Somewhere There Is Still a Sun

by Michael Gruenbaum

It looks like she’s about to say something else, but she just takes a bite instead. She chews slowly, and after she swallows, she almost looks like a normal person. A terribly thin, extremely weak person, but a real person. Not a skeleton.

  So I ask her the question I’ve been meaning to ask every one of the people we’ve been feeding for the last two days.

  “Where were you?” I ask.

  She takes another bite, chews, and swallows. “Auschwitz,” she says.

  “But I thought,” I say, checking to see where Kikina and Tommy are, “I thought the transports went to Birkenau.”

  “Same thing,” she says.

  “But so . . . ,” I start to say, not sure what I want to ask. “What was there? What happened?” She keeps chewing slowly, ignoring me. So I ask her another question, one that started bothering me yesterday afternoon. “And why didn’t any kids or old people come back with you? What happened to them?”

  “Gas,” she says, and picks up a bit of potato that landed on her forearm, not far from a spot where six black numbers are written across her skin. “And then”—she swallows—“up the chimney.”

  “What?” I lean in closer. “What does that mean?”

  But all she does is reach her bony hand out to me and run her finger down my cheek. It gives me the chills, but I let her do it a few times anyway.

  * * *

  Many hours later the three of us are pushing the wagon through some puddles when Kikina and I break the silence at almost the same time.

  “Did you guys—” he starts saying.

  “Hey, what does ‘up the chimney’ mean?” I ask.

  “What?” Tommy asks.

  “Some woman,” I say, “back in Dresden. She said something about people going up chimneys.”

  Kikina nods his head. “I heard my mother say the same thing yesterday. But she stopped talking when she saw me.”

  “And gas,” Tommy says. “I keep hearing people talk about gas.”

  Now we’re just standing behind our wagon in the middle of the ghetto. “This woman,” I say, “she said gas, then chimney.”

  For some reason I think of Mother. Everyone has been working so hard, the second we lie down for the night we’re out cold. So I haven’t talked to her almost at all in two days. Which normally would be fine, because a lot of the time, ever since I started working in the bakery actually, I’ve liked being on my own. But right now, I wouldn’t mind if she just showed up all of a sudden.

  “And have you noticed,” I say to the guys, “no old people? And no kids, either. Inka, who’s a couple of years older than us, she’s probably the youngest person we’ve seen.”

  “Though it is pretty hard to tell,” Tommy says.

  “No, but he’s right,” Kikina says. “I haven’t seen anyone younger than us. I’m sure of it.”

  Tommy starts pushing the wagon, and soon we’re passing by a row of trees with new leaves on them. “Does that mean,” Kikina says, “that, you know, Felix and Gorila and Leo and everyone . . . well, what does that mean?”

  “And Franta,” I say, “what about him?”

  “He’s older,” Tommy says. “So . . . maybe, right?”

  “And Pudlina and Grizzly and Eli and . . .”

  We push the wagon in silence for a while.

  “Gas, then chimney,” I say, trying to picture something in my head. But I don’t see anything, just feel a dark, heavy lump in the middle of my chest.

  “No, no, no. No way,” Kikina says. “No way, not even the Nazis would.”

  “What do you mean, no way?” I say, almost shouting. “Have you looked at those people? The one’s who’ve been eating our potatoes like they’ve never eaten in their entire lives? Have you? C’mon, anyone who would do that to all those people, who would let them wind up like this, who would just stick them on cars meant for coal, or make them walk as far as they just walked . . . what wouldn’t they do? Think about it.”

  No one talks the rest of the way to the bakery.

  * * *

  “Wonderful news,” Mr. Hertz says when we get back, a giant grin on his face. We look at him like he just arrived from another planet. “Red Cross, not Nazis, in charge.”

  “What?” we all ask.

  “Nazis . . . they . . .”—he makes a motion with both his hands—“soon they give it. Terezin. To new man in charge. Dunant. Red Cross. Swiss man.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Kikina says. “It’s not true.”

