“Maybe if we were coming back from the Dresden Barracks,” Tommy says, “and this thing wasn’t weighed down with all these loaves, maybe then we could lift it.”
“Well,” I say, winking, “what if a few, you know, fall out?”
Tommy’s eyes grow wide. “Misha!” he whispers loudly, “a few rolls is one thing, but actual loaves of bread?”
He’s right. That wouldn’t be the best idea. Because you can hide rolls, especially when your pants, even though you’ve had them for four years, are as loose as mine. But hiding a loaf of bread is another story. Too bad, because yesterday I traded a couple of rolls with a woman for the end of a salami. This is definitely the best job in the whole camp, even if we barely understand anything the Danish men who run the bakery say to us. Plus, Tommy’s really nice and even listens to me, probably because I’m older and officially in charge of our wagon. We get to walk all over Terezin, and a lot of the time we get to choose the route. Also, I was able to get Kikina a job here too, and he won’t stop thanking me for that. Oh, and of course, working for the bakery gets me out of classes. Maybe it’s not so good to be missing so many lessons, but I’ll take being full and stupid over smart and hungry any day.
“What if we rock it back and forth?” I say to Tommy. “Maybe that’ll work.”
We try that for a while, only the thing won’t budge, probably because it’s as long as me and Tommy put end to end. Eventually a man with a mustache and thick stubble walks by, so we ask him for help.
“You two grab that end, and I’ll push from here,” he says from my corner and puts his unbelievably dirty hands near the bottom of the wagon. It takes a while, but after rocking it back and forth about twenty times, we finally lift it up and out.
“Thanks a bunch, mister,” I say after we’ve got it rolling again.
“No problem,” the man says, walking alongside the wagon, like he’s just taking a leisurely stroll with us. We turn a corner and go down a narrow street between two large buildings. “Hey,” the man says quietly, looking behind us, “how about, uh, something for my troubles?”
“Huh?” I ask.
He points at the wagon with his thumb. “Awful lot of bread there. I can’t imagine anyone would notice one less loaf.”
I stop pushing and look at Tommy, who stops pushing too. But he just raises one of his shoulders and murmurs something I can’t hear. So I reach into my pants and pull out a yeast roll.
“They count the loaves,” I say, handing it to the man. “And this tastes better anyway.”
The man quickly grabs the roll and takes a huge bite.
“Hey, mister,” Tommy says, “why are your hands so dirty?”
“Tommy,” I whisper, shaking my head.
“What?” he says back, because I guess he has no idea you shouldn’t say stuff like that, especially to adults.
“Been planting flowers all week,” the man says, taking another bite, “getting our little paradise ready for some esteemed visitors.”
“Visitors?” I ask. “What visitors?”
“Not sure exactly. I hear it’s got something to do with the Red Cross,” he says, talking with his mouth full. “All I know for sure, they’re not painting the barracks and building you kids a playground and installing benches everywhere just because they suddenly decided they like us Jews after all. The only thing they do for us is tell us which train to get on.” He laughs quickly and then cuts himself off. “Seven thousand five hundred people in four days, and the day after that they’re planting grass everywhere, like this is some kind of vacation getaway.” He sticks his finger into his mouth, picks something off his back teeth, and then makes a sucking sound. “Okay, back to landscaping detail,” he says, and starts walking toward where we first met him. “Thanks for the snack, gentlemen.”
* * *
After work and the longest Apel ever (Franta made us hunt for bedbugs, which have been pretty awful lately), I go to the Dresden Barracks. I was able to schlojs half a loaf at the end of work, stuffing a quarter in each pocket, and I want to give them to Mother and Marietta.
Their room is pretty empty. Which isn’t surprising, because I sort of wondered if anyone would be here at all. When I left our building, I noticed a ton of people in the town square, where they never even used to let us go. But they took down the giant tent, and now some orchestra plays there in the evening under the new wooden pavilion the Nazis had us build. And if people don’t like what they’re playing, they can go to the coffeehouse across the street and hear the Ghetto Swingers play jazz instead. The other day I even saw a man play the trombone, which must be the most amazing instrument ever.
