What World is Left (14 page)

“You do?” Theo grins. But then he gives me an odd look. I know he isn't used to my being nice to him. That makes me feel even worse.

Theo is humming to himself when we leave for the soup line. There is still no sign of Father. Mother draws Theo close as we join the line. There is a dullness to her eyes I haven't seen before.

Everyone is talking about the upcoming transport, speculating about who will be sent away. “Old decrepit people,” someone says. “The Nazis won't want the Red Cross to be disgusted.”

“Young people,” someone counters. “Because they'd make the Red Cross feel too sorry for them.”

Mother stiffens. Theo makes no more mention of his soccer-playing plans.

I wonder if he knows.

That night, after Theo goes to sleep in the bathtub, I pray again. This time, I think I'll try pressing my palms together. Maybe God will hear me better. I don't care what Mother or Opa will say, and Father can't say anything because he is still waiting for his audience with Dr. Epstein.

Opa is lying on his side of the mattress, staring up at the ceiling and making sniffling sounds. Because his hearing is poor, I think he may not notice if I whisper my request to God. I raise my hands to my chest and drop down my head. “Please, dear God, please save Theo.” And because I think it might also help my cause if I offer God something in exchange, I add, “If you save Theo, I promise never to say another cross word to him. And never to ask you for anything else again.”

But Opa does hear me, or notices what I am up to, because a moment later, he lifts himself up from the mattress and comes to kneel beside me. And then, to my surprise, Mother pokes her head out from behind the curtain and joins us too.

The three of us kneel on the floor together, hands joined. We bow our heads, though none of us says a word.

If there is a God—and I have never hoped more desperately that there is—and He is capable of understanding what goes on inside people's hearts, why then, he has to hear our prayer.

That thought makes it a little easier to fall asleep.

When I get up in the morning, Father is back. He is putting on his khaki-colored work shirt. His face looks strained, but when he nods his head at me, I know the news is good.

Father doesn't tell us what he said to Dr. Epstein to persuade him to remove Theo's name from the list. But sometimes I think Theo suspects the truth. Perhaps he figured out why I was being kind to him, why Opa sniffled in his sleep, why Mother looked so unhappy and Father was in such a hurry to see Dr. Epstein. I try to imagine how afraid Theo must have felt. But no matter how hard I try, I can't imagine it. It's too big even for my imagination.

Later that morning, Theo is quieter than usual, but by the end of the afternoon, he is back to his old tricks. He pokes me in the belly. “They're trying to starve us, but you're still a fatso, Anneke,” he says. My blood boils, but because I am determined to keep my promise, I don't give him the smack I'd like to.

On the morning of the transport, I sneak out of my cauldron. Not that Frau Davidels will notice. With so many people leaving on this transport, those of us who remain all know someone who is being shipped out, and we are eager to say a last few words or give one final kiss.

Though people are bustling about, the mood in Theresienstadt is somber. People say little. I feel like an actress in a silent movie.

Like everyone else, I walk in the direction of the train platform. Only a few weeks ago, we came here to collect Opa. But now, with so many people milling around—those who are leaving on the transport and those who have come to see them off—I can't get within two blocks of the platform. So I stand on the corner and watch the silent movie unfold.

Many of those who are departing adjust their rucksacks. Though they are leaving Theresienstadt with far less than they came with, they fuss over their meager belongings: a change of clothes, a frayed photograph— the frame, if it had had any value, confiscated long ago at the
Schleuse
—a tin cup, a fork. There is no need for knives since we never have food substantial enough to require cutting. Some cast a final look back at the camp that has been their temporary home. Others simply head for the train.

Those of us who have come to see them off do our best to be brave. “I know we'll be together soon,” I hear a woman tell an older man. But when he is out of sight, the woman bursts into tears, her shoulders heaving as she sobs.

After the train pulls out of the camp and I am returning to the diet kitchen, I notice a girl my age wiping her cheeks with the backs of her hands. I'd like to comfort her, but I don't have the strength.

There's no room in my heart for a new friend. Besides, all friendships here end badly. Sooner or later, one of us will end up on a transport.

