STOCKHOLM
With Sweden declaring neutrality, it had become a refuge for many Norwegian and Danish Jews. Instrumental and influential, the House of Wallenberg had become a unique if secretive institution, establishing a tradition of humanitarian good deeds. They were European bankers, and Raoul Wallenberg, who had studied in the United States to be an architect and held diplomatic posts around the world, championed a very personal cause of saving Jews. He was someone Anna could turn to.
She secured passage on a fishing vessel leaving from the Shetland Isles, crossing the heavily patrolled waters to Gothenburg, and traveling across the country to Stockholm, where she met with Wallenberg. She had the credentials he respected, her documents bearing the clear imprimatur of her friend and colleague the prime minister. Anna didn’t have to fully explain her mission. Raoul Wallenberg understood at once and agreed to intervene with the Danish Red Cross.
“You’ve come a long way, and I’d ask how your voyage was, but I know your trip may have been uneasy over the North Sea,” he said, welcoming Anna to Drottningholm, the ancestral home of the Swedish royal family. They met in the small theater, which had been constructed in the seventeenth century and was now a well-appointed guesthouse on magnificent grounds. The king had gifted him an office there.
Anna liked him immediately. He had stood with noted physicist Niels Bohr to save over seven thousand Norwegian and Danish Jews from being deported. Wallenberg, part of the Resistance, had personally financed their safe entry into Sweden.
He had the kindest brown eyes she’d ever seen.
“I need to get to Terezín,” she confided. “Can you help?”
The warm, confident smile was all the answer she needed.
A POTEMKIN VILLAGE
On June 23, 1944, Major Viktor Mueller arrived at Terezín along with the Red Cross delegation and strode into the post office in full dress. I glimpsed Freidle behind him, ushering in a group of representatives.
When Poppy saw me, he beamed and, as he always did, ruffled my hair. “Come, Max,” said Poppy. “Join us.”
“What you will see here is a normal provincial village,” Freidle announced to his guests. The representatives heading the delegation were Frants Hvass, of the Danish Foreign Office Political Section; Dr. Juel-Henningsen, a director from the Department of Health; Maurice Rossel, head and director-
general of the International Red Cross; his deputy, a modest and unassuming observer named Dunant; and a woman representing the Danish Ministry.
Much to my amazement, among the delegation was Anna. But I shouldn’t have been surprised. Isn’t that what angels do, just appear? Before I could run up to her, she discreetly put a finger to her lips. I could hardly contain myself, but knew it was best to keep quiet. She was introduced as Anna Simonsen. She had not changed at all, wearing a crisp, white ruffled blouse, as beautiful as I remembered her. Poppy gave me a wink.
The visitors, eighteen in all, set out to see for themselves what Terezín was all about. Another limousine was added, moving along a predetermined route. The cars stopped by the park and at the shopping street, the group continued on foot. They visited the bank—Terezín now had its own banknotes with a picture of Moses engraved upon the currency.
It was a clear day, perfect for sightseeing, the landscape interrupted only by signs reading, to the school, to the café, to the theater, to the baths. The newly constructed bandstand had a uniformed brass ensemble softly playing German army marching songs. The leader turned and bowed. Leading the inspection, Viktor Mueller nodded to Anna. “Our camp band. They play very well.”
Women in clean coveralls with rakes over their shoulders, looking as if they had stepped out of a poster, marched past on cue. Then they went to the farm that had been cultivated just outside the village; it had taken a few months for the freshly arranged “harvest” of lettuce, tomatoes, and cucumbers to ripen. Viktor listened as Freidle remarked, “We grow most of our own vegetables here.” To produce enough vegetables to feed the village population would have taken miles of cultivated fields, but it appeared reasonable enough.
The smell of freshly baked pumpernickel invited the delegation to meet a line of cheery bakers in white hats and gloves, dispensing slices from loaves just out of the oven. Hvass and Juel-Henningsen, concerned about their fellow Danes among the residents, dropped into their refurbished quarters, bringing greetings from King Christian and the bishop of Copenhagen, spending enough time with them to observe their well-being so they could report back to church and state.
