Willy took hold of his mother’s hands and gently removed them from his face. He kissed each one and then held them to his chest. “You know how much I love you, Mum, and how incredibly grateful I am for everything you’ve done for me. But I have to find her. I’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen. Do you understand?”
Bridget examined her son’s eyes. “I wonder . . .”
“What?”
She smiled through her tears. “I wonder what my life might have been like if I had married someone of your character, someone whose soul was linked so completely to mine. That’s the way you feel about Ursula, isn’t it?”
“It is. I would die for her.”
Bridget traced Willy’s cheek with her thumb. “Please don’t say that, Willy. It’s bad luck.”
“But I mean it—”
She held up her hand. “I know, son. I know you mean it.” She sighed heavily. “Give me some time. I’ll think about contacting your father.”
January 1943
30
The promise of a spa town had shriveled when the women and men were separated shortly after their arrival. Though they’d protested, husbands and wives quickly acquiesced when SS guards wielded their weapons. The men were led away to another building while the women were herded into Dresden barracks and told to find sleeping accommodations among already overcrowded conditions. Every time Ursula tried to stake a claim, someone would appear and say, “taken” loudly enough that she didn’t challenge her. She finally secured a spot under a window and placed her thin burlap mattress on the floor. Since she’d arrived seven months ago, new train tracks had been erected by prisoners, allowing direct access to the ghetto. Many more transports had appeared, making a crowded situation even worse.
In her first week of confinement, she had expected Willy to use his relationship to the Führer to rescue her from Terezín. But when that hadn’t happened, she decided that he was probably negotiating with his uncle in order to free her. As more time passed, she had come to terms with the fact that, if Willy had tried to negotiate, he had failed. She was on her own. On more than one occasion she had become overwhelmed at the notion and blamed him for not saving her. But in other moments she was honest with herself and acknowledged with humble embarrassment that her own foolish actions had caused her current predicament.
The days turned to weeks, then months, and Ursula began to let go of the notion that Willy could free her. She settled into a routine in which some days flew by while others crawled. Her attitude was always linked to the weather and the guards’ moods. She had been assigned to work in the kitchen and looked forward to it on frigid days like today.
Despite the bone-chilling temperature, Ursula stepped outside Dresden. She reached under her layers of clothing and fondled Willy’s locket that lay against her skin. The gold had absorbed her body heat and warmed her fingers. She imagined Willy standing next to her, gathering her in his arms and hugging her tightly. She closed her eyes and pictured his handsome face. She felt the brush of his lips against her ear as he whispered, “I love you.” If she focused hard enough, she could actually conjure his sincere blue eyes. Willy was never far from her mind, even though her chest physically ached each time she thought of him.
Ursula breathed deeply. Glacial air rushed into her nasal cavity and leeched moisture from the membranes, causing burning pain and a headache. Her nose had healed well after having been set, but the bridge now sported a bump, a result of the bone not melding together precisely. The doctor had patronizingly referred to her healed nose as a “Jewish beak.” She didn’t mind, however, as it resembled Otto’s, and the thought made her feel connected to him.
“Ursula, what are you doing out here? It’s freezing.”
Ursula turned to find Marika standing next to her. “It’s almost as cold inside the barracks, Marika.”
“Well, at least wear your scarf!” Marika huffed as she bundled Ursula in the gray, handmade scarf she’d knitted for her. Ursula smiled and snuggled her chin and nose into the wool. Because Ursula had arrived without a suitcase or additional clothing, Marika had rallied the women in Dresden to clothe her for the winter. They had balked at first, unwilling to give away the meager possessions they’d been allowed to keep, but as Marika continued to press Ursula’s case, calling her contribution to the arts a “bright light in an otherwise dark landscape,” the women had relented and begrudgingly handed over some items.
“You know that I couldn’t survive here without you,” Ursula commented. Marika leaned into her friend. “You’re my new Ursula. I know that my daughter is gone, but God sent you to me. Not to replace my daughter, but to remind me that I still matter.”
Ursula turned to face her. “You will always matter, Marika. No matter what happens, you matter.”
Marika nodded, her face a mask of sadness. “Did you hear what happened to Herr Abendroth?”
Ursula stomped her clogged feet to keep warm. “No.”
“Seidl told him to shine his boots and he refused.”
Ursula shook her head. “What was he thinking?”
Marika cupped her hands and blew into them. “I don’t know.”
“So, what happened to him?”
“Seidl ordered him again to shine his boots and he spat on them, so he’s now in the Little Fortress. A small cell with no heat, no light, no toilet. If there are others in there, then he might survive. Otherwise, he’ll freeze to death.”
Ursula considered why someone would risk his life over something as trivial as shining a pair of boots. “Perhaps it was not his boots Seidl wanted shined, Marika.”
The older woman turned quickly. “You don’t mean . . .” Her words fell away with the light snow that drifted lazily to the ground.
Ursula shrugged. “Who knows what the commandant likes to do in his spare time.”
Marika blushed at the implication.
“Marika, I’m kidding. But I find it difficult to believe that someone would risk his life over a pair of boots.”
