What World is Left (5 page)

Mother squeezed my hand. Her palm felt damp.

The man behind the desk raised his eyes to Father's. “To survive,” he said under his breath, “you'll need to be very smart.”

And for the first time in many weeks, I felt a tiny ray of hope. After all, there was no one smarter than Father.

The real floodgate came once we joined the second line. Up ahead—it was too dark to see much—we heard the sounds of suitcases being unbuckled and of crying. “Those were my grandmother's Sabbath candlesticks,” a woman whimpered.

“You won't be needing them here,” a voice answered, and then there was a crashing sound as the woman's candlesticks were thrown to the floor. For a moment, I remembered the tea set I hurled down the stairs and the shards of porcelain Mother swept up afterward.

Mother didn't say a word when our turn came, and they took her gold wedding ring. They took Father's wedding band and his watch too. But he only went pale when they confiscated his sketchpad and three tiny jars of paint. One was red, one yellow and one blue. They were the primary colors and with them, Father could make any color.

Even before the gendarme opened my suitcase, I knew I'd lose my brooch. So I watched in silence as he tore it loose from my blue sweater and threw the
tiny golden mirror into the pile. It landed without a sound. I turned away.

With rough hands, the gendarme fumbled through the rest of my belongings. I'd hidden my old silk dress inside a cotton coat so Mother wouldn't know I'd packed it. The fact that the gendarme didn't find the dress made up a little—but just a little—for my brooch.

You're not the least bit mousy,” I blurt out when Hannelore climbs out of her cauldron.

Her face is shiny with sweat, and her hands are raw from scrubbing, but Hannelore is no mouse, despite the way she whimpered before. Hannelore grins. “You expected a mouse?” she asks.

Hannelore has long dark braids, the color of my favorite semi-sweet Droste chocolate, and though her eyes are dark, they aren't mousy. “I've discovered something new about myself today,” she announces, dropping her scrub brush and putting her hands on her hips.

“What's that?”

“I've discovered I have a talent for scrubbing. Come have a look!”

I follow Hannelore up the narrow wooden ladder that leads up to her cauldron and peer down into it. She is right. She has done a fine job. Especially for her first day. I whistle. “You're quite the scrubber, you are,” I tell her. “A gold medal scrubber. Too bad scrubbing isn't an Olympic sport!”

“Just don't tell my mother,” Hannelore says, turning her head both ways to indicate that what she is about to say is top secret. “Or else she'll have me scrub at home too.” Then Hannelore's dark eyes seem to turn a shade darker. “That is, if we ever go home.”

“Of course we'll go home,” I say, a little too quickly. Though I've only just met her, something about Hannelore makes me feel like I have to protect her. “Haven't you heard,” I ask her, “that the war is almost over?”

“Says who?” When Hannelore shrugs, the gesture reminds me of an old woman.

“I heard some of the men say so.”

“Prisoners?” Hannelore asks.

I nod.

Hannelore shrugs again. “That's what they need to tell themselves. But I don't believe it. Not for a second.”

When Frau Davidels comes down the hallway, Hannelore makes that sniffling sound again. “We mustn't upset her,” she whispers.

But there are no Nazis around, and Frau Davidels smiles when she sees Hannelore and me together. She draws us close to her. “It helps to have a friend,” she says, “especially during hard times.” Then without saying a word, she drops something into my apron pocket, and then something into Hannelore's.

The door swings open, and we hear the
click-click
of a Nazi officer's boots.

“Be off! And mind what I say!” Frau Davidels tells the two of us, her voice suddenly businesslike again.

We climb back into our cauldrons and do not say a word until the officer disappears down the hall.

“A potato!” Hannelore whispers breathlessly.

“It's one of the bonuses that comes from working in the diet kitchen,” I tell her. “See, you were wrong about Frau Davidels. There's no need to be afraid of her. Maybe you're also wrong about the end of the war.”

Hannelore is quiet. I imagine she is patting the potato in her pocket. “Wait until I show this to Mother!” she says.

Sometimes the potatoes Frau Davidels gives us are blackened or mushy, but that doesn't matter. They are still prizes. Boiled up in a little water, they make a chunky broth that is far more substantial than the watered-down lentil soup we get for lunch and dinner.

