“They’re very fragile,” Dita tells her, forcing a smile.
The books have to come back to her at the end of each class so that they can be rotated, and so Dita knows exactly where they are. She spends the morning observing their movement throughout the hut. She watches a teacher right at the very back gesticulating, the geometry book in her hand. She sees the atlas propped up on a stool nearby; it’s a big book but it still fits snugly into her inside pocket. She can easily make out the green cover of the Russian grammar book, which the teachers sometimes use to astonish the children with its mysterious Cyrillic letters. There’s less of a call for the novels. Some of the teachers have asked if they can read them, but that can only happen inside Block 31.
She should ask Seppl Lichtenstern if he’ll allow her to lend the books to the teachers who are free in the afternoon when the children have games or when Avi Fischer’s very popular choir is rehearsing. When the choir sings “Alouette,” the whole hut is filled with happy voices.
At the end of the morning, all the books are returned, and Dita gathers them up with relief. She scowls at any teacher who returns a book in worse condition than when it was borrowed. She has come to know every wrinkle, every rip, every scar.
Fredy Hirsch, papers in hand and looking snowed under, walks past Dita’s display on top of the chimney. He pauses and looks at the small library. Fredy is one of those people who are always in a hurry but always have time.
“Well, well, young lady. This really is a library now.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
“This is very good. We Jews have always been a cultured people.” And he smiles as he says this. “If there’s anything I can do, just let me know.”
Hirsch turns around and starts to stride off energetically.
“Fredy!” Dita still feels embarrassed about addressing him so informally, but he insisted that she do so. “There is something you could do for me.”
He looks at her quizzically.
“Get me some tape, glue, and a pair of scissors. These poor books need attention.”
Hirsch nods. As he heads toward the door, he smiles. He never tires of repeating to anyone who’ll listen, The children are the best thing we have.
In the afternoon, the little kids take advantage of the fact that it’s stopped raining to go outside and play tag or hunt for invisible treasures in the wet mud. The older ones place their stools in a large semicircle. Dita has already gathered up her books, so she moves nearer to listen. Hirsch is in the middle of the group, and he’s talking to them about one of his favorite topics—the aliyah, or march to the lands of Palestine. The children listen, absorbed.
“Aliyah is much more than an emigration. No, that’s not what it’s about. It’s not a question of going to Palestine as you might move anywhere else to earn a living and nothing more. No, no, no.” There’s a long pause, filled by an expectant silence. “It’s a journey to connect with the strength of your ancestors. It’s picking up a thread that was broken. It’s occupying the land and making it yours. It’s something much more profound. It’s hagshama atzmit, or self-fulfillment. You may not have noticed, but you have a lightbulb inside you. Yes, you do—don’t give me those looks—it’s in there.… Even you, Markéta. But it’s switched off. You might say, Who cares? I’ve lived like this so far, and things have gone all right. Of course you can live like you have so far, but it will be a mediocre life. The difference between living with the lightbulb switched off or on is like lighting up a dark cave with a match or a spotlight. If you carry out aliyah and undertake the march to the land of our ancestors, that light will go on with incredible force and brighten you within as soon as you set foot in Palestine. It’s not something I can tell you about. You have to experience it for yourselves. Then you’ll understand it all. And that’s when you’ll know who you are.”
The look of concentration on the faces of the teenagers is absolute. Their eyes are wide open, and some of them unwittingly stroke their chests as if they were searching for the switch that could turn on those switched-off lights Hirsch says they carry inside them.
“We look at the Nazis with their modern weaponry and their shiny uniforms, and we think they are powerful, invincible even. Don’t be deceived: There is nothing inside those shiny uniforms. They’re just an outer shell. They’re nothing. We’re not interested in shining on the outside. We want to shine on the inside. That’s what will give us victory in the end. Our strength isn’t in uniforms—it’s in faith, pride, and determination.”
Fredy pauses and looks at his audience, who are watching him attentively.
“We’re stronger than them because our hearts are stronger. We’re better than them because our hearts are more powerful. That’s why they won’t defeat us. That’s why we’ll return to the land of Palestine; that’s where we’ll take a stand. And no one will ever humiliate us again. Because we’ll arm ourselves with pride, and with swords … very sharp swords. Those who say we are a nation of accountants lie: We are a nation of warriors, and we’ll repay all the blows and all the attacks on us a hundred times over.”
Dita listens in silence for a while and then slips away.
She waits to see Hirsch when everyone has gone. She doesn’t want anyone else to hear about the incident with Mengele. She notices some of the older girls laughing. And some boys, who strike her as silly idiots with pimples, like that Milan who thinks he’s so good-looking. Well, he is good-looking, but if an idiot like that tried to flirt with her, she’d tell him to get lost. But Milan would never look at a skinny girl like her anyway.