What World is Left

by Monique Polak

  “Says who?” When Hannelore shrugs, the gesture reminds me of an old woman.

  “I heard some of the men say so.”

  “Prisoners?” Hannelore asks.

  I nod.

  Hannelore shrugs again. “That’s what they need to tell themselves. But I don’t believe it. Not for a second.”

  When Frau Davidels comes down the hallway, Hannelore makes that sniffling sound again. “We mustn’t upset her,” she whispers.

  But there are no Nazis around, and Frau Davidels smiles when she sees Hannelore and me together. She draws us close to her. “It helps to have a friend,” she says, “especially during hard times.” Then without saying a word, she drops something into my apron pocket, and then something into Hannelore’s.

  The door swings open, and we hear the click-click of a Nazi officer’s boots.

  “Be off! And mind what I say!” Frau Davidels tells the two of us, her voice suddenly businesslike again.

  We climb back into our cauldrons and do not say a word until the officer disappears down the hall.

  “A potato!” Hannelore whispers breathlessly.

  “It’s one of the bonuses that comes from working in the diet kitchen,” I tell her. “See, you were wrong about Frau Davidels. There’s no need to be afraid of her. Maybe you’re also wrong about the end of the war.”

  Hannelore is quiet. I imagine she is patting the potato in her pocket. “Wait until I show this to Mother!” she says.

  Sometimes the potatoes Frau Davidels gives us are blackened or mushy, but that doesn’t matter. They are still prizes. Boiled up in a little water, they make a chunky broth that is far more substantial than the watered-down lentil soup we get for lunch and dinner.

  On our way back to the barracks—it turns out Hannelore and her mother are housed in the same barracks as Mother and me—we pass a group of old people waiting on the cobblestone street. Because it’s June they have no need for warm clothes. Their arms are almost as thin as tree branches.

  The old people pounce when a prisoner comes by dragging a wheelbarrow behind him.

  “What are they after?” Hannelore asks as we watch the old people stuff their pockets.

  “Potato peels,” I say.

  Hannelore makes a gulping sound. I know she is remembering the potato in her pocket. Again I get the feeling that Hannelore needs looking after. “Never mind,” I tell her, tugging her wrist.

  Though Hannelore and her mother sleep at the other end of the dark musty barracks, I feel better knowing Hannelore is there.

  I can never decide what time of day is worse at Theresienstadt—bedtime or morning. At night, I huddle next to Mother, but then the bedbugs begin to gorge on us. They are, it seems, as hungry as we prisoners. I slap at the bugs, and the sound of my slapping joins together with all the other slapping in the women’s barracks, making a kind of chorus. If it weren’t so pitiful, it might be funny.

  The bit of wall behind our bunks is smudged with brownish red from the bloody fingerprints of other women who’ve smacked at bedbugs and fleas. This is one war we’ll never win.

  If only bedbugs and fleas could write. Then we could make them sign a treaty and leave us alone. It’s a silly thought, I know, but it helps me forget the bedbugs and fleas, for a few moments at least.

  I miss Father most at night. At home in Broek, I used to wait for him to knock on my door and kiss me good night. Now he and Theo are in another barracks several streets away. We can only be together as a family for half an hour on Sunday afternoons. Though I’ll never admit it to anyone, I even miss Theo.

  Mornings bring their own misery. Waking up even hungrier than I was when I went to sleep is bad enough. But the worst is that very first moment when I wipe the sleep from the corners of my eyes, and I remember where I am. That is worse even than the hollowness in my belly.

  One morning my throat is very sore. It hurts to swallow. The lines around Mother’s eyes deepen when she feels my forehead. “You have a fever,” she tells me. “You can’t work in the diet kitchen today.”

  “I have to work.” My voice sounds rough. When I crawl out of the bunk, all my joints ache. Even joints I never knew I had.

  We both know that in Theresienstadt, not reporting to work can be dangerous. Mother, who has a job in the central kitchen distributing soup, has told me how the supervisors there keep detailed records about each worker: start time, end time, number of absences. “Too many absences,” she explained, “could land a person on a transport.” The memory of her words makes me jump down to the wooden floor. When my feet hit the ground, my throat throbs even more. But I have no choice: I have to go to work.

