Somewhere There Is Still a Sun

by Michael Gruenbaum

  Jew.

  I should get out of here. If they see me peeking out from this doorway, they’ll know. Now that I have a star, everyone knows. And if they know, they might come after me like the other times.

  But that was a pretty nice goal, the boy with the big ears faked out the short one completely.

  We spent the evening sewing the stars onto all our jackets and heavy shirts. Right over the heart. That’s what Mother said when she gave me the needle and thread and let me try. But I was no good at it.

  And so now, whenever I go out, I can’t pretend anymore.

  My hand’s up there again. I keep touching it; I don’t know why. Maybe I’m touching the star to cover it up, so I can pretend a little more. Or maybe just to make sure it’s there. Because if you’re not wearing one and they find out, it’s like the thousands of other rules they’ve made—like the one from just a couple of days ago that says we can’t use libraries or even go into one—you really don’t want to get caught breaking one. But maybe I’m just not used to it. Because how are you supposed to get used to something like this?

  One of the boys looks over, the biggest one. I really should go, because a few times already some boys have chased after me once they figured out I was Jewish. I didn’t have a star any of those times, but that didn’t matter, because why else would a kid stand at the edge of a park?

  But the biggest boy, he smiles. Maybe he doesn’t mind. Maybe he likes having a spectator. Maybe he wishes he could invite me to join them. Maybe he hates the Nazis as much as I do. He taps the one in the vest on the shoulder. Points my way.

  “Hey, kid!” he shouts.

  “Yeah?”

  Suddenly there’s a rock coming at me. One of the other boys must have thrown it. Just like last time, and the times before that. The thing lands a few feet in front of me and skips across the cobblestone.

  Time to get out of here. I spin around and head in the other direction, half walking, half running. Zigzagging from doorway to doorway, stealing looks back toward the park. My heart beating hard against the star.

  I turn down an alley and peek back their way. Good, no sign of them. My heart isn’t convinced, but that’s okay. After all, I got away from the same kind of kids those other times, why wouldn’t I be able to now?

  Maybe I’ll head over to the square. Even though most people won’t come near me now that I have this star, some folks feel bad for us and agree to an extra-high price. On Tuesday a woman led me into an alley just like this and gave me one hundred crowns for two cigarettes. It was amazing; I ran home to—

  “So what do we have here?”

  Darn, it’s them.

  “I told you, Oskar,” the one with the big ears says, and before I can get a good look at his horrible smile, I’m off. Tearing down the alley. Another stone hits the ground and bounces past me. Then, ow, something nails me in the back, right below my shoulder blade. Probably a rock. Really hurts. The pain makes me want to stop, especially since it gets worse every time I lift my right leg, but I know I can’t stop. Their footsteps echo off the walls. Or maybe those are mine. Or maybe it’s just my heart.

  Another alley. Quick, turn left. I almost look back to see if I’ve lost them, but not this time. Past a church, another right. If this is where the grocery store is, then that means I’m almost home. I try to listen for their steps, but mine are too loud.

  Wait, where’s the grocery store? Did I take two rights or a right and a left? And now which way? Why are my legs so tired? I used to be able to run for hours, no problem.

  Okay, left. No, right. Then find a doorway and hide.

  Oh no. Dead end. Darn. But maybe I lost them already. Because even though I can’t run like I used to, I’m still way faster than most kids my age. They probably gave up. Just crouch behind this gate and count to one hundred. They’ll be long gone by then.

  One, two, three, four, five, six . . . I’m definitely going to have a bruise where that rock hit me, and if Mother sees, she’s going to forbid me from going outside at all . . . seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven . . . I swear, at this point, I’d rather be anywhere but Prague . . . twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen . . . it used to be the best place in the world, but now, well now I’d take my chances somewhere else . . . sixteen, seventeen, eighteen—

  No, it can’t be. How did they—

  “Over here!” the littlest one yells. “I got him!”