The group walked past chess players studiously plotting their next moves. In a converted park square, spectators joined soccer fans and cheered as a goal was scored. Hearing the voices rehearsing Verdi’s Requiem, for which world-famous Raphael Schächter had recruited soloists and a fifty-member choir, they stopped and listened to the last refrain, a rising crescendo of “Libera Me,” which was well understood. Viktor Mueller walked with the guests through the remodeled living quarters facing replanted gardens, and a newly supplied pharmacy. I wondered if the delegation was buying any of it.
When the delegation entered the post office, Freidle introduced me. “This is the son of Major Mueller with us, whom I am pleased to care for while the major serves the Fatherland.” They murmured to themselves about meeting the son of a celebrity. A precursor of favorable conditions, if he was living in Terezín.
I apologized to the group, “I’m afraid I’ve not received mail for any of you this afternoon. The postal truck has been detained because of a small battle at the border. The afternoon delivery truck was obliged to take a detour, but, ladies and gentlemen, if you leave me a forwarding address, I’ll make sure you receive your mail on time.”
That brought a tentative laugh from the guests and from Poppy.
We walked through the camp, following Freidle.
At the hospital, a nurse, trusting a kind-looking woman in the delegation, pressed a folded piece of paper into Anna’s hand: Was Sie sehen hier ist nicht wahr. Bitte helfen Sie uns. What you see here is not true. Please help us. She hid the paper in her pocket and broke away from the guests.
Leaving the delegation with Poppy, Anna carefully and finally reached the man she had traveled so far to see. When she saw Hans, she was deeply moved. For years, she had been keeping her spirit and hope alive for the man she had come to care about so deeply. He was the same, a little thinner, giving Anna a smile of smiles.
“For some reason, I thought you might come,” Hans said gracefully, folding Anna into his embrace.
Every part of her soul reached out to Hans. “Oh, Hans,” was all she could say before nearly collapsing. She found what little composure she could gather. “Well, I came to Prague, and now Terezín. I guess I’m starstruck. And how could I miss Brundibár ?”
Hans sat at the piano, and played a few bars in a ragtime tempo. It was “Anna’s Song.”
“Apologies for the sentimentality.”
“You are incurable!”
“Now, why would you think that?”
“I’ve got to get you out of here.”
“Not so easy these days. When does the next train leave for London?”
“Hans, stop. I can’t stand it.”
“Anna, I’m no patriot, nor am I a partisan. The war will be over, and I’ll be coming to you.”
“Is that a promise?”
“A most emphatic yes.”
“I don’t believe you. This time, I’m not leaving you here.”
“Headline: british woman detained in nazi spa! I don’t think so, Anna. All the king’s men and Humpty Dumpty himself can’t put us together again just now.”
“I’m staying.”
“Anna, the Nazis would hang you in a minute. Do your work, Anna, and if I know you, I suspect you are doing a lot to end this madness. You are reaching for a better world.”
“What makes you think that?�
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“You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.”
“I’ll carry on, Hans. I promise. I must see this war end before I lose everything I love. I promise to do all I can.”
At Himmler House, Freidle arranged a lavish dinner, a well-dressed table, plenty of fresh flowers for the banquet, and a squadron of waiters behind each chair. Noticeably absent was the ominous presence of the SS. I was seated next to Anna. She wanted to know all about me, how I was, and about the opera, and I wanted to know how Hans had seemed to her. We talked between the lines, so to speak, because it was essential that we appear not to know each other. It was a night of pretending—and a night that I would remember forever.
