The repressive atmosphere made perilous any attempt to cross the line separating art from politics. Because of their familiarity with their own language and culture, Czechs had an advantage that German artists did not. A few months before the war’s end, a second children’s opera was presented, this one based on “Fireflies,” a well-known fairy tale. The prison audience was delighted to hear the Czech national anthem discreetly worked into the score. Karel Schwenk’s satire The Last Cyclist was also written at Terezín. It tells the story of a dictator who blames people who ride bicycles for all his country’s problems. The tyrant banishes everyone unable to prove that their ancestors had been pedestrians for at least six generations. One intrepid cyclist rebels and is placed in a cage, where he is ridiculed by the local population. As in Brundibár, virtue triumphs in the end.
The Nazis deprived inmates of their physical freedom but not of their capacity to think—and to do so about far more than the terrors of their situation. The prison included people eager to exchange ideas about linguistics, botany, anthropology, theology, literature—almost everything. Most popular among the lecturers was Leo Baeck, a seventy-year-old reform rabbi from Berlin who offered talks on “Philosophical Thinkers from Plato to Kant.” Dignified and eloquent, Baeck inspired those around him to maintain their self-respect. Even as his body withered due to a lack of nutrition, he continued wearing his suit and tie and carefully trimmed his beard. “Never become a mere number,” he said. “We bow before God, but stand erect before man.”
Baeck was admired for his learning, moral integrity, and courage (four of his sisters died at Terezín). He did, however, have a secret. An escapee from a labor camp in Poland had gotten word to him about the gas chambers at Auschwitz. This meant that, for most prisoners, the summons to a transport was the equivalent of a death sentence. After reflection, Baeck decided not to share what he had learned because he didn’t want to demoralize his fellow inmates further and because it was still possible to survive if one were chosen for a work detail. The right answer to his dilemma—to tell or not to tell—has been debated ever since.
WHEN, IN DECEMBER 1942, the Allied nations had denounced Nazi atrocities against Jews, they had cited reports of mass executions in the prison camps in Poland. Himmler denied that any such slaughter was taking place. Feigning indignation, he invited the media and Red Cross to inspect a labor camp and also the “model facility” at Terezín. Of course, before the ghetto could receive visitors, a few preparations would be required.
To begin, the population level was stabilized. Emphasis was placed on cleanliness to reduce health risks. The food became more palatable. New wells were dug and a sewer line built. Prisoners were given time to improve the appearance of their living quarters. Children and teenagers were allowed to form soccer teams. Streets that had been designated merely by letters and numbers were given more appealing names: L-1 became Lake Street, despite the absence of any lake.
These welcome, if largely cosmetic, changes were interrupted when, in July 1943, the record-keeping division of the Gestapo demanded office space secure from the threat of Allied bombing. Several thousand prisoners were evicted from their housing, among them my uncle Rudolf Deiml and a friend, Jiří Barbier, a professional carpenter. Together, they and a few others were able to build new quarters for themselves, complete with a table, four chairs, a wardrobe, and small stove.
But not everyone was a carpenter. The displacement created by the record keepers led to the return of overcrowded conditions. Per Himmler’s order, transports had been suspended for seven months, but notice was given that, in September, a new convoy—massive in size—would go. The list of potential passengers included Olga Körbelová, Rudolf Deiml, and Milena Deimlová. With much trepidation, the three prepared to leave. Exactly what happened next is unknown, but the answer can probably be found in a note written by Gonda Redlich. In it the youth leader explained to the council that Milena’s mother had died while caring for children during the typhoid epidemic and that the girl had since come down with tuberculosis. Rudolf’s value as a doctor might also have contributed to the reprieve. In any case their names were stricken from the list.
On September 6, 1943, more than five thousand mostly Czech-speaking prisoners left Terezín, to be followed in December by an equal number. The passengers on these transports, though bound for Auschwitz, did not go through the usual selection process, that is, the division between inmates thought able to work and those immediately sent to the gas chambers. Instead, they were diverted to nearby Birkenau, where a “family camp” of Terezín prisoners was established. This was the purportedly humane facility that Himmler planned on inviting the world to see. Children were given their own play area and supplied with half-decent food. Adults worked, in addition to manual labor, at weaving and making clothes. In time, this camp too became overcrowded. To clear space, on March 8, 1944, the passengers on the September transport who had survived the first six months were summoned to a phony work detail. That night more than 3,700 Czech Jews were executed, by far the largest mass killing of Czechs during the war.
Once again the Polish underground sought to publicize the murders. However, three months passed before reliable reports reached the government in exile in London. The news was accompanied by a warning that the Nazis planned to liquidate survivors from the December transports on June 20, only a few days away. My father’s broadcast team highlighted the report immediately, coupled with a vow to punish any and all of those responsible for future murders. The Gestapo responded by putting their plans on hold and by ordering prisoners at the family camp to send postcards, dated June 21, back to Terezín.