  “Yes!” the one with the ears shouts. He’s smiling again. The worst smile I’ve ever seen.

  All four of them seem way bigger than they did two minutes ago.

  “Please,” I try, but then can’t figure out anything else to say. My heart starts up again. This time not as fast, but much harder, like it’s hoping to break through my ribs so it can go find another boy to live inside of.

  “Please what, Jew?” the biggest one says, standing right in the middle of the only way out, his arms crossed.

  I count to three again, jump up, and push past him, my shoulder colliding with his. I can see he’s surprised, and maybe even impressed. But the other three are still there.

  And now all four of them have their hands on me.

  “Cut it out!” I shout. “Put me down!”

  I’m twisting and turning and kicking my legs, but it’s no use. They’re too strong, and their laughing tells me they know it. The big one, who’s got my left leg, reaches into my pocket. Pulls out three of my rope belts.

  “Stop it! Those are mine!”

  “Shut up, Jude,” he says calmly, like I’m just annoying him. “Over there, Tomas,” he says, and points with the hand holding my belts. “That’ll do.”

  My back slams into a tree. The bark cutting right through my jacket and into my skin. But now my feet are free, so I take a quick step between the little one and the kid with the vest. They’re the weakest and my best chance to escape.

  Only the big one just grabs me from behind and throws me extra hard back into the tree. My head knocks against the trunk.

  “Jew,” he says. “Have I hit you yet?”

  “No.”

  “Exactly. But if you try something smart like that again, I will. And then you’ll realize it’s a bad idea for a Jew to get too smart.”

  I say nothing, just look at each one of them. Maybe the one with the vest—I think that’s Tomas—maybe he feels bad for me.

  “Hey, Oskar,” he says, “toss me those belts. I’ll show you that knot I was telling you about.”

  * * *

  The four of them stand together, about ten feet from me, admiring their work. I don’t even bother tugging at the ropes anymore. That knot Tomas tied, it might as well be a padlock.

  I stare down at the ground and tell my tears to stay inside, where they belong.

  I figure they must be getting ready to leave, when suddenly Big Ears is right in front of me again. That smile is back, the one that crawls up only half his face. He tilts his head a bit, takes a half step back, grabs my pants, and yanks at them.

  “Hey!” I yell. “What are—”

  Only they don’t go down all at once. Because of my belt. But that doesn’t stop him for long. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tiny little penknife, the blade barely an inch long. And even though I’m struggling the best I can, he has no problem cutting through my pathetic belt. And then it’s back to my pants. He yanks extra hard this time. My button goes flying, and just like that my pants are at my ankles.

  My pants and my underwear.

  “If his star doesn’t convince someone”—Oskar points and laughs—“that sure will.”

  They run off, finally.

  And now the tears don’t care where they belong.

  * * *

  A long time later a man walking by unties me. He doesn’t ask me what happened, and I don’t bother telling him. I thank him without even looking in his direction.

  I walk straight home, holding my pants up with my left hand, trying to figure out what I’ll tell Mother about the button. Because I couldn�
��t find it anywhere. Not that I searched for all that long.

  October 14, 1941

  “BUT WHY CAN’T IT GO three and then one?” I ask.

  “Because, Misha, those are the rules,” Father says. “The knight is only allowed to move two spaces and then one more. Or one and then two.”

  “Chess has too many rules. I’m sick of rules. Why can’t we just play Chinese checkers?”

  Father looks over at Mother, who’s sitting on the armchair, sewing up holes in our socks. We used to just buy new ones. We used to just do a lot of things. Like walk along the river, but even that’s not allowed anymore. The best place in Prague, and they took that away too.

  Somehow she senses Father looking at her, and her eyes lift up from the blue sock she’s working on. She shrugs her shoulders.

  “Misha.” Father turns back to me at the kitchen table where we’re sitting. “I tell you what, ten more minutes of chess and then we’ll play whatever game you’d like. How does that sound?”

