Somewhere There Is Still a Sun

by Michael Gruenbaum

I shouldn’t be going, I should turn back.

  * * *

  Look at all this. Just a regular day on Narodni Street. Trams and cars and people sitting in cafés. You’d never know that the ghetto—which isn’t even that far from here—you’d never know that the crowded ghetto isn’t all that crowded these days. There are probably more Jews in Terezin than in Prague at this point. Unless they’re lying about that, too, and are sending us somewhere else instead.

  For some reason they haven’t given us our summons yet. Mother says that’s good. I’m not so sure. Because what could be worse than here? What could be worse than a place with new rules every day? We can’t use public telephones, we can’t visit the castle, we can’t buy fruit, we can’t buy hats, we can’t buy newspapers, we can’t own pets, and if we had any money left in the banks, we couldn’t even get to it.

  That couple, the one that jumped from the balcony, how did they know what was going to happen?

  Well, all I know, I can’t stand being here anymore. No real school, no parks, no money, no good food, no anything.

  And no Father.

  Hey, maybe I’ll go pass people on the Legion Bridge after. Haven’t done that in a while. Not sure I’ve ever done it at all on the Legion Bridge. Huh, maybe I could even pass some German soldiers. That would show them.

  Maybe later. After the movie. Why are you going to a movie? I don’t know, but I am.

  * * *

  Oleg’s Apartment. That’s a good poster. Looks like it’ll be a pretty funny movie. Look at his glasses. You can tell it’s going to be funny. Wonder what it’s about. Well, time to find out.

  Okay, just make sure not to sound Jewish. Whatever that means. She can’t know you’re Jewish. Make it sound like this is normal, like it’s no big deal that you’re going to the movies today.

  “One, please,” I say, handing my twenty crowns to the little woman in the booth. Good, she doesn’t even look at me. Just looks down her nose at the newspaper spread out in front of her. Takes my money and pushes a ticket back through the window.

  “Movie starts in five minutes.”

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  Excellent, excellent. I made it.

  Too bad I don’t have any more money. What I’d give for a box of popcorn, or some candy. Even just a handful of black licorice.

  Where should I sit? Normally I’d go all the way up to the front, but that’s where other kids will be sitting, and kids sometimes talk, and maybe they’ll talk to me, and then they’ll know. Somehow they’ll know. And then . . .

  So I could sit in the back. But what kind of kid sits in the back of a movie theater? A kid who’s trying to hide, that’s who. Someone will figure it out. And then . . .

  Okay, okay, so just sit in the middle. In the aisle, or the center? Aisle’s fine, Krystof, stop worrying. All sorts of people sit by the aisle. Kids, adults, it doesn’t matter. Just sit down.

  I wish it would start already. Once it gets dark, I’ll be fine. Once they can’t see me, I’ll stop sweating so much. Once the lights go down and the movie starts, it’s like you don’t really exist. Because no one’s allowed to bother you then.

  But what if someone comes in late, and they want to sit in my row? Then they’ll have to squeeze in past me. What if it’s someone I know, Dr. Ambroz, our old dentist, or no, what if it’s Leci? Even in the dark she’d recognize me for sure. What if she tries to squeeze by me and notices me and starts crying and wants a hug?

  So you’d ask her not to tell anyone. She’d agree, but then you’d have to tell her about Father.

  That would be really bad. That would almost be worse than getting caught. No, it wouldn’t. If you get caught for going to a stupid movie . . .

  Fine, don’t sit by the aisle. Move in.

  Six seats should be enough.

  Finally. I never thought this thing would start.

  Ugh, stupid German newsreel. It’s impossible to get away from them. Something about Stalingrad, wherever that is. Who cares? Great, so you can conquer any city you want. Great, you have machine guns and hand grenades and tanks. All you’re going to do is turn the place into rubble, so what’s going to be so great about having Stalingrad?

  At least they didn’t bomb Prague. Why didn’t they bomb Prague? Well, at least they didn’t. Even if they ruined it in just about every other way you can imagine.