  But then I feel my knees cave beneath me. Everything around me—the straw mattresses on the lowest bunks, the other women scrambling to get dressed—suddenly turns blurry.

  Some other prisoners have to help Mother drag me back to my sleeping spot. Someone else gets my enamel cup and goes to fill it with a little water. Even taking small sips hurts. “You have to drink, Anneke,” Mother says. “And no work today. I’ll talk to Frau Davidels.” Then she kisses my forehead and sighs.

  I must have dozed off because when I awaken, the barracks is completely empty. All its occupants are at work, doing whatever they must to stay alive. Some are cleaning, some are cooking, some are sewing. All of them are supervised by Nazi officers who will not let them take a break or stretch their legs. It is dark when the women leave for work, and it will be dark when they return to the barracks at the end of the workday.

  Little rays of sun peep through the narrow cracks in the walls. It must be mid-morning by now. I swat at a bedbug. If I had more strength, I’d get up and shake out my blanket. That is one way, at least, to get rid of some of the pesky creatures.

  It is better to sleep than to battle the bedbugs. I kick the blanket off. It’s rough and scratches my skin. Besides, I’m too hot for it anyhow.

  The barracks have grown darker. “Anneke, have some more water.” It is Mother. She holds a tin cup to my lips. “Hurry,” she says. “I told them my period started, and that I needed to come back to the barracks for a cotton rag.”

  I prop myself up against the wall and take a few sips.

  “I’m feeling better,” I tell her. It isn’t true, but the words make Mother smile. I’d nearly forgotten the way her face changes when she smiles, the way her blue eyes shine and her chin dimples.

  When Mother leaves, I begin to wonder whether she was ever here, or if, in my fever, I dreamt she’d come to check on me. But my throat feels less parched, and I spot the tin cup near my knee. No, Mother has definitely been here, and she brought me water. She told me how she used her period for an excuse.

  I’ve only had one period. It came shortly before we left Holland. I hadn’t thought anything of it when I awoke one morning with an achy belly. But when I noticed the smear of blood in my underpants, I had quite a shock. How could I be bleeding from down there?

  At first I was too ashamed to tell Mother. But when the bleeding got heavier, I knew I had no choice. We’d probably have to fetch the doctor.

  “Mother,” I called from the toilet. “I have a problem.”

  Theo must have been nearby. “Anneke has a problem! Anneke’s in the toilet and she has a problem!” he jeered from the hallway.

  “Go away, you idiot!” I told him, my temper suddenly flaring.

  Father came down from his studio to see what the fuss was about. I heard him lead Theo up the stairs. When they were halfway up, Father stopped. I could hear the oak floorboards creak with his weight. “Anneke,” he said in a stern voice, “that was no way to speak to your brother.”

  Mother didn’t think we needed the doctor. Instead, her face brightened and she laughed. “My goodness,” she said, “my little girl is growing up. Becoming a woman.” And then, as she reached into the bottom drawer for some strips of cotton, she explained about periods. How they were perfectly natural. How it meant that one day, I’d be able to have children of my own and make
her a grandmother.

  “Are you having cramps?” she asked gently.

  When I nodded, she sent me back to my bed. Then she brought me a hot water bottle wrapped in a flannel sheet and laid it on my belly.

  But I haven’t had a period in the two months I’ve been at Theresienstadt. People say it is because we don’t get enough to eat. I know I’ve lost weight because I can feel my hipbones jutting out below my waist. Sometimes, when I’m scrubbing a cauldron and there is time to think, I worry that maybe I won’t ever be able to bear children. The thought makes me want to weep.

  I haven’t asked Mother if she still gets her period. Maybe it is different for grown women.

  When I wake up again, the barracks is even darker, and Hannelore is perched on the edge of my bunk. “Frau Davidels warned me not to come too close,” she says, running her hand along my arm. Her touch feels cool. “But she sent me to see whether you were feeling any better.”

  “I need to pee,” I tell Hannelore. “But I don’t think I can manage on my own.”

