In celebration of Hanukkah, the camp was staging a performance of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, and the prompter who would remind actors of their lines had died that morning. And so that afternoon, Dita entered Block 31 for the first time as the new prompter for Snow White.
Thirty-two huts, or barracks, formed camp BIIb. They were in two rows of sixteen, lining either side of the Lagerstrasse. Block 31 was the same as those other rectangular barracks, divided by a horizontal brick stove and a chimney, which stood on the foot-flattened dirt floor. But Dita realized that there was one fundamental difference: Instead of rows of triple bunks where the prisoners slept, there were stools and benches, and instead of rotten wood, the walls were covered with drawings of Eskimos and Snow White’s dwarves.
Cheerful chaos reigned as volunteers worked to transform the dismal hut into a theater. Some arranged seating, while others transported colorful costumes and cloth decorations. Another group rehearsed lines with the children, and at the far end of the hut, the assistants positioned mattresses to form a small stage. Dita was struck by the bustling activity: Against all odds, life stubbornly carried on.
They had prepared a small compartment for her at the front of the stage, made out of cardboard and painted black. Rubi?ek, the director of the play, told Dita to pay particular attention to little Sarah, who forgot to say her lines in German when she became nervous, switching unconsciously to Czech. The Nazis required the performance to be in German.
Dita remembers her nerves before the play began, the weight of responsibility. The audience included some of the top officers of Auschwitz II: Kommandant Schwarzhuber and Dr. Mengele. Whenever she glanced through a hole in her cardboard box, she was astonished to see how much they laughed and clapped. Could these be the same people who sent thousands and thousands of children to their death each day?
Of all the plays performed in Block 31, the December 1943 version of Snow White was one of the most memorable. When the performance started, the magic mirror stuttered at the wicked stepmother, “Y-y-y-you are the most beautiful, my q-q-q-queen.”
The audience erupted in laughter, thinking it a joke, but Dita was sweating inside her cardboard shell. The stammering wasn’t in the script.
When Snow White was abandoned in the forest, the guffaws stopped. The part was played by a young girl with an air of sadness. She looked fragile as she wandered, lost, pleading for help in her tiny voice, and Dita felt a knot in her chest. She, too, was lost, surrounded by wolves. Little Snow White began to sing, and the audience went completely silent. It was only when the prince—the broad-shouldered Fredy Hirsch—came to her rescue, that the audience came to life again, applauding their approval. The play ended with a huge ovation. Even the impassive Dr. Mengele applauded, though he didn’t remove his white gloves, of course.
*
It is this same Dr. Mengele who now stands at one end of Block 31, taking in the scene. The Priest leads his guards toward the back of the hut, kicking aside stools and hauling inmates out of the line, though they find no excuse to take inmates away. Not this time.
When the Nazis finish inspecting the hut, the sergeant turns to the medical captain, but he has vanished. The guards should be pleased; they have found no escape tunnels or weapons—nothing against the rules. But they are furious; there is nothing to punish. They shout and make threats, violently shaking one boy. And then they leave.
They’ve gone, but they’ll be back.
When the door shuts behind them, there’s a murmur of relief. Fredy Hirsch puts the whistle he always wears around his neck to his lips, and blows it loudly, signaling them to fall out. Dita’s arm is so numb she can barely move it, and the pain brings tears to her eyes. She is so relieved by the departure of the Nazis that she cries and laughs at the same time.
Nervous chatter breaks out. The teachers want to discuss what has happened, to understand what they have seen. The children run around and let off steam. Dita sees Mrs. K?i?ková approach her, bearing down on her. As she walks, the flap of skin under her chin wobbles like a turkey’s gobbler. She stops just in front of Dita.
“Are you crazy, girl? Don’t you know that when the order is given, you have to go to your assigned spot in the assistants’ area, not run around like a madwoman? Don’t you realize that they can haul you off and kill you? Don’t you realize that they can kill all of us?”
“I did what I thought best—”
“What you thought…” begins Mrs. K?i?ková, her face wrinkling. “And who are you to change the rules? Do you think you know everything?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. K?i?ková…”
Dita clenches her fists to stop her tears from falling. She’s not going to give her the satisfaction.
“I’m going to report what you’ve done—”
“That won’t be necessary,” says a man’s voice, speaking Czech with a strong German accent, slow and deliberate, and yet emphatic. It is Hirsch.
“Mrs. K?i?ková, there’s still a little time before classes end. You should take charge of your group.”
Mrs. K?i?ková always brags that she has the most disciplined and hardworking group of girls in all of Block 31. Without a word, she glances furiously at the head of the hut, turns around, and marches stiffly away toward her pupils. Dita sighs with relief.
“Thank you, Mr. Hirsch.”
“Fredy.…”
“I’m sorry I broke the rules.”
Hirsch smiles at her.
“A good soldier doesn’t need to wait for orders; he knows what his duty is.”
And before he walks off, he turns toward her and looks at the books she’s holding against her chest.
“I’m proud of you, Dita. May God bless you.”
She watches him leave and remembers the night of the Snow White performance. As the assistants were dismantling the stage, Dita emerged from her prompter’s den and headed for the exit, thinking she might never again set foot in this wonderful hut that could turn itself into a theater. But a vaguely familiar voice stopped her.
“Young girl…” Fredy Hirsch’s face was still covered with white chalk makeup. “Your arrival in this camp is timely,” he said.
“Timely?”
“Absolutely!” He gestured for her to follow him to the back of the stage, which was now empty of people. Close up, Hirsch’s eyes were an odd mix of gentleness and insolence. “I desperately need a librarian for our children’s hut.”
It astonished Dita that he would remember her. Hirsch had been in charge of the Youth Office in the Terezín ghetto, but she’d caught a glimpse of him only a few times as she helped one of the librarians wheel her trolley of books.
Dita was perplexed, though. She was no librarian. She was just a fourteen-year-old girl.
“Forgive me, but I think there’s been a misunderstanding. The librarian was Miss Sittigová; I only helped her.”
The director of Block 31 smiled. “I noticed you several times. You were pushing the library cart.”