  Am I supposed to clap? Is there a German spy in the theater somewhere, dressed like a regular businessman? Do they send a spy into each theater to see who claps and who doesn’t after the newsreel?

  Excuse me, young man, we’d like to talk to you. We noticed you didn’t applaud after the newsreel about our offensive in Stalingrad. Are you an enemy of the Reich?

  Fine, so if people start clapping, clap a little. But not too much. Just clap natural.

  Krystof Kral? Albertov Street. Hmm. Our records don’t show a Kral family on Albertov Street.

  Good, it’s over and no one clapped. Of course no one clapped. Why would people clap for a stupid newsreel anyway?

  Finally, the movie. Better be funny. Not that I feel like laughing at this point.

  Oleg is funny. Look how he walks. Like his pants don’t fit or something. And he can’t says his R’s at all. And he’s so nervous about renting a new apartment. How he pushes his glasses up every five seconds.

  But look how much he’s sweating. Having to pretend that everything is fine.

  Laughing feels weird.

  Shh, Misha, stop laughing. You’re laughing too hard. It’s funny, but it’s not that funny.

  Okay, just remember to breathe.

  And that you’re Krystof. If someone asks.

  Misha? Who’s Misha? I’m Krystof.

  Why would anyone ask?

  Shh, just watch.

  Okay, stop laughing, Misha.

  I mean, Krystof, stop.

  Stop!

  But I can’t.

  Breathe, just breathe.

  But it’s not working. And now people are looking at you. They’re going to know. And no one is going to believe your stupid Krystof story. You don’t look anything like a Krystof.

  Why are you still laughing? The scene’s over. This part isn’t funny at all. Stop laughing!

  Stop!

  Ow!

  Krystof, why’d you pinch me?

  Because you wouldn’t stop laughing.

  You didn’t have to pinch me so hard. That really hurt.

  Stop complaining. Did you want to get caught? Do you still want to get caught? Keep laughing like that and they’ll know. Those Nazis, they know everything. They probably . . . they probably got Father to tell them all sorts of things about you. And he . . . he probably told them, even though he didn’t want to, even though he held out for days, he probably told them how much you like movies. I bet they have a spy here, sitting right behind you.

  What are you talking about? No, they don’t.

  Oh yeah, what makes you so certain? What makes you think you know anything about what they do and why? You want to know one thing you should be certain of? When they catch you, and they will, you’re going to wish that all they did was pinch you. Leaving the ghetto. Taking off your star. Who cares if it was just for a movie? They won’t, that’s for sure. A rule is a rule. A law is a law. They killed Father, and you still don’t even know why. It’s not like he actually did anything wrong. And now you’re playing games with them? Going to see a matinee? Are you stupid or something?

  Shut up.

  A pinch was too much for you? Really? Well, what about when they do this—

  Ow!

  When they take your finger and pull it back as far as it will go, and then they pull it a little more—

  Stop it!

  Or they make you stick your tongue out and bite down hard—

  Ouch!!

  Bite down extra hard, so hard the tip just about falls off. Try calling yourself Krystof then. But it won’t matter. It won’t matter what you do, they’ll never forgive you. They never forgive
anyone. You make one little mistake, that’s all it takes with them, you’re theirs forever. You’re theirs until they’re sick of you, sick of asking you questions you can’t answer, sick of hurting you. And when that happens . . . well, you know what’s next, don’t you?

  Leave me alone.

  The second Gruenbaum funeral in a year. That’s right. If you don’t stop shaking like that, that spy sitting right behind you right now won’t even wait until the end of the movie. . . .

  Shut up.

  Stop shaking and I’ll shut up.

  But I can’t.

  Stop.

  I can’t!

  Stop shaking! Stop shaking, Misha, or you’re dead.

  I can’t! I’m trying but I—

  Too late, you’re already—

  * * *

  How did I get outside? Why am I outside?

  And out of breath.

  And dripping sweat.

  And without a star.

  What in the world are you doing outside the ghetto without a star on? Are you crazy? What kind of idiot tears off his star and leaves the ghetto to go to the movies?

