‘How far is it?’ askes Julia.
‘From here? I don’t know. Maybe a couple of thousand kilometres.’
That night as she drifts between wakefulness and sleeping, Julia imagines going to Pompeii. She sees herself walking in the gate – which gate she’ll ask Suzanne in the morning – but some gate. When she walks in that gate she’ll know finally that she is free and her life can start again.
How will they get there? Train, she imagines. What does it cost? Will they have money? What’s going to happen when they leave here? How will it happen? Will somebody free them? The Russians? The Americans? Or will the Germans just pack up and leave?
So now she goes over it again, trying to answer all these questions. They arrive by train in Pompeii. Or is it Naples? Ask Suzanne in the morning. They have money. Maybe they were given some by whoever freed them or maybe they got a job. Yes, that’s better. They were freed by the Americans, she imagines. She’d prefer that. And she and Suzanne got jobs working for the Americans. Doing what, it doesn’t matter. Waitress. Working in a kitchen. Or an office. The important thing is that they have money.
And if they are freed this year, then they can work all winter and have enough money to go to Pompeii in the spring. April, maybe.
And now a very strange thing happens.
Because Julia suddenly has a vision of the fuse again. And it has been set alight at Pompeii – an unseen person has touched a match to it. But the barrel of gunpowder is in Theresienstadt – here in the barracks, in fact. Right under her bed, actually. And now the fuse begins to burn.
Down from Pompeii to the railway station in Naples – along the narrow roads that run along the coast that Suzanne has described to her. With blue water twinkling silver in the distance and huge lemons growing on the trees.
And then running alongside the railway track where the train that will bring them to Pompeii will run. All that distance. The two thousand kilometres or whatever it is. She assumes they will have to change trains from time to time, that there isn’t a direct route, but that’s OK. Every time they get off the train to wait for the next one, the fuse burns along the blackened cinders in the railway bed. Julia sees it, bright yellow in the black.
And then they’re back on next train and the fuse is running beside the rail. They can see it out the window. At least Julia can see it.
It’s almost become like a happy little companion. When night falls, it is bright, a sort of bluish white sizzling along as Julia gazes at it through the big window while the train rackets along. It goes all up Italy. Across the Alps. Julia’s knowledge of geography isn’t very good but she knows that much. Along valleys, yellow on green, over passes, sizzling across snow, the blue flame vivid against the blinding white.
And then down again onto the plains. Is that Switzerland? Or Austria? Julia is not sure. But it doesn’t matter anyway. Then the fuse turns north east crossing into Czechoslovakia. And then on up, burning across fields, over countryside, finding bridges to cross rivers, through villages and towns and cities.
Finally, the fuse burns right up to the gates of the base where the Americans are and where Julia and Suzanne are working. It passes under the barrier at the gate, unseen by the sentries, and crosses the parade ground. The tiny blazing light flies up some steps and in through a doorway. It burns across the floor of the hall where the Americans eat. It shoots under the swing door of the kitchen and Julia, standing at a sink washing dishes, hears it as it sizzles behind her. She glances over her shoulder and she just has time to see it disappear round the corner of a cooker. Then it is out under the wire fence that surrounds the base and it is heading for its final destination.
And now, at last, it comes through the gate at Theresienstadt – the same one through which their train came through all that time ago. The fuse wire has settled in the bottom of one of the tracks that runs up Bahnhofstrasse and so the flame burns brightly there. But then the wire takes a sudden ninety degree turn like a racing driver on a bend and climbs the steps of the very barracks in which Julia lies asleep.
She knows that the barrel of gunpowder is under her bed but she feels no fear. The fuse wire snakes up the stairs, climbing steps, turning corners. The black wire is consumed as the tiny, fizzing yellow flame hurtles upwards. It is going very fast now. Much faster than a fuse could in real life. It is as though it knows its journey is coming to an end. It’s like a marathon runner who knows that the race is won and has begun to sprint the last two hundred metres.
