“Max! Hey, Max!” David was standing in front of me, waving his hand.
“What?”
“You’re a team.”
“And why not?”
David flopped back onto his bunk, and I settled into a nearby chair. I reviewed my notes and wrote about Gerron. I had the newsroom to myself. I finished up my piece and read it through. I was insecure about my first interview, and just having Sophie there gave me confidence. She had to know. What was I without her? I thought about that for a while and then before I could find an answer I reminded myself that I didn’t need to, because I was near her right now and wanted to be with her always. Feeling surer of my ability, I was ready to take on another job.
“David, I’d like to visit Rabbi Leo Baeck.”
“Do you know anything about him?” David looked at me inquisitively.
“No, but Sophie said I should meet him, so I’ll find out, right? That’s what an interview is for,” I replied.
“Well, get on with it then, we’ll hold space.”
“I’ll have to prep myself.”
“That’s what good reporters do.”
“Right. I’m on my way.” I tossed a wave. “Award-winning journalist at your service.” That was one of the secrets that I learned about how to make it here. Being busy was better than worrying all the time. I had a purpose. I wanted to fill my time by being useful—to David, and Sophie, and Hans. The more I learned, the more I understood, the more help I could be.
I met up with Sophie outside the infirmary. I finally asked her all the things I’d been wondering about since our conversation about being different.
“Sophie, what’s it like being Jewish?” I hoped for a better answer than Hans had given me.
She looked at me seriously. “It seems an odd question. But maybe it’s not so odd … the way things are. I don’t know, I suppose that I just am,” she said. “Why do you ask?”
“I don’t want to feel like an outsider. You said I was not the same as you … how?”
“I didn’t mean it that way. I meant you have never experienced what it is like to be Jewish.”
“Is it such a contrast? My pals are Jewish and we seem much the same.”
“We try to have a good heart.”
“I try to do that, too, Sophie. See, no different.”
Sophie was quiet for a moment. “The difference is that I wear a yellow star, Max. That’s a big difference right now and nothing can change that.”
I felt foolish, trying to fit in with my blue star. I knew that I had to stop playacting and take a new approach.
“When things go badly, there’s always a need for somebody to blame. Hitler says we’re the reason. It makes it easier for him to think we’re not important, we’re not good people, we don’t count. But we do. We all count. We are different. Countries have persecuted us for years. It happened in my country; it happened in yours. Palestine is our home, where we came from centuries ago. Mama always felt we would be better off there, we could begin a new life, and that’s what Rabbi Baeck believes too.”
“That brings me to another question: What’s a rabbi?”
“You’re getting good at interviewing, Max. He’s a teacher. They are at the center of our lives. All through our history, they traveled from village to village, bringing news, offering healing words, restoring faith. It may be the most important thing that we have, the last thing that we’re left with, that we have hope, that we have faith, that we have courage. And God has promised us one thing.”
I looked across at her: “What’s that?”
She smiled, stroking my cheek sweetly, and then said with a wink: “Next year in Jerusalem.”
AN APPOINTMENT
TO KEEP
The rabbi’s apartment was just across from the library. When I arrived and knocked, the rabbi threw open the door and pulled me in with open arms.
“Welcome, Max. Sophie has told me much about you!”
His watery eyes twinkled with pleasure. He had soft gray hair and a matching beard, making him appear older and wiser than I had imagined. He had a calm and easy way of speaking.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Rabbi. I’ve heard many good things about you too.”
“I’m pleased to know that. Makes my job easier. I like being liked.”
He led me into the apartment. The place smelled musty, and I wasn’t sure if it was from all the books stacked around the room or from the windows being closed. The rabbi opened one and a breeze swept in.
“Max, you’re just in time, like fresh air. Have some grapes. Can you believe they grow grapes in Terezín? A miracle. Maybe the Germans will make wine and offer it up for church Communion.”
He seemed amused by his own thought. We settled into comfortable chairs.
“Max, you’re not Jewish. What are you doing here?”
He spoke quietly and looked me straight in the eyes. His eyes were kind and insistent.
“I’d like to be Jewish.”
“And why is that?”
“Honestly, it’s because of the Jewish people I’ve known. They have welcomed me. It’s a spirit that goes beyond my friendships. I want to belong with them.”
He stroked his beard with thoughtful composure. “Well, then, I bless you Jewish.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that. We have something in common, yes, a family of sorts.”
“I’ve heard about your lectures. I’d love to come and hear you speak.”
“You’re welcome anytime. I’d like to know more about you.”
“There’s not much to know really. I’m a reporter. I’m a sort of musician too. But I’m supposed to ask the questions.”
“And I’m a rabbi, I’m supposed to give answers.”
“Is that what rabbis do?”
“We can only try. Yes, we can only try.” He looked away for a moment.
In the next few minutes, I learned a short version of his story: Rabbi Baeck came from a tradition of rabbis. His father had been one. Brought up in Poland, he became a prolific writer, scholar, and philosopher. In the thirties, Europe’s Jewish community turned to him as a defender of Judaism.