  “True, true,” Mr. Hertz says. “Not Rahm. Not Germans.”

  “What do you mean,” Tommy asks. “Are the Germans just gone? Can we leave? Is it over?”

  “No, no, not over,” Mr. Hertz says. “Not so much yet. Soon, soon.”

  “You’re lying,” Kikina says.

  Mr. Hertz turns around and walks toward the ovens. He pulls out a couple of trays of potatoes and places them on our wagon. “Don’t believe.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Okay, don’t. Bring potatoes instead. People still very hungry. Go, go, go.”

  May 2, 1945

  “BUT I DON’T WANT TO play cards,” I say to Mother. “Why can’t I go outside?”

  “Because,” she says, folding a skirt and putting it on a shelf, “I told you a half dozen times already. Nora said that the German soldiers, the ones retreating past Terezin, she said they’ve been firing into the camp. Just for sport. So if you don’t have to be outside, you stay in here. And no, Misha, that is not up for negotiation. You stay here.”

  “Here” is the Hamburg Barracks, where they stuck us once they cleared out the Dresden Barracks. I swear, half of Terezin is quarantined at this point. More and more people keep arriving from the East, almost every day. Terezin seemed pretty much deserted a few weeks ago, but not anymore. And a bunch of the new arrivals have typhus, which someone said explains the red spots. And the high fever and a bunch of other symptoms too. The Nazis are terrified of it. I don’t know anyone who’s seen an SS officer or even a regular German soldier in a long time. Some people think most of them are gone already.

  “But this deck is missing two eights, a five, a ten, and the Queen of Diamonds. What’s the point?” Mother ignores me. “And what about Marietta? She’s not here. Why does she get to leave?”

  “She’s staying in Block F, with some friends. And she promised me that she would not go out either.” Of course Mother lets Marietta do what she wants. I guess a few days after people from the East started returning she finally found someone who recognized Gustav’s name. But then this person just started shaking his head. That’s all Mother will tell me about what happened, and I’m not sure I’m ready to ask Marietta myself.

  Mother picks up a ratty dress from the foot of her bed. “So, tell me, how is Kikina doing?”

  “How should I know?” I double-check the cards again, hoping I’m somehow wrong about everything that’s missing. “I’m pretty sure he’s in the infirmary, but I don’t even know what he has. So long as it’s not typhus.”

  Mother removes a small piece of paper from a pocket of her dress. “Well, I think it’s quite extraordinary what you boys did. Delivering potatoes from dawn to dusk for over a week.” She reaches under the bed and pulls out a small cardboard box, opens it, and puts the piece of paper inside.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “Just some things.”

  “Things? What things?” I get up and go over. The box is half-filled with pieces of paper. “What is all that stuff?”

  “Think how many lives you saved, Misha,” she says. “You boys are heroes, you are. I’m just glad you didn’t catch whatever poor Kikina got. Thank God the Red Cross is here now.”

  I pick up a few pieces of paper. “Careful,” Mother says. A meal ration card, a work assignment, and a small drawing of someone in a kitchen. “Okay, okay,” Mother says, and takes them from me, returns them to the box, and puts the whole thing back under the bed.

  “What are you saving all that stupid stuff for?” But Mother doesn’t answer, just smiles and does som
ething to my hair. I’m about to tell her to stop when all that paper reminds me of something. “Hey, you know, today, when Tommy and I were passing by Q414, there was smoke and paper in the air, and—”

  “You shouldn’t be going near that building, you know that.”

  “What’s the big deal?” I say. “I heard the SS are gone already. I mean, didn’t you just say the Red Cross is here?”

  “Yes, but, well, I’m not sure who’s really in charge, or even who’s still here,” Mother says. “Some people say Rahm is here somewhere, along with some of his men.”

