Somewhere There Is Still a Sun

by Michael Gruenbaum

  “She’s not going anywhere,” Mother says, her voice sort of calm and sort of something else.

  Just then Marietta leaps up and grabs the suitcase. “I’m going with Gustav,” she says, and heads in my direction.

  “Stop her,” Mother says firmly. “Misha, please, stop her.”

  “Wait, Marietta, wait,” I say, putting my hands up in the air. “What are you doing? What are you talking about?”

  Marietta passes me, but then stops. Without turning around she says, “Gustav’s on the transport, and I’m volunteering to go with him.”

  “Marietta,” Mother says, and begins weeping. “Marietta . . . please . . . I’m begging you.”

  Marietta doesn’t say anything. I try to think of something to say, but I can’t, and I’m scared anything I do say will make her start walking again. Meanwhile, Mother keeps crying, even as she tries to stand straight and make her face look like the face of someone who isn’t crying.

  “I love him,” Marietta says, with her back still to us. “I want to be with him. I’m volunteering. And that’s that.”

  “Well . . . but . . . but what about us?” I ask.

  I see her shoulders rising up and down with each large breath. “I want to be with Gustav.” And she starts down the stairs.

  Mother rushes past me and grabs Marietta by the arm. “Who have you heard from?” she says to Marietta.

  “Leave me alone,” Marietta says, ripping Mother’s hand from her shoulder and continuing down the stairs.

  “Who have you heard from?” Mother repeats the question, this time slower, each word almost its own sentence. “Alena? Nina? Berta? Who? Dita, Marcela, Eva, Helena, Monika? Have you heard from any of them? Even from one of them? Five months, Marietta, they all left five months ago. We received one postcard from Louise. One. With the script slanting down, Marietta.”

  “So what?” Marietta turns and looks at us with disgust. “What? Do you think, what, that they’re just shooting everyone at the other end of the transport? They could do that to us here and save the trains for something else. Think about it.” She turns around. “I’m going with him. It’s final.” And she starts down the stairs again.

  “The last time one of us agreed to go with them,” Mother says quickly, her voice making my heart race and Marietta’s legs stop, “the last time just one of us went off with them . . .” Mother’s hand goes up to her mouth, and I can hear her crying again. “Marietta,” she says in almost a whisper, “if you go, and if I don’t see you again . . .”

  “Don’t . . . ,” Marietta says. “It’s not the same . . . you’re not—”

  “Marietta,” Mother says and walks down a few stairs until she reaches her. She hugs her from behind. “If you love him, and if he loves you,” she says softly, “then you’ll stay here, where he knows you’ll be safe. You’re safe here. It’s bad here, yes, but you’re safe. And if things are okay there, like he says, then when this is all over, you’ll find each other. And you’ll still love each other. Right? Wouldn’t you want him to do the same if you were the one going? Wouldn’t you want him here, where you know he’ll be okay?”

  Marietta doesn’t answer, but Mother doesn’t let go of her either. So we all just stand there, until, maybe a whole minute later, Marietta drops the suitcase, which tumbles down a couple more steps and comes to a rest against the wall. Then she walks all the way down the stairs and slams the door behind her.

  Mother sits down right where she was standing, so I take the suitcase back up to the attic and place it on top of a short stack of almost identical suitcases. And then I stay up there for a little while longer, until I can hear that Mother is done making these weird noises I’ve never heard her make before. Noises I hope I don’t hear from her again for a long, long, long time.

  October 6, 1944

  MOTHER TOLD ME NOT TO, she told me it would just make things worse, but for some reason I can’t help it. I go up to the bashta and wait until it pulls away. Today’s the fourth time I’m doing this. Two days ago I was probably up here for a couple of hours. But today it looks like they’re more organized, because here it comes. Seventeen cars long. The whole thing rattling and squeaking on the rails as it rolls out of the camp. To wherever exactly all these trains keep going. To the East. To the place where people write postcards with the letters slanting down.

  The fifth transport in ten days. Almost ten thousand people altogether.