Something else stops me from talking to this girl. It is a terrible thought: What if she is crying because her little brother is on the transport, sent to take Theo's place?

“What is it?” I ask Father when he hands me the little square of brown paper.

Mother stands next to him, her arm on his forearm. Theo and Opa are on Father's other side.

“Have you forgotten what day it is?” Opa asks, his blue eyes twinkling.

“What day it is?” I look out the window as if the view might provide an answer. The light has grown a little stronger.

I know it's May. What day exactly, I'm not sure. Then all at once, I understand why Father and Mother and Theo and Opa are gathered around me. To think I'd nearly forgotten my own birthday!

“You got me a present?” I say, rubbing the little square between my fingers and trying to guess what is inside. It is something flat and hard. I resist the urge to tear off the paper. It has been so long since I received a present. I want to savor every moment.

“It's from all of us,” Theo says, “but Father made it.”

It is just like Theo to try and ruin my surprise. I flash him a stern look. It is getting harder every day to keep the promise I made God.

Tucked inside the brown paper is a tiny square metal frame, not much larger than my thumbnail. I see the back of the frame first. It is engraved with the numbers 24-V-1944: my fifteenth birthday. Where did Father find an engraver?

I flip the frame over and when I do, my heart nearly stops. There, in miniature, is a portrait of Broek. I'd know it anywhere. The church with its tall steeple in the background, a giant poplar tree to the left, and in front just behind the little wooden picket fence, our clapboard house.

I don't ask Father why he chose to draw a winter scene. The poplar tree is bare, the roof of our house and the church are covered in a thick layer of snow, like white icing on a cake.

Father's drawing is behind a little piece of glass someone has measured and cut exactly so it can slide inside the frame. And on top of the frame, perfectly centered, is a simple metal hook.

I unfasten Franticek's strip of leather from around my neck. Carefully I untie the double knot that keeps my necklace closed and slip the leather through the hook.

Father looks on approvingly. “I thought you might want to wear it on your necklace,” he says. The two of us have never discussed Franticek, though I suppose that
at some point, Mother must have filled Father in on the details of my brief romance.

I am so moved I can hardly speak. Father has given me back our house, the one I thought I might never see again.

A man rides by on a black bicycle and tips his hat. That is our cue. One, two, three. “Please, Uncle Rahm!” we call out in perfect unison. “No more sardines!”

It is June 23, 1944, the day we've spent so many months rehearsing for. There is not a cloud in the sky and the air is warm but not hot. A fat bee buzzes in my ear and then flies off. The Danish Red Cross commission couldn't have chosen a more perfect day to visit Theresienstadt.

I am standing with a group of other children near the corner of the main square, stiff smiles pasted on our faces. We've been arranged according to height, as if we are posing for a school photograph.

There is an unusual smell in the air: soap. We were allowed extra bathing privileges before this visit, and we were even issued a tiny bar of extra soap and a new outfit each. I am wearing a navy blue pleated skirt and a white blouse with a starched collar that makes my neck itch. The hem of the skirt is coming undone in one spot
and the collar is a little yellow inside, so I know they aren't new. I try not to think of the girl who wore these clothes before me and where she is now. Even so, I hope I might be allowed to keep the skirt and blouse even after the commission's visit.

On my way over, I notice new street signs. What was once L1 has been renamed Lake Street. Lake Street? What a joke. There is no lake in Theresienstadt! There's not even enough water for all of us.

My heart skips a beat when I spot shiny new signs over the doors on one of the buildings. They are written in a neat square script that I recognize as Father's. One reads
Boys' school
; another,
Closed during the holidays
. So, those murals in the infirmary are not Father's only contribution to the Embellishment! I can't help feeling a little bit ashamed. They are just signs, but I know too, that they are also more than that. They're lies. Father is using his talent to tell lies. That can't be right.

There is no school in Theresienstadt and no such thing as a holiday. All that matters to the Nazis is tricking the Danish commission into thinking Theresienstadt really is a model camp. If the Nazis succeed with their charade, the Danes will make a glowing report to the international community, and the Nazis can complete their assault on European Jews.