On our way back to the barracks—it turns out Hannelore and her mother are housed in the same barracks as Mother and me—we pass a group of old people waiting on the cobblestone street. Because it's June they have no need for warm clothes. Their arms are almost as thin as tree branches.

The old people pounce when a prisoner comes by dragging a wheelbarrow behind him.

“What are they after?” Hannelore asks as we watch the old people stuff their pockets.

“Potato peels,” I say.

Hannelore makes a gulping sound. I know she is remembering the potato in her pocket. Again I get the feeling that Hannelore needs looking after. “Never mind,” I tell her, tugging her wrist.

Though Hannelore and her mother sleep at the other end of the dark musty barracks, I feel better knowing Hannelore is there.

I can never decide what time of day is worse at Theresienstadt—bedtime or morning. At night, I huddle next to Mother, but then the bedbugs begin to gorge on us. They are, it seems, as hungry as we prisoners. I slap at the bugs, and the sound of my slapping joins together with all the other slapping in the women's barracks, making a kind of chorus. If it weren't so pitiful, it might be funny.

The bit of wall behind our bunks is smudged with brownish red from the bloody fingerprints of other women who've smacked at bedbugs and fleas. This is one war we'll never win.

If only bedbugs and fleas could write. Then we could make them sign a treaty and leave us alone. It's a silly thought, I know, but it helps me forget the bedbugs and fleas, for a few moments at least.

I miss Father most at night. At home in Broek, I used to wait for him to knock on my door and kiss me good night. Now he and Theo are in another barracks several streets away. We can only be together as a family for half an hour on Sunday afternoons. Though I'll never admit it to anyone, I even miss Theo.

Mornings bring their own misery. Waking up even hungrier than I was when I went to sleep is bad enough. But the worst is that very first moment when I wipe the sleep from the corners of my eyes, and I remember where I am. That is worse even than the hollowness in my belly.

One morning my throat is very sore. It hurts to swallow. The lines around Mother's eyes deepen when she feels my forehead. “You have a fever,” she tells me. “You can't work in the diet kitchen today.”

“I have to work.” My voice sounds rough. When I crawl out of the bunk, all my joints ache. Even joints I never knew I had.

We both know that in Theresienstadt, not reporting to work can be dangerous. Mother, who has a job in the central kitchen distributing soup, has told me how the supervisors there keep detailed records about each worker: start time, end time, number of absences. “Too many absences,” she explained, “could land a person on a transport.” The memory of her words makes me jump down to the wooden floor. When my feet hit the ground, my throat throbs even more. But I have no choice: I have to go to work.

But then I feel my knees cave beneath me. Everything around me—the straw mattresses on the lowest bunks, the other women scrambling to get dressed—suddenly turns blurry.

Some other prisoners have to help Mother drag me back to my sleeping spot. Someone else gets my enamel cup and goes to fill it with a little water. Even taking small sips hurts. “You have to drink, Anneke,” Mother says. “And no work today. I'll talk to Frau Davidels.” Then she kisses my forehead and sighs.

I must have dozed off because when I awaken, the barracks is completely empty. All its occupants are at work, doing whatever they must to stay alive. Some are cleaning, some are cooking, some are sewing. All of them are supervised by Nazi officers who will not let them take a break or stretch their legs. It is dark when the women leave for work, and it will be dark when they return to the barracks at the end of the workday.

Little rays of sun peep through the narrow cracks in the walls. It must be mid-morning by now. I swat at a bedbug. If I had more strength, I'd get up and shake out my blanket. That is one way, at least, to get rid of some of the pesky creatures.

It is better to sleep than to battle the bedbugs. I kick the blanket off. It's rough and scratches my skin. Besides, I'm too hot for it anyhow.

The barracks have grown darker. “Anneke, have some more water.” It is Mother. She holds a tin cup to my lips. “Hurry,” she says. “I told them my period started, and that I needed to come back to the barracks for a cotton rag.”

I prop myself up against the wall and take a few sips.

“I'm feeling better,” I tell her. It isn't true, but the words make Mother smile. I'd nearly forgotten the way her face changes when she smiles, the way her blue eyes shine and her chin dimples.