  And I watch from up here. Because the one time I saw it from up close, the day Franta left, I knew I would never do that again.

  After I hugged him for the fifth time, after I watched him hug another dozen Nesharim for the fifth time, he headed for the train. He looked different that day. He looked—I don’t know—he looked quiet.

  The doors of the wooden cars slid open, but there was nothing inside. Nowhere to sit. Meaning the cars were just long, empty boxes on wheels. And then the guards, kicking and screaming, jammed as many people as possible into each one. More people than seemed possible actually. Like the time nine of us stuffed ourselves into the elevator back in Holesovice. The day it got stuck and Father made us take the stairs for a week.

  Now today’s train takes a turn, curving past some colorful trees and a long gray building with ten windows, all facing the tracks.

  We shouted good-bye to Franta one more time and watched him until he disappeared into a crowd of men disappearing into the fourth box. Where there would be nowhere to sit. And probably nowhere to go to the bathroom, either. They’d all just have to stand there like that, all crammed together until they got to wherever they were going. Which was probably going to take a while, because Poland—which is where everyone says these trains are going—I don’t think it’s all that close to here.

  Tuti and Brena and Gustl are gone now. I even saw Inka, her beautiful red hair tied into a tight ponytail, on her way to a transport a couple of days ago. I went up to her and said, “Bye, Inka,” mostly because I never had the guts before. She waved, even though we were only about ten feet away from each other and said, “See you later, Misha.” Which almost made me happy, because I always wondered if she actually knew my name.

  Gustav’s gone too. I haven’t seen Marietta since. She goes to work and spends the rest of the day in bed, refusing to speak to anyone.

  Oh well, today’s train is gone now too.

  Bye-bye.

  Okay, time to go.

  So I head back down and walk through the camp, all the way to the Dresden Barracks, where I’m staying for now. Terezin’s so quiet, and so empty. When I got here, almost two years ago, every street and sidewalk was like standing below the astronomical clock in the Old Town Square when it’s about to strike noon on a Sunday. People everywhere.

  But not anymore.

  No one plays under the wooden pavilion anymore. No one sits on any of the benches anymore. Somehow all of this would be a little easier to take if the leaves weren’t starting to fall off the trees and the air wasn’t getting colder. But winter coming makes it all that much worse.

  The Danish men in the bakery—who for some reason weren’t sent away when Franta was—they keep telling me and Tommy that this will all end soon. At least I think this is what they’re saying. Every day I hear some new rumor about the Allies’ progress and how badly the Germans are losing. But it’s all secondhand gossip at best, so who knows. And anyway, how badly could the Germans be losing if they’re still managing to organize all these trains out of here? If things were really that bad for them, they’d forget about us altogether and concentrate on fighting the other armies. At least that’s what I would do, because it’s not like we’re all that much of a threat or anything.

  I enter the barracks and head into my new room. Mother’s hanging a wet skirt over a clothesline running between two bunks. By the time it dries, the thing will smell like it needs to be washed again. She looks at me like she wants to ask me where I was, like she wants to yell at me for not listening to her, but she knows there’s no point. Becaus
e what’s she going to do? Send me to my room? I don’t have one. Give me extra chores? I work like a dog for hours every day. Threaten me with some other punishment? Yeah, right. What could be worse than this?

  So I just go to my bed and lie down. I could read a book or something, but I know I won’t be able to concentrate. Because there’s only one thought going through my head over and over and over again: If these transports keep up like this, pretty soon I won’t be watching from the bashta. In fact, I won’t be watching anything at all, because from what I could tell, those cars didn’t even have any windows.

  Actually, that’s not the only thought going through my head. Because there’s this, too: If you’re willing to put too many people in a train car with nowhere to sit, in a train car without windows, well, then what does that mean? Would you do that if you’re really taking people to someplace better? And what if Aunt Louise knew for certain what slanting down meant, and it is worse there?

  But worse how? And worse why? I mean, how is it even possible for everything to keep getting worse and worse for over five years now? When are things going to finally start getting better?

