I start walking off as fast as I can, but then Kapr says, “We’re just talking.”
The man grabs the back of Kapr’s jacket and throws him to the ground. “Now,” he says.
Kapr gets up and brushes some dirt off. “Jila,” he says, “when we get back to Prague, we’ll—”
“Go!” the guard screams. “Unless you want to join him. Which can easily be arranged.” He actually sounds happy saying it. I swear, if he didn’t have that star on his chest, I’d bet he was a Nazi himself. Rotten, definitely rotten.
About ten steps later, I turn back toward the Schleuse. Jila’s already gone.
Pretty soon I can barely hear the Schleuse behind us.
“Stupid guard,” Kapr says, throwing something, the rest of his roll maybe, at a tree.
“Kapr,” I say.
“Huh?”
“Where do you think they’re going?” He picks up a rock and throws it at another tree. “I mean, do you think that maybe, maybe it won’t be so bad? Because it would be pretty hard for a place to be worse than here, right? Because in a lot of ways this place is even worse than Prague was at the end. You know?” I ask, not sure if I’m saying all of this just to make him feel better or because I actually believe it. “Not enough food and living in a room crammed with about ten times too many people where fleas bite you all night long. The whole place surrounded by high walls covered in grass. And old people dying all the time. Not to mention,” I say, beginning to feel that I believe all this a little more than I wish I did, “they can just order any of us onto a transport whenever they want. With no warning at all. So, you know, maybe where they’re going won’t be so bad. Maybe it’ll be better. Maybe it’s just because it’s so crowded here, and wherever they’re going there’s more space. Maybe that’s the only reason. Maybe you don’t ever have to leave wherever they’re all going, at least not until the war finally ends. And maybe, maybe,” I say, trying hard to cheer myself up, “maybe they’ll even have real soccer fields there and Jila will be able to start a version of the Nesharim team there.”
Kapr looks at me but doesn’t answer.
“Guys! Guys!” someone yells to us. I turn around. It’s Pedro.
“Hey, what are you doing?” I ask.
“We got off! It worked! My dad got us off!”
“That’s great,” Kapr says, and looks like he’s about to say something else, but then turns around and quickly walks on ahead of us.
Pedro doesn’t seem to notice, just says, “My uncle works in the finance department, and he knows Edelstein’s assistant, and, well, we got off!”
Just then Kapr starts running, but for some reason turns right, which is the opposite direction from our building. Pedro and I take off after him. A couple of minutes later we find him inside the arched doorway of another building, his arms crossed, his head pressed against the smooth, hard wall.
“Kapr,” I say, “c’mon, let’s go. Franta told us to be back soon. We should hurry up.” He doesn’t say anything, just turns farther away from us.
“Yeah,” Pedro says, reaching out his arm and putting it on Kapr’s shoulder.
“Just leave me alone!” Kapr screams, and then his whole back starts shaking.
* * *
“Do you think,” I ask Pedro when we’re almost at our building, “do you think that two thousand means exactly two thousand?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Probably.”
“Because,” I say, feeling the words come out of my mouth but not being too happy about it, “the Germans, they seem pretty serious about things being really organized, right?”
“Yeah,” Pedro says.
“And so I bet it does. Mean exactly two thousand.”
“So what?” Pedro says.
“Forget it,” I say.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“What, Misha?”
“Just that, you know, doesn’t that mean that some other people will have to go instead of your family? Now that you’re off.”
Pedro doesn’t answer. We walk another minute or so until we get to L417. He opens the door, but then stops before going inside. “So long as it’s not us,” he says real fast, “I don’t care. I don’t.”
* * *
We’re heading down our hallway upstairs, when I see a familiar body from behind.
Mother. What’s she doing here?
I run quickly ahead, but she turns around before I reach her. She’s holding that blanket in her hands again.
“Misha,” she says, smiling weakly.
“Hi,” I say. And I’m about to say something else, I’m not sure what, when the door to our room opens and Franta steps out.
