What World is Left (7 page)

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 Theresienstadt. 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.

“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...”

The countess barely blinks. “Certainly,” she says.

Father's aim is good. He slaps once, loudly, and the louse is dead. It falls to the floor, and a moment later, Mother sweeps it up.

“Are you sure you wouldn't like a lump of sugar in your tea?” Father asks the countess.

Petr Kien never looks up from his work until at last he puts down his charcoal. “Come and tell me what you think, Anneke,” he says.

All the adults crowd around the sketch, making impressed-sounding noises. “Such a talent and in such a young man,” the countess gushes.

My legs feel stiff from sitting for so long. The adults clear a path for me. They are eager to see my reaction.

Of course I'm curious. I haven't seen my own reflection—except in a dirty window—since I came to Theresienstadt. But when I see the girl that Petr Kien has sketched, I back away. Where is the smiling Dutch girl with the round face?

The girl Petr Kien has captured is a stranger to me. Her face is thin and anxious, pasty-looking. Her chin is pointy, her cheeks are hollow and her hair is stringy. There are dark circles under her eyes. Only the eyes themselves are vaguely familiar.

“What do you think of yourself, Anneke, dear?” the countess asks.

“It's—it's good,” I say, nearly choking on the words.

Father pats Petr Kien's shoulder. “You have a remarkable talent, Kien,” Father says. I know that means the likeness must resemble me. If I cry, they'll think I am ungrateful. So I fight back the tears. Whatever good looks I once possessed are lost. It's one more thing the Nazis have robbed me of.

The word “transport” spreads like fire through Theresienstadt. Since mid-morning no one has spoken of anything else. I notice the lines on Frau Davidels' forehead as she talks to a prisoner who mops floors in the diet kitchen. She lowers her voice, but I can still make out the dreaded word.

Through the window, I can see a group of old people gathered outside, clinging to each other, their eyes full of fear. “Do you think our time is up?” I hear an old woman cry out.

Though we have no telephones or newspapers, news travels quickly through Theresienstadt. And though
the adults do their best to prevent us from learning the worst, in the end, there are few secrets in the camp.

The rumors about the transport begin when a Nazi official in a smart wool coat is spotted stepping out of a limousine in front of the commandant's headquarters. He is flanked by two more Nazis, and when the three of them march up the stairs, Commandant Rahm himself comes to meet them. We all hate Rahm, an ill-tempered man with veiny cheeks and angry eyes set too close together.

“They say Rahm—that bastard—looked as if he might pee himself meeting the great Adolf Eichmann,” one woman in the diet kitchen tells Frau Davidels. On an ordinary day, the thought of the commandant peeing in his pants would make me cry with laughter. But this is no ordinary day.

An hour later, Eichmann and his henchmen emerge from Rahm's headquarters. Eichmann is upset. There is mud on the bottom of his coat. One of the henchmen goes to fetch some soapy water; then he kneels down on the steps to wipe the coat clean. Once that is done, Eichmann claps his hands and steps back inside the limousine. People who see the car drive off say Eichmann, who sits in the backseat, keeps his eyes on the road in front of him. “He'd already forgotten about the lot of us,” they say.