“MISHA,” MOTHER YELLS TO ME from the kitchen, “there’s a letter for you.” I toss down the sports section of the newspaper and hurry down the hallway. In our old building. Back in Holesovice. Not the exact same apartment, but the same building is still pretty good.
Mother’s standing by the counter in a bright new dress. And I’m pretty sure she put on that dark red lipstick within the last two minutes. She holds the letter out to me, and as I take it, I notice something sad in her face. Maybe this is just what the mail does to her these days. Because we get way more bad news than good. Mostly about people, about all the people who didn’t make it back like us. Including Gustav and Jiri and just about all the other Nesharim. The East was much, much worse than we ever could have imagined.
And if that weren’t bad enough, a few weeks ago a letter arrived telling us that all the valuables Mother had sent to London at the start of the war were in a warehouse that was completely destroyed by a German bombing.
After she cried for a while, she wiped her face and told us we should be happy for what we have. She’s been saying that a lot lately, but sometimes her face tells me that she doesn’t quite believe it herself, at least not yet. It doesn’t help that some of the people here in Prague who kept things for us didn’t seem all that happy to see us return. A few of them even denied we gave them anything in the first place. Marietta told me that there’s some kind of dumb joke going around in Prague, something that ends with people saying, “My bad luck: Unfortunately my Jew came back too.”
I grab the letter and glance at the return address. Brno. Exactly what I was hoping for. I almost tear it open right there on the spot, but I decide to wait instead.
“Look at you,” Mother says. “You’d think it was an announcement telling you you’ve been selected for the national team.”
It’s not warm outside today, but I can see that the sun’s still shining brightly, and that’s enough for me. “I think I’m going to take a walk,” I announce.
“What about your homework?”
“What about it?”
“Well, do you have any?” Mother asks, her hands on her hips.
“Some,” I say.
“Some?”
“Yeah, some.”
“And when do you plan to do it?”
I slip on my jacket, grab some nuts from a bowl on the dining room table, and say, “I somehow managed just fine not doing any homework for almost three years. I don’t think anything will happen if this batch waits a couple more hours.”
Mother walks over and puts a wool cap on my head. “Be careful, Misha.” Then she rises up on her toes, because I’m finally taller than her, and kisses me on the cheek. “You’ll be back soon, yes?”
“Of course,” I say and head out into the hallway.
* * *
A couple of blocks from our building, I see Marietta. She’s walking with some boy I don’t know. She doesn’t appear to be terribly happy to see me.
“Hey,” I say to her.
“Hey,” she says. We stare at each other awkwardly for a few seconds.
“How was school?” she asks.
“Okay,” I say, “not bad.”
I look over at the boy she’s with. He’s pretty tall, with very broad shoulders. He smiles a bit and nods once quickly.
“This is Rudi,” she says finally.
“Hi,” I say.
“This is my brother, Misha.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” he says, his voice much deeper than I expected.
We stand there a moment longer, then Marietta leans over and whispers, “Don’t tell Mother, okay?”
“Okay,” I say, and start off walking again. When I turn around a bit later, I see them, walking together in the other direction.
* * *
It’s not Shabbat, and even if it was I wouldn’t be going to the Old-New Synagogue, but that doesn’t mean I have anything against the walk Father and I used to take. Especially on a day like today. The trees are mostly bare, but the sun more than makes up for it, and the way it reflects off the river makes me want to whistle.
So I whistle, making up brand-new melodies I should really write down. Though I’d have to learn how to read music first to do that. But who cares? I keep whistling, patting the inside pocket of my jacket every once in a while to make sure the letter hasn’t disappeared somehow.
My eyes, of course, wander over to the castle, and then, even though I can’t really see it, the Stresovice neighborhood on the far side of it. It’s still hard to believe that’s where I wound up for a few weeks back in May. One minute Soviet tanks are rolling into the camp, and the next thing I know, that same evening I’m with Zdenek Taussig, one of the great soccer players from Room 1. The two of us, along with his whole family, are riding in a horse-drawn flatbed back to Prague.
Zdenek worked with a couple of old horses in Terezin, plowing fields, taking out garbage, and even moving dead bodies to the crematorium (because they didn’t bother to bury us back there). So as soon as the Soviets showed up, Zdenek took his horses and left, pulling his parents, his sister, and their meager possessions on a flatbed. Among those possessions were issues of the magazine Vedem, published by the boys in Room 1. Since Zdenek had been the only boy left in Room 1, he had buried the issues and then later dug them up. I hope someday people get to read them.
Mother, not wanting me in that rotten place a second longer, asked Zdenek’s father if I could go with them. He agreed. We traveled all night, the skinny horses clop-clopping along like we were just out for a fun moonlit ride. And then, if that weren’t crazy enough, Zdenek and I slept in some stables when we got to Prague. We did that for a few days until his family could find an apartment.
Only, little did Mother know that soon after I left, the whole camp would be quarantined because of typhoid. Thankfully, Zdenek’s family let me stay with them for a bunch of weeks until Mother and Marietta were finally allowed to leave Terezin. I guess it only makes sense that my two and a half unbelievable years in Terezin would have an ending as strange as that.
I reach the Cechuv Bridge and turn onto it. The wind blows stronger here, but I don’t mind, because I decide this is my new ritual. Whenever Franta sends me a letter, this is where I’ll read it.
So I walk halfway down the bridge, remembering how I used to secretly race people here when I was younger. But not anymore. Now it’s enough just to watch them. Driving their new cars or wearing their new hats or walking in their new shoes. I’m still getting used to it, Prague in 1945. Thankfully the Germans and the Allies didn’t bomb it.
