What World is Left

by Monique Polak

  While Mother keeps count of who gets soup, and Theo stokes the fires in one of the workshops, and I scrub in the diet kitchen, Father works long days in the artists’ studio. Mostly, he tells us, he restores old paintings, ones the Nazis have looted from Jewish homes. Sometimes he draws charts or makes signs.

  Though Father’s work is less dirty than cleaning latrines or stoking fires, it’s far from easy. He cannot make mistakes or waste paper. And he must face the same kinds of humiliation as the rest of us.

  Last week, Father made signs for the bathrooms in the Nazis’ new mess hall: herren and damen, the German words for men and women. He told us how he was on a ladder in the mess hall, hanging his signs when two Nazis and their families came in. It was one of the children’s birthdays, and the others were carrying gifts.

  “It was a strange experience,” Father told us on our Sunday visit, “to see those officers with their wives and children, behaving like normal men. But then, one of the women spotted me on the ladder. ‘What’s that ugly Jew doing here?’ she asked, pointing her finger at me. ‘Get him out at once or he’ll ruin our party!’ And I skulked out of the mess hall, like a dog with his tail between his legs.”

  Father looked crestfallen when he told us the story. For a moment, I wished I could scoop him up in my arms and comfort him. But then he’d turned to me and said, “All that matters is that we are still together.” Though my heart was breaking for him, I knew he was right.

  Mother pushes open the window at the back of the apartment. It looks out on a pile of rubble. Across the way is the supplies barracks. Not that it has much to offer in the way of supplies. The barracks is stocked with discards from the Schleuse. But if someone needs a cane or a piece of rotting wood, this is the place to find it.

  Theo runs in circles around the apartment. “Stop!” Mother cries out, grabbing him from behind. “You’re making me dizzy.” Then she covers his head with kisses. “My Theo,” she says, rumpling his hair. “How I’ve missed you.”

  The apartment is only one room, but Mother has found a tattered cotton sheet in the supplies barrack, and soon it is hanging across the middle of the room. “This will be your’s and Theo’s side,” she explains. “This will be mine and Father’s. That way we can have some privacy.”

  There is an electric hot plate and a bathroom, though it has no running water. But there are just as many bedbugs and fleas as there were in the barracks. Before bedtime, the four of us work hard to tear the bedbugs’ bodies from our blankets. Theo and I crush them on the floor. But now that it is dark, the bugs are back in full force.

  I hear the soft murmur of Mother and Father’s voices from behind the curtain. “Stupid bugs!” Theo curses. “Goddamn Jew bugs!”

  “Stop it, Theo,” I tell him. “We need to sleep.” How could I have forgotten how annoying Theo is? And to think that he is calling the bugs “Jew bugs”!

  “Don’t argue,” Father says from behind the curtain. “All that matters is that we are still together.”

  When I wake up the next morning, Theo is gone. I nearly cry out until I hear the familiar sound of his breathing.

  Theo has gone to sleep in the bathtub.

  “Hardly any bedbugs there,” he announces as if he is Christopher Columbus and has discovered some exotic foreign land.

  “Are you upset with me?” I ask Hannelore.

  Our faces are pressed against the shop window. One of the streets behind the center square is lined with small stores, though in reality they are more storefronts than actual stores. The grocery store, for example, stocks nothing but mustard. Jars and jars of it line the wooden shelves inside. Who wants to eat mustard without a sausage to dip in it?

  But from the outside, to a casual visitor—one who doesn’t step inside the stores or climb the barracks to the upper levels where the old people live, looking more like cadavers than human beings—Theresienstadt could pass for an ordinary little town. A bit down on its luck, overcrowded and smelling of sewage and sweat...but still a town.

  Hannelore hasn’t said anything about the fact that Mother and I no longer live in the barracks.

  “I’m not upset,” Hannelore says. “I’m glad for you. That’s what I told my mother when she said your father is working for the Naz—” Hannelore blushes and covers her mouth with one hand.

