The Red Thread

by Rebekah Pace

  Though we lived in separate barracks, Vati and I spent as much time with Mutti as possible and took our evening meal together in the cafeteria. Sometimes the Schlosses joined us.

  The adults always looked tired and worried, but one evening when it was just me and my parents at dinner, my mother leaned close to my father and whispered, “Sylvia’s afraid to come out of the barracks. She says she will not work tomorrow. Samuel, is there any way you can intervene?”

  He shook his head. “It would do more harm than good to step in.”

  Tears welled up in her eyes. “I wish this was happening to almost anyone else. I fear for her sanity whether she gives in to him or not.” My mother picked at her watery soup and stale bread and sipped a little of the hot beverage that passed for coffee. Then she pushed her plate over to me and left.

  I took a bite of the bread before I asked, “Vati, what’s the matter?”

  “I tell you so you’ll understand, but you are not to repeat it, yes, Peter?”

  “Of course, Vati.”

  “Mrs. Schloss, she is a pretty lady, yes? One guard noticed how pretty she is, and he, well—he wants her to visit him and keep company with him alone.”

  I could not tell him I’d already heard about that kind of thing happening. “But she’s married. What about Mr. Schloss?”

  He sighed. “That does not matter to the guard, who expects her to obey. Of course, this makes Mrs. Schloss very nervous and sad because she did not ask for that kind of attention. And you are right, it is not proper for a married lady to keep company with another man. But we don’t have choices here. We have no laws to protect us. No matter how unpleasant, we must choose to either do as they tell us or suffer consequences.”

  I nodded, thinking perhaps it was better for a woman not to be pretty in such a place as this. But Mrs. Schloss couldn’t help how she looked—and Mira resembled her. Mira was nearly sixteen. Had the guards already begun to notice her? How would I protect her when grown men were unable to protect their wives?

  The next afternoon, both my parents were waiting for me when I returned to the men’s barracks. My father had seen Mr. Schloss’s name on the latest transport list. They had sent him farther east, though to where, Vati did not know.

  Panic seized my chest. My breath came in gasps until my vision blurred, and I feared I would pass out. When I could speak, I choked out, “What about Mira? Is she all right?”

  My mother wiped away tears as she answered. “She and Mrs. Schloss are devastated. What else would they be?”

  I broke away and ran to the women’s barracks. Even though men were not allowed inside, boys my age often visited their mothers. I found Mira and Mrs. Schloss on their pallet on the floor. Mrs. Schloss wept and clung to Mira while a small group of women clustered around them.

  One woman said, “Sylvia, you must compose yourself. If you don’t report to work, you won’t get your ration. Avram would want you to be strong, for Mira’s sake.”

  Mrs. Schloss wiped her eyes and gulped. She said to Mira, “From now on, you and I must go everywhere together. You’ll come to work with me. I cannot have you leave my sight.”

  Mira stifled a sob. “But what about my lessons? What about the concert?”

  “No more lessons. You attract too much attention to yourself, carrying that violin around.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but then I remembered my father had told me about Mrs. Schloss’s problem with the guard in confidence. I wondered if the guard had put Mr. Schloss on the transport list. If Mrs. Schloss kept Mira too close, the guard could not fail to notice her. Would he want Mira more than Mrs. Schloss? No matter what, Mrs. Schloss’s plan to keep Mira close to her was a bad one.

  As I racked my brain for a better solution, Mira sat up, brushed back a lock of Mrs. Schloss’s hair, and kissed her cheek. “Mutti, listen to me. We can’t help Vati now. As long as I have music, I am not Untermensch. I will not quit my lessons. I will not let them dehumanize me, Mutti. This is how I choose to live.”

  I wanted to hide Mira away and keep her safe. But she had already made her choice.

  ***

  When I was not needed on the construction crew, I worked a few hours a day as a messenger boy, carrying documents and communiques from one office in the camp to another. When I passed the kitchens, I sometimes stole part of a potato or a crust of bread that had been thrown in the trash.

  The afternoon of the concert, I had found a piece of bread that was just a tiny bit moldy, and I looked forward to sharing my good fortune with Mira when I walked her home from her violin lesson. As I waited outside, the strains of music that came forth from the practice room’s open window mingled with the shouts of the children on the new playground. If I’d closed my eyes, I could have been outside any school in the world.

  Mira had practiced hard, and she was the only young person in the camp selected to play in the adult orchestra for the Red Cross delegation’s visit. While she was excited, I dreaded the thought of her being on display before the camp officials. I didn’t want them to watch as her fingers danced across the strings. I cast a sidelong glance at her. Her hair, which had once shone like the varnished wood of her violin, looked brittle and dull, but she was still pretty enough to attract attention.

  When I produced the bread and broke it in two, she took her half and we ate quickly, before someone saw us. She swung her violin case just a little as we walked, to rid herself of her nervousness. “Finally, I will play in a real orchestra.”

  “But aren’t you afraid to play for them?”

  “No. I’ll do my best and prove that I’m just as good as any of the German violinists. Maybe even better.”

  As we turned the corner, we passed a young guard. He winked and spoke under his breath, “Guten Tag, Mira.”

