The Lost Wife (29 page)
Authors: Alyson Richman
The
Jugenfursorge
, the welfare initiative started by the Council of Elders, had set up a schedule for the children, ensuring that they had some schooling in secret and some exposure to poetry, drama, and music. Mother would come home from the children’s barracks bleary-eyed but invigorated. It was strange to see Mother’s much younger artistic self now resurrected in Terezín. The woman I had imagined so many years ago that afternoon in the cellar with Lucie, her long-stored-away paintings executed in a palette of aubergine and mottled plums, was now appearing before me. She was burning with excitement from her work with the children.
Jugenfursorge
, the welfare initiative started by the Council of Elders, had set up a schedule for the children, ensuring that they had some schooling in secret and some exposure to poetry, drama, and music. Mother would come home from the children’s barracks bleary-eyed but invigorated. It was strange to see Mother’s much younger artistic self now resurrected in Terezín. The woman I had imagined so many years ago that afternoon in the cellar with Lucie, her long-stored-away paintings executed in a palette of aubergine and mottled plums, was now appearing before me. She was burning with excitement from her work with the children.
Mother said there would soon be an exhibit in the basement of one of the children’s quarters. The children were all working on collages and paintings, so I continued to steal what supplies I could from the technical department for them.
I was now an expert in stealth. Every few days I would take a colored pencil or a small tube of paint that was nearly finished but could still be squeezed to bring forth a few drops of pigment. Theresa and Rita also hid things for me to pass to Mother, as they were just as adamant as I that not a single piece of art supplies be wasted. Theresa was so quiet, saying almost nothing as she pulled out two squares of torn canvas from her skirt. Rita would look defiant as she pressed crumbs of charcoal or pastel in my hand.
When I was able to visit Hans, he always asked if I could draw him. I would joke with him and say, “Well then, you must draw me, too.” I would take a small piece of sketchpad paper from its hiding place in my blouse and break a piece of charcoal in two.
“Here,” I would say. “You try.”
He would look at the paper and then at me, squinting his large green eyes, and begin drawing. A lopsided circle would appear on the page. Two dots for eyes and a line for a mouth. But he was only four, and I knew this was a milestone for a child so small.
The best part of it all was knowing that something that could have easily occurred outside the walls of Terezín could still be achieved within them.
I reached over and put my arm on his little shoulder.
“Lenka,” he said quietly. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” I whispered.
But before I could begin to cry, he reached for my hand and pressed it down on the paper.
“Now it’s your turn,” he said.
“Yes, my turn,” I said with a smile.
And I began to draw.
The exhibition of the children’s art was an amazing feat. Mother, Friedl, and the other teachers had spent countless hours with the children, and now their beautiful collages and paintings hung on the walls.
Marta and I walked through the exhibit with our fingers raised to our mouths, so moved were we by the sight of the work, and of its breadth. There were images of trees and butterflies. Some children had drawn pictures of their families, their old pets, and memories of their lives before Terezín. But the most moving of the images were those that tried to document their current situation. One child had drawn his memories of his arrival in Terezín. Seven figures in a line, each with their identification numbers written on their rucksacks, the face of each person sad and fearful. Another child had drawn a bunk bed in a barracks—a dream image floating above the sleeping figure’s head—clouds filled with bars of chocolate and jars of candy.
I was transported by the children’s images. I could close my eyes and remember my own childhood watercolors, the sensation of first seeing paint drip from my brush, the rivers of inky colors bleeding onto the page.
I was so proud of my mother that evening. She was standing in a dark basement, her students’ drawings tacked on the walls, in the same simple dress she had worn the afternoon of our transport. It was now stained with paint, sections were threadbare, and it hung on her bones like an old sack thrown over a scarecrow. But Mother stood there with her arms crossed in front of her and her eyes beaming, in a way that reminded me of the way she had been before the war. She had a smile of satisfaction that lit up the whole room.
CHAPTER 35
Among Amalia’s possessions I half expect to find love letters from Isaac. I go through her belongings wondering if I will discover a secret life. I look over the shelves for tapes of classical music, a program from Carnegie Hall, a hidden photograph, or a lock of salt-and-pepper hair. If I died first, would she do the same? Would she find the photograph Lenka packed of our wedding day, the only thing I had on me when I was lowered to safety in the lifeboat? Would she finally see the face of my ghost, the one I had never shown her, whose eyes pulled at me from deep within her nameless grave? Would she finally reach under the bed and uncover my box of returned letters? Or would she, as I suspect she would, respect the sanctity of the past and keep the letters within their box, the lid tightly closed?
Her closet is half empty, the ample space between the hangers telling more about her than the clothes themselves. The coat she wore in the winter reminds me of her, with its checkered fabric and knotted belt. I look down at her three pairs of shoes and see the faint scuffs, the imprint of her feet on the insoles, and the leather straps worn thin. On her vanity, I reach for her brush and notice a few wisps of hair. I unwind a half-used lipstick, the color so pale it reminds me of sand.
