While the Music Played

by Nathaniel Lande

  Against the advice of his colleagues and diplomats in the Swedish Legation, Raoul Wallenberg didn’t use traditional diplomacy. With Viktor’s gift for creativity, they applied bribery and blackmail effectively.

  “We’ll need safe houses, Viktor. I’ve already rented buildings in the name of the Swedish Red Cross, and if we can just save a few lives, it will be worth it.”

  Viktor found a shop that made signs, and he had official ones painted reading swedish library and swedish research institute, and placed them on their doors. Admiring his work, Wallenberg patted him on the shoulder. “A very nice touch, Viktor.” The major felt better than he had in long time. Even though at risk, he was finally doing work that yielded measurable results, results that could be seen.

  Wallenberg had gotten a message from his Arrow Cross (now joined with the Hungarian secret police, many of whom were on his payroll) that five hundred Budapest Jews were scheduled for transport by train from Keleti Pályaudvar to Germany in just a few days.

  “Why don’t we issue them passports?” Viktor suggested. “Swedish passports, Swedish papers.”

  “Why not indeed? We have an international publishing house in Budapest, a family interest. Atelier Atlantik, maybe you have heard of it.”

  Fully aware that their respective bureaucracies had a weakness for symbolism, they designed fake papers attractively printed in Sweden’s national colors of blue and yellow, emblazoned with the three crowns coat of arms, appropriate stamps, and signatures. In just a few hours, they met with a book designer, plates were engraved, presses were set, and overnight hundreds of passports were coming off the production lines.

  When they first saw the hastily produced results of this fanciful idea Wallenberg grinned at his new friend. “I love the personality of fresh ink. It is a kind of genius, Viktor. A banknote is either a meaningless piece of paper or, in the right hands, worth precisely what the figures printed upon it proclaim the value to be. These papers should mean nothing, but right here, right now, we imbue them with significance, and so for anyone who can get hold of one, for anyone that we can give them to, they will mean one thing and one thing only: survival. That is some printing press we have, my friend.”

  Traveling by limousine, flying both the German and Swedish flags on the front fenders, Wallenberg and Mueller went to train stations in Budapest where transports were leaving for Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen. Wallenberg distributed passports placing Jewish families under his custody right at the station. He went as far as climbing up on the roof of the train and handing out the protective passes through the doors, which were not yet sealed. They ignored commands from a few German guards for them to stop. Then orders were given for the secret security police and Arrow Cross to begin shooting. Wallenberg ignored them too and calmly continued passing passports to reaching hands. Somehow the men deliberately aimed over his head, and observers would argue for years to come as to whether this was down to some display of courage, or because they’d been bribed by the mysterious German major accompanying Wallenberg. Whatever the reason not one shot hit him. Viktor watched in awe.

  Hundreds of lives were saved that day, and thousands more in the days and weeks that followed. Viktor danced effectively, just one step ahead of the Nazis, who he knew would become increasingly aware of his duplicity, until he left the city and disappeared, knowing he had work to do, that he had to save Max. Despite Viktor’s pleas for him to come along to save himself while he still had the chance, Raoul Wallenberg remained in Budapest, and in time he, too, disappeared.

  A HERO RETURNS

  A terrific explosion shook every building, waking up the entire camp in a chaos of deafening shouts and muffled murmurs. I stumbled, putting my hands behind my ears. Others scurried to shelter. In the distance, plumes of smoke, discharged debris, and clouds of ash. Had bombs fallen? There was a burning stench in the air, and screaming sirens sounded throughout the camp.

  All around was confusion, with guards running in every direction. I listened for rumbling tanks but the sound and fury fell silent. I raced to Freidle’s office to find out what had happened.

  “It’s a tragedy,” Freidle was saying to Rahm and a platoon of SS troops when I reached the commandant’s office. I decided it would be smart to make myself as invisible as possible, so I stood motionless by the commandant’s coat rack to avoid Rahm’s wrath.

  Sweat poured down his face onto his collar as he pounded on Freidle’s desk. “Forty SS replacements on their way to Terezín were killed, blown up by some idiot!” he screamed, spittle flying from his mouth.

  “You’ll rebuild the track with work details around the clock,” Rahm demanded in a steady growl, glaring at Freidle.

  “There will be transports,” Rahm said, his face bright red. Turning around, he discovered me standing alone and gave me an ice-cold stare.

  “Print that in your little paper.”

  He kicked the front door open and left, his men marching out with him.

  “Who do you think did it, Commandant?” I asked.

  “I think the Czech Resistance. One of the doctors has been called to the Little Fortress to treat a man wounded in the explosion.”

  At first, I wondered if it was Pavel, whose family Norbert had painted, but he didn’t seem the type.

  I discussed the matter with David. He lit up when I told him about the injured prisoner. “Max, that man is a hero! Do you think we could interview him? We can find out a lot.”

  “Rahm won’t permit it. Maybe if I speak to Freidle.”

  “Use the Mueller powers of persuasion. What can you lose?”