It’s like if you weren’t really paying attention, you might think this isn’t just a massive prison.
Marietta is sitting at a table, reading a book. I don’t see Mother anywhere.
I walk quietly over to my sister but don’t say hi, just place the bread over what she’s reading.
“Hey,” she says, annoyed, before she notices what’s blocking her view and who brought it. “Misha Gruenbaum,” she says, admiring the bread, “master schlojser.”
“You’re welcome,” I say. But she doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking at the bread. “Go ahead, it’s yours. I have another chunk just like that for Mother.” Marietta carefully tears off part of the crust and takes a bite. “Hey, where is she, anyway?”
“In bed, I think,” Marietta says, motioning with her head, since she’s already reading again. “Something”—she lowers her voice—“is bugging her. But she won’t tell me what.”
* * *
Mother is in bed, but I missed her, maybe because she’s curled up like a tiny ball.
“Hi,” I say. She tries to smile at me, but it doesn’t really work. “I brought you some bread. From work.”
“Thanks,” she says softly. “But I’m not hungry. You should have it.”
“No, it’s for you,” I say, placing the bread on the thin edge of the bed frame. “I’ll get more tomorrow.”
She doesn’t say anything. Instead she lifts up one of her arms. “Come,” she says. I’m not that interested in joining her, since I know some of the guys were going to play soccer, only she looks so sad. She rolls over a bit, revealing a postcard she was lying on for some reason. I reach out for it, but she snatches it before I can.
“Who’d you get a postcard from?” I ask.
“It’s nothing,” she says.
“Nothing?” But she doesn’t answer. So I grab it out of her hands.
“Misha!” she says, trying to get it from me, but I’m already a few steps away from her bed. Only the postcard doesn’t really say much.
We arrived here in good health and I am already working as a seamstress. Best regards and wishes for good health.
It’s from Aunt Louise, who left on one of the transports with Uncle Ota about two weeks ago. The return address says, “Birkenau.” Other than Mother’s name and the address here, that’s pretty much it.
“What’s the big deal?” I say. “It barely even says anything.” Mother gets up and takes it from me, but still doesn’t answer. “I don’t see why you’re in such a bad mood. She said everything’s fine. Plus the weather is finally warm here and this place isn’t so ugly anymore. Not to mention the air raid yesterday, right? Franta said they were Allied planes. And if they’re flying over Terezin, how far could they be from Germany? I bet we’ll be back in Prague in a couple of weeks. You’ll get to see Aunt Louise then.”
Marietta walks over and pulls the postcard out of Mother’s hand. “Why didn’t you show me this?” she asks quickly.
“It’s nothing,” Mother says, lying back down.
“Right,” Marietta says, “and I’m sure this nothing has nothing to do with why you’ve been in bed since you came back from work. You didn’t even have dinner.”
I look back and forth from Marietta to Mother, trying to figure out what’s going on. But Marietta’s just standing there with her arms crossed, while Mother
stares at the bottom of the bunk above her.
“Do you see,” Mother finally says, almost in a whisper, “do you see how the handwriting slants down like that?”
I look at the postcard, the writing is definitely slanting down.
“Yeah, so?” Marietta says.
“We made an agreement. Louise and I. Before she left.”
“What do you mean, agreement?” I ask.
“We knew they’d make them send something like this, so . . .” Marietta has the strip of crust near her mouth but isn’t actually eating it. “If things are good there, she’d write slanting up. Slanting down means things are bad.”
“Bad how, Mother?” Marietta asks. She doesn’t get an answer.
“Maybe she got mixed up,” I say. “Maybe she thought slanting down means good. Anyhow, it says she got a job already. Right? Because how bad can being a seamstress be?” I look over at Marietta for support, but she’s watching Mother and doesn’t seem too convinced by my reasoning. “She arrived in good health. It says so.”
“Bad how?” Marietta tries again.
