The Girl from Berlin--A Novel

by Ronald H. Balson

  Her voice was a slap in my face and brought me to my senses. I dared not show my despair to Gabi. “To a settlement area, honey, where she can be with other grandmas,” I said. “She’ll be fine.”

  “This way,” the captain said to me. Gabi and I followed him away from the lines and into a red brick building.

  We sat on a long bench in the administration offices waiting for a truck to take us on another two-hour drive to the Theresienstadt concentration camp in northern Czechoslovakia. The SS captain told me that Furtwängler first requested that I be returned to the Philharmonic to rejoin the orchestra, but the request was denied by Goebbels.

  “He told us that musicians are needed at Theresienstadt to play in the camp orchestra this spring,” the captain said. “I am told there is an important project. It seems you have a reputation as an artist and a soloist, Fraulein Baumgarten. Dr. Goebbels directed that you be sent there immediately.”

  SEVENTY

  Theresienstadt Concentration Camp, May 1944

  It was late afternoon when Gabi and I arrived at Theresienstadt. Thick brick walls topped with barbed wire surrounded the large camp. The entrance to the camp was through an arched gate. ARBEIT MACHT FREI was painted above the arch, the same as I had seen at Auschwitz-Birkenau, but that’s where the resemblances stopped. From what I could see of the Auschwitz-Birkenau camp, the prisoners were dressed in gray-and-white-striped prison uniforms and prison caps, and they shuffled about with their backs bent and their heads lowered. In Theresienstadt, inmates wore civilian clothes and some of them were neatly dressed. The buildings had been freshly painted. And I saw gardens! Vegetable gardens tended by residents. In the middle of the camp there were large parks with green grass and children’s playground equipment.

  Spring flowers bloomed along the walkways and in the parks. The flowers looked healthy and robust, but the people did not. They were thin and pasty-looking. The grounds were clean. There were signs: this way to the library, this way to the coffee shop. And most noticeably, there was no shouting, no barking dogs and no foul stench.

  Gabi and I were met at the entrance by a man who introduced himself as Rabbi Murmelstein, a member of the Council of Jewish Elders. “Welcome to Terezín,” he said, using the Czech word for the town. “This is a very busy time for us, as you can see. I will show you to your residence, and tomorrow you will meet our esteemed music director, Rafael Schächter.”

  As we walked along the sidewalks, I saw stores—bakery shops, tailor shops, shoe stores. It reminded me of the Hackescher Markt area in Berlin. Here in Theresienstadt, there were no people walking in formation as I had seen at Auschwitz. There were no SS guards with rifles prodding prisoners. “Is this what they mean by a Jewish resettlement town?” I said. “It’s nice.”

  He looked at me solemnly and shook his head. “Make no mistake, Fraulein Baumgarten,” he said quietly, “you are in a prison. It was formerly a Czech military fort and now it is a Nazi concentration camp. You have been brought here because you are a famous musician and because we are expecting visitors later this month. There are to be concerts, and you will fill a need. Hitler and Goebbels want the world to know that famous musicians choose to live at Theresienstadt. Come with me. I will assist you in settling into your barracks, and then tomorrow morning you will report to Maestro Schächter. Where are your suitcases?”

  “I have only my violin.”

  “I will see that the two of you get clothing.”

  The barracks were long brick buildings, some of them two stories, some three stories. Many of them were freshly painted in a mustard color. Gabi and I were assigned two wooden bunks.

  We decided to take a walk before dinner, but before we could go outside, I had to sew yellow stars on our clothes. Within limits, we were free to roam the camp, but we could not go out without the identifying Star of David. At dinner, we lined up to get a serving of potato and some bland soup. That night, as she would every night in Theresienstadt, Gabi slept with me in my bunk. In the morning, I was led to the performance hall, where I met Maestro Schächter.

  “I heard that you were coming and I am delighted you are here,” he said. “I regret I never had the privilege of seeing you perform. I met your father once, but only briefly.” He looked down at my dress where Gabi was hiding. “This is your child?”

