,” Freidle said, collecting papers from his desk.

  “But aren’t we secure?”

  “We are secure because of the regulations.”

  “My friends are the reason I came here.”

  “There’s flu going around in camp right now and we best wait a few days. I want you healthy.”

  The major pushed his chair out, and I realized I didn’t have much of a choice but to agree to Freidle’s wishes by settling in first.

  “Now, we shall meet the Brankas!”

  Outside the gates, the Branka couple lived in a courtyard of small houses, beyond was a view of the river. Down the street, across a flowered field, were farms with fertile land growing vegetables. On the other side, there was an off-limits area called the Little Fortress. A jail for political prisoners. I wondered if I would find out more about it.

  Ava Branka flung open the front door before the commandant could even knock. “Hello, Max! We’ve been waiting for you.” I’d barely stepped into the house before she handed me a cup of hot chocolate. Despite myself, I felt right at home.

  She was a pretty woman with gray-blue eyes, curly brown hair, a bright complexion, and rosy cheeks. Her cotton dress seemed a little too long, falling just above her ankles.

  “Please enjoy, our young guest,” Freidle said. “We’ll discuss music and movies again soon.”

  He headed out the door.

  “Yes, I’ll show you your bedroom now,” Ava said cheerfully, leading me upstairs.

  My room looked comfortable at first glance. “This will be just fine, Mrs. Branka.”

  “Please, Max, I’m Ava.”

  There was a small couch that pulled out to a bed, nestled in an alcove near a large window, as big as a door. I surveyed the decor of lace curtains fluttering against flowered wallpaper with little vines of roses on a cream background. It was probably not something that I would have chosen for myself, but it was refreshing in an old-fashioned sort of way.

  “I’m learning to speak better English from a friend, Ava, and I would like to keep practicing so I ca
n become fluent.”

  “English will we speak. As much as we can. You and me,” she said, nodding up and down. “What do you read to like? We should make plan for class.”

  Her expressions fascinated me, as if she had found a language all her own. She seemed like a nice lady. We would learn the finer points together.

  “Do you like poetry?”

  “Poetry! Yes,” I exclaimed.

  “Happy for me, as well. Much to think about. In ninth century China, a person of cultivation knew many poems and could quickly with recall, present an ‘occasion of ideas,’ and occasionally, they made up their own.” Ava spoke in English as though she was translating words in her head, but I immediately cherished the idea of an “occasion of ideas.”

  I smiled at her. “Made up a poem on the spot?”

  “When they did, they were given honor and respect.”

  I nodded. Sophie would certainly be impressed if I could do that. I could hardly believe I would see her soon. She was nearby, we both were in the same place, and that, if nothing else, made this a place I wanted to be. Nothing had changed, only a location. I wanted my first words to her to be reassuring, to come straight from my heart. I felt as nervous as I had on the day we met. Sophie and David were just around the corner. My time had come, and I was both excited and scared. Excited to see my friends. Scared of …

  Ava Branka broke into my thoughts. “The tradition spread to Italy and Europe to poets called troubadours.”

  Troubadours. Now there was a concept I could get behind.

  “Fritz sends a poem every day,” she said, smiling. “Just a few lines, which like me very much.”

  Catching the notion about “the occasion of ideas,” I thought how great it would be to learn to express myself in the same way they did in China. Maybe I would become a troubadour, making my way from place to place, traveling the world one poem at a time!

  Making our way into the dining room, housing a large bookcase, I asked, “Could Sophie and David take classes with me?”

  “Who are they?”

  “My friends.”

  “This could be something to do, Max. Books. You read books?”

  “Not as much as David, but I do like to read. Do you have a newsstand nearby?’

  “I’m afraid they’re not allowed.”

  Why not? Here was my first piece of information for Sam Raggle.

  “My husband, the postmaster general, is a man of letters who likes to read. He speaks nice. Here are books; would like German or Czech?”

  “Do you have any in English?”

  “I have American book, very good. I’m sorry for my English. Sometimes I order my words in different way.”

  “Ava. You make perfect sense to me.”

  “Good. Yes, I have book about Mississippi, America, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.”

  She handed it to me as I plopped into a chair and began reading at once.

  The very first line jumped out at me:

  You don’t know about me without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer; but that ain’t no matter. That book was made by a Mr. Mark Twain, and he told the truth, mainly.

  What was The Adventures of Tom Sawyer ?

  I didn’t know, but it was one more book for me to read.

  It continued with a notice from someone called G. G., who was identified as the chief of ordnance. The notice demanded that no one try to find a motive, moral, or plot in the novel, or else they will be prosecuted, banished, or shot.

  At first the book seemed to be set on creating more fear than I needed right then. But there was something about it, about the tone. It was like being spoken to by an old friend, and as I flipped through the pages past the introduction, I began to feel in safe hands with the writer. Mark Twain. I liked the sound of the author’s name—it was all very different and somehow very comforting. Twain’s novel fitted neatly along with my notebook. I would be able to carry it with me wherever I went. I was certain I was going to meet some important characters. I knew at once that I had to keep Mark Twain with me always.