  “Honestly, David, I’m not sure I want to know.”

  “If you could get to the prisoner, we can find out more. A firsthand account, Max. Think of it. Someone blew up the tracks!”

  I took a minute to think. Maybe David had a point. I could indeed find out more, and then maybe figure out a new way to get word to Sam Raggle, if he was still around. I wasn’t sure.

  “Keep your eyes open while you’re there, Max. Scope it out. Maybe we can even free him?”

  In Freidle’s office, I noticed something new: a large framed map over his desk. I examined it carefully; all of Germany’s occupied territories were in green. England was in red. I allowed my finger to follow the map to Czechoslovakia. I studied the terrain and was pinpointing mountains and rivers around Prague when Freidle appeared.

  “You wanted to see me, Max?”

  “I think this is an important story, Commandant,” I said boldly.

  “Story?”

  “The prisoner at the Little Fortress. We’ve never had an opportunity to interview a traitor before, if he is a traitor. How can we know unless we speak to him? I’m sure Berlin would like to know more, don’t you think? You built a station with tracks and did something helpful, and some dumb Czech blows it all away. Maybe he’ll talk to me. If I take some medicine and food, I bet I can soften him up and find out more.”

  “You have a lot of confidence. Rahm’s men will make him talk.”

  “I don’t trust Rahm. My loyalty is to you. I’m a kid and prisoners talk to kids, not bullies.”

  Freidle gave a nervous chuckle. “And how do you know that?”

  “I don’t, but how could it do any harm? I’ll tell you everything I find out. It’s important to Berlin. I know how much my father respects you. This has always been your camp. I’d like to prove who really blew up the train, who’s behind it. Rahm will use any excuse to discredit your work.”

  Freidle thought deeply. “Max, I like what you do. You have my appreciation. I think there is some wisdom in what you say.” He sat back in his chair. “I’ll arrange a permit for you to visit him. Oh, and let’s not discuss this with Major Rahm.”

  I smiled. “Never, Commandant.”

  I now knew the Little Fortress was a notorious and mysterious brick garrison, holding political prisoners
ever since its construction over a century before. I would finally get to enter.

  I arrived alone at the heavy gate in front of the building. Inside, conditions were miserable. The place was dirty and dark, a moldy damp jail. Cement floors, little ventilation, and the whole place smelled of decay.

  I carried with me, along with the permit, a packet of sandwiches, fresh bread, fruit, and water. With just a nod, a guard led me down to a musty, cold cell. In the shadows, I saw the man, bruised and bandaged, wearing old, shredded, and bloodstained clothing.

  “Hello, Max.”

  I froze. I couldn’t scream with the German guards waiting outside the cell. The man’s face was so wounded that it was almost impossible to recognize him. But I did in an instant.

  “Poppy, what happened to you?” I whispered. My father was broken, his body cut and torn apart. I took a step toward him, but Poppy put his finger to his lips.

  “My God, what happened to you, Poppy?” I whispered. “I’ve got to get you out of here.”

  Finally a smile emerged from Poppy. “I blew up the tracks.”

  But he had been seriously wounded. I was beginning to panic. Poppy was my rock. I couldn’t stand to see him hurt …

  “I can’t hug you, Max. I love you.” Quietly he said, “I promised you I would stop the transports and I did. You don’t have too much time, Max. Get out of Terezín, Max. Do whatever it takes. Get out and get to Prague.”

  I whispered, “We’ll go together, Poppy. Here’s some food and water.”

  “You’re the best son a man could have. Everything was for you. You need to know that,” he said, smiling sadly. “You’ll be okay, Max. Remember, whatever it takes.”

  After what seemed like only a few minutes, the guard entered. I pretended to finish the interview, closing my notebook, and thinking quickly. “So you were just walking to the station?”

  “I’m Czech,” Poppy said, for the benefit of anyone listening. “I was attacked by some soldiers, they were drunk. They took everything from me.”

  “Your time is up,” the guard said.

  “I’ll come tomorrow.”

  He stared straight into my eyes. “Max, you must carry on your work.” These were the last words that escaped from his lips.

  Returning to Freidle’s office, I was barely able to hold back my tears. I organized my thoughts, knowing that I had to save my father, and play the most convincing role of my life.

  “Max, how did it go?” Freidle asked.

  “I only had ten minutes, but I’m sure the man is innocent and we should help him. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. He’s Czech and I believe he was knocked out of his wits, if not by the explosion, then probably by Rahm’s men, who beat him to a pulp. He’s an honest man, I know he is, and he needs medical attention. He said he has something to tell me. Tomorrow I’ll find out.”

  Freidle frowned. “You really don’t believe he’s the man?”

  “I know it. I’d stake my life on it. I’m good at reading people, you know that, and I want to be sure. He seems like a good person, cooperative, and maybe he knows something, something important. He was right there, we have an eyewitness, so maybe he saw someone.”

  “Right. Let’s get to the truth. Maybe Major Mueller can help in Berlin. It’s the best thing to do. I’ll try to get word to him.”