  “That isn’t fair,” I say. The air between us feels as if it’s been charged by lightning. How dare her mother say something like that? This is the closest Hannelore and I have ever come to an argument. “When you and I scrub cauldrons, we’re working for the Nazis too,” I tell her.

  Hannelore nods. “Of course, you’re right. That’s what I told my mother.”

  A moment later Hannelore seems to forget our quarrel. “Look!” she cries out, tapping on the window. “Do you see that black velvet skirt? That one...at the back.”

  “Yes, I see it.”

  “I believe it’s mine!” Hannelore’s voice quivers with excitement. “I wonder how much they want for it.”

  Hannelore and I walk into the clothing shop. A Czech prisoner sits at a desk, writing in a ledger book. Sometimes it seems to me the inhabitants of Theresienstadt spend more time keeping records of things than doing anything else. I can’t see the point of all these records. Father’s meticulously drawn charts are also a form of record keeping. He draws charts indicating the cost of maintaining each inmate: four pence a day, up from three pence in 1942; the number of inmates able to work versus those who are too infirm; charts of those who qualify for an extra ration of sugar; charts of those who have been sent on the latest transport.

  Father’s charts, he explained, are submitted every Friday to the Nazi high command in Berlin. “I don’t see much point either, Anneke,” he confided to me, “but if it keeps my family alive, I’ll happily do it. I’d do anything to ensure your survival,” he added, his voice growing husky. “Anything.”

  When Father said that, mostly I felt comforted. Father would do anything—risk anything—to keep us alive. Surely that means we have a chance of getting through all this. But something about the fierce way Father said, “I’d do anything. Anything,” frightens me a little too. I hope Father will never have to hurt anyone else to protect himself—and us.

  “It is my skirt! I remember the day Mother brought it home for me!” Hannelore says as she lifts the skirt off the rack. “They took it from me at the Schleuse.”

  For a moment, I remember my golden brooch and wonder where it might be and who is wearing it. The daughter of some Nazi officer, no doubt. My pulse quickens. I can imagine her delight on the evening her father brought it home. “It’s so delicate,” she’d have said, “and twenty-four-karat gold.” She’d have gazed at her own reflection in the tiny mirror, just as I’d done when it was mine. Did that girl really believe her father had purchased the brooch for her? Had he perhaps put it in a small velvet box before he’d presented his gift? Or did she suspect the brooch was stolen from another girl? And if she did, did she ever wonder about me, what I was like and what kind of life I lived?

  I sigh as I consider the injustice of it all. Here we are in this twisted city, told over and over again that we are the lucky ones, and all because we are the descendants of Abraham and Sarah, some Jews in the desert long ago who meant nothing—absolutely nothing—to me! In fact they cursed me, those people! Isn’t it because of them I’m here?

  And there goes Hannelore inquiring about the cost of her own velvet skirt. This store is stocked entirely with clothing that was confiscated at the Schleuse—pants, skirts, sweaters, coats, boots and shoes. None of it is in very good condition. I don’t want to hurt Hannelore’s feelings, but I can see the seam of her skirt has begun to fray and the velvet has lost its shine. No, anything of value, including my brooch, would have been sent to the high command offices in Berlin.

  Occasionally we are issued ghetto kronen for our work. On the bills is a drawing of a coarse-looking Moses carrying tablets. The bills are issued by the Jewish bank in Theresien
stadt. They can be spent on mustard or to buy back the clothes that were stolen from us. The whole thing makes me so angry I could spit.

  Hannelore doesn’t seem to realize the awfulness of it all. She digs into her pocket for her kronen and buys the skirt.

  “It’s lovely,” I lie.

  When I leave for the soup kitchen the next morning, Franticek Halop is standing at the corner, his hands deep in his pockets. His dark curls are so greasy they stick to his scalp. Still, the sight of him makes something catch in my throat.

  Though we have never spoken, I know he’s noticed me, perhaps because there are not many blue-eyed fair-haired girls in Theresienstadt. Most of the girls here have dark eyes and hair like Hannelore. I’ve caught Franticek eyeing me when he is out with his group of friends, and I know he’s seen me blush.