  I was sure we belonged together.

  I began to read more, but the words started floating on the page. I must have drifted off because the next thing I knew, Ava was shaking me awake. She wanted to introduce me to her husband.

  “Come with me, Max. I want to introduce you to husband special.”

  Fritz Branka was in his office. He was older than Ava, with a face weathered by the seasons.

  “Are you the postman?”

  “Postman, gardener, carpenter, and sometimes poet. I work indoors and out.”

  I immediately warmed to Fritz. He had a certain energy, and there was kindness in his eyes. The jacket he wore had polished buttons and a badge announcing his position. His hands were in constant motion, searching for something to do, something to read, something to deliver.

  “I understand you’re a general!”

  He smiled easily. “Not a real general, just a postmaster general.”

  “May I call you ‘poet general’?”

  Laughing, Fritz leaned over and said, “Could you help me after your morning classes? There’s not much mail, but I’m sure you would be good company.”

  “Don’t you get a lot of mail here?”

  “Not much. Packages come in, and, except for a few cards which the new arrivals send, few letters go out.”

  “Why?”

  “Regulations.”

  “I’ve heard about regulations already. What kind are these?”

  “Don’t worry. You won’t have to find them, they will all find you. You’ll see.”

  I suspected there were going to be a lot of rules, and when they arrived, I’d better make note of each one.

  I noticed a red sealed packet stamped confidential.

  There could be a lot of information.

  “I’ll help you, General, in any way I can.”

  “What languages do you speak?”

  “Czech and German, and I speak and read English.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “English? I know well. Twenty-three Skidoo!” he said.

  I didn’t have the slightest notion what Fritz was talking about, except I noticed a Handbook of American Phrases and Slang in his pocket.

  After dark, I asked if I might take a walk. “Fresh air.”

  “Stay close by. There’s a curfew.”

  Ava opened the door for me.

  Curfew. My first regulation.

  At the first turn, I carefully surveyed the area, to make sure no one was around. I started toward the box, then a German officer appeared down the street, clearly in a hurry, making his way toward and into a nearby building of some sort, his quarters, I imagined. I waited, catching my breath. When he was out of sight, I discovered an important destination. The box. It was waiting for me. It would be my most important link to Prague.

  I sent my first dispatch to Sunshine.

  I’m here. No newsstands anywhere. I haven’t been able to get into the camp yet. A lot of regulations. I’m living just outside with a couple called the Brankas. I think they are good people, and I’ve met Commandant Freidle. We seem to get along, but I’m careful and cautious. The books are safely delivered, but only after an inspection. My eyes and ears are open. Until next time.

  PT

  Looking around again, to make sure I hadn’t been seen, I left it in a milk bottle to be collected when the milkman made his next drop.

  Ava was available if I had a question, and the icebox was always full. Poppy had seen to that. She prepared all the meals, and Commandant Freidle joined us. Her cooking was almost as good as Lucie’s.

  I was desperate to find my friends. But I was learning patience. My instinct told me to just take in my new surroundings and try to relax, if possible. I had never been away from
home for a long time before, let alone away from Poppy. I wanted to think he was beside me, but he wasn’t. Anyway, thoughts of Poppy weren’t as comforting to me as they had once been. I needed to grow up, to be brave—I needed to find a way to be calm.

  In my first days there, I focused on what I could learn. I had to create a mental map of the place, to discover the nature of my new home, if this was going to be home. There was a lot to absorb and a lot to try to make sense of. For starters, I was pretty much the only person here really out of choice, however limited my choices might have been. I’d read the brochure, but what kind of place was this? Had we all been duped? Just outside of Terezín I took a closer look at the warren of cottages—yellow buildings with red roofs, and columns of windows with green shutters. Acres of rolling hills and a rushing river bordered the village. It had once had thirty-five hundred residents. It seemed that they had left their homes to make room for the new arrivals. The Germans had kept to its original German name, Theresienstadt, but everyone there called it Terezín. A hotel called the Kameradschaftsheim accommodated a group of officers in residence. They wore the menacing black uniforms of the SS, the secret police.

  What was clear to me was that I was on the outside, and I needed to know what it was like to be within the walls, within the camp. I had caught brief glimpses of the camp when I walked up to the gate. Watching a few people milling around, I saw a girl wearing a hat. Sophie? The girl looked tired, her face smeared with grime, her dress dirty and worn. It couldn’t be her, could it? I needed to be sure, and strained to see her, but she turned a corner and I lost her.

  Whatever doubts I was starting to have, I told myself that Poppy wouldn’t send me somewhere that wasn’t all right, that wasn’t safe. But I wasn’t altogether reassured by my inner voice. Still, I had my own teacher, a nice room, and it was only a matter of time before I would see my friends. I kept repeating this to myself over and over, as though by thinking that I would be fine, it would all be fine.

  Working at the post office was an advantage. I would be the first to know if a letter arrived from Poppy; but before one came, he surprised me with a visit. It was as though Captain Mueller had stepped off a stage. He was wearing a new dark-gray tunic and looked rather impressive.