Somewhere There Is Still a Sun

by Michael Gruenbaum

  And the valuable things she finds—paintings, jewelry, and her best dresses—slowly they’ve been disappearing from our apartment. She’s been leaving some of it with non-Jews we know here, non-Jews who still talk to us. The rest she sends to some warehouse in London. Our apartment feels so empty these days.

  “When this is over,” I say. “Will we get everything back?”

  “What?” she asks, like I woke her from a trance.

  “Nothing,” I say, deciding not to repeat my question, or ask her the question that really confuses me: Why is no one willing to help us, or any of the other Jews around here, even though if things were the other way around, we’d help them?

  At least I sure hope we would.

  The tram comes to a stop and we get off.

  “Forget it,” I say.

  * * *

  The store, like the streetcar, is packed with people. With Jews. There are so many things I want—chicken liver, herring, salami, honey, fresh bread—but I keep quiet, because I know we can barely afford anything now. Father hasn’t worked for almost a year, and even I can tell our savings are pretty much gone. So Mother takes her time, stopping every few steps to study the price of some item very closely. After what seems like an hour, she’ll finally place something in our basket, only to remove it a second later.

  We leave the store with just one bag and begin walking back to where the tram dropped us off. But then Mother says, “Let’s walk home instead.”

  And the walk isn’t so bad, except when we pass a park with that stupid sign, JUDEN VERBOTEN, “Jews Not Allowed.” A bunch of boys my age are kicking a ball around. Lucky.

  “Misha,” Mother says a few blocks later.

  “Yeah?”

  “I want you to know that . . .”

  “Huh?”

  “We will be moving soon.”

  “What?”

  “From our apartment.”

  “Moving?” I say, like I’ve never heard the word before. “Why are we moving?”

  “Our apartment is too big, and the—”

  “No it’s not. It’s not too big at all. Our apartment is exactly the right size. What’s too big about it?”

  Mother doesn’t say anything for a minute. We stand at a corner, waiting for some cars to pass.

  “The Germans are ordering all the Jews to move into the old part of the city. By the Old-New Synagogue. Everyone will be living there. We’ll start moving at the end of the week.”

  I find a stone on the sidewalk and begin kicking it ahead of me. I bet I’m much better at soccer than those boys. But if I kicked the stone to them, to let them know that I play soccer too, they’d probably just throw it back at me. Like those other kids did last week, when I was on my way back from the Laubs’ apartment. They even started chasing me, but I found a good hiding place near this one church and they disappeared. I still haven’t told anyone about that.

  “Will there,” I ask Mother, “will there be an elevator in our new place?”

  “No, Misha. The building we’ll be in is much too old for that.”

  This stone is starting to hurt my toes. I kick it hard toward an imaginary goal, which I miss for some reason.

  “And what about school?” I ask, right as we pass the spot where the couple landed. At least I won’t have to think about them so much once we’re gone. Even if what they did makes more sense every day.

  “We’ll find a new place for that as well.”

  “You mean a new apartment,” I say, but Mother doesn’t answer.

  We turn onto our street, which soon won’t be our street.

  “Mother?”

  “What?”

  “If all the Jews are going to be there, in the old part, do you think they’ll let us play in the parks there?”

  “I don’t know, Misha, we’ll—”

  “Just because I don’t get to go to regular school doesn’t mean I should get bad at soccer, too. Right?”

  We enter our building, which soon won’t be our building.

  “Once we move there, Mother, and we’re all there together, do you think they’ll leave us alone?”

  Mother doesn’t say anything. The elevator arrives. We step inside and I press the number four, because Mother knows I’m in charge of the elevator. When we first moved here, I would ride it for hours just for fun. But now it doesn’t seem so fun.

  “Will they?” I ask again.

  “We’ll see, we’ll see.”