  “Well, anyway,” I say, “a couple of pieces of paper landed near us. So we picked them up. One of them, it said something like ‘Herman Lowe,’ and then a date, 1901. I don’t remember the exact day. Maybe January third or something like that. And then, part of it was cut off, from the fire, but I could still see another date. October seventeenth, 1943, I think.” Mother walks over to where I was sitting before and picks up the cards. “We found a few pieces with dates like that. Why are they burning all that paper?”

  Mother starts shuffling and motions for me to come over. “This is going to end soon,” she says, “and when it does”—she deals me some cards—“people will be held accountable, because—”

  But then I hear a bunch of planes buzzing overhead. I rush over to the window and look out. Tommy once told me what the Allies’ planes look like, but I can never tell the difference.

  “Come, Misha,” Mother calls. “Let’s play already.”

  I keep looking out the window. At least twenty silver planes flying overhead in formation. I decide they belong to the Americans. “But I’m sick of all the games we know. I’m sick of being stuck in here. When is this going to end already?”

  “Fine,” she says, “so we’ll make something up. A brand-new game that needs only forty-seven cards.”

  May 8, 1945

  “NO,” I TELL TOMMY, “NOT up to the bashta. My mom is going to be mad enough.”

  “Fine,” Tommy says, kicking the ball against the side of a building. It could really use some air, but a ball’s a ball. I found it in the basement of our building, where I went snooping around right after dinner, because I couldn’t think of anything else to do. The second I found it I raced over to where Tommy’s staying.

  “How about this?” I say. “We’ll practice shooting. Below that line and between those windows. That’s a goal.”

  So we do that for a while, taking turns, and trying it with and without goalies. It’s not as fun as a real game, but it’s okay. Plus some other boys, a little older than us, show up. They don’t speak Czech, but it doesn’t matter, because pretty soon we’re playing two-on-two in the middle of the street.

  Suddenly we hear a bunch of noise. People shouting. From the direction of the train tracks. And I can’t make out a single thing anyone is saying, but somehow the voices sound different from the normal shouting you hear around here.

  “C’mon,” I say to Tommy, and we start running. The sounds get louder and louder, and more and more people are joining us in the street, including people who I think came from the East, in baggy clothes and barefoot, their hair just beginning to grow back in.

  I notice Marietta up ahead, and I yell her name extra loud. I haven’t seen her in a few days. She turns around but doesn’t stop running, so I put my head down and really sprint until I get to her. “Hey,” I say, and grab her hand. I’m barely able to speak I’m breathing so hard. “What . . . why is everyone running?”

  Right then we turn a corner, and I see it. Big and green, with a red, five-pointed star up by the main cannon.

  A Soviet tank, rolling through Terezin.

  “Oh my—”

  Marietta pulls me toward her and presses me into her chest, her arms wrapped tight around me. “We’re free, Misha,” she breathes loudly into my ear. “We’re finally free.”

  A few Russian soldiers appear from out of the tank, and the crowd cheers loudly. Some people begin singing the Czech national anthem, soon joined by dozens and dozens of others, including us. The soldiers smile, and the moment our song ends, they begin singing what must be their own. Two more tanks arrive, and the next thing I know the soldiers are passing out candy and cigarettes. Meanwhile, the crowd grows thicker and thicker, the singing and cheering louder and louder.

  It’s over. It’s finally over.

  * * *

  After a few minutes, and a few pieces of candy, I start walking away from the commotion. Part of me isn’t thinking about where I’m going, but part of me knows. I get to the tracks and walk past them until I see the gate, which is wide open and completely unattended.

  I reach it and continue walking.

  Until I’m not in Terezin anymore.

  I find a small rock and sit down, looking out at nothing in particular. Trees, a few houses, the mountains off in the distance. Another couple of tanks roll past, the tops of Russian soldiers waving out to me from their open hatches.

  And then it gets very quiet.

  It takes me a while to realize I’m still breathing quickly for some reason. So I sit there longer, trying not to think about the fact that Mother will be wondering where I’ve disappeared to, until my lungs finally relax.