  “That’s what friends are for,” Hannelore says as she helps lift me from the bunk.

  I lean on Hannelore as I stumble to the latrines. Not even the chlorine and lime that are sprinkled regularly into the pits help mask the stench.

  “It’s a shame I have a sore throat. A blocked nose would be handy just now,” I tell Hannelore. Because it hurts to laugh, I only laugh a little when I say so.

  “That’s you, Anneke,” she says. “Always making light of things. We couldn’t be more different, could we?”

  Hannelore kneels down and holds onto my arm while I squat over one of the holes. Afterward, she hands me a square of magazine so I can wipe myself. “Have you seen him lately?” she whispers as she walks me back to the barracks. We are approaching the central square in the middle of Theresienstadt. Out of habit, we press toward the narrow walkway on the side. Jews are not permitted to enter the square.

  “No, not since last week,” I tell her. Just as I imagined I would, I’ve told Hannelore all about Franticek Halop, and once I even pointed him out when we were standing in line for soup. Franticek is easy to spot because of his height and his shock of dark curly hair.

  “Isn’t he too old for you?” Hannelore asked. I could hear the disapproval in her voice. “He must be at least eighteen.”

  “Twenty. And not only that. He has a girlfriend!” I said, enjoying Hannelore’s shocked expression—the way her dark eyebrows rose and then knitted themselves together.

  “Anneke, how could you let yourself like a boy like that?”

  “I can’t help it,” I said, trying to explain. “He’s as handsome as a prince. I like everything about him—even the way he smiles.”

  Hannelore doesn’t have eyes for any boy in the camp. She is still in love with Gunter, a Christian who lived on her street in Hamburg. “After Kristallnacht, the night the Nazis destroyed our synagogues,” she told me, “most of our Christian neighbors wanted nothing more to do with us. Even those we’d known for years. But not Gunter and his parents. They brought us food and tried to warn us about Nazi raids. Gunter walked me to the train when we left for here. He said he’d wait for me.” Hannelore’s dark eyes grew misty.

  “Did you kiss him?” I wanted to know.

  Hannelore flushed.

  “I suppose that means yes,” I said, and we both laughed.

  A group of Nazis is marching down the middle of the square, headed toward us. The buckles on their boots gleam in the afternoon sun. They march in perfect unison as if they are listening to the beat of some faraway drum.

  “We’ll say I helped you use the latrine. That you’re ill, and I’m taking you back to the barracks before I return to the diet kitchen.” Hannelore’s voice is shaking.

  “We haven’t done anything wrong,” I tell her.

  Hannelore stops walking. For a moment, she looks me in the eye. “Who of us here has done anything wrong?”

  But the Nazis pay no attention to us. They have other business to attend to. From the corner of the street where our barrack is, we watch as they continue their march.

  “Please, please. No!” we hear a man wail.

  And then the familiar “Raus! Raus!”

  My stomach clenches.

  Soon, there are more pleading voices and what sounds like a gunshot. My whole body stiffens with fear. So does Hannelore’s. But still, we are curious. Holding onto each other tightly, Hannelore and I cross the street so we can get a better look. In the distance, we can see the Nazi soldiers we spotted earlier. Only now they’ve stopped marching. They have rounded up three men and are leading them down one of the side streets. Three Jews. One of them is bald. Like Father.

  Things start to look blurry to me again, the way they did in the morning when I got down from my bunk. It’s as if I can feel my heart beating in my throat. “Are they taking them to the Kleine Festung?” I manage to ask Hannelore. The Kleine Festung, or Little Fortress, is located just outside of Theresienstadt. It is where prisoners are taken when they break the camp rules. But Father hasn’t broken any rules. At least none that I know of.

  “I don’t think so,” Hannelore says.

  “What if that bald man is my father?” I whisper. My forehead feels even hotter than it did when I got up this morning.

  Hannelore doesn’t lift her eyes from the scene ahead of us. “Of course they don’t have your father. Your father’s a famous artist. He’s on the list of prominent prisoners. They’re protected—for now at least.”