  “What do you mean, we’ll see?” I say, raising my voice. “All we see is that every day is worse than the day before. Every day is a new, stupid rule and worse food and no soccer and no one seems to care or want to help even though—”

  “I know, Misha, I know,” Mother says, getting out of the elevator.

  And I realize I should probably shut up, but for some reason I can’t. I pretty much yell down the hallway, “You said Father was going to figure something out. But he hasn’t figured anything out yet, has he? Well, I think if he’s going to figure something out, he should start soon. Because what if it gets too late? What if . . . what if they make up a new rule that makes his plan impossible? Then what?”

  My voice echoes off the sides of the hallway, but Mother doesn’t answer, she just lets herself into our apartment, which pretty soon won’t be ours.

  May 25, 1941

  A MAN STOPS TO LIGHT a cigarette in the middle of the Old Town Square. Maybe he’ll be interested.

  “Excuse me, mister. Would you like to buy a belt?”

  The man stops for a moment. “A belt you say?” Good, he speaks Czech. Whenever I hear a German accent, I put my head down and just walk away. And if I see a German soldier, well, then it’s around the first corner as fast as I can make it.

  “Yes, mister, a belt. Look.” I hold up my latest work, a rope belt, my best one yet. “I braided it myself.”

  The man places his cigarette in his mouth and reaches out for the belt. Tugs on it with his fingers. He wouldn’t wear it himself, I can tell, not with a suit like his. But maybe for his children, if he has any.

  While he tests the belt, I scan the square for potential customers. It’s a Sunday, so there’s plenty of families out. If I can sell one more belt, I might get to two hundred crowns. Enough to buy us some butter.

  “And what do you charge for a belt like this?” he asks me slowly, as if I’m standing behind the counter in my very own belt shop.

  I show him my friendliest smile. “Fifty crowns.”

  “Fifty?” he asks, his eyes narrowing. “That’s pretty steep.”

  “Forty,” I offer. But he doesn’t say anything, just picks some tobacco off the edge of his mouth. I reach into my pocket and pull out another belt. “Two for sixty. It’s a very good deal, mister.”

  “Sorry.” He hands the first belt back to me. “Maybe next time, kid.” Darn, and I was so close.

  The man walks off leisurely, his hands clasped behind his back. Just before he disappears into a crowd, I see one hand reach up toward his head. He tosses his cigarette down to the ground.

  Okay, hurry.

  I rush over and pick up the cigarette from where it came to a stop, between two cobblestones. Excellent, there’s at least a third still left. With the other stubs I’ve collected, I could probably roll up a good cigarette, maybe even two. I sold one last week for twenty-five crowns.

  I feel around in my pocket. About 160 crowns. Oh well, better than nothing.

  Clang, clang clang clang!

  The old astronomical clock. I didn’t even realize I was standing right under the thing. The massive tower is over five hundred years old, with dials that can tell you everything. The time, the day, the zodiac sign, the location of the sun and moon—you name it. Father once explained to me how all the parts work together, but I could barely pay attention because I was too busy watching the clock.

  Clang clang, clang!

  A strange skeleton up next to the clock does this every sixty minutes. Clanging in the new hour with a bell in hi
s bony hand. And right above him, other figures, the apostles I think, pass by the windows that open whenever he clangs his bell.

  Clang clang, clang clang clang!

  They say that the man who built this, some clock master named Hanus, was blinded after completing this clock. On purpose they blinded him. That way he wouldn’t be able to build another like it. I never used to believe that story. Because people can’t be that mean, can they?

  But these days, I don’t know. Maybe they can. Maybe that’s nothing. Because the rules just keep coming. We can’t buy apples, we can’t play the lottery, we can’t ride in taxis, we can’t go into hotels. Nothing’s too small for them, nothing’s too weird. Who cares if we buy apples—how could that possibly matter? And even though I bet a lot of Czechs hate the Nazis as much as we do, some seem pretty okay with this whole setup, the cruel signs in their store windows bigger than they have to be, JUDEN VERBOTEN, their new swastika flags flying out front first thing every morning.