“Can you tell me about where it all started? Judaism, I mean.”
“That is a big question, Max, and a direct one. Well now, where to begin? I guess we can begin with our biblical origins—with the Old Testament. With Abraham who walked in a much different direction, bringing the world out of darkness. And then comes Moses, giving a moral compass, showing us all how to perfect one’s self and the world.”
“To perfect the world? I don’t understand. If the Jews work to perfect the world, why do the Nazis hate Jewish people so much?”
“It’s funny they should do that, don’t you think? Maybe that’s close to the heart of it all. But back to your question: Hate is a product of fear and there is a lot of fear in the world right now. People who are afraid want power in order to calm their own fears. They have uncertainty and doubt, and they need someone to blame. Our culture is different from theirs, our religious beliefs are different. Difference can create scapegoating. And here we are. Just when we settle down, we’re driven out of our homes. It’s been going on for over three thousand years.”
“It doesn’t make sense. Aren’t you chosen?”
“That’s an interesting concept. Since the very beginning we’ve written the story of stories; we Jews considered ourselves chosen, because we were blessed as agents of God. Sometimes I wonder just how chosen we are, rejected by so many in history. But we have always managed to survive. Maybe that’s being chosen. It’s a mystery, don’t you think? And mysteries are good, too, Max. We don’t always have the answers, but we always need to ask the right questions.”
“Yes, that’s what my friend David always says. May I ask what brought you to Terezín?”
&
nbsp; “That’s a question I can answer. To serve. Yes. I frequently court the Nazis’ displeasure, which brings me a measure of satisfaction,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Before coming here, I was summoned to Gestapo headquarters one Saturday and I declined. On the Sabbath, I go to services. This did not please them. Now to another subject, you like music?”
I wasn’t sure I fully understood, but I nodded. “Yes, I do. Don’t you, Rabbi?”
“A blessing. If you listen, you will find some answers. You don’t just listen to music, you respond to it, and sometimes even ask it questions. And in our quietest moments, it can whisper answers.”
“Answers?”
“But you have to be ready to hear them.”
“Do you play an instrument?” I asked.
“I like to listen to music. We always have a cantor in synagogue. The cantor is the singer who leads the chanting of prayers.”
“And you read lots of books.”
“That’s what rabbis do. We are learners as well as teachers. We must continuously learn if we are to teach, to lead. We spend Saturday mornings in the synagogue; we read, we study, we think, and we ask a lot of questions and study the Talmud.”
“The Talmud?”
“It’s a book, our book.”
“Is it a secret book?”
The rabbi contemplated for a moment. “Not so secret; it’s our history and our commentary, often with three points of view. It’s a book of law, on how to live, how to make decisions, how to solve problems.”
“Aren’t two points of view enough?”
The rabbi’s smile turned into a hearty laugh. “I don’t think so. For example, does a candle burn brighter in the morning, afternoon, or at night?”
“At night.”
“Are you sure?”
I thought for a moment. “No, not so sure.”
“Then you must think about it. I read one page a day until I finish. Then I start again.”
“How long does that take?”
“About seven years.”
“It takes seven years to read that book?” I couldn’t think of anything that took seven years.
“Indeed, Max. It’s a manual to help live a better life, and very often we have more questions than answers. The Talmud shapes our culture, and it’s been around for a long time. Perhaps someday you would like to know more?”
“Why not?”
“Max, you’re becoming Jewish by the minute! You ask why not, not why.”
I was starting to think that being Jewish was like being a reporter. It depended on how you asked questions, and which questions you asked.
“We Jews are somewhere between hope and history and there’s more to it than just being Jewish. You should be closer to your friends, and you need to have that covenant. To become Jewish, you’re given a letter.”
“What kind of letter?”
“It’s not just a letter, it is an assignment. That’s the way we do things. It’s an appointment to keep.”
“I’m here to interview you. Isn’t that an assignment?”
“It is written in the Torah, our portable operating manual that we have been carrying around for thousands of years, that we all have a responsibility. We reflect, we react. It’s an unshakable truth. We dream, we feel, we look at the world inside out, and not outside in. And it is up to you to decide what your assignment is. Along the way there are messengers, and you will be smart to recognize that they are pointing you in the right direction.”
“What is your assignment, Rabbi?”
“It starts in the heart, that’s where the appointment begins. What you do defines who you are.”
Everything fell into place for me at that moment, another reason confirming why I was there. There was fear, always fear, and it was real. But now I had something solid to lean on, to think of, to aim for.
“Tell me, Rabbi. What does ‘Next year in Jerusalem’ mean?”
“It’s said at the end of our Passover every year. It’s a wish we all carry.”
In the meantime, Terezín was an appointment. Brundibár was my assignment.
