“Good night, Franta.”
“Good night, Misha,” he says.
And soon I’m back in bed, where I fall asleep almost instantly, even though my pillow is half the size it was this morning.
December 28, 1942
I WAS SO EXCITED WHEN the sun came out today and Franta told us we’d be having practice, but then I just played awful.
“I stink,” I say to Jiri as we head down the bashta and back to L417.
“No you don’t,” Jiri says, but I can tell he’s just trying to be nice.
“What are you talking about? I haven’t scored a single goal since I’ve been here.”
“So?” Jiri says. “I barely ever score.”
“You’re a defender, Jiri. Defenders aren’t supposed to score. I play wing; wings are—”
“Uh-oh,” Jiri says, turning around, “I forgot my hat.”
I stand there for a moment, trying to figure out why this place makes me so bad at soccer. But then, when Jiri doesn’t come back right away, I head back up to the bashta. He’s talking to Franta, who’s folding up a piece of paper and putting it in his pocket. The two of them give me a look that makes it pretty clear what, or who, they were talking about. I pretend I don’t notice. Pretty soon the three of us are walking back down again.
“Jiri, Misha,” Franta says as we walk under some trees. “Do me a favor; grab a bunch of twigs.”
“How many?” I ask.
“A bunch,” he says.
“Why?” Jiri asks.
“Just pick some up.”
We do what he says and soon we have a few dozen, some long, some short, most a little crooked. Franta sits down on a bench, so we join him, the twigs in our hands.
“Jiri,” Franta says, “hand me a twig.” Franta takes one of the longer sticks from Jiri and holds it out in front of us. “What do you think will happen if I try to bend this?”
“It’ll break,” I say.
“Exactly,” Franta says, and snaps it in half. “Jiri, two more please.” Jiri gives him two shorter ones, and Franta holds them together in front of us. “What now?” he asks.
Jiri and I look at each other. “Same thing.” Jiri says it almost like a question.
Franta snaps both of them in half. “Misha, give me . . . give me eleven twigs.” One at a time, I hand him eleven. He takes them and arranges them in a little bundle. “Now what?” I shrug my shoulders. “Do you think I’ll be able to break them?”
“Yeah?” Jiri says.
Franta grips the sticks tight, making the tendons on the back of his hands bulge. He’s really not that big, but his hands are incredibly strong. The funny thing, he actually is a goalie, just like I thought the day I met him. I haven’t seen him play yet, but all the kids say he’s amazing. Totally fearless. It’s been too cold, but when it warms up they’ll start the league again. The adult one, where the different work groups play each other. I guess the teachers, which include Franta, are one of the very best teams.
Franta’s knuckles are growing white, but the twigs won’t break. He lets go. “Here,” he says, handing me the sticks. “Give it a try, in case you thought I was pulling your leg.”
So I take them and try, even though I doubt Franta would ever pull my leg. “I can’t.”
“Jiri,” Franta says, and Jiri grabs all the sticks. “No, no. Take just one.” Jiri does. “Snap it.” Jiri does. “Another.” Same thing. “Another.” Pretty soon twenty-two twigs are lying on the ground in front of us. “Well?” Franta asks.
“You can’t break them together,” I say, staring at the twigs. “Right?” Franta doesn’t say anything. “Right?” I look and notice Franta watching two men walking down a street not that far from us. He follows them with his eyes for a while, not blinking once. One is a Jew, wearing glasses with round frames. The other is a Nazi, an SS officer with a pointy nose and a chin that sticks out. It’s only the second time I’ve seen an SS officer since I’ve been here. He’s just walking slowly, but I shiver for a moment and feel something tighten up in my chest. Even though I can’t see every detail from this far away, I’m pretty sure his uniform has the iron cross and the squares and the eagle and the skull, just like the men who came to our apartment and took Father away. I close my eyes and lower my head.
“Who’s that?” I whisper to Jiri.
“I think that’s Seidl, and . . .”
“Edelstein,” Franta says, not looking away.
“Who are they?” I ask.
“Seidl is in charge,” Jiri says, “of everything.”