“I’ve borrowed the chef from the kitchens at the camp,” Freidle casually mentioned to the guests, folding his napkin, “Albrecht Steiner, formally of the Adlon.” Steiner was dressed in dapper white, holding a silver-plated ladle, as if he had just tasted soup on his stove. “He has brought some of his best recipes with him. Terezín is lucky to have him as chef de cuisine. Ladies and gentlemen, Albrecht Steiner.” I had never seen Albrecht Steiner before in my life. Frau Schmidt was not particularly pleased either and murmured that Freidle must have found him at central casting. “This is extraordinary,” Frau Schmidt whispered under her breath.
“Sautéed sole, not from Dover but from Calais.” Steiner’s remark made them all chuckle. “Fresh asparagus from the farm and roasted potatoes,” which delighted the Swiss director sitting stiffly in his pin-striped suit. “For dessert, a soufflé made from Lindt & Sprüngli Swiss chocolate.” It was an over-the-top and outrageous menu. Suddenly I didn’t care if Steiner was an imposter or not; it sounded like a pretty good meal. In fact, it was a culinary miracle; the dinner was delicious, far more palatable than the revolting swill we had been fed much of the time. After a round of applause, Chef Steiner, still wearing his white hat and apron, went back to the kitchen. One guest suggested the food was probably better in Terezín than in Berlin or Prague.
Frau Schmidt was in awe. The provisions had arrived directly from Berlin.
I excused myself as the banquet was finishing, and ten minutes later, I was in costume. The entire delegation soon followed to see a performance of Brundibár.
At the side of the stage, I whispered to Sophie, “I’m not exactly sure what’s going on. It’s either a very good thing indeed or …”
The houselights started to blink for the audience to be seated.
She gave me a quick hug. “I’ve got to warm up. See you onstage. Break a leg!”
Just before the overture began, I had the usual butterflies but reassured myself that this was normal. No wonder I was nervous, not least because I felt that this might be the most important performance of my life. The words I would sing had such resonance, such potent meaning, and the evening could be a turning point in the lives of everyone there. It was a symbol of how things might be from now on. Just as I began the breathing exercises that Poppy had taught me to control my nerves, I felt a tap on my right shoulder. I turned and Fritz was staring at me. He was breathless, had a look of terror in his eyes, and was clutching the dreaded red packet under his arm.
“Max, p-please, I must s-speak to you.” He was stammering and sweating. “I just got word, I mean … I know that … there’s an order.”
A train whistle blew, and he turned white.
“Fritz, what’s wrong?”
I had never seen him so obviously distressed.
“As soon as the performance ends, there’ll be a train to transport the cast to Auschwitz.”
“They can’t. They wouldn’t dare. An entire delegation is here, and Anna. Who told you?”
Fritz pointed to the red packet. “It hasn’t been delivered, you need to speak to the major.”
I felt that everything had suddenly changed. Had we really been lured into a trap? Had we simply given Terezín a fleeting moment of hope and then, afterward …?
Fritz slipped away.
Poppy said he wouldn’t allow transports ever again. Never. I had to believe him.
Sophie stood in the wings, and just before curtain, the kids went out front to distribute programs. They had cut out yellow paper stars and were pinning them on each member of the delegation sitting in the first row.
The cast took their places onstage before the curtain rose. “Are you okay?”
I had to be. I had no choice.
“Take a look,” Sophie urged. I peeked at the audience from the wings and saw the entire delegation and a row of yellow stars.
The house was full, although Edith was absent. Dr. Frankl thought it would be best for her to rest. Ava was in the front row with Fritz, whose jacket hid the fateful packet. He gave me an okay sign, as if to say, Safe … at least for the moment, and I heaved a sigh of relief—a temporary respite. I knew I had to do something, I had to speak to Poppy. But first I had to perform.
I’m okay, I said to myself, over and over again. I’m …
I sighed. “Just so many important people out there.”
Sophie and I locked arms, and she smiled: “You’ve done this before.”
I nodded. “Let’s knock ’em out, Sophie! Let’s show them exactly what we can do.”
She squeezed my hand.
The overture began.
