I lifted my nose into the air and strolled away as her laugh followed me.
I learned a lot about directing from Gerron, who carefully framed scenes from various angles. “Always useful for cutaways when editing,” he said. He wanted an establishing shot from the church so we climbed to the top for a view, past the gates to the hills beyond. Herman, the “gorilla,” was so strong that he could have easily carried all the equipment and an overweight Gerron to the top landing. When we reached the top, out of breath, we were rewarded.
“Beautiful picture!” Gerron said.
“Breathtaking,” David chimed in.
It was worth every step. Gerron framed a shot of a pink sunset over Terezín with the sun’s last rays falling on the river.
The view made our world seem beautiful.
After a “wrap,” the crew disbanded and grabbed what sleep they could before gathering once more at sunrise the following morning. Exterior shots followed Terezín’s makeover program. As each project was completed, Gerron filmed the scene. He took the camera inside the hospital ward, where the set was already dressed with patients in clean linen and new hospital beds which had arrived a few days before. Gerron got the scene he wanted with panning shots of the wards.
Just as he set up an exterior shot, Sophie appeared wearing a fresh white apron.
“There you are, Mr. Hollywood,” Sophie flirted. She smiled and took my hand in hers.
“I’ve been working, Sophie. I’m sorry.”
“She’s got star quality,” Gerron said.
Sophie fluttered her eyes.
“I think everything is going to be all right,” I said.
“I’m glad you didn’t give up on Poppy.”
“And don’t give up on me.”
“You are being slushy, Max Mueller.”
“How’re you doing without me at rehearsals?”
“Oh, don’t be so smug. Just because you know the play inside out, it might be helpful if you came over every so often, Mr. Leading Man.”
“I know my lines, except I forget them when I’m distracted by you. Otherwise, I’m a natural.”
“Oh, Mr. Confidence now!”
“I’ll come over this evening. I want to hear you sing!”
“Anything else?”
I kissed her until Gerron said, “Cut.”
“Would Miss Garbo and Mr. Gilbert like another take?” he asked.
“I should get back,” Sophie said.
“Good luck!”
Gerron continued filming: residents reading in the library, strolling in the park, picking flowers, dining in the café; football games, children at school, a gardener mowing a lawn, ladies chatting on park benches, a group of men doing calisthenics; a dance recital, concerts, rehearsals. He filmed numerous takes to capture the right mood, at times on a tripod, but mostly handheld. He always carefully explained each setup.
David followed behind, writing down every detail.
During production, Gerron filmed from other perspectives, making sure the action matched in every take. He was doing what he loved most, directing films as a serious and dedicated professional. Each night, the film was sealed in canisters, secured in boxes, and shipped to Prague.
Freidle, resident film buff, was so pleased with the progress that he ordered up a director’s megaphone for Gerron from a studio in Berlin.
“I thought you might like one, Herr Director,” Freidle said to Gerron one afternoon while we were waiting in Freidle’s office to hear reports from Luxe Film Laboratories. Gerron needed to make sure we had the right exposure and a work print for “rushes” to give us an idea of the day’s shooting.
Gerron chuckled. “Don’t you think my voice is big enough?”
Before we completed the first act of Siegfried Freidle’s “For the First Time on the Big Screen with Cast of Thousands” production, I had memorized phrases from the shooting lexicon, like reverse angle, atmosphere, and in the can.
“Will you be filming Brundibár?” I asked. “It’s cinematic.”
“Just a few scenes,” he said. “Freidle wants a clip of joyful children in the film.” Gerron snorted. “Joy … right,” he added under his breath.
The following afternoon, while shooting a Brundibár dress rehearsal, David quietly took me aside. “Do you think Gerron can make a shot, just both of you together?”
“Why not?”
I asked Gerron in the middle of filming.
“Cut! For you, Herr Director, anything.”
Gerron had talked about overlapping dissolves to be done in the editing process, in what he called montage. In a shooting sequence, the scenes would convey an effect of one image blending into the next. I thought it would be fitting if I stayed in makeup and costume, with my hurdy-gurdy, and took my mark at center stage.
“Just a clip of me playing, and if you could zoom in close.”
“Yes, Herr Director.”
David smiled. The camera rolled. I turned the hurdy-gurdy, and he asked to be in the shot with me; to the camera, we gave a wink and an okay sign. It was a reminder to anyone who saw the film that we were not defeated. Because we hadn’t been defeated, I thought. Not yet.
David gave a thumbs-up. “It’s a wrap.” He had mastered the slang.
VILLAGE HOLLYWOOD
Terezín’s final touches were the new coach lampposts over the entrances, and then the camp’s makeover was almost complete. Gerron filmed some cabaret events and concerts, and finished shooting.
The evening we wrapped, Freidle announced over the public-address system.
“This beautification comes with deepest appreciation for so much individual effort. You have contributed to the welfare of your fellows. In a few weeks, a delegation will be arriving from Switzerland. Thank you.”
What he didn’t say was that if anyone mentioned former conditions they would be punished. But we knew.