“Or maybe it’s just a little worse,” I say. “Like, I don’t know, maybe there aren’t any good musicians there. That’s possible, right?”
“Anyway,” Marietta says, “Gustav told me things will be pretty much the same there.” Mother shakes her head slightly and maybe laughs. “What?” Marietta says, sounding insulted. “What makes you so sure he’s wrong?”
“Who’s Gustav?” I ask. No one answers me. “Who is he?”
“My boyfriend,” Marietta finally says.
“Is he tall?” The words come out before I realize it.
Marietta makes a weird face. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say.
“Um, well, yes, he’s kind of tall. But why does that matter?”
“He says it’s okay there?” I ask.
Marietta nods.
“He’s just a boy,” Mother says. “How could he possibly—”
“Seventeen isn’t a boy, Mother,” Marietta says angrily. “He knows what he’s talking about. And anyway, they haven’t put us on a transport yet, so we don’t have to worry.”
Mother picks up the bread, takes a bite, and chews slowly. “Actually, they did put us on a transport—”
“What?” I ask. Marietta crosses her arms again.
“But I was able to speak with someone on the Council. I reminded them of what Father did for the community back in Prague. They agreed to remove us.”
“When was this?” Marietta asks.
“A couple of weeks ago.” Mother picks up the postcard and sticks it in a thin space between the mattress and the bed frame. “And they . . . they put . . . they put Misha on one a few days later, but I was able to do the same.”
“Just me?” I ask. “Why just me?”
But Mother doesn’t respond, just curls back into the shape of a ball. I almost ask my question again, but in the end I don’t. Instead I just say bye, or maybe I don’t, and hurry out, trying hard to think about nothing but soccer.
June 23, 1944
“NOW WHAT ARE YOU GOING to say when you receive the cans?” some Jewish man, who keeps touching a sore on his cheek, asks all of us while we’re waiting for the visitors to arrive.
“Sardines again, Uncle Rahm?” the line of us says.
“Louder,” he tells us. “You’re sick of eating sardines, every single day. Right? Now try again.”
“Sardines agaaaiiin, Uncle Rahm?” we say.
“Good, good,” he says, not looking all that pleased. “Much better.”
“I don’t want sardines; I hate sardines!” Pavel says and stomps his feet, like he’s about to have a tantrum. Then he cracks up.
The man walks over to him. “You think this is funny?”
“Not if I actually get some sardines,” Pavel says with a big smile on his face.
“You think Commandant Rahm has a sense of humor?” Pavel doesn’t say anything. “Do you?” Pavel shrugs his shoulders and grins. The man touches the spot on his cheek, maybe picking at something there. Suddenly he smacks Pavel, so hard Pavel nearly falls over. For a few seconds no one does anything, until Pavel spits at the man’s feet. The man tries to smack him again, but Pavel ducks. “Get out of here, now!” the man shouts. “Or you’ll be sleeping in the Small Fortress tonight. Don’t think I can’t arrange it.”
The Small Fortress. Where they sent Father. Just hearing it makes my skin crawl. I still don’t know exactly what goes on there. All I do know, I’ve never heard of anyone coming back from there.
Pavel jogs off. “Say hi to Uncle Rahm for me,” he says to Felix and me as he passes by.
Just then four shiny black cars pull up. The first one stops, and the driver, a stocky SS officer, gets out, walks to the back and opens the door. A Jew in a dark, fancy suit gets out.
“A Jew with a chauffer?” I whisper to Felix.
“That’s Eppstein,” he whispers back.
“Eppstein?”
“Franta said he replaced Edelstein, the guy who used to be in charge.”
“What happened to Edelstein?”
“No idea,” Felix says.
Someone shushes us just as I was about to ask Felix if he thinks Eppstein has a black eye or not. Because I’m pretty sure he does. Men in suits get out of the other cars, along with one other SS officer, from the last car.