The fuse rounds the door frame of the room in which Julia lies asleep. It whizzes across the floor and in under her bed. She still feels no fear. It is as though she is watching this from somewhere else. The flame rockets up the side of the barrel and onto the lid. There, there is a small hole into which the fuse wire disappears. The yellow-blue flame seems to hesitate for a second. It has stopped. It is still burning but it is not moving. The hole in the lid of the barrel waits like an open mouth but the flame refuses to go in.
And then, with a faint sputtering sound almost like a sigh of weariness, it goes out. There is a tiny puff of black smoke that quickly diffuses into the air leaving only the smell of burnt cord behind.
When Julia wakes in the morning, her anger is gone.
47
Adolf is handing out their work assignments for the day. It is the eve of the visit of the International Committee of the Red Cross.
Julia stands to one side of Suzanne and studies her face. Even though it has become painfully thin with her hollow cheeks and shadowed eyes, Suzanne’s face is usually relaxed and – as Julia sees it – always ready to break into a smile. But the morning allocation of work, when she has to deal with Adolf, is the one exception. Here, Suzanne’s face is immobile, unsmiling, as though it were carved out of rock.
This morning Adolf has allocated work to everybody except the two girls.
‘It’s your lucky day,’ he says with a smile without warmth.
Julia feels Suzanne stiffen beside her.
‘Take these and report to the Marktplatz,’ says Adolf. ‘Don’t open them until you get there.’
He hands them each a brown paper parcel tied with string. Julia has a momentary flashback to Bert’s film and Chantal being the postman. And of course, the first thing she does when she is out of sight of Adolf, is to open the parcel. It contains a dark blue skirt and a white blouse, so clean and possibly new that it seems to almost shimmer in the sunlight. The yellow star is bright on the left breast. Julia and Suzanne look at each other quizzically. They shrug and tie up the parcel again before heading for the Marktplatz.
A final frenzy of activity is going on. A man on a stepladder paints the top of a door frame. A signwriter puts the final touches to the last letter of a shop sign in gold. A sign reading ZUR BUCHEREI, ‘To the library’, is attached to a wall. There are shrubs and flowers and plants everywhere. The ghetto has been transformed. Now, in many ways, it is the Paradise Ghetto.
They pass a sign advertising an evening of lieder sung by Karel Berman with Rafael Schichter on the piano. There will be songs by Wolf, Beethoven, Haas and Dvorak. On their right, a street has been roped off. The walls of the buildings are pristine and the cobblestones there almost glow, they are so clean. There are signs everywhere: TO THE BANK. TO THE POST OFFICE. TO THE COFFEEHOUSE. TO THE BATHS.
They pass a building that was an old school and which had been used as a hospital. A few weeks ago, the patients were cleared out and the rooms were given a fresh coat of paint. School benches were installed and the place now has a sign above the entrance in gold letters that reads: SCHOOL FOR BOYS AND GIRLS. Pinned to the door is a piece of paper with the single word, VACATION, written on it.
Some of the barracks have been renovated apparently. One, that houses young girls, has been repainted, given brand new furniture – bunks, desks, tables, benches. Each girl, so the rumour goes, has her own locker, all different colours, decorated with pictures of animals. The lockers apparently have been filled with food. There
is an art exhibition on the second floor of the Magdeburg Barracks with paintings of different aspects of Theresienstadt.
And it isn’t just renovation that has gone on in the ghetto. There are whole new constructions. There is a newly built children’s pavilion, all done in glass and wood. There’s a nursery for the very smallest children and a playground with a merry-go-round, swings and monkey bars.