  Krystof Kral, that’s who. The dummy.

  Mother would be furious if she found out. She’d never let you go outside again.

  Okay, just start walking. Take a deep breath and just start walking straight home. And figure out your story, because she’s going to want to know where you’ve been. And no more movies. No more Krystof either. You’re Misha Gruenbaum and you live on Kozi Street in the Jewish ghetto, because you’re a Jew, like the star says.

  You idiot.

  This isn’t the movies. This is the real world.

  Unfortunately.

  November 17, 1942

  “PLEASE GO TO SLEEP, MISHA,” Mother says.

  “How long?” I ask.

  “What?” she asks, exhausted and confused.

  “How long until you’ll be back?”

  “Go to sleep,” she says, picking up the suitcase. “I’ll return soon.”

  The door closes behind her again. For what better be the second-to-last time. The last time will be when she comes back. Because Mother promised she wouldn’t go out again after this one.

  And she probably won’t, because there’s nothing left to take anymore. I walk back to the bedroom with my eyes closed, because I know the floor is completely empty except for our bags in one corner.

  I try to get comfortable next to Marietta, but Mother’s mattress just isn’t big enough for the two of us. Mother took mine and Marietta’s away yesterday. The day after the pink summons finally came for us. It wasn’t the first time actually. A month ago was the first pink summons, but Mother got us off somehow, because of who Father was in the Jewish community I guess, because the committee that decides which Jews go when is actually made up of other Jews. But she couldn’t do anything this time, because sooner or later your turn is going to come.

  Tomorrow we go to Terezin.

  She didn’t seem too happy about it, but at this point, what do I care? We don’t own almost anything anymore, and the rules just keep coming. Maybe it won’t be better there, but I’ll take my chances.

  Margarete, Marietta, and Michael Gruenbaum. Summoned for November 18, 1942, at 8:00 a.m. to the Exhibition Hall in Holesovice for the purpose of deportation to Theresienstadt.

  Theresienstadt. What the Nazis call Terezin.

  Starting a month or two ago, I noticed things gradually disappearing from this apartment, even though we barely had anything here. Our fancy silverware. The rug that had been rolled up in the closet since we moved here, because it was too big for any of the rooms. The framed paintings that used to hang on the walls. And then the summons arrived and suddenly Mother went into high gear. Packing up just about everything that was left. Sheets, dress shoes, books, our dishes.

  Not that there’s any point in having dishes anyway. Not when there’s almost nothing to eat. I haven’t seen an egg in weeks. And I can’t remember the last piece of meat I ate that was big enough that I had to actually chew it.

  For over twenty-four hours now, Mother hasn’t stopped moving. Out the door with a couple of suitcases packed with stuff. Then back home a few hours later with the suitcases empty.

  Except when she came back this afternoon.

  “Where are you taking everything?” I asked her when she slumped down into a chair with a glass of water.

  And she mentioned some name. The name of some non-Jewish friend, a name I didn’t recognize. Some old neighbor from Holesovice, I guess. She said the name, and then she opened up the suitcase and took out a couple of giant duffel bags. Told me to put anything I didn’t plan to wear today or tomorrow inside one of them. Had Marietta do the same. Because you’re not allowed to bring more than one hundred pounds of stuff per person.

  But we’re taking much less, because how is a twelve-year-old kid supposed to carry that much?

  * * *

  I listen closely for her footsteps, even though I know she won’t be back for a while.

  She better come back. Out past curfew, just to save a down blanket.

  I listen closely for what seems like hours but hear almost nothing. Every once in a while the building creaks. Otherwise that’s it. Which makes sense, since our building, totally packed with people when we first got here, is almost empty now. All our friends disappeared one by one. We must be some of the last Jews going to Terezin.

  Eventually the door opens. Mother’s steps grow louder. Just before she gets to the room, I try to roll closer to Marietta. Mother lifts up the thin blanket and joins us. Her body is cold and warm at the same time.

  I almost tell her she didn’t come back soon at all. But instead, I pretend I’m asleep. Because why make her worried that on top of everything else I’ll be tired tomorrow?