  I also know about the girlfriend. She is an older woman with two small children. I’ve heard she even has a husband in one of the men’s barracks. In Theresienstadt, things like that don’t matter much. I’ve seen Franticek and the girlfriend—she has dark hair that frames her face, and breasts like apples—sneak into one of the cubbyholes at the central kitchen on a Sunday afternoon. We all know what the cubbyholes are for. Later that day, I saw the girlfriend standing in line for soup with her two children, her cheeks flushed, her hair mussed up. I burned with jealousy.

  Now here is Franticek standing at the corner, grinning as he sees me approach. His smile, lopsided, reminds me of a little boy’s. Could he be waiting for me? I turn around to see if there is a prettier girl behind me, one with rounder breasts or wider hips, maybe even the girlfriend. But no, there are only old people, hurrying to their work.

  Franticek holds out his hand when I pass.

  And to my own surprise, I take it.

  What will Hannelore say when I tell her?

  Franticek’s hand feels warm and dry. When he squeezes my fingers, I feel my knees grow weak. The place where my thighs meet tingles in a way I’ve never felt before. I would like to say something, but for once, I have no words. No stories to tell.

  All I want to do is concentrate on the feeling of my hand in his. I’ve never felt such pleasure, not even when, after a dance at the Amsterdam Lyceum, I kissed Johan with an open mouth. We were both embarrassed afterward, and we never did it again.

  Franticek stops in front of the diet kitchen. So he knows where I work! Surely that means he cares for me.

  “What’s your name?” he asks in a velvety voice.

  “Anneke,” I stammer.

  “I’m Franticek.”

  “I know.”

  I shouldn’t have said that. Now he’ll think I like him. But it is too late to take it back. Franticek smiles.

  Later that morning, when I’m back in the diet kitchen, I scrub with an energy I never knew I was capable of.

  Six

  “Why can’t you do portraits?” I ask Father.

  It is a chilly Sunday in October, and I rub my hands together to keep them warm. If our apartment is this cold now, what will it be like in February?

  Father looks pained. “I do cartoons,” he says, a little crossly. His face has grown even thinner. “The public seems to appreciate my work.”

  “But why not portraits?” I insist.

  “Your father is a great cartoonist,” Mother interrupts. She is dusting. Not that there is much to dust—only our plywood table and a bench that lurches to one side. If I sit down at the wrong end, I feel like I am on a seesaw. But dusting seems to lift Mother’s spirits. Sometimes, I catch her humming while she dusts, and I wonder if, for a few minutes at least, she is back in our sunny parlor in Broek.

  Petr Kien has asked whether he might do my portrait. He is one of my father’s favorite colleagues in the studio. “A real prodigy, especially for such a young man. He studied with Willi Nowak in Prague,” I heard Father tell Mother.

  Petr Kien is much younger than Father. He is tall with a long pale face. A poet’s face, which makes sense, since he also occasionally writes poems. Like us, he has his own quarters, which he shares with his wife and her parents.

  Today he’s come to our room to do the portrait. He has set up a makeshift easel, fashioned out of planks he found in the supplies barracks. As with everything else, the Nazis keep careful count of the art supplies. At the end of their workday, Father and the other painters in his studio have to return the paint jars to their locked cabinet, and the supervisor records the number of sheets of cardboard used that day.

  But artists in Theresienstadt have ways of getting hold of supplies for their own personal use. A discarded drawing sometimes still has a fresh unused side. With care, a paintbrush and bottle of ink can be smuggled out in a pocket. And the right size bits of charred wood make a passable charcoal.

  Though Petr Kien is trained as an oil painter, he uses charcoal to sketch me. I’m sitting on the edge of Father and Mother’s mattress. “Look toward the door,” he tells me. I do exactly as he says.

  Father is standing behind Petr Kien. Mother and Petr Kien’s wife, who’s come along to keep her husband company and visit with Mother, are watching too. I’m hungry, but I feel a little swelling in my belly. I think it’s pride. A talented artist has asked to sketch me. Perhaps I’m more beautiful than I realized!

  “She has such lovely blond ringlets,” Petr Kien says as he begins sketching, his fingertips already black from the coal.