“You’re late,” he says to me, not happy at all. “I told you”—he checks his watch—“to be here fifteen minutes ago. And where’s Kapr?”
“Hey, Franta,” Pedro says casually when he reaches us, like the whole thing was a joke he played on everyone.
“Pedro!” Franta’s eyes light up. He reaches his hand out and messes up Pedro’s hair. “You got off, you got off!” Then he pulls Pedro to him and gives him a big hug. “Welcome back, my friend, welcome back.”
“My uncle did it!”
“I see, I see. That’s wonderful. Now get inside. I was about to read to everyone.”
Pedro disappears, leaving just the three of us.
“A horrible day,” Mother says, still clutching the blanket. Franta nods and rubs his face. “I brought this for Misha,” she says, “until it warms up a bit.”
“Misha,” Franta says, “why don’t you go inside and wash up?”
I look back and forth at the two of them, not sure what to do. Should I take the blanket? Should I see if Mother is going to tell me to go inside like Franta said? While I’m standing there, Kapr comes running down the hall and disappears inside the room before Franta can even say a word to him, leaving me to continue staring at the two of them. In the end, I hug her without moving my feet and go inside. But then, after closing the door, I stick my ear to it, plugging my other ear with my thumb.
“Mrs. Gruenbaum, I—” Franta says.
“I want him to have it,” she says. “Half the boys in this room have been sick since we got here two months ago. And if we get called on the next transport, he needs to be well.”
And even though maybe I realized it was a possibility since yesterday, hearing Mother actually say it, that we could be on a transport, it makes my stomach tighten up like a small fist. What if there are three people in Pedro’s family and so we get called instead? Because this place might not be perfect, but I don’t want to leave, that’s all I know.
“In fact,” I hear Franta say through the door, “we’ve had only eight illnesses requiring medical attention since the start of December. You should know that the boys spend a great deal of time every day cleaning—”
“Franta,” Mother says, “listen to me. I appreciate what you do. I know Misha adores you. But I am his mother. His mother. And you, there’s a great deal you don’t know. About our family. About being a parent. You cannot—”
“Mrs. Gruenbaum, my job at this camp is your son. Your son and thirty-seven, no, thirty-eight, other sons. This is what I do, all day, every day. My workday, unlike yours, has no end.”
“That’s not fair, Franta, you—”
“When the decision was made to house children separately, the decision was also made that the madrichs would have final authority. If you give Misha that blanket, other boys will—”
“I don’t care about the other boys! I care ab—”
“And that’s why I’m in charge, and you’re not.”
“How dare you! I’m not some—”
“I’m sorry, just a moment,” Franta says. Suddenly the door opens and I stumble into the hallway. “Misha,” he says to me, “wash up and get into bed. Now.”
A couple of minutes later the door opens. It’s Franta. Alone and without the blanket.
“It’s been a long day,” he an
nounces to the room. “But if you’re quiet and promise not to complain in the morning, I’ll read an extra five minutes tonight.”
* * *
If I had to guess, I’d say he read an extra ten minutes, maybe even fifteen. But it doesn’t really matter, because a half hour later I can still hear Kapr, alone in the bed he used to share with Jila, crying himself to sleep.
July 7, 1943
“MISHA.” FRANTA POINTS TO ME at the end of practice.
“Yes?” All of us are sitting in a tight circle. Franta stands in the middle, quizzing us on strategy.
“What do you do if Petr is on the attack and coming right at you?” This practice was about ten times more serious than any practice so far, and we’ve had some pretty serious practices.
“Petr Adler?” I ask.
“No, Peter Pan,” Franta says, clearly annoyed. A few of the other boys laugh.
Of course this practice was more serious, we’ve made the finals. We actually made the finals, I still can’t believe it. Came from behind to beat Room 9, 4–3. Now we get to play Room 1. They have Otto Hirsch and Zdenek Taussig, who are both better than anyone we have. They clobbered Room 5, 7–2.
I wipe some sweat out of my eyes. Today’s got to be the hottest day since I’ve been here. “I force him to the sideline.”