I was walking a tightrope between two worlds—heroes and cowards, life and death, absurdity and reality, who I was and who I wanted to be.
Workers came from Germany for the final polish. Poppy came with them. Trucks of fresh provisions filled the iceboxes in the camp’s kitchen. Curiously, no adequate medicine was included in the shipment, only a few bottles of drugs desperately needed for infectious diseases, and a box of basic first-aid materials—aspirin, bandages, and gauze for minor cuts. This bothered me, and I told Poppy.
“You won’t forget, Poppy?”
“I won’t, Max. I’ll take care of it.”
Poppy refocused on everything he could do for the place, for me, for Sophie and David, and for Hans. A velvet act-curtain and seats had been lifted from the best theaters in occupied countries. Norbert painted canvases of musical instruments and flowers, and attached the panels to the walls on either side of the stage.
If the Great Viktor Mueller had an unlimited budget, he made sure he exceeded it. With the work completed and the camp refreshed, we were ready for the final dress rehearsal for Brundibár. Freidle entered as showman and commandant. “We must make sure of a great performance,” he said.
I saw a bit of worry written across his face.
“Don’t give it another thought,” I reassured Freidle. “You’re leading the team, and we’re going to have a terrific show.”
Sarah Markova was assigned to choreograph; she used the skills she’d learned at the Kirov. Hans could compose music but was hopeless at directing actors, moving them like furniture. It was a running joke—when he was out of range, he was called Mr. Moving Man.
“Care to move a chair, Mr. Krása? Where do you want the bench, Mr. Krása?” the children teased.
Sarah fixed Hans’s staging and eased concerns.
During rehearsal, Sophie had trouble sustaining notes. Over and over she failed.
I pulled her aside during a break. “What’s wr
ong?”
She gave a wan smile. “I’ll be fine.”
“Sophie, what is it?”
“I’ll be okay.”
“Sophie?”
“It’s Mama,” Sophie finally explained, her facing crumbling. “She’s sick again.” She was being brave. “Max, you and Mama and David are all I have. I can’t afford to lose you. And I’m concerned about her. She cares more about her patients in the infirmary than herself.”
I wanted to reassure her and held her close. “Sophie, she’ll be fine. Poppy is bringing medicine.”
She nodded. “I know, I just …” She brightened for a moment, trying to find strength. “Her resistance is pretty strong.”
She ran back to the stage and carried on. She’ll always carry on, I thought.
A few days before the premiere I asked, “How do you think the show will go?”
“We can’t take anything for granted,” Hans replied, trying to project confidence. “We have to be the best we can be. I want the show for the Red Cross Committee to be exceptional, for all of us.”
“Max,” Hans added after a thoughtful pause. “You, the kids, are wonderful! You’ve made a difference.” He nodded and spoke more softly. “Remember that.”
At the first preview, we took our marks, the stage lights came on, we sang:
“Sound your trumpets,
Beat your drum.
We won a victory.
It’s getting late,
And our fate,
We won a victory
Hand in hand
We love our land
To the very end
You have a friend,
We are your friends.
Wir haben einen Sieg errungen!”
The final curtain came down and the theater burst into applause. Freidle led the audience to their feet.
They demanded an encore and sang along with the cast.
Sophie’s mother came backstage. Dr. Frankl had allowed her to attend. “You’re all a pretty good tonic. I wanted to see but I mustn’t overdo it. I love you both. I’m so proud of you, of all of you.”
The little makeup she had kept hidden in her purse for special occasions now hid the many lines that had come with worry. Underneath all the fractured powder, I had always seen something else, a lovely and appealing face, and once again I understood why Sophie was so perfect in the world.
We watched her leave, her shawl wrapped tightly around her narrow shoulders.
“We’ve made her happy,” I said, smiling broadly.
“It’s really something,” Sophie said. “When we march victorious in the finale, the Jews celebrate a victory, the Germans think it is theirs.”
“Amazing.”
“Max, it’s not so amazing,” Sophie said. “We see what we want to see.”
Rabbi Baeck had said many times, it was just a matter of perception.
Several hundred well-dressed residents assembled outside their barracks, lined up for inspection by Freidle and Frau Schmidt. Everything was perfect, except for one detail.
Pulling at Freidle’s jacket, I reached up and whispered in his ear about something he was quite familiar with: “Shoes!”
Freidle glanced at his own, with their high military polish, and at the squads of residents in front of him. He turned to Frau Schmidt and repeated, “Shoes.”
She scanned the rows of broken laces, dirty slippers, shoes without soles, evidence of how they’d all lived for so long, and sighed deeply, frowning at her oversight.
“Thank you, Max,” she said. We went back to Freidle’s office where he called Thomas Bata, a company who made shoes for the military. The ones he could requisition were from an army and navy warehouse.
“What do you mean you only have 44 EE wide?” he asked. “All sizes; top priority from Berlin. Do I have to call Major Mueller or the Führer? Be sure you include small sizes. There are children here!”