“SS Officer Dr. Siegfried Seidl,” Franta says quietly, but with disgust, too. “Commandant of Terezin.”
“And Edelstein,” Jiri says.
“Jakob Edelstein runs the camp for Seidl,” Franta says.
“What do you mean, runs it?”
“He’s the head of the Jewish Council,” Jiri says.
“Huh?” I ask.
“Edelstein oversees the day-to-day operations,” Franta says. “So the Nazis don’t have to. Just another rotten collaborator, only he has to make impossible decisions, too.” I’m about to ask Jiri what “impossible decisions” means when Franta stands up and says, “C’mon, let’s go. Literature class starts soon.”
A minute later, with L417 not too far off, I ask Franta, “Wait, what was that about with the twigs?”
“Yeah,” Jiri adds.
The left edge of Franta’s mouth curls up. He looks down and grabs a thin stick near the edge of the street. “Misha, this is you. You’re a rather thin stick. For now anyway.”
“Okay,” I say, feeling kind of stupid.
“Someday you’ll be thicker. Someday we all will be. And Jiri,” Franta says, “you’re a slightly thicker stick. The Gotzlinger brothers, Pudlina and Felix, they’re the thickest sticks among all the Nesharim. But still, quite thin all by themselves.”
I don’t say anything, just look over at Jiri, who appears to be about as confused as me.
“Each of us, by ourselves,” Franta says, “doesn’t stand much of a chance. Sorry, Misha.” And he snaps the stick. “You’re a pretty good player. Better than you think you are, in fact. You do a number of things quite well. You don’t crowd the ball, you’re quick, you always hurry back on defense when there’s a counterattack. And you do a great job on throw-ins.” He pats my back. “Okay, I’ll admit, it’s not a World Cup resume, but it’s not so bad, because you have plenty to contribute. To the team. You’re not playing alone. Remember that. You’re playing on a team. Eleven sticks. The Nesharim. Some of us are so-so, some of us are good. Pudlina and Felix, perhaps they are great, but not amazing, not yet anyway. But together we can be great. If we play together.”
Franta takes a deep breath and nods his head. Then he starts talking again, quieter and slower than before. “If we truly play together, if we help each other and support each other and make it so each of us does the things he can do, if we make it so each of us trusts that someone else will do the things he can’t do himself, if we do that, we will be the best team in our building. That’s what I meant.”
We start walking again.
“Have you seen Otto Hirsch play?” Franta asks. “From Room One?”
“He’s incredible,” Jiri says.
“Yes,” Franta says, “he’s the most skilled player in our building. His footwork is better than some seasoned players twice his age. But he plays with his head down. Please don’t repeat this to anyone, but, frankly, he’s something of a ball hog. And his teammates wind up standing around and watching. You wait. When we play them, he’ll have a hat trick, but we’ll win four to three.”
I’ve never been on a real team before. I doubt we’ll get uniforms here, since here is Terezin, but still, even just being on a real team will be pretty great. No, it will be better than great. It will be the best thing since . . . since all this started.
Jiri starts running up the stairs to L417, so I race to beat him.
“Wait,” Franta calls out, so we stop. Hi
s head turns back to where Seidl and Edelstein were walking, even though they’re long gone by now. “You must know, however, that the Nazis . . .”
“Huh?” I ask.
“The Nazis, they work together too. Hitler gathered up a lot of sticks. Millions of them.” Franta points at a row of trees. “When you see ten thousand people with their arms sticking out, yelling “Heil Hitler” in perfect unison, that’s quite a bundle, no? To get all of us to Terezin, to keep us here, in these conditions, to . . . to do what they’ve done, what they’re doing, you need a very, very, very large bundle.”
“But then,” I start to say, “but then what about—”
“So . . . ,” Franta says quickly, but then stops again. “So it’s not enough to work together. You must always ask yourself, am I in the right bundle? Is this a bundle I want to make stronger by joining it?”
I stare at the trees, a little confused.
“The Nesharim’s a good bundle,” Jiri says.
“Right?” I ask.