  To my horror, she smiled in return.

  I whispered, “How does he know your name?” We were known only by our numbers in the camp. I took her arm and kept walking, not letting her slow down, but the guard turned and followed us.

  He was right behind us when he spoke again, a little louder. “Maybe I’ll come see you later when your brother isn’t around.”

  My anger and my jealousy flared—at both of them. When the guard had turned a corner and was out of earshot, I turned on Mira. “Why do you look at him and acknowledge him when he speaks to you? You know he’s only after one thing.”

  She tossed her head. “You sound just like my mother. Having a guard who thinks well of me is a good thing. Someday we might need a favor.”

  “But do you know what you must first do to deserve a favor?”

  Her face hardened. “Yes. Do you?”

  “You don’t have a father to look out for you right now.”

  “I don’t need anyone to look out for me. I can take care of myself.”

  I didn’t answer.

  In front of her barracks, she glanced around to make sure we were alone before reaching into her pocket and handing me something wrapped in a scrap of cloth. She whispered, “Don’t look at it here.”

  “What is it?” I quickly stuffed the tiny package into my own pocket.

  “The locket Vati gave me. It’s the only thing I have left of him now. I always wore it for recitals, but this time”—tears brimmed in her eyes— “I want you to hold on to it for me. Please—for luck.”

  “You should keep it.” I shoved my hand back into my pocket and pulled out the locket, wishing I could hang it around her neck where it belonged. When she remained silent, my stomach twisted with dread. “I have nothing to give you in return—but I have a secret.” Lifting her chin, I fixed her with my most earnest gaze. “I was going to ask you to marry me someday when we were old enough, but I want to ask you now. Will you, Mira?”

  “Yes.” She smiled brightly and a tear threatened to fall. “I will marry no one but you, Peter.”

  I pull
ed her around the corner into the shadow of her barracks and she stretched up on tiptoe to kiss me. As we clung together, that kiss sealed my fate. She was the only one I would ever love. “We . . . we should have a plan in case we ever get separated—all right?”

  “Yes.” She glanced around, and her voice faltered as she echoed, “Separated.”

  “As soon as you can, go home. I’ll meet you there at our apple tree.”

  When she nodded, a single tear slipped down her cheek. “I promise. I have to go get ready now. I’ll look for you in the audience.”

  “I’ll be front and center . . . “ I put the cloth-wrapped necklace back in my pocket and squeezed her hand, “ . . . for all your performances.”

  She kissed me again and pressed her forehead against mine. “Everything will be all right. We just have to stand it until we can go home.” At the door, she looked back. “Wir sehen uns dann, Peter. See you then.”

  ***

  But the orchestra performed that evening without Mira. No one knew where she was or what had happened to her. I was numb with shock, blaming myself for not having stayed with her until she was safely in her seat on the stage.

  The delegation, satisfied, left the following day to report their findings to the Danish authorities in exile. With them went any restraint our captors had shown.

  Frantic to learn what had become of Mira, I went to the office that made up the transport lists.

  The clerk was a young woman who lived in Mira’s barracks, and we had sometimes spoken during our free time. Now she looked at me with sympathy. “One of the supervisors is late turning in his report. I will go see if it is ready to be sent out. Just a moment, please.” She stood, and with a backward glance, left her desk unattended.

  As soon as she was out of sight, I craned my neck to look at the papers on her desk, hoping to see the recent lists. If Mira had been sent to another camp, I meant to volunteer to be sent there, too. When the clerk did not return, I moved around to the side of the desk and lifted the top page on a clipboard.

  “Here—what are you doing?” It was the office supervisor.

  I put my hands behind my back. “Nothing.”

  He struck me across the face and dragged me out of the office into the street. He shoved me so hard I went sprawling, and then he shouted for a guard. When I heard running feet, I curled myself into a ball and covered my head, expecting to be shot.

  Instead I heard a familiar voice. “Please. What has happened here?” It was my father.

  I uncovered my head and saw him standing between me and an armed guard, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender that nonetheless held the guard at bay.

  The office supervisor spoke. “He was riffling through private documents.”

  My father gave me one stricken glance before addressing the office supervisor. “I am certain he meant no harm. This is my son. My only son.”

  The supervisor gazed down at me as though he couldn’t have cared less. “Then he should know better.”

  “And he does. He will not do such a thing again. Will you, Peter?”

  “No, Vati.”

  The office supervisor nodded to the guard. “He will join that work crew.” He pointed to a group of men who were headed past.

  My father drew a shuddering breath. “Thank you, sir. I was on my way here to submit these reports.” He handed over a sealed folder, and the office supervisor accepted it with a nod and went back inside.

  The guard hauled me to my feet and hustled me to the end of the line. This was a much rougher crew than the carpenters I’d been with during the Verschönerung. Once we arrived in the field where we were to work, I understood that this detail was meant as punishment. Our job was to move rocks from one side of a field to the other. Then when we were done, we moved them back again.

  I had no gloves, and the rocks were sharp and heavy. I came home the first night barely able to walk from exhaustion, my hands raw and bleeding. My mother bathed my wounds and wrapped them well, but there was not enough time for them to heal before I had to report for work the next day.