The second SS officer, who has a high forehead and his hair shaved on the sides, walks to the far end of our line, which has maybe forty kids in it. The man who had us rehearse what to say is standing there very straight, holding a cardboard box in his hands. The SS officer walks over to him, reaches his hand into the box and pulls out a small stack of tin cans.
“Sardines!” the man with the box says, like he’s surprised or something. He looks at us with his eyebrows raised.
“Sardines again, Uncle Rahm?” we say, almost in unison. The rest of the adults, who must be from the Red Cross, stand together by the cars. A couple whisper to each other. One stands with his arms crossed. Another writes something down in a small notebook. Will they really believe this whole thing? That Rahm gives us sardines? That we’d complain to him? Could they be that stupid?
And are there really sardines inside these cans?
A minute later, Rahm, who smells like too much aftershave, places a can into my outstretched hand. I say thank you, but he doesn’t say you’re welcome.
* * *
“Who cares that we didn’t get to keep the sardines,” I say to Kikina, “so long as we’re getting a lunch like this.” I look down at my dull metal plate, which has about three times as much food on it as normal. Plus it’s real food. Mashed potatoes, onions, cucumber salad, and tongue.
“Too bad the Red Cross doesn’t visit every day,” Shpulka says, cramming a forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth.
“I don’t know,” Kikina says. “I don’t think I could clean our room for that long ever again. That was way too much, even for Franta.”
“Do you think they’ll actually buy it?” I ask.
“Buy what?” Shpulka asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Everything. This lunch, and those flowers, and just how great everything looks here now.”
“Why wouldn’t they?” Kikina asks. “How would they know the difference?”
“Well,” I say, “they’d find out pretty quick if they actually asked anyone.”
“And do you think the Nazis are going to let that happen?” Shpulka says. “Yeah, right.”
We eat for a while longer, no one saying anything. This food tastes pretty amazing, but the whole thing with the Red Cross makes my stomach feel a little weird at the same time.
“Hey,” Shpulka says, “who are the teachers playing today?”
“The electricians,” Kikina says.
“Of course,” Shpulka says, shaking his head, “the two best teams. So the Red Cross can see how great the soccer is here in lovely Theresienstadt.”
Kikin
a sticks his tongue out, which has some tongue on it. We all laugh.
“When’s the game?” I ask.
“I think around four,” Shpulka says.
“Oh man,” I say, “I’ve got to do Brundibar then.”
“Have fun,” Kikina says.
“Do you think that those Red Cross people, do you think they’ll get what the opera is really about?” I ask.
“I doubt it,” Kikina says. “If they were smart enough to figure that out, they’d know that this whole visit is a joke, and it wouldn’t matter.”
“But so why are they here in the first place?” I ask. Only no one answers. My food is slowly starting to taste better and worse at the same time for some reason. “And wait, do you think . . . do you think maybe this is why they let us do plays and operas in the first place? Even though we can’t have school—”
“But we do have school,” Shpulka says.
“No we don’t,” I answer back quickly.
“Didn’t you hear?” he says. “They turned a couple of rooms into a school, only—”
“Where?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” Shpulka says, “over by the Hamburg Barracks, I think.”
“You’re lying,” Kikina says.
“If you’d let me finish,” Shpulka says, “you’d know I wasn’t. My father told me himself. They made a few rooms look like classrooms. But then, get this, they put a sign on the entrance. It says”—Shpulka sticks his hand out in front of us and moves it from one side to the other—“ ‘School Closed for Vacation.’ ”
The three of us laugh, even though I’m not sure it’s all that funny.
“But wait,” I say. “Seriously, maybe that’s why they let us put on operas and play music and everything. Even though we can’t actually have school. So they can show us off. Right? Maybe that’s why. So people will think the Nazis actually care about us.”
“Yeah,” Shpulka says, “and next week they’re starting to film a movie here to show the whole world how great this place is.”
“They are?” I ask.
“I was kidding,” Shpulka says.
“Oh,” I say, even though I wouldn’t be surprised if he told me he wasn’t kidding after all.
Somewhere There Is Still a Sun Page 16