  And that’s when it hits me. Despite the candy, despite all the bread I’ve schlojsed over the last half year, despite all the treats I’ve traded for with all the bread I’ve schlojsed. An incredible hunger, unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. My entire body is hungry. My guts, my toes, my fingers—I swear I can feel it in my hair. For food, for real food, for everything and anything at all.

  I almost jump up, because I have a weird urge to go run and find Mother, to tell her, or even not tell her. Just to be with her. But I stay where I am, watching some birds, almost enjoying this strange, intense hunger that only keeps growing.

  And then, even though the hunger doesn’t go away, something else grabs my attention. Father. I’m trying to remember his face, to remember exactly how it looked, the way his teeth would shine when he smiled, the way the edges of his eyebrows would rise up at the very same time. But I can’t see it all, so I convince myself that somewhere, maybe in another box Mother has hidden somewhere else, some pictures of him are waiting for us.

  I sit for a while longer. And as dusk arrives, I let myself think about how badly I wish I could tell Father what this all feels like right now, even though I don’t have the words for almost any of it. But so what, because I’m sure Father would understand what this incredible hunger is all about, I’m absolutely sure he would.

  Epilogue

  Prague, Czechoslovakia

  December 17, 1945

  “MISHA,” MOTHER YELLS TO ME from the kitchen, “there’s a letter for you.” I toss down the sports section of the newspaper and hurry down the hallway. In our old building. Back in Holesovice. Not the exact same apartment, but the same building is still pretty good.

  Mother’s standing by the counter in a bright new dress. And I’m pretty sure she put on that dark red lipstick within the last two minutes. She holds the letter out to me, and as I take it, I notice something sad in her face. Maybe this is just what the mail does to her these days. Because we get way more bad news than good. Mostly about people, about all the people who didn’t make it back like us. Including Gustav and Jiri and just about all the other Nesharim. The East was much, much worse than we ever could have imagined.

  And if that weren’t bad enough, a few weeks ago a letter arrived telling us that all the valuables Mother had sent to London at the start of the war were in a warehouse that was completely destroyed by a German bombing.

  After she cried for a while, she wiped her face and told us we should be happy for what we have. She’s been saying that a lot lately, but sometimes her face tells me that she doesn’t quite believe it herself, at least not yet. It doesn’t help that some of the people here in Prague who kept things for us didn’t seem all that happy to see us return. A few of them even denied we gave them anythin
g in the first place. Marietta told me that there’s some kind of dumb joke going around in Prague, something that ends with people saying, “My bad luck: Unfortunately my Jew came back too.”

  I grab the letter and glance at the return address. Brno. Exactly what I was hoping for. I almost tear it open right there on the spot, but I decide to wait instead.

  “Look at you,” Mother says. “You’d think it was an announcement telling you you’ve been selected for the national team.”

  It’s not warm outside today, but I can see that the sun’s still shining brightly, and that’s enough for me. “I think I’m going to take a walk,” I announce.

  “What about your homework?”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, do you have any?” Mother asks, her hands on her hips.

  “Some,” I say.

  “Some?”

  “Yeah, some.”

  “And when do you plan to do it?”

  I slip on my jacket, grab some nuts from a bowl on the dining room table, and say, “I somehow managed just fine not doing any homework for almost three years. I don’t think anything will happen if this batch waits a couple more hours.”

  Mother walks over and puts a wool cap on my head. “Be careful, Misha.” Then she rises up on her toes, because I’m finally taller than her, and kisses me on the cheek. “You’ll be back soon, yes?”

  “Of course,” I say and head out into the hallway.

  * * *

  A couple of blocks from our building, I see Marietta. She’s walking with some boy I don’t know. She doesn’t appear to be terribly happy to see me.

  “Hey,” I say to her.

  “Hey,” she says. We stare at each other awkwardly for a few seconds.

  “How was school?” she asks.

  “Okay,” I say, “not bad.”

  I look over at the boy she’s with. He’s pretty tall, with very broad shoulders. He smiles a bit and nods once quickly.

  “This is Rudi,” she says finally.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “This is my brother, Misha.”