“MISHA.” FRANTA POINTS TO ME at the end of practice.
“Yes?” All of us are sitting in a tight circle. Franta stands in the middle, quizzing us on strategy.
“What do you do if Petr is on the attack and coming right at you?” This practice was about ten times more serious than any practice so far, and we’ve had some pretty serious practices.
“Petr Adler?” I ask.
“No, Peter Pan,” Franta says, clearly annoyed. A few of the other boys laugh.
Of course this practice was more serious, we’ve made the finals. We actually made the finals, I still can’t believe it. Came from behind to beat Room 9, 4–3. Now we get to play Room 1. They have Otto Hirsch and Zdenek Taussig, who are both better than anyone we have. They clobbered Room 5, 7–2.
I wipe some sweat out of my eyes. Today’s got to be the hottest day since I’ve been here. “I force him to the sideline.”
“Exactly,” Franta says, nodding his head. “Exactly. On defense the sideline is your teammate. Don’t give them the middle of the field. Don’t ever give them the middle of the field. The middle is ours.” Franta turns and points at someone else. “Koko.”
“Yeah,” he answers.
“They have a corner kick. You’re in goal. You don’t like where Pavel and Jiri are standing. What do you do?”
“I tell them.”
“Tell them?” Franta asks, raising his eyebrows.
“Yeah,” Koko says, “I tell them.”
“No, you shout at them! ‘Pavel, you’re on Otto! No, other side! On his right! Jiri, two steps back! Now! Go!’ You’re in charge back there. It’s not a time for manners. And all of you, talk to each other out there. Communicate. If we play as a team”—Franta makes a fist—“we win. If we play as individuals, we lose. It’s that simple.” He crosses his arms, stretching the dark oval of sweat on the back of his shirt into something closer to a circle. “Everyone, in.”
We get up and cluster around him. Pavel, Felix, Pudlina, Koko, Gorila, Pedro, Jiri, Leo, Hanus, Majoshek, Erich, Grizzly, Kapr, and me.
“Rim, rim, rim, tempo Nesharim,” Franta whispers, and extends his hand. Everyone whispers it back and puts a hand on top of his. “Rim, rim, rim, tempo Nesharim,” he says, a little louder this time.
“Rim, rim, rim, tempo Nesharim,” we answer.
“Rim, rim, rim, tempo Nesharim!” he says.
“Rim, rim, rim, tempo Nesharim!”
“Rim, rim, rim, tempo Nesharim!”
“Rim, rim, rim, tempo Nesharim!”
And then nothing but the sound of our voices slowly echoing back to us from the far wall of this stupid prison fortress.
“Great practice,” Franta says. “Now back to the room to wash up. And then everyone, meet in the basement of the girls’ barracks in twenty minutes.”
“What’s there?” Gorila asks.
“Something new,” Franta says, “now go.”
* * *
“We’re going to destroy Room One,” Felix says on our way back.
“I’d be glad just winning by one,” Pavel says.
“Yeah,” Erich says.
We cross the train tracks, the new train tracks running all the way into the camp. Just a week ago the first train arrived on them. A short one, carrying maybe a hundred Jews. And then a few days later, another with the same amount. Someone said they were both from Berlin. No one was transported to the East on either train when they pulled out of here, but still, it’s not like they’d lay these tracks just to bring in a couple hundred people.
We walk along the rail, all of us in a line, until we reach the end.
* * *
Thank God Franta said the basement and not the attic. The air down here is kind of heavy and tastes like dust and spiderwebs, but at least it’s cool. There’s a lot of kids sitting on the floor, including girls, all of us facing the front of the room. I notice Inka and her red hair off to one side. And like most everywhere else around here, it’s extremely loud.
“Children, children, quiet down!” a madricha, which is what they call a madrich if she’s not a man, says. It takes a while, but eventually the room is almost quiet. There are two older men up near the front of the room with her. Both have thick dark hair, and the skinnier one has a widow’s peak. The other one looks a little sleepy.
“I’m Resi,” the madricha says. “Hello.”
Some of the kids say hello back, though not me or Jiri, who’s sitting next to me.
“How many of you,” Resi asks, taking her long brown braid and tossing it over her shoulder, “have participated in a choir or a play since you’ve been here?” I put my hand up, like most of the other kids here. “Helga”—the woman points at a girl off to one side—“what have you been in?”
“A choir,” some girl I can’t see says. “We sing songs in Czech, and some in Hebrew, too.”
