I fell into a wave of grief, despair capturing every thought, leaving me certain that Sophie had been taken from me forever, that she had been snatched silently away. I walked on, occasionally slipping and stumbling on the frozen ground, not caring whether I was seen or heard; what did it matter now?
I stumbled to the railway line and I stared down the length of the tracks, looking through a slowly rising, ghostly fog for some clue, some meaning, something to say where she was. I found only the darkness of the cold, unforgiving night. I couldn’t allow myself to think that she, the person I loved more than anyone, anything in the world, was gone. I waited. Silent. Still. There had been no transports that night.
I returned to the infirmary, hoping that maybe I would find Edith. I peered through another window. The sun was rising now, its rays melting the frost on the panes. The water gathered into rivulets and ran down the glass like tears. Then I made out the profile of someone moving in the ward, like a vision, a prayer answered. It was Sophie. I felt overcome, overwhelmed by a deluge of relief and happiness. She was there. She was alive. My friends had lived another day. I had made it through the darkest and coldest of nights and we were all still there. I wasn’t altogether sure whether I was reassuring myself or lying to myself. But at that moment, in that brightest of mornings, I stood there alone, facing the new winter sun, my eyes blinking against the fierce light and whispered, “I am not alone in this world. They will survive. They must.”
Just before I returned to my bed, I paused and sat down at the piano downstairs. For the longest time, I looked at eighty-eight ivory keys and each one was calling me. It was still early, but I couldn’t resist striking just one key, a middle C, and I heard its sound that resonated and carried its sweet note across the cold, dark night air. And before I knew it, as mysterious as anything that ever happened to me, came back a chord, an answer. I hit my key again, and after an unanswered moment, it returned, a magnificent chord, full and alive and vibrant. It had traveled back. At that moment, it had been heard. I knew it had to be Hans responding in a way that both of us understood. We were both alone. Not so far away from each other that we couldn’t share this glorious response, speaking to each other in the middle of the night, striking notes of prayerful encouragement, each giving the other the reassurance that everything would be all right.
UNEXPECTED
CIRCUMSTANCES
The intolerable conditions could no longer be kept secret. Frau Schmidt saw the dispatches that had been sent to Freidle’s office from the Chancellery. The international press was publishing stories about German crimes against humanity.
I would soon learn that a “news dealer” in Prague, who knew every international editor, had sent a letter to the International Red Cross describing the conditions in Terezín, the impossible overcrowding and the lack of food and medicine and all other necessary things. It was received by Peter de Pilar at the headquarters in Geneva.
Apparently, Hitler was troubled about Germany’s reputation in the world in a war he was losing. Particularly troubling to him were reports about his model concentration camp. A stain upon German character was unacceptable. The Führer was annoyed.
“Your father is an amazing man, Max,” Freidle said when I arrived in his office. Frau Schmidt nodded her head, heartily agreeing.
“He convinced the German leadership to allow the International Red Cross to visit, after stories were leaked to the world press.”
Poppy’s plan! Could this be what he was trying to do?
“How did he do that?”
“The major is persuasive.”
“Major?”
“He’s been promoted. And the High Command have insisted that German honor be restored and preserved.”
What honor? I said nothing and kept listening.
“The directive is ‘Fix Terezín.’ With your father’s urging, Terezín has been made a top priority. It was intended to be Germany’s gift to the Jews. There will be dramatic changes.”
Winter had passed, and surely spring was not far behind.
CURTAIN GOING UP
On a brilliant dappled sunshine day, Poppy arrived outside Freidle’s office. The last time we were together, I had turned my back on him. Now I was facing him. He was still my father. “Is it true, Poppy? Is it? Did you convince Hitler?”
“We’ll get it done, Max. Hitler will make good on his promise.”
“Why should he?”
I wanted to believe Poppy.
“World opinion, Max. His legacy.”
“What about Zyklon B?” I demanded.
“How do you know about that?” Poppy turned away. “It’s a terrible thing. Unthinkable.”
“Poppy, promise me …”
Without waiting to hear me out, Poppy said emphatically, “I will do what I can. Whatever I can.”
“But you’re not around to protect us, Poppy.”
“I may not be here, but I am always with you. And I am always thinking about you. And I am here now to protect you. Wherever I am, whatever I am doing, I am doing it for you, for Hans, for all of you.”
With every fiber of my being, I wanted to believe him. But my faith wasn’t yet restored. I couldn’t forget what I had learned in these recent days, months, years. I was growing up and the world had changed in a few short years. Poppy was different. Could things be the same again? Could my vision of the world and of Poppy ever go back to the way it was before? It seemed impossible.
Poppy braced himself. “Now, walk with me. It’s time to see my friend.”
When we entered Hans’s room, Poppy said, “There won’t be any more transports from Terezín.”
Hans wrapped both arms around him.
“Viktor, I always had faith in you. Even when I didn’t.”
Poppy smiled. “What about Brundibár? It should have been the longest-running musical in Terezín by now.”