  And what if they don’t?

  October 12, 1944

  “WHERE DID MOTHER GO?” I ask Marietta, who ignores me as she opens her small bag and rearranges something inside it. After that she looks around the giant, noisy assembly room, like she’s waiting for someone else. “C’mon,” I try again, “where is she?”

  “How should I know?” she snaps back.

  “Fine,” I say quietly, and lower my eyes, even though I hardly want to see that stupid piece of paper tied around my neck with a string, the number 1385 the only thing printed on it. Marietta’s says 1386.

  That’s out of fifteen hundred. And we’re a part of it, because we’ve finally run out of luck. I guess Father’s reputation only saved us for so long.

  “Well . . . she better, I don’t know, she better hurry,” I say. “Because . . . because what if they start loading us and she’s not here? Then what happens?”

  “What? Are you worried she’ll miss the train? If it was that easy not to go, don’t you think that’s what everyone would do?” Marietta says. “She’s on the list, Misha, just like us. We’re all going. All of us.”

  She’s right. We are. Our day finally came, like I knew it would. And so now we’re in the Hamburg Barracks, in the Schleuse, where everyone reports and then waits and waits and waits. I saw Pavel with his mother before, but now I can’t find him. We’ve been here for a while, because when we arrived, the windows at the other end of the room were these kind of bright squares. But now the squares are pale gray.

  Marietta’s fussing with her bag again. I have no idea why. I thought she might be happy about winding up on a transport. Because of Gustav. But for some reason she’s not, not at all. “Hey,” I tell her, “do you want me to take something for you, because I have—”

  “Can’t you just leave me alone, Misha?” she says, her cheeks growing red. “Just for once?”

  “Sorry,” I say. “I was just . . . I was . . .” And then I’m trying to concentrate on the big black button on my bag. Just on that. Shiny metal. Four holes.

  I’m trying to block out Marietta’s voice echoing in my head. I’m trying not to think about the crowd everywhere and how they’re going to start loading us into those cars soon. I’m trying not to think about Mother and why she’s not here and how it almost doesn’t matter where she is and whether she comes back, because one way or another we’re all going to be on the next train, which will leave soon. And there’s nothing anyone can do about it. Not this time.

  Suddenly the only thing I can think about is Father, because for a second I was idiotic enough to think that he would figure something out. Some dumb part of me decided to forget he’s gone, hoping he’d know what to do. I actually pictured him in a suit and tie just walking in here and clearing the whole thing up. With his smile and calm confidence.

  But it’s been almost three years since he cleared anything up.

  Just concentrate on the button. Shiny metal. Four holes. Black thread.

  And then Marietta’s hand is on mine. Her cold, soft hand. “Sorry, Misha,” she whispers into my hair, her breath warm. “I’m sorry. She’ll be back soon. I know she will.”

  Shiny metal. Four holes. Black thread. A crooked scratch along the edge.

  * * *

  An hour later, with the gray windows growing dimmer, I see her. Walking swiftly between the clumps of people and heading straight for us. The number 1384 still tied around her neck. But her eyes don’t look quite like her eyes anymore. They’re open so wide, it looks like they might fall right out of her head. But I can’t tell if she’s happy or sad or what.

  “Come, let’s go,” she says when she reaches us.

  “Go where?” Marietta asks.

  But she just says, “Come, let’s go, hurry,” picks up her bag, and starts walking. So we stand up with our bags and follow her, even though she stops every few steps and touches the end of her left sleeve with her right hand. We wind around the other fatherless families gathered around their bags, until I realize where we’re going. Toward those guards at the wooden table in the far corner. Where we first checked in a bunch of hours ago.

  At the table two guards are smoking cigarettes and talking casually to each other, as if they weren’t in a room with fifteen hundred prisoners waiting for a transport to who knows where. Three German shepherds are sleeping in a spot on the floor behind them. “Excuse me,” Mother says to the guards, quietly but firmly. “Excuse me,” she says again a few seconds later.

