by Bram Presser
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I suppose you wish to report that this man’—the registrar looked at his notes—‘this man, Ludvík Roubíček, is not the father.’
‘But of course he is.’
‘Paní Roubíčková, I’ll ask it again. Are you absolutely certain that these children belong to your husband and weren’t conceived out of wedlock with another man? Let’s say…an Aryan man?’ When there was no answer he continued: ‘It is a simple question. They have made whores of you all, no matter how you respond. All I need to know is this: are you the kind of whore who deserves mercy?’
They had not discussed it. In all their conversations—his pleas for her to cast him aside, to save herself and the girls, her stubborn refusal to grant him such easy absolution for their years of penury—not once had they even considered it. To vitiate their bond, that was one thing. But to expunge his very existence? It was unthinkable. She couldn’t do it.
‘Ludvík Roubíček is the father. I am certain.’
The registrar shook his head and leaned forward, deflated. ‘It will be done in a few days, then. He will no longer be protected by his marriage to an Aryan woman and you will be free to disappear into the general population. As for your children, they will remain mischlinge. But without the millstone of their father they might yet escape this madness. I hope for their sake that you have made the right decision.’
None of them heard the footsteps in the foyer, but three sharp knocks at the door told them enough. Daša got up from the table and walked calmly down the hallway. Three more knocks, impatient. She stood at the door a few seconds. The man on the other side stumbled backwards when he saw her. ‘Paní…’ Daša said nothing. Let the man squirm, she thought, as she leaned against the doorjamb, her hips pressed against the frame, pushed forward in a pose he might mistake for seduction. The man was short and scrawny, his clothes dishevelled from an evening spent playing the devil’s postman. He looked from her to the scrap of paper in his hand then back. ‘I am sent from the Jewish Council,’ he said. ‘I have just been to an address’—again he looked to the paper—‘Cimburkova 20. But there was no one. I was also given this address. Perhaps…’ The envoy was sweating. ‘Perhaps you know the man I’m after. Ludvík Roubíček. He is not registered here but I am told I might find him.’
Daša glanced behind her. In the kitchen the family sat huddled around the table, picking at their meal. She would not disturb them. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He is here.’
The man knelt down and opened his briefcase. Inside, there was a wad of pink papers, tied with a red ribbon. He unfastened the knot and fanned through the papers. ‘Yes…Wait…I know it’s—’ He pulled out a single pink slip, followed by several forms from a secondary pocket. The click of the briefcase lock reverberated through the stairwell as the man regained his composure and got to his feet. ‘If I might speak with him—’ But he knew better than to expect an answer. ‘In that case, please pass this on. He is to report to the trade fair grounds in three days’ time for relocation. The details are all on the summons. If he’s late, it will no longer be in our hands. Acts of resistance do not go unpunished. As it is, I should report him for failing to be at his registered address after curfew.’
The man shrank back as Daša snatched the papers. She slammed the door, but his voice could still be heard in the distance, rattling off ever more fanciful warnings.
The night before he was to leave, Ludvík Roubíček sat in the cramped lounge room of 13 Biskupcova Street with his two eldest daughters, while Františka busied herself in the entrance hall packing, unpacking and repacking his suitcase. Fifty kilograms. That was the weight of a man’s life. From the kitchen, the smell of condensed milk on the boil, fresh bread and onions. As the hours wore on, they did not speak, only listened to the sounds of Biskupcova Street that Ludvík had long ago stopped hearing. Behind the gauze curtain Marcela and Hana snored softly, dreaming whatever young girls dream.
The sled was Irena’s idea. ‘There’s a plank of wood on Rečkova Street,’ she said, breaking the evening’s silence. ‘Perhaps if we tied a rope to it we could drag Papa’s suitcase.’ Ludvík continued to go over the transport forms, filling out his details as best he could. He didn’t have a home to hand over. Or personal property. Everything had already reverted to Františka. He had no keys to give them, no inventory to be traded for the privilege of this transport.
At first light, they woke Marcela and asked her to prepare the cardboard label that was, according to the summons, to hang around Ludvík’s neck. She took to the task in earnest, practising each letter of the identification number several times before finally inscribing it on the brown rectangle: CC-109. She held it up. It was perfect. Ludvík could not possibly get lost. He would reach his destination and send her exotic gifts. Marcela searched her mother’s sewing drawers for a knitting needle. She held it against the top corners of the cardboard, punched two holes. After she had threaded the string and tied it off, she ran back to Ludvík. ‘Papa, put it on,’ she said. But he ignored her, continuing with his papers. ‘Papa, please,’ she said. ‘I made it for you!’ Ludvík slid it over his head and slumped forward, resting his cheek on the table. ‘Show me, Papa,’ said Marcela. Františka pulled the girl back by her shoulder. ‘That’s enough, Marcela. Papa must be left to prepare now. We will be leaving soon.’