“Good,” the madricha says. “Good. What about plays—who’s been in a play?” Along with a ton of other kids I put my hand up. For some reason, the Nazis don’t care if we put on plays; I still don’t know why. Suddenly I realize Resi is actually pointing at me. “Yes, and what was the name of it?”
“The Pied Piper of Hamelin,” I say, glad she didn’t ask what role I had, since I was just one of the rats, and then one of the kids. Though I did play an instrument too. Well, not a real instrument. Just a comb with a piece of toilet paper wrapped around it. But it actually sounded pretty good.
“Excellent, excellent. Now, does anyone know what you call it when you combine a choir with a play?” There’s a lot of murmuring, but no one raises their hand. “No one knows?” Resi asks with a grin on her face. “Lilka, I know you know.”
“An opera?” a girl with curly hair near the front says.
“Exactly, an opera,” Resi says, and looks over at the two men, who don’t seem too interested in our conversation. “Well, guess what? We’re going to perform an opera. A children’s opera.” More murmuring and even some laughs. “This”—she points at the man with the widow’s peak—“this is Rafael Schaechter, a pianist and composer.” The man nods his head slightly. “Did any of you see The Bartered Bride? The opera by . . . ?”
“Smetana,” Schaechter says, and nods his head slowly.
“Did any of you see it?” Resi asks us. A few kids raise their hand. “Too bad more of you couldn’t see it, because it was truly wonderful. Well, Mr. Schaechter was in charge of that production here. And now he’s agreed to be the musical director for a children’s opera—”
A bunch of kids start talking, and a bunch of others laugh. Schaechter leans over to the other man and whispers something to him.
“Children, children!” Resi shouts. “Please. Please quiet down.” Eventually the room gets quieter, but not really quiet. “This opera is called Brundibar.”
“Brundibar?” Jiri says to me, like she just said “underwear.”
Schaechter gets up from his chair and walks over to a small, brown piano near the back of the room. He opens the lid and runs his fingers along the keys, but doesn’t actually play anything. Then he starts playing a song. It almost sounds like a merry-go-round, but then it speeds up, or, I don’t know, it sounds like a merry-go-round if the horses were trying to break free. Schaechter closes his eyes and begins humming along to the piano. He hums softly, but I can hear him clearly, because now the room is completely silent. For some reason I close my eyes.
Eventually the piano stops, and I open my eyes. Resi points at the other man. “This is Rudolf Freudenfeld. He will be our director. Rudolf, would you tell them what Brundibar is about?”
He stands up and begins pacing in front of us, not looking tired at all anymore. His hands go up like he’s a magician. “There are two children, Aninka and Pepichek. They are brother and sister. Their father is gone. And their mother is ill. Very ill. The doctor comes one day and says, ‘She will only get better if she drinks milk.’ But they have no money. Why, they are nearly orphans! What will they do?” He looks over at Schaechter, like he’s expecting him to answer, but Schaechter seems more interested in the piano. “They decide to sing in the marketplace. To raise money. But the evil organ-grinder, Brundibar”—he says the name like it tastes bad—“keeps chasing them away. Brundibar is a terrible man with a mustache—”
“A terrible man with a mustache,” Jiri leans over and whispers to me. “Sound familiar?”
“What will they do? They need money. Well, lucky for Aninka and Pepichek, a sparrow, a cat, and a dog, along with the other children of the town, they help them to defeat Brundibar. In the end, all of them sing together in the marketplace.” He looks over at Schaechter again who nods. “This is the story of Brundibar.”
Freudenfeld sits down, and Resi says to us, “If you want to perform in Brundibar, stay here for more information. In a few days there will be tryouts for Aninka, Pepichek, the animals, and Brundibar. And anyone can be in the chorus, though you must agree to attend all—”
“All,” Schaechter says firmly without looking up from the piano.
“Yes,” Resi continues, “all rehearsals. Okay, that’s it.”
Everyone gets up, and within two seconds the room is somehow even noisier than it was before she first spoke.
“C’mon,” Jiri says, “if we hurry we can get a game of Chinese checkers in before Apel.”
“I think,” I say, “I’m going to stay.”
“Seriously?” Jiri says, like I’ve gone crazy. “Why?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug my shoulder, “I sort of liked the music.”
“But you can’t sing,” Jiri says.
“Trust me, I know.”
But I don’t say anything, and soon Jiri’s gone. So I get up and walk toward the front of the room. A few dozen kids are already gathered around Resi and Freudenfeld. Meanwhile, Schaechter remains at the piano, playing something too soft for me to hear.