Marika was quiet a moment. “What would you have done, Ursula?”
“I would have shined his boots.”
“No. I mean the other thing. If you were faced with that choice, what would you do?”
Ursula scratched her head and shook out her long hair. “I don’t know. Is my life worth . . . shining an arrogant man’s boots?” She thought a moment and watched a guard in the distance. He was hassling an inmate who carried a large, iron pot toward the kitchen. She scratched her head again. “I believe I’ve contracted lice, Marika. The itching is intolerable.”
“Don’t let the guards know or they’ll shave your head.”
A woman named Eva appeared next to them, her coat bundled tightly against the cold. She held out her hand to Ursula. “Take this,” she said.
An exquisite, ivory, carved comb with very narrow teeth lay on Eva’s palm. “It was my mother’s, but I want you to have it.”
Ursula looked at the young woman, whom she knew had recently miscarried a child. The doctors had refused to treat her, and she had almost bled to death. “Oh, no, Eva. Thank you but I couldn’t take it.”
Eva smiled and placed the comb in the pocket of Ursula’s coat. “I saw you scratching from the window. You need it more than I do.”
Ursula felt a surge of warmth for Eva’s kindness. She had never before had to rely on the generosity of others and initially had felt ashamed to accept charity. But as time passed, she had come to realize that her survival was linked to those around her, and theirs to her. She had kept to herself for the most part, but as stories spread about her antagonistic relationship with Hitler, people started treating her with respect and admiration. She had become a sort of folk hero in the ghetto.
In return for their gracious generosity, Ursula offered imaginary escape through storytelling. She would plant herself atop the wooden bunks, surrounded by
women and children who huddled in ragged blankets, and recite the storylines of operas, often bursting into quiet song to emphasize the emotion the character was feeling.
Before coming to Terezín, she thought she understood the impact her performances had on people, but to perform in close proximity to her listeners, to see their immediate reactions, made her giddy. She reveled in transporting her audience to another place where the beds were soft and food plentiful, where they could be warm and surrounded by loved ones, if only for a few moments. She was able to momentarily forget that her food intake that day had been a bowl of turnip soup, and that she had not washed properly since her arrival. Her stories were all she had to offer, and she gained as much joy from it as her audience did, if not more.
“Thank you, Eva. That’s very kind. I’ll cherish it.”
Ursula exhaled, watching her warm breath cloud in the wintry air. She bounced up and down to stay warm as a Czech guard named Edvard Svoboda approached them.
“What are you doing? You three know that you shouldn’t be out here alone. You could be punished.”
Ursula smiled. “Hello, Captain. We needed a respite from the stench and the bedbugs.”
He looked around to ensure that they were not being watched, then whispered, “Get inside, Ursula, before you get in trouble!”
“Fine. We’ll go. But first, tell me, did you enjoy the story last evening?”
The gendarme blushed.
“I saw you there, Edvard Svoboda. Right outside the door of our cramped quarters. You are captain of the guards, but you are not a Nazi. You are a simple Czech policeman who was recruited into this nightmare. You are also, I now know, a lover of opera and good stories. I shall remember that.”
Svoboda suppressed a smile, then stood straighter, filling out his uniform. He became serious. “I am also, as you stated, captain of the guards, in charge of ensuring that prisoners are following the rules, and right now you are not. Get inside before I do something that I don’t want to do.”
Ursula held his gaze a moment longer. “As you wish.”
The three women reentered the building, where the temperature was only slightly warmer. Ursula had never been so cold in her life and wondered if she should offer to start cooking detail early. Not only did the work break up the monotony of interminable gray winter days, but in the kitchen she could huddle over a steaming kettle while stirring the seemingly unending supply of tasteless beet and turnip soup.
She passed the bunkroom on the second floor and saw a group of young girls listening to a woman read aloud. Ursula stopped and leaned against the doorway, drawn in by the reader’s melodious voice. She glanced at the book’s cover, Mendel Rosenbusch: Tales for Jewish Children by Ilse Weber, and smiled as the young audience laughed and squealed. The woman finished the story, closed the book, and stared at Ursula, causing all heads to swivel towards her.
Ursula stepped into the room. “Hello. I enjoyed your reading.”
“Thank you.”
Ursula smiled. “I am—”
“I know who you are. It’s my pleasure. My name is Ilse Weber.”
Ursula paused and glanced at the book. “You’re the author of this book?”
“Yes. It’s about an old man named Mendel who lives behind the synagogue and his positive interactions with the town’s children.”
“You must be very talented.”
“As are you.”
“It strikes me that there are many talented people in Terezín.”
“That’s true.”
“I suppose we’re the fortunate ones.”
Ilse tilted her head. “How so?”
“My understanding is the camps farther east are much worse than this,” Ursula stated matter-of-factly.
Ilse quickly turned to the children. “Girls, please chat among yourselves while Fräulein Becker and I step outside.”