  “It’s too complicated,” I say, picking up one of my pawns and trying to stack it on top of another. Of course it falls, taking out a few more pieces in the process.

  “You’re right,” he answers, putting my pieces back in order. “It’s a very, very difficult game. But it is a beautiful game as well. And it will teach you to think, and that is—”

  I try to listen to what he’s saying, I really do, but for some reason I can’t. And I was so happy this morning, when I got him to agree to be home by four o’clock to play with me. That’s been the only good thing about all the changes around here. More time with Father. I was sure we’d play cards, or something I’m good at. But lately he always wants to play chess. Only it’s so hard.

  “And why,” I interrupt him, “why if the king is the most important piece, why can it only move one space? I mean, what kind of king can barely move better than a pawn?”

  Father picks up his queen. “How about this?” He places it off to the side. “I play without my queen.” If Marietta were home, maybe together we could convince him to play marriage, the best card game ever.

  I turn to Mother for help, but all she says is, “Misha, do you know what kind of soccer player Andrej Puc—”

  “Antonin,” I correct her, shaking my head and rolling my eyes.

  Father gets up and walks to the sink, probably to see if he can get any more tea to come out of the bag he’s been using for two days now.

  “Do you know what kind of soccer player Antonin Puc was when he started playing?”

  “Huh?”

  “A truly rotten one.”

  Father laughs.

  “Very funny. So?” I ask.

  They’ve been ganging up on me like this a lot lately. “Misha,” Father says, returning to the table. “When I began studying law, I was completely overwhelmed. I couldn’t keep anything straight. And I was about to give up when—”

  Two quick knocks at the door. Father stops talking. Mother stops sewing. I look back and forth between them, but neither of their faces will tell me anything.

  “Should I get it?” I ask.

  Two more knocks, louder this time.

  Father places his mug on the table, walks to the door, and opens it. Two German officers fill up the doorway. Without asking, they step inside.

  “Karl Gruenbaum?” the older of the two asks.

  They’re enormous. Father barely comes up to the chin of either one. They wear identical, dark gray uniforms and shiny black boots that almost reach their knees. Each has a black iron cross on his chest, and the tips of their collars are decorated with two different patches. Each has a patch with two straight-lined S’s on it, or maybe they’re two lighting bolts.

  SS officers. What are they doing here? And how can we get them to leave? For a moment my throat closes up, and I can’t breathe. I try to swallow, but carefully, so they won’t notice.

  “Yes, sir. That’s me,” Father says, nodding his head slightly. I feel myself trying to do the same thing, but my head won’t move. And my effort to swallow only half worked, so I need to cough, but I don’t, deciding to hold my breath instead.

  The one who spoke has another patch on his collar, with three small squares in a diagonal line on it, almost like you see on dice. The other one, younger and even bigger, has a patch with only one square in the middle. Their hats have some kind of eagle or something near the top, and below that what I’m pretty sure is a skull.

  Without moving his head, the younger one steadily passes his eyes over our whole apartment. When they get to me, they don’t stop at all. Like I’m just a piece of furniture or something.

  I decide to straighten out my pieces, even though they’re already in order. I try exhaling through my nose, and it actually works. Thankfully, I don’t need to cough anymore either.

  “Come with us,” the first officer says.

  I wait for Father to say something, to ask a question, to talk his way out of this. He’s the smartest person in the world, and these Nazis, well, they’re big, but they don’t look too bright. Why doesn’t he invite them to sit down? Mother and I could take a walk and leave them alone so they can talk here.

  But Father doesn’t say anything, just walks to the closet and gets his jacket. After he puts it on, he fixes his plain white collar and tightens his tie. He looks at Mother the entire time, but neither says a word. After he finishes with his tie, he does nothing for a few seconds. Nothing at all. Just stands there, almost smiling. Meanwhile, the SS officers seem like they’re growing by the second. And those are definitely skulls on their hats.