  November 18, 1942

  THE TRAM STOPS AT VELETRZNI Palac. I can’t believe it, we’re back in Holesovice. The three of us get off, along with a couple dozen other Jews. Their large bags and suitcases, along with the fact that they’ve dared to leave the ghetto in the first place, tell me they’ve been summoned too. As soon as I reach the sidewalk, I notice, up ahead, a long, long line of people, everyone carrying their things, just like us.

  I’m marching between Marietta, who’s in front of me, and Mother, who’s behind me. Both of them are carrying large suitcases. I have a small bag strapped to my back and a much heavier one that I hold in my hands. I let myself switch hands whenever we stop. The canvas handle cuts into my palm, but it isn’t too bad. Marietta’s hair swings back and forth when she walks, so I try to concentrate on that.

  I can’t remember exactly how near we are to our old apartment, but I have a hunch we’re pretty close.

  People are heading off to work with their briefcases, trams are winding through the streets, kids are walking to school with bags on their shoulders that don’t look all that different from mine. Of course their bags aren’t packed full like mine is, because they still have homes where they can keep things they don’t need right now. Every last thing I now own is in one of my two bags.

  Wherever we are exactly, it’s some totally regular section of Holesovice. Or at least it was regular Holesovice until our parade arrived. Because the second people see us, they stop whatever they’re doing—getting out of a car, riding a bike, leaving a store—and stare at us. A few hundred tired, starving Jews dragging themselves down the sidewalk. Some people turn away, some wipe their faces like they don’t believe it, some might be crying. A few kids, probably friends with those jerks who tied me up to that tree, point and laugh.

  We reach a major intersection. The signs say Veletrzni and Belskeho. Of course, I knew it. We’re only a few blocks from our old apartment. If we turned right here, we’d be there in less than five minutes. But instead of doing that, we keep marching straight ahead.

  We pass Babka’s. I look through the window at the high tables. In a few hours, when it’s lunchtime, all sorts of lucky people will stand there and gobble up d
elicious frankfurters, the grease flowing right into the soft rolls every time they take a bite. We pass Belskeho Bakery, where Mother would buy that wonderfully fresh rye bread filled with caraway seeds. The best bread in the world—what I wouldn’t do for a slice right now. And the tailor’s shop where Father took his suits and Martin’s apartment and the pharmacy and that weird building with the bright red door.

  We’re almost at Simackova Street when I see someone standing under an awning on the other side of Belskeho. Someone familiar. A woman. A woman so familiar I can’t think straight for a few seconds. Before my brain tells me her name, I notice all the parts of her I know so well. Her wiry hair, her long face, her thin fingers, her beaded handbag, her brown jacket with the pink flowers sewn into the collar.

  Leci.

  I see her before she recognizes the three of us, even though she’s already frozen, her mouth a little red dot, staring at our pathetic parade. I tap Marietta on the shoulder. “Look! Leci, she’s over there. Look!”

  Then she sees us, and her eyes open wide. I sort of half wave to her with the hand holding my bag. And for a second, I’m almost happy, like she’s somehow going to cross the street and pull out a plate of cookies or ask me what I learned in school or even wipe something off my chin with the edge of her apron. But then she begins to cry, and not just a little. I swear, in a single moment she goes from nothing to her face being half-soaked, the black from the makeup around her eyes running down her cheeks.

  “Go, Misha, go,” Mother says. I start to march again, telling myself not to look back.

  A minute later, I see it up ahead: the massive Prague fairgrounds, the Exhibition Hall somewhere inside it.

  * * *

  “Anyone caught hiding valuables,” the SS guard with the huge shoulders standing at the edge of the tables says loudly, “money, jewelry, et cetera—will be shot.” His long, thin face says this like he’s just an usher announcing the time for the next show. The Exhibition Hall is filled with the kind of noise a few hundred people make automatically, but each time he says this—which is about every ten minutes—everyone quiets down completely. His voice echoes for a second or two, and then the buzz starts up again.