“Have you found it?”
“Oh yes, that’s why I look to that tree. It will shed its leaves and be reborn next spring, and it will be green and alive, living through another winter. My wife was not so fortunate. She died and I couldn’t save her. But she lives on in a way. It’s a matter of the soul. The soul inside you never dies.”
“Trees, do they understand? Do they have souls?”
“I think so. They are simply beautiful and ask for nothing but to be nourished and appreciated. They understand more than we know. While we’re around, we need to love each other, Max, and understand more about where we are coming from so we can find where we’re going. Hold on until we get home.”
Home. Barbed wire and guards. Outbreaks of typhoid? The suffering all around increasing every day. I had the desperate feeling that I was on a train traveling toward hell. At other times, I thought that we had already arrived. No matter how difficult things were already or would soon become, how could I help? Could I change things somehow, change the course of events at all? When life around me became too confusing, I rationalized that sooner or later the war would be over. It had to end sometime, and I had to hold on to that thought. There was so much to do, so much to build, so much to rebuild. I had somehow or other to cling on to hope. If those around me were carrying on as best they could, living lives of bravery and hope, then what right did I have to give up? The courage to carry on hoping felt like the only thing left. Not to give up on my assignment.
Then Sophie introduced a plan that slowly unfolded.
“I want you to meet some people.”
On the second floor of the children’s block, just under David’s office, Sophie led me to Sarah Markova, her dearest friend about whom she had written to me before I’d first arrived. Sarah was small and fragile and had studied in Russia. When she was too old to dance at the Kirov, she earned her degree in psychology at Moscow university. With more optimism than her slender body could pack in, Sarah managed to teach one child at a time in the tiny livable space below the Vedem office. I didn’t know how she managed, except she loved the children, and that was her driving force. The kids were like trees, I thought, asking nothing in return but to be nourished, to be given the chance to express themselves and to be appreciated.
I knew what it was like being separated. But these kids had no idea where their parents were, nor who they were. Maybe it was better like that, I reasoned. It had to hurt. Yet they appeared to have found some happiness. It had to be like a seesaw. Hurt and happiness. Up and down, back and forth, hoping to land on the happiness side.
While I had a special situation, teaching had been formally banned at Terezín, and materials like books, pencils, and crayons were in short supply. But Sarah was determined to give the children some bit of hope in their daily lives. She created activities—playing games, performing skits, and singing songs. In these multinational surroundings, language wasn’t a problem. She was tireless in her love for these kids.
“I’d like for Max to meet the children and see their home.” She figured home meant a lot of different things to a lot of different people, a place to feel better, and free. Home for me? I would have to make do with my imagination.
They were a mismatched bunch from all over Europe. But they clung together.
“We’re all a family,” Sarah said. “We may look different and speak different languages, but our feelings are the same. We really are very much alike. All of us.”
To welcome me, they stood in a line holding hands and sang a Georgian folk song called “Suliko.” It was a song that Sarah had taught them. Their voices were so pure; they could have been a professional choir. I knew that they could be the cast for Brundibár. They took their places, sitting cross-legged in a semicircle on the floor of the barracks, not saying a word. I hoped that they would respond to the idea of a performance.
“We’re going to be putting on a show and you, all of you, would make a perfect cast.”
One piped up, “We’ve never put on a real show before, we only pretend every so often.”
“That’s just it, you can play and learn different parts … that’s all that acting is: proper pretending.”
“Is it hard to learn lines?”
“It’s really easy, and a lot of fun.”
Putting on a theatrical voice that would’ve made the Great Viktor Mueller proud, I introduced myself as “Mr. Make-Believe.”
“Sometimes,” I said to them, “pretending makes the world a special place. You can be anything you want to be, in the land of make-believe.”
“Is it an actual place?” one of the kids asked.
This was something I knew about. “If you believe, you can be a dancing elephant in the jungle.”
Placing a jacket over my head, I waved a sleeve as if it were a trunk and pranced around the room. I found a multicolored jester’s hat, put it on my head, and attempted a handstand, surprising myself when I tumbled over. The room rang with the children’s laughter.
“Or even be a clown.”
The kids oooooooed at this feat.
I asked, “Can you draw a picture so I have something to remind me of our visit together?”
The children huddled in conference with Sarah and Sophie, and after a few minutes, giggled. A few came forward with paint. They colored my cheeks pink, exaggerated my mouth white, smeared a bright red blotch on my nose, and pulled the floppy hat down on my head. They cheered. I became a walking painting, a performer in the land of make-believe. And I knew that finally I had a cast.
Sophie came over to me. “Max, the kids adored you. Sarah says you have dusha.”
“Dusha?”
“Something in the heart of every Russian. A kind of mystical identity, a sense of your soul having a place in the world. It’s hard to translate.”
Feeling a bit Russian, I supposed it was a good thing. And if it was, Sophie surely had more than me.