“It’s been a long road, months, Viktor. Delays, disappearing people and facilities, changing circumstances. We’ve had a few postponements, but we have talented kids, we have Max, we have a cast, all pulling together. We still need a big stage.”
Poppy grinned, and for a fleeting moment it was as if the three of us were back in Prague. “I’m going to fix things, and you’re going to see what I can do. Leave it to me.”
Poppy collected his satchel.
“But you’ll be around, right, Poppy? To check on the progress we’ve made?”
“Of course, Max. Everyone has orders, and I have mine. Even if from a distance, I will be watching you. And I’ll be back before you know it.”
I studied his face. “Poppy, I’ll be your right-hand man. I’ll make sure everything is going smoothly.”
I had to be sure Poppy was the man I thought he was, the man I hoped he had always been.
He gave me one last hug and got into his sedan.
“We both have a lot of work to do. I’ll see you in a few days.”
I waved until the car disappeared. There it was again: steady hope. I had to try to hold on to it.
Frau Schmidt and Norbert Troller were responsible for overseeing the reconstruction, applying their skills with enthusiasm. Substantial funds were given for the project. Vedem could print that the World Jewish Congress had donated over a hundred thousand dollars for the restoration, and the Jewish Rescue Committee in Budapest and the King of Sweden gave an equal amount. Berlin sent a letter of thanks and encouragement, noting how much “the conditions will be improved for those we care about.”
“The Führer’s disgusted!” Frau Schmidt said. “The whole Terezín concept was bungled thanks to a dunce called Eichmann who is now relegated to lesser duties.” She commented that he had had an unremarkable education. When he joined the Nazi Party, he was appointed head of the department responsible for Jewish affairs. He was practiced in killing people.
The SS had no supervisor
y standing in the work and Frau Schmidt was given a broad range of authority for the project. Transport offices were closed. Boxes of files were removed.
New offices called “Die offizielle Verwaltung für öffentliche Arbeiten” took their place. The Germans always had long sounding official names, and the DOVFOA was not an exception. Eventually the office was simply called the “VolkFarben,” the people’s colors. Things were changing, moment by moment. I felt a sense of hope, however tentative, returning within me and all around me.
“I need two thousand paintbrushes,” Norbert said.
Two thousand paintbrushes arrived from Poland.
All the residents volunteered. Everyone carried one in their back pocket. Frau Schmidt and Freidle gave assignments by color. Park benches were given a new coat of green, living quarters beige, hospital wards white. The Vedem offices were fitted with desks.
“Isn’t this amazing, Max?” Sophie said, making rounds at the infirmary. “It’s as if the camp has been reborn!”
“Your mother appears to be better,” I said, watching Edith moving around the ward, organizing much-needed supplies.
“I caught her humming today. I still can’t believe that your father did all this, Max. But after all, he is your father, the Great Viktor Mueller. And he’s a compassionate man. How could we ever have doubted him?”
I allowed myself the smallest of smiles.
Frau Schmidt kept the mission simple and, as the ultimate hands-on housekeeper, she knew how to handle details.
Even the Czech guards began to take pride in the effort. With a chorus of “Can we help too?” they joined the labor force. The sidewalks were spotless, freshly painted green disposal cans placed on every corner, and a red telephone booth set up next to the post office. Only no phone was ever connected.
“Fritz, let’s fit the entry with brass mailboxes!” Max said, walking into the post office.
He added some of Ava’s stationery and stands with stacks of white paper. “Some fancy pens?” Fritz asked.
“Great idea. Montblanc?”
He laughed. “In your dreams.”
Doors were sanded and varnished, tables polished. A crew made sure that lamps with green shades were installed in the library. The dusty room was transformed into banks of color, with brochures announcing Terezín on View.
“You know, Max, I think I have a calling,” Freidle confided. “My office is a workshop. Project managers come in and out, construction workers pore over plans. That’s what engineers do.”
The wall where his portrait had hung had been sacrificed for blueprints pinned to every available space.
Norbert popped in. “Hi, Max; been over to the new concert hall?”
Brundibár! I jumped up and raced after Norbert, leaving Freidle in my wake.
Hans had announced a full rehearsal schedule. He had already orchestrated the music and was now making individual parts for the players. Sets were built, lights hung, and the cast given “sides” for their roles.
All the kids wanted to be in the show and everyone took part. There was crew and chorus, props and scenery, even a makeup team. Brundibár was the most anticipated event in Terezín. And there was to be a special performance for the International Red Cross. Hans was in high spirits, surrounded by his cast … make-believe was in full force. For a moment, fear and horror stopped, and I made myself believe that the hell-bound train had changed direction, that things had indeed been fixed, been transformed. We all wanted to believe that all of this—the assignment in which the whole camp was busily engaged—was good and real.
“Max! There you go again, forgetting your lines,” Sophie said during rehearsal.
“You distract me.”
I smiled and moved closer to her. Music had that heartening effect on me. She gave me a pop on the head with her script.
“Help! My true love is abusing me!”
She rolled her eyes and glanced over at Hans who was busy with some children.