‘For the circus?’ The girl had heard them say it, taken the term literally. How was she to know that’s what they all called the trade fair grounds?
‘Yes, for the circus.’
They set off in the morning chill, the sled leaving a path of discoloured snow in its wake. They took it in turns to pull it along, first Ludvík, then Františka, then Daša and Irena together. Little Hana sat at the front, her legs hanging over the suitcase, smiling and waving to passersby. Marcela skipped around them, clapping and singing. Ludvík Roubíček did not look back at his old home, nor into the eyes of his wife or daughters. He held his head high, his gaze fixed in the distance. Františka kept the cardboard label inside her coat, to protect it from the falling snow, but also so that he could walk the streets as an unmarked man as they made their way towards the Hlávka Bridge. When they reached the clearing at the southern bank, Františka could see other families, other sleds, and the tracks of those who had come before.
They arrived at Výstavíště Trade Fair Grounds to the fading sound of church bells. Ludvík looked at the clock on top of the central turret of the Industrial Palace; it was just after noon. They had been walking for almost two hours. A swirling grey mosaic of stone tiles lined the grand promenade, rubbed clean by a constant stream of shuffled feet. ‘Wait,’ Ludvík said. Daša and Irena stopped dragging the sled. All around them, groups of people huddled together. Some came from the road, others alighted from the back carriage of trams. A few talked, a few cried, but most proceeded in mute resignation, cardboard labels around their necks, all marked with the same two letters, CC. Ludvík let them pass. There was no hurry. They were not heading for the towering ceilings and slate floors of the Industrial Palace, which for over fifty years had been the envy of barons and princes alike. Instead they would be shunted to the Radio Mart exhibition hall, the wooden annex that had last been used to house the electronics trade show. How many times had he come to these grounds as a younger man, to tout the wares of whatever charlatan would have him, to revel in those carnivals of abundance? Back then he would skip to the gate. Not now. Let them pass, he thought.
The nearby Stromovka Park, once a royal game reserve, lay dormant; no one dared venture near the assembly point lest they find themselves dragged in to make up the numbers. There were no children playing, no young couples exchanging sweet nothings. Only the wagtails and rooks still swooped towards the frozen fountains. Their numbers had thinned; there was no one to feed them.
Ludvík took hold of the rope handle and pulled the sled. It was his burden now, this bundled life. The others followed in single file, up the promenade towards the barbed wire fen
ce. Ahead was a long line of people ending at a table placed in front of a flimsy metal gate. A lone clerk from the Community Council sat up straight, tugging at his coat, trying to fend off the icy wind. Nearby, a policeman leaned against the fence, chewing on a wad of tobacco, oblivious to the brown spittle dribbling down his chin. Ludvík stepped forward, joined the line. Those who had already passed through to the other side of the barbed wire now milled about, puffing on cigarettes. Some stopped to barter—a gold watch for a tin of condensed milk, a razor for some onions, whatever might help them in their new home. Wandering policemen joined in the transactions, or, when they did not favour the exchange, simply confiscated the most desirable goods.
‘Papers?’
The clerk adjusted his white armband and took the pink slip from Ludvík. He checked the name and number then opened the master roll to record the new arrival. Ludvík tried to find a name he knew, someone who could keep him company on the journey, but there was none. The policeman cleared his throat and spat a glob of phlegm near the clerk’s foot just as he was drawing a line through Ludvík’s details. Františka handed over the cardboard number and, as Ludvík slid it around his neck, Marcela began to clap, the sound muffled by her woollen gloves. ‘I made Papa’s ticket. We will see the elephants.’ Ludvík puffed out his chest and slid the label across to cover his yellow star. For those few moments, he still belonged to Prague.
‘And you? Your numbers?’
‘No, sir,’ said Františka. ‘We have only come to escort.’
‘It’s best you part ways here, then. Inside—’ He gestured towards Hana on the sled, then Marcela beside her. ‘It’s not for them.’ Františka ignored him and went to pick up the rope. Daša and Irena stood on either side of their father, each clutching an arm. The gate swung open on its loose hinges. They stepped forward. Immediately, Františka was jolted back. The policeman stomped his foot on the sled. ‘From now you carry.’
