They locked him in the detention area attached to the guard post and told him he’d be released when they had checked out his details for the report. Fredy was undeterred and paced up and down in what could only be described as an empty dog run, irritated because he hadn’t been able to see the children, but otherwise calm. No one was going to organize a court-martial; he was well-regarded by the German administrators of the ghetto. Or so he believed.
Rabbi Murmelstein, a member of the leadership triumvirate of the Jewish Council in the ghetto, was walking along the street on the other side of the enclosure fence. He was unpleasantly surprised to see one of the representatives of the Youth Office locked up inside the enclosure. It was clear that Hirsch had violated the order to stay away from the Bia?ystok children’s precinct, and so now he was under detention as if he were a common criminal. The stern council leader approached the fence and locked eyes with Hirsch.
“Mr. Hirsch,” he said reproachfully, “what are you doing in there?”
“And you, Dr. Murmelstein … what are you doing out there?”
There was neither a court-martial nor any punishment, or so it seemed. But one afternoon, the ghetto Council’s official messenger, Pavel—known as Bones because of his skinny legs, and who was the fastest sprinter in Terezín—interrupted the long-jump training session to inform Fredy that his presence was required that afternoon without fail at the headquarters of the Jewish Administrative Authority in the Magdeburg block.
It was Yakub Edelstein, the chairman of the council himself, who gave Fredy the news: German Command had included his name on the list for the next transport headed for Poland or, to be more precise, for the Auschwitz camp near O?wi?cim.
They’d heard dreadful things about Auschwitz: mass murders, slave labor under conditions that caused the workers to die of exhaustion, all sorts of harassment and humiliation, people whom starvation had turned into walking skeletons, typhoid epidemics that no one treated.… But these were just rumors. Nobody had been able to confirm them firsthand. Then again, nobody had returned to give them the lie. Edelstein told Fredy that the SS Command had asked that Fredy identify himself to the camp authorities when he reached Auschwitz, because they were keen for him to continue his work as the leader of the youth groups.
“So I’ll continue to work with the teenagers—nothing will change?”
Edelstein, a man with the kindly, chubby face and horn-rimmed glasses of a schoolteacher, grimaced.
“Things will be tough there, very tough. More than tough, Fredy. Many have gone to Auschwitz, but no one has returned. Even so, we have to keep on fighting.”
Hirsch recalls with absolute precision the chairman’s last words to him that afternoon: “We mustn’t lose hope, Fredy. Don’t let the flame go out.”
That was the last time Fredy saw Yakub Edelstein, standing with his hands behind his back and gazing out of the window, lost in thought. Edelstein surely knew then that it wouldn’t be long before he himself would take the same route to the extermination camp. He had just received the order removing him as chairman of the Jewish Council. As the Jewish leader of Terezín, it was his responsibility to oversee the people inside the ghetto. The SS were not particularly vigilant in controlling the entrances, and there had been internees who had slipped out. Edelstein didn’t report them and covered for them until the shortfall became too obvious, and the SS realized that at least fifty-five prisoners had escaped from the ghetto.
The die was cast for Edelstein, and he was the loser. That was why, when he arrived at the Lager, it wasn’t the Auschwitz–Birkenau family camp he was taken to, but the prison of Auschwitz I. Fredy has never told Miriam, but he knows that inside that prison they practice the cruelest methods of torture known to man.
What has become of Yakub Edelstein? And what will become of us all?
14.
After the children have left and only a few teachers caught up in conversation remain, Dita gathers her library together. It might be the last time she does it, because she has to tell the truth: She’s been marked by Mengele. So, before she takes the books back, she removes the roll of tape from her secret pocket and fixes a rip in the Russian grammar book. She takes out the bottle of gum arabic and glues the edges of the spines of two more books. The book by H. G. Wells has the corner of a page doubled over, and she straightens it. And as her hand passes over the atlas, she smooths—caresses—it, and then all the other books, even the novel with no front cover to which Hirsch objected so forcefully. While she’s at it, Dita fixes a torn page using a narrow strip of tape. Then she carefully puts the books inside the cloth bag from Aunt Dudince, settling them in as if she were a nurse putting newborn babies into their cribs. She walks over to the Block?ltester’s cubicle and knocks at the door.
Hirsch is sitting in his chair writing one of his reports or working out the schedule for some volleyball tournament. She asks for permission to speak, and he turns toward her with his calm face and the smile that no one knows how to interpret.
“Go ahead, Edita.”
“You ought to know about this. Dr. Mengele suspects me of something, maybe to do with the library. It happened after the inspection. He stopped me in the Lagerstrasse. He’d somehow realized I was hiding something. He threatened that he was going to keep a close eye on me, and I have the feeling he’s watching me.”
Hirsch gets up from his chair and walks around the cubicle for a few seconds with a look of concentration on his face. Finally, he comes to a halt and, looking straight into Dita’s eyes, says to her,
“Mengele watches everyone.”
“He told me he’d put me on a dissection table and open me up from top to bottom.”
“He likes dissecting people—he gets pleasure from it.” After Fredy has spoken, there’s an uncomfortable silence.
“You’re going to remove me from my position as librarian, aren’t you? I understand it’s for my own good—”
“Do you want to give it up?”
Fredy’s eyes shine. The little lightbulb that he always says glows inside us has just switched on. And Dita’s has turned on, too, because Hirsch’s electricity is contagious.
“Absolutely not!”
Fredy Hirsch nods, as if to say, I knew it.
“Then you’ll stay in your position. Of course it’s a risk, but we’re at war—although there are people here who sometimes forget that. We’re soldiers, Edita. Don’t believe those who say we’re bringing up the rear and then put down their arms. It’s war, and each of us has our own front line. This one is ours, and we must fight to the end.”
“So what about Mengele?”
“A good soldier has to be careful. And we have to be very careful with Mengele. You can never tell exactly what he’s thinking. Sometimes he smiles at you, and it looks as if he really means it, but almost immediately, he becomes serious, and the look he gives you is so cold that it freezes your insides. If Mengele had any solid evidence against you, you’d already be dead. So it would be best if he didn’t see you, hear you, smell you. You have to try to avoid any contact with him. If you see him coming, head in another direction. If he crosses your path, look away discreetly. The best thing that could happen is that he forgets you even exist.”
“I’ll try.”