He put down the phone and smiled. Not a day had passed before trucks laden with shoes arrived. Most were black, some brown. Many were too big for the children, and they began walking in them, clumping and clopping, turning it into a game. Everyone was amused by the smaller kids walking around, one plop after another.
The camp was stepping out, compliments of the German infantry.
I’LL BE SEEING YOU
There was little left standing in the heart of London after the relentless bombing by Göring’s Luftwaffe. Major buildings had been destroyed, St. Paul’s Cathedral with its Christopher Wren cupola set flaming. After all the whistling, falling bombs, a pause, then an explosion, air raid shelters crowded to capacity. Londoners had been terrified night after night, wondering if their homes would be there after the raids. Wondering if they would survive. Even though Churchill had a remarkable breakthrough with radar as an early warning detection system, and the RAF fought courageously, protecting British skies, they suffered heavy losses, the deaths becoming statistics with countless individual tragedies. Each evening was filled with crisscrossing searchlight beams that were interrupted by platoons of giant, high-flying helium balloons with suspended steel cables dropping downward to intercept and tangle enemy aircraft. London had braved it out and still sang songs like “I’ll Be Seeing You,” “The White Cliffs of Dover,” and “When the Lights Go on Again (All Over the World).” Vera Lynn sang Hits of the Blitz, filling the airwaves that fed into every home across the nation. The Battle of Britain had been fought and won, but the war in the skies raged on.
Anna had worked herself to a state of exhaustion by candlelight, ignoring the blaring sirens. At dinner with Madeline, her mood was as dark as the blackened windows of every flat and house across the city, hiding the light from the home fires that might be detected by the enemy.
“The war is so bleak, Nana. The Germans look set to destroy all of us. What do the planets predict now?” Anna was being caustic.
“We’ll come through, Anna, we always have. We did in the first World War, and we will again.”
Anna thought that their spirit did not keep Jews from being murdered. Hans could have come home with her to London!
Madeline wasn’t at all surprised by Anna’s feelings. “You are thinking about your man, and the boy.”
“Of course, Nana. It’s hard not to.”
“Hope, faith, stars, it’s all nonsense. Words and ideas don’t replace people. If they only had a place to go, to return to, a homeland, Palestine.”
“I suspect the Germans would bomb that too.”
“Weren’t you in Palestine once?”
“I was there a few years back, and I met Raoul Wallenberg when he partnered with a bank in Haifa.”
“What’s he like?”
“I knew you were getting to that.”
“How did you know?”
“In the stars, my dear, it’s all in the stars. And sometimes in more earthly ways. He’s a very good man. Just like his father.”
“You know the family, then.”
“Yes, I knew Oscar. Your grandfather and the Wallenbergs formed the Scandinavian Trust, which turned out to be a banking enterprise that was indeed successful. I suppose you want to meet him?”
Raoul Wallenberg was an essential contact with the Resistance and was known to be carrying out missions saving Jews, but the information she had was classified. “Yes, I’d like to meet him.”
“Why?”
“Nana, I think he can be helpful in many ways, and you know the family.”
“Winston knows them all very well.”
“I might have to go outside diplomatic protocol on this.”
“I know what you are thinking.”
“I shouldn’t discuss it.”
Anna had received word of an inspection by the International Red Cross. She had to go and see for herself. There were o
ther reasons to go of course. There could be a way that she could become part of the delegation. Every report she had received, every word she had written had softened her feelings, but they had also hardened her determination. Had she been no more than a bystander, an observer? Journalists were supposed to make a difference. They were not supposed to get involved, just report the news objectively. But she was well beyond that now. Nothing would stop her from what she was destined to do and who she was destined to be. It was in the stars.
Churchill had indeed roared back into greater power. His residence was still in a bunker, a suite of bomb-proof Cabinet War Rooms under Whitehall, where he spent most of his time during the Blitz and the devastation it wrought upon his city. Sitting in a modest room, adjacent to the oversized map in the planning operations area, Anna made her appeal.
“I’m part Danish; I could easily fit in as a member of the team. And think how useful what I might report firsthand could be. I’ll be on the front lines of the Resistance.”
“I can’t stop you now, Anna. Even if I wanted to.”
“It’s more than a case of not stopping me—it’s taking my assignment to a new level. I need your help, Mr. Prime Minster.”
“You’re serious, and there’s merit to the plan, but do I suspect something more, a personal matter?”
“I think everything is personal for all of us now, isn’t it?”
She didn’t want to go into detail about her feelings, especially with Churchill.
He pondered for a while and then spoke slowly, but with assurance: “I think Wallenberg can fix it.”
This was exactly what Anna was aiming for.
“He’s part of my team, very active in saving Danish Jews, and he has close contacts with the Danish Red Cross.” Churchill continued, “It is hard, perhaps impossible to imagine the atrocities in the killing fields, but I am getting reports every day. And now this sorry bastard wants to present some mendacious compensation for his brutality by promoting his model concentration camp to the world? Yes, we need to do whatever it takes. You must go, with my blessing and the country’s faith in our cause.”
While the Music Played Page 32