Step right up, little Marcela. Here is the circus you’ve been so anxious to see. Is it as you had imagined? Would it help if I told you that this is just the sideshow? God knows where they have set up the big top. I suppose I’ll get there in the end. What did you say? Don’t cry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scream. It’s just that I can’t hear you over this horrible din. You’ll have to lean closer, speak into my ear. Even when they are not barking, those loudspeakers blare with the phantasms of our discarded radios. Now come. Follow me. Stay close.
Ah, this is the spot. CC-109. Yes. What is that you say? There is only one seat? Well, of course there is. Can you have it? No. I know your legs are tired. But this patch of dirt will not do for a girl as delicate as you. And look how the lady here spills across the line with her arm. Shhhhh! She is old, you mustn’t wake her. Can’t you see that she is lying on a stretcher, that she doesn’t move? Leave her be. Climb on my shoulders and we can explore this circus together.
Queues everywhere. People queuing up for their last chance to win. It’s okay. There will be plenty of time to play all the games: two, maybe three days. And you can come and go as you please. Me? No. I will wait here and hold your place. So where should we start? Let’s try this one. First you must take your ticket to the clown at the table. Do you see him? Yes, that’s right, the fat one with the wiry hair and nervous expression. So here, take this ticket—Yes. Yes, I know. It looks exactly like Papa’s ration card, but surely you know that in the circus nothing is as it seems—and hand it to the clown. He will wave you away, no doubt, but it is all part of the game. You come back and stand with me. Then you wait and you wait and you wait and eventually he will send one of his monkeys out with a tray of delicious treats. You have to be lucky, though. Not everyone is a winner. That’s a lesson you must learn. Sometimes you end up with nothing.
We’ll move on, then. Look at this! A grand sculpture like you’ve never seen before. Spoons, forks, knives—all silver—piled higher than the old clocktower itself. Of course I don’t pretend to know what it means. Modern art escapes me. It is more your mother’s domain.
What is that? You want to play this game? But Marcela, look at how they stand in line. Holding their house keys in their hands? But those are no ordinary keys. Watch how the man in front hunches forward like that key is the heaviest thing he has ever held. That’s because it is, my dear. If only you had one to hold you’d understand that it is the exact weight of all that he has ever owned. And we who come here no longer have the strength to carry such things. That, then is the game: a test of strength. Is there a man in all of Prague strong enough to hold his key when he reaches the clown at the table? I think not. Just look at the relief on their faces as they hand it over. As if the brass has burnt holes in their skin. This is not a game for little girls. And Papa doesn’t have a key. Let’s move on to the animal enclosure instead. Over there, it is that great pile of darkness in the corner.
Why do they lie there like that? you ask. Can’t you see they are sleeping? Foxes and minks and beavers and bears, huddled together in peaceful slumber. They are tired like you. They’ve also come from far away, from all over Prague, hiding in handbags and suitcases, rolled up in mattresses. No, you cannot pet them. We are not allowed past the chain. It is for your own good. One should never wake a sleeping bear. Here’s let’s—
Quick. Get down. Sit. Please, Marcela. You must sit. He’s here. There. Across the room. Fiedler the Lion, the most ferocious creature of them all. See how he struts, head held high, fangs peeking out from his thin lips, claws punching holes in the ground. It’s a very strange act, I know. We wait here with our eyes to the floor, hoping not to catch his attention. What sort of thrill is that, to not even look at the main attraction? But the lion is a wild beast, no matter how well he’s been trained. You never know when he will lash out and swipe a little girl across the face. Many have already perished by his claws.
When he is gone I will take you to play the last game, the greatest of them all. I have the ticket right here in my hands, a piece of paper with my name and photo and a big red ‘J’ across it all. There are so many stories about this game. You will no doubt be told that Papa ran away and joined the circus, that he was afraid to turn around and face the lion, that he boarded the train with all his new friends and was finally taken to the big top. But they are wrong, Marcela. That is not how this game works. There is no big top. There is no show. No. In this game, when we reach the front of the line, when we come face to face with the clown who sits at his table, we hand over the ticket. The clown will take his big rubber stamp, he will hold it high in the air so you can see the single word on its inky base—EVACUATED —and, with a great flourish, he will bring it down. And, just like that, Papa will disappear.