  You see? So he admires my hair. But compliments embarrass me. “I get my hair from Father,” I say. I try not to laugh because I don’t want to ruin the pose.

  But everyone else laughs. Father’s head is as bald as an egg.

  I am not accustomed to sitting still. Nor am I accustomed to so much attention. But I have to admit that it is rather nice. “She’s quite unusual-looking,” says Frau Kien.

  Mother serves her weak tea in one of the four enamel cups we brought from Holland and which we were allowed to keep. For a moment, I think of the serviettes Mother embroidered by hand which she liked to use at home when her lady friends visited.

  Father leans down so he can be even closer to Petr Kien. From behind his glasses, Father’s eyes dart between the cardboard and me. “It’s already an excellent likeness, Kien,” he says.

  Petr Kien blushes but makes no reply. Instead he focuses on the sketch—and me. Again, I get the feeling that I must be someone quite special. I try not to move, but then the tip of my nose gets itchy, and I have to scratch it. I do so quickly, hoping Father will not notice. For Father, art is the most important thing. More important by far than itchy noses.

  Petr Kien rubs at the drawing. Perhaps he wants to create a shady spot. He purses his lips while he works, as if that will help him get my likeness right. From where I’m sitting, I can hear the steady sound of his breathing.

  Another of Mother’s friends comes knocking at the door. It is Countess Bratovska. One of the few Russians in the camp, her husband was a Russian count. And even as she walks into our tiny dark apartment, the countess carries herself like royalty. It doesn’t take much imagination to picture her wearing an ermine stole, with emeralds around her neck. And a tiara. A diamond tiara.

  I imagine the fancy dress balls she and her husband must have attended together. I can see her stepping out of their carriage, one footman standing by to take her hand, another making sure the train of her dress does not get wet from the snow. I’ve heard that in St. Petersburg, where Countess Bratovska and her husband lived, there are mountains of snow in winter.

  I try to hold my head a little higher.

  Mother hurriedly prepares more tea. “I’m so sorry I have nothing to offer you with it. But I do have one special treat—there’s sugar,” she says proudly. “Jo, can you get it for me?”

  Father gets up from his spot behind Petr Kien and reaches for the shelf over the table. It is empty, except for Mother’s porcelain sugar bowl. Inside are exactly four lumps of sugar. I know because I’ve counted them. Sugar is a special treat. Father earned these lumps in exchange for
a drawing.

  Ghetto kronen are not the only form of currency in Theresienstadt. There are also cigarettes and paintings. Two cigarettes can buy you a potato. But if you are caught with them, cigarettes can also cost you your life. It amazes me that though we are all starving, there are prisoners who would forego food in favor of a smoke. I vow that if I survive, I will never ever take up the vile habit.

  Petr Kien is not charging us for the sketch he’s making today. But he could if he wanted to. In the camp, sketches and paintings are even more valuable than cigarettes, especially if the artwork is produced by someone famous, like Petr Kien or Father. And while forgoing food for two cigarettes strikes me as ludicrous, sacrificing food for art makes a certain sense. I am, after all, an artist’s daughter. Haven’t I played in Father’s studio while he made his magic and watched over his shoulder in amazement as he turned simple lines into little people and cows and dogs? No, Father does not do portraits. But the people he paints are as full of life as Petr Kien’s.

  When I suck on a lump of sugar, I can forget for a moment how hungry I am or how sore my throat is. Father’s friend, Dr. Hayek, says it’s tonsillitis. But since there’s no medicine for prisoners, I’ve had to get used to the pain.

  “I prefer my tea black,” Countess Bratovska says.

  I thought Theo was too busy playing in the corner to pay attention to the adults’ conversation. But I am wrong because now he sighs with relief. He will still have his lump of sugar.

  Mother glares at him.

  Father is peering down at the countess’s wrist. What has he seen and why does he look so worried? And then, suddenly, I see it too: a louse—shiny, black and ready to bite.

  Father clears his throat. “Your royal h...highness,” he stammers. “There seems to be a...a louse crawling up your sleeve. If you will permit...”