PROGRAMS AND
COMING ATTRACTIONS
Many entertainers came to Terezín from Berlin that year, where revue and cabaret were immensely popular. Even the Steinway Boys arrived—I had mixed feelings. I was glad to see them but sorry they were forced to come. As ever in my life sadness and happiness seemed to coexist, to be partners. Perhaps sadness and happiness were closely related, and perhaps it was our duty to ensure that the shade of sadness didn’t altogether blot out happiness.
But the Steinway Boys were there and became part of our strange new world. It was a place where, somehow or other, the arts managed to thrive. Small theatrical productions became road companies performing in attics and courtyards. And there were so many performances. All of this was so important, allowing us the luxury of forgetting for a moment—overlooking so many needs: food was scarce, medicine scarcer, everyone in the camp was becoming thinner with every passing day, cheeks becoming hollower, skin paler, bodies wearier. Unlike most of the people there, I had it better, and I knew that. I felt guilty. But as the days passed, and I thought more about Rabbi Baeck, I made my decision. I would throw in my lot with my friends, with the Jews. Other than Poppy, these were the people I loved. I only needed to reflect for a moment on why I was here. I thought about “Next year in Jerusalem” and really understood it as a statement of faith, a declaration of hope for the future, for what could be and how we could make it be. To leave would be to admit defeat, to give in to despair. My decision was made. I was now fully committed, and that commitment might not be without consequences. How could it be? It wouldn’t be easy, but my commitment to Terezín was solid. I was no bystander, but part of what I could call my community. In the moment that I made that resolution I was happy in a way that I couldn’t quite define, in a way I had never been before. I knew one thing for sure: I belonged.
I thought of all these activities that were there to create the illusion of normal life. They were designed to keep people busy, to keep minds active, and to help stave off the darker thoughts of our everyday reality.
I wanted to produce Brundibár. I had to. I explored every venue. I had to find a cast. I had to start looking. Thirty kids who could sing. This would be my answer, to shine some light into the darkness. This was my mission, my assignment.
Weekly gatherings filled attics, and there was never an empty chair. Many Czech guards came and enjoyed the talks. Speakers were free to lecture on most subjects, if they weren’t too provocative. Each week, Sophie and I picked one to attend; afterward we interviewed the speakers for Vedem.
One we liked more than any other was Pierre Levy, a mysterious Frenchman claiming to be a former professor of Egyptology at the Sorbonne. As it turned out, he had only worked as a proofreader for a travel publisher, and, in that fact-checking capacity, had learned about Egyptian history. No matter, he was fascinating. Wearing a red fez, he took his audiences sailing on feluccas down the Nile, to explore the pyramids and the riddle of the Sphinx.
“She is guardian of the Great Temple, and to enter, any passerby must know the answer to the riddle.”
Being a showman, he added, “If you want to know the riddle, come next week.”
He described the pharaohs in detail, and, in the spring of 1941, for a grand finale to his lecture series, Pierre attempted a belly dance after enlisting a friend who played a Turkish bağlama to accompany him. Everyone knew he was a phony, but everyone loved him.
David added the listing as “Comic Relief” to the weekly diary of events.
Karel Švenk was one of Prague’s most treasured entertainers. A well-known personality, he was a star in a company called the Club of Unused Talents. After producing musical revues in the attics of Terezín, he now headlined the coffeehouse. It had become Terezín’s premier ca
baret venue.
Sophie, David, and I went to see his latest performance. It featured his most popular work, The Last Cyclist. It was a biting satire, and we settled in for some fun. A ruthless dictator took to the stage and proclaimed that cyclists were the cause of all his country’s problems.
“If any cyclist cannot prove their families were pedestrians for at least six generations,” the dictator proclaimed, “they will be deported to an island.”
Cyclists made the best victims, not those who rode wagons or cars, but those who rode bicycles.
Sophie leaned over and whispered to me, “I guess I’m a cyclist.”
David nudged me. “Hey, I am too. Who knew that cyclists could be so dangerous?” The meaning wasn’t lost on any of us.
Long after everyone had gone home, Sophie and I sat under the stage rafters with a candle lighting the room, doing what any candlelight-
watchers might do: we snuggled up to keep each other warm.
“Sophie, if you loved someone who was terribly sad what would you do?” I asked, smoothing an errant hair behind her ear.
She wrinkled up her nose. “I’d try to do something that would make them happy, something that would mean something to them.”
I sliced an apple that Ava had given me and offered half to Sophie. She took a taste and turned. “I suppose I’d help that person as much as I could.”
“Exactly.”
“Are you up to something, Max?”
“I’m thinking about what I might do for Hans. He keeps to himself most the time. I need to do something for him, for me, for everyone.”
Poppy had his production. I was going to have mine.
I spoke to David to figure out how we might finally get a production of Brundibár going. To find thirty kids.
“You’ve been a part of it from the beginning. But things aren’t easy around here. Take The Last Cyclist. The Germans are closing the show.”
“Why are they doing that?’
While the Music Played Page 24