When Mother leaves, I begin to wonder whether she was ever here, or if, in my fever, I dreamt she'd come to check on me. But my throat feels less parched, and I spot the tin cup near my knee. No, Mother has definitely been here, and she brought me water. She told me how she used her period for an excuse.

I've only had one period. It came shortly before we left Holland. I hadn't thought anything of it when I awoke one morning with an achy belly. But when I noticed the smear of blood in my underpants, I had quite a shock. How could I be bleeding from down there?

At first I was too ashamed to tell Mother. But when the bleeding got heavier, I knew I had no choice. We'd probably have to fetch the doctor.

“Mother,” I called from the toilet. “I have a problem.”

Theo must have been nearby. “Anneke has a problem! Anneke's in the toilet and she has a problem!” he jeered from the hallway.

“Go away, you idiot!” I told him, my temper suddenly flaring.

Father came down from his studio to see what the fuss was about. I heard him lead Theo up the stairs. When they were halfway up, Father stopped. I could hear the oak floorboards creak with his weight.
“Anneke,” he said in a stern voice, “that was no way to speak to your brother.”

Mother didn't think we needed the doctor. Instead, her face brightened and she laughed. “My goodness,” she said, “my little girl is growing up. Becoming a woman.” And then, as she reached into the bottom drawer for some strips of cotton, she explained about periods. How they were perfectly natural. How it meant that one day, I'd be able to have children of my own and make her a grandmother.

“Are you having cramps?” she asked gently.

When I nodded, she sent me back to my bed. Then she brought me a hot water bottle wrapped in a flannel sheet and laid it on my belly.

But I haven't had a period in the two months I've been at Theresienstadt. People say it is because we don't get enough to eat. I know I've lost weight because I can feel my hipbones jutting out below my waist. Sometimes, when I'm scrubbing a cauldron and there is time to think, I worry that maybe I won't ever be able to bear children. The thought makes me want to weep.

I haven't asked Mother if she still gets her period. Maybe it is different for grown women.

When I wake up again, the barracks is even darker, and Hannelore is perched on the edge of my bunk. “Frau Davidels warned me not to come too close,” she says, running her hand along my arm. Her touch feels cool. “But she sent me to see whether you were feeling any better.”

“I need to pee,” I tell Hannelore. “But I don't think I can manage on my own.”

“That's what friends are for,” Hannelore says as she helps lift me from the bunk.

I lean on Hannelore as I stumble to the latrines. Not even the chlorine and lime that are sprinkled regularly into the pits help mask the stench.

“It's a shame I have a sore throat. A blocked nose would be handy just now,” I tell Hannelore. Because it hurts to laugh, I only laugh a little when I say so.

“That's you, Anneke,” she says. “Always making light of things. We couldn't be more different, could we?”

Hannelore kneels down and holds onto my arm while I squat over one of the holes. Afterward, she hands me a square of magazine so I can wipe myself. “Have you seen him lately?” she whispers as she walks me back to the barracks. We are approaching the central square in the middle of Theresienstadt. Out of habit, we press toward the narrow walkway on the side. Jews are not permitted to enter the square.

“No, not since last week,” I tell her. Just as I imagined I would, I've told Hannelore all about Franticek Halop, and once I even pointed him out when we were standing in line for soup. Franticek is easy to spot because of his height and his shock of dark curly hair.

“Isn't he too old for you?” Hannelore asked. I could hear the disapproval in her voice. “He must be at least eighteen.”

“Twenty. And not only that. He has a girlfriend!” I said, enjoying Hannelore's shocked expression—the way her dark eyebrows rose and then knitted themselves together.

“Anneke, how could you let yourself like a boy like that?”

“I can't help it,” I said, trying to explain. “He's as handsome as a prince. I like everything about him—even the way he smiles.”

Hannelore doesn't have eyes for any boy in the camp. She is still in love with Gunter, a Christian who lived on her street in Hamburg. “After
Kristallnacht
, the night the Nazis destroyed our synagogues,” she told me, “most of our Christian neighbors wanted nothing more to do with us. Even those we'd known for years. But not Gunter and his parents. They brought us food and tried to warn us about Nazi raids. Gunter walked me to the train when we left for here. He said he'd wait for me.” Hannelore's dark eyes grew misty.