  Last week we turned in my violin, because that’s another rule. Jews can’t have musical instruments. The rule says we have until December to comply, but we gave my violin in early. Probably because I was so awful at it. I used to take lessons from my uncle Ota, and no matter how hard I tried, I never made a sound that didn’t make both of us squirm. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought my violin was meant for torture. Handing it to Mother was the first and only time I was almost happy about one of those new Nazi decrees.

  Because overall I’m not happy. Not at all. Yesterday, when I was supposed to be doing my pointless homework, I suddenly was trying to figure out something the Nazis wouldn’t do, some rule I couldn’t picture them making. But I couldn’t come up with anything. No food that would have to stay legal for us to buy. No place that would have to be okay for us to go. No item that they wouldn’t tell us to turn in. All under the threat of “severe punishment” if we don’t follow the new rules. Severe punishment meaning death, I think.

  All of which means that this could actually get much, much worse.

  Wait, how did it get to be six o’clock already? Mother will kill me if I don’t get home soon.

  Even though home isn’t really home anymore.

  * * *

  I race through the narrow streets of the ghetto toward Kozi Square, where our apartment is. Our new apartment. That isn’t new at all.

  “Misha!” Mother says when she sees me. “Where were you?”

  “Look, Mother.” I show her my coins. “Almost two hundred.”

  “Big deal,” Marietta says from the corner of the living room, a room that is also the kitchen and the dining room. She’s sitting on her bed, her nose in some book as usual. My bed is in another corner, not too far from hers. Mother and Father sleep in the only bedroom. I bet three apartments this size could fit into our old one in Holesovice. Still, maybe I shouldn’t complain. Plenty of other families, including in this building, have to share an apartment with other families.

  “It’s more than you made,” I say, putting my belts and loose tobacco in a small cigar box I keep by my bed. “Hey, where’s Father?”

  “At a meeting,” Mother says, stirring something into what must be soup, because that’s all we ever eat these days. I’m starving, but it will be horrible, I’m sure. Because you can’t buy anything with the lousy ration cards the Germans give us. No apples, no oranges, no onions, no garlic, no cheese, no chicken, no fish, no anything. Most food you’d actually want to eat you have to buy on the black market, where everything costs way more than it should.

  “What meeting?” I ask.

  “A meeting,” she says, not even bothering to look at me.

  * * *

  I was right, dinner was awful. And Father wasn’t even home for it. Plus no one would play cards with me after. As soon as he did get home, he and Mother ran off to their room and closed the door. They only came out to tell me to get into bed.

  I’m really hungry, if only I could fall asleep already. But I’m still not used to this place.

  “Marietta,” I whisper.

  “What do you want?”

  “What do you think Father is doing when he’s gone so late?”

  “What do you think? Trying to get us out of here.”

  “Do you think he will?”

  “He better,” she says. “He should have never come back from London. He should have done whatever he had to then to move all of us there.”

  “But so where would we go now? Now that he’s back. I mean, the Germans are everywhere. And we don’t even—”

  “Misha,” she says, almost nicely, “not now, okay? I just want to sleep.”

  * * *

  The funny thing is that this apartment is only three blocks from the Old-New Synagogue. And we still go there, Father and I, even if we don’t get to do our walk along the river anymore.

  Last week we got to the synagogue early, and Father pointed at some metal rungs climbing up the pale side of the old building. About twenty rungs, the line of them curving just a bit as they go up, leading to the dark brown bricks right below the pointy, triangular roof. But then, for some reason, the rungs end right by a small door that’s always, always closed. I mean the thing doesn’t even have a doorknob.

  “Do you see those, Misha?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “They lead to the attic, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you know what’s up there?”

  “What?”

  “Well, about four hundred years ago, there was a very great rabbi, Rabbi Loew. And he wanted to protect the Jews. So he made a creature out of clay that he gathered from the banks of the river.”