As soon as the two women retired to the hallway, Ilse faced Ursula. “You mustn’t speak like that in front of the children, Ursula. Their spirits have not yet broken and it’s our job to keep them aloft as long as we can. They are our future.”
Ursula felt her cheeks get hot. She glanced at the children, who reenacted a scene from Ilse’s book. “Of course. My apologies.”
Ilse stared hard at Ursula and then shifted her gaze. “I’m sorry if I spoke harshly. It’s just that I haven’t seen my husband or son since our arrival. I worry about them.”
“I’m sorry. They’re in the ghetto?”
“My husband is in the men’s barracks and works in the sluice, organizing luggage from new arrivals, but I haven’t seen him.”
“Why not?”
“I work at the hospital in the evenings, and that’s usually when trains arrive. I only know about his work because a note was smuggled to me from another man who stayed behind to clean.”
“And your son?”
“He’s in the children’s house.”
“How is it that we’ve not met before?”
“I stay across the compound in Hamburg barracks. I convinced Edvard Svoboda to let me entertain the children.”
Ursula’s mouth dropped. “He allows you to read a Jewish book?”
Ilse laughed. “Of course not. I told him that I was making up stories for the children. I hid the book in my undergarments.”
“You took a big risk, Ilse.”
“I had to. The children must learn about their heritage.”
Ursula’s eyes flitted toward the girls.
“Are you Jewish, Ursula?”
Ursula shook her head quickly. “No. I’m here because I angered the Führer.”
Ilse pulled away, a look of confusion on her face. “Oh. I had heard that you’re Jewish.”
“Well, I’m not.”
Ilse considered her.
Ursula rolled her eyes. “On paper I’m Jewish. I’m a mischling of the second degree.”
Ilse nodded knowingly. “Ah. I see.” She smiled. “It’s not a disease, you know.”
“What?”
“Being Jewish. It’s not a disease. In fact, it’s wonderful. You should try it sometime.” She squeezed Ursula’s hand and reentered the room to excited squeals from the children.
Ursula observed from the doorway as Ilse gathered the girls around her once more. In this freezing room, with crumbling walls and wooden planks for beds, Ilse had created a sense of family when hers had gone missing. She had created an atmosphere of celebration for children who were growing very thin from lack of food. As she watched, Ursula saw the girls huddle together, arms around each other’s waists, ensuring that each person was as warm as possible.
She marveled at their ability to find joy where there should be nothing but fear and mistrust. She realized how much time she had wasted in waiting for Willy to save her when all the while she’d been surrounded by people who wanted to help. She had accepted charity from others but had not reached out to truly befriend anyone except Marika. Even her storytelling was more about herself than anyone to whom she was speaking. A true sense of community existed within the prison that could potentially provide solace, if only she opened her heart and mind to it.
Movement in the far-right corner of the room caught her eye. Curious, Ursula approached the bunk and noted only a pile of threadbare blankets. Thinking it must have been a rat, she turned to leave when the pile moved again. She glanced at the children as they laughed at something Ilse had said. She didn’t want the girls sleeping with a rat, so she rustled the covers to scare the rodent into exiting. Instead, it was Ursula who was startled as a small body popped out from the tangle of dirty blankets.
31
Months had passed and Bridget had not yet agreed to contact Willy’s father, Alois. Willy had approached her several times asking if she’d come to a decision, but each time she would hold up her hand to silence him. He was coming
to understand how complicated his parents’ relationship was and how it had damaged his mother. He scolded himself for being so impatient, but Ursula remained foremost in his mind, especially at night when she was stomped to death by SS guards in his nightmares. At times his impatience boiled over and anger burst forth, demolishing everything in its path. Otto would appear and speak soothingly in German, reminding him that Ursula was a fighter. She would never give up on herself or him. His words calmed Willy yet added to the guilt he felt at his helplessness.
He had tried to contact his uncle directly several more times. Telephone calls to Germany were unthinkable because of the war, and his letters returned to him, never having made it out of England. He had reached out to the prime minister’s office seeking diplomatic assistance. His calls went unreturned. He had even contacted the American Embassy in London. They had, at least, spoken with him, but had declined to aid his efforts to find Ursula. After seven months of desperate attempts to obtain help, he was no closer to finding her.
One evening Willy came downstairs to find Bridget on her knees in front of the fire grate, her fingers worrying her rosary. Willy paused on the stairs, watching his mother pray. He had been raised Catholic but hadn’t been to church in several years.
Bridget turned. “Hello, William.”
“Hi, Mum. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Here, let me help you up.”
He crossed to her, took her hand, and hoisted her from the floor. She sat heavily on the overstuffed couch and tucked her rosary in her apron pocket. They sat quietly, staring into the flames of the fire that warmed the small parlor.
“You might want to try it, Willy.”
“Praying? I don’t think so, Mum.”
“He hears you.”
Willy continued to gaze into the flames. “I hope I don’t offend you, Mum, but I gave up on God a long time ago.”
“He’ll never give up on you, son,” she stated quietly.
Willy shook his head. “What kind of god allows men to mutilate and kill? What type of god allows children to be kicked to death in the streets?”
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