Once you heard a Krása melody, it hummed inside you for a long, long time. It helped me remember, in an instant, that I would get through this. I knew what I was doing and I had a powerful feeling that I belonged there at that moment. I was ready. We were all ready. We had come a long way to tell this story.
The performance went like a dream, everyone there feeding off a collective confidence that we understood what we were doing and all of us fully recognizing the importance of the occasion. It was an evening freighted with such significance for everyone on the stage and off. Between scenes, the kids scuttled off to change costumes, and were back on their marks ready to reach their audience. The finale inspired a standing ovation.
The horror of impending doom stunned me when a line of Czech guards presented flowers to Sophie and Hans. I joined Sophie with the cast center-stage, and we held hands during the curtain call. If only for this one shining moment, we had each other. Then she left for the infirmary.
A train whistle blew again, louder, and I heard a steam engine chugging closer. I had to get to Poppy. He had to know that at any moment a truck would back up and take us away. At the conductor’s podium, Hans had turned over his slender baton to the Great Viktor Mueller. I couldn’t reach him. For one last time, one last encore, the Great Viktor Mueller, with a shaking hand at his side, conducted the ensemble in a song from the production. For Poppy and Hans, it was an overture to a new beginning. I dared not interrupt. I made my way over to him when the applause subsided.
Just when I was about to grab Poppy, I felt a hand clap me on the back. “We did it, Max!” said Freidle.
I had to get Poppy alone.
“Wonderful show, indeed,” he said to Poppy.
David ran toward me, his scarf trailing behind him.
Taking me aside, and out of breath, he said urgently, “Fritz gave me the packet. We can’t keep this quiet any longer. Everyone needs to know.” He looked at me. “You know what this means, Max. You know we have all been sentenced to die.” He shook me hard.
“I know. We must tell Poppy!” Seeing him, we rushed him to a spot near a lighting booth, motioning Anna to join us too.
“I left twenty boxes of medicine at the infirmary,” Poppy whispered.
“Yes, Poppy. It means a lot to Sophie, to everyone.”
I shoved the packet into his hands. “Read this.”
Poppy scanned the documents with growing fury.
“It won’t happen, Max. I told you, not on my watch. Count on it! You too, David. That train will leave empty. I’ll take care of this now.”
“But, Poppy, it will come back, you can’t believe them.”
“No transports, Max! Everything we’ve done will be in vain. I have a promise from Berlin. We have powerful people here, reporting to the world’s press and diplomats.”
David quietly shook his head. He needed proof.
“Walk with me over to Himmler House,” Poppy said.
Anna was beside me. “I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to meet Sophie. Please congratulate her for me, and you, too, Max. And give my love to Hans.”
“But …”
“Don’t worry, Max. Trust Poppy. You must. I must get back to the delegation. I hate to go.”
It was a bittersweet moment. It was heartbreaking.
Poppy wasted no time. We took his car instead of walking. “Wait here, Max.” He got out and rushed into headquarters. In a few minutes, he returned, calmer. “I’ve spoken to Berlin.”
Holding me close, he said, “I love you, Max. Don’t worry. I wouldn’t leave if I didn’t know you were okay, son. Just hold on for a little longer. As soon as I return, I’ll come for you. You have my word.”
“A few weeks?”
My heart was about to beat its way out of my chest. I lost confidence and my fear returned. “No! We can’t wait a few weeks! I don’t feel safe here anymore, Poppy. Please … don’t leave me!” I clutched Poppy’s jacket and whispered, “I worry about the camps and the gas and—”
“Max, easy now,” Poppy said glancing over his shoulder. “I need a few weeks. Wait for me.”
“And Sophie? David? Hans?”
David stared at him. “Where are you going, Poppy?”
It was the first time he had ever referred to my father as Poppy.
“I have to get to Berlin.”
“Why?”
“I have an agreement that must be kept. I’m coming back for the whole lot of you. We’re going home. I’ll bring a large car.”
While the Music Played Page 33