  I feel the tension begin to drain out of me. Hannelore is right. The man with the bald head can’t be my father.

  “Look, look!” Hannelore says. I gasp as I watch and listen. There is shouting, muffled cries and then an eerie silence. Two of the Nazis hoist the three prisoners onto a plywood platform. I can hardly breathe.

  “They’re hanging them!” Hannelore is nearly shouting. Her dark eyes look like they’re about to pop out of her head.

  I turn my head away. I’ve seen the wooden gallows on one of the smaller squares near the main one. But I have never seen it in use, always believing it was just another way of frightening us prisoners, of making sure we followed orders.

  I try to concentrate on the dust motes floating near my knees. I am afraid to look up. There are so many dust motes. I try counting them. Eighteen, nineteen... Where do dust motes come from? My head feels heavy from so much leaning down. Count the dust motes, I tell myself. Don’t look up.

  “One man’s tongue is hanging out of his mouth. It’s purple. Like a dog’s,” Hannelore says. Her voice is quieter now, but I can tell she’s angry.

  I still refuse to look up. “You can’t possibly see that from here,” I whisper.

  It is not until nighttime that we learn why the three men were hanged. One did not tip his hat when a Nazi officer passed. One tried to smuggle a letter to his wife. And one stole a potato. I wonder whether he was the one with the bald head—and the purple tongue.

  If only I could cry. I’d cry for those three dead men, and also for myself and for Hannelore who watched them die.

  But my throat hurts too much. It’s as if the tears I cannot cry have settled at the bottom of my throat and are making it throb.

  Five

  It is a sticky August afternoon. Even the flies are struggling in the heat, buzzing with less vigor than usual. By now, after four months in the camp, I’ve almost stopped thinking about our claw-foot bathtub in Broek. The closest I’ve come to a bath is the occasional pail of gray water and a waxy piece of soap that doesn’t lather when I use it. The smell of sweat—mine and everyone else’s—permeates the air. And like all the other indignities, after a while, I hardly notice it anymore.

  Mother and I are packing our satchels. I haven’t told Hannelore about our new living arrangements. I feel too guilty about leaving her behind in the barracks. After all my good fortune, for that’s what it feels like, all has to do with my father. Hannelore’s father died before the war. “It’s
just as well he didn’t live to see what happened to his beloved Germany,” Hannelore told me when she spoke about him. Now it is just her and her mother and a frail uncle, who is housed in one of the men’s barracks.

  We are moving to our own quarters on Jagergasse, a narrow alley three blocks behind the main square. Best of all, Father and Theo are coming too.

  When we meet them at the front door of our new home on Jagergasse, I feel as if I might fall over from happiness. Father’s face is thin and Theo’s skin is sallow, but we are together again.

  For a moment, I think of Hannelore and the spot in the barracks where she sleeps. Tonight, some other girl will lie in my old spot. The women’s tongues will wag when they realize Mother and I are gone. When they learn we have moved to Jagergasse and are together with Father and Theo, the women will wonder how we managed to secure such an arrangement.

  No doubt some of them will say we should have stayed in the barracks with them to show our solidarity. Part of me wonders how things would be different had Father refused the Council of Elders’ offer of the quarters on Jagergasse.

  The Council of Elders is the group of prisoners who help govern Theresienstadt. They are Jews, most of them professors or medical doctors from places like Prague, Berlin or Amsterdam. The council oversees such things as the allocation of living quarters, the division of labor, the division of rations, the water supply system and the bogus bank. They are also responsible for compiling the transport lists.

  If we refused to leave our barracks, the other prisoners might have taken us for heroes.

  But when I see Father and Mother kiss on the lips, I feel sure we are doing the right thing. Besides, I tell myself, had any of the gossiping women in the barracks been given a similar offer, surely they would have packed their satchels and left straightaway for Jagergasse.

  The four of us open the door to our room. Though it is dark and stinks of mildew, we all know how lucky we are to have it. A room to ourselves! The artists’ studio is two floors up. Our new quarters, allocated by the Council of Elders, are a reward for Father’s hard work. He has been working himself to the bone.