“Sorry, Willy. Sorry to be so late. I was in a meeting with the president and, obviously, I couldn’t just leave. Coffee?” Wallenburg glanced at Willy’s outstretched hand. “Oh, sorry.” He shook Willy’s hand.
“You were with the president?” Willy asked. He had known that Wallenburg was important, but he hadn’t known he was important.
“Yes. Coffee?”
“Um, I’m—”
“Sarah?” Wallenburg yelled past Willy. “Two coffees with cream please.” And then to Willy. “Oh, do you take cream, sugar?”
“Cream is fine.”
“Great.” Wallenburg sat and moved a pile from one side of his desk to the other, then placed his folded hands in the center of his desk blotter. Willy was shell-shocked. After their initial meeting months ago, Willy had created a version of Raoul Wallenburg that didn’t match the harried man sitting before him. Willy had assumed that Wallenburg would be organized and meticulous, but he seemed scattered and impulsive. He questioned whether he’d made a wise decision in trusting Ursula’s fate to this man. Wallenburg noted his skepticism.
“Your expression betrays your thoughts, Willy. You should know that some of the greatest minds of our time have offices that resemble mine. My strengths are negotiation and organization.”
Willy’s eyes fell to the paper piles. Wallenburg’s gaze followed and he laughed. “I should be more precise. My organizational strength pertains to people, not paper. Trust me, you’re in the right place. Besides, think of it this way, if I spent more time organizing my office, I’d have less time to coordinate rescues.” He smiled warmly and Willy relaxed.
Sarah breezed in and placed a tray on the blotter.
“Two danishes. I hope you like raspberry, Mr. Hitler. Two coffees with cream. Raoul, your mother called and requested . . . actually, demanded that you be at her house by five-thirty for dinner.” Sarah smiled sweetly, winked at Willy, and then exited the office, closing the door quietly behind her.
“Sorry about that.” Wallenburg shook his head. “My poor mother. She and my grandmother raised me after my father died. Now that my grandmother has also passed, my mother is alone. She’s here in the United States with me but doesn’t speak much English. So—” He shrugged. “I’m her only companionship.”
Willy chuckled. “It would seem that you and I share similar circumstances. My mother also raised me on her own after my father abandoned us, and she’s also with me here in the States. I understand your plight as a loyal son.”
Wallenburg gestured to the plate of danishes, but Willy demurred. Wallenburg cleared his throat. “Now, to business. You remember I told you that King Christian X of Denmark is concerned about approximately six hundred Danish Jews who have been sent to Terezín?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you and I will be flying to Denmark, where we’ll meet with a delegation appointed by the king before continuing on to the camp in Czechoslovakia. President Roosevelt wants to hear from the . . . what’s the expression? He wants to hear the king’s concerns from the horse’s mouth.”
Willy smiled. “I understand. And the International Red Cross?”
“We’ll meet their people at the camp itself.”
“How is it that the War Refugee Board gained access to a camp? I can understand the Red Cross being allowed access, but the WRB?”
“Hitler is under enormous pressure right now. He’s waging war on two fronts and is being squeezed. Rumor is that Himmler has considered meeting, or has already met with, an emissary from the United States to discuss German surrender and what that might entail.”
Willy’s eyes went wide. “That’s wonderful!”
Wallenburg held up his hand. “First, these are rumors, and secondly, according to my sources Himmler is fanatically loyal to the Aryan ideals. Perhaps not to Hitler, but to the ‘cleansing,’ as he describes it. In other words, even if Hitler were gone and Germany were to surrender in some capacity, Himmler would surely negotiate a fine deal for himself. Additionally, he wouldn’t go away. He might disappear, but he’d continue working behind the scenes to finish what he’s started.”
Willy took a sip of coffee as he reflected on Wallenburg’s words. “Forgive me, but I still don’t understand how it is that the WRB has access to Terezín?”
“Yes, sorry. The chessboard is broad, and its players are complex. Those two factors make for complicated negotiations and, therefore, often intricate descriptions. As I said, Hitler is being squeezed, so is willing to make some compromises in order to show the world his magnanimity. He’s allowed some Jews to live if their survival serves his larger purpose. He’s aware of the WRB’s work and hasn’t blocked us as much as he could. When the Red Cross received this opportunity to visit Terezín, of course the WRB wanted to be involved. After agreeing to allowing the Red Cross into the camp, the master of manipulation couldn’t very well decline entrance to the WRB. It would look to the world as if he were hiding something. He’s crafty, that’s for sure.”
That’s one word to describe him, Willy thought. Evil is another. “How many prisoners reside in Terezín?”
Wallenburg shook his head. “It’s hard to know because we’re not sure we can believe the propaganda coming out of Berlin.”
“Trust me. You can’t believe it.”
“Alright, well, Berlin has told us that there are approximately seven thousand people in Terezín and that they’re being treated well. Apparently, there are weekly lectures, performances, and artistic exhibitions.”
Willy’s heart surged. If his uncle wanted to hide Ursula, this camp would be the perfect place. If the rumors were true, if the inmates were being treated fairly, then perhaps Ursula was alive and well!