The girls reach the town’s main square, Marktplatz. Now that the work is pretty much complete, the town’s new appearance is quite unbelievable. The main square used to be surrounded by barbed wire, inside which was a huge circus tent. The tent housed over a thousand people who worked making boxes. Now, all of that is gone. In its place there is a vibrant green lawn interspersed with flower beds and snapdragons. Newly sanded paths intersect the lawns and these are lined with freshly painted benches, set on concrete supports. And there are not just one or two benches. Suzanne deliberately counts them. There are seventy three of them. Julia watches an old man in a threadbare overcoat and battered hat gingerly sit on one. It is as though he is afraid it will explode or collapse or fold shut and swallow him up. But it does none of these things and eventually his shoulders settle and he relaxes in the sunshine. The black coat and hat seem at odds with the white light of the morning and the soft pastel colours with which everything has been painted.
A rectangular bandstand has been erected in the centre of the square. Square pillars at each of the four corners support a roof with gaily painted sides. Two or three steps lead up to the bandstand and a group of musicians are just packing up their instruments as the girls arrive. It looks like the musicians have been rehearsing. Around the bandstand, a crowd of people that had been listening is gradually beginning to disperse.
There have always been so-called ‘shops’ in the ghetto. Items stolen from the people when they arrived – in other words, almost anything of any possible value – would reappear in the shops a few days later. New arrivals often found themselves buying back their own possessions. It was a joke in the ghetto that you could go into a shop and find a shirt with your monogram already on it. Now, all the shops around Marktplatz have been given new signs: PERFUMERY, DRUGSTORE, GROCERY, SHOES, CLOTHING, LADIES’ UNDERWEAR. Only the best goods are on show in window displays and with advertising boards that wouldn’t have been out of place in a smart boutique in any capital city. The window of the grocery store contains things that some of the ghetto inmates – those that have managed to survive that long – haven’t seen for years. There is fresh meat, freshly baked bread – white and dark – sausage, fruit, vegetables.
They see a group of young girls all holding brown paper parcels and Julia nudges Suzanne.
‘There,’ she says.
They join the rest of the girls. Nobody knows what is happening and an anxious feeling about the whole thing starts to build. But shortly afterwards two men arrive, each carrying an armful of garden rakes, which they deposit near the girls. Minutes later a third man appears. He explains what they have to do. Tomorrow, they must wear the new clothes and during the visit, they must ‘happen’ to cross the visitors’ path, with the rakes over their shoulders, as if going to work. He also explains that they must be whistling or singing happily while doing this.
Julia and Suzanne look at each other. Suzanne’s eyes are bright with laughter. Julia shakes her head in disbelief. But it is better than work. They spend the rest of the morning rehearsing this. They try it with both singing and whistling and in the end, the man decides that singing is better. After that, they are told to be back here at eight in the morning and are given the rest of the day off.
The girls wander out towards the ramparts, one of the few places in the ghetto where they can be in nature and find beauty. They find a path that, up until now, had been barricaded with barbed wire. Now, the wire is gone and the path is open. They look at one another, puzzled. They look around. But there are no guards, no Germans with rifles. Hesitantly they take a first few steps down the path, waiting to hear an angry shout. But no shout comes. With a little more confidence now, they proceed down the path. It leads into a meadow full of flowers in bloom.
The girls sit down in the meadow and talk. What does it all mean? Is the war almost over? Is this all just for the Red Cross visit? Is it to fool them? They ask the questions but they have no answers. Eventually, as dinner time approaches, they leave and return to their barracks.
The Red Cross visit itself takes place on June 23rd. Julia and Suzanne, dressed in their new clothes, are in the Marktplatz by eight along with all the other girls. They all look pretty in their white blouses and dark blue skirts but Julia thinks that the vomit-coloured yellow star on each of the blouses ruins the whole effect. The man who rehearsed them yesterday is already there. He seems very nervous. The girls are formed into pairs and marched off down a side street. Here they wait while the man stands at the top of the street, repeatedly looking at his watch and glancing out around the corner.
In the end it is nearly noon before anything happens. By then, the girls are weary from standing, but when one of them goes to sit down, the man barks at her to stay standing, that otherwise she would dirty her skirt. Eventually, a boy appears and says something to the man. He buttons up his jacket and straightens his hat – he is overdressed for what is turning out to be a warm day.