I slowly walk until I get to the very middle, to the spot where you can’t tell which end is closer. Which also happens to be the spot offering the best view of the castle. A bunch of the Nesharim used to say that after the war we’d meet right here, on this very bridge. But I come here all the time, and haven’t seen any of the other boys yet. I’ll keep coming, even though I know it’s unlikely I’ll ever see any of them again. For people our age, transports meant gas.
Gas, then chimney. That’s how they killed us, and that’s how they got rid of our bodies. I don’t know why exactly, but I keep finding myself thinking that sentence for some reason: That’s how they killed us, and that’s how they got rid of our bodies. It just pops up in my head. And even so, part of me still can’t really believe it.
I carefully remove the envelope from my jacket, tear it open, remove the letter, and, holding it very carefully, stick the envelope in my back pocket.
Brno, December 14, 1945
Dear Misha!
I read your sincere, powerful letter. I believe I understood what you wrote, and deep in my heart I must admit I’m proud of what I achieved through all my hard work. Nesharim is much more than just a word, it’s an idea that survives among a group of friends, an idea that lives on in each one of you, the lucky survivors. But I must tell you, my dear Misha, that you are far from objective in your evaluation of our time in Terezin. You were relatively well off, you were happy to be among all your pals, so you didn’t worry so much.
But you mustn’t forget: Terezin was a concentration camp through whose gates entered fresh recruits, only to leave later, sentenced to their death. A place where people starved to death, were hanged, and were at the mercy of their oppressors’ every whim. By now I’m sure you know some of what went on there, so you know that our home was a small island of calm growth, a place where we forcefully turned our backs on reality and dedicated ourselves to our own interests and our own future with little regard for anything else.
Meanwhile, almost 35,000 people died in Terezin itself, while those who were transported away reached a destination from which very, very few returned. In this regard, I myself am incredibly lucky. I entered Auschwitz, but avoided the gas chambers.
Terezin, with its mighty walls and a beautiful view of the mountains in the distance, was a cruel and terrible place, even after the Nazis turned it into a show camp, a propaganda tool for the Red Cross. I am glad you didn’t feel your shackles to the extent so many others did, but when you write “How I wish those times with the Nesharim might return,” I must reply, “How I wish those times will never return.” I certainly hope you’ll have equally memorable and positive experiences again some day, only outside that bitter prison.
Are such experiences possible? Perhaps.
I imagine that in a summer camp, or even among a group of close friends, a similar environment might be created. Of course, young people like you will never again be linked together so closely and be so dependent on one another as you were back in Terezin. I remember the first weeks in our home, the lack of unity, the impossible variety of personalities, and the way the parents’ interference hindered our development. Back then nobody understood that the only way for Room 7 to discover its own needs and to develop its own interests would be by limiting parental involvement. This is how and why our solidarity grew.
These days parents bring their children to summer camp with only the interest of their own children in mind. They don’t trust even those people whose task it is to lead their children. Maybe new youth groups will soon emerge again, made up of individuals as dedicated as you yourself. It is such a pity, my boys could have done so many things, but as I tell myself every day, such thinking is in vain.
Eighty boys lived in Room 7 at one point or another. Eleven survived. Which compared to Terezin as a whole, is an incredible success story. And, of course, Terezin, compared to Auschwitz (and Terezin was little more than a holding pen for Auschwitz, as we all now know)—well, Misha, I’m not sure the two should even be compared.
The promise that we won’t forget—I hope you feel it in these lines. The best way to commit to fulfilling the Nesharim legacy would be to fulfill all the things I believed, and still believe, about you. You’re capable of all that and so much more, there’s no reason to think otherwise. And don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll manage to meet in person, sooner or later. I look forward to it, but fear it a little as well. I suppose I love the Nesharim a bit too much.
My dear Misha, the coming New Year will mean the end of a chapter in our great adventure. In front of us lies a wide-open space bursting with great possibilities and even greater responsibilities. Turn the page, it’s okay. It’s doesn’t mean you’re being disloyal, it doesn’t mean you’re forgetting the past. You’ll continue to remember, and as you do so you’ll summon the courage to face the rest of your life. Because it’s true, life is a struggle.
Please promise me you won’t ever give up.
Best wishes for the New Year.
Yours,
Franta
P.S. Give my best regards to your mother and sister. I’ll be sure to let you know when I’m coming to Prague, where we’ll finally get to see one another again.
I read the letter two more times, hearing Franta’s voice in my head a little more clearly each time. I argue with him a little, but mainly as a way to slowly accept that once again just about everything he has to say is true.
When I finally look up, I’m a bit surprised to find myself standing in the middle of a bridge in the middle of Prague. For a moment I have no idea where to go or what to do. Both ends of the bridge are the same distance from me. There’s too much to do, too much to see, and I suddenly feel a strange, overwhelming obligation to live some sort of perfect life, one packed with heroic acts so incredible I can’t even begin to imagine what they might be.
I look out at the castle, listen to the birds, feel the wind on my face. It’s the same wind that’s sending ripples over the surface of the river. The late afternoon air is quite cold, but I don’t mind. Winter is coming, but I don’t mind that, either.
I take out the envelope, put the letter back inside, carefully return the envelope to my pocket, and start walking back home again. I’m almost six years behind in school, which is a lot to be behind when you’re already fifteen years old. So here’s my great, heroic plan: I’ll finish all my homework, every last bit of it, before dinner.
And after that, who knows?