  I turn my head to Mother. She’s holding the needle and thread in midair, her hands not moving at all.

  I’m about to say I’ll play chess with Father for as long as he wants, but he speaks first.

  “Ready.”

  The three of them turn around and walk out. Father closes the door behind them. I listen to their footsteps going down the stairs. Why didn’t I hear them on the way up?

  Then it’s quiet.

  “Well,” Mother says after a few long seconds, “I can finish this later. How about . . . how about some Chinese checkers?”

  “Where’s Father going?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure,” she answers. “But I’m sure . . .” Mother walks over to the sink and gets herself some water. After she finishes drinking, she still stands there for a little while longer, her back to me the whole time. “I’m sure,” she says, and walks over to me, “he’ll tell us all about it once he gets back.”

  “Is he in trouble?”

  Mother combs her fingers through my hair, even though she knows I don’t like it.

  “Is he?”

  “Now why would Father be in trouble?” she asks, and walks to the closet, which is still open. She disappears inside it for a while, which is weird because I know she knows exactly where we keep the Chinese checkers. Plus there’s not all that much stuff in there to begin with. Eventually she comes out with the box in her hands. “So?” She smiles. “What color would you like to be?”

  I’m about to say blue when I notice the queen, stranded at the edge of the table. It might be the strongest piece, but suddenly it seems so helpless over there, with nothing but a mug of weak tea to keep it company.

  November 27, 1941

  I KNOCK FOR THE THIRD time, hardly surprised no one’s heard me yet. Because even out here in the stairwell the crying and babbling is too loud for me. So I try the doorknob, and it turns. I push the door open, and the noise bursts out all around me. I peek my head inside. There’s Mother, with two tiny children in diapers on her lap. One is crying, and the other looks like he’s getting ready to join in.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Misha?” She’s confused. “That door shouldn’t be unlocked. Hurry, come in, come in.”

  “Am I too late for lunch?”

  “No, no,” she says, placing one of the children on the floor and getting up to give me a hug. She locks the door. “But you’ll have to help.” />
  My mother’s dress is spotted with . . . with I don’t know what. White blotches, plus something orange or yellow. And her hair is sticking out everywhere. She always used to look like she was on her way to the opera. Now she works in a nursery and is wearing the same old dress she wore yesterday. But we need the money, and that was even before Father disappeared.

  Father. We haven’t heard anything about him for a couple of weeks. I don’t even ask anymore, except when I can’t help it. Which is about twice a day, at least. All we know for sure, he was arrested. Those Nazis didn’t just want to “talk” to him. They arrested him and thirteen of the men he worked with before the Germans showed up. They took them all to the Pankrac Prison here in Prague. And now, every evening, until curfew, some of their wives come to our apartment, where they drink tea and whisper among themselves, the bags under their eyes a little bigger and a little darker than the day before.

  Three boys, maybe two years old, grab my legs and giggle.

  “Misha!” they scream.

  “Will you keep them busy while I fix lunch?” Mother asks.

  I herd them and two others about their size into the next room, which is really just the Kinskys’ bedroom, even though you wouldn’t know it with all the toys scattered everywhere. Because during the day the whole apartment transforms into a nursery. At least twenty infants and toddlers, with only a couple of women, Mother and Mrs. Kinsky, to take care of them. Marietta helps out sometimes too. I don’t really help out myself, just leave “school” for a little while and show up for lunch, because whatever the children don’t eat I get to finish off.

  I try to convince them to build a tower with all these blocks, but they seem to think the wooden cubes are part of lunch. Meanwhile, a little girl has crawled into the room, her stinky diaper announcing her arrival.

  I grab her below the armpits and carry her to the kitchen. I’m willing to play with these kids, but I wouldn’t change a diaper this smelly for a royal feast. Actually, I would. But carrots and mashed potatoes are definitely not a royal feast.