Dita smiles mischievously as she remembers that moment.
The first kiss, no matter how fleeting it might be, is never forgotten. She recalls with pleasure the joy she felt that afternoon, and is surprised at the capacity for happiness to blossom in the emptiness of war. Adults wear themselves out pointlessly searching for a joy they never find. But in children, it bursts out of every pore.
*
Dita won’t let them treat her like a child. She won’t quit. She’ll carry on; she must. That’s what Hirsch said to her: You chew on fear, and you swallow it. And you carry on. No, she won’t abandon the library.
Not a single step backward …
Dita opens her eyes in the darkness of the hut, and the intensity of her inner flame turns into the flicker of a candle. She hears coughs, snores, the moans of some woman who might be dying. Maybe she doesn’t want to admit to herself that it’s not so much what Mrs. Turnovská or any of the other inmates might say that worries her. No, what really concerns her is what Fredy Hirsch would think of her.
A few days ago, she heard him talking with a group of older children from the athletics team that runs around the outside of the hut every afternoon even if it’s snowing or raining, cold or freezing. Hirsch runs with them, always at the front, leading the way.
“The strongest athlete isn’t the one who finishes first. That athlete is the fastest. The strongest athlete is the one who gets up again every time he falls, the one who doesn’t stop when he feels a pain in his side, the one who doesn’t abandon the race, no matter how far away the finish line is. That runner is a winner whenever he reaches the finish line, even if he comes in last. Sometimes, no matter how much you want it, being the fastest isn’t an option, because your legs aren’t as long or your lungs as large. But you can always choose to be the strongest. It’s up to you—your willpower and your effort. I’m not going to ask you to be the fastest, but I am going to require you to be the strongest.”
Dita is certain that if she told him she had to give up the library, he’d offer her kind, extremely polite, even comforting words … but she’s not sure she could bear his look of disappointment. Dita sees him as an indestructible man, like the unstoppable Golem in the Jewish legend who, one day, would save them all.
Fredy Hirsch.… His name gives her courage.
Dita sifts again through the images stored in her head and finds one from a couple of years ago, of the gentle fields of Stra?nice, on the outskirts of Prague. Jews could breathe fresh air there, away from all the restrictions of the city. The Hagibor sports grounds were located there.
In her memory, it was summer, and a hot day, so many of the boys were bare-chested. She could see three people surrounded by a bustling huddle of children and teenagers. The first person was a thin twelve-or thirteen-year-old boy with glasses who was wearing nothing more than a pair of white shorts. The one in the middle—a magician who had introduced himself theatrically as Borghini—was bowing. He was elegantly dressed in a shirt, sport coat, and striped tie. There was a young man on the other side of him who was wearing only sandals and a pair of shorts, which emphasized his slim but athletic body. That day, she learned that his name was Fredy Hirsch and that he was in charge of youth activities at the Hagibor sports grounds. The boy with the glasses was holding one end of a piece of string, the magician was holding it in the middle, and Hirsch was holding the other end. Dita remembers the coach’s posture: one hand placed somewhat vainly on his waist while the other hand held on to the string. Hirsch was looking at the magician with a slightly mischievous smile.
The show began, and the enterprising Borghini tried to take on the crushing might of the war with his small arsenal of magic tricks: multicolored handkerchiefs up his sleeve versus cannons, the ace of clubs versus fighter-bombers. And, incredible as it might seem, for just a few moments full of smiling, spellbound faces, magic won out.
A very determined young girl holding a bundle of papers approached Dita and held one out to her.
“You can join us. We organize summer camps in Bezpráví, by the Orlice River, where we play sport and strengthen our Jewish spirit. There’s more information about our activities on the flyer.”
Her father didn’t like those sorts of things. She had overheard him telling her uncle that he didn’t approve of mixing politics and sport. They said this Hirsch fellow organized guerrilla warfare games with the children, had them digging trenches from which they pretended to shoot weapons, and talked to them about combat techniques as if they were a small army under his command.
If Hirsch is the commander, Dita is now more than ready to get into any trench. Anyway, she’s already in it up to her neck. They are Jews, a stubborn people. The Nazis won’t be able to crack her, or Hirsch. She won’t quit the library … but she’ll have to be alert, all eyes and ears, keep an eye on the shadows in which Mengele operates so she doesn’t get trapped. She’s a fourteen-year-old girl, and they are the most powerful military weapon of destruction in history, but she’s not going to take part silently in the procession again. Not this time. She’s going to stand up to them.
No matter the cost.
Dita isn’t the only one suffering insomnia.
Fredy Hirsch, as the head of Block 31, has been granted the privilege of sleeping in his own cubicle, and in a barrack where he is the only resident. After working on one of his reports, he leaves his cubicle and stands by himself in the silence. The whispering has faded, the books have been closed, the songs are over.… When the kids race off, the school goes back to being a crude wooden shed.
They’re the best thing we’ve got, he tells himself.
One more day and one more inspection have passed. Each day is a battle won. His chest shrinks and his straight collarbones disappear into his shoulders. He collapses onto a stool and closes his eyes. He’s exhausted, but no one must know. He’s a leader. He can’t let them down.
If they only knew.…
He’s lying to them all. If they found out who he really is, they would hate him.
He feels drained. So he drops to the floor, beginning a round of push-ups. He’s constantly telling the members of his teams that effort overcomes tiredness.
Up, down; up, down.
The whistle he always wears around his neck bangs rhythmically against the foot-flattened earth. His secret feels like an iron ball shackled to his ankle, but he knows he has no choice. He has to keep going. Up and down …