  I nodded. “She is now.”

  “There are children’s activities,” he said. “I could arrange for her to be with other children during rehearsals. They draw, they paint, they do beautiful art.”

  “If it’s all the same, I’d ask that she be allowed to sit here in the hall for the first few days. She’s had a rough time.”

  Schächter nodded. “Very well, but you should understand, they’ve all had a rough time. Goebbels’ staff insists that we add the ‘Meditation’ to our repertoire. I am told that you have soloed the piece all over Europe.”

  “Goebbels and Hitler heard me play the piece in Florence. I do know it well.”

  “Well, let me tell you how we work. We have a limited amount of sheet music. Most of it we play from memory. This is the music we are working on at the present, and we will add the ‘Meditation.’ We are rehearsing three symphonies, but our principal piece is the Verdi Requiem. Do you know it?”

  I was shocked. The Requiem was an extremely difficult piece for orchestra and chorus. A large chorus. We performed it two years ago in Bologna. Even the consummate professionals and experienced principal singers needed months of practice before the work was ready. How could a put-together bunch of prisoners in a concentration camp hope to produce that work?

  “I do know the Requiem,” I said. “I can’t believe you’re going to take that on here in a concentration camp.”

  “I brought the scores with me when I came a couple years ago. We have been practicing for many months in the basement of a barracks. It’s cold and damp and dark, but our singers are inspired. We had a larger chorus; once it was one hundred and twenty, but many were transported last fall. Now there are sixty in the chorus. I think you will be pleasantly surprised at their proficiency. Everyone knows his or her part from memory. We have performed it several times for the residents. We are going to perform it later this month for the Nazis and their guests.”

  As we were talking, a tall man with white hair walked into the room. I thought I recognized him, but this man was very thin, almost bony. He looked at me, squinted his eyes and said, “Is that Jacob’s little pipsqueak? Is it you, Ada? It’s me, Aaron Spak.”

  I smiled and hugged him. “It’s so nice to see you again, Herr Spak.”

  “Aaron. Just Aaron. I’d love to hear about your career. Have a tea with me after rehearsal.”

  The piece we were rehearsing was Haydn’s Symphony no. 101 in D Major, “The Clock” symphony, which we had played in the Junior. It was clean, honest, formal and upbeat, like Haydn himself. In the second movement, which gives the piece its name, the violins play a delightful, lilting melody while the bassoons and plucking cellos create a background tick-tock rhythm. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Gabi was enjoying it, keeping time to the music with a little head and shoulder movement.

  Afterward, we met Aaron in the barracks for a cup of tea. I could see that the leaves were well used. “How is your father?” he asked. “Is he all right?”

  My eyes glassed over. Aaron didn’t know. I shook my head.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Aaron said. “I thought he had emigrated. I always loved and respected Jacob.”

  “He was captured during Kristallnacht and died in the Buchenwald prison.”

  “I’m so sorry.” He lowered his head and slowly moved it from side to side. “So, so many of us.”

  “What can you tell me about Theresienstadt?” I said. “I mean, if one has to be confined in a prison, it seems like this is a pretty good place to be.”

  “Oh no, it’s a hoax, Ada. They’re putting on a show. The International Red Cross is coming here in three weeks to make an inspection. Hitler and Goe
bbels want to fool the world and make believe they treat us well. A few months ago, they started sprucing up this camp. Before that it was filthy, barren and vermin-infested. No grass, just mud. This was a camp designed for six thousand residents, and last summer there were almost sixty thousand packed in. Starting last fall they began sending people away in transports. They say that they are sending people to the east, to new resettlement camps, but a few of us have learned that ‘east’ is really Poland and Auschwitz. We do not share that knowledge with the rest of the residents for obvious reasons. It is always better to have hope.