“Yes,” Franta says, “I believe it is. I believe the Nesharim make a wonderful bundle.” Franta rubs his chin, thinking about something, who knows what. “C’mon, you two sticks,” he finally says. “Let’s go. The others are going to wonder what happened to us.” And he leaps up the stairs, the two of us right behind him.
January 22, 1943
“ ‘OH, POET.’ ” DR. WEISS READS SOME poem by a guy named Josef Hora. He reads all dramatically with his hand out in the air. “ ‘I am drowning in the sea of your soul torn by its deepest tide.’ ” I’m trying to listen for a change today, even though Czech literature is maybe the most boring part of the Program, because sometimes Dr. Weiss stops and makes one of us explain what we think the poem means. I’m hoping this one will end soon, but the morning Program usually lasts from nine until noon, which means we still have a way to go.
Suddenly there’s a knock at the door. Everyone freezes for a second, and then quickly hurries to hide anything that might give us away. Because no one knocks around here. Pavel and Hanus, who seem to actually care about literature and bother to take notes, throw their scraps of paper and short, stubby pencils under the nearest mattress. Dr. Weiss closes the book and stands up, only to sit down right away.
But when the door opens, all that happens is some Jewish woman walks in, all by herself. Maybe Mother’s age. Taller than her, in an old dress with a flower pattern on it. Her hair is kind of wavy and frizzy, though she has most of it back in a bun. She closes the door behind her.
“Mom?” Jila says.
Franta stands up the second she came in. “Mrs. Zweig,” he says, opening the door again and trying to get her to go back outside with him. But she just stands there, ignoring Franta completely. “Mrs. Zweig,” Franta says again, more firmly this time, “I’m sorry, but we’re in the middle of a lesson.”
“There’s a transport, tomorrow,” she says, her voice shaking. She hurries over to Jila and hugs him, which I can tell embarrasses him. “We’re on it.”
Dr. Weiss removes his glasses and rubs his face. Franta sighs loudly but doesn’t say anything.
I turn to Pedro, who’s sitting next to me. “Transport?” I whisper. “Transport to where?” But he doesn’t answer.
In fact, no one says anything for a bit. All of us stare at Jila’s mom, who’s crying so much she’s not even bothering to hide it.
“How many?” Franta finally asks.
She wipes her face with a handkerchief. “Two thousand.”
“Two thousand,” Dr. Weiss says in a way that makes it pretty clear that was the worst possible answer.
“Tomorrow?” Franta asks.
She nods.
“Everyone,” Franta says, “go to the courtyard, now. Go and take the carts, one to the Dresden Barracks, one to the Engineer Barracks. People will need help with their bags, especially the elderly in Engineer.”
I have a ton of questions, so I walk over to Franta as soon as everyone gets up, only just then an older man appears, his eyes red.
“Mr. Forman?” Franta asks.
“Pedro,” the man says in a panic. “Where’s Pedro?”
* * *
We’re barely outside our building before I can tell this isn’t just another day in Terezin. People are rushing all over the place. And everyone has the same expression on their face, like they all know a bad day is about to get much, much worse.
“I don’t understand,” I say to Felix on our way with the cart to the Engineer Barracks. “Didn’t they already transport us here?”
“These go to the East,” he says.
“What do you mean, the East?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “How should I know? The East. Poland maybe.”
“But why?” I ask. “What’s in Poland?”
A man sprints past us, almost running straight into our cart.
“They said it’s to go to a labor camp. Some people say it’s to some place called Birkenau.”
“But this is a labor camp. Isn’t it?” I ask. “I mean, that’s what they told us when we left Prague, that Terezin . . . that we’d work here and . . . what was it . . . be productive. That’s what some SS officer told us all back in Prague anyway. And we are working, even us kids work sometimes. So why do they need to go to another—”
“I don’t know, Misha, okay?” Felix said. “So will you shut up about it already?”
* * *
The Engineer Barracks are completely out of control. People yelling and trudging down the stairs, most with bags too heavy to carry. Felix and I find a tiny old woman, barely our size, with a worn-out suitcase, so we try to help her. But the thing keeps opening from different sides because all its hinges are broken. Her clothes spill out everywhere. Socks, underwear, and shirts that look like they couldn’t possibly belong to her. I think they’re men’s shirts actually. And she mumbles the whole time, but I can’t understand a thing. Maybe she’s talking in another language.