“Exactly,” Franta says, nodding his head. “Exactly. On defense the sideline is your teammate. Don’t give them the middle of the field. Don’t ever give them the middle of the field. The middle is ours.” Franta turns and points at someone else. “Koko.”
“Yeah,” he answers.
“They have a corner kick. You’re in goal. You don’t like where Pavel and Jiri are standing. What do you do?”
“I tell them.”
“Tell them?” Franta asks, raising his eyebrows.
“Yeah,” Koko says, “I tell them.”
“No, you shout at them! ‘Pavel, you’re on Otto! No, other side! On his right! Jiri, two steps back! Now! Go!’ You’re in charge back there. It’s not a time for manners. And all of you, talk to each other out there. Communicate. If we play as a team”—Franta makes a fist—“we win. If we play as individuals, we lose. It’s that simple.” He crosses his arms, stretching the dark oval of sweat on the back of his shirt into something closer to a circle. “Everyone, in.”
We get up and cluster around him. Pavel, Felix, Pudlina, Koko, Gorila, Pedro, Jiri, Leo, Hanus, Majoshek, Erich, Grizzly, Kapr, and me.
“Rim, rim, rim, tempo Nesharim,” Franta whispers, and extends his hand. Everyone whispers it back and puts a hand on top of his. “Rim, rim, rim, tempo Nesharim,” he says, a little louder this time.
“Rim, rim, rim, tempo Nesharim,” we answer.
“Rim, rim, rim, tempo Nesharim!” he says.
“Rim, rim, rim, tempo Nesharim!”
“Rim, rim, rim, tempo Nesharim!”
“Rim, rim, rim, tempo Nesharim!”
And then nothing but the sound of our voices slowly echoing back to us from the far wall of this stupid prison fortress.
“Great practice,” Franta says. “Now back to the room to wash up. And then everyone, meet in the basement of the girls’ barracks in twenty minutes.”
“What’s there?” Gorila asks.
“Something new,” Franta says, “now go.”
* * *
“We’re going to destroy Room One,” Felix says on our way back.
“I’d be glad just winning by one,” Pavel says.
“Yeah,” Erich says.
We cross the train tracks, the new train tracks running all the way into the camp. Just a week ago the first train arrived on them. A short one, carrying maybe a hundred Jews. And then a few days later, another with the same amount. Someone said they were both from Berlin. No one was transported to the East on either train when they pulled out of here, but still, it’s not like they’d lay these tracks just to bring in a couple hundred people.
We walk along the rail, all of us in a line, until we reach the end.
* * *
Thank God Franta said the basement and not the attic. The air down here is kind of heavy and tastes like dust and spiderwebs, but at least it’s cool. There’s a lot of kids sitting on the floor, including girls, all of us facing the front of the room. I notice Inka and her red hair off to one side. And like most everywhere else around here, it’s extremely loud.
“Children, children, quiet down!” a madricha, which is what they call a madrich if she’s not a man, says. It takes a while, but eventually the room is almost quiet. There are two older men up near the front of the room with her. Both have thick dark hair, and the skinnier one has a widow’s peak. The other one looks a little sleepy.
“I’m Resi,” the madricha says. “Hello.”
Some of the kids say hello back, though not me or Jiri, who’s sitting next to me.
“How many of you,” Resi asks, taking her long brown braid and tossing it over her shoulder, “have participated in a choir or a play since you’ve been here?” I put my hand up, like most of the other kids here. “Helga”—the woman points at a girl off to one side—“what have you been in?”
“A choir,” some girl I can’t see says. “We sing songs in Czech, and some in Hebrew, too.”
“Good,” the madricha says. “Good. What about plays—who’s been in a play?” Along with a ton of other kids I put my hand up. For some reason, the Nazis don’t care if we put on plays; I still don’t know why. Suddenly I realize Resi is actually pointing at me. “Yes, and what was the name of it?”