Selection at Auschwitz, 1944
Yad Vashem Photo Archive
IN OCTOBER 1943, the first of several groups of Danish Jews arrived at the ghetto. Their reception differed from that of any other and would prove a test of the Nazis’ capacity to deceive. Denmark had provided an instructive example of what happens when evil is confronted. Under the Nazi occupation, King Christian X and the Danes had refused to become complicit. Tipped off that Eichmann planned to deport the country’s eight thousand Jews, the Danish underground had succeeded in smuggling out or otherwise hiding 90 percent of them. That September, Eichmann’s thugs had rounded up those who remained and sent them to Terezín. Instead of accepting defeat, King Christian and the Danish Red Cross inquired continually about the welfare of the prisoners, showered them with postcards and food packages, and demanded that an international delegation be allowed to inspect their living conditions.
The timing of the visit by the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) took many months to nail down and was repeatedly postponed by the Nazis. This afforded Himmler time to produce a counterfeit of the model ghetto about which he had been boasting. Given the ample supply of slave labor, all that was needed was some paint, building materials, playground equipment, and trust in the desire of most people to believe what they wished. Workers were instructed to create a new performance hall, refurbish the post office and bank, adorn the remodeled cafeteria with white tablecloths and flowers, and erect a children’s pavilion complete with sandboxes and swings. Artists were called on to use their imaginations and draw pictures of the ghetto’s supposedly carefree social life. The new Terezín featured a pharmacy, a bakery, a band pavilion, store windows crammed with tempting merchandise, a fancy conference room, improved housing, and a renovated school bearing the sign “Closed for the holidays.”
On June 19, the Red Cross received permission to conduct an inspection four days later. The delegation consisted of two Danes and a Swiss, Maurice Rossel, who represented the ICRC’s Berlin office. Rarely has so much trouble been taken to impress so few. Jewish leaders were drilled on what they would or would not be permitted to say. Child performers sat in front of lamps to darken their sun-starved skin. To minimize the potential for disruptive incidents, most of the Danish inmates, who were thought to be less intimidated and therefore more likely to speak the truth, were kept out of sight. To reduce crowding, five thousand more prisoners were shipped to Auschwitz, among them many who were disabled or ill.
On June 23, at 10 a.m., the delegates arrived by limousine from Prague. Every move of the six-hour visit had been carefully orchestrated. At the bank, the visitors saw lines of customers waiting to transact business. At the laundry, smiling women were washing clothes of the highest quality. In the dining hall, inmates were digging into generous helpings of grilled meat, vegetables, and cake. Outside, young women laughed as they marched off—with rakes on their shoulders—to work in a field. When the delegation passed by a soccer match, cheers erupted to mark the scoring of a goal. The visitors reached the performance hall just in time to catch the finale of Brundibár. Everywhere they looked, they saw chess players intent on their game, old people listening to a concert, youths striding eagerly about. If they had paid closer attention, they might even have noticed the same caravan of well-dressed children being herded past them several times during the course of the day.
One of the inspectors, Rossel, had brought a camera to Terezín with which he snapped three dozen pictures. In the course of researching this book, I had an opportunity to review some of these images and did a double-take at one. In the photo, children, gathered in a small group, are standing with their eyes on the camera. Among them is a girl who has placed a friendly arm around the shoulders of a companion. Not only was the girl’s face familiar to me but so was her dress. My family’s last photo of Milena had been with her parents, taken in 1941. Although a positive identification is not possible, it appears likely that my cousin was among the children compelled to march around Terezín that June day.
Children at Terezín, 1944, during ICRC visit
ICRC
Milena Deimlová, 1941, with her parents
Dáša Šimová
The ICRC had supplied the delegation with two lists of questions to explore during the visit. These dealt primarily with the handling of relief packages. In keeping with its humanitarian purpose, the organization wished to acquire a reliable roster of those living in the ghetto, to facilitate mail deliveries, and to be sure that food, medicine, and clothing went to the intended recipients. During the war, the ICRC conducted more than 11,000 visits to camps where prisoners were being held. To reduce the risk of deception, the standard practice was to insist on the right to speak privately with detainees. This did not happen at Terezín.
Throughout the visit, German officials, including a close aide to Eichmann, were on hand to monitor conversations. The inmates had no chance to talk freely. The Danish representatives nonetheless detected signs of tension. They asked one inmate how long he had been living in his finely furnished room—the answer: “Since yesterday.” They asked the head of the Jewish Council what he thought would happen to the prisoners. “I don’t know any way out” was the reply. A number of other inquiries were met with confused statements, as were requests to see such imaginary places as the “fully equipped” maternity ward. Most crucial, however, was the answer to the question of whether prisoners were being deported to the East. No, they were told, Terezín was a permanent, self-governing community, an Endlager, not a transit point.