“Please, Max, be professional, get serious!”
“I am, Sophie, I hate rejection,” I said, straightening my top hat.
She leaned in and gave me a kiss. Just one kiss is all I need for a lifetime, I thought. I savored this sweet, exquisite, perfect moment.
Surveying the grounds with me, Freidle clearly had something on his mind. He finally commented, “The inspection should be documented.”
“Why don’t you make a film?”
The thought came easily to me—the whole place was a film set after all.
Freidle was startled and stared at me curiously. “A movie?”
“A documentary film.”
“Could you help, Max?”
“No, but I bet Kurt Gerron can. Starred in The Blue Angel. Directed productions at Filmtek Berlin.”
“Maybe he can do something for us. Ask him over to the office.”
Gerron was in his barracks, and after I filled him in on the situation, we walked over to meet with Freidle.
The commandant offered Gerron tea as we sat on his newly slip-
covered couch.
“Quite frankly, Mr. Gerron,” Freidle said, leaning forward across his desk, “I want to know what is required to make a documentary film. Have you that kind of experience?”
“What do you want to accomplish?” Gerron asked, showing little interest.
I hoped Freidle could convince him.
“What do you want to say?”
“I want to make a film for everyone to see,” Freidle said, “A Day in the Life of Terezín.”
“Is this an order or a request?” asked Gerron.
There was a moment of tension as Freidle paused. “A request, of course.”
“In that case, you have my attention. Do you want to shoot in sixteen or thirty-five millimeters?”
“I don’t know. What is the most efficient way?”
“Shooting sixteen millimeter is lighter and more portable. I need two cameras. Arriflex in Munich makes the best. Carl Zeiss in Berlin crafts the sharpest lenses. Sound effects, narration, and music can be dropped in during postproduction.”
“If you can make me such a film, Herr Director,” Freidle said, “I’ll give you a medal.”
“I’d rather have three meals a day, thank you very much,” said Gerron, with bitter humor. “I’ll need a crew—three men—to help with equipment, lights, and setups. I’ll shoot and direct, but it’s necessary to have two cameras, for different angles.”
“We’ll do it!” Freidle said, a smile expanding into a huge grin.
“Can I help, Commandant? It was my idea.”
“Can you use Max?”
“Of course,” Gerron said, with a wink of confidence. At last we heard his explosive laugh.
“This doesn’t mean you’re relieved of your duties at the post office, Max,” Freidle said. “No dancing Busby numbers. No skipping classes with Mrs. Branka.”
I gave my most sincere look. “Double duty. Overtime. No worries.”
“I’ll need lots of film,” Gerron said to Freidle. “Fine grain for quality and high speed for shooting in poor light. Have the film processed in Prague. Luxe Labs are the best.”
“We will make the arrangements, Director Gerron.”
I met David at his Vedem office.
“You mean you’re going to make a movie?”
“We’ve recruited Kurt Gerron.”
“That’s great, Max! He’s not only a big star, but one of the most noted directors in Europe!—and, there’ll be a documented history of the remaking of the place. I bet food, clothes, and medicine will surely be arriving soon.”
I nodded my head in agreement.
Sophie beamed: “Amazing. You won’t mind if I tag along. I want a close-up view.”
“As long you won’t be stepping in and out of the shots.”
> “Hard to resist. I’ll do my best.”
Frau Schmidt didn’t waste any time ordering two sixteen-millimeter Arriflex cameras from Berlin and cans of hundred-foot rolls of film from a list Gerron provided.
“Black and white or color?” she asked.
“Color!” Gerron insisted.
Gerron explained that color stock was in short supply because Minister Goebbels, in charge of Berlin film production, was using thirty-five-
millimeter stock for his propaganda productions; but sixteen millimeter was easier to get.
Frau Schmidt mumbled under her breath, “For God’s sake, here we are becoming Village Hollywood.”
The director had friends in Terezín who had worked in film production. Bernie Steine was the best cameraman in Germany before the war, much in demand thanks to his steady hand and a keen eye. Gerron told me that Steine “could feel light in the dark.”
On the first day of shooting, I lugged all the equipment outside before the sun was in the sky.
“Best light is in the early morning and late afternoon,” I said, nodding.
“Quite right; it has a softer quality. How do you know that, Max?” Gerron asked.
“Troller told me.”
“You’re a fast learner. You like film?”
“Everybody likes film.”
“You’re smart. There’s nothing like making a picture.”
Everyone on Gerron’s team—Bernie, a two-hundred-pound gorilla named Herman, and I—wore black cotton sweaters and pants. We scouted the camp for locations, designing shots, preparing a script. Gerron was a perfectionist. He wouldn’t make a shot unless it was exactly right, careful not to waste film. Every scene had to be set up from a storyboard, and Gerron held to a shooting schedule. He knew what he was doing.
When Sophie first saw us, she stifled a laugh.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“Nothing, you appear very, um, professional. Like a team of cat burglars.”
“For your information, Sophie Mahler, Hollywood sets the fashion.”
While the Music Played Page 31