  “Our river?”

  “Yes, of course. From the Vltava. And then he brought it to life. Using only the powers of Hebrew, Rabbi Loew gave it life. He put the name of God on—”

  “The name of God? What does that mean?”

  “Good question, Misha,” he said, patting me on the shoulder. “I don’t know. But he did. So he wrote it on a piece of parchment and placed the parchment in the creature’s mouth. And just like that it came to life. A powerful creature. The Golem.”

  “Did it work?” I asked. “Did the Golem really protect us?”

  “It did, it did,” Father said, nodding his head. “Until the Golem grew too strong. And instead of merely protecting us, it started harming people who didn’t deserve it. Even Rabbi Loew couldn’t control him.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Well, the rabbi tricked the Golem into coming close to him. He did it right here in fact, right where we’re standing now. And then he reached—”

  “How did he trick him?”

  “You know what, Misha?” Father laughed. “I have no idea. But Rabbi Loew was very smart. So, somehow, he reached his hand into the Golem’s mouth and removed the parchment.”

  “And that stopped the Golem?”

  “Yes, it fell into pieces instantly.”

  I looked at the sidewalk, trying to picture giant lumps of clay everywhere. But it was impossible. “So what does that have to do with those rungs?”

  “Right, right, Misha. Of course. That’s where Rabbi Loew put him. What was left of him anyway. All those lumps of clay. And many believe the Golem is still there.”

  And I was about to ask Father if he thought it was a true story, but just then Petr Weiss interrupted us, because even though Father doesn’t work anymore, he’s still a very important man. So people always want to speak with him.

  * * *

  I can hear Marietta breathing loudly now. Lucky her, she’s asleep. So I try to match my breathing to hers, because sometimes that works.

  So why don’t we go up there and get the Golem? Someone must still know the name of God, and even with everything the Germans took, I’m sure we could find some parchment somewhere. And then all we’d have to do is put it back inside the clay mouth, and the Golem would take care of everything else. Just like that, no more Nazis.

  O
f course it might get out of control again and hurt people who don’t deserve it.

  But so what? Because what did we do to deserve this? What did any of us do? What did I do that made those kids want to throw rocks at me and chase me down an alley a few weeks ago? What did any of us do to make the Nazis threaten to kill us, just for walking into a hotel?

  And if this all doesn’t end soon, then what? What will worse actually be like?

  It’s no use; I can’t fall asleep. I get out of bed quietly and walk toward their bedroom.

  Amazing. Their light is actually off. I carefully open the door. Even more amazing, they might actually be asleep.

  I lift myself up onto their bed, crawl toward their pillows, and squeeze in between my parents.

  “Misha?” Father asks, half asleep.

  “I couldn’t fall asleep.”

  Mother mumbles something while Father lifts up the blanket and waits for me to get comfortable. Back in our old apartment, they’d never let me do something like this. And I wouldn’t have wanted to anyway. But here it’s okay.

  Father drapes an arm over me and pulls me into his side, my ear pressing up against his pajamas. Somehow his breath reminds me of just how tired I am.

  Maybe having the Golem again would help, but Father’s pretty tough too. Plus he’s probably as smart as that rabbi was. Or almost, which is still very smart. I bet he’s going to come up with a great plan soon. Yeah, as long as Father’s around we’ll be fine.

  September 8, 1941

  THEY’RE NOT SO GOOD. IF I was allowed in the park, I’d show them. I mean, that boy with the vest, he can’t dribble at all. Still, it’s almost fun to watch. Because later, when I’m in bed, it’ll help me imagine a game where I can play. And in those games, I’m always the star.

  Always a star. Exactly.

  Because now there’s always one on my chest. There has to be. That’s the latest rule. A week ago Mother came home with a stack of stars. Yellow, six points. That makes it a Jewish star, a Star of David. At least that’s what Father says. And in the middle, in thick black German letters, Jude.