From the Nazi perspective, the charade could hardly have been more satisfying. The report presented by the Danish representatives congratulated the Jews of Terezín for what they had accomplished but was otherwise neutral in tone. Denmark’s media, under Nazi control, used the findings to quash rumors that Jews were being sent to labor camps. The account of the Swiss observer, Maurice Rossel, was even more harmful:
This Jewish city is truly astonishing. . . . One found in the ghetto foods that were almost impossible to find in Prague. The smarter women were all wearing silk stockings, hats, scarves, and carried modern handbags . . . certainly there had seldom been a people who had better medical care than those at Terezín.
On July 19, Nazis held a press conference for foreign journalists using Rossel’s words and the accompanying pictures to deny that Jews were being mistreated, let alone gassed.
Certain aspects of the ICRC visit remain mysterious. Rossel was not an experienced inspector. He had been hired that February, trained in March, and had never before conducted an inspection without the accompaniment of a more senior employee. His superior in Berlin, Roland Marti, had been in discussions for almost two years about a visit to Terezín. When it was finally arranged, Marti went on vacation. To this day, the Red Cross has no explanation for why this occurred. In a message to me, an ICRC research officer speculated that Marti had known that a serious inspection would be impossible and therefore had withdrawn out of concern for his future credibility.
What are we to make of the delegation’s reports? My first instinct is to ask how the inspectors could have been so blind, to question their integrity and, in the case of Rossel, his attitude toward Jews. My second thought is to wonder how well I would have done in their shoes. In 2011, when visiting Terezín, I was shown a washroom in the Little Fortress. There were two long rows of gleaming white sinks, a shower, and a water closet. How civilized, I thought, who could complain about this? Then the guides explained. The washroom was so clean because it had never been used. It had been built solely for the Red Cross visit, to be displayed if the inspectors insisted on touring the Little Fortress—which they did not.
After much thought, I cannot fault the inspectors for being impressed by what they saw and were told; I do blame them for failing to probe beneath the surface. Tens of thousands of Jews had been sent to Terezín in the thirty months prior to the inspection. Where were they? The ICRC knew the names of many who should have been in the ghetto; why weren’t interviews demanded? If the ghetto was such a showplace, why had the Nazis postponed the visit so often? The inspectors had no means to verify the answer they had received to the key question of whether Jews from Terezín were being sent to camps in the East. Yet their credulous accounts helped to sustain Himmler’s lie.
There is a lesson in this for those who conduct inspections in our day, whether of prisons, sweatshops, refugee camps, polling places, or nuclear facilities: do not trust—push; control your own schedule; do your homework. Remember the adage that a little knowledge can be dangerous. The truth is more likely to be served by a canceled or aborted inspection than by a whitewash.
In the case of Terezín, the tragic consequences of the flawed inspections were felt far beyond the prison boundaries. Himmler had promised the Red Cross an opportunity to visit a labor camp in Poland. After the delegation’s visit to the “spa,” the issue was not pursued. That meant that the family camp at Auschwitz-Birkenau no longer had a purpose to serve. In December and May, a total of 11,000 Jews had been transported there from the ghetto. In July, some were selected for work detail; twins were sent to the infamous doctor Josef Mengele; most were murdered.*
The following month, the Germans decided to capitalize further on the cosmetic changes at Terezín by making a film titled Hi
tler Gives the Jews a Town. The scenes of casual and prosperous living that had been created for the Red Cross were replicated before the cameras. Women were once again outfitted in fancy clothes and made to stroll through the summer heat. Girls walked down a block nibbling pieces of fruit, which, as soon as they turned a corner, were ripped half eaten from their hands.
A grimly satiric piece in Vedem, the boys’ magazine, captured the mood:
“Now then, gentlemen, you with the long nose, you Fatso, you four-eyes, line up for filming. Look pleasant, self-satisfied, as if you’d just dined on goose. What, you stinking Jew, what sort of a look is that? Here’s a slap in the face for you”—and the blows begin to fall, elbow jabs, kicks administered by a gentleman in green to the head of a helpless old man. A whole company of old ladies are commandeered to go bathe. . . . An old lady, who doesn’t even know how to swim, has to get into the water. . . . Orthodox Jews and rabbis were sent to the municipal orchestra and had to jump up and down to the rhythm of a jazz band.
The spectacle was obscene, but then so was it all. As Redlich observed in his diary, “Even the kings of Egypt did not film the children they wanted to kill.”
New inmates continued to arrive; in late summer, more than two thousand came from the Netherlands. With the ghetto population rising once more, the Nazis began to worry about the possibility of rebellion. Their solution was to resume transports, with an emphasis on able-bodied men. Ghetto residents were told that the deportees would be sent to nearby Dresden to work on building projects. The news gained credibility when only men between the ages of sixteen and fifty-five were scheduled to go. The range was just wide enough to snare both Petr Ginz, the promising young writer, and Rudolf Deiml, the father of my cousins Dáša and Milena.
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