Everywhere I look, prisoners are playing the parts we've been assigned. At the main kitchen, bakers in white hats are baking bread, and when the commissioner walks through the main square, a man passes with a cart
of fresh vegetables. Fat yellow onions, perfect potatoes, stalks of pale green celery, and the greenest spinach I have ever seen. I try not to gawk, though it has been more than a year since I saw any vegetable besides a potato or, now and then, a turnip.

The Danish commissioner is tall and loose-limbed. The old woman says his name is Dr. Franz Hvass. He smiles brightly when he passes us. “Good morning, boys and girls,” he says. At first, we don't know what to do. We've been instructed not to say a single word to any of the Danish visitors. But when Commandant Rahm gives us a thin-lipped smile, we understand we are to say good morning back: “Good morning, Herr Doktor.”

Dr. Hvass turns to Commandant Rahm. “When I was a child, I didn't like sardines myself.”

Rahm nods understandingly. “We like to give the children sardines because they're high in protein.”

The boy standing next to me kicks my leg, but I am afraid to laugh. We have all been told what trouble we can get in if anything at all goes wrong today. “One false move from any of you dirty Jews,” the Nazis warned us, “and as soon as the commission leaves, we'll shoot you and everyone in your family.”

Of course I know what the boy who kicked me is thinking: That we have never seen a sardine at Theresienstadt, let alone tasted one. So we just stand there, smiling like wax dummies in a shop window.

There are even red geraniums. One big terracotta pot overflowing with the bright blooms. Just before the
commissioner passes the corner where we are standing, a small boy rushes over with the flowerpot. And now that the commissioner is on his way elsewhere in the camp, the boy, out of breath from his errand, has scooped the flowerpot up and is delivering it to Dr. Hvass's next stop. This way, Dr. Hvass can be duped into believing Theresienstadt is full of flowerpots and happy, well-dressed children whose only complaint is that we have to eat so many sardines! Underneath the smile pasted on my face, I am seething with resentment and rage. I want to scream, but of course, I can't. And knowing that only makes me want to scream more.

If only there was some way to let Dr. Hvass know the truth: that we are being worked to death; that we are starving and living in foul, unsanitary conditions; and that we live in constant fear of being sent on the next transport. And that we are the lucky ones because we are still alive, still here in this hellhole that Commandant Rahm has dressed up for the day, like Cinderella gone to the ball.

Later in the day, those of us who don't look too sickly are invited to a special performance of a children's opera called
Brundibar
. It was composed before the war by a musician named Hans Krasa, now a prisoner in Theresienstadt.

Listening to the music almost makes me forget that, sitting in the audience next to Theo, we are part of a performance—a special show Commandant Rahm is putting on for the Danish commission.

The words to the opera are in Czech, so the Czech children in the audience laugh more than we do. Still, Theo and I manage to follow the story: A brother and sister need milk for their mother, who is ill. Desperate for money to buy the milk, the children try to sing with Brundibar, an organ grinder, but he chases them away.

A young and handsome Czech prisoner plays Brundibar. The best part is when he twitches his whiskers. We can't help giggling at that, but when Dr. Hvass claps his hands, I wish I could take back my giggles. I don't want to help fool Dr. Hvass into believing Theresienstadt is a fine place. My chest hurts when I think that I, too, have helped the Nazis' cause. In that way, I'm a little like Father.

Mother was working in the soup kitchen the day of the Danish commission's visit. The air, she tells us later, was heavy with the smell of meat and onions, rare delicacies that were brought into the camp for the commission's visit. Dr. Hvass peeked into one of the cauldrons and remarked on the pleasant odor. “How are things here?” he asked a young woman who worked with Mother.

All eyes—those of her fellow prisoners, as well as Commandant Rahm's and those of the other Nazi officials who were present—turned to the woman. Mother told us how the woman took a deep breath and met Dr. Hvass's eyes. “If you want to know how things are,” she told him. “Look around. Be sure and look around.” And then, she rolled her eyes.