“The Pied Piper of Hamelin,” I say, glad she didn’t ask what role I had, since I was just one of the rats, and then one of the kids. Though I did play an instrument too. Well, not a real instrument. Just a comb with a piece of toilet paper wrapped around it. But it actually sounded pretty good.
“Excellent, excellent. Now, does anyone know what you call it when you combine a choir with a play?” There’s a lot of murmuring, but no one raises their hand. “No one knows?” Resi asks with a grin on her face. “Lilka, I know you know.”
“An opera?” a girl with curly hair near the front says.
“Exactly, an opera,” Resi says, and looks over at the two men, who don’t seem too interested in our conversation. “Well, guess what? We’re going to perform an opera. A children’s opera.” More murmuring and even some laughs. “This”—she points at the man with the widow’s peak—“this is Rafael Schaechter, a pianist and composer.” The man nods his head slightly. “Did any of you see The Bartered Bride? The opera by . . . ?”
“Smetana,” Schaechter says, and nods his head slowly.
“Did any of you see it?” Resi asks us. A few kids raise their hand. “Too bad more of you couldn’t see it, because it was truly wonderful. Well, Mr. Schaechter was in charge of that production here. And now he’s agreed to be the musical director for a children’s opera—”
A bunch of kids start talking, and a bunch of others laugh. Schaechter leans over to the other man and whispers something to him.
“Children, children!” Resi shouts. “Please. Please quiet down.” Eventually the room gets quieter, but not really quiet. “This opera is called Brundibar.”
“Brundibar?” Jiri says to me, like she just said “underwear.”
Schaechter gets up from his chair and walks over to a small, brown piano near the back of the room. He opens the lid and runs his fingers along the keys, but doesn’t actually play anything. Then he starts playing a song. It almost sounds like a merry-go-round, but then it speeds up, or, I don’t know, it sounds like a merry-go-round if the horses were trying to break free. Schaechter closes his eyes and begins humming along to the piano. He hums softly, but I can hear him clearly, because now the room is completely silent. For some reason I close my eyes.
Eventually the piano stops, and I open my eyes. Resi points at the other man. “This is Rudolf Freudenfeld. He will be our director. Rudolf, would you tell them what Brundibar is about?”
He stands up and begins pacing in front of us, not looking tired at all anymore. His hands go up like he’s a magician. “There are two children, Aninka and Pepichek. They are brother and sister. Their father is gone. And their mother is ill. Very ill. The doctor comes one day and says, ‘She will only get better if she drinks milk.’ But they have no money. Why, they are nearly orphans! What will they do?” He looks over at Schaechter, like he’s expecting him to answer, but Schaechter seems more interested in the piano. “They decide to sing in the marketplace. To raise money. But the evil organ-grinder, Brundibar”—he says the name like it tastes bad—“keeps chasing them away. Brundibar is a terrible man with a mustache—”
“A terrible man with a mustache,” Jiri leans over and whispers to me. “Sound familiar?”
“What will they do? They need money. Well, lucky for Aninka and Pepichek, a sparrow, a cat, and a dog, along with the other children of the town, they help them to defeat Brundibar. In the end, all of them sing together in the marketplace.” He looks over at Schaechter again who nods. “This is the story of Brundibar.”
Freudenfeld sits down, and Resi says to us, “If you want to perform in Brundibar, stay here for more information. In a few days there will be tryouts for Aninka, Pepichek, the animals, and Brundibar. And anyone can be in the chorus, though you must agree to attend all—”
“All,” Schaechter says firmly without looking up from the piano.
“Yes,” Resi continues, “all rehearsals. Okay, that’s it.”
Everyone gets up, and within two seconds the room is somehow even noisier than it was before she first spoke.
“C’mon,” Jiri says, “if we hurry we can get a game of Chinese checkers in before Apel.”
“I think,” I say, “I’m going to stay.”
“Seriously?” Jiri says, like I’ve gone crazy. “Why?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug my shoulder, “I sort of liked the music.”
“But you can’t sing,” Jiri says.
Somewhere There Is Still a Sun Page 12