  “Over the past several months, the SS has begun beautifying the camp. They call it Operation Embellishment. They have painted, they have planted, they have built fake shops and fake bakeries. Did you see the clothes in the window of the dress shop? They were taken from our residents’ suitcases and displayed like they were for sale. They even made a pretend bank.

  “You were sent here for your music skills. Everyone works. Some work in the orchestra and the art workshops. Others work in the coal mines, sew uniforms, manufacture coffins and maintain the grounds. There is no torture or mass murder here. Which is not to say that there haven’t been executions. But it is not Auschwitz.”

  “I saw children in the streets,” I said. “There are parks. There are flowers. It fooled me.”

  Aaron nodded. “For the time being. The Nazis boast that Theresienstadt is a ‘spa town,’ a place where elderly Jews can live safely. They have actually taken money from elderly Jews so that they could retire here. It’s all a lie.”

  “And the beautification is all because of the Red Cross? Because of an inspection?”

  “Yes, because of the inspection. The world accuses Hitler of creating a network of death camps where he is sending Europe’s Jewish population, and of course it’s true. You’ve seen it. Your father died at Buchenwald and you were there at Auschwitz. But Hitler denies it. He says there is no proof. And to show he is right, he is permitting the Red Cross to visit Theresienstadt. Don’t you see? You were selected and brought here from Auschwitz because you are a well-known musician. Instead of killing you, they are using you, and all of us, to paint a false picture. Look world, this is really how Hitler treats the Jews.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would Hitler give a damn what the world thinks? He never has before.”

  “I can only pass along what I hear. Last October four hundred and fifty Jews were seized in Denmark. They were sent here to Theresienstadt because it has always been a transit camp, a place where people are collected before being sent to other concentration camps—labor camps or death camps. The king of Denmark was informed that the Danish prisoners were ultimately going to be sent to a death camp or a slave labor camp. He demanded an inspection by the Danish Red Cross. He was joined by Sweden’s King Gustav. So Hitler and Goebbels seized upon the opportunity to create a grand deception. They will show the world how well Germany treats the Jewish captives.”

  I shook my head. “The Nazis have already occupied Denmark and captured its Jews, and Sweden is neutral. It doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “Sweden took in eight thousand Danish Jews, almost all of the Jews in Denmark. The four hundred and fifty that were left were the ones that were captured and sent here. Denmark is demanding fair treatment for its Jews, and Sweden is joining with them. Germany does not want to alienate Sweden, which is the Wehrmacht’s major source of iron ore. So Hitler decided to fool them. The head physician of Denmark’s Ministry of Health, two Swedish inspectors and the International Red Cross are coming here on June 23, and they will see a lovely little Jewish town that Hitler has built.”

  “And the orchestra is going to play a concert for them?”

  “Not just for them. We’ll also play for the residents of Theresienstadt, and that’s the grand Nazi deception. Attending concerts, going to the theater, playing soccer—that is the wonderful life in the spa retirement town of Theresienstadt. At least that’s what they’re going to show the Red Cross.”

  “He’s going to get away with it, isn’t he? He’s going to fool the world and we’re going to help him.”

  “I’m afraid that’s true. It’s a setup and you’ve been conscripted. But you’d rather be here with your daughter than in Auschwitz, wouldn’t you? After June 23, it’s anybody’s guess what happens to us all.”

  SEVENTY-ONE

  Theresienstadt Concentration Camp, June 1944

  We were doing our best to adjust to life in Theresienstadt. Of course, Aaron was right. They could dress it up, but it was still a prison. We were given minimal portions of food without regard to nourishment. Prisoners were subjected to forced labor for long hours each day. My only job was playing the violin, which gave me the opportunity to be with Gabi most of the time.

  Gabi was attending art classes with other children and had actually made a few friends. She had yet to tell me anything about her parents or her life before I met her at the Collegio. I respected her right to lock those memories away and I suspected they would never come out. In the same way, we did not discuss Mama or what happened at the farm. The memories of my life over the past ten years—the deterioration of the Berlin Jewish community, my papa’s death, Kurt’s murder, Mama’s sacrifice, all the tragedies that I witnessed—I tried to lock them away, but they came out at night to haunt me. I woke up shaking. It scared Gabi, but there wasn’t much I could do about it.