I pull memories of us and they appear before my eyes like negatives of film. I see her cradling Rebekkah in her arms, I see her running her fingers through our son’s hair. I see her with her back turned to me, warming my dinner after I’ve returned home late from the hospital.
So that night, as I go to sleep, I don’t dream of Lenka, as usual, but of Amalia. I let her finally go back to her family. I say good-bye to her, and I see her as I did the first day I met her, a cotton dress and wispy blond hair. I see her beside me at Café Vienna, a cloud of steam rising over her cup of hot chocolate, her brown eyes cloudy with tears.
CHAPTER 36
The Terezín children were staging a repeat performance of
Brundibár
, an opera written by Hans Krása with scenery created under the direction of one of Prague’s most famous theatrical designers, František Zelenka. The set consisted of a makeshift fence constructed of scrap boards and three posters: one each of a dog, a cat, and a sparrow. Each poster was hung on the fence; a circle was cut out in the center so that the child assigned to the role could insert his or her face and be put immediately into character. The painted image thus eliminated the need for a sewn costume. The set was amazingly convincing.
How many people in my office and in Lautscher have been secretly feeding supplies so that this can take place?
I thought to myself. The children squealed with delight in their transformation, distracted for a moment from their hunger and deprivation. We all applauded as they took to the stage.
Brundibár
, an opera written by Hans Krása with scenery created under the direction of one of Prague’s most famous theatrical designers, František Zelenka. The set consisted of a makeshift fence constructed of scrap boards and three posters: one each of a dog, a cat, and a sparrow. Each poster was hung on the fence; a circle was cut out in the center so that the child assigned to the role could insert his or her face and be put immediately into character. The painted image thus eliminated the need for a sewn costume. The set was amazingly convincing.
How many people in my office and in Lautscher have been secretly feeding supplies so that this can take place?
I thought to myself. The children squealed with delight in their transformation, distracted for a moment from their hunger and deprivation. We all applauded as they took to the stage.
The opera is about two children, Little Annette and Joe, who set out to buy milk for their sick mother. On the street they encounter an organ grinder by the name of Brundibár. They sing a song for him in the hope of getting some of his coins, but he only chases them away. That night, the children fall asleep under the painted posters of the dog, cat, and sparrow. When they awaken, the animals have come to life and they all join forces to fight Brundibár. They sing a beautiful song and the villagers throw coins at them, but Brundibár is not yet vanquished. He returns to the stage and steals the coins. The opera ends with the animals and children victorious over the organ grinder, their caps overflowing with coins as they return home with milk for their mother.
Almost all of us in Terezín loved this opera. For the children, in their performance, had created a message of resistance all their own. As they triumphed over the evil Brundibár, the metaphor of the opera was lost on no one.
That evening, when I saw Rita carefully untacking the posters from the fence, I immediately sensed that she was pregnant. Although she was still rail thin, her breasts appeared fuller and noticeably rounder. Even her face looked slightly different. Despite the dark circles under her eyes, she looked more beautiful then ever, a tiny yet ethereal figure.
Later that night, after the exhilaration of the children’s performance, I was able to corner her without Oskar’s presence.
“Rita,” I told her. “You and Zelenka did a fantastic job on the scenery. But you look tired.” I touched her arm. “Are you all right?”
She moved me to a corner of the set where no one was around us.
“I thought I was just late, but, Lenka, I’m pregnant.” She reached for my hand and squeezed it. She looked down at herself and touched her belly with a cupped hand. She lifted her tattered dress and showed me the soft swelling of her abdomen. She placed her hand on her stomach as if cupping a secret.
“Rita,” I said quietly. “What are you going to do?” We both knew what it was like to be pregnant in Terezín. In the past few months, we had heard rumors about women who’d become pregnant within the ghetto being put on the next transport east.
She looked at me with tears in her eyes. “What can I do, Lenka?”
I had heard whispers of women who went to the infirmary, where one of the Jewish doctors would make the issue go away. It was a terrible thought, but Terezín was no place to bring a child into this world. To be placed on a cattle car, pregnant and forced to a work camp, was an even worse thought.
I had personally known only one woman who had become pregnant in Terezín. Her name was Elsie, and she was in my barracks. I had seen her crying on her bed one night. She was whispering to one of her friends, who was working as a nurse in the infirmary. I could hear the friend say that she would take Elsie to see Dr. Roth.
Later, I would learn from Rita that Dr. Roth had performed several abortions in Terezín. He did it in secret and only when the girls begged him, sacrificing the unborn fetus to save the mother’s life.
Oskar told Rita there would be time to have children after the war, but not now. She told me this through tears, wringing her thin white hands.
“He loves me,” she said through her crying. “He even says he wants the Council of Elders to marry us, but he thinks they are sending pregnant girls to their deaths.”
“And what if he is right?” I said.
“How? How could anyone believe that? Because it might just be a camp with facilities more suited for mothers, after they can no longer work.” She paused. “Why would they let women on the trains with their prams if there weren’t places for the children?”
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