“When do we leave?”
“Three weeks from today, on June eighteenth. You’ll spend the next few weeks understanding your role as my assistant and getting your affairs in order. Sound good?”
Willy nodded eagerly. “I would leave today if we could.”
“I know you would, but you have a lot to learn about what we do here at the WRB, and I need to prepare for an upcoming relief and rescue effort in Budapest. I’m going there immediately following the Terezín tour. That’s what I was discussing with the president. That, and you, of course.”
Willy was shocked. “Me?”
“Yes. He was rather impressed with your article and how you’re standing up to your uncle. Your commitment reinforced his own convictions.” Willy felt proud that his words had made such an impact. That had been his goal, of course, and he was grateful to know that his time and energy hadn’t been wasted.
Wallenburg stood abruptly. “Now, Sarah will show you to your new office. I need to call my mother and tell her that I won’t be home until seven. That should go well.” He grimaced.
Willy stood and shook his hand. “Good luck.”
“Thanks. I’ll need it.”
44
In the months following the Verdi concert, the ghetto saw many changes. Commandant Seidl was replaced by a sociopath named Anton Burger, who took joy in having the inmates stand outside for hours in the freezing cold. Lieutenant Burger lasted only seven months before he, too, was replaced by the current commandant named Lieutenant Karl Rahm. The sadist liked to beat inmates but could be bribed, according to rumor. Not many prisoners had any valuables left, but trains arrived often, and they deposited new inmates who carried useful items. The train that had brought Ursula to the camp was luxurious compared to the more recent deposits. Cattle cars crowded with stinking, cramped bodies unloaded their exhausted, terrified cargo, often leaving onboard the bodies of people who didn’t survive the trip. Current inmates were ordered to empty the cars, then hose them out so the train could reverse course and retrieve more hapless victims.
Each time a train arrived, Ursula would marvel at the sheer numbers of people who disembarked. Where will they all sleep? she
’d wonder. Originally built to house approximately seven thousand people, the ghetto now contained more than fifty thousand.
Despite the increasing number of inmates, food supplies remained the same. This meant that rations, already meager, were halved. Then halved again. Typhus had raged through the ghetto, leaving thousands dead in its horrifying wake. Intelligent and opportunistic rats swarmed the barracks, their eyes glowing yellow in the moonlight as they scurried over sleeping bodies. Although Ursula often felt their sharp nails on her face, it was only when they decided to take a bite of her ear or nose that she would snatch them and throw them against a wall.
She had watched the frail and elderly fall in the streets, their sticklike legs no longer able to support them. Other inmates walked past without noticing, too busy with their own survival to be bothered. The bodies would lay where they fell until the guards were sure they were dead, at which point they would be thrown onto a makeshift hearse and transported to the camp’s crematorium, which now ran twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
Since the Requiem performance, Ursula had worked through the crushing guilt she felt at the deaths of her choral friends. She and Rafael Schächter had decided they would honor their memories by creating a new choir. The evening of the first rehearsal only four people had appeared in the basement of Magdeburg barracks. They told her that many people wanted to sing but were afraid due to the outcome of the previous performance. Undeterred, she and Schächter had recruited people and sung the Requiem many more times. As they had feared, following each performance much of the choir would be loaded onto a train, leaving them fewer voices from which to choose and less motivated to perform.
Ursula, however, always remained behind, destined to bear the burden of the dead.
One day as they worked the sluice, Ilse Weber suggested that Ursula lift her mood by changing her artistic focus.
“What do you mean?”
“You can’t keep repeating the Requiem, only to have your choir be sent away. You wear your guilt like a yoke around your neck, Ursula.”
Ursula threw a red, leather suitcase on a wagon. “I’m fine, Ilse.”
“You’re not. Look at me.”
Ursula turned.
“You’ve always worked only with adults, but there are so many talented younger voices in the camp.”
Ursula straightened and rubbed her lower back. “I’ve never thought of that.”
“Do you know Hans Krása?”
“No.”
“He’s a Czech composer who wrote a children’s opera called Brundibár. He was just telling me that he wanted to work with his cast to improve their voices. Perhaps you should offer to help.”
“I’m not a voice teacher, Ilse.”
“True, but I don’t think Herr Krása would be that picky, and you speak Czech.”
Ursula rolled the idea around. “What if the children don’t like me?”
Ilse crossed her arms. “Ursula, children are easy to work with because they’re honest. If you treat them with respect and kindness, they’ll return the favor. If you treat them as lesser or inferior, they’ll act out. The children here are more mature. They’ve had to be in order to survive. Besides, the children in this production have performed together before. Many of them came from an orphanage where Brundibár was premiered. Don’t worry. You’ll be giving them the gift of better voices. They won’t squander the opportunity to learn.”
Ilse was correct. When Ursula approached Hans Krása and offered to coach the children, he jumped at the chance. Ursula spent the next two weeks working with Rafael Schächter to learn the Brundibár music, then met the cast in an attic on a warm afternoon in early April. Rafael Schächter had begged off conducting and had offered the honor to Rudi Freudenfeld, who graciously accepted.