  Theresienstadt’s SS commandant was Karl Rahm, but he was rarely seen. Aaron told me he was a drunk. The SS left the day-to-day operations of the camp to the Council of Jewish Elders, subject to SS oversight. The SS would dictate how many inmates were to be transported and the council would fill the order. The council distributed the meager supplies of food and drink. It allowed for a form of commerce in a stifled setting. It established a synagogue and oversaw the practice of Judaism.

  Other than rehearsal times, I had abundant free time, and Gabi and I were allowed to wander around the camp. Paper, writing supplies and art supplies were always available. That is when I decided to write this memoir.

  As the date for the Red Cross inspection neared, tension in the camp increased. So did the presence of SS guards. Commandant Rahm was seen more frequently. The path that the Red Cross inspectors were to take through the camp was carefully mapped out. Resident carpenters made finishing touches to structures along the path. Draperies were sewn and hung in the windows. Furniture pieces were strategically placed. A bandshell was erected in the middle of the park. A group of jazz musicians who called themselves the Ghetto Swingers were directed to play there several times a day.

  A week before the inspections, the SS suddenly decided that the camp was too crowded. They wanted the inspectors to see healthy, happy people in roomy living quarters. Rahm ordered the council to provide the names of 7,500 inmates to be immediately transported to Auschwitz. Aaron told me that all sick, disabled or senile persons and all orphans were required to be on the list. Orphans! I immediately sat down with Gabrielle.

  “Listen to me, Gabi. You are my daughter.” She nodded, unsure what I was doing. “If anyone ever asks you, I am your mother, understand?”

  “Why would someone ask me?”

  “It doesn’t matter. They might. You are my daughter. I am your mother. What is your name?”

  “Gabrielle.”

  “Gabrielle what? What is your family name?”

  Her lips tightened, and she did not speak.

  “Tell me your family name, Gabi.”

  Her jaw quivered.

  I held her shoulders. “Your last name is Baumgarten! Say it, Gabi! Baumgarten.”

  “Baumgarten.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Gabrielle.”

  “Your whole name?” I was frightening her, but it had to be done.

  “Gabrielle Baumgarten.”

  “Again. What is your whole name?”

  “Gabrielle Baumgarten.”

  She cried and I hugged her.

  As it
happened, the council did take a census of each barracks before filling the deportation list, and they did ask each child his or her name. Every single child. All women with children were told to gather in the public square. Rabbi Murmelstein stood with an SS officer and a clipboard. “We know that many of you came here with your own children. We do not want to separate mothers from their natural children. But the high command has ordered us to identify orphans. We are told they will be sent to a children’s camp. This order is not the decision of your council, nor is it our preference, but it has been ordered by SS Commandant Rahm and we are obliged to obey. If you have graciously taken in an orphaned child, please identify yourself.”

  Only a few parents identified an orphaned child. I did not. I would never allow Gabi to be taken from me. The SS officer suspected that many of us were lying. He ordered Rabbi Murmelstein to walk among us and ask questions. When he came to Gabi and me, he stopped. Gabi had blond hair, mine was dark. She was fair with rosy cheeks. She looked nothing like me.

  He stared at me, like he knew my secret. He bent down until his head was even with Gabi’s. “What is your name, little girl?” he said.

  Gabi clutched my skirt. “Gabrielle Baumgarten.”

  He stood, looked me in the eyes and slowly shook his head.

  “She goes, I go,” I whispered to him.

  He thought for a moment, nodded and moved on.

  Later that day, 7,500 residents were told to pack a bag, write their name on the side and walk in line to the Theresienstadt train station. Each person was given a typed identification number. After the deportation, as Rahm had intended, there was more room in the barracks, and living spaces were reallocated.