FROM: JACOV TSUR, former student of Dr Jakub Rand and survivor
TO: FRANK BRIGHT, formerly František Brichta, fellow student at the Jewish School in Jáchymova Street
One day before the death march to Litomerice–Terezín in April 1945, about 70–90 prisoners were transferred from Schwarzheide to Sachsenhausen, among them J RAND.
FROM: FRANK BRIGHT
TO: DR Z S, Australian Academic
When I met Dr Rand (as he then was) in Prague at the end of May 1945, or over 65 years ago, I seem to remember him saying that he had to work in a factory producing poison gas for the German Army (i.e. not Auschwitz and probably Sarin), that prisoners had not been issued with gas masks and that the plant had leaked.
FROM: FRANK BRIGHT
TO: BRAM PRESSER
Your grandfather was in Sachsenhausen from 15.04.1945 till 22.04.1945, or one week. What happened after that I don’t know. He must have recovered quickly enough to have made his way from wherever the Russians had taken him to Prague because that was where I met him, both of us wandering, I somewhat aimlessly, round the Old Town around the third or fourth week in May.
Interview with Berta Malachová, survivor:
You must stop this obsession, stop this search. Do not let it take over your life. I can see it in your eyes. It w
ill destroy you.
IN THE CAMPS, SHE carried a small gold ring…
She kept it with her for the rest of her life. On a chain around her neck, beneath her blouse, her apron, her hospital gown. After she died we found it tucked in a jewellery box in a drawer beside her bed. She’d put it there before we drove her to the hospital for the last time. While we still lived in hope, she had already come to terms with her fate.
I held it just once, this witness to her ordeal. It was the touchstone of her legend—stories of courage, of strength, of devotion—and yet it seemed so insignificant, resting there in my hand. I rolled it between my fingers, hoping it would reveal her secrets. So much of what we’d come to believe seemed impossible but, as one survivor told me, survival itself was impossible. Don’t be too quick to dismiss the illogical, he said. The fanciful, the absurd, these things happened. Refracted through that simple, perfect circle, I could see another Holocaust. Every story is different, the survivor had said. Every one of us endured his own Auschwitz.
After her death we made peace with the silence. We couldn’t have known what lay in a shoebox at the back of her sister’s apartment in Prague. It took another sixteen years before I would sit at a café table watching Ludvík unfold those delicate sheets of paper, and then another few months before he sent them to me.
Here she was, at last:
Dear mother and little sisters,
I am happy that you have received my news. I can imagine how terribly worried you must have been, my golden mother. You write and ask whether we were well kitted out. I can tell you kitted out we were wonderfully, unfortunately it was of no use to us. They took from us absolutely everything, even the clothes we were wearing. However, do not think this is something awful, since there exist much worse things. We were where all transports from T go and I am happy that we are together and that we have escaped with our dear lives. Only very few people manage this. I will only tell you that gas is used there on a very large scale. Do not ask, dearest mother, because we will tell you everything when we come home. Now I hope that it will be soon. I thank God that we are all the way we are. Do not worry about daddy, he is in the same situation as us. I still had news, when we were there. We, thank God, are in good health and daddy also. When we return, we will have become only factory labourers but perhaps you will accept us as such. Mummy, please send us one lot of warm underwear, but old, and three pairs of stockings, thick, and also old. Send only that which I have written for. We have received the parcel in perfect condition. Perhaps you will be offended if I write to you to send us lots of food (because you already are sending a lot of it), but there is quite a severe shortage here. We are issued soup at midday, in the evening soup, a piece of bread and something with it. But everything is so minimal that it is not enough for even half a day. Aside from this I work hard, and all day outside. You must not send food in glass containers, mummy. You cannot, poor you, imagine how it is. I smuggle everything into the camp under SS watch. I have to be very careful since I know what it means for one’s life to hang on a thread. And, believe me, I act accordingly. In the parcel everything was correct, except for the glass jars. Also, thanks to you, everything was wonderful. You will be able to calculate how many parcels you should send. So that it is enough for three people. You can also include food in parcels for daddy. If you are [illegible] mummy sending any meat, then not in [illegible]. Send no lard at all. Cigarettes the same as last time. Mr B is a very nice person. He also has children and a wife. I hope that one day we will be able to reciprocate to him. Mummy, please write to us about what the situation is and when we will see each other again. You cannot know how happy I would be if we were all together again. Above all, I wish you good health and to be courageous. Do not, mummy, worry about Irča. In the first place I am almost 20 years old and secondly, after such a rich experience, believe me, I am a fully grown up person. So, hold your head high.