The girls are ordered to shoulder their rakes. They do so like a well-drilled squad of soldiers. The man continues to look around the corner. He appears to get some kind of signal because he tells the girls to start singing which they do. He’s not happy so he tells them that they must do it louder. They do. He glances round the corner again, hesitates for a few seconds and then, judging the moment to be right, says – just as though he were an army drill sergeant – ‘Quick ... march! And don’t forget – plenty of smiling and laughing and joking.’
‘What’s the difference between a smart German and a unicorn?’ hisses Suzanne, as they wait for the girls in front to move off.
‘Dunno,’ says Julia.
‘No difference,’ says Suzanne. ‘They’re both fictional creatures.’
Julia snorts with laughter.
The girls walk out of the side street. Over on the left are a cluster of men, some in German uniforms, some in their best ghetto clothes. They pause as the singing squad of girls walk across their path and into a neighbouring side street. Here, another man is waiting for them. He leads them to the end of the street where they turn left. He orders them to halt.
‘Thank you, ladies,’ he says and Julia is struck by the look of disgust and self-loathing on his face. ‘Now we wait.’
They spend the rest of the day waiting here until a signal finally comes that the visit is over. By then it is dinner time and everybody is weak from hunger and thirst. The girls are given leave to disperse and go back to their rooms with the proviso that they must hand back the white blouses and blue skirts before the day is out.
Most people are confined to barracks for the duration of the visit and so see very little of what takes place. But for weeks afterwards gossip swirls about things people witnessed and it is possible to get a picture of what happened.
The visitors were taken along a carefully planned route, the streets that had been roped off being where they travelled. A number of men – ghetto residents – went ahead of the visitors. The job of these men was to signal to the appropriate groups of people when they should do what they were meant to do. Thus the visitors saw Julia and Suzanne’s group walk past, laughing and singing, as they supposedly headed off to work in the fields. A soccer match was in progress and a goal just happened to be scored as the visitors paused for a few moments to watch the game.
In the bakery, bakers wore white gloves as they handled white bread. Elderly people sat around the bandstand and listened to a concert. Chess players sat at tables studiously pondering their next move.
At the children’s pavilion, healthy-looking children played happily with dolls and teddy bears that they had been given
only an hour before. They called to the camp commandant, Rahm, saying, ‘When are you going to play with us again, Uncle Rahm?’ to which the commandant replied, ‘I’m sorry. Not now, children. Another time.’ The children were being given slices of bread and butter just as the visitors arrived.
At the bank they met the ‘manager’ who smoked a cigar and offered them cigarettes. Parcels were being passed out at the post office. In the hospital, healthy people lay between clean white sheets – the sick had been moved somewhere else.
In the coffee house there were elegantly dressed women in silk stockings, stylish dresses, hats, scarves and handbags. Men in well-cut suits accompanied them as they sipped real coffee and ate cake.
‘How could anyone with half a brain be fooled by that?’ asks Julia as they sit exhausted in the warm courtyard eating their evening meal.
48
‘I’ve got you a present,’ says Suzanne.
‘What is it?’ asks Julia excitedly. She loves presents. She can’t remember when last someone gave her one. It must have been the Christmas before she left home. Bert used to give her what he called ‘presents’ but they weren’t really – she always had to give him something in return.
Suzanne hands Julia two small pieces of rectangular pink card with some printing and perforations on them. Julia looks up, puzzled.
‘Tickets,’ says Suzanne. ‘For Brundibár.’
Brundibár is a children’s opera written by a composer who is actually a ghetto inmate. Whenever it is performed – which is often – signs are posted up and, even though it is the ghetto, tickets are printed. The signs show a group of children peeping over a wooden fence. Brundibár is so popular that it is almost impossible to get tickets for it.
The Paradise Ghetto Page 31