“Dosvedanya. Until we meet again, and thank you,” Sarah Markova vigorously shook my hand. Dosvedanya. It sounded like a word I wanted to dance to, and so I grabbed Sophie and tried to twirl her around, and the children clapped. I took flight on a blessing. After washing up, I didn’t waste a minute and led the kids over to meet Hans.
It was a good day.
Fredy Hirsh, who was inseparably connected to the children at Terezín, had made believers of them all. He was head of the physical education program and convinced everyone there how important it was to condition themselves physically and mentally for building a Jewish state. Living in a Jewish homeland was the dream of every Jew at Terezín.
“Palestine is a land of olive groves and lemon and fruit trees as far as the eye can see,” he said. “It’s always warm; you can do as you please. It’s a place to take long walks through history, a place to be proud, a place to be free.”
A place to be free? If that was true, I understood why David and Sophie were so keen to go. David longed to join his parents. Although I wasn’t a Jew, I thought I might like to go with them. That Russian word, dusha, seemed to describe the Jews too.
“Max, I have a statement for Vedem,” Fredy said. “Take it to David for me, please: Tomorrow, Palestine. Believe me.” As I turned to go back to the newspaper office, Fredy called, “Be sure to put on the Vedem calendar that the football season is still on, practice continues, we welcome players at all levels. Come on out and join the team!”
I entertained the thought for a minute. Could David and I revive the Czech All Stars? Probably not. At least I had the memory.
WHEN YOU LEAST EXPECT IT, SOMETHING HAPPENS
Taking the mail to Commandant Freidle’s office, a voice called to me.
“Guten Morgen. Wie Gehts. How are you, Max?”
Frau Schmidt!
I couldn’t believe it! She had come all the way from her celebrated hotel in Berlin! Had she come to commandeer the office?<
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“Is that Max Mueller coming to see me?” she asked, keeping her stern composure.
I was speechless. How had she gotten here? My spirit brightened in an instant.
“How? Why?” I asked.
Her face almost broke into a smile. “Thanks to my excellent housekeeping skills, I’ve been sent to assist Freidle. Things are terrible in Berlin, and I made sure I was on the last train out.” She leaned closer to me and whispered, “The Nazis thought I was hiding Jews. They were paying guests, like anyone else! But imagine! They charged me as a conspirator. I put an end to that notion, with friends in the right places. I convinced them that I could be of service to the Fatherland. They agreed that with my talent to run a hotel, I could help out at Terezín.”
She gave a huff toward the tumbling stacks of paper and cluttered shelves. “No one could have predicted how much of a mess this office is! It will take the fine hand of the Motherland to get it organized! Absolutely no excuse.”
“Frau Schmidt, things have gotten pretty bad here.”
Her thoughts were somewhere else.
“How is Captain Mueller? Where is he now?”
Unable to say anything positive, I mentioned that he had visited a few times.
“He’ll be along any day. I don’t have my reservation book with me, but I’ll let you know. And keep mum, chum.” It was an expression that I had never heard before. Frau Schmidt probably picked it up from one of her guests.
“I don’t think we agree on much anymore,” I told her. “Poppy’s not the man I remember, not the father I had.”
“Now just hold on, ducky.”
Another phrase to add to my notebook!
“Ducky?”
“One of my visitors in Berlin was from Nottingham. He played the bassoon and was rather fond of the word; but enough about that, I have a letter from Viktor for you.”
At first, I couldn’t bring myself to read it. That night I did.
December 12, 1943
Dear Max,
I’m sad how we left each other. Regardless of what you may feel, you are still my son. I know we may disagree, but that should not stop our love for each other. I’m assured that you are safe. I wish I could tell you everything, but I can’t. During wars, families are separated, we all make sacrifices, but we must stand up for what we believe. I saw Frau Schmidt, and she will be coming to Terezín and will give you this letter. I know that since the death of Heydrich, things at Terezín are bad and I expect to have a meeting about the matter in Berlin. This is not the German way. Many good people, even kids, have been recruited for the war effort; for many there’s terrible hardship. Be brave and strong, Max. We stand together. Someday I hope you’ll understand.
With my love,
Poppy
The German way? We stand together? How? Everything about us was different, except for one big thing: Poppy was still my father. That didn’t mean so much anymore. Stand together? I couldn’t. Poppy was standing on different ground. I had chosen where to stand, on good days and bad.
When I next saw Frau Schmidt again, she called to me: “An artist friend of mine is here, a famous painter, and you might like to meet him. He stayed with me at the pension in Berlin and he’s a talented man, though he leaves paint all over the place. He needs a friend; his name is Norbert Troller.”
BRUSHSTROKES
I saw the opportunity for an interview and advised David: “I think a piece about Troller would be great. You could publish a few of his drawings. He’s well-known.”
I recruited Sophie, and we found the famous master on a park bench, sketching a few buildings. Troller was wearing a velvet jacket covered with pastel dots and spots, each dash of color marking him as an artist. He was painting with his focus fixed on his canvas.