  Gone was the freedom I’d enjoyed as a messenger boy. There was no time to attend school. There was only a pile of rocks.

  In the evenings, I was so weary I could barely keep my eyes open, but my parents insisted I go to the dining hall. At dinner, my mother spoon-fed me my rations while she and my father caught me up on the happenings in the camp.

  Mrs. Schloss, now the last member of her family at Theresienstadt, refused to eat and would not leave her bunk for roll call, unless my mother forced her to come out and literally held her up in the line.

  ***

  Within days of the delegation’s departure, the camp commandant sent the crews who had worked on the Verschönerung, as well as the musicians and everyone who had appeared in the propaganda film, away on transports.

  Except me—I was busy moving rocks and they overlooked me.

  This, for Mrs. Schloss, was the final straw. Leaning on the arm of another woman from the barracks, she moved slowly up to our table in the dining hall, a ragged shawl clutched around her shoulders and a shaking finger pointed at my father.

  “You.” Her mouth twisted in anger. “You had Avram sent away, and now Mira, to protect your precious Peter.” Her gaze came to rest upon me where I sat, my hands swathed in bloody bandages. “He is the one whose name was on the list—but he is still here.”

  My father rose to his feet. “Sylvia, this is not true. I had nothing to do with what happened to Avram and Mira. You must believe me. I hope you will come to see that your accusation is baseless.”

  My mother stood beside him. “Sylvia, you’ve let your grief cloud your reason. You must see that Samuel has done nothing to hurt you. We grieve for the loss of your family, just as you do.”

  But Mrs. Schloss only sniffed. She raised two fingers to her lips like she used to when taking a drag on a cigarette, and spit three times through her fingers in my parents’ direction to ward off the evil eye. Then she slowly turned and walked away.

  Everyone at the tables near us had watched Mrs. Schloss’s accusation and gesture of contempt in silence. One by one, they turned their backs on us. To this day, I’m not sure if it was Mrs. Schloss’s false accusation or my carelessness in reading prisoner lists that ultimately sealed our fate.

  ***

  The Nazis began emptying Terezín in late September 1944, and in October, my father, mother, and I were packed into a train car with just the clothes on our backs. I tried to stay close to my parents. Once we were underway, several men pushed through the crowd and surrounded my father, separating him from my mother and me. “Hey!” I shouted and tried to wedge myself between them to stay with Vati, while holding on to Mutti’s hand. But other men prevented us from following. As the crowd swallowed him, Vati called back to us, “Don’t worry. Everything is all right.”

  When we arrived, my father was nowhere in sight. My mother clutched my arm until guards started shoving the women into one line and the men into another. As we were ripped apart, Mutti’s fingers clawed the air trying to hold on to my hand, her eyes wide with terror. “Peter!”

  There was no time to say goodbye.

  I never saw either of my parents again.

  One of the Czechs who remembered me from my work at the construction site caught my arm as I was swept along in the crowd and pulled me into the line with the young men chosen for slave labor. I emerged with my prisoner number tattooed on my arm, and the guards marched us to barracks. This place was Birkenau, a sub-camp of Auschwitz.

  Without my family or Mira, I had nothing to cling to. The prayers I had learned at Theresienstadt had no meaning. Though I searched for God, at Birkenau, he was nowhere to be found.

  The only thing I had to remind me of my former life was Mira’s locket, buttoned into the secret pocket on the inside of my pants leg. Three months la
ter, when the Russians liberated the camp, I carried it out with me, just as I carried the hope that I would find Mira in the post-war chaos.

  11

  The Yankees game had just gone into extra innings when someone pounded on my door. Heart in my throat, I looked out the peephole. It was Vashon, my neighbor from across the hall. When I opened the door, he handed me my keys.

  “Here, sir. You left these in the lock.”

  I nodded as I pocketed them. “Thank you. I am such a forgetsik these days.”

  “You need to be careful about things like that.”

  “Yes, I will be.” I replaced the chain and turned the deadbolt. When the ball game ended, I climbed into bed and took deep, slow breaths. I had to relax if I was going to get back into the dream. Even though these nights with Mira made me feel lonely in a new way and left me no closer to resolving the questions that had plagued me most of my life, it was still better to be with her than to be here, where I was truly alone.

  ***

  I opened my eyes and found myself on the sofa in Mira’s parents’ sitting room. Late afternoon sunlight slanted in through the windows.

  “Don’t you remember?” Mira was asking, as she turned the crank on the phonograph.

  She and I must have been in the middle of a conversation, but about what? I shrugged. “Yeah?”

  “Well, get up, then.” She held out her hand.

  I thought fast. “No, you go ahead.”

  She set the needle on the spinning record and the tinny strains of an old jazz recording filled the room. “Don’t tell me you can’t remember our mothers doing the Charleston?” As she kicked, shimmied, and twisted, a vision of our mothers when they were about the same age of Mira and me now formed in my mind. Before stress and worry caused the discord between them, they had danced on that very carpet, laughing as they mimicked the American dance craze they’d seen in the movies.