  “Can David come with me tomorrow?”

  “Be careful, and get Frankl to give you some medicine to take with you,” he said, turning to his paperwork. “We’ve got to keep the prisoner alive.”

  Reaching Hanover Barracks, David was waiting for me outside; there were just a few people around. I was still trembling.

  “What did you find out, Max? Are you all right?”

  “It’s Poppy.”

  David stood there, openmouthed.

  I stared at him, scarcely believing what I was saying: “He blew up that train, David. He blew it up!”

  “No!”

  “Freidle said you can come with me when I go back tomorrow. We’ve got to save him.”

  I thought long about my father, and his bruised and battered face. Poppy was invincible and could improvise a way out of any situation, but I was ashamed that I had doubted him for so long. I longed for the Distant and Mysterious Man and White Dog.

  Early the following morning, I asked over at the infirmary, hoping against hope that there might still be some medicine from the little supply that Poppy had brought.

  Taking a shortcut to the fortress, passing a few camp workers on our way to a farm, David and I climbed up the steep hill and were out of breath when we reached the top. There was a commotion below.

  “Max, wait, get down,” David called.

  We dropped to the ground and, studying the scene at the bottom of the hill, we saw a long, black line of guards lined up as a firing squad. Not thirty feet away from them was a man against a brick wall, blindfolded, his hands tied behind his back. The black overcoat was a witness.

  “Oh, God, David, that’s—”

  A volley of shots rang out in a fusillade of hot bullets, and the man crumpled to the ground.

  No, no, no. I shook. I tried to stand, to run to my father, I had to help him, but David held me back.

  “Max, stay down!” David said, his voice breaking.

  David held me, his scarf muffling my scream. Over and over again, I heard the volley, then the echo of the final shot to my father’s beautiful head.

  Where was God? I thought.

  “I don’t … I can’t. He was everything, David. I …”

  Wiping my tears with his maroon scarf, David held me as my whole body shook. I couldn’t breathe, as if a thick, heavy blanket had been thrown over me.

  “Max,” David said quietly, over and over, “dear Max.”

  I tried again to break free and run to my father, just to stroke his hair, to feel his face with my hands, to comfort him, but David wouldn’t let go.

  Then I had a glimpse of Poppy making fresh fruit juice in our kitchen in Prague, my father toasting, to me and “To life!” What life? There was nothing left.

  “You’ve got to be brave; you have got to be strong, Max.” David’s face was tear-streaked and he threw his yellow notepad to the ground.

  “What’s the point, David?”

  “Max, your father was trying to save us … to help us. That’s the point.”

  I saw a small piece of paper on Poppy’s chest. I wouldn’t have noticed if I didn’t know what it was. It was a yellow star, the same one the kids had pinned to his jacket before the performance of Brundibár. That morning he had worn it like a medal. Then a breeze came along, and like a butterfly, that yellow piece of paper floated upward, and turned, then sailed skyward until it was no more.

  MOURNING

  David found out that it was Rahm who had ordered the prisoner shot.

  In the days that followed, a black fog descended on me. Every step I took felt like a superhuman effort. I couldn’t sleep, and would just lie awake, my eyes dry, staring into the nothingness. David tried to shake me out of my depression. Devastated, I felt alone, as if in a dark closet, unable to move, unable to think, in a place where no one could reach me. I realized that Poppy had been there all along. No words, no songs, no prayers—nothing, nothing, nothing. Sorrow shredded everything I believed in, everything I had hoped for.

  Sophie came. The Brankas managed to convince Freidle that I had the flu, and the best medicine was Sophie. She hadn’t seen my room before, and I hoped she wouldn’t comment on the wallpaper with the roses and my sweet surroundings. But she did.

  She seemed frail from too many days of worry. She was tired.

  “Max, I like your room, I feel quite at home,” trying to lighten the evening, with a sensitive touch. I had become accustomed to the place over the years, and I blushed at her comment.

 
She sat by my side, holding my hand, caressing my head.

  “Max, Poppy was incredibly brave.”

  I pulled the quilted blanket around me.

  I just want him back. My colors are washing away.

  “We’ve got to carry on, Max,” Sophie said. “We must hold on. I’m here, and I won’t leave you.”

  She stayed with me until I fell asleep.

  It was a night of voices clamoring for attention. They came and went; it was Poppy in a drowsy flow of dreams. “Go gently, Max, and always be strong. You’re my son.”

  After dark, I awoke, turned on the lamp, stared at the open pages of my notebook. Once I began writing I couldn’t stop. My feelings filled page after page. Poppy was my father, doing all he could do. But no words, even a thousand pages, could measure my feelings for him.

  I wrote all night before going to visit Rabbi Leo Baeck in his study.

  “They killed my father, Rabbi. And they pretended they didn’t know who he was. They murdered him.”

  With deep sadness, he placed his hands on my shoulders.

  “David told me.”

  With the pressure of his hands, he seemed to be saying, Don’t give up, Max. Just don’t give up.