“Do you have a few minutes for an interview? I’m Max Mueller and this is my friend and colleague Sophie Mahler,” I said, hoping I was exuding authority.
“I’m not sure I have much to say,” Troller answered, never taking his eyes from his painting.
“Maybe you tell stories with paintings.”
“That I do.”
Sophie and I were fascinated by his jacket. He flashed a quick sideways glance at us.
“Why are you looking at me and not my work?”
We both shrugged.
“I always wear this gown. A bit of a habit I suppose; if I am not wearing it, I don’t paint.”
“You’ve always been an artist?”
“An artist, yes. I like to see things my way, not the way they are. That can be helpful sometimes.”
“I studied art in school, and someday I’m going to learn more.” Sophie had no doubts. “I’m sure it takes more talent than practice, or is it more practice than talent?”
Troller looked around and smiled, then returned his gaze to the painting, tapping a touch of color to the canvas.
“I was trained to be an architect, but I’d rather paint; it’s a much better way to participate in life.”
“Yes, I’m going to learn,” Sophie said. “I can play music, then I’ll paint, and then I’ll listen, and then paint again. I’m always amazed how you can capture feeling. It’s the greatest gift. How you see everything from different angles, so many shades of color, seeing life realistically or upside down.”
Sophie never failed to surprise me with her enthusiasm.
“From my perspective, it’s the light,” Troller said. “And that carries a bit of music. Early morning and late afternoon, the colors are softer. Do you have a favorite color, Max?”
“I’ve never thought about it.”
“And what about you, Sophie?” He nodded his head toward her.
“Light blue,” she said quickly.
“Good. You’re a lady of the sky, an optimist. Everyone should own a color; you can find blue in a thousand shades, and if you add a little tint, well, that adds something more. Take red, and add a hint of white, and pink surprises you. Take blue, add red, and welcome purple.”
He put down his brush.
“Let’s try again, color?”
“Beige,” I decided.
“Interesting. You can do many things with beige. It’s almost neutral but still it has its own personality. From light tan, it can take many directions. It offers more opportunity than blue or gray. Come visit me in my studio in Berlin Barracks. There you can see my drawings and you might like to select one for Vedem.”
He packed up his paints and Sophie and I followed him to his studio. He had painted his walls with a Palladian arch and a balcony reaching out onto a landscape in Tuscany. Sophie gasped when she saw it.
“It’s called trompe l’oeil. The Italians are masters. The painting is so true to life that it looks real. But that’s all art, isn’t it, a technique to trick the eye, yet tricking it into seeing things as they really are and not merely as they appear to be. That’s a really worthwhile trick.”
I could almost breathe fresh air and feel the light sweeping in. Sophie beamed. And twirled around. “I can feel the colors.”
When we left, Sophie almost sang as she declared, “Norbert Troller added color to our black-and-white world.”
Brimming with excitement, and with Frau Schmidt following right on my heels, I approached Freidle’s office.
“Commandant, we have a celebrated artist here, and I think he can be of great value to you. Has Frau Schmidt told you about Norbert Troller?”
Freidle nodded at Frau Schmidt. “Yes, but how can he help, Max?”
“Well, for starters, the whole camp is awful.” I just came out and said it. “I mean awful. Even your office is tired.”
Frau Schmidt put her hands on her hips. “It is a mess.”
“Norbert Troller can design anything and make it terrific,” I said. “I mean, not that it’s not nice already, of course … I …”
; Freidle got the message: “I don’t disagree.”
He looked around as if he was discovering for the first time how untidy his office was and had always been.
I relaxed and continued, “He’s not only a painter, but an architect and designer, someone who can design anything!”
Frau Schmidt wagged her finger at Freidle: “Siegfried, it’s impossible to keep you neat and organized, but if I have to inspire you with a kick in the tookie, I promise you, I will.”
Freidle finally turned to me. “Arrange it. It’s a start.”
“I’m on the case, Commandant!”
I was feeling a sense of energy. Everyone needed an assignment, and while still working on a production, here was another one. Troller took on the challenge and began producing drawings for a desk, bookcases, and a wall for files and documents. He painted samples on little cards, easy pastels for the walls and contrasting color for the moldings. With a decorator’s eye for detail, he refurbished Freidle’s office, living quarters, and conference room. In a few weeks, we didn’t recognize the place. The commandant was over the moon, and soon Troller was given other work.
Troller was a man of many talents. I called him “an artist for all seasons.” He could design, draw, build, construct, and paint, with so much talent that even Frau Schmidt was in awe. His passion, however, remained painting portraits and landscapes. Freidle commissioned one of himself in full military regalia.
For the unveiling, Freidle gave a small party in his office, and the guests enjoyed baked cakes and drank fresh cider that Ava had made. Only the most privileged members of the camp had been invited. Fritz, Frau Schmidt, and I admired the portrait in its ornate gold-leaf frame.
“I wouldn’t want Hermann Göring to see this,” Freidle confided to the assembled group. “He might take it for his own personal gallery.”
While the Music Played Page 29