  One of them looks up, his face extremely thin, with a long thin scar over his right eye. He says nothing.

  Mother inserts two fingers into the long sleeve of her dress and pulls out what looks like a tube. Then I see that it’s actually a rolled-up piece of paper. Looks like a scroll or something. She unrolls it flat on the table and turns it around, pushing it toward the guard. It’s just a quarter sheet of paper, with something typed on it. I think I see a signature on it as well. When he goes to grab it, she pulls it back, for just a moment.

  “We’ve been removed,” she says. “From the transport—”

  “I can read,” he says.

  “What?” Marietta asks excitedly. Mother shushes her.

  The guard elbows the other man, who drops his cigarette, crushes it under one of his shiny boots, and peers over the first guard’s shoulder at the paper.

  “Go up those stairs”—the second guard points to a door at the far end of the assembly area—“and wait in one of the rooms there. We’ll let you know when you can go.”

  “But,” Mother says, taking the paper back, “I’m sorry . . . but . . . it says we’re excused from the transport.” The first guard tilts his head a bit and flares his nostrils. One of the dogs growls, but doesn’t move. Another one opens its eyes. “I’m sorry . . . it’s just . . .”

  “Upstairs,” the first guard says. “Now.”

  Halfway up the stairs I hear a loud screeching. I run to the top and look out a narrow, barred window. Even though not much light is coming through this window, I can easily make out the train. The three of us squeeze together and watch it slowly rumble past. I try counting the cars but lose track at fourteen.

  Mother opens the first door, which is right next to the stairway. A room, around half the size of our old room back in L417. Filled with maybe thirty people, including Pavel and his mother.

  “Pavel!” I say.

  “Hey, Misha.” He waves. And I’m about to go over to him when Mother tugs my arm.

  “There’s nowhere to sit here. Come,” she says.

  Marietta walks a bit down the narrow hallway and opens the second door. Pretty much like the first room. Same size, same number of people. I think I see someone I recognize when Mother says, “Misha, go check the third door.”

  I take a dozen steps, my footsteps echoing off the hard wooden floor and bare walls, until I reach the d
oor, where I stand still for a moment. Somehow it’s totally silent here. I turn the knob and look inside. Two young women and a boy maybe half my age. That’s it.

  “Pretty much empty,” I say back to Mother and Marietta. They head over and we go inside, sitting on the floor near one of the far corners. I can’t tell if this is the right place to be or not, and I almost ask Mother, until I get a good look at her face. Her eyes are still opened wide like before, but the rest of her face, it almost looks like glass, like if the slightest thing goes wrong, the whole thing might shatter.

  * * *

  “So I asked Mr. Spier,” Mother says after we get settled, still clutching the piece of paper, “to please—”

  “Mr. Spier?” I ask.

  “The head of my department,” she says. I try to take the paper from her, but she pulls it away quickly.

  “What did he do?” Marietta asks as the door opens. Mother swings her head toward the door, like someone just shot a gun off over there. But all that happens is two women around Mother’s age and a girl come inside.

  “Mr. Spier,” Marietta says. “What did he do?”

  “Well,” Mother says, squeezing her eyes shut and taking a deep breath, “he went away for a while. And . . . and I simply sat there. Worrying about the two of you.” She almost laughs. “I worried that the train would come while I was gone . . . and that when I returned . . .”

  “See?” I say to Marietta, who just shakes her head.

  “Until he came back. With an SS officer. I had seen him before, a young man with baby blond hair. Very young. He would come to the workshop from time to time to speak with Mr. Spier. Never with anyone else. But today he came straight over to me, Mr. Spier right behind him. ‘Herr Richter,’ Mr. Spier said. ‘Do you recall your enthusiasm for the teddy bears we’ve been making?’ Richter didn’t say anything. He just crossed his arms. ‘You doubled your order two weeks ago. For Christmas, you said. Do you recall that? For these teddy bears.’ And from a table nearby Mr. Spier grabbed one of the bears I had made.”