Ursula asked the pianist named Gideon Klein to play some light music while she spoke to the group. He composed a carefree ditty on the spot, and the effect was immediate. The children smiled and gave her their full attention. She stood in front of the young group, whose expectant faces filled her simultaneously with joy and fear. “Hello, children. I understand that you have performed Brundibár many times. Herr Krása has graciously entrusted me to work with you on vocal technique. It’s a serious responsibility, but I know that you’re up to the task.” She paused, humbled by the fact that several of the young people sitting cross-legged on the dirt floor had not yet been born when she first took the operatic stage. “My name is Ursula, and I am your vocal teacher. For some of you, this is the first time you will be performing. Although I have sung in many operas, this is my debut as an instructor, so we must practice great patience with one another.” Light laughter rippled through the older children while the younger ones simply smiled, content to be distracted from their empty stomachs. A spindly arm waved in the air.
“Yes?” Ursula asked.
“Will we have makeup?”
Ursula looked to Addi, who stepped forward and smiled. “I’ll be doing your makeup, and Ilse will be making some costumes.”
The older children looked at Ilse skeptically. Resources were scarce, and Ursula wondered how Ilse would cobble together enough material. Ilse noticed their reactions. “You leave the worrying to me. Have faith, friends, that you will be costumed appropriately.”
Her confidence set the children at ease, and Ursula took advantage of the good humor. “Alright. To work! Please stand.” She ran the children through some vocalizations and was pleased to find that most of them not only could keep good rhythm, but also were able to sing on pitch. She grouped the children by vocal ability and worked with each group throughout the afternoon. By the end of the session, Gideon Klein pulled her aside to congratulate her and Hans Krása was beaming. The children walked down the stairs with a spring in their steps, and Ursula was once again reminded how powerful music could be, especially when combined with hope.
“You’re doing a good thing here, Ursula.” She turned to find Ilse gazing evenly at her. “An unselfish thing.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Forgive me for being blunt, but your primary concern since you came to Terezín has been yourself.”
In another world, in another time, Ursula might have been offended by such a statement, but those days had long passed. “Isn’t that the case for all of us?”
Ilse smiled knowingly. “You tell me.”
Ursula reflected on Markus, the boy on the train who had been shot because she didn’t speak up. Then her mind wandered to Marika, who mothered her and never asked for anything in return. She thought of Fritz, who offered her supportive words as he lay dying in the snow. And finally the choirs, who had perished because of her. In every circumstance she had taken more than she’d given. “Your words have reason, Ilse.”
“Please don’t misunderstand me, Ursula. You were always kind, but you’ve matured. You’re now nurturing as you reach beyond yourself to create a legacy.”
Ursula laughed. “You’re making my involvement in this children’s opera more than it is, Ilse.”
“Am I?” She raised an eyebrow. “We’re a part of history. Right now. This war will end and when it does, people will write about this camp. Historians will pass judgment.” She smiled broadly. “They will write about your greatest role, voice teacher to the children in Terezín.”
Ursula crinkled her nose. “You think so?”
“I know it. So do your best and continue to focus on the children. The rest will fall into place.”
Ursula carefully considered Ilse’s words. Was Willy somewhere out there looking for her as Anna had said? Would she ever see him or her father again? Darkness scratched at her mind. What if I die here? How will I be remembered? She decided to focus on the present while keeping a hopeful eye on the future. “I believe that you’re correct, Ilse. I’ll do as you suggest and focus on the children.”
Addi rushed s
o quickly up the stairs that she stumbled on the last two. She caught herself before she fell, then held up a finger asking them to wait until she caught her breath. They exchanged worried glances as Addi breathed heavily for several moments, then sat heavily on the floor. “Guess what?” she finally asked.
Ursula rolled her eyes. “After that entrance? What?”
“They’re building street signs.”
“Who is building street signs?”
“The SS soldiers have ordered the men who normally work elsewhere in the camp to build street signs.”
Ursula pulled a face. “Why?”
Addi shrugged. “Come outside and see.”
The three women descended the stairs to find men carrying handmade sawhorses in the direction of the Town Hall. They followed them and found the open area buzzing with hushed excitement. The only other times Ursula had seen the quadrangle so busy was right after a train unloaded its cargo of confused, scared travelers. But unlike the wide eyes and palpable fear Ursula always noted in the new arrivals, here the men smiled and joked. The sounds of metal teeth sawing through wood carried to her ears, and the aroma of freshly cut pine invigorated her. She approached a young man. “What’s happening?”
He turned to her and his entire face lit up. “Haven’t you heard? We’re beautifying the ghetto. We’re making it into a true town. There are to be shops and currency. Food will be more plentiful, and we are to live more freely. It’s wonderful!” He walked away, his enthusiasm apparent in his bouncing stride.
Ursula watched warily, then turned to Addi and Ilse. “What do you think?”
Both women’s faces reflected her feelings of doubt and distrust. “Can you talk to Edvard Svoboda and get the truth out of him?” Ilse asked.
Addi shrugged. “I could ask.”
Ursula stared at her. “It won’t cost you anything?”
“Things have changed, Ursula. The information will come freely.”
Swan Song Page 32