By the time we get back to our cart, it’s already overflowing with bags. We stuff most of the woman’s things back into her suitcase and jam it between the side of the cart and another bag so it won’t open again. We have to get Pavel and Hanus to help, but we finally manage to get the cart rolling. Going about one mile per hour, we head toward the Hamburg Barracks, near where the Schleuse is.
A couple of minutes later I look around and notice that the cart’s working like a magnet. There must be thirty old women trailing behind us. Each one looks more exhausted than the last. And then I think, wait, what good will any of them do at a different labor camp? Because it’s not like they’re doing any work here.
“Hey,” I say to Felix, who’s pushing right next to me. “Where is she?”
“She?”
“That woman. With the broken suitcase. I don’t see her.”
Before Felix can respond, I let go of the cart and head back to find her. It takes a bit, but eventually I spot her, sitting on a bench by herself in the middle of nowhere. I sit down next to her. She smells like an old mop. I try to think of something to say but can’t come up with a single thing. I doubt she’d answer anyway, since she’s just staring ahead like she’s in some kind of trance, her tiny head tilted really far to one side.
So after a while I get up and rush back to the cart.
January 23, 1943
“LOOK, THERE’S JILA,” KAPR SAYS all excited, pointing through the window of the Schleuse. “Jila! Hey, Jila!”
But Jila doesn’t hear, probably because of the noise everywhere.
“Jila! Jila!”
In fact, I can hardly hear Kapr screaming, and he’s standing right next to me. There are hundreds of people on the other side of the window, most of them sitting on the ground with their bags. The whole thing looks a lot like the Exhibition Hall did a couple of months back, only everyone seems even sadder here, which I didn’t think could ever be possible. But everyone seems pretty sure that being on a transport leaving Terezin is way worse than being on one headed
here.
“Jila! Jila! JILA!!!”
* * *
“Jila! Jiiiilllllaaaa!” Kapr yells for the tenth time, his hands cupped around his mouth. Somehow Jila finally hears us and heads over.
“Hey,” he says, his hands on the thick cement windowsill.
Kapr takes a deck of cards out of his pants pocket and passes it through the metal bars. “Take these. In case you get bored on the train.”
“Okay,” Jila says, “thanks.”
“And I saved this roll from lunch,” Kapr says. “Here.” And he extends a half-smushed roll toward Jila.
“No, I don’t need it,” Jila says. “My mom got a whole loaf from some lady in the bakery.”
“All right,” Kapr says, and takes a bite from the roll.
Jila looks at me, and I wonder if I was supposed to bring something too. But honestly, I barely know him. I only came here because Kapr told me I should.
“When do you leave?” Kapr asks him.
Jila shrugs his shoulders. “No idea. Tonight. Tomorrow. Hopefully never. My mom keeps trying to find out, but no one seems to know for sure.”
Kapr grabs one of the bars and sort of yanks on it. “You’ll still get off I bet,” he tells Jila.
“Nah,” Jila says.
“But you said your mom knows someone who works with mica.”
“Who’s Mica?” I ask.
“Not who, what,” Kapr says. “It’s some kind of material they use to make stuff that goes into guns or radios or something. Anyone who works with that stuff is safe.”
Mother just works in some place sewing up toys and fake flowers. She told me she’s starting to really get the hang of it, but still, is that safe?
“Knows someone,” Jila says. “How does knowing someone help?”
“I don’t know,” Kapr says, “maybe they need someone. Maybe someone working over there got caught schlojsing and so got put on the transport and maybe your mom can replace her. Right?”
“Maybe,” Jila says, not sounding too convinced.
“Get lost, you two.” There’s a hand on my shoulder. I turn and see a man wearing a black cap with a yellow band around it. Ghettowache, a ghetto guard, even though he has a yellow star on his chest like everyone else. Franta would call him another rotten collaborator, I bet.
Somewhere There Is Still a Sun Page 11